#and clings to her out of the guilt of her dying

[mercyll]

A moment in the manga that always stuck out to me was chapter 307. Kagome chooses to save Kikyo's life, putting her own life at risk in the process, and ends up being saved by Kikyo.

Kagome stated that she did it out of obligation and Kikyo's feelings of conflict towards her answer was always a striking moment in their interactions. Kagome didn't even mention the fact that Kikyo saved her in return. She probably didn't even realise that just like how Kagome could have left Kikyo to die in that pool, Kikyo could have left Kagome to die in there as well.

But she didn't.

This page alone. Kikyo feels where her heart would be and talks about the kindness of Kagome who just saved her life, and talks about the warmth she feels!!!

IT'S STILL WARM.

The layers of meaning in that one line alone.

why a love triangle when we could've had:

[nereidprinc3ss]

please don't say you love me

in which fwb!spencer reid and fem!reader get into an argument about the nature of their relationship.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: friends with benefits arrangement, it goes bad, reader is so clearly anxious avoidant, reader is so me-coded, self-loathing, difficulties with emotional intimacy, arguing, derek and penelope make an appearance woo, a little dramatic, no happy ending (a nereidprinc3ss first!) a/n: it happened guys I stopped writing for a few days and last night randomly was inspired to finish this fwb piece and it essentially turned into a vent and went a completely different direction than i thought it would but here we are!!! i hope you enjoy, I loved writing, ilysm

“Are you reading it? Did you get to the part yet?” You ask, buzzing as you peer around Spencer’s arm to see where he’s at in the book you’d handed him. Sometimes you think it takes him longer to flip the pages than to read them. 

He doesn’t answer, but you see the flickering quirk of his lip like something is amusing him. It’s been a few minutes and he’s maybe halfway through. He has to have seen it by now. 

You’re clinging to his arm, eyes darting pointlessly between the text and his face, searching for a reaction. It comes in the form of a furrowed brow, a disbelieving smile, and something between a barking laugh and an exclamation of, “what?”

“You read it?”

His eyes narrow and he flips back a page, taking a bit longer to reevaluate. 

“Our moans and grunts drowned out the screams of the dead and dying only a few hundred feet away.”

You giggle furiously, clapping a hand to your mouth when you snort, and you feel Spencer’s focus shifting to you, even with your eyes screwed shut. 

“And you read this whole series?”

At that you sober up some, still hiding the bottom half of your face and brows drawn sorrowfully as mirthful tears well. You’re slow to admit your guilt with a nod, and his expression is somewhere between horror and fascination. 

Your cheeks heat and you cover your face, laughing again and shaking your head shamefully as he ridicules you. 

“Why? Why would you do that to yourself? I don’t even know if I can be seen in public with you, that’s—” he’s haphazardly tossed the book back on its display table and grabbed your wrists, pulling gently and laughing too. “No, show me your face. This is—you need to explain yourself. This is unforgivable.” 

“No! I swear it was a morbid curiosity, I didn’t like it, I’m sorry! I—”

“Reid?”

You both freeze. 

It’s not the most dignified position, admittedly—hidden among the shelves in a bookstore, pressed too close to be friendly, his hands around your wrists. 

So you don’t mind when he drops them like hot potatoes and gives you a few inches of breathing room. 

“Hey! Uh—you’re—”

Spencer is looking between you and two other people at the end of the aisle—a quirky bespectacled blonde in a flouncy polka-dot dress and her taller companion, ripped and head shaved, sporting some impressive eyebrows. Right now they’re conspicuously raised—his eyes are also pinballing between you and Spencer. 

For a moment, everyone is just sort of… looking at each other. 

It’s a little bit… awful?

Finally Spencer clears his throat. 

“Um, what are you guys doing here? Just… looking at books?”

Something is off, and you feel like shrinking or running, but you just stay glued to your spot. 

In sync, they hold up copies of the same book—and it takes you not a second to place the author’s name, in imposing red font at the bottom like it’s important. Rossi. 

The pieces click into place. These must be Spencer’s co-workers—Penelope and Derek, if his descriptions of the team have served you well. Part of you is starstruck. Part of you is embarrassed. They’re clearly shocked to see Spencer with a girl in the wild, so you know he hasn’t told them about you—and why should he, you think, why should he tell his friends about the girl he’s been sleeping with for months now? 

Finally, the blonder half of the duo speaks. 

“You’re—this is a girl. That’s. Who is that? Hi! Who are you?”

She’s literally pointing at you, eyes drifting between you and Spencer like it just doesn’t make any sense. Derek gives her a look and gently pushes her hand down. 

“Hey. That’s enough.” Then he offers you a polite smile, though you sense a bit strained, and his eyes too keep wandering back to the man next to you. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no! You’re not… interrupting…” Spencer trails off and you sense he’s looking at you and gauging a reaction but you’re just smiling idly at his friends and waiting for this to be over. He finally thinks to introduce you by name, and you offer a shy wave and a smile to your new acquaintances. 

Penelope points (that damn finger again) but this time it’s less accusatory, and stays below chin level. 

“Cool shirt. I love that band,” she offers genially. Your brows raise and you look down, trying to remember what shirt you’d tossed on before leaving Spencer’s apartment an hour ago. 

“Oh! Thanks,” you smile, and you’re relieved to mean it this time. 

Another frosty silence begins to descend, but Derek doesn’t let it settle so much this time, to everyone’s satisfaction. 

“Alright, well. It was nice to meet you. Enjoy your date.”

There’s too much weight on the last sentence, and Derek gives Spencer a eyebrows-raised-meaningfully look you don’t understand. You’re just glad Spencer keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t immediately insist that it’s not a date, because it’s not, and that’s fine, but the vehement denial would bum you out. 

The pair walk away in the kind of clenched silence that means they’ll start fervently whispering as soon as they are out of ear shot. You watch their retreating figures and chew your lip, sensing that the carefree and playful energy of five minutes ago will have evaporated by the time you turn back to face your companion. 

“Strange,” you murmur, mostly to yourself, and you’re slightly jarred when Spencer replies from beside you. 

“Which part?”

All of it. 

Turning to face him, you smile, and it doesn’t reach your eyes but it doesn’t need to. 

“Oh—nothing, sorry.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, only stares at a point somewhere above your head and narrows his eyes like he’s thinking unpleasant thoughts. 

“Was I an asshole, to you, just now?”

It’s unexpected. You don’t have an answer prepared, so you say something that feels like a lie because you can’t prove that it’s not the truth. 

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“I just… I don’t know. I get weird around them, sometimes. I don’t always know what to say, like, when my personal life and my work life intersect, because for a long time I didn’t really have a personal life. And I think they still think I don’t know how to talk to girls, so…”

“You don’t know how to talk to girls,” you remind him. “Let’s go look at the puzzles.”

Maybe you spend too much time with Spencer Reid. Maybe that’s the problem—too long in his presence and he’s eating away at your neural tissue like you’ve got cysticercosis and he’s the T. solium (a terrible thing he had explained to you a few weeks ago.)

Maybe you need a break from him, to stop breathing his air and sleeping in his bed and wearing his clothing, because you’re forgetting that he’s not the entire world and that is a very bad thing to forget in a situation like yours. The entire world cannot be the size of his apartment. 

But you also just like him so much. As a friend, of course. That goes without saying. You like his strange sense of humor, and the way he lights up when you ask him an obscure question. You like your legs across his lap while you watch his old shows. You also like being kissed by him, and hugged by him. You like being taken care of like no one has ever taken care of you, and you like the way he always touches you, soft and kind and so on purpose. 

You never meant to like him so much. 

This affection—it has grown, insidious and parasitic, and now that it’s been pointed out to you like a lump in your side, it’s impossible to ignore. 

What you and Spencer have works precisely because you’ve kept things platonic and casual. That way, there’s no worrying about emotional baggage or arguing about feelings because there are none to be found and no precedent that any such things should or need to occur. You can’t hurt each other’s feelings if your feelings aren’t on the table. 

So why can’t you stop thinking about earlier?

Why can’t you help caring that he’s been keeping you a secret from the people he loves most?

“So, essentially the book is his first deep dive into meta-fiction. It was pretty revolutionary at the time, and while not his most celebrated novel, I’d argue it was his most relevant and culturally pervasive. I’d actually love to hear your interpretation of the story—it’s truly different for everyone. It’s a little like… like a literary Rorschach test. Do you wanna borrow it?”

You’re a tangle on his bed—arms, legs, sheets—it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins. All you’re sure of is his hand, tracing his fingers in chaste lines, feather-light up and down your inner thigh in the way he knows you like. Usually it’s so soothing you melt and fall asleep within minutes. Right now it’s only stoking some sparking electrical fire in your chest—the buzzes and bursts from which have you on edge. Ready to cave in at any second. You wish you could relax. You’ve been trying.

Spencer is in no hurry for you to respond, and so doesn’t seem to mind when it takes you a long while to find your answer. 

“I think I need to go home.”

It comes out too scratchy, as you haven’t really spoken for several hours. Not as casual as you were going for. He angles his head down toward you and his hand stops and you realize it’s actually worse like that. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah! Everything is fine, I just… I wanna sleep in my own bed tonight, I think.”

It’s late and you shouldn’t be making him drive you across town, but he’s always amenable to what you want. This is the longest you’ve ever stayed at his place, after all—a rare long weekend—and before that a few weeks had passed with no cases to speak of, during which time you’ve been staying with him more and more. Spencer seems to be completely content letting you eat his food and use his shower if it means you don’t leave. 

“I know the feeling well,” he admits, and your heart twinges with the care he takes to not bump or bend you or pull your hair as he shifts. He’s already been out of bed, and so is more dressed than you. Really, most people on the planet are more dressed than you, and you pull his nice sheet higher up your chest as he sits on the edge of the mattress, looking down at you and with a sort of worry in his eyes. He finds your knee through the fabric. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been quiet.”

Stop paying such close attention, you want to tell him. And in the same breath, please don’t ever look away. 

“I’m… good.”

It is easily the least convincing performance of your life. Either you’re self sabotaging or you want him to push you further, and you don’t know which is worse. 

When his brow ramps just the slightest bit, you know you’ve fumbled it. 

“I don’t believe you.”

You shrug. “I don’t need you to.” And then you sit up, still holding the sheet to your chest. “Can you hand me a shirt?”

Enough clothing has accumulated around the room recently that he could pretty much reach out in any direction and find something for you to wear.  He grabs a sweatshirt hanging from the bedpost and holds it out for you, and you pull it over your head, before dropping your feet onto the cool wooden floor and grabbing the first bottoms you see—a pair of floral pajama shorts. How have so many of your clothes ended up at his apartment?

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

You scoop your bag up from a chair and flit around the room, haphazardly stuffing away discarded clothing to take back home. It’s true that it’ll be nice to get back to your stuff—your shower products and your closet and your silk pillow cases. You shouldn’t be spending so much time here. It’s not your space and you’ve been sacrificing your own needs to be closer to him, which is something you’d rather not do for any man. 

“You can drive me home. I’ll send you gas money.”

“You don’t need to send me gas money,” he says, tacking your name on to the end of the sentence in a way that raises your hackles instantly. 

“Yeah, I do. You drive me around constantly. I’ll pay you back and start taking the metro, or something.”

“I don’t want your money,” he scoffs. 

“Fine. Then I’ll call a car.”

“That’s unnecessary. I’m happy to drive you.”

“Why?”

Silence hangs. Spencer has by this point stood up, and he’s watching you with a furrowed brow and slightly parted lips like he doesn’t understand where this animosity has come from. Honestly, you’re not entirely sure either. You didn’t realize you were harboring so much of it. 

“Am I supposed to see you as an inconvenience?”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

“No. You’re not. We have a relationship and I don’t mind doing things for you.”

“You’re not my boyfriend.”

You didn’t mean to say it, but you sure as hell were thinking it. 

It feels good to say, like stretching a sore muscle beyond its limits or pressing into a bruise until you get past the ache. Sometimes when things hurt, it’s best to feel the pain and move on. 

He looks absolutely perplexed, the lines between his brows only ditching deeper. 

“Is that what this is about?”

“Oh my god, Spencer, no, I don’t care—”

“Because earlier at the bookstore I asked you if I was being an asshole and—”

“I do not give a fuck about earlier at the fucking bookstore!”

It’s too late to be yelling, but he doesn’t scold you. He just sort of looks at you, like you’re something mildly unpleasant. It makes you feel worse. 

A long moment goes by. 

“Fine. I’ll take you home.”

You let him brush past you, nothing more than a breeze on your shoulders as he disappears from the darkened bedroom. For a moment, you can’t follow him. All you can do is stand there and try to contain that sour, stinging, crying feeling in your eyes and nose because there’s no reason for you to be crying right now. 

From the living room, he calls, rather abrasively, “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” you huff, and it is as wavering as it is insolent, so obviously the only word holding back a full-fledged deluge of tears. 

One minute. One minute to sniffle and take deep breaths and wipe abashedly under your eyes because you refuse to be dramatic about this. Refuse to get over-emotional. You will not let it matter this much to you. 

When you decide you can show your face without making a scene, you march out of his bedroom and straight past where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, keys in hand, to the front door. 

He doesn’t move. You burn smoking holes into the dark wood of the door with your eyes, and the two of you are apparently at an impasse. 

“I’m ready,” you eventually snap, always the impatient one between the two of you, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. 

“I’m not.”

“You said you would—”

“I know what I said,” Spencer cuts you off and shuts you up, “and I changed my mind. I’d prefer to talk about it before I take you home.”

By the time he finishes the sentence you’re already wrestling your phone from the depths of your bag in search of a ride sharing app. 

“Okay, well I’m done talking because I don’t think there’s anything to talk about, so—”

“No, you’re done talking because this is what you do. You can never admit it when you want something because that would mean acknowledging that you’re a human being with emotions, and that’s too scary for you.”

Surely you misheard him. You turn around, a deep frown contorting your features. 

“Excuse me?”

He only looks at you in that expectant, knowing way of his. 

“It’s too scary so you run away. You’d rather burn your relationships to the ground and rebuild them with a new person every time than actually let someone in.”

“You don’t know me!” You yell.

“Do you actually think that’s true?” Spencer says, pushing off his perch against the counter, voice shrilling and raised slightly as he gets visibly agitated. “You think I’ve spent hours upon hours with you and I don’t know you at all?”

“You have no idea what I’m like in a relationship because this isn’t one. You have no fucking idea what I want, so do not presume to,” you seethe. 

“You want a relationship. You wanted my friends to know you and you didn’t tell me that because you’re fucking terrified of the fact that I do know you. You can’t stand the idea that regardless of how many times you tell yourself it’s just sex, you have been vulnerable with me, and you’ve told me things you’ve never told anyone before, like why your last three relationships really ended, and how you constantly self-sabotage when you’re on the verge of getting what you want because you think you don’t deserve it.”

