#and a regular fireplace. silver and grey

[michaeldirnt]

Enclosed Living Room (Denver)

[humanpurposes]

Karma is a God

Chapter 6: Winterfell

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: grief/mourning, mentions of death

Words: 5700

A/n: Originally posted on AO3, posting to Tumblr before I get back to regular updates.

“You never told me why Maegor had so many wives.” The little girl with dark hair asked, curled under her uncle’s arm.

The boy with silver hair didn’t look up from the pages of the book he held on his lap. “Shouldn’t you read the history books yourself?” The girl hummed smugly and nestled further into his side, she knew he would never refuse her. He sighed. “Because he wanted an heir.”

“Why?”

“It is the duty of a King to ensure the succession of his bloodline, for the security of the realm.”

“But he never succeeded.”

“No, all the children born of Maegor’s wives were stillborn.”

She contemplated this for a moment. “Why?”

“Some say he was cursed after he killed his nephew.”

That story she had heard of, how the Conqueror's son and grandson had waged war against each other for the throne. How Aegon the Uncrowned had led his armies from atop his Dragon, Quicksilver, to claim the crown worn by his father, while his uncle, rider of Balerion, had met him above the God’s Eye. Her grandfather had told her countless tales of the Black Dread. Poor Quicksilver never stood a chance. 

She shifted herself to lay her back against him, rearing her head back so she could see his face. “Aemond?”

His eyes were still on his book as he gave a distant “hmm?”

“When will I marry?”

She felt his breathing still and his heart beat a little faster. “When you are of age, I would expect.”

“When will that be?”

“You will be a woman grown when you are six and ten, so a decade from now. Or perhaps less, my mother was married at four and ten.”

She kept her wide eyes fixed upon his face, mapping the freckles against his soft pale skin. “Will my husband be cruel?”

He shook his head a little. “I hardly think your mother would allow that.”

“What of Maegor’s Black Brides? Why did their mothers not protect them?”

He closed the book, slowly, with a light thud as the pages came together. He placed it on the table before him and let his arm find his way around her. “You’re the granddaughter of the King, you’ll always be well protected by your family.”

She hauled herself up and came to sit on her knees on the settee beside him. “And you?”

He rolled his eyes, in the way he always did when she asked him foolish questions. “Yes, I will protect you.”

She held her hand up to him, little fingers outstretched. “Promise?”

He placed his hand against hers, letting his fingers intertwine between hers and close around her knuckles. She did the same in return. “I promise, Lucerra.”

*

This time, when she wakes, the world feels real. 

Her body melts into a soft mattress, too soft really, she could almost be floating– no . She is grounded. She is awake. She is alive.

She breathes, lets herself feel the air rushing into her lungs and her back pressing a little further into the bed. She is aware of every sensation against her skin, the bandages over her torso, the thick nightshift and the heavy fur throw over her body.

Her eyes see the room as it is, not like the vague blur she scarcely remembers of the hut by Shipbreaker Bay. The light is low but it is comforting. Daylight seeps in through the shutters and gaps in the curtains, but mostly the room is lit by a roaring fire that crackles and hums from a grey stone fireplace. It is small, smaller than her bedchamber at Dragonstone, but it feels full enough, with a pair of settees before the fireplace, a chest of draws, a dining table and a copper bathtub in the corner. All of the wood is dark and all the upholstery black.

She had almost forgotten what stillness feels like, what warmth feels like, what her thoughts sound like now that her pain seems to have mostly numbed. That is, until she tries to sit up and a sharpness in her chest holds her down against the bed.

The wind howls against the walls and, for a moment, she can almost believe she is home, if she keeps her eyes closed and imagines the smell of smoke and the sound of the sea–

A coldness washes over her. She tastes salt on her tongue. Her heart pounds in her chest as she frantically fights to breathe. The edges of the room seem to fade, until all she sees is the furious glow of the fire, but even that fades… the rain beats against her leathers as her hands pull on Arrax’s reins. An open jaw comes to claim a debt.

She doesn’t see his face as she falls but she hears his voice. It’s not the chilling whisper she had heard in that hidden corner of the Red Keep, it’s grating, hoarse and desperate. “LUKE!”

She keeps falling, further and further, until she forgets where she fell from.

“Luke?” A softer voice drags her from the storm. 

Her head snaps to the side of the bed, to the boy who has appeared before her, a boy with unruly curls and eyes as dark as hers. Her hand drifts towards him and settles against his cheek.

He’s real. He’s here. “Jace…”

Her brother has changed in the weeks they have been apart. His eyes are tired, his skin is paler, and when he smiles it is a sad thing. He places his hand over hers and presses her further against him.

He whispers her name, over and over again, like he can’t believe what his eyes are so plainly telling him. 

“Mother,” she breathes, hand trembling against his cheek, “does she know?”

“You’ve been asleep for a few hours,” he says delicately, slowly taking her hand and lowering it to her side against the mattress. “I sent a raven to Dragonstone as soon as you arrived; she will know by the day’s end.”

Her memories are hazy, though now she starts to think, most of it comes flooding back; the flight from the Stormlands, how the dragon had settled below her, how she had pushed herself onto her hands and looked past it’s head to see a sprawling complex of a castle, looming through the distance and the snowfall.

The thought of being a guest at another Lord’s castle filled her with dread, but she understands now. She wanted to go home, and the dragon had brought her to Jace.

“The maester said it’s a marvel you’re still alive, such injuries are often fatal if left untreated for this long. But you are here now, broken bones and all.

She looks down at the bandages over her chest and her limbs, squeezing down around her skin, but the pain has mostly faded. “What happened?” She asks, “how long has it been?”

“You flew to Storm’s End a day and a fortnight ago. I was still at the Eerie, and mother sent a raven. She said you hadn’t returned, she was planning on going to the Stormlands herself to uncover the truth but then- ugh.” He swallows down a sob and his eyes drift down.

“What?”

He takes a slow breath. “Then news came from King’s Landing. Apparently Aemond declared his so-called-victory to the court and Aegon threw a feast in his honour. The world thought you dead and they celebrated .”

She hadn’t thought it possible to overestimate Aemond’s hatred for her. What a crushing thing it is to be proved wrong.

“He meant to kill me,” she whispers. “He chased us down through a storm and laughed as he did it.”

“I should have gone with you. I should have protected you. I should never have suggested this in the first place.”

“Please,” she says, vaguely waving her hand to stop him. It isn’t his fault, surely he knows that, but aside from that, she can’t bear the whining melancholy.

Jace’s head falls. “I’m sorry about Arrax, I hear his remains were found by Baratheon’s men in the sea below Storm’s End. But you have a new mount I see. He’s impressive, though I can’t say I recognise him.”

She supposes she owes her life to the dragon that carried her here. She too had no recollection of this dragon at the Dragonmount, or in the Dragon Pit back at King’s Landing, but she had heard tales, on the days she and Rhaena had gone to visit the village on Dragonstone, of a dragon that had never known a rider, that spent its days flying low over the Narrow Sea and fishing for prey.

“It’s Grey Ghost,” she decides. “He must have saved me from the fall, and then he found me, he came to me at the dock at Rainwood.”

“Rainwood? You must tell me more of your travels when you are better rested.”

“It’s not a particularly exciting story. I’m not sure I remember most of it.” She’s not sure if she wants to either.

A soft knock sounds at the door. Jace looks to her with an expectant expression. She tilts her head and nods her approval. She tries to sit up but he puts his arms out to stop her. 

And so in strides the Warden of the North, dressed in a thick, fur lined cloak, his dark hair falling in ringlets to his shoulders, his sharp jaw shadowed with stubble, and his blue eyes as piercing and pale as ice.

She can’t help but wince at her own appearance, a Princess, in a nightgown, her brow coated in a thin layer of sweat, her hair falling limply around her shoulders, unable to even sit up to mark his entry.

“Princess Lucerra,” he says with a warm voice and a bow. “What a relief it is to know you are well, and an honour it is to welcome you to Winterfell.”

The castle’s maester won’t let her leave the room, or spend too long standing if it can be helped, which, for the first few days, she does not protest against.

Jace spends as much time as he can in her presence, eating his meals at the dining table, reading letters before the fire, or just sitting by his sister’s side. Sometimes she wakes to hear faint sobs, which disappear as soon as he realises she’s awake.

She has read of the North in books. A savage place, as Aegon used to tell her, where men fight each other for scraps like dogs, the women are miserable and misbehaving children are fed to the wolves. Aemond would rebuke such claims of course, but said it was dull, a cold wasteland, no place for a dragon. 

Cold it may be but dull it is not. From the window in her bedchamber she sees the blanket of white snow that shimmers under the sun’s gold beams. It reminds her of the sea, looking out over Blackwater Bay from the Red Keep, or the Narrow Sea from Dragonstone, how the water would glitter like rhinestones when the sky was clear.

Her heart aches for home, for her family. She’s been gone for so long, and to think they must have mourned her for weeks.

She imagines their faces. Her mother’s quiet grief for King Viserys, the pain of Visenya’s brief life being snatched from her very arms. Daemon’s seething rage, restrained only by the duty to his Queen. Joffrey’s confusion. The haunted expressions worn by Baela and Rhaena. Through it all, Aegon and Viserys were still blissfully unaware of the world around them.

Tears trickle down her face. How would they have reacted, after hearing the news from Storm’s End? The thought weighs down on her chest, and she tries not to choke on her sobs. 

She finds Jace’s arms around her own as he draws her head onto his shoulder. “You’re alright now,” he whispers, “we’ll all be alright.”

The next morning she feels well enough to hobble to the dining table to eat a few spoonfuls of porridge with Jace. He tells her of his journey to the Eerie, his successful negotiations with Jeyne Arryn, his time in White Harbour, and the days he has spent at Winterfell, hunting, feasting and flying Vermax over Wolfswood.

“He’s restless,” Jace says of his mount, “I think it’s the cold, he needs the warmth of the Dragonmount.”

“What of Grey Ghost?” Luke asks.

“He doesn’t seem to be fond of Vermax, I can tell you that much,” he chuckles, “but other than that, I have not seen much of him. Truth be told I thought he might have fled back South. He’s been wild for so long, I don’t suppose he’s used to having a rider.”

With Arrax, there was a presence in her chest, a window into her dragon’s very soul existing in her heart. They fed off each other, their feelings, their fears, their instincts. Something has replaced that feeling now. She feels the emptiness of Arrax’s loss, and yet something lingers. It’s faint, but it is there nonetheless. For the first time in her life, she feels a longing for isolation, only she cannot tell if it is hers or her dragon’s. “He’s nearby, I can feel him.”

Jace takes his leave for the day. For a time she admires the small glimpse of the world she can get from the window, until her chest starts to feel tight again. The maester checks on her, gives her a tea that tastes of herbs and cinnamon, offers her a salve for the bruising, instructs a maid to help her bathe. 

“You’ll be alright, Princess,” he assures her, “the main concern now is relieving the pain and rebuilding your strength.”

If indeed she had it to begin with.

She replays Storm’s End in her mind over and over again. She’s sure she can still hear the clatter of Aemond’s dagger against the floor ringing in her ears. To think she had held even a glimmer of hope, that they might salvage the friendship they once had, she must have been delusional. Of course he wouldn’t forgive her. Of course he’d seek to punish her. But he’d got what he wanted now, his triumph, his victory, his debt repaid, celebrated in the court of a false King with all the other traitors.

But what of that night, in the Keep? She was so sure he was going to pry her eye from her socket, in that empty chamber, where no one would hear her screams and no one would think to come looking for her.

A familiar restlessness rises in her gut. In her mind she sees his hands, trailing down her torso and slipping beneath her skirts. The memory of his breath against her neck is cold. He meant to humiliate her surely. To tempt her and punish her for it. 

She digs her nails into a palm and huffs a grunt to the empty space around her. She supposes even thinking about it would give him leverage over her, even when he has revelled in her death. She will not allow it.

So she curls into her pillow, trying to push the memories of the boy with silver hair out of her mind. He is gone, and so is the foolish little girl who once trailed after him.

A knock at the door pulls her away from everything. She bolts upright, frantically wiping the tears from her cheeks and drawing her fingers through her hair. “Come in!” She calls. 

Jace enters, followed by Lord Stark. Their boots leave trails of snow in their wake. She looks between their pale faces and stony expressions. Jace is clutching a letter in his hand. 

She doesn’t know why but her heart sinks. “Mother?” 

Jace offers a quick glance to Lord Stark, who in turn gives a slow nod of his head. “We’ve received word from Dragonstone. Mother is… relieved at your condition.”

“Relieved? ” Hardly the reaction she had been expecting, but Jace’s expression doesn’t soften. His hands are trembling, and he can hardly bring his gaze higher than the bed. 

Lord Stark places a hand on the Prince’s shoulder. When Jace remains silent, he takes a deep breath. “Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Jaehaera are dead.”

She wonders if this is a dream. She says it in her head over and over again, still, it doesn’t quite sink in.

Lord Stark continues. “It appears, Prince Daemon took it upon himself to see your death avenged, Princess.”

“But I am not dead,” she mutters.

“Evidently not.”

She had not seen much of Helaena, and less of her children. They were dreamy, happy little things, playing with their toy dragons on the floor and babbling to one another. They had the same wispy silver hair as her youngest brothers, the same hair Visenya might have had.

Daemon had been waiting for this. He had been subdued for six years, but the beast had been set free the moment news came of the King’s death. She had seen it, the anger, the hunger, the bloodlust. But her mother? “The Queen surely cannot have allowed this.”

“The deed is done,” Jace says suddenly. His voice is deflated, nothing like the proud Prince he’s been growing into these past few years. “And now we must deal with the consequences.”

“Aegon has named Ser Criston Cole as his hand,” Lord Stark explains at Luke’s stunned expression, “Otto Hightower’s war of letters is at an end.”

Luke raises an eyebrow. “I take it then you have agreed to pledge your banners to my mother’s cause?” 

“He has,” Jace says. His chest rises and his tongue peeks between hip lips. He’s hiding something else, but he won’t say it. “I make for Dragonstone, immediately.”

“I’ll come with you-”

“No.” He finds the demand in his voice now, holding his hands up like she’ll make a run for her dragon then and there. “You are in no condition to fly. You’ll stay here, where it is safe.”

“You can’t expect me to stay, not after everything that’s happened-”

“Luke!” She sees the anger flashing in his face, but it fades in an instant. His eyes widen and his brows furrow. He looks so young now, so helpless. “I thought I lost you once before, do not ask me to even consider that possibility again.”

She bites down on her lip. She does not doubt the grief her brother has gone through after Storm’s End, only to discover it had all been a lie. And yet she feels no sympathy for him. Pain has left her bitter.

He doesn’t seem to realise it, but his hand drifts up, resting over Lord’s Stark’s. “You’ll be in good hands here, Cregan will protect you until you can return to Dragonstone.”

“But who better to protect me than my family?”

“Do not argue with me! I am your brother, but I am also your Prince and the heir to the throne. You are to remain here until I send for you. Do you understand?”

She huffs a few breaths, desperate to keep her voice calm and controlled. “Jace, you cannot keep me from mother, from Joffrey and the others without cause.”

He snatches his hand away from his shoulder. “As a matter of fact, we do have cause. I didn’t wish to tell you like this, but Lord Stark and I have agreed on a marriage pact.”

She frowns, and then it starts to sink in.

“When did you decide this, before or after you thought I was dead?”

“As I said, the circumstances are regrettable-”

“Regrettable?” She spits, “do I not deserve a say in my own prospects?”

Stark excuses himself and gently shuts the door behind him.

“Do not forget yourself, sister. You are the daughter of the Queen, a Princess of the realm. Cregan- Lord Stark is a kind, gentle and honourable man, he will be a good husband to you, I would not allow anything less.”

“But you’re leaving me, when we’ve already been apart for so long. I just want to go home.”

“We are at war now, Luke. You’ve seen the danger we face. Things just aren’t that simple.”

The closest compromise they come to is Luke trawling herself down from her bedchamber to the courtyard. A maid walks with her, an outstretched arm ready to catch her if she stumbles or tires, but she is determined that each step should be her own, no matter how stiff her movements are.

Vermax is waiting outside the castle gates, his familiar screeching, rippling purrs calling out over the battlements. Jace is once again in his riding leathers, identical to the ones she had worn to Storm’s End, though he wears a thick, black, fur lined cloak over his shoulders, rather than the red he left Dragonstone with. 

The Prince kneels to little Rickon Stark, no older than their own Aegon, and shakes his hand. The heir to the throne and the heir to Winterfell are just boys, grinning at each other through the formalities.

Then he comes to Lord Stark himself. Their parting words are fleeting, spoken too softly to reach the ears of those around them, but they bid their farewells as brothers, gripping each other by the shoulders, until Jace pulls him into an embrace that lingers just a moment too long.

And then he wanders to stand before her. He pulls her into a tight hug. It hurts against the bandages around her chest but she doesn’t mind the pain.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters against her hair. “I’m so sorry…”

She cannot remember a life without her brother, how could she? He has been there since her very first breath, when her mind was a clean slate, when her skin was unbroken, before she knew what memories were. He was always there, just as Arrax was. 

And now, when she thought her losses could get no greater, she watches Vermax ascend with a proud roar that echoes over the snow covered hills and the ancient walls of the castle. She watches the sky until the flash of green scales disappear through the clouds, blinking snowflakes out of her eyes.

Behind her comes a soft crunch of snow under heavy boots. “I do not hope I have offended you, Princess.”

She finally tears her eyes away from the sky and to her betrothed. She makes her best attempt at a soft smile but somehow it feels wrong. “Why would you think I am offended?"

The look in his eye is one of pity. Clearly he is not persuaded. “I understand our union is not one of your choosing,” he says, taking a step forward, “but I wish to assure you that I will be a good husband, whatever form that may take for you. I already have my Rickon, so we needn’t-”

“I trust my brother’s judgement,” she says, her eyes falling to her boots. That much has been true for sixteen years, but now it feels like another lie. “A few weeks ago, my life was quite unremarkable. Now I can hardly believe what my mind tells me is true.”

“It is a rude awakening to be sure, Princess. Youth and innocence are fragile things, to be snatched so cruelly from us, and so suddenly.”

Gods know she is no stranger to death. She could still remember so clearly the way Jace had cried and twisted his way from their mother’s grip when news came of the fire at Harrenhal. She had simply frowned. Harwin Strong had already left them once before, to return to his father’s seat, promising to send letters and in time, return to them, promises he would never fulfill.

And then it kept happening. Aunt Laena, in Luke’s mind a faceless woman, but so deeply mourned by her daughters. Then Ser Laenor, the man who had given her his name and so much more than that, his body found in the Sea Snake’s own hall, charred beyond recognition.

And she is certainly no stranger to blood, to rage sparked by fear and the regret that follows.

Life at Winterfell is quiet. She knows she will surely be driven to madness if she waits out the war in the confines of her bedchamber. Her walk down to the courtyard had been fuelled by stubbornness and spite, now she must go slowly. Each day she tries to go a little further, pacing the room despite her rigid movements and the tightness in her chest and her back, but she bites her lip and forces herself through it.

One morning she walks to the door. Another day she walks down the corridor. A week after Jace’s departure she can reach the entrance hall. A week after that she finds her way back down to the courtyard.

Little Rickon grasps a small wooden sword in his hand, landing determined but feeble blows against a straw dummy, letting out little squeaks and grunts as he goes. 

A warm laugh sounds from the balcony above. “We’ll make a wolf out of you yet, pup!” Beams the boy’s father. She tries to dispel a sudden sadness at his admiring expression. It’s exactly how Harwin Strong used to watch Jace in the training yard. 

She strolls across the yard, the wide skirt of her Stark black dress dragging over the dirt and the snow, to a weapons table. Her hands grip around the hilt of the smallest blade she can find, which is still twice the weight of the sword she brought to Storm’s End. There- another loss. Perhaps if she went back to that beach by Rainwood it might be hidden somewhere in the sand. 

“Forgive me, Princess, I’m not sure you’re in the best state for such pursuits.”

Her smirk comes naturally as she looks over her shoulder to her host. “You think I can’t handle a sword, Lord Stark?”

“On the contrary, Jace says you’re rather skilled.”

“I’ve been mentored by Laenor Velaryon, Harwin Strong and the Rogue Prince himself,” she says, puffing her chest up a little, only to wince at a flash of pain in her ribs. She huffs a laugh at her own presumption. “But no, clearly I have a way to recover yet.”

He steps into her, close enough that she can feel the warmth of his body against her back, even through her coat. He places his hand over hers and lifts the blade with his own strength. “It might be good for you, to build up your strength again.” 

But when his breath echoes over her cheek the world goes dark. The smell of leather and smoke overwhelms her senses. A flash of silver hair falls over her shoulder. A cold voice whispers, “bastard… whore.”

She wrenches herself away and feels no pain as she hurries back to her bedchamber.

At least she starts to find some normalcy. True to his word, Cregan Stark is patient and gentle, if a little more distant after their encounter in the courtyard. She dines with the Lord and his son, builds strength in her arms with a sword and discovers the grip in her fingers on the string of a bow. 

But as she waits, the world below the Neck descends into chaos. Letters from Dragonstone are sparse, despite Jace’s promises, so mostly she hears news from Lord Stark. The Riverlands have seen the most fighting so far thanks to the Blackwoods and the Brackens, and Daemon’s capturing of Harrenhal. Lord Stark intends to amass his banners and march to join him, though it could take moons to do so. 

She hears little news of her mother, which scares her.

The restlessness is unbearable. She can’t sit still. Can’t sleep without tossing and turning until the first birds start chirping before dawn.

There is perhaps one thing she thinks may provide some comfort, or at the very least, purpose.

Grey Ghost is an elusive creature, but he is never far. He lurks among the trees of Wolfswood and the stone of the Lonely Hills. The two meet at a lake, a few miles Northeast of Winterfell. When she can mount a horse, that is where she goes, with Lord Stark by her side.

Her dragon will not be seen if that is what he desires, and more often than not he does not want to be found. She feels him though, the uncertainty in his heart and how he misses the sea.

She waits by the lakeshore, skimming pebbles over the icy water, while Lord Stark waits beyond the treeline with the horses.

Find me. She calls silently to the space in her heart where a dragon should be.

A whistling screech carries over the mountains and he comes to her. He settles further down the shore before he stalks towards her. She holds up her palm, taking slow steps to meet him, heart fluttering in her chest.

As her skin meets his snout, her hand stops shaking, and the dragon gives an accepting purr. A warmth builds within her, not like the fury of dragonfire, it’s slow and glowing, like the red embers of a dying hearth. Each breath of her lungs is like a breath into the fire.

She feels a little more alive every time they meet.

“I must admit, even with Jace’s teachings, I cannot begin to understand these creatures,” Lord Stark says on their ride back to the castle.

“We’re learning together, my Lord, Grey Ghost is as new to me as he is to you.”

“You are bound though, yes? Jace said he and Vermax have been bonded since birth, that the same was true for you and Arrax. How can you simply claim another dragon?”

It is not simple though. She cannot pinpoint the moment she and Grey Ghost were bound, but reason tells her she could not have survived the fall from Arrax without something to break it. “It is different,” she says. “Arrax was as much a part of me as my soul is to my body, we were together all of our lives. With Grey Ghost, it’s not nature that binds us, I think it is a choice.”

He smiles. “That’s a beautiful way to say it.”

When they reach the courtyard, Cregan helps her down from her saddle, careful to keep his hands away from her waist, she notes. A man is waiting for them, letter in hand. In times of war, letters are an omen as much as they are a relief. Luke holds her lip between her teeth.

“We’ve received word from Dragonstone, my Lord. Perhaps you should read for yourself.”

Cregan waits for her nod of approval before he takes it and cracks open the wax seal of her mother. He reads it quickly, and looks back to Luke. “Princess Rhaenys is dead.”

Her heart stops.

Cregan shakes his head and takes a step towards her. “My condolences Princess-”

“How?” She asks.

He looks over the letter again with a heavy sigh. “Lord Staunton asked for aid to defend Rook’s Rest. Princess Rhaenys went atop her dragon, Meleys, but she was ambushed. Vhagar and Sunfyre were waiting for her.”

If Luke had room in her heart for sorrow she might cry, but she doesn’t. Not as she remembers the stern looking woman with silver hair, her father’s mother, who had seemed all too content to ignore her Velaryon grandchildren until the Hightowers came to strike their first blow. Not as she looks up to the sky and imagines a flurry of fire and talons. Against Vhagar alone, Meleys might have stood a chance. 

She tries to force the sadness out of herself. Rhaenys is dead. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera are dead. Arrax is dead. Visenya was never alive. The cost of war increases every day and the bodies are starting to pile high. But the tears do not come.

“There’s more,”

She snaps her head around to look back at Lord Stark. His eyes glisten, but his face is in a frown. “Aegon the usurper is close to death. The Greens have named Aemond Prince Regent and Lord Protector in his stead.”

A coldness crawls over her skin. 

“Lucerra-”

She screams, a throaty screech that only lasts for a moment but cuts clean through the cold air and startles the horses. The courtyard silences in an instant.

Her body is frozen, eyes wide and breath haggard as her cry lingers in an echo off the walls. She swallows, forcing some moisture down her throat, but there’s not much she needs to say.

She rushes to her horse and hauls herself back up onto the saddle. It squirms beneath her, despite the reassuring strokes she drags along its neck, though she herself is hardly in a position to inspire calm.

“Lucerra,” Cregan says, gripping the reins before she can turn back towards the gates. “Wait, for a moment.”

“I must return to Dragonstone.”

“I am not sure that would be wise-”

“I am not seeking your permission,” she snaps with cold and deadly precision. 

“You cannot leave, Princess.” He holds his palm before her. A thin cut slices over his skin, mostly healed, but still present. A reminder of a promise sealed with blood. “I swore an oath to your brother. I swore I would protect you.”

As she looks down at his eyes, for a moment she realises just how young the Warden of the North is. Older than her, but by a matter of years. 