“Shut up!”

“No. I’m not just going to let you walk away from me like you did everyone else who could’ve ever cared about you because I know once you walk out that door you’ll stop responding to my calls and texts and I’ll never see you again, which is a juvenile pattern and completely unsustainable if you don’t want to keep pushing people away for the rest of your life!”

“God, Spencer, stop!” You sob, staggering back like you’ve been stabbed. 

The urgency, the raw, desperate scratch of your voice, stops him in his tracks. 

Every place an arrow penetrated a chink in your armor aches, and it hurts so much worse because he knew exactly where they were. You don’t know when or how it happened, but he’s right. Despite your most valiant efforts, Spencer Reid knows you. Somehow he crept in and grew over every limb like ivy. It’s crawled over your feet and up your legs and it’s keeping you there, rooted in place in his apartment, sobbing silently into the crook of your arm because you feel utterly paralyzed with fear. 

Just as he’d said. 

It’s silent for a long stretch of time, unquantifiable the same way the distance between the beach and the horizon is unquantifiable. It’s sprawling and infinite and desolate. The only relief from the drowning quiet is the occasional gulp of air or gasp from you which furthers your humiliation. 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer finally whispers, soft and unsure like rays of weak sunlight over staggered tides, in the grey morning after a raging storm. It’s an attempt. It’s earnest and afraid. 

The energy radiating off of him is so tangible that you can sense his desire to come near. To hold you. But that would be your worst nightmare come to fruition. This—this warbling and crying in front of him in silence in his dark apartment is god-awful enough. But to be comforted? For him to bear witness up close and personal to your humility and your ugly, jagged pieces—that inspires true catatonia. That is everything he said you were afraid of, and he was right. 

You resent your human nature, and the fact that you care how his friends look at you and that it stung when they did so with little more than apathy. You hate that you care that he hasn’t told them about you. You hate that you feel so unimportant—because more than anything, you want to be fine with being unimportant. 

You want to be fine. Constantly. 

You hate that you feel. You hate that you care. 

But you always have. And so fucking deeply. 

Somehow, Spencer Reid is the only one who has ever noticed. 

Eventually, his self-restraint snaps and he surges forward at the same time as you take a shuddering inhale and step back. 

“Please don’t touch me,” you whisper. Afraid that if he did, his fingers would only sink into your flesh like decaying fruit. That you would disintegrate in his hands, and he’d finally see you’d been rotten the whole time. 

He speaks softly, holding his hands up to show you he’s not a threat. 

“Okay. I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“I need to go home.”

“I’ll—”

“No. I don’t want a ride. I’ll get a car.” You speak quietly. Efficiently. There’s no point in pretending this doesn’t feel catastrophic anymore. 

His brows furrow. Like a moth to flame, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, he draws nearer again. 

“I’m not comfortable with you on the street at this hour.”

“I’ll wait in the lobby,” you insist, pleading, a wounded animal, because he doesn’t seem to understand how every casual notion of kindness is a violence, how he’s ripping into you and making it so you’ll never be able to put yourself back together. He can’t be kind like you’re easy to be kind to. 

If you’re easy to be kind to, you are just as easy to hurt. Accepting that kindness is a sort of vulnerability you feel you can’t afford right now. 

Another moment of silence, of stillness, as if you’re both bolted to the ground where you stand. 

When he speaks it’s a blow to the chest because you’ve made him cry too. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, quietly, and a venomous self-hatred drips down your throat. Because you’re doing it again.

Maybe this is all you will ever be. 

You fail to stifle a sob and Spencer steps closer still, saying your name desperately and so quietly like it’s his last rite. 

And you try. You try harder than you ever have to stay in one place, to get a hold of your vibrating and to swallow all those slithery feelings and ignore every alarm telling you to panic when he reaches out to touch your arm because it’s never safe to let people in. But when his hand finally brushes you, it’s like a cow prod. You jolt backward. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry,” you whisper all in one harrowed breath, and there’s so much you’d like to say—you’re right, about everything, you do know me, you know what I want, I tried, I’m ashamed—but none of it matters. None of it is enough. He’s backed you into a corner of your own making, and the only way out is by pushing him aside even if it hurts you both. 

So you don’t say anything else. You leave him there, in the dark of his own apartment, and you disappear down the hall. 

Maybe this is all you will ever be.

[thewitchandtheassassin]

Life, Death, and the Space in Between Part One (Agatha Harkness x Reader x Rio Vidal)

Summary: Bound together by power and fate, you and Rio are undeniably tied, but Agatha Harkness was something unexpected - yet in the end...

Words: 1664

Warnings: Canon deaths, AAA, uh... language, child birth kinda? Angsty? I dunno, there's things.

A/N: A retake and partial redo of AAA (in the sense of "what if"). This is gonna be a... four part series? I think?

-X-

Cries of pain echoed throughout the trees as Agatha stumbled towards the water, body finding purchase against the trunk of a tree as another contraction washed over her. Everything ached, but she didn’t care. All she had worked for was so close. She just needed a little more strength and her child would be tucked into her arms, a beacon of her love.

She hardly noticed the unnatural silence that befell the forest, the wind dying into nothing more than an occasional puff of air. All she could see was- feel, hear - was the sound of her own heartbeat.

Glancing up as another cramp hit, she caught sight of two familiar figures lingering near. The beating of her heart quickened, so overwhelmed at the prospect of you both being there to meet your son, but the identical expressions you wore sent her heart plummeting.

He is not mine, you conveyed to Rio regretfully, tears prickling the corner of your eyes.

Life and Death stood, watching critically over the mortal who’d stolen their hearts. While bound together forever in a way no one would ever understand or be capable of recreating, you had both found the tiny piece you were missing within Agatha. You’d found a middle ground.

Death took a step forward.

Life took two steps back.

“It cannot be,” Agatha breathed, inching away from the green witch as she neared.

You could feel Rio’s heart cracking, felt the anguish and guilt rushing over her.

“It must be,” she replied gently.

“You do this and I will hate you forever,” Agatha spat fearfully, glancing between you. “Both of you.”

A sob clawed its way up your throat, suffocating and vile. This was the hardest moment you’d ever been summoned to.

“Please let him live!” Agatha cried. “Please, my loves. Don’t take him from me.”

Pleas began falling like tears, and your entire being called out to you. Begged you to rush to her side. To heal your son.

Rio’s eyes drifted closed for a moment before a dark stare met Agatha. You could see the parts of Rio warring. Her nature and her love clashing together in a battle, both reaching out to Agatha before being yanked back.

“I can offer only time.”

She peered at you. Save him.

Your feet moved before you could fully comprehend what was happening. Your knees hit the dirt in front of Agatha, warm light shining from your hands as they touched her swollen belly.

Looking over your shoulder at Rio, you watched the veil that separated you from mortals swirl around her.

Tell him of me, she begged, tears streaming down her cheeks in rivets.

All the time, my love, you vowed.

Attention returning to Agatha, you smiled up at her faintly. “Let’s bring our boy into the world, shall we?”

-X-

Years passed. Years of joining your love to decide the fate of a life. Years of watching your little boy grow, watching him become sick, watching him grow frail and tired…

Watching your lover kill in hopes of distracting your other lover. Watching her use your son to do it but never allowing Rio too close. Watching Agatha grow colder. Meaner. Deadlier.

As life comes and goes, you were often pulled away from Nicholas, helping the other piece of your soul collect and distribute life and death as needed. But for the times you were with him, watching him blossom and shrink, you never let him forget about the woman who offered him time.

As you stepped through the trees, veil falling away into your human form, you watched the beautiful smile break across Nicky’s face before he was bounding into your arms, clinging to you like a lifeline.

“Mother! You are back!” he beamed up at you, his thin arms gripping you as tight as he could. It was devastating to see the sickness ravaging him, knowing you could do nothing to change it.

“Hello, my littlest love,” you cooed, carding your fingers through his long hair before peering over his head at Agatha. “And my tall love.”

“If you are here, will I see Mami tonight in my dreams?” Nicky whispered into your ear, shrieking happily as you lifted him, tossing him over your shoulder and holding him tightly as his little feet kicked.

“Maybe.”

Agatha rolled her eyes affectionately as you pressed a kiss to her cheek, Nicky thrown playfully over your shoulder and squealing as you swung him about. She was surprised to see you return so soon, and her heart thumped painfully as she thought to Rio.

As the afternoon progressed into night, Nicky regaled you with tales of their exploits. Your heart ached, knowing the reasons behind Agatha’s choices but refusing to discourage your son from telling his vivid stories. You were so… angry with Agatha, for doing this to him, but in another life, maybe you would’ve done the same.

After he was tucked onto a small pallet, blanket right around his frail form, you joined Agatha at the edge of the water. Staring out into the darkness, you spoke softly, “This has bid you some time but you know this cannot stop the inevitable, my love.”

Bristling, Agatha turned to walk away, unwilling to hear your truths, but a steady hand caught her.

“You need to hear me, Agatha. She has given all she can. She has fought the universe to keep him here; avoided her own son so that Death would not call him home yet. But we cannot keep him here. He is not meant to be here, yet we let him walk and talk and be here with you. And you still hate her for the time she has allowed me to give him. Without her, he never would have taken his first breath. You need to unbury your head from the sands and accept we cannot change fate anymore than we have.”

Eyes flaring purple with fury, Agatha shoved you but you did not waver. “You are essentially gods! Yet one child unravels the cosmos? Fate? He is my son and you want to let her take him from me!”

“He is our son,” you corrected sharply. “He is her son. As much as he is mine or yours. She made him as we did. She does not get to watch him grow as we did. Hold him. Love him. Because she wanted to grant you time with him and yet you spit in her face!”

Staring into the reddened face of your lover, you softened slightly. “She loves Nicholas. I love Nicholas. And we love you. Gods know we do not wish to hurt you. But he is sick. His body is tired. You know there is only one way.”

“If you cannot understand why I do what I must to keep him here, maybe you should leave,” Agatha whispered, eyes filling with anger and tears. “I will do whatever I can to save him.”

Bowing your head, you tugged her into a tight embrace, pressing your lips to the crown of her head as she cried silently against your chest. It was raw and painful and you knew this was the last time you would see her for a very long time.

By the time she wandered back to camp, you were gone.

-X-

The shadows of night surrounded you as you and Rio approached the campsite one night, hand in hand. Her eerie green torch illuminated the path, her true form hidden beneath a familiar guise.

“I don’t want to scare him,” she had mumbled, cheek resting against your shoulder as time ticked down.

The heavy fall winds dragged Nicholas from his slumber and he slowly sat upright, eyes landing upon the eerie light. His eyes brightened before dimming, realization crashing into his chest. He peered down, watching his body remain as he stood.

Rio gestured for him to kiss his mother and he obeyed, whispering, “I love you,” before meeting you and Rio at the forest edge.

She cupped his cheek sweetly, thumb soothing on his paling flesh. “It’s time, love.”

“I am afraid,” he admitted shyly, wide eyes flickering between you as if ashamed of the admittance.

Crouching down, both of your hands found his lithe shoulders and squeezed reassuringly, letting light and warmth pour from you. “We will be with you every step, darling. I swear it.”

He peered over at Agatha, eyes shimmering in the green light. “I do not fear dying, but I do not want Mama to be alone. She is going to be so lonely.”

Your chest seized painfully.

“Our sweet, wonderful boy,” you breathed, peeking up at your partner, who stared at Nicky adoringly. “I promise, we will not be far from her, even if she cannot see us. Even if she is angry. She is etched into our bones and we will not stray far.”

“I will miss her,” he murmured, “But I will see her again one day?”

“Yes, sweetheart, and someday, we shall be a family again. A complete family.” Looking at Rio, you smiled sadly and cupped her face with your free hand. “One day, we shall never be apart again.”

“A complete family,” Nicholas repeated with a smile, peering up at Rio. “With Mami this time.”

Carefully making your way to the bridge, shadows and light swirled around as you passed through the veil and Nicholas was brought into the embrace of his mother’s domain. You were not ignorant to the pain that would overtake Agatha when the sun rose above the horizon, so once Nicholas found the space crafted especially for him, you returned to the mortal plane and stood above the resting witch.

Stooping down, you patiently maneuvered Nicholas’ mortal body in Agatha’s arms, tucking his blanket tight around him before pressing a butterfly soft kiss to Agatha’s temple.

“I am sorry, my love,” you muttered, pecking her temple again before disappearing with the morning light, soul aching as her wails crested the treetops.

[a-random-weeb]

Bsd men when their S/O is on their period

I'm currently making my monthly blood sacrifice, so why not make headcannons? My emotional stability on my period be like: 📉

I get really angry, pissed at everything, clingy, and sad (mostly angry) while on my period, as well as really bad cramps, and the mood swings are horrible, so that's what I'm writing for.

Also, sorry I haven't been writing, remember how I said I was sick? Yeah well I'm so sick I can barely eat, I'm going to school but I constantly feel like I'm gonna throw up, I feel like shit, and that's why I'm posting as much. I've been trying to post once a day though

Characters: Akutagawa, Chuuya, Dazai

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

Akutagawa:

•he probably doesn't even know what a period is

•When you begin to get mood swings, he's so confused

•When you explain what a period is, he thinks you're dying

•He offers to call an ambulance, and is so confused when you say it's normal

•you have to bleed your guts out every month and there's nothing you can do about it?

•I mean- he knows what a period is from gin, he's not completely ignorant

•Gin probably never talked about it much though

•she was probably one of those girls who was really embarrassed to be on her period, and still kinda is.

•When you try to struggle explain it's physically impossible, he's even more confused

•he thinks periods are so complicated

•He still secretly thinks you're gonna bleed to death, and is really worried 💀

•He also thinks it's kind of gross😭

"Why are you in so much pain?! You're bleeding?! What the hell?! Wdym, you're dying, do I have to call an ambulance?! .... What do you mean by 'period'? Oh wait, Gina told me about them..."

─── ⋆⋅ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ⋅⋆ ──𓂃········╮-`♡´--`♡´-___________༄-

Chuuya:

•Unlike Akutagawa, he's a little more educated

•He doesn't know EVERYTHING, but he knows a bit

•He definitely knows about the mood swings and cramps from the girls in the Mafia (Gin, Higuchi, Kyouka, Kyoyo ←(idk how to spell her name), ect.)

•He's too afraid to ask questions, he has to keep his pride!

•you both probably got in a big fight because of how angry you get and his anger issues, resulting in you crying and clinging to his side.

•He kind of likes it when you're on your period, even though it's not the end of the world, he treats it like it is

•what? Its an excuse to take care of you. Plus he loves how clingy you are

•He buys you pads or tampons while in your period, aswell as those cute animal heating packs

•He also buys you chocolate.