“And you have given no cause to suggest otherwise. But I will not stand by idly while my family…” then the tears come, suddenly, like a plunge into the cold dark of the sea. If Rhaenys could not stand to defeat Vhagar, what chance would Vermax, Moondancer, Tyraxes, even little Stormcloud have?

She will not see her mother bury another child. 

Within the hour she mounts Grey Ghost. He keeps them hidden as he flies through the clouds, scales blending seamlessly into the gloom of the morning. She feels his silent pleas for home in her head. Our home.

She knows what must be done. She only hopes she has the strength to see this through.

She may have taken his eye, but Aemond Targaryen owes a debt, one she will see paid in fire and blood.

a/n: rather than listing every chapter and having to go back and edit every post I made a series masterlist (link at the top). So to see the other chapters you can look there or go to my main masterlist 🩵

Tags: @randomdragonfires @boundlessfantasy @toodlesxcuddles @starwarssslut @skikikikiikhhjuuh @arcielee

[wistfulcynic]

The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan)

SUMMARY: Emma Swan is a schoolteacher, respectable and respected in the small town of Haven, Wyoming. She does her job and minds her business, but she has a secret. One that brings meaning to her dull life and excitement to her restless soul. One that she knows could end at any moment. 

Killian Jones is a man with a powerful enemy and nothing to lose. He’s prepared to sacrifice every bit of that nothing for the sake of his revenge. 

Or, at least, he was. 

-

I am THRILLED to be here, kicking off the @cshistfic​ Historical Fics event! I’ve always loved reading romances set in the past and Westerns are a long-time favourite. Given how deeply entrenched the Western genre is in American culture, it’s funny to think about how a) most of it was made up for dime novels and, later, radio and television shows and movies, and b) the actual historical period that we call the Old West only lasted roughly thirty years—from the post-Civil War westward expansion under the Homestead Act to around the turn of the 20th century. This fic is set right around the end of that time—late 1890s to early 1900s—in the waning moments of the open range and the “lawless” frontier and the start of the modern era with its trains and barbed wire and cars and world wars. I’ve tried to capture a bit of that sense of transition in the story, mostly with the way it ends. 

Huge thanks to @shireness-says​​ for coming up with and running this event, and to @thisonesatellite​​ for Just Being Her. 

Words: 4.9k Rating: T Tags: Western AU, historical, outlaw Killian, schoolteacher Emma, all the historical detail, I did so much research for this 

on AO3

-

The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan): 

The hour was late, afternoon edging into evening in the town of Haven, Wyoming. ‘Town’ as a designation flattered it, this tiny settlement tucked back against craggy and striated formations of rock and nestled amongst ragged brush, being, as it was, scarcely more than a handful of rough-hewn cabins, a church, a general store, a blacksmith and livery stable, a saloon with its attendant whorehouse, and a school. 

The store and the smithy did the town’s most active business; unsurprisingly, seeing as they were the only examples of either within the radius of a good fifty miles. The residents—those who lived within the town’s scant limits—were certainly insufficient in their numbers to support either one, but the owners of those ranches that lay outside the town, they and their ranch hands, their wives, and their daughters, frequented both with pleasing regularity. 

The general store doubled, as such establishments generally did, as a post office, in which capacity it served as the sole tenuous link between this stark western land and the fashionable cities of the east. The Sears and Roebuck catalogue and that of Montgomery Ward, both prominently displayed beside the till, were tattered and well-thumbed, and the monthly mail delivery never came without piles of brown-wrapped parcels containing the latest in fashion and technology from the wider world—hints at the wonders promised by the new century. 

Very little of this prosperity touched the actual residents of Haven. The lives they lived were hard ones, scratched from unforgiving soil, but they were good folk, honest and hard-working. They lived simply and piously and for the most part happily. They tended their gardens and their livestock, read their Bibles, loved their children, and whenever possible sent those children to school. 

The Haven school, a single room with two windows, one on either side, and a disproportionate bell-tower on the roof—both this tower and the bell it contained were gifts from a local rancher, who considered them a better use of his money than blackboards or books—was located well away from the town’s main street. It had no fireplace, only a tiny, smoky, potbellied stove, and in the warmer months no breeze blew through the unglazed windows. The pupils sat on simple benches and copied their lessons onto slates that sold at the general store for rather more than their parents could comfortably afford; lessons their teacher laid out for them on a thickly-whitewashed wall with a piece of charcoal, the dust of which stained her fingers and her clothing, and embedded itself beneath her nails so deeply there were times she felt she’d never be free of it. 

This teacher’s name, the one she used, was Miss Emma Swan. A solitary and self-contained woman of about twenty-six, far too pretty for a schoolteacher most said, and if pressed these same would likely agree that teaching was not what folks might refer to as her calling. Though none could deny that she did her best and was kind to the children—a thing not always guaranteed from schoolmarms—she exuded such a restless air, an impatience with the tedium of her job and the pace of life in Haven which she did not trouble to conceal, that it was a subject of great curiosity amongst the residents why she continued to stay there. 

“I have my reasons,” she would say, whenever anyone dared to broach the subject, “and those reasons are my own.” There it was and there it would remain as far as Emma was concerned, and as the townsfolk knew her to be a courteous woman but one who never minced her words when riled, they declined to press the issue. 

By the time Miss Emma Swan had finished up in the schoolroom on this particular late afternoon, the floor swept and the board cleaned and lessons all prepared for the following day, the sun was already slipping behind the craggy rocks at her back and casting upon the town a peculiar sort of distended twilight—shrouded in shadows beneath a glaring blue sky. As she made her way the short distance between the schoolhouse and her own cabin—or rather, the schoolteacher’s cabin, perhaps the most compelling perk of her job—a brisk breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt and the few flyaway hairs that had escaped her tidy Gibson bun. The night would likely be another chilly one, and Emma wondered absently if she had enough wood left to leave the fire high for an extra hour or two or if she should resign herself now to another cold, dark evening spent alone. 

The cabin where she lived, she and sixty years of schoolteachers before her, was small and rough like most in Haven and comprised only two rooms: a small bedroom to the rear and a larger space at the front used equally for sitting, cooking, and dining. In this front room was both a fireplace and stove, the latter surprisingly modern and another gift from a different rancher, to the previous teacher. Near this stove sat a small wooden table and two matching chairs; a soft and generous armchair had pride of place before the fire. 

The bedroom was by far Emma’s preferred room. The walls in it were painted, in a pale and soothing blue, and on one of them a charming watercolour of forget-me-nots was hung. There was a white wardrobe with a mirrored door, a washstand and a vanity table, and a large bed with a sturdy iron frame. The curtains on the single window were of dotted swiss that Emma had sewn herself, and in the morning when she opened them she was greeted by the colours of the dawn. 

Emma removed her buttoned boots the moment she was through the door; they pinched her toes and she disliked wearing them indoors. She replaced them with a well-worn pair of carpet slippers then headed for the bedroom, there to change out of her school clothes and into the more comfortable, loose wrap dress she preferred at home. When she entered the room she had already undone most of the buttons on her high-collared blouse and so made straight for the wardrobe, without so much as a glance at the bed. 

The mirror on the wardrobe door as it swung open flashed the brief reflection of a face, just as Emma heard the sound of a chair leg scrape against the bare wood floor. She gasped and spun around, eyes wide and one hand pressed against her chest. 

There could be no question that the man currently in occupation of her vanity chair, sprawled in it with an air as casual as it was deceptive, was one who had followed quite a different path of life than that afforded to the residents of Haven. His untidy hair and the thick scruff on his jaw might not be especially remarkable out in this still-wild corner of Wyoming, but the narrow cut of his coat and the embroidery on the waistcoat beneath it, the silver chain of his pocket-watch and the ostentatious knot of his tie marked him as a man who knew his way around a gambling table for both good or ill and could likely acquit himself equally well in both scenarios. A man who dealt with the hardships of life by shooting rather than working his way out of them—as the gleaming six-shooter currently pointed straight at Emma would most certainly attest. 

Emma forced herself to breathe, slow and steady. Her heart was pounding. The man greeted her with a brusque nod, and cocked the hammer on his revolver. 

“Don’t let me interrupt you, love,” he drawled, in an accent that suited this town less even than his clothes or his gun. “By all means, keep going.” 

Emma swallowed hard and with trembling fingers undid the remainder of her buttons. Her blouse hung open to reveal the hooks of the corset underneath. 

The man gave his gun a menacing wave. “All the way now, there’s a good lass.” 

She shrugged off the blouse and let it fall to the floor. 

“And the skirt.” 

She unhooked her grey wool skirt and released it to pool around her ankles. 

His voice rasped. “Take down your hair.” 

Emma shivered.

Three pins and two combs held her hair in place. She removed them, dropped them into the pile of clothing at her feet; the bun tumbled down and over her shoulder. 

“Shake your head.” 

She did, vigorously. The bun unraveled further and strands of silky blonde fell across her face. 

He swallowed audibly. “Now the rest.” 

Emma hesitated, fingers hovering over the hooks on her corset. She wore nothing beneath it but a combination made of thin cotton lawn.

The man raised his gun and growled, “All of it.” 

She tossed her head back, jutted her chin out high in defiance. Her belly churned with a dark thrill of anticipation as she unhooked the corset and flung it away. He chuckled, low and rough. Emma fumbled with the buttons on her combination as he uncocked his gun and set it aside, then undid the belt designed to hold it. His eyes locked with hers as he stood, pale blue and profoundly tired, eyes that had seen far too much. 

She finished with the buttons but left the combination on, parted to reveal a thin strip of pale skin. Her heart thundered as he approached, her breaths short and heaving. He swaggered up and stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell the dust and sweat on him, so close she had to tilt her head again to see his face. His hand slipped beneath her shift to curl around her waist, fingers rough on her soft skin. 

“I—” Emma gasped as he pulled her closer, flush against him. His voice was a rumbling growl in her ear.

“You what, love?” 

“I was expecting you yesterday!” she snapped, and then she kissed him. 

-

“Gold is dead.” 

Emma’s head shot up from where it had been resting on the bare and hairy chest of Killian Jones. The most notorious outlaw in three states, or so the Wanted posters would have folks believe. Train robber, bank robber, high-stakes gambler—but only the trains and banks and gambling dens controlled by one particular man. A man in whose side Killian Jones had been an exceptionally troublesome thorn for near to six years. A man whose wife Jones stood accused of murdering. A man who was, it seemed, now dead himself. 

Emma stared down at his face, at the sharp definition of his cheekbones and lines of strain around his eyes. Such heavy burdens he’d been carrying for as long as she’d known him, but now, despite the exhaustion writ plain on his face he seemed lighter. Relieved, in some intangible way. 

“He is?” she gasped. 

“Aye.” Killian nodded, grimly satisfied. “Shot him right through the place where his heart should be. That’s why I was late.” 

“Oh, Killian.” It wouldn’t do to feel happy about a murder, even that of a wicked man, but Emma found that she too was grimly satisfied. “You did it.” 

“Aye, it’s done. And now I have a price on my head so high I’d turn myself in if I could, and special team of bounty hunters hired by Gold’s son to bring me to him, dead or alive.” 

“Oh.” Her fingers flexed on his chest and his tightened where they curled around her hip. “What—what will you do?” 

“Leave the country.” He spoke as though the answer were obvious, and Emma supposed it was. “I’ve no choice.” 

“Will you go back to England?” 

“No. There’s nothing left for me there.” He paused and his hand slid up her back to tangle absently in her hair. “I was thinking South America. Argentina.” 

“Argentina?” 

“Aye. Land’s selling down there for cheap and I’ve enough saved to buy myself a ranch. I’ve never tried ranching before so it’ll probably be an utter failure, but the idea’s crawled into my head and made itself a nest there, so I think that’s what I’ll do.” 

Emma slipped from his arms and out of bed. She could feel his eyes on her as she took her house dress from the wardrobe and wrapped it around herself, as she tied it at her waist with jerky movements. 

“You must be hungry,” she said. 

“I could eat.” 

“Stew?” 

“Perfect.” 

In the front room Emma piled wood on the embers in her stove and coaxed a fire to life beneath the pot of stew she’d left on the hob. She swept the ashes from the fireplace, arranged the logs and the kindling, then struck a flint to light it. She could hear Killian in the bedroom washing and dressing in the spare clothes she kept on hand for him, and by the time she sensed his presence behind her the larger logs were catching nicely and the hearty aroma of stew had begun to waft in from the stove. 

“Shouldn’t be too long before it’s ready,” she told him without turning around. “There’s cornbread too. It’s a few days old, but—” 

“Emma.” 

“—it should still be good if you dunk it in the stew.” 

“Emma, love.” Killian’s voice was soft, full of the tenderness he showed only to her. “Talk to me.” 

“About what?” 

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t known this day would come, this one or another very like it. She understood the dangers of the life he lived, out on the edges of society, pursued by an influential man with a terrible grudge, and she’d done all she could to make her peace with it. Killian could have died any number of times in the three years of their acquaintance; she had always been aware that every time she bid him farewell might be the last. 

And now she knew for certain that it would be. Nothing had changed. 

She heard him pull out one of the dining chairs and sit down in it, and though she kept her back to him she he knew he would be leaning his elbow on the table and running a hand over his face. She could picture the gesture in her mind’s eye with perfect clarity, so often had she seen him do it before, and her heart hurt because she knew he only did this when he was deeply troubled. 

“Emma, you know—you know why I spent so long trying to kill Gold,” he said roughly. 

“For Milah.” Her voice hardly broke on the name. “To avenge her.” 

“Yes. That bastard hunted her like an animal, shot her right in front of me then framed me for the crime, and all because she couldn’t bear to spend another moment as his wife. He took her life rather than allow her to live it free from him, because he couldn’t countenance her finding happiness with another man. And I swore to her as she lay dying that I would make him pay for that.” 

“Because you love her.” 

“I did.” In the silence of the cabin, she could hear the rasp of his scruff against his palm. “I did.” 

Emma had been watching the fire, now dancing merrily in the hearth, and it took a beat or two for his words to register. When they did her heart gave a shuddering thump and she spun round to gape at him. “Did?” she repeated. 

Killian’s lip quirked and humour flared briefly in his eyes before they became solemn again, and heartrendingly soft. “It’s a funny thing, revenge,” he remarked. “It begins as a simple quest for justice but so easily descends into obsession—almost before a man knows what’s come over him, it’s all he’s got left to live for. That’s how it was for me, for years. Until…” 

He trailed off and Emma found she was holding her breath. “Until?” she prompted.

He looked up at her. “Until I met you.” 

She inhaled sharply as their eyes met, his own warm and such a brilliant blue, full of an emotion to which she didn’t dare give a name. “I kept after Gold because of my vow to Milah, yes, but also because I had to, because it was him or me. His life or mine. When that bullet pierced his chest and I saw him fall, I realised that it wasn’t about Milah for me anymore and it hadn’t been, not for a long time. I was fighting for my life, my right to have it and to live it in peace. That’s all I want, just peace and a simple life. And you.” 

“Me?” gasped Emma, blankly and ungrammatically, as she attempted to grasp what he was saying. 

Amusement coloured the tenderness on his face, alongside a hint of exasperation. “Don’t you know, Emma?” he asked with a shake of his head. “Why do you think I kept coming back here?”

She offered a weak smile and an abashed shrug. “My cornbread?” she ventured, and he laughed. 

“I don’t know how to tell you this, darling, but your cornbread is dry. Try again.” 

Emma elected to ignore this ungentlemanly slur on her culinary skills. “Well… I suppose the town is quite secluded, good for hiding out,” she observed.  

“It is that. But that isn’t the reason, love.” 

“Isn’t it?”

“You know it isn’t.” Killian stood and moved towards her, slowly as if she were a baby faun he was apt to startle, or possibly a sleeping mountain lion. “It’s you, Emma Swan,” he said softly. “You are what I will always come back for. You are the reason my soul is hale and unconsumed by hatred. Because it wasn’t revenge I was after, in the end. It was the future I wanted with you.” 

Tears clogged Emma’s throat and pressed insistently behind her eyes. “Killian,” she choked, “I—”

“Shh.” He closed what small distance remained between them and folded her in an embrace to which she clung tightly, face pressed against his shoulder so the soft flannel of his shirt might absorb her tears. “Emma, I know I have next to nothing to offer you.” Killian stroked her hair soothingly as he spoke. “A tenuous existence in an unfamiliar country, backbreaking work that likely won’t pay off, a struggle for everything we have. I shouldn’t ask this of you. I should have the decency to walk away and let you find happiness with a better man than me.” She could hear tears in his voice now, and when she looked up she saw them glistening in his eyes. “But I won’t,” he continued gruffly. “I can’t, because I am a selfish bastard and I love you. I love you so much, Emma.” His voice broke. “So much. And if you could see your way clear to coming to Argentina with me, I would spend every day I have left on this earth working to make you happy.” 

A rush of joy filled Emma Swan then, joy such as she had never known before. Her tears fell freely and unheeded as she tightened her hold on the man she loved and pressed her forehead to his own. In that stance they remained for some considerable time, until Emma became aware that the silence had drawn out far too long and she must speak. There were words he needed to hear from her, crucial words, and yet Miss Emma Swan, despite being quite a competent schoolteacher in all respects including her vocabulary, had always found words failed her when in the grip of strong emotion. 

“Did I ever tell you I grew up on a ranch?” she blurted, then shook her head. That wasn’t what she’d wished to say.

Killian’s brow wrinkled. “You’ve mentioned it.” 

“My daddy’s place out near Casper,” Emma pressed on. “A thousand acres of cattle, mostly, and some horses.” 

“It sounds nice.” 

“It was.” She snuffled and shifted until her head was resting on his shoulder and she felt cradled in his arms. This wasn’t the speech she’d planned but now she found herself determined to give it. “I was his only child, his only family after my mama died, and he reared me all my life to take over from him,” she continued. “But then when I was nineteen he got married again, and had a son. And suddenly ranching was ‘no job for a woman,’ or so he said, and I should look into teaching instead. Or better still get married and become some man’s pretty possession. Preferably the son of a neighbouring rancher, ‘for the future of our family’s land and legacy’.” She paused, remembering, and rubbed her cheek against his shirt. “I told him to go fuck himself.” 

Killian’s laugh rumbled through the both of them. “That’s my tough lass,” he said, with a pride in his voice that warmed her, and made her desperate. 

“But you do know what I’m saying, don’t you Killian?” she persisted. “You hear what I’m telling you?” 

“What I hear is that in addition to being beautiful and brilliant and tough as old boots, you also know how to run a ranch. Which would be bloody useful I must admit, as I haven’t got the first faint clue where to start. Is that what you wanted me to understand?” 

She nodded in relief. “That’s it.”

He brushed the hair back from her face with fingers gentle as the wing of a butterfly. “And is that... all you have to say?”

She felt caught in his eyes, and like to drown in them. “There may be one more thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It’s that I—I—” Emma drew a steadying breath. “I love you too, Killian, and of course I’ll go to Argentina with you.” A smile broke across his face, that rare and brilliant smile of his that set her heart to soaring and broke the dam that held her words in check. “I’d go anywhere with you,” she declared, laughing as he squeezed her tight. “To the moon. To hell itself, and then back out again.” 

“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.” 

He leaned down to her and she swayed up to him and their lips met in a kiss that sang of love and of hope and of a most solemn promise, if something of a dramatic one. He dipped her back and kissed her until she was dizzy and overcome with laughter, and then swung her up again and into a dance. 

Emma put her head on his shoulder and leaned into him as they danced to music they alone could hear, all around the cabin with the aroma of stew in the air and hope for the future in their hearts. 

-

The disappearance of Miss Emma Swan, schoolteacher and respected resident, shook the town of Haven, Wyoming as nothing had before. Even the escape and subsequent stampede down Main Street of Mr Murchison’s pigs had caused less consternation, since, as the residents all agreed, for that at least there was an explanation. A rusty gate hinge, investigation later revealed, had been the culprit behind the Spectacular Pig Hullabaloo of 1893, whereas Miss Swan had simply vanished, with no explanation given or obvious method of egress. She owned no horse and had not boarded the stage; no one matching her description had been observed at the train station in Casper or anywhere else that a woman alone on foot might reasonably have been expected to turn up. She had taken nothing with her save some clothes and a few books and left nothing behind but a brief letter hastily scrawled on a scrap of paper—her resignation from her position as schoolteacher effective immediately, and a recommendation for her replacement. 

Haven residents were thoroughly baffled, and for many months afterwards the Fantastical Vanishing of Miss Emma Swan was the number one topic of conversation amongst them. Theories were dismantled nearly as quickly as they had been constructed, replaced by newer and ever more fanciful speculations, and each resident had his or her own pet notion as to how and why the trick was done. Rarely had they felt so stimulated or enjoyed themselves so thoroughly, however time, as it inevitably does, soon began quite noticeably to pass, and the town’s attention moved on to other happenings. For although new events in such a quiet place may never again be as deliciously sensational as the mystery of the vanished schoolmarm, they do possess the not insignificant advantage of being new.  

And thus Emma Swan passed into Haven legend. 

Some years later, on the eve of her wedding, Miss Mary Margaret Blanchard—soon to be Mrs David Nolan—sat at the very table where Miss Swan’s letter had been left and composed a letter of her own, to an old friend she’d first met at the State Normal School of Colorado. In her letter Miss Blanchard informed her friend of the imminent blessed day and thanked her for the recommendation that had not only brought Miss Blanchard many years of enjoyable work as schoolteacher to Haven’s children but also led, in that roundabout way life sometimes takes, to her current state of blissful happiness. 

This letter travelled by mail coach from the Haven general store—where Miss Blanchard posted it to the care of a P.O. Box in San Francisco—to the main post office in Casper. From there it went via train to Cheyenne, where it was loaded onto the mail car of the Union Pacific Railway and thence made its journey to the west coast. In San Francisco its fortunes underwent a curious change, for it was redirected by a clerk there, in accordance with instructions, and placed back on the Union Pacific, headed this time for Denver. From Denver it voyaged onwards to Kansas City, then Chicago, and finally to New York, where it abandoned train travel forever in favour of a steam ship bound for Buenos Aires. 

Upon arrival at port it was placed in the charge of a courier who carried it along with a scant handful of others over the rough roads of the Argentinian coast to Puerto Santa Cruz and then inland, where it finally, many months after its departure, came to rest at a tiny, dusty outpost in southern Patagonia. And it was from this inauspicious locale that the letter was collected, at long last, by its intended recipient—a woman none of the residents of Haven nor indeed the erstwhile Miss Blanchard herself would be likely to recognise as Emma Swan. 

The clothes she wore were utilitarian in design and plain in colour, liberally coated in fine brown dust. Her pale hair hung loose and wavy down her back, and her face beneath her wide-brimmed hat was tanned and marked around the eyes with the fine lines characteristic of those who spend a good deal of time squinting into bright sunlight. But these were superficial changes. The woman who collected the well-travelled letter and rode with it back to her ranch, who sat at the table in her kitchen and read it with a wide smile and sincere pleasure at the news from her friend—this woman was happy, as Emma Swan had surely never been. It was a happiness born of deep contentment and the satisfaction of a life lived on one’s own terms. And it was the happiness of a woman who is loved. 

Emma was reading the letter a fourth time when the sound of boots on the porch alerted her to Killian’s arrival; she looked up just as he came through the door with a smile on her lips the like of which neither Mrs Nolan nor any other in Haven could ever imagine her smiling. 

Killian hung his hat on a hook and met its brilliance with a smile of his own. “What are you thinking about, love, that has you so radiant?” he inquired. 

“A letter from Mary Margaret.” Emma indicated the sheet of paper in her hand. “She’s getting married. Is married now, I suppose.” 

“To a fellow worthy of her, I hope?” 

“A rancher, but not one of the arrogant ones,” Emma replied. “I think he is. Worthy of her, I mean. I think they’ll be happy.” 

“That’s good news indeed.” 

“It is.” She set the letter aside and went over to him, tucked her head beneath his chin as he enfolded her in his arms. “But that’s not why I’m radiant, as you say.” 

“I say it only because it’s true, darling.” 

“It’s because I’m happy,” said Emma softly. She nuzzled her nose against his neck; he smelled of sweat and dust and horses. “For Mary Margaret, of course, but also for me. It struck me just now, reading her letter, how happy I am. I’m so happy, Killian.” 

His arms around her tightened and she felt him stroke her hair, and when he spoke his voice was gruff. “No regrets then, about abandoning everything you’ve ever known to live out your days on the lam with me?” 

“Nope.” Emma pulled back just enough to look up at him, to caress his cheek with her fingertips and press her forehead to his. “No regrets at all.” 

-

Historical Note: Emma in this fic is based loosely on a woman named Etta Place. Very little is known about her, but she is thought to have been romantically involved with Harry Longabaugh, a.k.a. the Sundance Kid, and to have accompanied him and Butch Cassidy to South America. However, verifiable details about her are scarce—even her real name is uncertain—and only one photograph of her remains. Some believe she may have been a prostitute but in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid the writer chose to make her a teacher instead, and honestly I have always found that such a compelling tale. A “proper” schoolteacher having a secret affair with an outlaw, then running away with him to another continent? The romance, am I right? 

And thus the inspiration for this story. 

-

@ohmightydevviepuu​ @thisonesatellite​ @katie-dub​ @kmomof4​ @killianjones-twopointoh​ @mariakov81​ @stahlop​ @optomisticgirl​ @spartanguard​ @shireness-says​ @snowbellewells​ 

[jaskierswolf]

The Prince of Darkness

Written for @thewitcherbog flash fic challenge a while back but I never posted!

Rating: M

Summary: Jaskier is the King of the Underworld, and it's Valdo's day of judgement.

CW: Demon!Jaskier (and witchers), implied sexual content, death, torture (burning, choking, freezing.), Jask has an open relationship with all the witchers (but Geralt is his favourite), mentions of non con.

The hotel lobby was sophisticated and yet traditional, like something out of a movie. The dark panelling on the walls were dimly lit by flickering candles, and there was a fireplace roaring in the centre of the foyer, and a handful of gorgeous golden-eyed beauties were making their way around the room. They were finely dressed, perfectly tailored suits with silken blood red waistcoats detailed with golden buttercups, a tray balanced on their hands as they passed out flutes of champagne. In the corner of the room was a black grand piano, the lid propped up as the man behind it let his fingers dance across the ivory keys, rings glistening silver and gold in the candlelight.

Jaskier smiled to himself as he played, his eyes shut, focussing on every little sound in the room, blending it with the music, manipulating the souls around him until they were practically eating out of his hand.

The Prince of Darkness, the mortals called him.

Lucifer himself.

He preferred Jaskier; buttercups were so beautiful, so innocent, so toxic.

It was the perfect moniker.

Lux was his domain, his hotel, a haven for demons and sinners alike, and the perfect stage for when Jaskier had to deal with… unpleasant business. The witchers, as he liked to call his inner circle of demons, would deal with the aftermath, cleaning up the elevator before any of Jaskier’s regular clientele could see.

The witchers were just such good pets.

Geralt approached the piano, his honey golden eyes almost entirely black as they approached the end of another poor soul’s contract. There was an itch that creeped under Jaskier’s skin, hot fire burning through his veins, but it didn’t bother him. No, he relished in the flames, let it warm his cold immortal body. Cracking an eye open, he peered at the witcher who had disturbed his music.

“He’s here, my lord.”

Jaskier sighed, bringing the music to an end, and then, with a snap of his fingers, the ivory keys started to play anew. The song was a familiar tune, a well known pop song from the mortals’ charts. It would keep his honoured guests entertained, after all, at Lux the party never-ended. Those who stepped through the swinging doors were transported to a realm of endless night; cocktails, champagne and designer clothes. The chandelier in the middle of the room twinkled, and there was a sharp clack of high heels on the granite floor as his guests mingled.

None of them ever seemed to realise there was something not quite right about Lux. When they were done partying, when Jaskier had made deals for their souls, they would leave and return to their realm as if they had only been there for an evening, never to return until their contract was up.

And they always returned.

Occasionally, a poor mortal would fight it, realising their impending doom. They’d try to flee the country, get as far away from Lux as possible, but the witchers were excellent hunters. Once the demons got the right scent, they could track their prey to the end of the known universe. The mortals never stood a chance. They either came willingly or they would be dragged through the doors by two of Jaskier’s finest demons; he wasn’t sure which he preferred.

Yes it was simpler if they accepted their fate, but he couldn’t deny that he just adored the thrill of watching the poor terrified soul being thrown at his feet.

He thought of himself as a kind devil, if such a thing existed, his father would certainly disagree, but his father could rot in heaven. Truly, Jaskier did his best to be fair. He granted the mortals wishes and made sure they lived their best lives, he even allowed most of them to live for many decades with the gifts he gave them, their deepest desires. Really, for some of the wishes he’d granted, it would have been kind to allow them even a year of life, let alone what he gave to them.

Ungrateful bastards, the lot of them.

Valdo Marx had been an easy soul to claim; he was greedy, lustful, full of pride. He’d practically begged at Jaskier’s feet back when he was in his first year of university.

“I want to be the best musician the world has ever seen, I want the most beautiful woman, Virginia Stael, to be my wife, and I want-”

Jaskier had waved his hand, his dark feathered wings spreading out behind him, and Valdo’s jaw had snapped shut, muffled sounds coming from his throat.

“I want, I want, I want,” Jaskier had cooed, his finger hooking under Valdo’s chin as he pouted down at the mortal, whipping his tail round to caress down the poor man’s arm until his wrist had been locked in a vice. “Do you know what I want… Marx?”

The wanna-be musician had scoffed, a fatal mistake and one that had cost him years off his life. “Everyone knows that, Lucifer.”

“My name, Valdo, is Jaskier,” he’d hissed, his forked tongue flicking out from his lips as more and more of his devil form had been revealed. “And I just want to have fun.”

“You want my soul.”

“No, your soul is the price. A mere business transaction. I just want to get wasted and shag my rather lovely demons, and you are wasting my time.”

Ah yes. Valdo had always been a little shit-stain in Jaskier’s life, but now his time had come.

The piano music began to build to an earth shattering crescendo, making the glasses rattle, and dust fall from the chandelier. Jaskier cracked his neck, feeling a prickling sensation on his scalp as his horns began to grow, and still the sweet, oblivious mortals noticed nothing. They sipped on their champagne and chatted amongst themselves, ignoring the way Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes slowly turned onyx, his skin deathly pale. He smiled sweetly at his favourite witcher, running his lips along Geralt’s sharp cheekbones.

“Thank you, darling,” he breathed, capturing Geralt’s lips with his, tongues meeting in a quick but heated display of passion.

And then the doors burst open, Lambert and Aiden dragginga handsome but aging man through the doors, grey hairs dusting his temple, crinkles at the corners of his eyes. It had been a long time since Jaskier had seen Valdo Marx, but there was no denying his beauty, now distinguished, a true silver fox. Dark chocolate eyes met his as all the colour drained from Marx’s face.

“Oh God, no… no, please,” he stammered, struggling in the arms of the demons that held him.

“My dear father holds no power here,” Jaskier chuckled, smirking at the man at his feet. “There’s no use in praying. Your soul belongs to me.”

“Lu- Jaskier, please. I’m too young. It’s too soon,” Valdo begged, reaching up to Jaskier with open hands. “My wife, my children.”

“Oh but Valdo, It’s never too soon. I am never early and I never try to back out of a deal, darling,” Jaskier pouted, squatting so he was at eye level with the mortal. “So why don’t you come with me, love? Stop all this fussing. You’re ruining my party.”

With a fire not often seen in mortals, Valdo spat at Jaskier, and an eerie silence fell over the club. The piano music screeched to a halt, the lid closing with a bang, and the only sound was a low rumble of growls from the witchers. Geralt was at Jaskier’s side in a flash, his sword drawn and pointed at the man.

It was sweet.

As if Jaskier couldn’t defend himself, but he did enjoy the show, the way Geralt’s arms would flex as he gripped the sword, twirling it in a circle before executing his victim.

“I had planned to give you an easy death,” Jaskier lied, standing back up to his full demonic height and clearing his face with a snap, “but now, I think I’ll have some fun. Geralt, Eskel, with me. Lambert, Aiden, make sure our guests stay out of the way.”

“No!” Valdo cried, falling once more at Jaskier’s feet, gripping onto his ankles.

Oh, how he loved it when they begged for their lives.

When Jaskier glided through the foyer, picking up a champagne flute from Coen’s tray with barely a brush of his lips to the demon’s cheek, the crowd parted before him. Compliments fell off their tongues, sweet like honey, unaware of the influence Jaskier had over them. They all watched him, they always watched him, so very eager to please. Geralt snarled behind him as one brave mortal rested their hand on Jaskier’s arm, but it was Eskel who snapped their fingers, silent and deadly, before they’d even realised he was there.

Valdo was pulled into the elevator, tears streaming down his face and choked off screams ripping from his throat, but Jaskier remained calm, and if it weren’t for his eyes and the horns amongst his tousled brown hair, he would have looked like any other hotel owner.

Until the doors closed.

And then all hell broke loose; literally. Jaskier’s body cracked and snapped into place as his legs extended to inhuman proportions, his fingers growing into talons, and he let out a sinful moan as his wings unfurled behind him. He flicked out his tail, and his three-piece suit melted away into a gorgeous black silk corset, embroidered with golden buttercups. Red stockings adorned his legs, held up by lacy black garters, and as he flicked out his ankles, a pair of strappy heels materialised on his feet, the soles flashing red before clicking back onto the floor.

“Jaskier, please, please,” Valdo cried, falling against the side of the elevator as lightning sparked and they dropped fast, the dial on the wall spinning out of control.

“Your soul… belongs to me,” Jaskier hissed, pressing Valdo up against the wall, his hands wrapping around his throat.

He was tempted to snog Valdo’s soul right out of him, a sweet kiss to seal the deal, but that was too kind, and he was feeling a little more dramatic than that, so he pushed back off the wall, beating his wings so he hovered just off the floor. Geralt and Eskel were standing on either side of him, swords drawn with toxic black eyes, veins like ink beneath their skin.

Flames burst out behind them, whipping around so the whole elevator was surrounded by a burning pyre, singeing Valdo’s clothes, and the mortal screamed as the fire licked at his hand, scorching the calloused skin. His precious hands, his livelihood, the first things that Jaskier had blessed for him.

There was something so delightfully poetic in that, and Jaskier found great pleasure in it.

“Everyone always thinks that hell is eternal fire,” he purred, stroking a talon along Geralt’s cheek, before pulling Eskel into a soft kiss, taking his time to enjoy the taste of sulfur on his tongue, “but that isn’t always true.”

“W-what?”

Jaskier just pouted at Valdo. “Do try to keep up, darling.”

And then he snapped his fingers, the fire was suddenly extinguished, replaced by a flood of muddy tar. Valdo spluttered and choked as he slid to the ground, the tar catching in his hair, and wherever it landed his handsome looks withered away. The wedding band slipped from his finger and disappeared, despite Valdo’s desperate scrambling to find it.

The muddy mixture spewed all over the lift, covering the two demons as well as their victim, but Jaskier stayed clean and dry, untouched by the tar. He really wasn’t in the mood for ruining his clothes, not like this. He was rather hoping Geralt would tear them from his body later on that day whilst his other beloved witchers watched.

“J-Jaskier!” Valdo screamed, just as the entire elevator froze.

Blue ice creeped up the walls, wrapping around the legs of both the demons and the pitiful mortal on the floor. Valdo sobbed, trying to escape the ice but they both knew it was over. His back pressed against the wall as the ice grew, crystallising over his body, wrapping around his throat. Snowflakes fell from the ceiling, landing in his eyelashes as he struggled to breathe.

And Jaskier stole back his voice.

The final gift.

Valdo’s soul ripped from his body, and the man fell limp against the wall.

With a wave of his hand, Jaskier captured the soul, weaving his magic until a silver fox with chocolate brown eyes was nestled in his arms. He grinned, lowered the fox to the floor and then snapped his fingers to open the doors.

Before he left the elevator, his corset grew into a beautiful gown, split all the way up to his thighs, and his demonic features melted away. He patted Geralt once more on the cheek, pressing their lips together, before striding back into the foyer, not looking back at the frozen massacre he’d left behind. Beside him, a silver fox trotted along, a shadow of the man he used to be.

[m-y-fandoms]

Vampire Nagito Komaeda x Ultimate Monster Hunter reader - Part 2 (Supernatural AU)

Part 1 

WARNINGS: Blood Drinking, Vampire Bites

Please excuse any grammar mistakes. I think I got most but I edited this at 5 A.M. ... I will go back over it and scan for errors soon.

- Admin Kokichi

     Hours passed since your unfortunate encounter, and your heart and mind had finally shaken off the creeps. After finishing your little self-guided tour of campus, you headed to the Main Course dorms to find your room. Your luggage was arranged to come later that evening, but you wanted to see the dorms for yourself now with little else to do. 

      Once you shut the door, the warmth of the sunlight gave way to a wave of the best air conditioning money could buy. The place looked very clean and tidy, with nothing out of place save for a few displaced balls and plastic cups atop a pool table and what appeared to be forgotten lecture notes on a shelf above a central fireplace. This must be the common area, a lounge for the most deserving students in the world!

     Behind the fireplace on either side were two sets of pretentious-looking stairs that led up to what you assumed were the actual dorm rooms. You searched your pocket for your student key card. You flipped it around over and over again in your hand, searching.

     “What?” You weren’t going crazy, were you? Neither floor nor room number were indicated on your card. You pulled your phone out, quickly sifting through emails and texts. Nope. Nowhere, at any point, had the housing department told you exactly what room was yours. Way to drop the ball, Kirigiri… you sighed, finding this situation both a bit humorous and exasperating considering the status of the school.

     Well, you were a last minute transfer. There were bound to be slip-ups.

     Sighing, you resigned to sit, relax for a few minutes, then call the housing department, or simply walk over to the main office building if it was still open.

      "Maybe I'll just..." you decided you'd earned the two minute break and walked leisurely over to one of the beige leather seats. Sitting, you set your chin into your hand propped up by your elbow on the arm of the chair, and began to think of how much you missed your tools. School regulations didn’t allow poisons, crossbows, guns and silver bullets inside the dorms... for obvious reasons. Even students of the blade or other offensive disciplines had to keep all sharp and lethal objects in their practice rooms and out of the dorms (not that all of them followed these rules). Students were allowed to customize and adjust their uniforms according to their talent, but you couldn’t even do that, what with all of the tools of your trade being lethal or unexplainable to the ignorant masses.

     It felt weird, not having a wooden stake strapped to your ankle, not having wolfsbane hidden away in a compartment on your belt. You felt out of place, without knives and rune-inlaid whips hidden on your person... uncomfortable. This school really wasn’t for you.

     "Ah, it’s you!" A voice came from behind.

     "Huh?" You gasped, flying up from your seat, thoroughly startled. Your knee banged off of the coffee table in front of it, leaving you feeling like an absolute buffoon. Your hand instantly flew to your leg, and you hissed softly in pain.

     “Whoops! Didn’t mean to startle you, sorry!”

     Your eyes followed the voice all the way up the stairs to its owner. Nagito was scrambling down the stairs toward you apologetically, feeling responsible for your blunder. He reached his hands out as of to offer you his aid, but froze upon seeing you take a step backward. He stopped directly in front of you, clearing his throat before continuing.

     “What are you doing here? You don’t have to start classes yet?” You stared into his eyes, and a tremble ran up your spine. The greenish-grey, glistening spheres appeared icy and far away. “Well?" When you didn't respond, he spoke up again.

     "I uh... um..."

     "You have a way with words, I see, just like when we met earlier today." He teased, laughing warmly. He had one of those genuine smiles, where the eyes exude friendliness just as much as the mouth, and their misty shine entranced you deeply. He laughed again, a bit awkwardly as you merely gawked at him. A light blush formed on his cheeks and he swept some of his cloud-like hair away from his forehead. He held the eye contact, though, searching your mind for something, anything to tell him more about you. You felt a stinging begin, like a migraine forming in the depths of your brain.

      You shook your head roughly, tearing your eyes away from his gaze. How could you have fallen for that one? 

     Vampires could very easily compel the mortal mind, put one in a mind-hazing trance with direct eye contact alone. Being the offspring of one of the best hunters ever born, you were trained to notice when the bloodsuckers made their attempts to ensnare your mind or read it like a book. That headache was your warning sign, the last defense of a disciplined mind, but it shouldn’t have even of gotten that far. 

     You were slipping… why did this vampire feel… different?

     More importantly, you forced your mind to change the subject, how long had he been trancing other students? Was he doing this on purpose? Some vampires simply forgot their own strengths at times. Did Kirigiri know? Is this dangerous creature simply going around unchecked... doing whatever the hell he likes?!

     He coughed, his eyebrows furrowing with a sudden seriousness. He’d been searching your mind, looking around desperately for a clue, a story, a hint, and just as soon as he thought he’d found an interesting page to start reading, the book was snapped close in front of him. He was pushed out in an effort that seemed practiced, skillful. You saw the discontent lining his features, and decided you needed you stop this. You two needed to be on the same page, before he tried anything else on you; something stupid, or more bold. You couldn’t keep up this charade any longer. You had a feeling he was feeling the same way.

     "Stop that.” You spoke sternly, concisely, confidently. He needed to know not to try that shit again, that you would not simply be prey like others, not mentally nor physically. His mouth formed a smirk, one of relief and something like acknowledging the other player in a game.

     “Ahh~ so I see that I was correct after all. Are we done playing pretend now? Awww, I was actually having a lot of fun! It was quite stimulating, actually.” He frowned, pouting like a child called home at dusk after playing outside all day.

     “I’m afraid so. Sorry to disappoint you,” you crossed your arms over your chest defiantly,” and I don’t appreciate my mind being picked and prodded at. That’s extremely disrespectful, you know? That’s none of your business. If you’re doing that to people on the regular around campus, I will inform the headmaster.” You held a finger out, poking his chest firmly and with aplomb, and he only smiled in response, finding this attempt to intimidate him rather adorable. He held in a giggle behind his hand, not wanting to anger you. “Am I amusing to you?” You threw him a cross look, and he held his hands up in surrender.

     “No, of course not! I was just thinking, well... how do you know? About me, I mean?”

     You face went blank. You weren’t expecting this question, though you probably should have been. There was no possible way to answer this honestly. What were you supposed to say? The headmaster forbade you from telling anyone of your true talent. Disregarding that point, what would this vampire do to you once he found out you were one of those sworn to kill his kind? You didn’t have any means of defending yourself at present. You couldn’t outrun him, or fight back with raw strength. He couldn’t do anything right? He wouldn’t… if he were that brash, there’s no way Kirigiri would’ve let him enroll here in the first place. He has to be on excellent behavior to attend Hope’s Peak, right?

     You blinked once, twice. He was waiting for a response, staring patiently. You needed a response, and quickly.

     “W-what are you doing here?” Nice. Perfect.

     “Huh?” His head tilted, taken aback by the curveball you threw his way.

     “W-well you asked what I’m doing here, and you’re right, if I were starting classes today, I would be in one right now. We have the same core classes outside of the individualized training of our talent specialization. I saw the class rosters and schedules! I know you should be in class right now as well!” You were getting louder with every word, feeling very cornered and vulnerable at the moment. If you had just even one weapon on you… just one…

     “Well, uh…” now you had him. You smirked, feeling pretty clever at the moment. “I forgot my books... just my luck haha,” he countered, “So I came back to my room to get them!”

     “Then where are they?” And sure enough, he had nothing on him but the clothes on his back.

     “Hmm… well I came through the second floor entrance,” he gestured over his back “...and I was about to head to my room but I got uhhh… distracted I guess you could say. I really am hopeless.” There was that big, dumb, goofy grin again. Your mind took a second, but then it clicked.

     “...You smelled me…” you spoke slowly, cautiously.

      “Uh… I guess yeah. You could say that. Well that’s exactly what happened, really. I suppose I am glad we ended our little farce! Would’ve been hard to explain that one...” his index finger reached up, scratching at the side of his mouth pensively.

     “You really are a creep!”

     “Yeah, I’m the worst, I know...” Why was he smiling while saying this? “I’m sorry, again. Usually, it’s not like this. Of course I admire our talented peers and am drawn to them as they are pinnacles of hope and the building blocks of the future, but...” he pantomimed through the air grandly, “ I am very conditioned to the human scent. It doesn’t usually alert me nowadays. I dunno… guess the... tantalizing smell of a particularly interesting human was enough to… stir me.” He smirked almost tauntingly. Your eyes widened, but narrowed again immediately. You would not show him weakness. 

     “Stop that.” You scowled.

     “Apologies, (Y/N). Just speaking my mind. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m just sort of a disgusting waste of space.” Your scowl melted into a sort of sympathetic frown despite yourself. Did he really mean that? Why would he say that about himself? Vampires were usually more vain on the spectrum of supernatural beings. “I just hold Main Course students in really high esteem, and you’re no exception... actually, far from it. Ever since I met you this morning, you’ve been on my mind more then most mortals… strange...” he seemed lost in his own little world. What? What the hell was going on in his crazy little head? The silence caught his attention, and he seemed to remember you were there as well, looking into your eyes again. He caught himself, making sure to not to make such direct eye contact with you. When he was in these weird moods, he never could quite control his more passive abilities and instincts. “Anyway... yeah, it’s unfortunate that I’m going to be missing part of class now… not that I don’t enjoy the pleasant surprise! I knew there was something special about you right off the bat!" Would he still think that after he knew your true calling? You looked to your right, thankful for the large staircase to escape to. He was giving you unsettling vibes once again. 

     Supernatural beings were known to imprint easily on mortals. Some saw them as beautiful, perplexing, ethereal in their impermanence. Some killed and ate them just because devouring humans, or torturing them until the panicked aura of their tiny, weak souls radiated around the room and feeling that temporary fragility, that adrenaline, was the only way they themselves could feel human. This urge to feel close to humanity was only doubled, dangerously so, in supernaturals who were once human themselves. It was an insatiable need to return to that normalcy, that frailty. 

     Swiftly, you scampered over to the bottom step to put some distance between you and the increasingly imposing immortal before you.

     "Ah, I see. Well, anyway, thanks I suppose. I uh..." you grinned clumsily. “I was just looking for my room, albeit unsuccessfully. You can go ahead and get your books now! I don’t want to hold you up any longer!”

      "I can help! It’s no big deal. The way they get students moved in here can sometimes be confusing. Actually, they put your room number on the student portal, not your card or paperwork, heh! And they don’t even tell you, leave you to find out yourself!” He pulled a large, black rectangle from his pocket, crossing the distance to wave it in front of you like a treat.

     What the...? You patted down your shirt and bottoms alike.

     “Is that my phone? How the hell-?!”

     “Ah, yeah, sorry about that! I swiped it from you when I first came downstairs! I thought it’d help me get to know you better, had you not been willing to divulge the knowledge you have of my kind’s existence.” Once again he was calm, cool and casual whilst in the midst of saying such unusual words. What was this guy’s deal? “Here, you can have it back!”

     “Yeah, I should hope so!” You reached out to snatch your phone from his hand, and it was like time froze.

     The moment your fingertips touched his own in the exchange, your indignant eyes met his, and saw something feral flicker in them. The phone switched hands, and a spark of sorts traveled through your skin and into his. As you pulled back, his hand shot out, taking a tight grip around your wrist.

     Your cheeks warmed up, at once flustered when the atmosphere changed drastically. Your eyes dilated in panic and his lips moved forward, resting upon your hand. He seemed to tense up, a rigidness taking up his entire body. His closed eyes opened wide to match your own and he inhaled deeply of the skin of your knuckles. You pulled away quickly, spooked.

     "S-something wrong? Why are you so weird? I’ve never met any of your kind quite like you." You rubbed your hand curiously.

     “So, you’ve met others?” It was clear he was trying to hold back something deep inside of him that begged to crawl out, his eye twitching slightly.

     “Answer my question.”

     "No, of course not... you just smell... nice, as I said before." He looked away from you, hand extending to guide you upstairs and in the right direction, but your brain was telling you not to go anywhere with him in tow.

     “I- I can find my way myself, but thanks!” You began logging into the Hope’s Peak student portal through your phone’s browser, and quickly looking through your profile to find your room code and number.

     “I insist!” He followed you up the stairs, trailing after your scent like a starved hound. Why couldn't he just get lost? Your thoughts raced anxiously. If you’d had your equipment on you, he would’ve been long dead. He was exhausting, and he didn't feel… safe. “Found it?” he inquired over your shoulder. As you reached the top of the steps, you began to feel your blood boil, but you knew not the true cause of this involuntary reaction.

     Your last little exchange left you feeling foolish and naive. How could you have let a vampire get that close? Why would you let him indulge in the scent of you knowing how easy it was for them to take advantage of humans? You were royally pissed off, and looking for a way to expel that rage, to hurt someone or something the way you were hurting inside.

     “I know you’re a vampire because I kill them. My whole family does. It’s essential to be able to identify one in my line of work. I’d be a pretty shitty hunter if I couldn’t do even that, and you aren’t exactly good at hiding it.” You found your door, swiping your keycard into the extremely sleek, high-tech lock system, and forcing it open a bit too harshly. The frustration you tried to hide in your voice was evident in your actions. Nagito halted, stilled stiff by your suddenly bitter words.

     “Ah,” he cleared his throat, also hiding emotions of his own, “The Ultimate Hunter... it makes sense now.” He recalled seeing your title along with your name on his own school portal. How did he miss that one?

     “Yeah, so maybe you should get lost.” Heartlessly, you began to close the door on him, now fully inside the spacey room that was bare save for a luxurious bed and some basic, modern furniture. “Hn?” A soft gasp left your throat when a polished shoe wedged itself inside the door, stopping you. You looked up, your body filling the crack in the door, and met Nagito’s eyes. There was that far away look again. His eyes were cloudy, tameless, wild.

     “Why must you be so harsh?” His eyes bore into your own now, all inflection and kindness gone from his tone. “I understand you must hate my kind, and now I can appreciate why you reacted so aversely to my voice, my touch, my presence before, but have I done anything to harm you?” You were beginning to get scared now, reaching instinctively for your belt and finding it absent from your pristine uniform.

     “I think you should leave. We obviously aren’t meant to be acquaintances.” You refused to let your voice shake. This might be a turning point, a critical moment. Vampires were never so dangerous as when they knew their prey was afraid.

     “It’s your turn to answer me, now~” Nagito forced himself in the doorway nonchalantly, approaching your slowly retreating form into the middle of your room. You backed away, with him meeting every step.

     “If you must know, you have offended me, yes. Trying to read my mind-”

     “An accident.”

     “Stealing my phone-”

     “A precaution.”

     “Smelling my blood like a pervert, twice!” He smirked.

     “A natural, harmless instinct.” 

     “Even so...” Your eyes were on his own, obviously not focused on his body, and he took this opportunity to reach down, grasping lightly at your hand once again.

     “Even so, what? Those are all petty misunderstandings. Ahhh~” his cold, pointed nose skimmed across the back of your hand once again as he brought it to his face. This time, when you tried to pull away, he held fast, and warning signals flashed in your mind. “Just as I thought! Your scent appeals to me so because you are a shining beacon of hope! I see it now! It’s all coming to me! You protect the world from those of my kind who would seek to destroy it! How wonderful!” His cheek bumped across your knuckles, and you failed once again to pull away.

     “N-Nagito. Stop. This is.... you must consider context. If we weren’t in school right now, if we were just on the street meeting like this-”

     “You wouldn’t do anything~ because I’m allied and protected~” He sung, his eyes twitching again, lids fluttering softly. Your heart dropped into your stomach. He was right. 

     You were trying to resist, but he was making it so damn hard. It shouldn’t be this hard. You found supernatural beings repulsive. Your father did as well. And his father did! They weren’t trustworthy. Their words were always the lies of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. They could charm and glamour weaker mortals with ease and enjoyed it! And you certainly were not a weaker mortal! You found joy in killing them... didn’t you?