•He cuddles you while you're having cramps, whispering sweet nothings in your ear as you hold the heating pack to your stomach

•other than the mood swings and cramps, it's pretty normal

•I mean, it doesn't change your whole day-to-day schedule (depending on how bad your cramps are)

"You're on your period? Are you good on pads and whatever? Alright, we can buy more? You want chocolate too? Jeez lady... Oh nononononononono, don't cry, we can get chocolate!"

˖๑‧˚꒷꒦︶︶₊꒷꒦︶︶₊꒷꒦˚‧๑˖˖๑‧˚꒷꒦︶︶₊꒷꒦︶︶₊꒷

Dazai:

•He feels bad for all the cramps you have

•That doesn't stop him from teasing you though

•He's an asshole about it at first

•Until he learns his lesson

•He's scared of your period after you snap at him

•Though, he finds it adorable when you cuddle up to him, all apologetic after snapping at him

•if he teases you about it... well... He's probably too scared to 💀

•He buys you pads, heating packs, and chocolate with Kunikidas black card

•His excuse is "My baby is on her period, you want her to bleed her guts out in pain?" He guilts Kunikida into letting him use it (manipulative bitch- )

"Oh? My belladonna is on her period is she? Aren't you being a little dramatic about it- I TAKE IT BACK I TAKE IT BACK PLEASE DONT HURT ME!" (he's not serious btw, you're not abusing him 😭)

𐦍༘⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖*.+𐦍༘⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖*.+𐦍༘⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖*.+𐦍༘⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖*.+𐦍༘⋆.𖥔 ݁ ˖*.

[the-possum-writes]

Hi! Could you do a Finn x Fem reader lemon? Maybe it could be with and inexperienced reader while finn already has some knowledge about it and shows her how to do it. Thank you! <3

[Finn with an Inexperienced Reader]

❥Character: Finn Mertens

❥Tags: NS/FW hc's, handj0bs, established relationship, fem!reader

❥Synopsis: Finn takes things slow with you but you convince him to teach you how he likes to be touched.

❥A/N: I was going through a writing block so there's no full smut but rather some handsy stuff.

❥Whether you've been dating for years or just a few weeks, if you tell Finn you want to take things slowly, he'll respect your wishes.

❥Only kissing and hugging, nothing more.

❥But that doesn't take away how startling it is when a kissing session becomes too intense, and just as you feel the warmth cling to your heart and stomach in a tightening squeeze, Finn pulls away from you and acts as if nothing happened, resuming whatever video game you were playing or changing the subject.

❥You know where babies come from and all that basic biology class, but you have yet to personally experience it and are kind of wary of unplanned pregnancies, that's why you told Finn you wanted to take things slow.

❥And he was okay with that, but it didn't stop the growing doubt since you know he's had past encounters with other girls before. "Is he getting frustrated at me cause I'm making him wait?" you'd start asking yourself.

❥Finn is a passionate and outgoing guy who pours his heart into everything he does, whether it's fighting monsters, reading comic books, or simply indulging in his favorite meals. And, given how much he adores you, you're filled with illogical guilt at the thought of preventing Finn from physically expressing his feelings for you.

❥You've already asked him directly. "Finn, are you mad that we haven't done couple things?"

"But we always do couple things."

"No I mean like, tier 15 stuff and all that."

"Oh... Not really.."

❥He's a straightforward and laid-back guy, so it didn't occur to you until lately when, on a day when you didn't feel confident, you pushed yourself to kiss him by placing your hand on his thigh and running it upward. Finn stopped you by holding your hand so he could ask you, "Are you sure you want to do this now?"

You try to kiss his neck while saying, "I know you've been dying to-," but Finn is insistent. If there's anything he's learnt from his previous relationship, it's to avoid diving into pleasures on a whim.

"It's not about what I want, I'm asking about you." His tone has changed a little bit, especially in light of your earlier question.

❥As self-doubt circles in your thoughts and seeps beyond your eyes, you choose to keep quiet, but Finn squooze-hugs you to his chest.

"We don't need to rush anything; I'm pretty happy with you so far. We can do those things when you don't have any more uncertainties in your lovely head."

❥"Alright, there's something I can teach ya but we have to keep our voices down. You don't need to take off anything so don't worry, we'll just be using your hands."

❥"But what if I do wanna do those things but I want to take it a small step at a time? Like when you taught me how to swim." you bring up.

Finn adjusts his hold on you, the two of you were in the middle of a movie night and are currently on the couch. Jake is already asleep and BMO is probably lurking around the treefort but he promised to not peep at you two during visiting hours.

❥Finn leans back on the couch's headrest, allowing you to rest on his thighs as he tells you."How about I give you a lesson in Finn-biology?" he chuckles."I can't say no to my favorite subject." you respond. Considering the stories and experiences you've heard from your close friends, you have only a rough idea of what he's considering, but you're nonetheless anxious, intrigued, and interested about it.

❥Finn starts out by smooching you, easing a bit of your nerves as he gently grabs your hand and lowers it down his chest until it reaches his groin, he motions for you to rub him through his shorts, feeling something grow underneath.

❥It's warm, really warm.

❥Finn raises himself from the couch to lower his shorts with his underwear, and you remain silent while watching his half hard dick peeking out from the confines of his baby blue trousers. You temptingly touch his head with the tip of your fingers, unconsciously wrapping more and more of your around around him until he finches a bit, pulling away at the discouragement. "It's okay, it just needs something slick." he assures you. At the mention of it you're unconsciously rubbing your thighs together upon feeling something getting wet downstairs, but you don't bring it up.

❥The attention has Finn squirming in his spot but he continues with the lesson.

"Give me your hand." he asks. When you do he purposely spits on his dick and guides your hand to smear it all over him, amplifying the prominent musky smell coming from him.

"It's sensitive here." he explains in short breaths, hearing his panting picking up the more you run your fingers over the underside of his shaft right where it connects with his pink gland.

❥Once you've gotten the hang of it, Finn releases your hand and lets you try a few more things. What if I squeeze here? What if I touch this tiny hole with my finger? What if I gently squeeze his balls? Finn struggles to form meaningful sentences any longer and is only able to utter things like, "Just like that," "That feels good," and "Wait not like that, there you go... Oh Glob..."

❥It's a hypnotic and undeniably sexy experience, watching him lose himself in his own pleasure to the point where he forgot the reason for this little lesson until he came all over your palm and soiled his own shirt in the process.

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

in an "Emily ends up in hell too somehow" AU, and things have been busy since THAT happened-

but Charlie finds time to looks over one day like "wow i feel like I've only ever seen your wings folded up these days... oh! you haven't been flying much lately! you know you can whenever you want to don't worry about me- i'd LOVE to watch you and Vaggie get some good swoop swoops in!"

Vaggie's like "babe i can just carry you. you can come for the swoop swoops too"

naturally Charlie is just "!!!" excited bc getting wing uppies from her dad is one thing, but the idea of going for a fly with the two angels who are happier down in hell (with HER) than they were up in heaven is just so "!!!!!!!!!!" she cannot WAIT

Emily has the most nervous, guilty smile on while listening to this.

Vaggie notices, asks what's up, and Emily (also bad at lying out right) (also good at not saying things) quietly admits that

she can't fly anymore

(THIS WONT BE SAD LISTEN I SWEAR THIS WILL BE OKAY)

there's a silence so quiet they can all HEAR IT when one of Emily's feathers detaches and falls softly to the hotel floor

Emily goes on: it's not a big deal compared to what else they're all dealing with- (Charlie's horrified face says otherwise) -but every day Emily's been here down in hell her wings have worked less and less and now she can't even glide with them- which is fine! most people in hell get on fine without wings, right? It's, one of the big differences between here and heaven, and- well Vaggie was fine without flying for years, so really-

-but it's not fine to Charlie it's not fine it's not fine- she's not fine with this, she's not OKAY with the idea that being in hell has to HURT every angel in her life somehow- she's not okay with being so busy Emily didn't even feel like she could even MENTION THIS-

Vaggie is grabbing their hands and reminding them both to breathe okay? Hold on, slow down, let's check what we're up against here before we all go rushing into any guilt or blame or whatever

(vaggie is already happy to blame heaven for whatever this is and maybe scream up at that damn distant light from rooftop until she blows her voice out, but she can't do that while Emily's smile is still frozen determinedly in place and Charlie is shaking like a leaf, so-)

So it's let's all sit down and, brushing Emily's hair over her shoulder while Charlie clings to her hands and, it's Vaggie quietly asking her fellow angel is she can unfold her wings

the stiff, ginger way Emily slowly spreads all six of them giving lie to that brightly brittle smile

the words that slip out now, as Vaggie's hands gently run through dulled feathers and the bases of Charlie's horns press into feathery bangs as Charlie leans in and Emily slumps, wings limp in Vaggie's steadying hold

(the difference between wings just being gone, taken- and coming back- but always working and whole while Vaggie had them, and this, this gradual failure like a wind dying down, a light fading out, the wrongness of wings that felt heavy and air that passed over them like nothing, not catching and holding or lifting but just feeling hollow, an emptiness pressing her down- trapping her- only she didn't feel trapped she didn't she didn't this was the right choice to make and she made it-)

(Sera up in heaven, hesitating hesitating, all hosts of heaven's divine armies and powers at her command and her little sister down in hell, playing hostage with herself for the lives of sinners-)

(it was all Emily could do and she was GLAD to do it, but)

(maybe creation thinks she wrong for it- fine, let her be wrong like Vaggie was wrong like Charlie could NEVER be wrong- maybe there's a price and a pence for a seraphim who strays too far from heaven's light- even Lucifer hadn't LEFT. even Lucifer had just been caged...)

the black marks on Charlie's cheeks look like tear tracks as she listens, and Emily can't look at them as she wipes them all away. she can't look and still keep smiling

Behind them, Vaggie sighs.

"Emily."

and it's a stiffening in the shoulders at hearing her own name because Vaggie is pragmatic and practical and a realist and she wants things to work as best they can so she faces the flaws in them head on- hopeful words and songs dredged up only when Charlie and now also Emily needs them- but even then she doesn't pretend hell is all rainbows or heaven is full of mercy, and whatever she says next Emily maybe doesn't want to hear and maybe has been holding her breath for without knowing it, desperate to at least know and breathe out-

"Your wings," Vaggie says, running a hand over the tip of one "Do you know how to preen them?"

Emily blinks.

(she has a lot of eyes to blink with, so it takes moment)

"...preen... them?"

she says the word like she's never used it before- and she HAS, actually, just not- never in a sentence about wings, specifically

Vaggie tugs gently at one wing, tickles the back of Emily's neck with pulled free feather- one of the long ones- as Emily turns to stare at her and Charlie leans in further to crane around goggle at those six seraphim wings

"Preening." Vaggie has a small smile on, a little dry, mostly soft. "It's not really a thing up in Heaven, right? We- the Exorcists only did it right after Extermination day, to get ride of the blood and stuff, settle all the feather's that flying round in Hell had ruffled."

"ONCE a year?" Charlie, sounding a little stuffy, but mostly now just shocked. "We clean yours twice a DAY or else you start getting twitchy about it! Dad spends half of every EVENING fixing his!"

Emily sitting up between them, heart thumping- "Wing cleaning? I didn't, is that normal?"

"Down here it is." A shrug, Vaggie's own wings spilling down her back in example. "Hell doesn't play nice with an angel's wings."

"So- so mine, are they-"

"They're fine. A mess sure- but yeah, they're fine."

There's so many feathers on the floor just from Vaggie's light and tender touches of inspection and Emily still can't get the lump out of her throat-

Emily letting go of Charlie to pick up one of those lost feathers, and NOW her hand is shaking.

"Are you sure? They, it's like they're falling apart..."

"Molting!" Charlie scoops up some feathers too, hugs them to her chest and flops over backwards, bonelessly. "You're just molting... unholy FUCK."

Charlie pressing the feathers to her face to muffle something that might be a scream or a laugh.

Vaggie patting her hell princess girlfriend's lashing tail- "I freaked out about molting the first time too, remember babe?" - "I THOUGHT THAT WAS BECAUSE OF ONLY JUST HAVING GOTTEN THE WINGS BACK AND TRIGGERED TRAUMA AND- UGGHGHGHGHG!" - Vaggie chuckling, smiling as Emily runs a finger tip over the frayed edges of her own lost feather, scooting in and draping herself and her own wings over the other angel as the shakes get bigger, as Emily finally lets out a slow, shivering breath

a small whisper, into the side of Vaggie's hair, bending under the weight and snugged in Vaggie's arms circling secure around her waist "I'll be able to fly again? Once this, the molting is over?"

"You'll fly," a squeeze and the first tears squeezing out in answer, "We're gonna have to start preening all of them too-"

"Which we WILL have time for!"

Charlie swinging upright, eyes blazing, arms scooping both angels close.

"I don't care if the damn hotel catches on fire AGAIN- wing care first, catch up on everything else LATER!"

it's around now Emily tries to giggle and maybe lets out a sob instead. Charlie kisses her damn bangs, Vaggie nuzzles her wet cheek

"We'll imp some of my flight feathers to yours for now, okay? Get you in the air again tonight, get the wind in your feathers, at least just a little. You'll feel better after a bit of swoop swoop time."

"I- Imping...?"

"Pull off mine, stick 'em on you."

"Wha- but what about- you?"

"I'm due for a molt anyway, don't worry. A few days more without flying is nothing after three years-"

"Vaggie."

(Charlie, chiming in lovingly and KNOWINGLY)

(Vagige's eye roll and full bodied sighhhhh making Emily giggle for real this time) "Fiiiiinee sweetie, I meant that I'll be happier seeing her in the air again, more than I would being up there myself right now. Happy?"

(Charlie smug, Charlie melting, Charlie smooching Vaggie's bangs too) "Very. VERY happy~"

"Me too."

(Emily grinning to herself inside her snuggle chaggie sandwich of hugs) "You two sure know how to make Hell a happy place, don't you?"

"Charlie has a whole song about it." Vaggie points out, and it's all three of them shaking together, laughing, after all the dramatic and permanent pains they've faced- here's ONE that turns out to be simple, something fixed with a slight change in schedule plus a few freely given feathers

and isn't that nice, for a change

[starlightshadowsworld]

Bsd Beast except it's Atsushi who has memories of the "original world."

He is the books guide afterall.

Though Atsushi did not make this world, nor know who did.

Atsushi who gets hit by a wave of nostalgia when he enters the cafe but doesn't let himself think on it.

He befriends Kyouka, his heart feels lighter whe she's by his side.

He wonders if they were always destined to be friends, and that makes him smile.

Atsushi finds it funny that there was a time he saved Dazai when here the man saved him.

Though he supposes both of them bought him to them for their own means and plots.

Not that Atsushi minds, he owes everything to Dazai. Though the memories of the other are wild, seeing him as a goofy lazy detective.

But Atsushi knows Dazai, knows the other possesses the same wit and cunning as his Dazai.