     “What you’re doing now is-”

     “It’s strange, hah~ so strange~ I haven’t felt this inspired, this jittery about a mortal in such a long time... haha~ this excitement! I knew it! I knew you were special! You’re the true hope I’ve been looking for! The Ultimate of all Ultimates that will guide our classmates into their roles as the protectors and leaders that will inherit this earth!” He was manic now, inhaling deeply, raggedly onto your skin. One hand crushed your wrist into his own chest, the other held your hand so that it stayed splayed out flat for his access. There was something primal in his eyes. He was quickly becoming unstable. It was a perilous state so common to his kind, but yet it felt still so incredibly unique to Nagito himself, like it was not his immortality but his own character that caused this sudden shift in behavior.

     “Nagito! You sound like a lunatic! Let go, you’re hurting me!” Tears threatened to fall from your eyes. You were strong, usually able to ignore some measure of physical pain, but the way his fingers dug into your wrist coupled with the consternation you felt at the situation set your nerves aflame. Once again you reached instinctively for a weapon or poison you did not have.

     “Am I? I’m sorry. It’s just... I wonder...” You didn’t like where this was going at all. His chest shook with arousal , a bit of drool dripping from the fangs now on display in his mouth, which hung open in his state of reverie. “I wonder what this this hope tastes like... this pure, concentrated source of unbridled hope!” His voice shook, and you pushed at his chest with your free hand. He didn’t budge an inch. It was like he didn’t even notice your actions. “I know I’m unworthy, that a piece of trash like me doesn’t deserve to taste you... but I feel like now that I’m this close, haha~ I can’t stop myself! Truly, truly it’s a grand misfortune that a talentless, meaningless, soulless abomination like myself even dares to take part in such a feast! But...” He lowered his lips to your wrist.

     “Nagito, stop! You can’t do this!” You began to kick and struggle, to scratch and tear at his clothes, to claw at any exposed skin, leaving marks across his cheek and arms. “If you do this, you’ll lose your protection!” His top lip pulled back, something like a snarl emanating from his throat. Clearly that approach wouldn’t work. “You’ll be expelled!” You tried the next deterrent on your mind. Wow, you must’ve been the worst Super High-School Level Monster Hunter in history. Day 1: fooled into a vampire’s clutches. His inhumanely sharp canines grazed the skin of your wrist, feeling your pulse race beneath the surface. He was entranced; there was no stopping this now. A human, without weapons, without enchantments or defenses, without repellants, bombs, herbs, poisons, silver, or means of healing, was no match for a supernatural being. “Please! Please, you- don’t do this!” a last effort. Why did you even try? These savages never sympathized with begging and pleading. They were killers. You were an imbecile to let your guard down around Komaeda for even a second.

     His fangs sunk deeply into your skin, piercing a vein. You yelped out in pain, pulling at his hair and tugging your wrist back, which only nestled his fangs in deeper. You whimpered, little rivulets of your vital fluid running out of his mouth and down to your elbow. He was moaning in delirium, enraptured in the sensation of your blood running down his throat. You wanted to yell, to scream for help, but something inside you was hesitant and holding you back. Something inside you didn’t want anyone to find out about this, to find you two like this.

     “Mmmh~” Nagito’s tongue swirled around the puncture wounds, his lips latched on like a leech. He drank freely, deeply, seemingly careless of how much blood he was taking. It’d been a long time since he’d felt the exhilaration of feeding from true prey. These days they had him on willing donors and blood bags. Nothing compared to the flavor of adrenaline and fear in the bloodstream, no matter how much he hated himself for indulging in it.

     “Naaagi-t-” You stumbled backwards a step, wishing so desperately that you weren’t such an obedient student, that you’d deemed it justified to slip a stake, a knife, anything under your shirt. Your punches, your willful attacks on his abdomen, and the kicks to his knees began to slow down. They were losing the fight behind them, and yet, you would not give up. “St-tt-oo-” He continued to slurp and suck at your wrist, taking no note of the way you slowly were slipping to your knees. 

     The corners of your vision began to cloud and darken. Your head was ringing, much like a time you’d been left concussed after one of your first hunts. This might as well have been one of your first encounters with the supernatural world, with how badly you’d blundered every step.

     Now on your knees, your head hanging limply down into your chest with your arm raised and pulled taut, trailing up to the vampire’s mouth, you felt yourself slipping. Finally, your vision began to fade for the last time, and you fell unconscious. The last thing your mind registered was the sound of Nagito sighing blissfully as he finally detached from your flesh, followed by the sound of frenzied laughter.

[infinitethree]

Hey, I was sort of wondering about first impressions and later if that impression changed. What was Daz’s first impression of Daydream, Theo, and Vio and did that impression change later on?

And what about Aver and Karl Prime? I’m a little curious about Daz’s first impression of them. Did your thoughts change after learning about Karl Prime’s time traveling?

Daz is back in the main Council rooms, with their quartz pillars and walls with irregular patterns of gilded blackstone dotted among regular blackstone.

Specifically, he’s laying down on the light grey couch, idly inspecting a magic 8 ball. He appears to be alone. “A deal’s a deal, Scribe. Keep your end and I’ll keep mine.”

The display of the toy changes, the answer now reading You may rely on it. Daz gives a soft huff at it, more tired than actually amused. He sets it down on the coffee table, then he turns to look at the ceiling. As he laces his hands together over his stomach he says, “Congratulations, Observers. I’ve negotiated a second deal that lets you ask questions to Khons and Aleph again. Try not to fuck it up this time.” While it’s not the most threatening he’s sounded when speaking to them, there’s a certain venom to his words that puts it up there.

The next part is not one he looks forward to, but…he has no choice. Not only is it important that he uses every advantage he has, it was part of the bargain he made.

His eyes drift closed and he lets himself sink into his own mind.

When his eyes open, he stands at a familiar oak door. It's been barred shut with thick iron chains and there are claw marks at the base of it.

An echoing laugh sounds out as Daz reaches out to touch the chains. They vanish like they were never there and the door swings open.

It had once been a small but cozy room stitched together from memories and things he liked. A table from his time with Phil, made of sturdy oak and carved with mementos of the past. Now it’s little more than splinters and sawdust. A long dead fireplace of once-cheerful red bricks like the one in the Dream Team base, a witness to countless arguments about cheating in assorted games. Two comfortable chairs mangled almost beyond recognition. Flowers from an old friend, shriveled and sure to vanish into dust were they touched at all.

Plastered across the walls are countless pictures that shifted through scenes and memories at a dizzying speed. Some he can’t bear to watch, while others draw his attention despite himself.

In the middle of the ruined room with its cold fireplace, sat Daz.

Or, rather, his reflection. The entity mirrors his appearance, down to nicks and scrapes, but the details are different. The hoodie, though the same style as Daz's, is solid red. Not bright red, but a deeper version closer to the color of cooling blood from a fatal wound. The earrings in its ears are almost all the same shapes, but in a silver tone so bright it's nearly white. 

The largest difference, bar the colors, is where the Shield earcuff should have been. Instead, it has a chunk of faceted malachite.

The thing smiles at him. "Isn't it funny how you shove me in a box when you think I won’t be useful? How you get to decide when I have value, and when I deserve freedom–"

Daz cuts the other-him off. "You tried to convince me to take over the server. I would be dead or, worse, back there if I let you stay free. I did what I had to do.” He sighs and adds reluctantly, “...I can't imagine you gave up your name, monster mine."

The other Daz grins, just a little too wide with teeth just a little too sharp. "Of course not. You may have abandoned the name Tommy, but Innit is mine."

Daz scoffs softly. "You've been watching. How much do you know?" Innit’s smile only grows. It mockingly coos, "I know plenty. I won’t let you chain me a third time. You made me and yet went right back to trying to deny me. I am you. Such terror for your admin-self…I’d be insulted if it wasn't warranted."

It gets to its feet, brushes off the mimicry of dust from its clothes, and walks past Daz out the door. "Come along now, my petulant host. You were asked a question. Our mysterious benefactor wanted me free, so let's show the Observers what they’ve been missing out on."

Daz watches as Innit dissolves into a fine mist, its grin and not-quite-right eyes the last things to fade. The mist sinks down and Daz can feel the thing settling under his skin. (Where it belongs. Where it always belonged.) Then he steps back and rises back into his body.

Only a minute or two has passed and nothing is notably different about him when he opens his eyes.

"The T3 were my salvation. They arrived aware enough to help but uninformed enough to fool. That was all that mattered--that I was able to trick them to escape my original server so I could cause as much damage to Dream as possible." The words border on robotic, detached in a rather eerie way. A whisper hisses through his mind. Traitor-danger-enemy. Dream got what he deserves–to rot in the ruins of what could have been paradise.

Prime, it was going to be weird to readjust to a second voice in his head. Go fuck yourself, you weren’t the one shoved in a box again– And it had tried to bring their precarious house of cards crashing down. A Dream is a Dream is a Dream. Dangerous and waiting for a chance to strangle the happiness of everyone around him–

Daz has more important things to do than have this argument again. If the fucking Scribe wanted Innit free, fine. Whatever. It was a price worth paying for Lee. That child again, his monster snarls. You do so much for him…only for him to be like us. Glowing with an admin-spark and soon placed under the thumb of an admin-Dream so he can learn how to destroy everything he touches.

Only years of practice keep Daz’s expression blank despite the utter rage those words inspire in the wreckage that was once his heart. He’s not going to rise to that bait, nor entertain the road it wants him to go down. Not in words and certainly not action.

His tone hasn’t changed at all as he continues out loud, “Day is a good dad, despite being a Dream. He’s more perceptive than he lets on. Theo is…weird, but in a mostly good way. He truly wants to help others, though his first and strongest loyalty is to his family. Vio is even weirder and more unsettling than I first realized. Anything I learn about him raises more questions than it answers.”

Three threats. They would get in the way. They would destroy the two of them without hesitation if they tried anything stupid. Like, say, trying to usurp Lucid. He’s not fucking trustworthy, sure, but acting rashly has fucked the two of them over in the past. It’s better to be patient.

Fury that isn’t his bubbles in his veins. Patient?! PATIENT?! I was shoved back in a box after I helped you orchestrate our swan song! After everything that was ours shattered like fucking glass! I was trying to protect us, but you developed a bleeding heart for a Trojan horse– And he had been right to put it back in there. Innit was a monster, and Daz had been a fool to ever think otherwise. You got attached. That’s dangerous. He’s so fucking vulnerable! If anyone knew, they would use him to cripple this entire place. We can’t afford that. Congratulations, it has eyes and half a brain! No fucking shit Lee is critical to the server. The scariest people on the server would crumble like sand if he was hurt.

Laughter like knives meets that as the thing mocks, You consider yourself one of those people. But you aren’t. You’re a coward hiding behind a mask so you don’t have to face the truth. Your friends are just allies whose interests currently align with yours, the only reason you have to keep going has no idea how vital he is, and everyone thinks you a fool. Better a fool than a target.

Shockingly, it doesn’t have a witty retort for that.

"Aver was startling. Theo was one thing, but…I was like Aver, at one point." And then you took the hand of a jealous monster who wrapped a noose of false moonlight around our throat– Fucking bold to lay all the blame for that at his feet! Innit was the one who saw Dream bare his throat for them and decided to make him care.

I wasn't the one who was real. You could have refused him– And what? Please, enlighten him what other path there could have been, how he could have possibly foreseen any of this. Especially as a stupid, blind child who was offered his heart’s desire on a silver platter.

Infuriatingly, it falls silent again. "Now I see the similarities between Aver and myself. He’s lucky there aren't more."

Daz waits a beat to see if his admin-self would offer more snide comments. Aside from an indignant scoff, it doesn’t.

Thus he continues. "Lore, Karl Prime, is…fine, I guess. Not really any special feelings. I disliked my Karl, but this one I don't bear any particular ill will towards. He has a nice store."

Karl had been the brightly colored harbinger of the end of his joy. One tiny stone that resulted in multiple deaths, both of people and his happiness.

A bloodied crown. Pointed fingers. Sugar and rot on his tongue. Familiar eyes shining in betrayal before they turned sightless. A grave no one would find. Words meant to be read in the aftermath, left for the only one who had bothered to ask questions. Too little, too late. I hope he punched Dream, though. That thought kept me warm in that wretched little box. I'll make you regret doing that. You should know by now not to cross me.

And Innit should know by now that he doesn’t give a shit. Daz is the one in control and he’ll block his miserable, petty little monster at every turn. Promises, promises. You know what they say about making ones you can’t keep.

Well wasn’t that ominous. “Learning about his time travel explained a few things about my Karl. Sometimes I wonder what future he prevented by doing what he did.” Sometimes he wondered why Karl didn’t stop him. It should have been easy–there were countless times when everything could have been fixed.

Instead, Daz was left with the wrong blood on his hands and a void where his heart should have been.

It’s long since passed unsettling and gone right into eerie, the way Daz remains motionless and expressionless on the couch. If you couldn’t see his chest rising, mouth moving, or his occasional blinking, he could pass for a corpse. His monotone voice isn’t helping that at all. “You aren’t Break or Chime; the phrasing is different from theirs. You must be one of the ones who is supposed to learn from us. I’d tell you to find a better teacher, but if I need to tell you that you’re already a lost cause.”

Maybe not entirely. What Daz doesn’t appreciate, his monster very well would.

…Oh?

From somewhere intangible inside of Daz’s mind, Innit cocks its head to the side in curiosity.

It knows when Daz is ignoring him. That isn’t the case now. Whatever is happening, Daz is none the wiser.

“Oh, this is rich,” Innit laughs, slowly bringing its hands together in a few slow claps. “The fucking bastard can’t hear me, but I can still be heard. You’ve been listening this whole time, haven’t you? More than just one of you…ha! He’s in for a rude awakening, because he pissed off the wrong…mm. Person isn’t quite right for what I am, but close enough.”

Its arms spread wide and its grin turns too-wide and too-sharp again. A reflection of fire and blood shines in its eyes as it says, “You can imagine how fucking miserable it’s been, locked in his head for three years. It inspires a certain, special kind of hate. He has plenty of secrets tucked away that I know aaaaall about. So go ahead–ask away. I’ll tell you most of what you want to know. After all–I have whatever is going on with all of you, and whatever the hell the Scribe is, to thank for my freedom. I’m happy to repay that debt.”

If that meant that Innit suffered too, then, well…that was fine. Daz stood to lose so much more. Just like Dream had.

Nothing like an encore to make everyone remember the singer, eh?

[magalidragon]

targaryen’s seven | a Jonerys drabble

A/N: I could not help myself and just threw down this Drabble. I  don’t want to post it on Ao3 just yet because is not a full one-shot nor is it going to be multi-chapter (in the near future, maybe one day I will come back to it) but thought you guys might like it.  Enjoy!

The wind bit at her exposed skin, cheeks pinking without any aide of blush or tint.  It whipped over her silver curls and braids, already pulled back taut from her face.  It would have chilled anyone’s bones, except hers.  Her bones were heated from the heavy thud of her heart against her breastbone, the rush of blood in her veins, and the fire raging inside her soul.  The fire which rose to sparkle in her lavender eyes, redden her plump and pursed lips, and thirsted for revenge.  

In the dark winter in the North, far beyond the everlasting lights and skyscrapers of King’s Landing, the craggy peaks of the Vale, and the marshy flats of the Riverlands, no one walking by on the quaint lantern-lit light posted street with its cozy restaurants, pubs, boutique hotels, and little shops devoted to preserving the heritage of the Realm’s largest, sparsest, and remotest kingdom.  

The woman standing against one of these lightposts, her hands in the pockets of her designer black trenchcoat, hardly paying attention to the bustle of people.  There were locals intermixed with tourists—it was the Dawn Festival soon—going from building to building, stopping to take photos in front of silly little cardboard cutouts of ice zombies and Northmen.

Only a few stopped in their tracks to glance at her, for she stood out among the darkness and the cold snow, her silver hair a moonlit beacon, her entire demeanor that of someone who should not be trifled with nor confronted.  One glance of her purple eyes and they were on their way, bewitched almost to forget she was even there to begin with.  

She lifted her left wrist up to peer at the heavy silver men’s wristwatch, ticking softly under the wail of the wind.  Daenerys Targaryen tsked under her breath.  “He’s late,” she murmured.  She supposed it was silly to think he would actually honor her summons.  He would not be coming then.

Well I suppose I will have to go looking for him.

Her heavy black combat boots crunched under the fresh snows, hands returning to her pockets, walking slowly down the sidewalk.  The last time she was here had not been pleasant.  The Northern History Museum had been far more difficult to crack than she’d originally planned.  She had barely made it out of there with the silver wolf circlet she’d broken in to steal.  Retrieve, she preferred, even if the authorities had different views on the matter.

The silver wolf circlet allegedly belonged to a Northern queen, who rebelled against the kingdoms and ultimately died of starvation when all her allies abandoned her. It was exceptionally expensive and the funds of which now had been siphoned into a series of orphanages the Northern government had been sorely neglecting.

Her walk took her from the local streets a bit farther off the beaten track, the lamps extinguished or nonexistent, the people fewer and fewer, until she was the only one on a darkened street.

Dany paused in front of a pub, glancing down at her phone.  A message from her hacker—Missandei—informed her his cell phone had been pinging from that location an hour ago.  She glanced up, smirked at the worn sign-- The Wildling -- hanging on one hinge.  It was not for charm, but because the owner no doubt didn’t care about it.  Perfect.

She entered the pub, which suddenly went quiet.  Everyone stared at her.  Dany reached up to pull at one of the buttons on her coat, her smile amused, gaze sweeping from one end to the other of the less than desirable establishment.  She was not a local, she should not be there, but she did not care, purposefully striding towards the ancient bar, where a gigantic man with thick red beard and wild eyebrows surveyed her with bright blue eyes.  

“Ale please,” she ordered, sweet.

The man chuckled.  “You’re not from around here.”

“Nope.”

“You lost?”

Dany smiled, taking another look over her shoulder at the clientele, all of whom were still staring at her. She met the man’s gaze again, shaking her head.  “Nope.”

They looked at each other, unblinking, for what seemed like several minutes, but was only a couple.  A boom of laughter finally broke their silent pissing contest, the man slapping his dustbin lid sized hand on the bar, pointing at her, grinning darkly.  “I like you.”  He reached under the bar for a pint.  “Attitude like that, first one’s on me.”  

“I was hoping you could pass something along for me to one of your regulars.”

“Can’t say anyone you know would be in my pub,” the man said.  He set her pint glass full of darkened ale.  He grinned again.  “But try me.”

Dany slipped her fingers into one of the inner pockets of her coat, removing a slim black box.  She set it down on the bar, pushing it with one red manicured finger towards him.  Another enigmatic smile did the trick. “This is for Jon Snow.”

The entire pub might as well have gone on mute.

The jovial bartender immediately hardened, those twinkling blue eyes now chips of ice.  He was gruff.  “Don’t know a Jon Snow.”

“I think you do Tormund Giantsbane.”  Dany climbed off her stool, took a long pull from the ale glass, and wiped the foam from her upper lip.  The gruffness of the bartender dropped like a mask at her sudden use of his full name.  She liked to stun them.  It was fun that way. She turned, calling over her shoulder.  “Put it on his tab.”

The heavy oak door swung closed behind her with a deafening thud.  Dany liked the taste of that ale, making a note she would have to return if she was ever in the mood for it again.  She tugged her phone out, now a message from her ghost, warning her that this was a bad idea and they should try some other way.  

Barristan had said the same thing.  So had Daario.  Grey and Gendry might have also agreed, if Missy and Arya hadn’t been as forceful as they had with their displeasure.  Sometimes it was bothersome to have members of a team fucking, but Dany accepted the two couples because they worked well together and did not usually let their personal issues bleed into the world.  

Plus they all had reason for this job.  Well, not Daario, but he would do anything she asked because he was in love with her.

They all tried to convince her to get someone else.  There were plenty who would kill to be a part of her team.  To join them in this endeavor.  No one else would do, she told them, calm and quiet.  

It had to be him.

She returned to her car, parked in a community lot near the main square, and paid the exorbitant parking fee, even if it probably would have been easier to just use one of Missandei’s contraptions to hack her way out of the 15 stags.  She drove off, humming along to a silly pop song playing from whatever radio station had been on when she picked up the car at the Winterfell International Airport.

Ah Winterfell, so many memories.  The castle loomed large over the city that bore its name.  It was a museum now, even if the Stark family still retained some ownership of it.  Somewhere on the other side in more modest accommodations a few of the Stark family still lived. 

The Starks weren’t as big as they once were.  They were desperate for cash.  All they had were their titles, such as they were.  Dany thought about Arya Stark, her ghost, who technically bore the honorific Lady, but if you thought of calling her that you would get a knife in the gut.  It was part of her reason for taking this job.  

They all had reasons and now she just needed the final player in the game.

In lieu of a hotel, as much as she would like someone to pull back her linens and prepare a fire for her when she turned in for the evening, she rented out a luxury cabin several miles away.  It afforded her privacy, stunning views, and a large sunken tub.  Dany liked a sunken tub.

She parked, walked up to the front door, and smiled to herself at the threshold.  So obvious. She slipped in the key and entered, turning to plug in the code for the alarm panel.  When she turned back, she slipped off her coat, and walked into the large stone paneled living room, with its great fireplace—already crackling—and mountain filled wall of windows.  

“Hello Jon.”

The chair before the fire turned, revealing its occupant, who sat rather bored, legs crossed and fingers tapped against his temple.  He looked the same as ever, she thought, if not better.  Dark raven curls, wild around his face, which had been chiseled from marble.  Dark beard dusting over his jaw and upper lip, his gray eyes black in the shadow of the fire.  All black ensemble, which she knew hid a body that was as chiseled as his face.  Smooth planes and sharp edges, he was a masterpiece.

And he was deadly.  

The gray eyes glinted, just a hint of red.  Could have been from the fire, or it could have been something else.  

Her smile peeled over her teeth.  “My white wolf,” she purred.

Jon Snow smiled in return, although it did not meet his eyes, rather cold, as cold as the storm that began outside, the faintest hints of howling wind sounding.  “Daenerys Targaryen,” he said, in his rumbling Northern burr.  He kept smiling, until he wasn’t.  

And then he was at her throat, his fingers digging into the slim column, tilting up her jaw, his breath mingling with hers, warm and raspy.  Her eyes threatened to roll back into her head and her body ignited, fire consuming her.  He barely touched his mouth to hers, barely breathing.  “I thought I said I would kill you the next time I saw you.”

Now it was her turn to smile.  She lifted her hand, his eyes rolling down to it.  The cold steel of her dragonhead knife was against his jugular.  Even if his thumb was pressing down on her carotid, threatening to cut off her oxygen, she knew he wouldn’t.  Just like he knew she wouldn’t kill him.  Draw blood maybe, but she could never kill him.  “Darling, I think you forgot, it was I who said that.”

“Hmm.”  He drew in her scent, nostrils flaring, and eyes going red again.  The wolf, she noted, her skin prickling, and her body straining towards him.  Not to break free, but to join him. There would be time for that later. His thumb dragged over her bottom lip and she darted her tongue out to touch it.  He groaned, his nose pushing to hers, laugh deep in his chest.  “You came looking for me.”

“I will always come looking for you.”

“I don’t want it.”  His dark brows arched, the feral wolf flickering over his features again, hiding his obvious desire for her.  She bucked her hips against him, reminding him.  He laughed.  “Peace offering, huh?”  He immediately let her go and flicked the box towards her.  He growled.  “You stole that from me.”

“And I’m giving it back.”  She opened the box, revealing the white wolf head pommel from the ancient Valyrian sword he kept in one of his many safehouses.  She sighed.  “I realized that it really belongs with you.”

“No, you realized no one would buy it.”

She shrugged, flicking the box towards him and he caught it one-handed, setting it down on a table behind him.  “Po-tay-toe, Po-tah-toh.”

“I’m not joining you again.”

Ire flared, her eyes darkening to indigo.  “I am no longer asking you nicely.”

“Funny was that what it was when you tried to kill me?”

Of course he would bring that up.  She waved her hand dismissively.  “It was an accident.”

Jon dragged the collar of his shirt down, pointing at a knife scar on his collarbone.  “That is not an accident!”

“Oh yeah, well you stole from me!”

Now it was his turn to shrug it off.  “That money needed to go to the Night’s Watch,” he mumbled, arms crossing over his chest.  

They squared off against each other.  This was not how she planned it to go, but nevertheless.  She narrowed her eyes on him, staring.  He stared back.  No one blinked.  Until they were at each other, grappling, tugging, and tearing at each other, mouths a frenzied clash of tongues and teeth.  She drew his tongue in between her lips to slide along hers, moaning into his mouth when his large hands slipped from her shoulders to cup the sides of her breasts, straining in their cashmere sweater cage.  She lifted herself against him, remembering every feel of him, every dent and ridge of muscle, every nervous quiver, and every bump and drag of scars.

He tore from her first, a hand tangled in her immaculate braids, fingers digging into the ridge of her skull, and another on her hip, holding her to him.  “The answer is still no,” he whispered.

Dany shook her head, whispering.  “You haven’t heard my proposition.”

“I’m out.”

“Even when I tell you the mark?”

He shook his head again, although she knew him.  She’d known him since they were teenagers, misfits and unwanted, trying to scrap by on their wits and wiles.  They had bled together, fought together, fucked and almost died together.  They’d gone to jail together.  She nibbled his lower lip again and he flinched, barely, but she felt it. He still wants to know. “No,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“I don’t want it.”

She cocked her head, her fingers smoothing over his cheek, dropping to cover his heart with her palm.  Eyes steady, breath even, she smiled again.  “I need my second Jon.  I need my partner.”

They all wanted her to bring in someone else.  Even someone she might have worked with in the past, none of them matched to the trust she had with Jon Snow.  He was her equal, the one she could trust above all else, the one who knew her deepest and darkest fears and desires.  Jon Snow came from nothing like she had and built himself up.  He was the only one she would ever feel comfortable doing this job with.  

There was also the fact that she was still in love with him.

Trivial thing really, she lied to herself.