Akutugawa makes him pause... A world in which they both swapped, Atsushi went to the agency and Akutugawa to the Port Mafia.

It makes him laugh.

That boy was not Mafia material and yet.

He watches his originals memories, so many things changed and yet so much stayed the same.

Atsushi does not wish for his other self's life, but sometimes he wonders if he could ever be that happy, in control.

He dismisses those thoughts.

The Akutugawa he knows is so much happier than he is in these other memories. So much changed, so much stayed the same but that is a constant.

The lonely boy from the slums found a home.

Atsushi refuses to take it from him. Maybe it's out of guilt for Gin, maybe it's because of their coffee talk and the understanding the two now share.

Whatever it is, Atsushi won't let him lose this.

He looks at the wrist watch, the one from the Headmaster. Atsushi would be nothing if he couldn't save those infront of them.

So he completes his orders, he hides a smile seeing Dazai and Chuuya subtly (well not to him, not now) flirt at each by other's sides.

A Dazai who never thinks of dying and a Chuuya who was never left behind.

He tells Kyouka he'll always be there for her, he sparrs with Akutugawa and sees his eyes light up talking about the agency.

All while hiding the existence of something more.

A world in which Atsushi got his happiness and freedom, while this one wears a collar.

Akutugawa smiles more easy every time they meet, and Atsushi thinks of that everytime the fear and his ability get to much.

He screams into nothingness, clings to his humanity on a severed thread and pretends there's not a world where he never had to suffer like this again.

All for them.

All for him.

[skyfallslayer]

A Stitch In Time || Prologue

-Bucky Barnes x Daughter!Reader-

Series Masterlist

° Series Summary: A Time Heist mission goes wrong, and some of the Avengers end up in the 1950s. Desperately clinging to their lives, they wind up in a place subconsciously. And unfortunately for Steve, and especially to Bucky, they find themselves face to face with someone they wish not to see.

° Chapter Summary: Worried about how his mission may go, Bucky visits a ‘touchy’ place, and recalls the short life he had with you.

° Date: 7/20

° Rating: Teen

° Word Count: 4,569

° Warning: Talks about death/dying; Reference to Suicide; Guilt; Child Abandonment; Talks of Fertility Issues; Alcohol; Allusions to Depression. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

° A/N: The only excuse I have for taking so long to get this out is because I had an expected mental health break. One that was needed. But I'm back! And I'm slowly updating some of my other stories! So be on the look out for those! Also, let me know if I missed any warnings! Enjoy!

The freshly wetted grass squished underneath his boots with each and every step. His shoulders were slacked, but his wrists were tense as he held the delicate bouquet with both of his hands. He was always nervous to be here, even though he’s done it so many times after finding it, the nervousness never went away. The nausea never stopped too… or the guilt… the fear… the sadness. Nothing ever stopped like he so desperately wanted to. Was this a curse he was stuck with for helping to bring another child into this cruel world?

He reaches the end of his line, just a few short inches away from where his toes could touch the stone; The stone etched with words and numbers that made his heart ache. And when his knees felt weak he lowered himself to the ground, sitting back on his heels. With a bittersweet expression on his features, he removes the old lilies and replaces them with your favorite, pearly white ones. The ones you always smelled like when you came back from playing in the park. Who knew he would miss such a fragrance? 

He takes a deep inhale through his nose, and exhales quietly, gathering his thoughts. “Hey, baby girl. It’s been some… time since I’ve visited. I honestly thought I should wait until your half birthday, but…” He trails off, frowning. “But uh, I’m heading off on another mission tomorrow, a… potentially dangerous one.” He chuckles dryly. “You know the deal with those.”

He pauses like he’s waiting for your answer he knows he won’t get, letting the hot summer wind touch his face and through his chocolate locks. He waited for that as his cue to continue on.

“Uh… so…”

It hurts to even think about it.

“I was just…”

Should he even say it?

“Wondering again if it goes south I can…”

Should he repeat what he always says to your grave?

“Be next to you?”

Another pause, this time it felt more painful. It always hurts to be here. It always hurts to say those words because it wasn’t like he had a death wish, it wasn’t like he was afraid of death, he just… didn’t know if he deserved to be next to you. You were his whole world and he fucked it up. Fucked it up so bad that it makes him more anxious to want to hold you, and hug you, and kiss you, and just talk to you. He loves you. 

He’s loved you since the very beginning.

.

.

.

Bucky would have fallen back in shock if it wasn’t for the small bundle in his arms. His ex-girlfriend had just said some words that he didn’t need to hear right now. Couldn’t even comprehend it.

No, it wasn’t, ‘Can we get back together? I made a mistake’.

No, It wasn’t, ‘The baby isn’t yours’.

No it was–

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” He asked, disbelief etched in his words. There was also an underlying sense of anger and betrayal, because–

She couldn’t be serious...

Right?

He watched the woman standing in front of him roll her eyes, snatching her purse from his living room’s couch while responding, “I don’t want her. I only had her because you wanted to keep the baby after finding out I was pregnant.”

He nearly doubled over when he heard the disgust in her voice. “So you’re just going to leave?” Bucky asked, seeing his ex now putting on her winter coat. “But our daughter needs a mother figu–”

“YOUR daughter.” His ex snapped, poison on her tongue. “That baby–” She points furiously. “That baby is a spitting image of you. All the way from the shape of her face to the way she smiles. Everything. Which is fine by me, I don’t want someone looking like me out in the world.”

Bucky opened his mouth to speak as he followed her behind as she walked towards the front door. Unfortunately, she beats him to it. “As for a mother figure, you’ve got three sisters and a mom. That baby can pick up skills from them.”

She swings the door open, letting in the cold breeze of February. Snowflakes flew in, sticking to her clothes and curly hair. Bucky immediately stood sideways and drew you as far away as he could from the freezing air.

(Was she trying to freeze you?!)

“Dottie!” He called out from the doorway, stopping her on the porch.

She wasn’t even going to look back at him, wasn’t she? Or even look at you? Did she truly not feel anything?

He doesn’t know why but his voice cracked, and although he and his ex’s relationship was always rocky, and they both knew that whatever was between them wasn’t going to work out, he still doesn’t want her to leave him alone with a one week old.

“Come on…” He continued, quietly. “At least stay for a couple months until I can do this on my own.” His lower lip quivered slightly. “Please?”

He felt you shift a bit in his arms, probably from the weather, and waited for her to turn around…

But she never did.

“Goodbye, James.” Dottie said, before trailing across the snow covered path to the sidewalk. 

Bucky watches her disappear into the night, his feet glued to the floor even when part of his mind told him to run after her. It would be a lie if he said that he didn’t want to go after her, thinking that maybe she’ll change her mind if actually begs, but the mere thought went out the door when you started to get fussy and cry.

Something deep within him kicked in, probably that parental instincts he’s heard about from his own parents, and all his attention was turned to you cradled in a lilac colored blanket.

“Hey…” He whispered, readjust his hold so that he could gently brush their–

No.

That’s officially gone out the window. 

It’s just his daughter. His.

He readjust his hold so that he could gently brush HIS daughter’s cheek. To brush your cheek like a soft paint brush across a canvas. “Hey. Don’t cry.” He says, soothingly.

He makes a soft shushing sound as he closes the front door with his hip, before carefully guiding himself to sit near the fireplace. He lays you cautiously in his lap, almost in awe as he sees your eyes peeking open for the first time.

(Y/E/C) eyes. 

So beautiful like the world itself. He almost wanted to start taking pictures.

Maybe later though.

He chuckles sadly, tears in his own as he brushes your cheeks again. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry, I got you.” He said, smiling down. “I got you, baby girl.”

You cooed quietly, staring back at him with a bit of curiosity. The look you were giving him melted his heart, but it also made him feel like he didn’t deserve any of this.

“I’m sorry…”  He croaks, sniffling. “It looks like it’s just going to be me and you, doll. I’m so sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

You made the cute sounds that took his breath away again, taking up his whole surroundings. However, if it wasn’t for his military training, he probably wouldn’t have even heard someone tumbling down the stairs. Bucky glances at the living room entrance, finding a certain skinny blond that he called his best friend. He saw his chest move slightly, and could almost hear him panting from here.

“S-Sorry.” Steve exhales, leaning against the door frame. “Your mom sent me down here when we heard everything go quiet.”

Bucky smiled a little. “She got worried?”

Steve copies him with a chuckle.  “Yeah. She wanted to make sure you hadn’t run off with her grandchild.”

The brunette shakes his head. “That sounds like my mother.” He turns his attention back on you, but from the corner of his eye he could see his friend shifting uncomfortably, almost hesitantly, in his spot. His smile grows. “Come here.”

“What?” The blond said, genuinely confused. 

“Come here, Steve. You can see her.”

He stiffens up a bit, looking unsure. “H-Her… A-Are you… are you sure?” Steve asked, pointing towards the stairs in the hallway. “I-I shouldn’t be the one seeing your baby first. Shouldn’t I–”

“Get your ass over here, Rogers.” Bucky said, almost wishing he could free his hand up and drag him by the ear (he was always so timid and too cautious sometimes).

Not even daring to question his best friend’s wish, Steve wandered over and took a seat on the couch next to Bucky. He leans in close, examining the small bundle in the soldier’s arms.

Steve’s big blue eyes lit up with joy. “Wow, Buck. She’s adorable.” He said, as you scrunch up your nose to show off your cute, chubby cheeks.

“She is.” Bucky said, fighting back the stinging sensation in his eyes again. He now wonders…

(Is this what it's going to feel like all the time now?)

After a moment of silence, Bucky threw his friend through another loop. “Wanna hold her?”

Steve held his hands up in defense almost immediately after those words left his tongue. “Oh, no. I shouldn’t.”

“I trust you.” Bucky holds you out a little, a reassuring look on his face.

Steve raises a cautious eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Bucky laughs. “I’ll show you.”

Bucky then takes his time showing Steve how to hold you, giving him pointers and readjusting everyone once and awhile until he has you in a good position. The blond’s nerves seemed to vanish into thin air when he started to see that you were looking at him with the same curious eyes you made at your father. Those eyes of yours could melt anyone’s hard shells at this point.

Steve chuckles, and grins as he gets butterflies in his stomach from you. “What’s her name?” He asks, sparing a glance at your dad for a split second. “Did Dottie ever give her one?”

Bucky shakes his head sadly. “No.” He said, his voice feeling rather small at the moment. “No she didn’t. I’m tasked with giving her one.”

“Have you thought of any? I know you were looking through some books a few weeks back.”

“I have and I think…” He takes another good look at you, making sure the name was the right choice. “I was thinking… (Y/N).”

“(Y/N)?” The blond repeats back, testing it out like an echo chamber for his friend who nodded back.

“Yeah. (Y/N).” Bucky tests it out his lips as other names start to form. “(Y/N)... Stevie Barnes.”

He looks up in surprise. “Stevie?” Steve asks in disbelief again. 

Bucky smiles. “Well, I heard Stevie is the girl version of Steve, so…”

“But…” His blue eyes look away again, looking completely torn.

Your father raises an eyebrow over this. “But what?”

“You’re flattering me way too much, Bucky.”

“Am I?” Bucky asked, tilting his head, slightly puzzled.

“Y-Yes!” Steve said, shaking his head. “Y-You can’t– You shouldn’t name your kid after me.”

Now it was his turn to be even more confused. “Why not?”

“Because, I’m– y-you have sisters! Parents. Y-You should name her after them. Not me.”

“But, Steve, you’re my brother. Besides…” Bucky shifted in his seat, knowing what he’ll say next is touchy. “I know… the doctor said you might not be able to have kids so… think of this as me… giving you a small piece of that.”

Silence befell, the subject was something that really hurt Steve when he heard it the first time; Hell, it even hurt his mother who was present at the time. It kind of haunted him for a while because what could he offer to a person who wanted to share his life? 

Steve stares at him for a while before tearing up, laughing quietly and looking away. “Jesus, Bucky. You’re making me cry.”

A chuckle. “Well don’t, ‘cause I’ll start crying again.” Bucky says, making them belly laugh. 

The blond sniffles and tests the name out on his own. “(Y/N) Stevie Barnes.” He looks back down at you, his smile returning fully. “Not bad, Buck.”

Your father looked at him teasingly. “And what’s that supposed to mean, Steven?”

“Nothing.” Steve replies, holding back another laugh as he watches you start to drift back to sleep. “I’m really happy for you, man.”

“Thanks.” 

A few moments more passed before you were carefully placed back in your father’s arms, where all he did was stare back at you as you pulled yourself to sleep. His happy face started to falter, and there was a heavy amount of doubt in his ocean blue orbs. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Steve.” He finally admits before swallowing the lump in his throat. He soon felt his friend’s hand on his leg, giving it a comforting squeeze.

“You don’t have to do this alone, Bucky. You’ve got your family and you’ve got me.” Steve said, honestly. “And you know this. However, don’t doubt yourself, you got this. You’re going to be a great dad.”

Bucky’s lip curled up a bit, not caring that he was about to cry again. “Steve Rogers. The man who always knows what to say.”

“What can I say? I try.” He asked, coping with his expression.

“And you think I’ll be great? Even with me being a soldier and everything else that comes with it?” Your father asked, doubt was still just lingering on the surface no matter what he did.

Steve gives another gentle squeeze. “I know you’ll be great. I know you’ll do anything to make sure she’ll be okay. So don’t worry too much, okay? (Y/N)’s going to be lucky she has you.”

Bucky hums, truly grateful for a friend like him. 

And without an ounce of hesitation, he bends down slowly and kisses your sleeping forehead. 

“I already loved you so much, (Y/N). I hope you realize that.” He whispers, lovingly. “And I’ll do anything to make sure you’re safe.”

He swears at that moment he saw you smile.

.

.

.

Bucky brushed his flesh fingers against the words in the stone, tracing your name and important dates. February 23rd, 1936. A snowy, snowy day. Cool and crisp. Although he had to wait and wait until you were a week old to hold you, a week old to realize he was on his own, a week to realize that he truly loved you. No upcoming birthday surprises could top this one. But if he loved you so much then…

Why were you cursed to be underground?

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

When Bucky got back home to his apartment, he found himself subconsciously grabbing the bottle of scotch in his cabinet. Although he knew he couldn’t technically get drunk, the feeling he got after a couple glasses was close enough. Sometimes… he liked the quietness in his home, the time to relax, untouched and left alone to be himself; But most of the time, after so many years of being alone in his head, he loathes being alone. Friends and family were everything to him growing up. You were everything to him growing up. 

He still wonders what it would be like if you were here, running around, asking him twenty questions, painting his toes, etcetera. He always wondered what you were like when you got older, the side of you he never got to see. He always wondered what those short years did for you.

Why did he have to get taken from you so soon?

.

.

.

You dove around your grandparents and aunts’ legs as you made your way out of the house, ignoring how your father’s duffle bag, that subconsciously you hated, was laying on the porch steps. You stumble around a bit on your five year old legs, before finding the person you wanted to see. 

“Uncle Steve!!!” You yelled, throwing your arms up.

“Hey, Pumpkin.” He said, teasingly. He wastes no time to scoop you up, and carefully holds you close to him (it’s been years and he’s still afraid he’ll drop you). “Have you gotten smaller?”

You scrunched up your nose at him, shaking your head. “No.” You giggled at the silly nickname, and it all was because you were pocket size.

“No?” Steve said, tilting his head, all cocky. “Are you sure?”

You giggled again. “Yes.”

He grins. “Just checking.”

A sigh came from inside, before the two of you saw your father exiting his parents house, all dressed in his neatly ironed uniform. He looked miserable as he gazed at his bag on the porch.

“Ready?” Steve asked, readjusting his hold on you as he frowned himself.

“Unfortunately.” Bucky mumbled, not ready for what’s yet to come. However, when he faces you his whole expression changes for the better. “And there’s my little girl!”

“Papa!” You yelled, holding your arms out. He takes you in his arms, hugging you gently. “Are you leaving, Papa?”

“Oh, baby doll, I am.” He said, pulling back to look at you. “But don’t worry, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He taps your nose. “Okay?”

You nodded slowly and smiled. “Okay!”

“Good.” He gives you a big kiss on your head, before peppering your face with some more making you laugh. “I love you, (Y/N).”

“I love you, too, Papa.”

“I love you more.”

He gives you one more kiss and one more hug before transferring you over back to Steve. They both give each other a strong hug and pat on the back, smiling bittersweetly.

“Be safe, Bucky.” Steve said, trying to hide his concern.

“I will. You too. The both of you.” Bucky said, grabbing his bag and making sure his voice was stern.

“We will. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Thank you, Steve.” 

He bid them goodbye, and you and Steve watched him walk down the path to the military jeep parked nearby. It was chilling almost to watch, and your five year old mind couldn’t quite comprehend the heavy feeling you felt underneath the surface.

“Uncle Steve?” You asked, prying his eyes away from the moving vehicle. 

“Yeah?” He said, softly.

You looked at him all puzzled, something wasn’t adding up. “I thought you told me you were going with him?” You swear he mentioned something like that to you yesterday. Right?

His eyes look away from you, almost like he was recollecting himself before giving you his answer. “I am. But not yet.” He replies, honestly. His orbs finally meet yours again. “Not until I know you're okay.”

“Really?” You asked, tilting your head to the side with curiosity.

“Sure am.” He smiles once more. “Now, what do you want to do? You want to see what Grandpa and Grandma are doing?”

Your eyes light up at their names. “Yes!!!” 

He laughs at your enthusiasm. “Okay, okay. Let’s go see them.”

.

.

.

Bucky throws a bottle of scotch across the room, shattering somewhere. He didn’t care though. It’s not like he even batted an eye.

Five years old. 

That was it.

That’s the last time he ever saw you.

And that hurt like a bitch.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

He doesn’t know when…

But everything suddenly just…

Clicked.

Memories of his flooded in like a broken dam. He starts to recall who he was before and after the fall. Before and after the war. Before and after everything. So as he made his way to Siberia with his friend, Steve, he remembers something that was like a knife to his heart.

“I have a daughter.” Bucky said abruptly, cutting Steve off.

When he was on the run after the helicarriers fell, he remembers his time growing up in the early 1900s. The (multiple) times he saved his best friend’s ass from being picked on, or the way he took his younger siblings to the park, or helping his mother bake, or fixing the car with his dad. But there were a few memories he was confused by for a long time.

First he only heard little laughs, or someone trying to sing a child’s song. Then he saw little toys and dresses. Then he saw a little face with big, wondrous eyes. It didn’t take him long to realize who she was.

He met with his friend’s eyes quickly, almost getting choked up by an emotion that had been under lock and key for so long. “...I have a daughter… don’t I?”

Steve, who seemed taken back by his sudden string of words, opens and closes his mouth a few times, before settling his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Yes, Bucky. You do.”

Bucky looked away, the confirmation sending his mind spiraling again, and the Captain could tell. He decides to approach this carefully since he knows his friend isn’t hundred percent in his right mind yet.

“Do you remember her?” Steve asked, watching him nod slowly. “What do you remember?”

Bucky thinks long and hard about this. What did he remember about you?

“Uh… I remember she was tiny… always tiny.” He chuckles quietly, making Steve smile. “She uh… had um… (Y/H/C) hair that was kind of wavy when she got older. Um… big, bright (Y/E/C) eyes. She… she um… smiled a lot… I think?”

“Yeah, she did Buck. All the time.” Steve said, patting his shoulder gently as he could see the joy it was bringing to his friend.

Bucky laughs again. “Uh… you used to call her by a weird nickname. What was it? Uh…” He purses his lips. “Po… Potato?”

Now it was the blond’s turn to laugh. “N-No. No. Close… Starts with a P, though.”

“Um…” His eyes light a spark. “Oh. Yeah. I remember now. We took her to her first Halloween pumpkin patch when I could hold in one hand because she was so tiny.”

“Yep. That’s what I called her.” He says with a nod. “Your Ma tried to dress her up like one.”

“Oh, yeah, she did.”

And then it got quiet, and Steve saw the bright light in his friend’s eyes go out when the wheels started to turn again. He held his breath, knowing what he was recalling next.

Bucky swayed on the balls of his feet a bit, looking at the floor. “She was five the last time I saw her.” He says, bittersweetly. “I remember, the night before, I took her to Coney Island, and we just played games and ate until our bellies ached. I got her a stuffed bear on the ring toss…”

Steve squeezed his shoulder, trying to give him some comfort because he knew there was no stopping any memories of you.

“She was with you when I left. I gave her hugs, and kisses and…” His voice starts to break. “I love you’s…. Um…”

“Bucky–” Steve begins, hating how hurt he looked.

“Steve. W-Was that last time you saw h-her too?”

Steve closed his mouth, thinking to himself. He couldn’t lie. He was a terrible liar which the brunette always sees through. So what was the point of even trying?

Cap shakes his head. “No. I saw her when she was nine. ‘Bout to be nine.”

“N-Nine?” Bucky asked, just above a whisper. “W-Why?”

“Um…” He swallows. “I had to…. I had to tell your family about, you know… the train… and you.”

The Soldier went distant. “O-Oh…”

“I wanted to make sure I was the one to tell them.” 

“Oh…” Bucky started to get teary eyed. “D-Did you tell her?"

Steve held his breath again. It was like his mind started to relive that day.

You looked so happy to see him, but he watched that expression vanish when you saw his sadden face. It hurts to take you by the hand and into your room. It hurts to see how you’ve grown, and to think he got to see it and not your dad made the situation a whole lot worse.

He wanted to lie and tell you your dad was hurt. 

He wanted to lie and tell you your dad was still at war and won’t be home for a while.

He wanted to lie and say everything was going to be okay.

But he couldn’t, and felt like it was his duty to tell you what happened to your father, to his best friend.

He knew if the situation was reversed, Bucky would be doing the very same thing now.

And when he did tell you, he hated how you kept on denying it. You called him a liar, and god he wished he was.

“I-I did…” He said, feeling his eyes sting as well. 

Bucky jaw clenches. “A-And?”

Steve looks away for a second. “She cried for three hours.”

“O-Oh…” Bucky looks away too. “I always h-hated when s-she cries.”

With his hand still on the brunette shoulder, he gave him another comforting squeeze. “She…” Cap chokes, his memories flooding in all at once. “S-She um… she gave me her blanket, the one that she came home with. She um, wanted me… to promise to come back to her. But um… I failed at that, I guess.”

Bucky frowns. “Steve–"

“I tried finding her, Buck.” He finally looks at him. “When I came out of the ice, SHIELD managed to give me some of my things from the war. I kept the blanket in my chest, so… I tried finding her, because I didn’t want to break that promise to (Y/N), but…”

“You didn’t find anything?”

Steve shakes his head. “Not exactly.” He whispers, exhaling shaky. 

“Not exactly?” Bucky asked, wanting an answer. “What does that mean?”

Now it was Steve’s turn to look all messed up. Especially since he couldn’t make eye contact again. He swallows a lump in his throat and says, “I’m so sorry, Bucky…”

“Sorry about what?” Bucky couldn’t understand what was happening and it was honestly starting to scare him. “What are you sorry about?”

“(Y/N)...” He sighs quietly, and forces himself to look in his best friend’s eyes. “Pneumonia. She, uh… got pneumonia in ‘54 and passed.” 

Now the knife has dug deeper, chilling his bones too. “She’s dead?” He said, barely audible. 

“Yeah. She’s dead.” The Captain replies, dispirit. “I found the spot where she’s buried. I can take you there if you–”

“Thank you, Steve.” The soldier says, ignoring the blond’s confused state. “I mean it. You were always so good to her, and to think you never stopped looking after all this time means A LOT to me. Do you understand? You helped my daughter when she was at her lowest, and you even found her for me. I thank you for that.”

Steve smiles bittersweetly. “No need to. I said I’ll always be there for the both of you.”

Bucky returns the gesture. “As will I.”

“Now, let’s finish this, shall we?”

.

.

.

“-Bucky.” Steve says, touching his shoulder and getting a small jolt from the man. Surprised eyes fell on him as he returned with concerned ones. “You ready?”

“Uh…” Bucky looked around quickly, remembering it was standing in the locker room changing. He didn’t even realize he had zoned out. “Y-Yeah.” He said, zipping up the front of his Quantum Suit. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Steve tilts his head, the worriedness never vanishing. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Let’s get this mission completed.”

And those were the words that would change -everything-.

(TBC)

-Taglist Is Open-

@navs-bhat @liarasstuff @justmewoo @thed1v1n3

@luckyzipperscissorsbat @like-a-domino @kissesofdeadforme

@audigay

[elliemarchetti]

My AU Headcanon: after surviving the attack on their house, James had constant nightmares about seeing Lily & Harry dying & Voldemort, Wormtail and Snape taunting for failing them, despite being the great James Potter. It hurt Lily to see her once happy and mischievous husband be in so much pain.

I'm alive! Risen from the ashes like Fawkes!

Lovely anon, thank you for your patience and for sending this prompt, which allowed me to write James from another perspective and analyze his marriage with Lily with a more mature eye.

As always feedback and other suggestions on how to continue this (or any other) story are welcome but I'm also open to having a chat, exchanging headcanons and making moodboards and playlists for your favorite characters/couples.

Words: 700

After years of uncertainty and terror, with heavy casualties on both sides and entire bloodlines wiped out, the war ended, and the Wizarding World celebrated with displays of fireworks and jubilation. He Who Must Not Be Named was dead, just a corpse made of skin and bones buried beside his father in a forgotten graveyard, his remaining followers were locked up in Azkaban, and peace reigned once again, an outcome Lily failed to truly believe in as she held little Harry to her chest on the darkest nights, in fear it could be their last moment together. They had been lucky to survive Pettigrew's betrayal, something he did not, and Lily was grateful for every quiet day she was allowed to live, but James hadn’t gotten over the tension and the constant fear as well as she did. When there was light outside, from breakfast until he put Harry to bed, everything seemed fine despite the purplish dark circles under his eyes, and at work he was his usual mischievous self, at least according to Sirius, but when he got under the covers, once he had given a kiss to his wife and they both turned off the lamps on their respective bedside tables, he became a mess, clinging to her body as if she was a lifeline. The nightmares hadn’t given him a full night’s sleep for months now, and if sometimes he didn’t feel like talking, if sometimes the only thing that soothed him was sinking into Lily, taking her in desperation, letting her gentle words of encouragement and muffled moan ground him, during others he was more inclined to dialogue.

“He killed you,” he had murmured one night, heavy tears sliding down his sunken cheeks. “You were dead, and he… Harry… I couldn’t do anything but watch.”

It was like this, between stammers and fragmented sentences, that Lily discovered what was plaguing her husband’s sleep, a sense of guilt he shouldn’t have felt, an anxiety he couldn’t leave behind.

“It’s not my fault, Snivellus, it’s not my fault!” he had shouted on another occasion, before sitting up in bed, his forehead drenched in sweat.

“Dad?” Harry had called from the small corridor dividing their rooms, rubbing his eyes with the small fist.

“Dad had a bad dream, love,” Lily had quickly explained, as he guided him back to bed. “Every now and then it happens to adults too.”

“Can you give him this, then?” her son had asked, with the innocence only children possess, handing her one of the stuffed animals he usually slept with. “It will protect him from monsters.”

“He will appreciate it very much,” she replied, taking the fuzzy Welsh Green, his favourite birthday gift from uncle Remus.

“Did I scare him a lot?” James asked, defeated and worried, as soon as she closed the door behind her.

“No, but he wants you to have this, to protect you from monsters,” she answered, passing him the stuffed animal. He stared at it for a while, as if seeing it for the first time, or glimpsing something in his black plastic eyes, and then he hugged it tightly, curling up his knees and bowing his head until his dishevelled hair almost touched his arms. Seeing him like this, it was evident how young he actually was, how the weight of the carefreeness the war took away from them weighted on his hunched shoulders.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered, breaking the heavy silence engulfing the house. “I wish I was stronger, I wish I had been able to do more, but instead I had to hide like a rat, I had to wait for others to defend my family for me.”

“We’re all alive, and that’s enough,” was all Lily could say as she caressed his bare back, where the bones of his spine visibly protruded. When had he gotten so thin? When, among the pile of things he had to care about, had he stopped considering eating a priority? Just two more questions to add to the thousand she would have to find an answer, a solution, to alone, so as not to break the young man who that night slept hugging his son’s stuffed dragon.

[icrypop]

Hello it's me again from your messages, I was wondering if it's possible to request yandere sbg x reader but instead of Tyler dying it was reader and they went to the hospital blah blah, and the next day were Aiden dies it's her she pushed him out the way. So in the end she dies twice there. What do you think there reaction is when we die twice.

(Also I'm the same person that send this in your messages a few days ago)

Thank you!

Yandere SBG x Fem!Reader

Reader sacrifices herself twice in the Phantom World

WARNINGS: Yandere tendencies, injuries/slight mention of gore, dark themes

Im sorry it's taking me so long, I start writing each request and then put it in my drafts until I can look over everything and post it but I feel bad for not posting so heres one that i did at work!! Please enjoy, I'll try to get the rest of the requests out this weekend!!!

-Writer Icy<3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ashlynn:

- First Death (Tree): When the reader dies for the first time, Ashlynn is completely shattered. Her immediate response is disbelief, unable to comprehend the reality of it. She cradles the reader’s lifeless body, tears streaming down her face as she screams for help, her mind racing with the thought of how she couldn’t save them.