Whatever they said about him, she didn’t believe it.  He was out, he was done, he’d gone straight…all lies.  He was just like her.  They were wild, they could not be tamed, and he could never settle for a boring law-abiding life.  

The irony of Jon Snow was he was the most honorable criminal she had ever met.

“No.”

Now it was time for the final play.  Her other hand cupped his head and fingers twirled with his hair at the base of his neck.  “Even if I tell you that we’re going for the Targaryen crown and dragons?”

His dark eyes lifted to hers, his breath stilled.  He said nothing.  

Her tongue dabbed her upper lip, her pupils dilating wide, smile curving again.  “The crown and the eggs will all be in a single location, for the Conquering Day Celebration, and Tywin Lannister himself will be there, to give a speech, to commemorate the day.  Robert Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, and that little fucker Tyrion will all be in attendance.”  She brushed her nose over his, whispering.  “Can’t you feel it Jon?  That wolf inside your heart?  The one howling?  What does he want?”

She knew what it wanted, just like he did.  All she needed was for him to say it.  

Jon closed his eyes, shivering, and his arms tightened around her.  “Revenge,” he murmured.  He didn’t need to say it but draining the Lannisters of their stolen riches would also be a bonus.

“Exactly.”

He gazed down at her, lips dropping to hers again, and she knew it.  She knew before he even whispered the words to her, before he kissed her and before they decided to start talking terms.  

“When do we start?”

[theunknowncryptid]

Part Fourteen - The First Task

Next

Masterlist

Yoongi x y/n

After a horrible prank, Slytherin, Min Yoongi, is entering into the Triwizard Tournament. Y/n, feeling responsible, decides it’s her personal mission to make sure he survives the ordeal.

~     ~     ~

Yoongi opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling of his dorm room. The soft snores of his roommates sounded in the stone room. Grey light shone through the enchanted windows, telling Yoongi that it was early. Tired as he was, he knew it was hopeless to try and fall back asleep. The day of the first task had finally come and Yoongi felt like he could throw up at any moment. He groaned and pulled his bed sheets up and over his head. Yoongi stayed there for several moments before nerves took over and he became restless. He pulled himself out of bed and started dressing distractedly. Yoongi would do anything to avoid this day. He had even considered leaving school and running away, but he had no money and nowhere to go. Yoongi grabbed his wand and moved quietly across the room, trying not to disturb his sleeping roommates. He closed the bedroom door quietly behind him. At the bottom of the stairs, the common room was deserted. A large, extravagant-looking clock above the fireplace showed that it was seven in the morning. Far too early for anyone else to be awake on a Saturday. Yoongi stood at the bottom of the stairs. The task didn’t begin until 12 noon and Yoongi had nothing to do until then. Deciding he may as well try to eat something, Yoongi crossed to the portrait hole and left the green and silver room into the cold dungeons. It wasn’t a far walk to the Great Hall, but Yoongi had begun to appreciate the distance in the mornings. It gave him the opportunity to fix his mask into place. A sleep-dazed Yoongi was vulnerable. He was sluggish and depressed these days without the company of Jin and Hoseok. It showed on his face and in his eyes how lonely he felt without them. Yoongi needed the walk to the Great Hall each morning to warp his expression into a blank mask. Then, each morning when he entered the Great Hall and felt two pairs of eyes staring at him, he didn’t become a blubbering, overly-emotional mess.

Yoongi jumped the trick step on the main staircase and continued walking. These days, without Jin and Hoseok, the only interaction Yoongi had was with Y/n. At the thought of the now familiar girl, Yoongi felt uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her. Sure, he thought she was annoying as hell when they first met, but he had a good reason; She was annoying and that was his reason. Now, she was… fine. It was just that Yoongi wasn’t used to other peoples' companies. He knew Jin and he knew Hoseok and that was it. Being on regular speaking terms with someone else made him… itchy. And that was bad enough, now they were starting to talk friendlier and more often. Y/n had asked him how his day was when they were researching at the library two nights ago and instead of responding with some snide remark he responded with a genuine “Good”.

Yoongi entered the Great Hall and headed toward his usual seat. Food was laid out along every table, but barely anyone was present. At the head table, McGonagall was chatting with Professor Flitwick and Madam Maxine quietly. The new Headmaster of Durmstrang was there also, but he was keeping to himself. There was a couple Ravenclaws sat at their table, but no Hufflepuffs, Slytherins or Gryffindors. Sitting alone at the Gryffindor table was Natalia Ivanov, the Durmstrang Champion. Her red hair was pulled into a tight bun and she looked focused as she picked at her omelet. Throughout this nightmare, she had yet to say two words to Yoongi and he appreciated her for that. At the Hufflepuff table with a group of girls giggling in french, was Jacque Bisset, the Beauxbaton Champion. Yoongi scowled slightly. He didn’t like Bisset for a number of reasons. Firstly, he hadn’t had the common courtesy to ignore Yoongi over the last month like Ivanov had. Anytime he saw Yoongi in the hallways, the Great Hall, or the grounds, Bisset would call loudly to him, making sure anyone within a mile radius could hear him. 

“There’s my rival!” He would shout and smile as his goons in blue laughed around him. Yoongi would turn to leave whenever he saw the french man was in the area, but that didn’t stop Bisset. “Be a good sport, Min!” He would call at Yoongi’s retreating back.

Yoongi sat at the empty Slytherin table. He took a piece of buttered toast, but instead of eating it, he left it on his plate. He had a strong feeling that if he ate any time in the next few hours he would surely be seeing it again. In reverse. Yoongi looked up at the Hufflepuff table. Jacque looked totally unconcerned with his situation. 

The second reason Yoongi didn’t like Bisset was because of his relationship with Y/n. Y/n had told him that the only reason she spoke to Bisset was because he had information on the first task, but Yoongi still didn’t like the man. He could see Y/n’s phone light up with Jacque’s name when they were researching in the library. He would text her things that made Yoongi’s skin crawl. On more than one occasion Yoongi had gagged dramatically to express his feeling for the man. Y/n would glare at him, roll her eyes and shut off her phone without responding. Maybe it was a possessive thing; Y/n was helping him, so she shouldn’t be talking to Jacque. Yoongi shook his head. That was a stupid idea and it wasn’t anywhere close to true. He just didn’t like Bisset and that was that. 

Speak of the devil, Yoongi thought. He had looked up to the sound of footsteps in the entryway. Y/n stood there dressed in muggle clothing, like many other students, including Yoongi, wore on the weekends. Her hair was pulled up in a careless bun and she looked tired. She was looking towards the Gryffindor table warily. Ivanov still sat there and she was now stabbing at her eggs viciously. Y/n almost looked like she was about to leave but, feeling his stare, she looked towards the Slytherin table. Her eyes widened when his gaze met hers, then she smiled slightly. Without hesitation, she turned fully and walked over the Slytherin table. The two ravenclaws gave them a curious look as Y/n sat down across from Yoongi. 

“I don’t think it’s procedure for a Gryffindor to be sitting at the Slytherin table.” Yoongi complained to the girl. He had begun picking the crust off of his toast. Y/n crossed her arms on the table.

“I don’t think anyone really cares,” She said. “Especially today.” Yoongi raised his eyebrows at the girl.

“What are you doing up so early?” He asked. At the latest, it was only half past seven. Y/n took her own piece of toast, but didn’t eat it. 

“I couldn’t sleep.” She answered, quietly. Her eyes stayed focused on her toast. Yoongi breathed out a laugh.

“I know the feeling,” He said. Y/n looked up at him with a guilty expression. 

“Are you nervous?” She asked. Yoongi glared at her.

“What the hell do you think?” He responded sarcastically. Y/n glared back at him and Yoongi felt a little badly about his response, but didn’t voice it.

“Just remember what we practiced,” Y/n told him. “We have a plan and if you follow it everything will be fine.” 

“Hopefully,” Yoongi muttered, bitterly. He dropped his voice lower, so their conversation wouldn’t carry throughout the hall. “We don’t even know what the task is. All we know is that it involves a Giant.” Yoongi dropped his toast onto his plate in frustration. “If the task is something other than expected, our plan is useless.”

“I’m sorry,” Y/n whispered, suddenly. Yoongi looked at her in confusion.

“It’s not your fault,” He said. Y/n kept her eyes down. “Once I get past the task today, I want to start looking for whoever put my name in the goblet.” Y/n looked up in panic that Yoongi didn’t see. He was occupied, once again, by pulling the crust off his toast.

“Are you sure?” Y/n asked, trying to keep her voice casual. Yoongi scoffed.

“Of course.” He said, “I want to find the bastard. Whoever they are should pay for what they’ve done.” Y/n nodded, uncomfortably. Yoongi ripped his toast entirely in half as he began ranting .“I still don’t get why someone would want to put my name in. What the fuck did I do to piss someone off so much. I have-” Yoongi hesitated. “I had two friends and I speak to no one else… I just don’t get it” Y/n felt tears pricking behind her eyes. She felt guilty enough as is. Now, hearing how nervous and angry Yoongi really was, she felt like her guilt might eat her alive. Y/n wished she could tell him who had put his name in the goblet and exactly why they did it, but if she did Taehyung and Jungkook would definitely be expelled- maybe even arrested.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring it up yourself,” Said Yoongi. “Since you’ve decided that you are the savior to all of my problems.” Y/n chuckled without any real laughter behind it. A few other students were entering the Great Hall now, chatting amongst themselves. It wasn’t much of a disturbance, but it was enough to scare Yoongi away. He wasn’t willing to spend time around people today.

“I’ll see you later.” Yoongi said to Y/n. She looked surprised at his sudden words. Without any further explanation, he pushed away from the table and started walking toward the exit. Y/n didn’t get a chance to say goodbye before he was shuffling past more students and was out the large door.

~ ~ ~

Yoongi spent the rest of the day on the quidditch pitch. He didn’t play the sport, but he always enjoyed the stadium. Hoseok was a Chaser on the Hufflepuff team and over the years, the pitch had become familiar and comfortable to Yoongi. He would come for games, to watch Hoseok practice, to study, but he always prefered it when it was empty. Unsurprisingly, it was empty today. He sat towards the top of the bleachers and stared into space. The sky was cloudy, but there was no rain. The wind was strong and it rose through the pitch into the stands. Yoongi breathed deeply as the November wind blew bitterly against his face. He checked his watch continuously throughout the morning. He swore seconds were passing, but he’d check again and an hour had gone by. At half past eleven, Yoongi left to join the other champions at the tent to prepare for the first task. It wasn’t a far walk from the pitch and if Yoongi looked from the top of the bleachers he could see the champions tent standing next to a ginormous arena by the edge of the forest. Students could be seen walking from the castle to the arena in a sea of green, blue, yellow, and maroon. Yoongi walked slowly across the grass. He tried to remember spells that could be useful during the task, but his mind felt blank. The only thing he could remember was the two spells he had practiced with Y/n. They were basic spells- if they really tried a third year could do them, but it was all Yoongi could handle under such pressure. Hell, he felt like he could barely remember his own name.

This is like some fucked up death march, Yoongi thought. A loud fanfare was coming from inside the arena and more students were entering the stadium by the minute. Without thinking, Yoongi walked closer, joining the stream of excited teenagers. Quick to notice one of the champions walking among them, students began crowding Yoongi, cheering at him aggressively. He smiled grimly and accepted the strong claps on the back, but slowly started walking further away from the group. Yoongi and the students surrounding him finally reached the arena, but instead of walking through the large archway with the other teenagers, Yoongi turned towards the champions tent which was pitched next to the entrance. The students yelled for Yoongi as he left. It made him roll his eyes. They haven’t talked to me once in my life and they think now is the time to wish me ‘Good Luck’.

Yoongi was taking shaky breaths by the time he reached the flap of the champions tent. He was about to enter the tent when he heard a voice speak behind him. 

“Yoongi!” Someone yelled, trying to get his attention. Yoongi turned to see Y/n running toward him and away from the line of students entering the arena. She ran up to him a little out of breath. “I’m glad I caught you”

“What for?” Yoongi asked after a moment of Y/n not explaining herself. She looked a little flustered. 

“I- I just- Good luck,” Y/n stuttered, not meeting his eyes. “I just wanted to say good luck.”

Yoongi chuckled slightly. The wind blew so that Y/n hair and scarf flew into her face. She pulled it back with an annoyed expression. “You should go. The task is going to start soon.” 

“Yeah..” Yoongi agreed. Y/n started to turn back to the crowd. Suddenly, Yoongi grabbed the sleeve of Y/n’s jacket, stopping her. She looked at him, confused with the unfamiliar, sincere expression on his face. “Thank you for everything. I mean it.” Yoongi said, holding Y/ns gaze. “I still don’t get why you helped me, but thank you.” Y/n smiled, warmly.

“I’ll see you after the task, okay?” Y/n said, confidently. Yoongi nodded and watched as she returned to the entrance to the arena. Two boys, Yoongi knew were friends of Y/ns, stood waiting for her. One was smiling brightly and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was about Yoongi’s height and had dark hair that bounced as he did. He had his Hufflepuff scarf tucked into his denim jacket. The other was also smiling, but he seemed less excited. He was taller than the Hufflepuff boy and had bright blue hair. From the way Y/n ruffled it when she joined them, Yoongi guessed that was a fairly new development. He also donned his Ravenclaw scarf. The three of them started walking towards the entrance and the shorter, Hufflepuff boy threw his arm over Y/ns shoulders. 

Yoongi watched the scene longingly. He was about to risk his life by fighting a Giant and all he wanted was the company of his friends. Yoongi would fight a Giant a million times over if it meant he could be friends with Jin and Hoseok again. 

Yoongi turned to face the tent. He took a deep breath and pushed back the flap. The tent was bigger on the inside through magic. A warm fireplace was against one side, but beside that the space was void of furniture. Natalia Ivanov and Jacque Bisset stood with their headmasters in front of the fireplace. McGonagall and two men Yoongi didn’t recognize were also standing with them. 

“Min! Good you’re here!” McGonagall said excitedly. “It’s almost time to begin” Yoongi nodded and joined everyone around the fireplace. 

“Here” One of the men had shoved a pile of clothes into his arms. He was older and had greying hair. He looked stern. “Go change and then we can explain the challenge.” Yoongi walked to where the man had pointed him. Yoongi changed as quickly as he could, but he found the task difficult. His hands shook and buttons slipped through his fingers. He managed, eventually, and exited the small alcove. He realized now that the uniform he had put on matched Ivanov and Bisset. Plain-colored shirt and pants with their last names embroidered on the back. 

Yoongi felt awkward being the last one to join the circle of wizards, but he did so, standing next to McGonagall who nodded at him in approval. The wizard who hadn’t given him the clothing cleared his throat. 

“Welcome, Champions.” He smiled, kindly. “My name is Martin McClaggen and I am Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports at the Ministry of Magic.” He straightened up proudly at his full title. As he began to describe the rules of the task, he grew serious “In the First Task, it is tradition that the champions of the Triwizard Tournament must face a physical challenge. The purpose of this is to test your knowledge of spells and enchantments that can help you overcome an otherwise undefeatable opponent.” McClaggen looked around at all of them, pausing. “Today, it is your challenge to get past a Giant.” 

The ministry officials seemed to be waiting for some kind of dramatic reaction, but no one gasped or threatened to faint. Yoongi himself had learned about the first task for Y/n, who had learned about it from Bisset. Yoongi had just assumed that Ivanov also knew about their upcoming predicament. McClaggen seemed disappointed by the lack of excitement, but continued.

“In the arena, a Giant will be guarding a clue that you will need for the Second Task. By whatever means necessary, you must get past the Giant and get the clue. Once you have the clue, the task is complete. Do you understand?” Yoongi nodded along with the other champions. “Good. You will only be allowed your wand for the challenge. Your teachers, my colleague and I will be judging from the stands. At the sound of the canon, leave the tent and enter the arena. First Miss Ivanov, then Mr. Bisset, and finally Mr. Min.” Yoongi groaned quietly. 

Of course I’m last, he thought. The ministry officials, Madam Maxine, the Durmstrang headmaster and McGonagall gathered themselves to leave. 

“Good luck to you all.” McClaggen said. Finally. Then, he and everyone else left the tent. It was quiet as Yoongi stood there with Ivanov and Bisset. Yoongi thought about his plan. What he and Y/n had practiced would hopefully work in this situation. Soon, the sound of the announcer could be heard booming across the Hogwarts grounds. Yoongi tuned out the majority of the speakers monologue. He shouted his excitement, what an amazing event it would be... How he hopes there won’t be too much bloodshed. Yoongi's heart raced and he struggled to control his breathing. He wasn’t even listening when he realized Natalia Ivanov was walking towards the tent flap.

“Where are you going?” Yoongi asked, suddenly. Ivanov looked back at him with an offended expression. 

“The Challenge. The canon sounded.” She responded, briskly. Then, she turned and left the tent quickly.

Ivanov’s experience in the arena went by quickly, but the noises haunted Yoongi. Roars shook the ground and screams were loud in the stadium. He couldn’t pick up everything the announcer was saying but Yoongi did hear the important phrases: “That things ferocious!”, “That was close!” and “We may have to visit Miss Ivanov in the Hospital Wing after this!”

When Bisset’s turn came, Yoongi did hear the canon. It was amazing that he missed it the first time because the sound was deafening. His turn felt longer than Ivanovs, but Yoongi wished it was longer. Alone in the tent, Yoongi began to pace the length of the space. His heart was still beating rapidly and it felt like it was in his throat now. Listening closely, Yoongi heard in detail and Bisset maneuvered around the formidable Giant and grabbed the clue. Applause and cheers from the crowd echoed. Yoongi swallowed hard as he listened for the canon.

“Now, introducing your Hogwarts Champion… MIN YOONGI!” The announcer yelled at the crowd and they responded in earnest. And a loud canon.

On shaky legs, Yoongi left the tent and walked to the entrance of the arena. He walked through the archway and into a large field. It was like a normal nature scene with large boulders and tall trees, except for the surrounding crowd screaming their excitement from the stands. The arena was a complete circle, so that the audience was watching from every angle. Yoongi spun around, trying to make sure he saw everything in the field. He could hear the announcer speaking to the crowd, but he tuned it out. The field looked clear. He couldn’t see everything in the trees, but everywhere else seemed safe. He couldn’t see a Giant anywhere. In his search, something caught his eye, blinding him momentarily. The day was still cloudy and there was no sun shining in his eyes. Yoongi looked again for the sparkling object. It wasn’t difficult to spot since it was in plain view. In the middle of the field, atop a large, granite boulder, was a small scroll. It seemed to be made of diamonds and it continued to shine from its spot on top of the rock. 

The clue, Yoongi thought. The crowd had silenced as they watched Yoongi in the arena. It was quiet and everything seemed calmed. Okay...

Yoongi started to walk forward. He only got a few feet before the ground seemed to start shaking. Yoongi put his arms out to try and steady himself. The crowd gasped loudly and several students began pointing toward the cluster of pine trees. Yoongi looked and understood what was shaking the ground. His stomach dropped to his feet.

Rising up behind the trees, where it must have been crouching, was a daunting 25-foot Giant. It stood high above the branches and seemed to glare down at Yoongi. The Giant was stomping the ground hard, so that everything shook like an earthquake. It was dirty and dressed in patched together leather. It opened its mouth wide and let out a booming roar. Yoongi staggered back a few feet in shock. The announcer yelled over the crowd.

“Giants are known to be aggressive and ferocious. They will attack anything in their path when agitated and ladies and gentlemen, this Giant seems agitated! Min will need to get moving if he wants to get the scroll.”

The loud voice knocked some sense into Yoongi. He looked for the scroll again. It was about 10-yards away and was sitting in between him and the Giant. He made a split second decision and began sprinting across the field towards the scroll. The Giant roared as it watched Yoongi and began walking towards him. One step was at least 15 feet for the Giant. Yoongi looked up at the beast as he ran. He was never going to beat the thing to the scroll. The Giant made it to the rock when Yoongi was still 10 feet away. It stomped the ground and roared, sending spittle and bad breath toward the boy who looked like an ant on the ground. The Giant swatted an enormous hand at Yoongi and he had to duck to avoid being squashed. I can’t get past this thing.

“The Giant is protecting the scroll well, and it seems that Min Yoongi has forgotten that he has a wand.” The announcer shouted with laughter. 

My wand! Yoongi thought, euphorically. He had forgotten about the glorified stick clutched in his hand. Already out of breath, Yoongi took off running again, this time towards the side of the arena. Yoongi could hear the Giant roaring and stomping loudly behind him. He ducked behind a tree and tried to catch his breath. Students were cheering loudly from all sides. Yoongi peaked around the tree to see that the Giant wasn’t following him, but was watching him carefully from its spot by the scroll. Yoongi took a deep breath and tried to remember the spell he had worked on with Y/n. 

You did it with Y/n, you can do it now, Yoongi thought. He stood up straight and took a few steps back. He raised his wand at the tree and tried to focus.

“Troglonifors!” Yoongi yelled. The tree started to shift and creak loudly. The bark turned into bumpy, blue skin and the branches melded together into thick arms and legs. Roots snapped away from the ground and the pine needles seemed to be shooting back into itself as the tree was completely erased and transfigured into a large Mountain Troll.

“This is something we have yet to see! Min Yoongi has transfigured a regular pine tree into a 20-foot Mountain Troll! What is his plan?” The announcer's voice boomed throughout the stadium. The noise seemed to hurt the Troll and it through its arms up trying to cover its ears. It looked around, trying to see where the sound was coming from, but all it saw was a humongous Giant staring back at it. The Troll seemed to decide that it was the Giants making the sounds and growled at it menacingly. Yoongi grinned as he watched it charge. 

The Troll collided head first with the Giant, sending it staggering. Both creatures roared and wrestled. The Troll picked up a rock and started beating the Giant with it. Then, the Giant knocked the Trolls legs out from under it. It fell to the ground with such a large crash, Yoongi was sure the stands of students would crumble.

Yoongi directed his attention to the bright scroll. It had been forgotten by the massive beasts and they were slowly moving away from the boulder with the force of their fight. 

“Accio Scroll!” Yoongi focused and held his wand steady. A moment later, the scroll lifted from the rock and came flying toward Yoongi. Racing forward to meet it, he caught the scroll in midair. 

“MIN YOONGI HAS THE SCROLL!” The announcer shouted, louder than ever. The crowd screamed and threw streamers across the stands. Yoongi let out a relieved, breathy laugh and fell to his knees. He was still in the field, but all the adrenaline rushing through him left Yoongi unable to walk. His heart raced wildly. 

“Yoongi!” A voice called. Yoongi looked up from his spot on his knees to see Y/n racing toward him across the field. Her friends had followed her down from the stands and were yelling that she wasn’t allowed on the field. Y/n was ignoring them completely and was still dashing toward Yoongi. Her face was alight with a wide smile. She didn’t slow down when finally reached him. Y/n threw herself into Yoongi’s arms so forcefully, she also fell to her knees. 

“You did it!” She cried, wrapping her arms tighter around his neck. Yoongi felt uncomfortable in the position, but didn’t push the girl away. Awkwardly, he wrapped his around Y/n and allowed her to hug him tightly. After a moment he pushed her away. 

“Alright, get off me. You’re making a scene.” He joked. A light blush was spread across his cheeks. She stood up and held out her hand to him. 

“Shut up, Asshole” She pulled him up and punched him in the shoulder. Y/n turned to where the judges had just posted his scores. Yoongi grinned at his overall score of 7. “Not too shabby for someone who messed up the spell.”

“What are you talking about?!” Yoongi argued as the pair began walking for the exit. “I made the Mountain Troll just like we practiced!” Y/n shoved his shoulder with hers. 

“I mean- it was okay. But, it was supposed to be 30-feet tall. Not 20 feet.” Yoongi scoffed at her argument. 

“Yeah, well, you try creating a Troll while an actual Giant tries to kill you!” He insisted.

~ ~ ~

Later that evening, Yoongi sat on the dock of the Black Lake. He had his jeans rolled up slightly and was dipping his feet in the cold water. The sun had come out from behind the clouds and had set 30 minutes earlier, leaving Hogwarts bathed in a light blue atmosphere. Yoongi was hiding from the rest of the school. All day since the task, students had been cheering at him, clapping and essentially jumping on him. It was attention that Yoongi didn’t want, so he had changed out of his champions uniform and made his way to the Black Lake. He had the clue for the Second Task, the scroll, with him, but he had yet to open it. He just wanted to bask in the fact that he had survived the First Task and he wouldn’t have to face the second for three months. 

“Yoongi?” A voice called behind him. Yoongi shifted slightly in his spot to look behind him. He scrambled to his feet at the sight, nearly falling in the lake at the sudden movement.

“What are you doing here?” Yoongi asked. Hoseok gave him a small smile.

“I was looking for you,” Hoseok explained. He walked closer so that they were standing together instead of yards apart. It crossed Yoongi’s mind that this was the first time they had spoken in a month. 

“What for?” He asked, carefully. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but he wanted more than anything to have his friends back. They were his family. Hoseok sighed deeply. 

“I’ve been trying to talk to Jin for a month now, but he’s so stubborn,” Hoseok shook his head as he spoke. “I believe that you didn’t put your name in the Goblet of Fire. Especially after today.” Hoseok looked at Yoongi with a guilty expression. “I’m sorry I chose Jin over you. I thought that because I’ve known him longer, I owed it to him to be on his side or something… But, he’s wrong and I want to be your friend. Please, will you forgive me?” Hoseok stuck out his hand for Yoongi to shake. Yoongi stared at it for a moment dumbfounded then, he pushed past Hoseok's outstretched hand and hugged him hard. Hoseok laughed for a second and then hugged him back equally as hard. 

“Man, a month apart really made you clingy.” Hoseok joked. Yoongi smiled brightly, finally happy.

“Whatever, you’re gross.” He complained and Hoseok laughed so loudly birds took flight from a neighboring tree.

“Am I interrupting?” Yoongi and Hoseok turned to see Y/n standing where the grass meets the dock. Hoseok looked back at Yoongi and chuckled like they were sharing some inside joke.