- Second Death (Aiden’s Sacrifice): When the reader dies again to save Aiden, Ashlynn’s grief turns into something much darker. She’s angry that the reader sacrificed themselves once more, furious at the universe for forcing them into that situation again. Ashlynn starts blaming everyone around her, even Aiden, for "taking" the reader away from her.

- Hospital Reaction: When they finally get the reader back in the real world, and she’s taken to the hospital, Ashlynn refuses to leave her side. She’s terrified that if she takes her eyes off the reader, they’ll slip away again. The relief that the reader is still alive is overshadowed by the obsessive need to protect her from any future harm, making her more possessive than ever.

Tyler:

- First Death (Tree): Tyler is frozen in place when the reader dies the first time. It takes him a moment to process, and then he’s overwhelmed with guilt. He feels like it should have been him—he should have protected her. His grief turns into self-blame, and he becomes consumed by thoughts of what he could have done differently.

- Second Death (Aiden’s Sacrifice): When the reader dies again, this time saving Aiden, Tyler completely breaks. The guilt from the first death is nothing compared to how he feels now. He becomes erratic, angry at himself for not being the one to die instead of her. Tyler feels helpless, like the universe is conspiring to take the reader from him repeatedly.

- Hospital Reaction: At the hospital, Tyler refuses to leave the reader’s bedside. He’s constantly watching her, terrified that something else will happen. His yandere tendencies intensify, and he becomes almost paranoid, wanting to shield her from everyone—even the rest of the group. He’s determined never to let her out of his sight again.

Taylor:

- First Death (Tree): Taylor is heartbroken when the reader dies the first time. She immediately becomes a mess of emotions, sobbing uncontrollably and lashing out at the Phantom World. She’s consumed by the need to undo what’s happened and tries to cling to any hope, even if it’s impossible.

- Second Death (Aiden’s Sacrifice): When the reader dies again, Taylor’s reaction is even more chaotic. Her grief turns into a frantic desperation to "save" the reader somehow. She’s constantly talking about finding a way to keep the reader alive, as if it’s something she can fix. She becomes consumed by the need to prevent another tragedy from happening.

- Hospital Reaction: Taylor is relieved when they return to the real world and find the reader alive in the hospital, but the trauma of losing her twice makes Taylor more obsessive. She clings to the reader constantly, trying to bring them gifts and stay by their side at all times. Her emotions become unpredictable—one moment she’s cheerful, and the next she’s panicking at the thought of losing them again.

Aiden:

- First Death (Tree): Aiden is numb with shock when the reader dies for the first time. His analytical mind tries to rationalize the situation, but it can’t. He feels an overwhelming sense of helplessness, knowing he couldn’t protect her. This helplessness transforms into an intense need to prevent anything like this from happening again.

- Second Death (Aiden’s Sacrifice): When the reader dies saving him, Aiden is devastated. He’s consumed by guilt, believing that her second death is his fault. The fact that she gave her life to save him breaks something inside of Aiden, making him more obsessive and controlling. He vows to never let the reader sacrifice herself for anyone again.

- Hospital Reaction: At the hospital, Aiden becomes overly protective, standing guard by her bedside. His calm demeanor is gone, replaced with a quiet but intense resolve. He monitors every aspect of her care, questioning the doctors and nurses at every turn. His possessiveness grows, and he becomes determined that no one will ever harm her again—not even herself.

Ben:

- First Death (Tree): Ben is silent when the reader dies the first time. He doesn’t show much outward emotion, but inside, he’s boiling with rage. He’s furious that something like this could happen and is already thinking about what he can do to prevent it from happening again.

- Second Death (Aiden’s Sacrifice): The second death hits Ben harder than the first. When the reader dies saving Aiden, his rage turns inward. He blames himself for not being able to protect her and becomes hyper-focused on ensuring her safety from that point on. Ben’s yandere tendencies evolve into an obsessive need to control every aspect of the reader’s life.

- Hospital Reaction: At the hospital, Ben is a silent but constant presence. He rarely leaves the reader’s side, his protective instincts on high alert. He’s colder and more distant with the rest of the group, focusing entirely on the reader’s well-being. Ben’s possessiveness grows, and he becomes determined to shield her from any future harm, no matter what.

Logan

- First Death (Tree): Logan is a wreck when the reader dies. His usual cheerful and kind nature is shattered, and he breaks down, sobbing uncontrollably. He can’t handle the pain of losing her and is consumed by the thought that he should have been able to protect her.

- Second Death (Aiden’s Sacrifice): When the reader dies a second time, Logan’s grief turns into desperation. He feels like the world is playing a cruel trick on them, taking her away repeatedly. He can’t understand why it keeps happening and becomes consumed by an obsessive need to protect her in the future, should she come back to them.

- Hospital Reaction: When they finally return to the real world and find the reader alive in the hospital, Logan is overjoyed but also terrified. He never leaves her side, constantly checking on her to make sure she’s okay. His yandere tendencies intensify, making him cling to her emotionally, unable to cope with the thought of losing her again.

Ashlynn (First Death):

Ashlynn cradled the reader in her arms, her voice trembling as she whispered, "Please, don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. I need you." Tears mingled with the rain as she held on tighter, as if refusing to let the world take the reader away. "I’ll never let anything hurt you again, I swear."

Tyler (Second Death):  

Tyler screamed in agony as he watched the reader’s lifeless body fall to the ground after saving Aiden. "Why? Why did you have to go again?!" He pounded his fists against the crumbling walls of the Phantom World, his heart shattering into a thousand pieces. He would never forgive himself.

Aiden (Hospital):

Aiden sat by the reader’s bedside, his eyes glued to the monitors beeping rhythmically. "I’m so sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "It should’ve been me…Im sorry, I didnt- You shouldn't…im sorry…" 

*The gang is left with deep emotional scars from watching the reader die not once, but twice. Their love for her turns obsessive, each member pushing their protective instincts to new extremes in their desperate attempts to keep her safe. Even as the reader recovers in the hospital, the trauma of her deaths will haunt them, fueling their yandere tendencies.

Taylor (First Death):

Taylor knelt beside the tree, her hands shaking as she reached out to touch the reader’s cold skin. "No, no, no..." she murmured, her voice cracking as tears blurred her vision. "This can’t be real. I’ll fix it. I’ll find a way to fix it. You can’t be gone, not like this." Her fingers gripped the reader’s hand tightly, as if she could pull them back from death with sheer willpower. "I’ll bring you back. I’ll do anything."

Ben (Second Death):

Ben stood silently at the foot of the hospital bed, his eyes fixed on the reader’s unconscious form. His expression was cold, but his mind was racing with thoughts of revenge and control. "I won’t let this happen again," he muttered under his breath, his hands clenched into fists. "You’ll never have to sacrifice yourself again, because I’ll make sure no one gets close enough to hurt you." His gaze darkened, his possessiveness growing stronger with each passing second. "I’ll protect you... even if it means keeping you from everyone else."

Logan (Hospital):

Logan was paralyzed with horror as he saw the reader push Aiden out of the way, taking the fatal blow in his place. He dropped to his knees beside her body, sobbing uncontrollably. "Why did you do that?" he choked out, his hands trembling as he touched her face. "You didn’t have to... I was supposed to protect you!" His heart shattered, a raw and aching pain spreading through his chest. "Please, come back. I can’t do this without you."

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 98

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 98: Think of Home

AO3 - Masterlist

The night seemed endless.

A dense, stifling silence filled the room, hanging in the air like an executioner’s blade poised to descend. Daenera lay curled in bed, her eyes fixed on the dying hearth, watching as the flames sputtered and waned, each flicker growing weaker until they left only a bed of glowing embers. The fire had burned itself out, leaving her nothing but shadows and an oppressive weight that pressed against her chest. Beneath her ribs, a tight, sickening knot had formed, burning low and deep like molten lead.

The tears she had shed had long since dried, their salty remnants lingering on her skin, and within, a hollow ache remained. She’d spent the night tossing and turning, seeking sleep that refused her, unable to silence the whirl of thoughts crowding her mind. 

A memory surfaced, unbidden–of her mother’s gentle hands smoothing over her hair, whispering promises of a brighter future, a time when they would all be safe. Now, that warmth felt like a distant dream, lost in the haze of all that had happened. Her throat tightened further, a raw, stinging sensation prickling her eyes, but she forced it down, refusing to give in.

Her mother was still searching, clinging to the threadbare wish that her son might somehow return safely, that the fates might yet be kind. She could imagine her mother’s face, etched with sorrow, growing weary with each passing day, eyes empty as she searched the waves. The image tightened something within her chest, a pang of guilt mingling with sorrow, for she knew the truth that hope could not mend but only postpone. 

Her thoughts drifted to Jace and Joffrey, to Baela and Rhaena, to Aegon and Viserys–her siblings, her brothers and sisters, each of them woven deeply into the fabric of her life. Her family. She wondered what they would think of her now, if they would understand the choices she had made, or if they would look at her with the same shame and disappointment she felt blooming within herself? Would Jace, with his unyielding sense of duty, ever forgive her for binding herself to the man responsible for their brother’s death? For having loved him? And Aegon and Viserys–would they remember her or would she be a stranger to them? 

It felt foolish, almost painful, to hope they might forgive her, or even recognize her when they saw each other again–if they ever would. Her heart twisted at the thought of returning to them, stripped and changed by everything she had endured here, only to find them looking through eyes with unfamiliarity–with resentment. She wondered if they would see her as someone else entirely, a ghost of the sister they had once known, haunting them. 

Her hands curled tightly around the edges of the covers, pulling them closer to herself, as if they could shield her from the sharp edge of her own thoughts. The uncertainty gnawed at her, the notion that she might lose them in more ways than one.

She thought of Daemon. She wondered if he would look at her with scorn or pity, if he would even understand the depths to which she had fallen, if he would forgive her for it. 

And then her thoughts turned to Luke. 

Every time his memory rose in her mind, a wave of shame washed over her, filling her chest with a hollow ache that threatened to consume her. She could still see him, her younger brother with his earnest eyes and devotion, always so quick to defend her, so eager to prove himself. The thought of his smile, his voice, twisted painfully inside her, and yet it was nothing compared to the shame that came when she remembered what she had allowed to unfold between herself and Aemond.

The very man who had ended Luke’s life had become the one she had, against all reason, allowed between her legs–allowed into her heart. It felt like a betrayal so deep that her soul recoiled from it, as if she could cleanse herself through sheer force of will. But no amount of denial could erase the truth: she had wanted him, had let her heart and body betray her brother’s memory. 

What kind of sister was she, to feel anything but hatred for Aemond? To feel her pulse quicken at the sight of him, to betray Luke with every stolen glance and whispered touch. She had seen her reflection in the mirror that evening, and she barely recognized the woman staring back–a woman tangled in a web of desire and grief, a woman who loved the one she should despise.

She drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them tightly as if to contain the guilt that seeped into her very bones. There was no one she could confess to, no one who could understand. She was utterly alone in this torment, bearing the unbearable weight of loving a man who had torn her family apart.

She wanted to convince herself it had only been desire–that it had only ever been lust, a fleeting need she could cast off as quickly as it had come. But deep down, in the hollowed, ravaged remains of her heart, Daenera knew this was a lie she could no longer cling to. Desire did not leave scars the way love did; it did not tear through a person, leaving them raw and exposed, the way love could. Lust didn’t destroy, didn’t reduce one’s world to ruins the way love did.

She had loved him once. Before.

Before he had taken to the skies on Vhagar, before he had set his sights on her brother, before he had chased him through the clouds and torn him from this world. Before he had become the hand that struck Luke down, the one who wore his guilt like a twisted badge of pride, savoring the bloodshed he’d brought to her family.

The knowledge of it lodged deep within her like a needle, sharp and unrelenting, piercing the tender, frayed edges of her heart over and over again. She could feel each one of those needles now, like her heart had been made a pincushion of, each memory of him driving the agony deeper, each fleeting thought of her love a betrayal too raw to bear.

Black though it may be, wretched with sin and monstrous as it is, it belongs to you. My heart is yours. The words clung to her like a half-forgotten melody, pulling at her in the dark.

He had spoken those words as if they could hold meaning, as if he believed she could accept them. He had let her feel the steady thud of his heart beneath her hand, burning and pulsing against the scar on her palm. But whatever beat within him wasn’t a heart. She knew that now. What he carried inside him was something dark and hollow, a festering wound that masqueraded as humanity.

She wanted to erase those words from her mind, to strip herself of their lingering weight. They were poison, festering within the wounds he had left on her heart.

She hated him. 

She hated him more deeply, more fiercely, than she had ever hated anyone. She hated him for the murder of her brother, for the lie he’d woven so seamlessly as he looked into her eyes, only to then take pride in the blood that stained his hands as if it were a mark of honor. She hated him for trapping her in this gilded cage, binding her to him with vows she had no choice but to take–hated him for the vows he had given her, the lies they were. She hated him for the treachery against her mother, for supporting his brother’s claim to the throne that should never have been his. 

But more than anything, she hated him for making her love him. 

And worst of all, she hated herself for allowing it–for every stolen glance, for every moment of weakness, for every flicker of her heart that betrayed her resolve. Her fingers dug into her palms as she laid there in the dark, her own self-loathing a blade she had yet to pull free, twisting ever deeper with each reminder of her weakness. 

He was a kinslayer. A monster. Perhaps, she thought, he had always been so—and she had simply refused to see it, blinded by the gentleness of his touch, by the way he had embraced the darkness that lurked within her own soul. He had never flinched from the shadows within her; instead, he had drawn closer, coaxing them out as if they were something precious to him.

And she had loved him–a monster.

“I loved the monster,” the tale begins, whispered to young girls as they grow, a caution wrapped in shadows. And, as all stories go, the monster eventually devours her, or she finds herself undone, breaking upon the rocks of her own ruin. For as soon as one speaks of love, the monster’s shadow lingers, waiting.

Daenera had heard these stories before, tales of the beast in a lover’s skin, of love’s teeth that bit down with a force stronger than the heart could bear. And yet, in her own foolishness, she had loved him, had crossed that threshold and willingly taken the monster’s hand.

Now, as she lay alone in bed, the weight of her own story settled upon her like a curse she had unwittingly invited, each whispered word from those old stories haunting her as if they had always been meant for her.

The realization twisted within her, sharp as a blade, as she wondered what that made of her. What kind of person could love a man capable of such cruelty, of spilling her own brother’s blood and reveling in the ruin he had left behind?

And in the cold silence of the room, the question echoed endlessly, haunting her: What was she, to have loved a monster?

It was a thorn embedded deep within her, a sharp, bitter sting lodged too far to pull free. No matter how she tried, it twisted and festered, reminding her of its presence with each breath she took. In the hollow of her chest, she felt a heartbeat that wasn’t wholly her own–a relentless, pounding rhythm belonging to something furious and vengeful. This darkness prowled the ruins of her heart like a caged beast, bristling with anger, seething with bitterness, and aching for vengeance. 