“Nope! Not interrupting at all!” Hoseok turned to leave. “I’ll see you at dinner, Yoongi!” As Hoseok passed Y/n he smiled widely. Y/n giggled and walked over to Yoongi, taking Hoseok's place.

“I'm assuming you’re friends again?” Y/n asked. Yoongi nodded and sat down again so that his legs dangled over the edge of the dock. Y/n sat down next to him crossing her legs. “You did great today,”

“Thanks,” Yoongi said, embarrassed. ��Now, I just have to do it two more times.”

“Yeah…” Y/n agreed. Both of them stared out across the still lake. 

“But..” Yoongi started. “You’ll help me, right?” Y/n smirked at the boy. 

“On one condition,” She said. Yoongi raised his eyebrows. “Admit I’m your friend.” Yoongi groaned. There had been two instances of hugging already today and now he had to express more affection. 

“Fine,” Yoongi grumbled. “We’re friends.” 

“And that you would have probably died today without my help.”

“I’m not saying that!” Yoongi complained loudly. Y/n erupted into a fit of giggles.

“Okay, okay. I’ll help you with the rest of the tournament.” She conceded. Yoongi nodded and they fell into companionable silence. “What was in that scroll anyway?” 

“I haven’t actually opened it yet.” Said Yoongi. He picked up the scroll and handed it to Y/n. She gave him a questioning look and he gestured for her to open it. Carefully, Y/n unrolled the scroll. Yoongi looked over her shoulder as she read aloud:

In the forbidden corners, where we dwell

We move as one, so listen well

What you need is wrapped in silk

If not freed they’ll surely wilt

At dusk's peak, begin your search

An hour long, we’ll wait in perch

Once your time has left you sore

The thing you need will be no more

“What the fuck does that mean?”

[thewarriorandtheking]

The Answer Is Given

The Warrior Queen: The Warrior and The King - Book II

Chapter 11. The Answer Is Given

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

As they traveled back to Erebor that afternoon Kaylea remembered how much she enjoyed having Thorin ride behind her. The last few times they had traveled together he had his own horse, she had forgotten how much she enjoyed the feel of his arms around her, his breath on her neck. She smiled remembering that first ride they had taken together, how she had to constantly bring her mind back to tracking that pack of orcs when she was so conscious of Thorin, his body under his clothes, the smell of his leather bracers. After all these years she still did not understand why he affected her this way, but she had long ago given up worrying about it. She wondered if anything she had shown him in the last day had come close to changing his mind about marrying her. At least he knew now what he was signing up for.

It was a beautiful early summer day, warm sun and cool breeze coming off the mountains. They took a bit more time coming back, Ajax ranged off on either side, hunting smells in the grass. When they came to the road to Erebor it was just turning dusk, the sun already down behind the mountains. They had only gone a short distance when Kaylea halted her horse, she turned at the sound of bells on the wind. Coming down the road from Dale were two riders, one wrapped in dark green clothes, his black hair streaming in the breeze. The other rider was cloaked, but his white horse seemed to glow in the evening light, his tack flashing with gems, bells jingling as he trotted down the road. Both riders seemed surrounded by silver light, looking almost unearthly in the dying light. Kaylea let Thorin down and dismounted her horse. When the riders stopped in front of them she bowed low.

“My lords,” she said. “What brings the lords Glorfindel and Elrohir to Erebor?” Thorin regarded them curiously, wondering the same.

Both the Elves swung off their horses. Glorfindel threw back his hood to reveal his fine, regular features, his golden hair topped with a circlet of silver. “We are here to see you, my lady,” he said. Kaylea looked up in surprise. “We have much to discuss.”

Thorin stepped forward. “My lords, you look as though you have traveled far. Will you not stop and enjoy the hospitality of my house? When I was a weary traveler I was welcomed in the house of Elrond, I would not wish to miss an opportunity to return the favor. Please allow me to welcome you to Erebor.”

Elrohir smiled, Glorfindel looked down the road at the huge gates of the Dwarf city. “We had not thought to stop. But I have never passed the doors of your great city, perhaps now is the time.” He looked at Thorin, then at Kaylea. “I remember well meeting you in Rivendell, Thorin, son of Thrain. Curious I should again meet you in the company of Kaylea Wolf.”

“Not as curious as you may think,” Thorin said. “Please my lords, will you not accept my offer?” And I will not even blindfold you, he thought to himself.

Glorfindel nodded. “Our horses could do with a rest, as could both of us. We will accompany you to Erebor, your majesty.” He turned and mounted his horse, both Kaylea and Elrohir did the same. Kaylea pulled Thorin up behind her. Elrohir fell in beside them with an amused smile.

“I had no idea you two were still a thing,” he said to Kaylea in Galactic Standard, then fell back to ride beside Glorfindel, ignoring Thorin’s scowl.

When they reached the gates of Erebor, the guards swung them open seeing the King returning. Ajax trotted ahead, heading for the stairs. The party dismounted and Thorin led the two Elves into his city. Kaylea took the reins of their horses and led them to the stables. After caring for her horse and seeing that the others were properly taken care of she went up to Thorin’s apartments, he was there getting changed.

“The Elves want to have a council right away,” he said. “I thought we could change and meet with them, then go straight down to dinner.” He looked over at her with his best pleading face. “Do you still have that silver dress, my love?”

Kaylea smiled. “I do. I also brought another one that is more formal, if you think that is appropriate.”

“It is hard to think of anything more formal than dinner with two Elvish lords,” Thorin was scowling at Ajax who had one paw up on the bed. “Stay off there, Master Wolf!” He looked back at Kaylea with a smile. “Surely you cannot blame me for wanting to show you off, my love?”

“Your wish is my command, my king,” Kaylea said, walking toward the closet. She always found it hard to deny Thorin the little things he asked for. She took out the pale blue dress she had brought with her, she felt she needed something more appropriate for Middle Earth. This one did have a deep, heart shaped neckline, but it showed much less skin than some of her other dresses. Long sleeved and close-fitted, with a straight skirt and a hemline that brushed the floor, a short train trailing behind. She changed quickly and put her hair up in a twist. Thorin looked at her approvingly as she put on the ring and one of the many necklaces he had made for her. He was wearing her favorite outfit, soft dark grey shirt, fur trimmed silver vest and black pants and boots.

“I asked the Elves to meet us in the forward guard room.” This was the room Thorin used as a kind of office, though he had a much grander one nearer to the forges.

Thorin offered Kaylea his arm and they walked out along the gallery toward the front wall. He always felt such pride walking with her on his arm for all to see, now he was free to do it whenever he wanted.  

The Elves were already in Thorin’s office when they arrived, drinking wine out of long-stemmed glasses. Both of them rose as Thorin and Kaylea came in, Elrohir smiled at Kaylea’s dress.

“This is a very different look for you,” he said, raising his eyebrows. Glorfindel also looked surprised, and a bit amused.  

“Indeed, I have only ever seen you in those black garments you are so fond of,” he said. “In that dress I believe you rival those Elves that are considered fairest in all Middle Earth, even Luthien Tinuviel herself.”

“You are too kind, my lord,” Kaylea moved to pour wine for herself and Thorin.

“Now, my lords. Why are you here?” Glorfindel looked at Thorin. “You may speak freely in front of the king,” Kaylea said. “In fact, he has a story you both should hear.”

Glorfindel and Elrohir had just come up from the south and they had much to impart. Elrohir had been with the Rangers in Ithilien and had met Glorfindel in Lothlorien where he had been dwelling for a time. From the Rangers came news that the armies of Sauron were already gathering, many thousands had passed through Ithilien on the way to the Black Gate. Glorfindel said that he believed Saurman may have been turned, the lands of Isengard around Orthanc were filled now with smoke and industry, and Saruman’s influence seemed to be spreading to Rohan. The second palantir Kaylea and Thorin had guessed at had been found in Osgiliath and was probably now in the possession of the Steward of Gondor. Elrohir said when they heard Kaylea was in Erebor they had come to discover how soon she planned to bring her troops and if she could offer any other aid. This last part interested Thorin, he wondered if they were hinting that her lord might somehow be able to intervene.

Kaylea then bade Thorin to tell the story of the messenger who had come to Erebor looking for information about a Halfling named Baggins. This news seemed to alarm the two Elves.

“If he knows he is looking for a Halfling, how soon before he sends his riders to the Shire?” Elrohir asked, his face grave.

“Not long, I expect,” Thorin answered. “But I did not give him an answer, only told him to come back after I had considered his offer.”

Glorfindel nodded. “Time grows very short now, the Dark Lord will soon be ready to move.”

“Why wait until he is ready?” Thorin asked. “Why not move now, before he is prepared?”

Kaylea smiled at him, he had taken the words right out of her mouth.

“We are not ready either, your majesty,” Glorfindel replied. “Things have been set in motion, but we have not yet decided on what course to take.”

Kaylea nodded. “The sooner you do the better,” she said. “And the sooner the Ring is on its way out of the Shire, the safer we will all be. There is no way to defend it there.”

Elrohir looked grave. “Rivendell cannot protect it, not for long.”

“It is better protected there than in the Shire,” Kaylea replied. “At least until a decision is made about what to do with it.”

“What will you do with it?” Thorin asked, suddenly curious. The Elves looked at him.

“That is not for us alone to decide,” Glorfindel said, looking at Kaylea. “Elrond must call a Council. Elrohir and I ride now to Rivendell to encourage him to do this, perhaps you will join us?”  

Kaylea nodded. “I will come.”

Elrohir drained his glass. “Such dark tidings are better pondered on a full stomach,” he said. “Let us have some dinner.”

 Kaylea and Thorin walked into the Reception Hall, the Elves following them. There were a few Dwarves already there, including Dis, Freya, Gloin, Dori, Fili and his wife and a few others. Durin was away in Asgaroth with Gimli. Thorin introduced them to their Elvish guests, there were still a few more expected for dinner so they all took glasses of wine and talked among themselves. Although it was a summer day outside, fires burned brightly in both hearths to warm the guests.

Kaylea had just seen Thror come in with Dwalin when Thorin guided her aside to stand beside one of the fireplaces. He motioned for one of the servants to approach and took her glass, placing it on the tray with his own. Then he stood before her, taking her hands in his. Kaylea looked at him curiously, wondering what was coming.

“I have been thinking about what you showed me, as you asked me to do,” he began, speaking softly. “Years ago when we were in Lorien the Lady Galadriel told me I have another lifetime ahead of me. I do not wish to spend that life without you at my side.” He stepped back and knelt down on one knee.

Kaylea realized too late what he was doing. “You are not really going to do this to me!” She hissed at him. Thorin grinned at her, like a cat that had caught a canary.

“Oh, I most certainly am,” he said quietly. “When will I have an audience like this again?” By now all eyes in the room were on them, including the two Elves. Thorin looked up at her, holding her hands tightly. He spoke loudly, so all could hear.  

“Kaylea Wolf, I have loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you. I am yours body and soul forever, nothing will change that. Now that I have fulfilled all the obligations that kept us apart, I wish only for a future with you at my side. Will you marry me?”

You could cut the air in the room with a knife. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Kaylea looked down at Thorin, angry at him for cornering her like this but also knowing that he was simply never going to take no for an answer. And why should he? She loved him as she had never loved anyone before, she knew in her heart she would do whatever it took to be with him. She had put him off so long, she did not want to risk losing him by doing it again. He knew who she was now, and he still wanted her.  

“Yes, of course I will marry you,” she said at last. Thorin smiled widely, carefully he took hold of the silver ring he had given her so long ago and moved it from her right to her left hand. Then he stood and kissed her softly. There was a round of applause from the people in the room, as they stood side by side to face them. Glorfindel stepped forward.

“May I be the first to congratulate you!” He said. “I thought when I first saw you I had never seen two people so destined to be together. Or a more unlikely couple,” he added with a smile.

“Thank you, my lord,” said Kaylea, laughing. Thorin inclined his head.

“You must allow me to perform the ceremony,” Glorfindel continued. Thorin looked skeptical.

“I will want a proper Dwarvish ceremony,” he said. Glorfindel laughed, then launched into a speech in a kind of Khuzdul Kaylea was not familiar with, she could follow the gist of it but the words were subtly different. The words sounded grand and almost musical on his tongue, all the Dwarves stared at him in astonishment to hear the ancient words of their people in his clear voice. Glorfindel stopped speaking and looked at Thorin. “I believe that is how it starts,” he said.

Thorin nodded, impressed despite himself. “That is quite right.”

The Elven lord looked around the room. “I will need a cloth, and I assume you have rings?”

“We will not be getting married right this minute, my lord,” Kaylea said, shaking her head and holding a hand up.

Glorfindel looked from one to the other of them with an amused smile. “A celebration is in order, of course. But are not such things more for the family? They have little to do with the actual vows, I sense you are both ready to have them spoken.”

Thorin grinned, nodding his agreement. “Yes, I have been ready to speak them for many years. However, among my people it is not customary to separate the vows from the celebration. I think my sister might actually stab me.”

“And my people would behead me,” Kaylea said. “The king and I have spoken about holding this ceremony later, perhaps after this war has passed.”

Glorfindel laughed. “You hesitate because of your kin? Would they not wish you to be happy? The love between the two of you is obvious to all. This war will soon be upon us, we go forward now into an uncertain future. Do you not wish to face this future without regrets?”

Thorin looked at him thoughtfully, considering his words, then at Kaylea who would no doubt consider it a great honor to be married by Glorfindel himself. Elrohir leaned over to speak in his ear. “If I were you, I would marry her now before she changes her mind,” he said conspiratorially. This made Thorin chuckle.

“It is a rare day I agree with an Elf, let alone two of them,” he looked at Kaylea, remembering Galadriel’s words that the future was never set. “I have already been married with a big ceremony, I cannot say my marriage was happier for it. Let us be married now. When we know better what form our life together will take we will have a large ceremony with many guests and family. And I will set a crown on your head then.” He drew her close. “I have waited long, asking and always hoping for a different answer. Now that I have finally convinced you I want it done.”

Kaylea nodded. She saw no reason to hesitate, waiting would not change the way she and Thorin felt about each other. And to be married by Glorfindel himself was more than she could ever have asked. The Elf lord turned to face the room.

“Who stands for the king?” He asked. Fili and Dwalin stepped forward. “And for Kaylea Wolf?” Freya and Dis came to stand at her side. Freya was wearing a lace scarf around her neck, she unwound it and handed it to the Elf lord. Thorin gave Fili the wedding band that fit onto Kaylea’s ring and his own ring he had made to match, he had carried them with him since he made them. They had become like a kind of talisman but now they would take their proper places. He and Kaylea moved to stand on either side of Glorfindel. The Elven lord paused for a moment as if collecting his thoughts, then he looked around the room and began to speak Khuzdul in his clear voice. Kaylea did not know the exact words, but she could follow it in a general way.

“I do not know this ceremony,” she whispered to Thorin. “You will have to guide me.” Thorin nodded to her, amazed he had found a language she did not speak.

The first part of Glorfindel’s speech seemed to be about the nature of the contract between them, about their possessions before the union and how they should be divided. It made Kaylea smile, it was so like the Dwarves to put a contract in their wedding vows. Glorfindel turned to her first.

“Do you agree we have no prior claim on each other’s possessions or works and do not expect to share in them unless there is mutual agreement?” Thorin whispered to her.

“I agree,” Kaylea said. Glorfindel then turned to Thorin, who also agreed. The Elf then spoke the next vow, this one detailed their love for each other, that they would hold each other above all others, treasured more than any jewel of the earth, to cherish and protect one another and only break the oath upon death.  Again the Elf lord turned to Kaylea first.

“I understood that,” Kaylea whispered to Thorin, who smiled widely at her.

“I do,” Kaylea said. Glorfindel then turned to Thorin and repeated the vow.

“I do,” he said. The Elf then motioned to Fili, who came forward with the rings. Thorin took the ring for Kaylea, he removed her ring, carefully fitted the wedding band to it then replaced it on her finger. Kaylea then deliberately picked up Thorin’s ring and slipped it on his finger. When they both turned to face Glorfindel again he took their hands and wrapped the scarf around them, tying it loosely as he spoke about the unbreakable vow they had taken. He then bowed to them both. “It is done,” he said. Thorin and Kaylea turned toward each other, Thorin taking both her hands in his and holding them to his heart.

“Today I am the happiest man in Middle Earth, my wife,” he said.

Kaylea smiled widely at him, she leaned forward. “In Dorsai, it is customary to kiss the bride.”

“An excellent tradition!” Thorin pulled her close and kissed her, more briefly than he usually did, but the passion was plain for all to see. The servants were coming around with glasses of champagne, when everyone had a glass Dis raised hers in a toast.

“To the King and his warrior Queen, long may they reign!” She was smiling widely at Kaylea, remembering their first conversation so long ago. She had known at the time that Thorin would get his way eventually, now at last it was done.

Thorin had waited many years to turn this page, but at long last the next chapter of his life was about to begin.  

Read the complete adventures of The Warrior and The KIng on AO3 & FanFiction, author is akdogdriver. All three books now also on Wattpad.  

[onemilliongoldstars]

a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter 18

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

18/25

clexa game of thrones au

read on ao3

---

Book Two: Chapter 4

As the coronation approaches, Kings Landing swells like a pig fattened for the slaughter. Nobles seems to spill from the cracks in the stone; those who arrived in time for King Thelonious’s funeral have stayed and more arrive every day, much to the utter horror of the servants and handmaidens stretched too thin looking after them, and desperately trying to find them places to stay. Clarke is glad that she had already secured such a luxurious room in the Maidenvault, if she had arrived now she may have faced the horror of having to find a room in town as many of the lower nobles are now having to do. It had been difficult enough to find a room for Raven on such short notice, and it had taken a heavy purse to be sure that the inn keep wouldn’t sell the room off to any visiting nobles.

Despite securing her room and board, Clarke has not yet been able to see Raven. It is far more difficult to slip away in the Red Keep, where she can always feel the eyes of one noble or another upon her and her attention is demanded at almost every hour of the day. The noble women crowd around her to hear stories of the north, and gossip frivolously, and she knows that if she has to spend another hour pretending to embroider as she listens to women around her discuss the merits of Arbour wine and Essos wine, she will scream. It is even more frustrating to see Octavia returning from her few nights off with her purse newly filled and a hangover she won’t admit to; by all accounts Raven has made fast friends with some regulars of the local tavern who are almost as skilled at dice as she is. Clarke’s stomach burns with jealousy just to think of it.

A grey morning gives her a moment of peace. The mist has rolled in from the sea, cooling the air and blocking out the sun, and she steps from her rooms with her cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. A guard she does not know is stationed outside of her room, and she shakes him away when he falls into step behind her, dismissing him and telling him to inform Octavia that she is in the gardens. The paths are blissfully empty; nowadays it is hard to find them empty of unmarried ladies parading themselves before the eligible lords of the kingdom. The peace and the cold are achingly familiar, and though she never thought she would long for the loneliness of Winterfell again, she can’t deny that it is a blessing to be truly alone, if only for an hour or so. Thoughts of her letter to Lexa plague her, though she tries to forget it. She has written a hundred more letters, since she penned the first, recounting her claims and explaining herself, but each time the stories seem to spiral out of her control and look like a wild falsehood concocted only to keep her away from Winterfell.

Mist hangs about her, turning to delicate water droplets that cling to her hair and fingertips. The city and the castle become muffled and far away, so she is startled when she rounds a corner to see a figure appearing from the mists. For a moment, fear grips her heart, and she wishes she had retrieved her dagger from Lord Pike, but then the figure comes closer and she is able to make out familiar floppy hair and a boyish smile.

“Lady Clarke,” Finn seems just as surprised to see her, his feet hesitating for a moment, though she sees his face light up with a smile.

“Your majesty,” Clarke gives a slight curtsey.

“What are you doing out here?” His brows crease, and he fumbles, “I only meant- I thought I was alone.”

“I wanted some peace, your majesty.” She gives him a slight smile, and falls into step beside him. “I expect you wanted the same.”

Finn gives her a rueful smile, “As ever, you are too clever for your own good.”

“Just as clever as I need to be, your majesty,” She teases in return, and he laughs, the sound caught and muffled by the mist.

“Please, we don’t need such formalities,” His cheeks colour a little, “I should think we were past that a long time ago.” Clarke gives a polite smile, and a nod, and Finn continues, “I’ve never seen Kings Landing quite like this before, but then I didn’t spend nearly enough time here as a child.”

“How could you know you would need to,” Clarke placates him.

“Still, sometimes I wish I had been here regularly, as you were,” His eyes flicker to her and she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, thoughtful.

“I don’t think you’re suffering for it, you’re a hero, everyone adores you.”

“They say they adore me because I’m the new king.” Finn corrects her, and her eyes flicker up to him, surprised, to find a wry smile upon his face. He continues, raising his eyebrows, “I’m sure you know the ins and outs of court politics far better than I. Even deciding who should come to the coronation is a task that takes days.”

“Are you looking forward to the coronation?”

“I am,” He doesn’t quite seem sure of himself, but Clarke doesn’t bring it upon herself to point it out.

“It should be a grand event, I hope the castle’s coppers can afford it,” She jokes, and it pulls another laugh from Finn.

“I should expect so, Lord Pike has everything under control.” The words send a thrill of ice through her veins, but she is saved from answering when Finn asks. “I hope you will save me a dance at the ball afterwards?”

Somethings tugs in her heart at the memory the words stir, but she pushes it away, fixing the new king with a dazzling smile. “How could I refuse the king?”

He laughs again, and they turn a corner onto a path where the roses climb up the trellises and form a beautiful, heavily scented tunnel. It is dim inside, and the mist clings to the petals in water droplets, gleaming. In this refuge, where they are afforded the illusion of privacy, she asks, quietly.

“Are you looking forward to being king?”

For a moment Finn is silent at her side, and when she looks up at him, she finds his throat bobbing as he swallows. Finally, he says, his voice soft. “No one has asked me that yet.”

Clarke feels a swell of sympathy; looking at him now she is reminded of the easy going, kind boy who would spend so many summers in Highgarden. It is to this boy that she says, “You can do it, Finn. You have a good heart, listen to it.”

The smile he gives her is tentative, but perhaps the most genuine thing she has seen since she stepped into Kings Landing.

“Thank you, Clarke. I am glad you’re here.” He hesitates, nervous for a moment, “Perhaps, after the coronation, you would like to dine together?”

“That would be wonderful,” She reassures him, and accepts the arm he offers out to her, trying not to think of the letters now turned to ash in her fireplace.

---

The Lannister soldiers posted dutifully on either side of the door to the chambers of the Hand of the King eye her with understandable surprise as she approaches. They shift in their embellished armour, lions snarling on their chests, but their hands do not fall to the hilts of their swords and that is their first mistake. Clarke offers them a soft smile, her dress flowing about her legs, the artfully designed straps leaving her back on display, and her hair piled into curls behind her head to show off the curve of her neck. There are pink roses braided into it, and without a guard she is sure that she looks about as threatening as a daisy in a summer meadow.

“Good afternoon, sers.” She addresses them, though she is sure neither are more than a simple household knight. “Seven blessings to you, is your master in?”

“Good afternoon, my lady.” The first knight, the younger one, flushes as he speaks to her. “He is-”

“But he is occupied at the moment,” The second soldier, older and more grisly than the younger, interrupts him. “You’ll have to come back another time, my lady.”

“I’m afraid this is the only time I have to spare,” She keeps her voice light and lilting, “And I only mean to collect something from Lord Pike, it will take but a moment.”

“Regardless, he’s not to be disturbed.” The second solider tells her, flatly.

The first soldier wavers, however, “Lord Pike will be done soon, my lady, if you’d like to wait.”

“Thank you.” She tells him, smiling, “But I cannot wait. This will only take a moment, I’m sure your lord can spare it.” She steps forwards, as if to knock on the door, but the second solider raises an arm to stop her, just as the door swings open of its own accord.

From behind it stumbles a serving girl, giggling, with her hair and clothes all set askew. She freezes the moment she sees them, her wide eyes flickering from the soldiers to Clarke, and in the moment of silence that follows Lord Pike appears at the door behind her, his gold and red doublet hanging open. He gives them all a lazy, arrogant smile and nods his head in Clarke’s direction.

“Off you go,” He tells the serving girl, who scurries away gratefully. His eyes land on Clarke and there is a second too long of silence before he asks. “Lady Clarke, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

She is only able to conjure up a thin smile in response. “I was hoping for a moment of your time, Lord Pike.”

“Of course,” Stepping aside, he holds his arm out wide to allow her in, and she feels the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she puts her back to him. Inside, the chamber is orderly and neat. It is strange to see it like this, as for most of her life it had been her father’s chamber. She remembers it with rugs across the floor and golden tapestries along the walls, books and parchments on every surface and a comfortable chair before the fire for reading. Now, the room is dark and bare, and stinks of sex and sweat.

“May I offer you a drink?” Pike’s voice comes from behind her, and she turns to see him lingering beside a wine decanter and two goblets.

“No, thank you.”

“Very well,” He leisurely pours himself a drink. “I trust you are enjoying your time in Kings Landing?”

“Almost as much as you,” She speaks without thinking, and silently curses her slip of the tongue when he turns slowly to fix her with a curious expression.

“Indeed,” He says at last, taking his goblet into his hands. “Your mother doesn’t want you to be with her?”

“My place is here,” Clarke says, with as much finality as she can muster, and Pike nods his agreement.

“What can I help you with, Lady Clarke?” He at least has the decency to fasten his doublet as he sits into the chair behind the desk.

“I was hoping to retrieve something of mine that you have.”

“Ah,” He gives her a slight, knowing smile. “Of course,” Carefully, he takes a key from around his neck, threading it from the chain and sliding it into a lock in one of his desk drawers. There is a heavy click, and then the drawer slides open. With a flourish, he produces her dagger, laying it on the desk between them as he locks the drawer again. “I made sure it was safe my lady, stored it with the rest of my most precious possessions.”

“Thank you,” She barely manages to give him an innocent, pretty smile. “I appreciate that.”

“An interesting weapon.” He observes, picking up the dagger to turn it this way and that. “Northern in design, very interesting indeed.” His eyes dart up to meet hers, his expression hard. “You had it made in Winterfell?”