This darkness had guided her hand, had pressed the blade into her palm with grim determination, reopening old wounds as if by shedding her own blood, she could bind herself to some unbreakable vow. She had felt it compel her to hold her hand over the flames, the searing heat a twisted kind of ritual, the fire licking at her skin as she spoke her curses aloud, her words spilling into the shadows, desperate and forceful, as though her voice alone could give life to the retribution she craved.

In that moment, it was as if her very soul had darkened, like ash scattering in the fire’s glow, driven by an impulse she could not control. The room around her had felt thick with her own resolve. 

She had known, even then, what she would do–and what it would cost her. 

Aemond’s presence pressed upon her, even as he lay out of sight, shrouded in shadows on the distant chaise. He was as wakeful as she was. She could feel him, his silent watchfulness creeping under the very blankets she clutched to her chest, as if his mere presence could invade her thoughts and burrow into her heart–he would find he was already there. Frustrated, she rolled to her other side with an irritated sigh, hoping to calm the unsteady rhythm of her heart.  

The boy with the stars in his eyes.

And then, like a whisper in the dark, the witch’s voice slithered through her mind, taunting her from the shadows of her thoughts: “The human heart is a devious thing, little princess. In the heart of your enemy, there lies your love.”

In the end, it seemed that love would make a monster of her as well. 

If it hadn’t already. 

Daenera let her eyes flutter shut, her lids having grown too heavy for her to resist. She forced herself to breathe through the tightness that clung to her throat, the ache in her chest swelling with each heartbeat. Weariness weighed heavily upon her, seeping into her bones and settling there like molten lead. It was a kind of exhaustion that crept under the skin and clawed at the very thoughts. She could feel the days behind her–each one marked by sorrow, bitterness, and the lingering sting of betrayal–pressing down on her. 

And still, in some distant corner of the ruins that were her heart, she felt his presence lingering–a decay that clung to her, a whisper of longing she could not fully banish. It was a rot, a deep-seated yearning for the comfort of his arms around her, for the warmth of him to seep into her, for the ease and safety that had once seemed so simple. This desire gnawed at her, a reminder of what she could never have without sacrificing a part of herself, yet it remained, stubborn and haunting, buried within the rubble of her fractured heart.

The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional crack and hiss of the embers and the faint rustle of her shifting against the sheets. Every inch of her felt heavy, her limbs sinking into the mattress as though it were pulling her under. She felt him there, as though an invisible thread connected them, strained and taut. 

Her fingers curled around the edges of the blanket, clutching it tightly as she brought it over her shoulders, settling more determinedly into the bed. The room felt like a prison, the shadows pressing in around her, and she felt trapped between the warmth of the memories that haunted her and the bitter truth of the present. Even the air seemed weighted, carrying a faint chill that seeped through her nightgown, wrapping around her like a reminder of everything that lay beyond this silent room.

In the dark, Daenera lay there, trying to ward off the memories, the fears, the fatigue that felt as though it were slowly consuming her. But the ache persisted, throbbing in her chest like an open wound, a constant reminder that there was no escaping what lay ahead.

Gradually, Daenera felt her mind begin to slip away, the darkness wrapping around her like a heavy shroud, pouring into her thoughts and pulling her down into a fitful, restless sleep.

In this murky space, there were no dreams to guide her–only a formless, shifting darkness that her mind drifted in and out of, like a ship lost at sea. Her body felt oddly distant, weighed down, as if she were no longer fully anchored to it. She floated somewhere within herself, loosely tethered, unable to reach out or reclaim control. Her limbs felt heavy, foreign, a dull ache reminding her of a presence she couldn’t quite inhabit.

Her mind floated aimlessly, caught in currents of shadow, suspended between awareness and oblivion, carried along into a darkness that offered no comfort, only an endless, disquieting emptiness.

Slowly, warmth began to seep into her, chasing away the lingering chill and pulling her gently from the depths of sleep. She floated just on the edge of wakefulness, somewhere in the distance, she heard a dull thump, a sound that ripped through her awareness. 

It was not long after she was yanked abruptly from her slumber. The heavy curtains were thrown open, flooding the room with a harsh, blinding light that stabbed at her eyes. The sharp sound of metal scraping against metal needled at her nerves, jarring her fully–and groggily–awake. She winced, the sudden brightness forming an ache behind her eyes as she wearily pushed herself up, one arm bracing her weight as she pressed the heel of her other hand to her temple, trying to block out the assault of morning. 

“It is time to get up!” Came Mertha’s shrill voice as she moved across the room, tugging another curtain open with a determined yank. Sunlight streamed in with even greater intensity, filling every shadowed corner. “There is much to do today, and you cannot lie in bed all day, try as you might. Up, up, up!”

Daenera blinked, her eyelids heavy as she squinted against the sudden flood of daylight pouring into the room. Mertha flitted around the room with a clatter, pulling the thick curtains aside with unnecessary vigor and  little regard for Daenera’s state, allowing the morning sun to banish any lingering darkness. Sleep had been elusive, and now it clung to her stubbornly, her limbs feeling leaden and uncooperative. Her skin tingled unpleasantly, protesting the abrupt transition from restless slumber to wakefulness.

Daenera’s gaze drifted to the chaise, a faint frown tugging at her brow, as though she half-expected to find him still lounging there. She knew, of course, that he was gone–the hollow feeling in her chest confirmed it well enough. Yet the chaise seemed unnervingly empty, stripped of the warmth of his presence, the only trace of him left in the form of his ruined shirt, neatly folded atop the cushions.

Her eyes wandered to the small table beside it. A crumpled cloth lay discarded there, its once-white fabric now marred with patches of dried blood, blooming like rust against the pale linen. A few stray shards of glass glinted in the morning light, scattered across the wooden surface like slivers of ice. And then, her gaze fell upon a small ceramic jar. Recognition struck her, and her chest tightened, an uneasy twist roiling in her stomach. She knew what it contained–ointment for his wound, something she made once, long ago. 

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and cast a withering glance at Mertha as she moved towards the hearth, watching as the woman bent down to add another log to the half-burnt remnants in the fire already. The warm light flickered and caught the scowl that settled over Mertha’s face as a faint crunch sounded beneath her shoes as she shifted. She stopped in her tracks, lifting the hem of her skirt carefully, revealing shards of glass scattered across the stone floor, glinting faintly in the firelight. 

Mertha’s gaze shot up, sharp and accusatory, her eyes narrowing as they settled on Daenera, suspicion clear in every deep line of her expression. There was a hardened reproach in ehr stare, the kind that left little room for explanation–that said that she’d already decided that she was to blame. 

“What did you do?” Mertha sneered as she carefully sidestepped the shards of glass scattered across the floor, her gaze fixed on Daenera. Her brow creased, her lips twisted into a disapproving frown.

“Me?” Daenera glared back at Mertha in exasperation. “I didn’t do anything–”

Mertha’s eyes narrowed, and she gestured towards the mess. “Then why, pray tell, is there glass all over the floor? Care to explain that, cursed child?”

“Because,” She continued pointedly, “Aemond dropped the wine glasses when he tripped over a chair. It seems a single eye isn’t enough to catch sight of a simple chair in his way.”

It was a lie, of course. 

She’d been the one to knock the wine goblets from his hands–she had been the one to make him kneel in front of her. The memory stirred within her–the intensity of his gaze when he had looked up at her, the warmth of his hands pressing against her thighs, the way he had leaned into her with the reverence of a tamed beast. 

A tightness bloomed in her chest at the thought, a lingering ache she could not quite name. She wasn’t sure if it was shame or something else–something she dared not fully examine, something she refused to acknowledge. It settled there, heavy and unsettling, a whisper of emotion that crept in uninvited. 

She recalled his early visits to her chambers, how he had first navigated the unfamiliar space with caution. He would slip into her room under the cover of darkness, moving almost silently but for the occasional scuff of his boot as it caught on the foot of a chair or brushed against the bedframe. 

Those initial moments had been filled with quiet frustration on his part, a stifled sigh when his hand grazed an unexpected object, the faintest wince of embarrassment at the slightest misstep. At first, she hadn’t noticed it. Like so many things with him, it had crept up slowly, revealing itself in the small, unguarded moments. But then she began to see it–the way he moved, the subtle sweep of his hand in front of him, his fingers brushing the air as he felt out the space. It was a gesture so careful, so practiced, born of his singular vision, a habit ingrained deeply from years of compensating for what he lacked.

After throes first months, his steps became surer, his movements looser as if he had mapped every corner and curve of her chambers into his mind. He no longer groped in the dark but moved with an assuredness that sometimes caught her off-guard. 

They should have made her chambers their marital quarters, she thought sourly. She would have much preferred the familiarity of her own room, smaller though it was, over these chambers. At least there, she would feel a sense of grounding, surrounded by what was hers. And, she supposed, Aemond wouldn’t have to map out new surroundings.

The thought of his comfort, so unexpectedly mingling with her own frustration, lodged within her bitterly, catching her off guard. She bristled at the feeling, hating that she had thought of him at all. 

Mertha clicked her tongue in disapproval, sweeping through the room with practiced efficiency. She strode to the archway leading into the common room, snapping her fingers sharply at a nearby servant who happened to be within earshot. “You there,” she ordered briskly, “see that the floors are swept at once.”

Within moments, two servants entered the chamber quietly, heads bowed as they moved toward the hearth. Without a word, they began gathering the shards, their brushes scraping across the cold stone floor. The soft, scratchy sound filled the room, punctuated by the occasional chime of glass fragments clinking against one another. As they swept, the brittle shards glinted faintly in the morning light, fragile reminders of the night’s forgotten indulgence.

Finally, one of the servants gathered the shards carefully into a small metal pan, tilting it into a bucket with a hollow clatter that rang louder than before, echoing briefly through the chamber before fading into silence.

Mertha appeared at her side, breaking the moment with a loud, disapproving huff. She eyed Daenera critically, her hands fussing at the bed linens. “Would you put your teat away,” she muttered, her tone edged with irritation, as though Daenera were some errant child caught in a state of disarray.

Daenera glanced down at herself, noticing the state of her nightgown. The wide neckline had slipped down over one shoulder, exposing a fair portion of her chest to the warm morning air. Her dark curls spilled loosely over her skin, but they did little to shield her, framing the bare curve of her shoulder instead. She frowned, more out of mild irritation than any sense of modesty, tugging the thin fabric up slightly.

“What are you wearing?” Mertha’s tone dripped with disapproval, her familiar scowl deepening as she tried, unsuccessfully, to avert her gaze while still glaring with all the force of a reprimand. 

Daenera raised an eyebrow, her voice dry. “A nightgown.”

“That is not a nightgown,” Mertha retorted loudly, sweeping across the room with an indignant huff. She snatched the discarded robe from the floor, shaking it out with the exaggerated zeal of someone driven by moral outrage. “That scrap is more suited to the Street of Silk than to a lady’s chamber. It’s barely fabric at all.”

Daenera’s frown deepened, her eyes following Mertha with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “You don’t think whores wear nightgowns?”

With a sharp exhale, Mertha returned to her side, her patience visibly thinning. “Oh, I’m sure they do,” she replied with a dry huff. “And something like that, no doubt.” With a swift motion, she tossed the folded robe onto Daenera’s lap, clearly expecting her to use it to cover herself. “Cover yourself up.”

But Daenera didn’t move. Instead, she leaned back, her gaze fixed on Mertha with an almost childlike defiance. “Why should I?”

Mertha stared at her, her mouth tightening into a thin line. “Because it's indecent.”

Daenera rolled her eyes, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she watched Mertha continue her fussing. The older woman marched over to the chest of nightgowns, her expression settling into a look of profound disapproval as she regarded the collection of pale fabrics inside, each one seemingly more offensive to her sensibilities than the last.

“These… garments,” Mertha began with a disapproving click of her tongue, “these scraps you call nightgowns, are hardly fit for a lady’s chamber. There’s barely enough fabric in them to use for cleaning rags.” She shook her head, casting Daenera a sidelong glance that was more cutting than respectful. “Perhaps it would be wiser to use them as cleaning cloth–if, of course, there’s even enough cloth to make them worth the trouble.” She made a disgusted sound, “A proper lady might prefer a nightgown with a bit more… dignity.”

“Aemond seemed more than pleased with it,” Daenera replied smoothly, her voice a careful blend of casual indifference and a pointed challenge. A memory flickered in her mind, unbidden–the way his gaze had lingered on her, consuming every inch of her as if nothing else existed. Gooseflesh spread across her skin, trailing up her spine to prickle at the back of her neck and she shifted uncomfortably, pushing the feeling aside. 

“It would be a shame,” she continued, holding Mertha’s gaze, letting each word fall deliberately from her tongue, “if he discovered you’ve had them discarded without much thought.” Her words were thick and cloying like honey, though carried a poisoned undertone. “I’d hate to see how… displeased he might be with you, Lady Mertha, if you were to remove them.”

The older woman stiffened, a flicker of irritation flashing across her face as she tugged sharply at the wrinkle in the bedsheets. Her jaw tigened and she gave a small, frustrated huff as she tugged at an imaginary wrinkle in the blankets, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her hands found the edges of the bedding, and, without a moment’s hesitation, she yanked the covers away from Daenera, tossing them aside with visible irritation, as if dealing with a stubborn child rather than a princess. 

“Up with you now, Princess,” Mertha said, her tone clipped and tinged with the impatience of someone who had long since lost her patience.Daenera cast a slow, dismissive glance toward the window, noting how the early light spilled softly across the sky, painting it in delicate shades of pink and gold. The sun was barely beginning its ascent, the horizon still hushed and gentle, yet here was Mertha, already bustling as though midday had passed. 

“There's much to be done,” Mertha continued briskly, her hands moving in swift, precise gestures as she tugged at the linens from the bed. “You cannot languish here all day, try as you might.”

Daenera shot a fierce glare at Mertha, the morning air prickling her bare legs as she shifted grudgingly to the edge of the bed. Mertha, undeterred, fussed over the disheveled covers with an obsessive persistence, tugging them back into place even as she sat in the way. With each sharp tug and adjustment, the old hag edged closer, her movements brisk and invasive, until she was practically hovering over Daenera, her presence pressing and unyielding.

“The only people who can afford to spend their days sprawled in bed are down on the Street of Silk,” Mertha muttered, her voice tinged with an exasperated scold. As if to punctuate her point, she nudged Daenera with her elbow, pushing her firmly off the bed’s edge. Daenera stumbled to her feet, her bare soles meeting the cool, unforgiving stone of the floor as she instinctively took a step back, putting distance between herself and Mertha’s domineering attentions.

With a final, irritated sweep of her hands, Mertha smoothed the covers, her fingers moving with a practiced efficiency that was as much a reprimand as it was a chore. Seemingly satisfied, she straightened, turning to face Daenera with a look that was both reproachful and expectant.