“It was a gift.”

“A gift?” His brows lift in surprise. “I am sure you caught many a young northern lord’s eye while you were there.”

She offers him a thin smile. “I couldn’t say.”

“You are too modest, Lady Clarke.” His eyes flicker over her again, more assessing than before. “Your mother would have been distraught if you had returned engaged to a northern man.”

“She would have,” Clarke agrees, lightly, her gaze fixed to the dagger on the desk between them. “But fortunately I did not.”

“A girl of your age and station, you must be looking for a husband.” His lips purse, thoughtfully. “I shall make enquiries at court for you. With the king and your father gone and your mother in the Vale, it will be difficult to find someone suitable to help you make a good match.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She bobs a small curtsey, reaching out to take the dagger into her hands. “I’d be much obliged, I’m sure.”

---

The coronation of the new king is a sickeningly lavish affair. She can barely begin to imagine how much gold Lord Pike must have conjured to pay for the hoards of servers, bedecked in brilliant gold and white silk, embroidered with the crest of the new king- a golden swan. New tapestries hang from the walls, in similar colours, and acrobats and fire breathers from the eastern lands wonder between the guests in the Great Hall, entertaining them. There is rumoured to be an elephant awaiting the king at the end of the night, though what Finn will do with such a beast Clarke cannot begin to imagine. The boy she knew was most comfortable on horseback, on his way to a hunt, but he doesn’t seem as if he would want to be much further from the ground than that. People wind gracefully in and out of one another in the Great Hall, long skirts swinging, hair bedecked in jewels to show their status. Everyone attempts to seem graceful and contained, but at the same time they hope to never be out of the eyeline of the new king. Clarke can’t rightly judge them, her own gown is made from fine silk in blue and gold, draped prettily along the curves of her body, and jewels hang from her neck and wrists and waist. Only her hair is free of the sparkles, her handmaiden instead pulling the heavy curls back to show the arch of her chin and neck, and letting it spill down her back. The artful, carefully arranged nonchalance is set off with golden roses, cut and brought from Highgarden that morning especially, and braided into her curls.

With delicate fingers, she plucks a goblet from the passing tray of a servant, and surveys the crowd with interest. Benches and tables are laid out for a feast which will soon be underway, but for now people are permitted to wander and talk freely. Only the most honoured guests have been allowed into the Great Hall, with all lower houses forced into the overflow in the gardens, but Clarke almost envies them: the Great Hall is stuffy and warm under the midday sun. The new king sits at the high table, Lord Pike Lannister at his side, and rumoured to be named the new Hand of the King. Finn still seems as boyish as ever, a dimple shining from his cheek as he speaks with those permitted to approach, his crown heavy upon his head. He had accepted the crown with all of the solemnity and diligence required of a sovereign in the Great Sept earlier that day, but now his façade has crumbled and he is the boy she remembers once again.

Somewhere, her uncle and cousins are making pretty small talk, twittering like little birds. She had been stood with them for the coronation, as the sun had filled the Sept with a warm glow, and Finn had walked to his place before the towering statue of the Father, and felt their gazes burning her skin. Despite her grandmother’s insistence that family was more important than individual ambition, her cousins have always envied her the security and power that her close relationship with the Baratheons had allowed her. Now, they whisper about her connections to Finn Swann and how she came to be in the capital, rather than mourning her father in the Eyrie. Her grandmother had retired after the coronation ceremony, her face rather white, and Clarke had only been able to endure so much more of her family without her grandmother as a buffer.

Now, she lingers to one side, smiling at the ladies of the court she has come to know over the last few weeks, and watching from the corner of her eyes as Lord Pike places a hand on Finn’s shoulder and murmurs advice into his ear. A presence at her side startles her, and she turns to find Octavia, her face hard and her lips drawn into a firm line of disapproval.

“Octavia,” Her breath escapes her, relief flushing through her body, until she realises that the soldier’s fingers linger on the sword at her hip. “What’s wrong?”

“There is a man watching you,” Octavia warns her, lowly, and Clarke almost smiles.

“I expect a few men are watching me,” She answers, as lightly as she can, and only laughs when Octavia glowers.

“He has been following you,” She says, and her eyes narrow, catching sight of something over Clarke’s shoulder. “There.”

Instinctively, Clarke cranes her neck to follow Octavia’s gaze, and her heart beats a little slower when she realises who exactly Octavia has caught sight of. “Thank you, Octavia, but there’s no need to fear. That is Lord Marcus of House Arryn,” A small smile lingers on her lips as she turns to greet the approaching figure. “I highly suspect he speaks for my mother.”

Lord Marcus is a tall, dark haired man, with a wan smile and kind, old eyes. His house crest, a falcon and a crescent moon on a blue field, are stitched delicately into his doublet, and there is something in his face that reminds her of a wise bird, watching from afar. His castle in the high mountains of the Vale is easily protected and fortified, historically keeping House Arryn from the conflicts of Westeros. Lord Arryn has been a friend of her mother’s for as long as she can remember- which is no doubt why she now seeks refuge with him- a familiar face of her childhood, and now she offers him a smile and her hand to take.

“My lord,” She bows her head in respect when he takes her hand, his fingers squeezing welcomingly. When she looks up again, she finds that his eyes are soft and shadowed. “How good it is to see you again.”

“Lady Clarke, you are as charming as ever,” He tells her, with a slight smile. His expression shifts and drops, and she feels her stomach lurch in pain when he says. “May I say how sorry I was to hear of your father’s passing. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here in time to attend his funeral.”

“It’s a long way to come,” Carefully, she takes her hand from his and falls into step with him. “How have you been?”

“Well enough,” He watches her from the corner of his eye, clearly trying to judge his next words. “Your mother sends her regards.”

“I’m sure she does,” It is hard to bite away the wry smile that lingers at the corners of her lips. “How is she?”

“As well as can be expected,” His expression pinches with concern, “She worries for you Clarke.”

“She has made that very clear in her letters.” Clarke offers a smile to a passing noble, and they are quiet for a few moments until the space around them clears once again and they are afforded some semblance of privacy.

“She loved your father very much,” A shadow of a smile passes across his face, “I think she would feel better to have you with her in this time, and really,” He glances about the room, “Who do you have here to support you?”

Her spine straightens at his words, frustration flushing through her. In a way, she knows that he will never see her as anything but the little girl who visited the Eyrie and marvelled at the moon door. “My lord,” She speaks slowly, biting down on her temper. “While I appreciate your concern, I assure you I am doing fine here. My mother doesn’t need me.”

He eyes her thoughtfully, shaking his head at last. “I can see I’m not going to persuade you to return with me, as your mother had hoped. Here,” He takes her hand again and her eyes widen when she realises that within his grasp is a slip of paper, big enough to be wound around a raven’s leg, but instead being pressed against her palm. “She wanted you to have this.” His eyes flicker away, glancing at the room for a moment, “Don’t read it here.”

“I won’t,” Her voice shakes, just a little, and she presses the parchment into a ball within her fist.

“I should greet the other nobles,” He says, at last, and gives her a brief, courteous bow, “I will be here for another few days after the coronation, my lady, if you change your mind.”

Nodding, she watches him go for a second before making her way back to where Octavia stands, her back to the wall, watching the room intently. The soldier’s eyes dart up and down her form, narrowing.

“Are you alright?” She asks, brusquely, when Clarke is close enough, and Clarke nods.

“Here,” She gives Octavia the shawl that had been draped across her arms, and hopes that the soldier feels the slip of paper being pushed against her fingers. “Take this to my room, I won’t be needing it.”

Octavia’s eyes narrow further, but she only nods, turning on her heel to march away. Clarke drains her goblet, not caring that the wine will surely go to her head at any moment, and gestures to a servant for another goblet. Before the server can arrive, however, a goblet is offered out to her, and she raises her eyes to find a stranger. His hair is as white as the snows in Winterfell, his skin tanned from the sun and kindly wrinkled. Despite this, his age has not been unkind to him, and he stands tall and proud in garb that she recognises as Bravosi.

“You seemed thirsty, my lady.” He gives her a smile that reminds her so greatly of her father that she almost feels her stomach fall away.

“I- yes, thank you, my lord.”

“I am no lord,” He laughs softly, and his slight accent tilts and trips over the words. “My name is Dante Wallace, I am an envoy of the Iron Bank of Bravos.”

“I see,” Realisation passes across her face before she can school it, and she continues more lightly. “You have come to see how your money is being spent.”

Dante Wallace gives a low laugh, “And to offer our congratulations to the new king. Our relationship with the Westeros crown has always been a good one.”

“And a very lucrative one.” Clarke adds, and smiles when Dante ducks his head in acknowledgment.

“You are very quick, Lady Clarke.”

“You know who I am,” Her eyes widen a little.

Dante Wallace gives a wan smile. “The Iron Bank makes it our business to know everyone of importance in the known world.” He eyes her with interest, “You have recently returned from the north.”

“I have.”

“The new queen there is a very important person indeed, and very impressive by all accounts.”

Clarke takes a slow sip of her wine, hoping that the goblet conceals the flush of joy that talking about Lexa brings to her cheeks. “She is,” She agrees, at last.

“How did you find your time in the north?”

“Interesting, and cold.” She gives him a small smile, which he returns.

“Yes, it is rather different to the weather in Bravos too. I am not made for the cold, I’m afraid.” He grimaces delicately, and the expression draws a laugh from Clarke.

“I thought so too, when I arrived. By the time I left though I-” Her eyes dart away, linger on the wine in her goblet. “I’d grown used to it.”

“I hope they received you well, despite the tensions between north and south.” She finds his gaze kind and calm when she looks up again. “It was brave of you to go.”

“They treated me very well,” She insists, “And really, it wasn’t as brave as you would think.”

“It is good to know that the queen is not a cruel woman, or a vindictive one.” Dante Wallace muses, and she nods.

“Not at all, she’s very kind and fair.”

His brows crease, just slightly, and he pauses for a moment before he answers. “I see. Well, thank you Lady Clarke, it was a pleasure speaking with you.”

As he gives a short, curt nod and turns on his heel, she is left with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she had just said something she shouldn’t have.

---

The hubbub of the coronation night is the perfect opportunity to slip away from the castle. With servants too busy fawning over rich, drunken lords, and guards passing their own flasks from person to person, Clarke manages to pull a dark cloak around herself and escape through one of the lower gates, Octavia fast on her heels. The streets are similarly filled with jubilation, despite the late hour, and Clarke has to duck her head and sidestep those tripping over their own feet after a few too many flagons of mead. Everything feels very far away, a pit of dread and fear sitting heavily in her stomach. It is only Octavia’s hand at her elbow that keeps her moving forwards, and by the time they get to the tavern where she had installed Raven, she feels almost sick.

The innkeeper is nowhere to be seen, but the tavern is filled to bursting with rowdy customers. They sit at tables and benches, cheering and singing and drinking. The smell of mead and smoke sits heavily in the air, and from the centre of the room comes the jeering of men around a dice table. It is to here that Octavia leads her, tugging her by the hand.

“Reyes! Reyes!” She shouts over the din, but there is no response, and so they keep pushing through the crowd until a familiar head of dark hair appears, counting up coins with two men and crowing about her winnings.

Raven laughs at something the curly haired man says, but Octavia’s grip on her shoulder makes her turn, her brows pulled with anger until she spots them and her expression clears.

“Octavia,” Her eyes flicker to Clarke and widen. “Hold on.” She turns back to the two men, scooping up the rest of her share of the coins. “I’ll leave you boys to it.”

“What!” One of them cries, swaying a little where he stands. “Don’t go Reyes!”

“Sorry, got visitors. See you tomorrow.” She doesn’t stay long enough to listen to the rest of his complaints, elbowing her way through the crowds back to them. “What were you thinking, bringing her here?” She hisses at Octavia, pulling them both up the rickety stairs and down a narrow corridor which slopes.

“She said she had to get out,” Clarke hears Octavia spit back, angrily. “Where else was I supposed to take her?”

“If she’s spotted here-” Raven retorts, fumbling with a key as they come to a stop. With rough tugs, she unlocks the door and pushes it open, ushering them both furtively inside.

It’s a small, well ordered room, clean if a little bare, and it reminds Clarke of the few taverns she was forced to stay in on the journey to Winterfell. Octavia directs her to the bed and she sits heavily, glancing up at Raven. The girl’s anger has morphed to concern now, and she slowly crouches before Clarke, placing her hands on her knees.

“My lady? Clarke? What happened?”

Slowly, her fingers still shaking, Clarke extracts the small roll of parchment Lord Marcus had given her and presses it into Raven’s fumbling hands. She watches, as if from far away as the girl reads it, her lips parting as horror washes across her face.

“Are you sure this is true?” She sounds graver than she ever has before.

“Lord Kane gave it to me, he wouldn’t lie, and it’s in my mother’s hand.” A shiver runs through her body.

“Gods,” Raven breathes out, sinking onto the bed next to her. Her expression is a picture of shock and fury, and Octavia snatches the parchment from her hands, her eyes widening.

“What? What does it say?” She peers over the parchment, squinting to read the words there.

“Lord Pike poisoned my father… and if he did that I would hazard a guess that he had the king killed somehow as well.” Clarke pushes herself from the bed, unable to keep still.

“Clarke,” Octavia’s eyes follow her, the parchment limp between her fingers. “That’s a serious accusation.”

“Indeed,” She hesitates by the fire, it’s warmth barely penetrating the ice that has worked its way into her veins. “My mother wouldn’t risk writing it down unless she knew that it was true.”

“Lannister,” Octavia muses furiously, her brows pulling together. “I knew he was trouble from the moment I saw him. You can’t trust a Lannister.”

“If he’s managed to do this with no one suspecting him, there have to be other people involved.” Raven seems pale, but determined. “If we can get to them, we can find out the truth.”

“I can’t ask you to risk yourselves in this,” Clarke’s eyes flicker between them both, “If he’s willing to kill two of the most powerful men in the land, he won’t hesitate in killing any of us.”

“Tough shit,” Raven paces unsteadily towards the fire, and kneels beside it to lure it back into life. “You involved us the moment you told us.”

“It’ll be dangerous,” She protests, her voice shaking, “I won’t always be able to protect you.”

“We don’t need you to protect us,” Octavia argues, “We’ve been looking after ourselves for a long time now.”

“Even so!” Clarke’s wild eyes dart between them, her voice dropping. “This is lunacy, you have to know that. More than likely we’ll all be killed.”

“Then why are you staying?” Raven demands, heaving herself back to her feet. “Go back to your mother!”

“I can’t do that! I can’t leave this city- this kingdom- to the mercy of a murderer.”

“Then if you’re staying, we’re staying.” Octavia tells her, simply.

“This has to stay between us,” Raven instructs them, plucking the parchment from between Octavia’s fingers. “The less people know the better.” With a flick of her fingers, the parchment is sent fluttering into the fire, catching in moments, and together they watch it burn.

---

Grand Maester Orrin has been the maester in Kings Landing for as long as Clarke can remember. He is like an old oak tree, gnarled and splintering, with white hair so long that it comes to his waist, and vague eyes which never quite meet her gaze. He was a particular favourite of the Baratheon family, having brought Wells into the world after a seemingly endless stream of miscarriages and stillbirths. As the finest healer in the south, Clarke remembers him setting her broken arm when she fell from a horse as a child, and ordering her away from Wells’ chamber door when he had a fever.

His chambers smell of mint and chamomile, incense burning from the candles on the desk, and plants hanging from every free surface. Maester Orrin looks at her with a slight, wavering smile and heaves himself from his seat behind the desk as his boy lets her in. She feels as if she can hear his bones creaking.

“Grand Maester.” She nods her head his way. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon Lady Clarke.” He offers his gnarled hand for her to clasp. “What can I do for you today? Is there something that ails you?”

“No, Grand Maester,” She takes the seat he offers out to her as he sinks back down again. “I only wanted to see you and ask you a few things.”

“Of course,” He beckons to his boy, “Wine, boy.”

Clarke sits back as the boy hurries around, pouring them both wine into goblets. “My father,” She begins, and both the maester’s and the boy’s eyes flicker to her, equally wide with surprise. Maester Orrin schools his expression first.

“Lord Tyrell’s death was a terrible tragedy, my lady.” He says, gravely.

“It was,” Her voice hitches, unexpectedly, and for one awful moment she thinks she might cry.

“I’m sorry you didn’t have a chance to say goodbye,” There is a moment of silence between them as his boy settles in the corner to sort through some herbs. “Lord Tyrell was a fine man, a good man. Hard to find in this city.”

“He was,” She cradles her goblet, thinking of the right words to say. “Do you know what killed him in the end?”

Maester Orrin sighs heavily, “Your father didn’t sleep well towards the end of his life. He was always in his study, he complained of headaches so I gave him something to help him sleep.”

“You gave him something before he died?” Her eyes narrow in curiosity. “Could he have… taken too much?”

“No, my lady, you misunderstand me.” He gives her a slight, condescending smile. “Your father took a small dose almost every night, I had my boy run a small vial to him, so I know he didn’t take too much.”

“It was that bad?” Her eyes widen and she feels her stomach sink. “He was always… so well, so healthy. I never knew him to be ill in his life.”

“Sometimes the lifestyle of the city can catch up with men. Your father complained of stomach pains towards the end, I expect the rich food and the wine may have been too much-”

“Grand Maester,” She cuts through him, her patience wearing thin. “My father was the Lord of the Reach, he was used to a rich lifestyle.”

The Maester’s expression stutters, falling for a moment before he returns to his usual vaguely comforting façade.  “It’s very distressing my lady, I understand. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

“And he didn’t complain of any other ailments?” Desperation begins to bleed into her voice, “He didn’t seem to be acting… strangely?”

“There is no use dwelling on what we cannot change,” He smiles and pushes himself from his seat again. “The details of your father’s death will not make his passing any easier, my lady.”

“I know, I only wanted to ask-”

“Times like this can be upsetting for the fairer sex,” He begins rummaging in his cabinet, “You are so delicate and gentle.” He stands straight again, with a glass vial in his hand. “Here, my lady, this should help to calm some of the distress you feel.”

“Thank you,” The words come out fractured and false as she takes the offered vial.

“Of course, my dear.” He smiles kindly, and offers her a hand to stand, his boy rushing to open the door. “May I advise you not to think of this too much, it will only continue to upset you.”

“Thank you,” She repeats, her heart still thundering in her chest and she barely realises she has been escorted from the room until the door shuts behind her.

---

The sunlight is warm and soft, streaming in through the balcony and into the king’s solar, where Clarke sits at a small table. Venison and carrots sit on the plate before her, delicately seasoned, with a rich, sweet sauce, and she watches from beneath her lashes as the man across the table from her eats through his own plate with the enthusiasm she remembers from childhood. Finn’s crown is nowhere to be seen now, only his fine clothes and the room around them give any clue as to his new position in life.

Finn’s eyes dart up and he catches her watching, swallowing before giving a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I never had the manners my father tried to drill into me.”

“That’s alright,” Clarke can’t help but smile back, Finn is so earnest and eager to please that it’s hard to dislike him. “You must miss your parents now more than ever.”

Finn chews thoughtfully for a moment, “Not really,” He admits at last, “They died so long ago I’m used to them not being around.” His gaze meets hers again and his expression softens. “It’s good to have you here Clarke, I could almost pretend things are normal.”

Clarke pushes her venison back and forth across her plate, “Yes,” She says, fondly, “It’s as if we were back in Highgarden again, before any of this happened.” A twinge of regret shoots through her, her thoughts returning as they almost always do to the soft, gentle girl who had kissed her in the Godswood, but Finn’s voice brings her back to reality again.

“We had fun,” He laughs, his cheeks dimpling with his smile.

She grins back, momentarily nostalgic, and leans back in her chair, cradling her wine. “Do you remember when we tied my cousin to a donkey to see how far it would go?”

“Yes!” Finn’s whole expression brightens, and he continues eagerly. “He rode all the way to Oldtown before somebody finally untied him! Your father never trusted me again.”

“Nonsense,” Clarke scoffs, “My father always knew that I was the ringleader, I could never fool him.”

“Those were the best summers,” Finn’s smile gentles, “If only we could be so carefree again.”

“We didn’t know how lucky we were,” She agrees, quietly.

“It must be strange for you to be back in this place,” Finn gestures to the room, “I only ever met with the king on hunts, never here.”

“You are the king now,” She reminds him, with a wry smile, and continues when he colours, “It is strange… but I am glad that you are here, ruling.”

“You are?” Finn eyes her from over his goblet, “You don’t wish Wells were here in my stead?”

Her breath hitches for a moment at the sound of Wells’s name, but a now familiar bubble of resentment settles in the bottom of her stomach. “Clearly Wells was not made for the pressures of ruling, maybe it’s best he’s not here.” Her words come out a little shorter than intended and at the sight of Finn’s alarmed expression she continues, more gently. “Besides, you’re doing wonderfully so far.”

“I have help but,” He rubs at his forehead, “It’s harder than I thought it would be.”

Clarke meets his eyes, and gives a comforting smile, reaching over to touch softly at his hand upon the table. “If you ever need to unburden yourself, I’d be happy to listen.”

“Thank you,” He sounds relieved at the offer, “It would be nice to talk to someone… neutral.”

“Of course,” Her stomach flutters with anticipation as he settles back into his chair. “What concerns ail you, my lord?”

“The peasant’s revolt,” Finn cradles his goblet within his hand, “I’ve had reports that it was stirred up by a few outspoken men, speaking in taverns and such. It sounds serious, they could form an organisation if they wanted to and they’re clearly not opposed to violence. I’ve tried to speak to Lord Pike about it, but all he wants to discuss is war with the north-”

“What?” Clarke’s eyes widen, her voice catching over her words. “War?”

“Oh.” Finn’s brows wrinkle with displeasure, “Yes, well… Pike is convinced that they are mobilising their troops, though I have no other reports of it. He thinks we should strike now, while the weather is fair and we have the advantage.”

“I-I don’t think the north are mobilising against us,” She manages at last, and at Finn’s perplexed expression continues, more certainly. “I was just there, there were no signs of it, and the queen is not someone to go looking for war.”

“I suppose you have just returned,” Finn regards her with interest, “Did you speak much with the queen?”

“A fair amount,” She hopes he cannot tell that her heart is racing beneath her corset. “And I found her a reasonable, compassionate woman. She let me return here to see my father, after all.”

“She did,” He acknowledges.

“Lord Pike must be getting incorrect information, because I am certain they are not planning a war.” Clarke gives him a pretty smile. “You wouldn’t want to plunge the revolting peasants into an unnecessary war, would you your majesty?”

Finn’s brows furrow and he nods, “I hadn’t thought of it that way, Clarke. Thank you.”

She lets out a soft, relieved breath and raises her goblet a little. “If you truly wanted to appease the peasants your majesty, you should be sure that you are seen in the masses.”

His brows furrow, creasing with confusion, and she continues, smiling sweetly. “They love you dearly, if you were to show yourself in the city more often you would be adored.”

Finn’s eyes widen and he nods slowly. “I see, thank you Clarke.”

She just smiles, and sips her wine. Privately, she wonders whether he really does know how much the love of the people could save him, if his life was ever truly in danger, and vows to herself that they will not lose another king.

---

[perri-berry]

Write-tober 1, Growth

So for “Inktober” I have decided instead to write 1′000 word blurbs about the people within my book’s universe. Just regular, no name people to fill out the world within my book. If you’re not interested in reading anything you can block the posts with the tag: write-tober. If you do however read them, let me know if you like them or not! 

______________________________________________________________

More of the same really. The days go by; people mill about the market; guards brawl with local drunks; children run through the sunny park and worn down dirt, snow-covered paths, everything blurs together. Nothing exciting ever happens anymore. Even the fancy nobles who tread the same path every day carry the same expression, followed by their sullen servants. Any other time of the year I would keep the windows open and look up at the castle. Even though it is made of stone seemed to always shine in the sunlight; like water reflecting a brilliant sunset. Sometimes I dare to pretend it’s made of pure silver. Dreaming of the garden and the people roaming them. Oh to dream of the foods which my imagination could not even comprehend their flavors and aromas. The simple daydreams make me feel as if I’m being bathed in a golden sparkles but every now and again I have to come back to reality. With the snow falling nearly every day I’ve got to keep the house warm somehow; afterall the fireplace isn’t very big, barely holding more then two logs. 

The fire pops and hisses quietly behind me as I grumble. “No more thistle. Of course, there’s never any thistle in this house”. With my lips tensed and thin eyebrows drawn down I close the squeaky cabinet doors. Slapping my sides, I can see a small puff of dirt escape from my brown collared dress. I huff out a breath and grab the cloak hanging from the back of the chair. Its once bright red color now faded to a dull, almost faint greyish. Grabbing the woven basket next to the door, my mind wonders if Karlah and Doggins, downstairs will follow her and pick whatever thistle I miss. They’re a nice couple and they give me bread, family recipe with secret Gnome herbs, but it sends me absolutely wild when I intentionally leave patches of herbs and mushrooms for later and then they come through like a wildfire and leave nothing. At least fire brings life back to the forest eventually. 

Pulling the hood over my dark corkscrew hair, I brush a few strays out of my mouth. The snow was like the rain in the way that it makes my hair fly away into thirty-thousand different directions. I prefer the snow honestly. It makes everything seem brighter. Glancing at banks of snow outside the shops, I murmur “ah good, I can go get milk later”. Wrapped in warm furs, Wilheim shovels back the horde of snowflakes accumulating on his shop’s doorstep. I give him a warm wave. He flashes me a toothy grin as he returns my greeting. It’s hard to tell if it’s snow on Wilheim’s chin or if his beard is getting some silver in it. It was pleasing to look at either way. 

People trudge around me as I slowly make my way towards the forest line. The snow weighs heavy on the branches of the barren willow trees. Making the forest so dense that it looks like a dark cave, just waiting to be explored. In the Sar you can hear what seems like a lively band of creatures, each one singing their own happy little tune. Crossing the creek, I head deeper into the thicket; branches snapping under the weight of my now wet boots. A small clearing of thick ever-green bushes and a few large rocks blanketed in mound of white. “Perfect”.

I kneel down at the first bush and root around carefully at the base. Snow melted under my warm palms as I brushed it away to reveal the soft blue flower I sought after. It’s grey stem was thick and firm while the flower that sat atop it was almost like a puffball, delicate like. Plucking it, I threw it in the basket and continued foraging. One after the other. 

A crunch of snow from behind me made me stop. Figuring it was my neighbors, I looked over my shoulder. No Gnomes, no anyone. Just the gentle cascade of snowflakes against the dark grey backdrop of an elegant wolf. Its illustrious mane flowing in the cold Fres breeze. So close that I can see its short breath in the air. Its eyes watch me with great curiosity but also something you would see in the eyes of a child caught stealing a sweet, embarrassment. They were quite striking, its eyes; a blue so pale it could only compare to the glow that surrounds the moon. Without its head ever moving, its eyes snap back and forth between my basket and I. 

Swallowing with overwhelming fear, my throat feels like an arid Sunnas day. I can’t seem to stop my hands from trembling as they fumble towards my basket. Keeping my eyes locked with the beast, the touch of my basket makes me recoil my hand just in the slightest. I reach in the pile of flowers, trying to grasp only one. Very slowly, creeping my hand on the ground, pushing snow out of my way, I offer, what I can only imagine to be my last gift, to this stunning yet intimidating creature. I cannot even find the strength to move my hand back towards the safety of my body as I drop it at its paws.

Without waiting another moment, the wolf picks it up gingerly and turns away from me. Heading back into the forest, only leaving me with a tear rolling down my cheek and the sound of its footsteps getting softer and softer. My chest heaves for air as I smile, giving an uneasy, meek laugh. 

I suppose I should be grateful. After surviving the undead hordes and making it here, starting again, things always being the same would seem like a blessing to most. To me, it was stagnation in a corked bottle. With each startled breath, I breath in a bit more excitement. Good to know that things don’t stay more of the same forever.

[alittletournesol]

Sing Your Soul {JongKey} part 1/?

Sing Your Soul

Foreword: please consider this story as a multi-shot more than a chaptered story. Each part will be short and there must be around five parts. Enjoy.

Part one

The subway was packed with men and women in suits, which didn’t look strange considering it was the evening peak time. Kibum had been lucky enough to get in at one of the first stations and find a free seat, but even though he was used to is, the feeling of being uncomfortably surrounded was almost physically painful. More stations brought more people, forcing him to take as little space as possible by holding his briefcase on his lap.

Almost all his life rested in this briefcase, and every time he found himself stuck between some person and the train’s window, he wondered what he would do if he ever was to lose it or having it stolen. For sure he had made copies of everything on his computer, at his office, but he was the kind of man that has a thing for material things. Although he owned quite a few devices at the leading edge of technology, he remained fond of his journals and other paper diaries.

Being one of the most popular event planners in the capital was all about organisation, and the young man never fully trusted his phone or computer with such important matters. A basic journal, quality felt pens and his favourite pastel highlighters, that was all he needed to do his job to perfection. Moreover, it often impressed clients when they personally came to his office, his neat desk always shamelessly showing his handmade planners. After all, if it could help giving him some more advertising…

A woman’s voice drew him out of his thoughts about this upcoming business party he had been taken on, and he looked up to notice it was actually coming from the loudspeaker and not a real person. He sighed when he heard the worst words ever after a long working day, imitated by absolutely everyone if it wasn’t for the few people adding some cursing words. A technical disruption had occurred, forcing the train to interrupt its usual ride and its passengers to get off. 

Checking the wagon’s screen, he felt even more annoyed since he realised he was stuck at Sindang, so seventeen stations away from his stop. He could give up on a potential walk home, this would take way too long… but he had a real map in his head, and he knew he could take another line at this station to reach his best friend’s bar. Perhaps he would find one of their common friends there who would accept to give him a ride home. Things weren’t going too bad in the end !

As he went with the flow and made his way out of the train, he struggled to weave in and out, most people not as quick-witted as him when it came to find another itinerary. With a few nudges and stumbles, he managed to escape the crows and sighed with relief when he had a moment of peace on the escalator. 

“Gosh, I hate people.” He mumbled as he dusted his expensive jacket, hissing when he found an ugly fold on his arm. “Bovines in suits.”

When he reached the ground floor, he held his briefcase against his chest to make sure he wouldn’t drop it in his haste, and looked for the stairs leading to the line he had to take. In no time and thanks to the few signs, he found himself on the right platform and the display announcing the next train in three minutes. It was his first time taking this line and he was surprised not to see a lot of people around him. After all, at such an hour in the early evening, every platform should be crowded. His quiet question found an answer when he eventually show a bit more of interest to his surroundings : he finally heard. 

It was a voice, masculine but pleasantly crystalline, resounding against the tiled walls of the station. Kibum turned his head towards the source of this strangely appealing sound, and found a dozen of persons, men and women, adults and teenagers, almost pressed against each other in a corner of the platform. They were all offering him his back, but there was no doubt the melodic voice came from something they were hiding from his sight.

Two minutes.

His curiosity ended up winning over his boredom, and he elbowed his way through the few people already approaching the rails, expecting to enter their wagon first. The more steps he made, the clearer the voice grew, and the young man made out the familiar sound of an acoustic guitar’s strings being grazed. The melody was setting an utterly cozy and warm atmosphere that contrasted so much with the dull and autumnal cold in the station. It was like a fireplace had been placed in that corner, the flames’ warmth being lit by the stranger’s tone.

One minute.

Kibum was a rather tall man, however he struggled to find his place in the already standing audience, as small as it was. When he eventually stood between an umpteenth man in suit and a teen whose clothes smelled of cannabis, his breath was taken away. Not because of the smoker’s unpleasant fragrance, but thanks to the face he could finally put the voice to.

He was there, sitting on a foldable stool with his legs crossed to hold the guitar, his grey jeans ripped at the knees and large boots reminding of soldiers’. His fingers brushing the strings were shining with a few rings, all silver except for a thin, black one that matches the all black hoodie the young man was wearing. Indeed, young he was, and even his hood couldn’t hide it. His platinum blonde bangs were covering his forehead but Kibum could see his features, sharp but so well drawn, as if sculpted in marble. High cheekbones, straight jawline, fleshy lips…

Ding ding ding.

The event planner’s observation was interrupted by the loud sound alarming the upcoming closing of the wagons’ doors. Kibum got startled and noticed he was the only one still looking at the subway singer. He didn't know what kind of adrenaline made him shove his hand in his jacket’s pocket to pull a bill from there and throwing it in the guitar’s case on the floor, before he jumped in the wagon right before its doors closed on his leg. His heart missed a beat when he looked through the pane and found the blonde man looking at him with a soft, grateful smile on his lips.

Before he could even return it, the train was gone, and the stranger’s smile with it.

When he pushed the bar’s door, Kibum was welcome by the smell of leather and alcohol, sweetened by cologne’s fragrance. It was still a bit too early for the place to be crowded but a few regular customers were already sitting here and there, sharing a beer with friends or drinking more refined drinks on their own. It was a quite comfortable space, not a common pub where one’s only objective was to get drunk and fights occurred often. No, the Blue Night wasn’t this kind of business.

The brick-built walls were enlighten with dark but soft shades of blue and purple by the few spotlights hanging here and there, enough to not plunge the large room in the dark. The only brighter sources of light came from neons : one horizontally hung above the counter and some lighting the considerable wall shelf, made of glass and showing an impressive exhibition of many and varied bottles of alcohol. 

The furnitures had been chosen to match the lighting, biggest pieces black but stools, chairs and seats verging on a midnight blue. But the thing that was making this bar special was the raised stage at the end of the room, hidden behind a thick curtain that night : performances only happened on Wednesdays nights. However, some jazzy music could be heard from the speakers, accentuating the wish of a comfortable, welcoming space.

Kibum smiled, his shoulders relaxing a bit as he walked to the counter and sat on one of the high stools with his briefcase on his lap. His best friend was busy serving a couple at a table, he had noticed when entering, so he waited by taking his phone and checking his few notifications on social medias. As he scrolled the news feed on his favourite application, he fell on a video showing a little girl joining a group of street dancers and having fun, encouraged by the young men clapping their hands. 

This made him thing that perhaps the stranger of Sindang station had been filmed as well ? Without wasting a second more, the young man typed the station’s name in the location’s research and started scrolling. He felt a bit like a creepy stalked but he couldn’t deny he had been… hypnotised, both by the sound of the blonde’s voice and the smile the latter had offered him. Never had he witnessed a smile like his.

“What can I get you, pretty boy ?”

As if he was caught red-handed, Kibum hurriedly put his phone screen against the counter, looking up to meet his best friend’s eyes, one eyebrow cocked.

“And that was definitely weird.” The tall man commented, his hands busy drying a glass with a  dish towel. “What were you doing, watching porn in my bar ?”

“If I was to watch porn in your bar, Minho, I would bring a flat screen and hang it so everyone can enjoy the show.” The customer retorted, making the other laugh. “I’m completely serious, don’t try me.”

“I know that, I just imagined the thing happening and well… totally you. So, wanna drink anything ?”

“Depends. Is it on the house ?”

“I have a business to run here, so not a chance.”

“Come on, I’m your best friend.”

“More reasons to make you pay twice the price.”

“You really are an asshole.”

“Learned from the best. So, what about a good old mojito with extra mint ?”

“Make it as virgin as me, handsome.”

“Double dose then.”

Kibum winked at his best friend and watched him prepare his drink, glancing at his phone and putting it back in his pocket. Once he had his glass in front of him, he caught it and stirred it a bit before taking a long, well-deserved mouthful. The mint immediately refreshed him to the core and rhum shook his body from inside : that bastard really had extra dosed it. Minho looked at him drink and laughed before he threw the towel on his shoulder, standing opposite his friend while doing a bit of the dishes for the time he wasn’t needed.

“So, how’s work going ?” He asked, his eyes going from the sink to the other man. “Summer is over so it should be a bit lighter.”

“Fall is the season of business meetings, you know what it means.” Kibum replied, running a hand through his brown hair. “The need to impress the other part by planning them in luxury places and all.”

“Sounds like you were hired on one ?”

“Yeah, the guy wants it big. Forty of them, a whole weekend in Jeju. I have to book a hotel and by that, I mean the whole hotel, with a privatised beach and open bar at night.”

“If you hate these so much, I don’t get why you don’t specialise your company. You’re more into festive events, big parties at night clubs or classy receptions… so why bothering yourself with business men and their rich kinks, or even weddings and the whole mess it implies ? It’s not like you need to make your name bigger in the field, you’re quite popular already.”

“Sure I am, but if I specialise now, there will be slack periods and I can’t stand that. More covered areas means more customers, so more demands and waiting, and that’s how I keep improving my company’s renown.”

“Don’t overwork yourself, Bum, not again. I don’t want to have to put you out of your anxiety once more, you managed to heal your addiction to work so please, be careful.”

“I won’t dive back into it, I’m just saying that specialising now would make me lose way too many customers. I will, but later.”

The bartender nodded but his eyes remained worried until he hid it behind a welcoming smile when a group of young adults entered the place. He excused himself to his friend and walked away with his notepad and pen in hand, welcoming the new customers and taking their drinks’ order. For the short time he stayed on his own, Kibum drank more of his mojito and took his phone again, resuming his previous activity. He didn’t have to search for long, a first video showed up and it was clear enough to show the subway singer, sitting on his stool and singing with his guitar.

The brunette didn’t put the sound on for now, but saved the video so he could go back to it later, when he would be at his place. After a few more scrolling, he had saved eight videos and a satisfied smiled was drawn on his lips as he closed the app and checked his agenda. He was starting later than usual the day after, he would have plenty of time to watch everything in his living room. 

“Customers are showing up.” Minho suddenly appeared behind the counter, working fast on the drinks he had to make. “I won’t be able to chat a lot, it’s Friday so… you know.”

“Yeah, rush hour is coming.” His best friend nodded, emptying his glass. “Just pour me a second one once you’re done and I’ll hit the road anyway. I was hoping Jinki would be there because I needed a ride home.”

“No train ?”

“Got stuck at Sindang, had to take the 6 to reach here. I’m not that far from home but I don’t know if my line works again now.”

“It only needs a text from me to make Jinki come, you know ? He won’t mind, he appreciates you enough to make a two-ways trip.”

“Sometimes I’m glad you have your boyfriend wrapped around your finger. You two can be grossly cute but well, I must admit you’re useful.”

“Remember. Best friends, additional fees. Think again.”

“I would be honoured to have your deliciously kind beloved one giving me a ride home, Ming.”

With a laughter, the taller man left his friend to serve his customers and welcome more, before he brought him his second class. Between two orders, he took his phone and placed it between his ear and shoulder, calling his boyfriend while washing glasses. As expected, Jinki didn’t even try to understand and told him he would be there shortly. Kibum thanked his friend by adding a tip to his bill, even though Minho hated when he did that. That’s when he realised about the missing money in his pocket.

He had given a bill worth of fifty thousands of wons* to the subway singer.

Soon enough, the bartender’s boyfriend was here and he chatted a bit with both of them before leading the event planner to his car. Two mojitos weren’t enough to make him lose it, however Kibum had perhaps drunk them a bit too fast, considering the dizziness he felt when he stood up. The car ride took a good twenty minutes, entertained by Jinki listening to his friend’s rambling about the business event in Jeju, and himself talking about his recent days spent at the recording studio.

But at the slightest mention of his job in the musical industry, though still not as high as he would, the brown haired man lost himself in his thoughts. His mind got carried away to the subway station where he had witnessed the most beautiful show ever — but he wouldn’t tell Jinki yet. How came this stranger hadn’t been noticed by some company with a voice like his ? Kibum hadn’t been able to hear much, but he had heard enough to be sure this young man had a real gem in his throat. 

Singing in the subway could be entertaining, but at the end of a day, had the man earned enough to live ? Where did he live, by the way ? Was he a homeless person ? Didn’t he have any family to help him if so ?

So many questions assaulted the event planner’s mind, but one thing was sure : he would wait the next morning to be a bit sober, to study these videos. Only then, he would see if he would get off at Sindang station again, this time purposely.

part two

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[gossamerandshadow]

Mira Adler: Character Sheet

Summary

A thief who stole her way onto the Grand Stair and then, upon realizing that the Lord she’d stolen from might want his stuff back, continued to steal wantonly in an attempt to gather enough power to protect herself, which... actually, shockingly, has kind of worked out for her (so far).

150 points spent out of 151 points earned

Attributes - 45 points

Psyche: 5 Strength: Superior Endurance: Paragon Finesse: 30 Presence: 20

Powers - 48 points

Master of the Grand Stair Talents - 8 points

Awareness of the Grand Stair - 3 points

Evoking the Safety of the Grand Stair - 2 points

Affecting the Grand Stair - 3 points

Thief’s Charm - Mold Gossamer Matter - 1 point

Allows Mira to, with a touch, shrink any item to the size of her palm.

Worn as a dull brass ring.

Star Ball - Shapeshifting (Named and Numbered) - 2 points

Red/Silver/Pink Fox - a fox of typical and natural size and ability, appearing with either the usual red colouration or, sometimes, the melanistic colouration, or, very occasionally, a completely unnatural bright pink shade of fur that matches her hair.

Spirit Fox - an ethereal fox seen as a translucent shimmering blue creature, only slightly larger than a typical fox.

Kitsune - a regal creature with snow-white fur and golden eyes, approximately the size of a large dog, with nine tails. 

Flaming Pearl - 8 points

Fire Control (Mold Gossamer Energy) - 4 points

Deadly Damage - 4 points

The Star Ball and Flaming Pearl are both worn as single pearl pendants, each on their own chain.

Angelica’s Ring - 5 points

Invisibility (Mold Gossamer Energy) - 4 points

Ephemerality (Mold Gossamer Matter) - 1 point

Malachite Hairpin - 2 points

Shapeshifting (Malachite lockpicks) - 1 point

Change Hair (Mold Gossamer Matter) - 1 point

Mira always has a green hairpin or comb or some other sort of item in her hair. It controls the appearance of her hair - length, colour and style. When removed, her hair returns to its natural wavy blond.

Magic Carpet/Cloak - 12 points

Flight (Movement) - 4 points

Shapeshifting (Clothing/Fabric) - 2 points

Psychic Sensitivity - 1 point

Psychically Neutral - 2 points

Immune to Conventional Weapons - 4 points

Turns out that most magic carpets are not necessarily actually carpets by definition. They’re capable of taking on whatever form of fabric-craft best suits their owner at the time. It’s just that carpets are a popular shape because they’re a comfortable option for travel. Mira tends to wear hers as clothing.

Philosopher’s Stone - Eidolon Perception/Immortality - 10 points

Every year or so, Mira uses the philosopher’s stone kept in the Savoir to produce a draught which perfects her body, granting her benefit that mimic those of Eidolon mastery.

Glitch Ring - Cantrip “Glitch” - 1 point

Extras - 7 points

Domain - The Savoir - Personal, Restricted Access, Control of Time - 5 points Ally (Mentor) - Aloysius - 2 points

The Savoir is split into three wings - the museum, the library, and Mira’s personal living spaces. There is no “outside” in her domain - the entire space feels like its indoors. It is a small, for a domain, about the size of a mansion, and the only door leading out leads back into the Stair. It is manned by an ageless “human” named Aloysius, but whom Mira makes a regular habit of calling “Lurch” which, thankfully, he does not find too insulting.

The Door - the only one - opens into the museum wing, which is dominated by one large space filled primarily with artifacts, with nearly a dozen smaller viewing rooms spanning out to the left and right, all filed with paintings and a few specific floor-display pieces. 

The library is a dense, twisting labyrinth of books, though there is a long, straight hall that runs through the center, making it easy to move through the library and difficult to get completely lost. If one explores the twisting aisles, they will inevitably come across a cozy little reading nook on their travels - usually a small space with lower ceilings, a lamp, and an over-stuffed leather chair. Sometimes the bigger ones have a fireplace or stove, and always always always there is a collection of big chunky blankets.

There is a smaller, private door hidden in behind the library’s largest fireplace which leads into a space that looks somewhat odd next to the ancient, almost medieval feel of the library - it seems like a modern luxury condo, dominated by grey marble, clean white walls, and tall windows that look out over swirling mist and distant grey cubes that might remind one of standing on the upper floor of a skyscraper during a cloudy day in London.

Backstory

Born poor in a modern-era world defined by immense wealth inequality, Mira struggled to survive during her childhood. She never speaks about these years, but evidently suffered greatly during them. The only thing she regularly lets slip is that her parents were absentee, either not caring for her as a child requires or orphaning her completely. She developed a talent as a thief and used her skill to keep herself alive, especially after her parents disappeared from her life. As she grew into adulthood, her thefts were no longer necessary to keep herself alive, but rather served to keep her in comfort, targeting the most wealthy people on her world. She hoped, one day, to steal her way into wealth and security of her own.

Or at least, that was until she was hired to steal a painting, and accidentally stumbled across Angelica’s Ring as part of the job. When she took up the item, something inside her recognized that this item was not normal, and, when she put it on, discovered two things: one, that she was invisible, and two, that she could see a door in that very room that she hadn’t been able to see before. When she opened it, she found the Grand Stair. She had no idea what it was, but it was clear enough to her that this place was not normal or possible, and that it represented an escape, so she took the opportunity and fled into the labyrinth of the Stair. 

In time, she came to realize that she must have stolen a Key - Angelica’s Ring - from a fellow Gossamer Lord, and it became her mission to empower herself to defend against that Lord when he inevitably came looking for that which she had stolen. She has a remarkable talent for navigating the Stair itself, and spends a great deal more time there than most. What time she spends in Gossamer Worlds have generally been in the pursuit and theft of items that might increase her power. The rest of her considerable effort has been put towards learning more about the Grand Stair.

In time, she made a most unusual discovery - a tiny Gossamer world, hidden away in a nearly impossible-to-find corner of the Labyrinth. It was clearly a Domain created by another Lord; no world develops into a tiny library on its own. Especially not a world with a single lonely inhabitant. The inhabitant, Aloysius, has since made clear that he is not, in fact, an actual human, despite all appearances to the contrary, but won’t explain to Mira what he is instead. When she discovered the Domain, Aloysius told her that it now belonged to her - that the Domain had been created as a prize for the first Gossamer Lord who discovered it. He also refused to explain who created it and why it was left as such a prize.

Despite being initially extremely suspicious of the “gift” she’d won, Mira eventually came to trust that the Domain truly was hers - she had been gifted the only Key to the only Door, and the Domain was beginning to respond to her will, indicating that it recognized her as its master. Despite not being a Gossamer Lord himself, Aloysius has proven to be very knowledgeable about the Grand Stair and about the politics of the Lords and Ladies within.

Since then, Mira has started to cultivate a reputation for herself among the Lords and Ladies of the Stair, as someone who is willing and capable of obtain whatever one might desire, no matter how difficult it may be. This has, unsurprisingly, earned her a few friends and jobs from the Agora, where she spends much of her time when not in her Domain or exploring Gossamer worlds.

Appearance

Mira appears as a young woman with pale skin, grey eyes and shoulder-length pink hair. She is perpetually laughing, and one is often left with the feeling that she’s laughing at, rather than with, but it’s hard to say for certain. She’s just below average height for a human woman, which suits her chosen profession. She prefers to dress in a manner that would be considered slightly exotic for her home world, and more than slightly revealing.

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.ca/aliasofagirl/mira-adler/

[queerpunkcryptid-archive-blog]

send me a name meme thing (hey hi do the main 9 connections peeps bc i love you and them)

send me a name and i’ll tell you what it makes me think of

Kiegan: concrete lit with pools of pale streetlamp light; cassette players; mixtapes; mountains; bikes (both motor and regular); the scent of cigarette smoke; leather jackets; graffiti-covered dumpsters; shy smiles hidden behind hands rubbing at jawlines.

Allegra: musical notes on sheet paper; lightning bolts; white cats; pirouetting dancers; jewelry fashioned from wires and coins; windchimes; tired shining eyes watching loved ones; small pots full of little wildflowers and herbs sitting on porches.

Kenneth: the scent of warm baked goods at 3am; rich earth sifting through slender fingers; bright smiles; clumsy half-distracted dancing; falling asleep to Irish music; sunlight; rusty burnt orange and chocolate brown; flour-dusted clothing.

Aurora: sunrise’s glow on calm waters; the aurora borealis; chirping birds; falling asleep with head resting against the desk; all shades of blue and grey; silver rings; white wine; warm summer nights spent with iced tea and cookies; floppy-eared dogs.

David: the scent of old paper and books; suede; libraries and museums; falling asleep with red pens frozen between fingers; record players; chocolate bars and brandy; stone fireplaces; origami; quiet snoring under piles of blankets; cobblestone and crumbling bricks.

Luna: full moons over beaches; denim overalls; peals of laughter and bright grins; seagulls; the scent of vanilla and sage; vintage cars; backward Irish caps; daisies; murmuring creeks; playing harmless jokes on unsuspecting friends; fantasy books; adventure.

Felix: the steady clack of computer keys and typewriter keys; rustling papers; children’s footsteps racing down corridors; mixes between casual and formal clothing; blazers worn over flannel shirts; earl grey tea; quill pens; late nights and too-early mornings; sharp watchful gazes; inkstained fingertips.

Vera: stacks of books beside shelves of books; cosy nooks with beanbags and cups of cocoa resting on worn tabletops; church bells or clocktower chiming; wide eyes reading ‘just one more chapter’ by flashlight; Victorian-style reenactments; burgundy lipstick; mice curled up on shoulders.

Raphael: spatters of paint on worn clothing; Bohemian style; art galleries; canvas and faded paint; vinyl records; greenhouses; floral-patterned shirts; fingers covered in rings; freckles; hands holding hands; quiet anger hidden beneath carefully chosen words; rainbow flags.

[wallpaperpainting]

The History of Large Modern Abstract Wall Art | large modern abstract wall art

Like Rainbow Row in Charleston or the French Quarter in New Orleans, Boston’s Back Bay adjacency is iconic not because of a distinct aerial landmark, but because of abounding absorbing structures that sit calmly ancillary by side. Behind the preserved exteriors of these Victorian brownstones, called for the albino sedimentary rocks they were congenital from, are any cardinal of styles, some period, some not, so back a adolescent brace approached Lisa Tharp about decorating their new three-story home, she didn’t feel like they had to be apprenticed to a distinct decade or era. She was chargeless to mix, blend, compose.

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Take the entryway. This area, says Tharp, is “an appetizer for what you’ll appointment as you move through the residence—a microcosm.” The absolute activity is one of light, bendable texture, acknowledgment to the agleam afterglow of the adipose Channel bank and the agreeable accumulation of the abstruse rug. The handsome board floors, the aboriginal walnut door, and the across-the-board access with its amber balustrade and ablaze white accomplish ballast the room.

“The stairwell was a consummate accomplishment of the architect’s vision,” Tharp says appreciatively. It spirals up through the abode to the skylights, which anatomy a array of amphibian conservatory and acquiesce sunlight to cascade into the affection of the home, all the way bottomward to the well-dressed bench.

Although a far added clandestine space, the bedchamber is analogously clothed, done in lustrous, neutral-hued fabrics. There are clover pillows on the bed and absolute curtains over the windows. While the blush scheme—lavender, gray, gold, and black—and alluring ablaze accessories skew Art Deco, a cardinal of midcentury silhouettes addled the advertence amnion so that the home never feels like a cine set. Tharp placed a plywood Eames folding awning abreast the fireplace, breadth its aflush copse tones balmy up the abrupt stone, and a brace of anemic gold PearsonLloyd chairs by the window, breadth they actualize an affectionate basement breadth for the couple. “These audience biking a lot,” she says. “They capital a calm haven that is highly, yet invisibly, functioning. Even in the basement area, we didn’t put a table. We chose addition chest, so they accept three added drawers in which to abundance things.”

Rather than actualize clusters of vignettes

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