“If you wish to call me a whore, Lady Mertha,” Daenera said, her voice a steely thread of challenge, “then have the courage to say it.”

Mertha’s eyes narrowed, her expression hardening. Her lips pursed as though she tasted something sour as she casted a quick, dismissive glance towards the servants who were quietly working to clean the room, collecting the shards of glass from the table beside the chaise. Her mouth tightened in disapproval before she returned her gaze to Daenera. 

“I wouldn’t dare, Princess,” she replied coolly, her tone carefully measured, almost biting. 

A faint, satisfied smirk played at the corner of Daenera’s lips. “Good,” she hummed, her eyes gleaming. “Then it seems you remember your place.”

The expression on Mertha’s face soured considerably, her scowl deepening as she turned back to the bed, her movements brisk. She reached for the robe that lay draped across the covers, gathering it up before holding it out stiffly in Daenera’s direction. 

“Please, cover yourself, Princess,” she said, tone thick with reproach. “This isn’t appropriate. A lady should be mindful of her modesty–and a princess most of all.”

“Tell me, Lady Mertha,” Daenera drawled, a slow smirk forming on her lips, “is it jealousy that makes you so sour and bitter?” 

She made no move to pull up her nightgown, allowing it to rest where it had slipped–fallen off one shoulder and hanging loosely on the edge of the other, barely clinging. The fabric dangled precariously, exposing the curve of her bare breast to the soft wash of morning light filtering through the window. The sheer material did nothing to hide her, the outline of her body clear as day, the dark hint of her nipple visible through the fabric’s delicate weave. 

Mertha’s gaze flickered over her, and a flash of disapproval creased her brow, her lips pressed in a thin line. She glared at her with barely disguised irritation, her discomfort palpable in the set of her shoulders, in the tension bristling through her stance. Yet Daenera held her ground, tilting her head in defiance, daring Mertha to do or say anything. 

She knew she was goading her, pushing the boundaries of their strained civility, but at this moment, Daenera cared little for the pretense she’d tried to maintain over the past days. Whatever punishments Mertha might consider hardly mattered to her now; the older woman’s scorn was as unimportant to her as a draft in an open hallway. Her skin prickled with tension, a restlessness coiling beneath the surface like a serpent poised to strike. She felt as if her very nerves were exposed and merely being awake in this world needled at them.

If Mertha’s patience was thin, Daenera’s was gone entirely, worn away by days of simmering discontent. 

 “Jealousy?” Mertha scoffed, her voice heavy with contempt. Her lips twisted into a scornful scowl, her expression etched with lines of displeasure that made her look older than her years, as though the weight of her own bitterness had aged her prematurely.

“Are you jealous because I am younger and prettier than you?” Daenera drawled, her voice laced with a taunting sweetness as she let the nightgown slip fully off her other shoulder. The soft, sheer fabric slid from her skin in a gentle whisper, brushing over her bare limbs before pooling in a pale, silken heap at her feet, leaving her completely naked. She stood unperturbed by the quiet movements of the servants around the room. 

The glower on Mertha’s face grew as she snatched up the robe from the bed, her hands moving in short, irritable gestures as she unfolded it. She held it out with a commanding grip, her posture rigid, as if by sheer will could she force her into it.

“Every flower wilts in time, and yours will be no different. Vanity is hardly a virtue worth clinging to,” she huffed, her words clipped. “Beauty fades, Princess. And what will you have then?”

Daenera held Mertha’s glare with a steady, faintly amused look, slipping her arms into the robe with a sense of indifference. She allowed Mertha to pull it up over her shoulders, the older woman’s movements brisk and agitated as she fastened the robe around Daenera’s waist with a sharp tug, ensuring the fabric was securely in place. She stepped out of the crumbled nightgown at her feet, her bare toes whispering against the cool stone floor as she crossed the room towards the dressing table.

“My insolence, I suppose,” she answered, her tone light, an amused edge lacing her words as she glanced back at Mertha. “Because I will always be younger and prettier than you.”

Mertha’s eyes narrowed. “The gods see all, Princess,” She scooped up the discarded nightgown from the floor, grumbling, “ when you stand before them, they will see through every veil, every vanity, every prideful thought. There will be no hiding behind your beauty or charms then. They demand piety, humility, decency–only true virtue will matter, and I fear you will be found… lacking.”

Daenera rolled her eyes, settling into the chair before the dressing table with an air of languid defiance. She swept her hands through her hair, gathering it back over her shoulders in a smooth, practiced motion, her fingers brushing beneath her wild curls and getting stuck. Her gaze lingered in the mirror, where she watched everything behind her–the way Mertha moved briskly around the room, folding the discarded nightgown with tight, irritated motions before setting it aside as if it were something unclean, something that offended her delicate sensibilities. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she snapped her fingers at the servants, directing them to strip and remake the bed.

With an air of quiet dread, the woman stepped behind Daenera, her presence looming like a storm over her. She reached for the brush on the table, her fingers curling around it with a kind of resigned determination, before gathering a thick handful of Daenera’s hair in her hands.

Mertha began working through the tangled ends, her movements rough and unrelenting. Each pass of the brush was more a battle than a grooming, the bristles scraping against Daenera’s scalp and tugging uncomfortably at her strands. The sensation sent prickles across her skin, a mix of discomfort and indignation, but she remained still, her face calm and composed, refusing to give Mertha the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.

Through the mirror, she could see the hard set of Mertha’s mouth, the tension in her jaw as if she took a certain satisfaction in her rough handling, a wordless reprimand hidden beneath the guise of dutiful care.

Daenera drew in a slow breath, allowing a faint, almost pitying smile to play on her lips. “I imagine your husband finds little warmth in your bed, Lady Mertha. A man needs more than scowls and sermons to keep him satisfied, wouldn’t you agree? One can’t help but pity the poor man,” she continued, her voice heavy with mock sympathy. “Enduring the nightly penance of sharing his bed with someone so utterly… devoid of allure. Perhaps a nightgown like mine might grant him a moment’s reprieve from his endless suffering.” She paused, her lips curving with a hint of mischief. “I shall have one of my nightgowns altered and sent to your chambers–”

“You will do no such thing!” Mertha snapped, her voice as sharp as a blade. Her grip tightened on the brush, and she dragged it forcefully through Daenera’s curls, yanking with enough intensity to jerk her head back, sending a sharp, stinging pull through her scalp. 

Mertha glared at Daenera through the mirror, indignation flaring in her muddled gray eyes, her cheeks flushed with a rising, barely-contained fury. For a tense, silent moment, it seemed she might actually strike Daenera, her hand twitching as though it hovered on the brink of abandoning all restraint. Her grip on the brush had become so fierce that Daenera half-expected the wood to crack under the pressure.

Her gaze flickered briefly to the servants, who moved quietly in the background, stripping the bed and gathering the discarded linens with practiced indifference, their heads turned down to avoid witnessing the escalating tension between the two women. As her eyes returned to Daenera, they had taken on a chill, a cold, calculated disdain settling over her expression, as if she were steeling herself against further provocation.

Without warning, Daenera felt the sting of fingers pinching the sensitive flesh at the back of her arm. The jolt of pain made her flinch, pulling her arm away with a startled, “Ow!”

But Mertha didn’t relent, her grip tightened as she continued to pinch, each squeeze carrying a punishing force that would surely leave bruises. Her voice was low and tense, almost a sneer as she feigned apology, “Oh, forgive me, Princess. Your hair is simply so unruly this morning.”

Daenera twisted in her seat, turning fully to glare at the older woman, her eyes filled with annoyance. “If it’s proving too difficult for you, Lady Mertha, then hand me the brush,” she said coldly. “I’ll do it myself. You may go prepare my attire for the day.”

“Princess,” Mertha replied tersely, her tone laced with forced decorum before she turned sharply on her heel. She strode towards the small adjacent room where Daenera’s clothes were kept, disappearing from sight. 

Daenera turned back to the mirror, her gaze settling on her own reflection with a quiet, critical stare. The pale cast of her skin seemed starker in the morning light, and faint shadows clung beneath her eyes, the lingering evidence of another long, restless night. A weary heaviness seemed to press down on her shoulders, a weight that seeped into her bones.

With a sigh, she lifted the brush, gently working it through her tangled hair, feeling each knot as a reminder of her own carelessness. She mentally chided herself for not binding it up the night before; now, the unruly strands resisted, catching the brush with stubborn snarls that took patience and effort to smooth out. It was a slow, methodical process, her motions calm but deliberate, each stroke restoring some small sense of order to the chaos of her morning.

Finally, she gathered a few strands, twisting them deftly into a small braid that she pinned back, keeping the hair from falling into her face. The simple act brought a faint, fleeting sense of satisfaction.

By the time Daenera finished taming her hair, Mertha had laid out a dress over the freshly made bed. It was a gown of soft green brocade with intricate golden trim, its fabric rich and heavy, cut in the stately silhouette favored by the dowager queen herself–Daenera thought even the fabric might be the same. The sight of it made her press her lips together. 

With a quiet sigh, Daenera slipped off her robe, allowing Mertha to guide her into her small clothes. THe woman’s hands were brisk and impersonal as she helped her into a thin cotton shift and a set of undergarments. Mertha then lifted a light blue underdress over her head, arranging it neatly before draping the green gown over her shoulders, the fabric cascading down to her feet. 

As Mertha tightened the laces along the back, her fingers tugging each one with a bit more force than necessary, she muttered, “You’re getting fat.” Her tone was barely audible but laced with that familiar hint of criticism. “It’s all those sweets and cakes you indulge in.”

Daenera regarded her reflection in the floor-length mirror, her eyes narrowing slightly as she scrutinized her figure. Her hand drifted over her stomach, feeling the slight curve there; it was likely just a touch of bloating, nothing more, yet Mertha’s comment lingered. She raised her chin defiantly, her expression hardening. “Good,” she said dryly, “maybe I want to get nice and fat.”

Mertha let out a sharp, disapproving tsk, shaking her head. “No husband wants a fat wife,” she muttered, her tone dripping with the familiar disdain.

But Daenera knew better. She could recall her first husband’s preference with vivid clarity. He had favored the company of fuller women so strongly that he’d taken a mistress of ample size, indulging himself there without restraint. It had suited her just fine, she thought with a wry smile. As long as he had spent his attention–and seed–elsewhere, she had been content.

“Is that why your husband won’t touch you?” Daenera asked, a measured thoughtfulness to her tone. She tugged at the fabric of her dress, smoothing her hand down its front. “You don’t exactly have the figure of–ow!” Her words were cut short as Mertha’s fingers clamped down on the flesh of her hip, delivering a sharp pinch that stung enough to make her wince. “Would you stop that?!”

Mertha’s gaze was cool and entirely unapologetic. “I would, if you’d stop behaving like an insolent child.” She looked at Daenera with the same familiar disapproval she always wore. “My marriage bed is no concern of yours. You’d do well to avoid speaking on matters you don’t know anything about and focus your attention on more immediate concerns.”

With practiced efficiency, Mertha picked up the waist chain laying across the bed, its delicate links catching the light as she wrapped it around Daenera’s waist. Her fingers were brisk as she guided the hook through one of the chain’s loop, fastening it with a firm click. “Women often lose their figures after bearing their first or second child,” she remarked, her tone instructive. “It wouldn’t do for you to lose yours before that time even comes. Take care not to squander your husband’s affections. Perhaps you could find some inspiration in how the dowager queen has preserved her from over the years.”

Mertha stepped back, examining her work with a critical eye, each word an implicit instruction. “It is your duty as a wife, after all.”

Daenera listened to Mertha’s voice done on, her eyes drifting up to the ceiling as she half-considered using some of the berries to silence her forever. She could grab them from their hiding place–she thought, her gaze lowering to the pillow–and shove Mertha to the ground, forcing the berries past her cracked lips as the old woman squirmed and clawed, her muffled screams filling the room. She’d clamp her hand over her mouth and pinch her nose, ensuring the sweet fruit and the seed inside would slide down her throat. It would take some time, of course, before the poison would take its effect. Too much time. 

It would be simpler, she mused, to wrap her hands around Mertha’s thin neck, to feel her bones pressing under the skin as she choked the life out of her with one decisive squeeze.

But Daenera dismissed both thoughts almost as quickly as they had surfaced. Killing Mertha would only draw further scrutiny. The consequences would be dire–stripping her of any tenuous freedoms that remained to her. For now, it was better to endure the old woman’s endless lectures and petty punishments.

When Mertha finally left the room, her voice echoing through the space as she berated the servants in the common room, Daenera moved with quiet purpose. She approached the bed, lifting the hem of her dress and planning one knee on the soft mattress, leaning forward to reach beneath the pillow. Her fingers brushed against the small pouch, and she carefully pulled it from its hiding place. Straightening up, she surveyed her small pouch with the embroidered lavender on it, the scent of the flower lingering in the air. The weight was familiar, a small comfort against the uncertainty that swirled around within her. 

With it in hand, she returned to the dressing table, selecting a pair of earrings, fastening them in her ears. She pushed aside a few pieces of jewelry until her fingers found the letter she’d tucked away earlier. Carefully, she tugged the letter away, slipping it into the bodice of her dress, where it would be safe–it seemed to burn against her skin with the words it contained. 

Daenera stepped into the common room, her gaze settling on the chaos that Mertha orchestrated with her usual shrill authority. The older woman stood in the center of the room, barking orders at the servants as they struggled to follow her ever-changing directions. She instructed them to line the chests of cloth and fabric in precise rows along the floor, only to immediately decide on a new arrangement, forcing the servants to shuffle the heavy chests once more to suit her latest whim. 

“No, not there–move them closer!” Mertha’s tone was shrill and biting, her dissatisfaction apparent in every clipped instruction. Like an agitated hen pecking at her flock, she paced back and forth, eyeing each adjustment with a scowl that only deepened as the servants struggled to keep up with her indecisive commands. “No, spread them more apart!”

It was a spectacle of unnecessary fuss, Mertha flitting from chest to chest, fussing over their placement as though the kingdom itself depended on it. And the servants scrambled to follow her every direction. 

Daenera settled herself at the long, polished table as Edelin quietly arranged the morning meal before her, each dish placed with a careful hand. One by one, bowls of fresh berries appeared–blueberries, wolfberries, raspberries, blackberries, mulberries–their colors striking against the golden light of the room. Alongside them were smaller bowls filled with a selection of nuts: almonds, walnuts, pecans, even acorns, each arranged neatly on the table. 

Edelin took two the final dishes from the servant’s tray, setting them gently on the table before her: two steaming bowls of porridge, their surfaces glistening faintly in the morning light.

A faint curl of steam rose from the surface of each, carrying a warm, earthy scent that mingled with the sweetness of the berries. She reached out for the cinnamon sugar, dusting her porridge with a generous layer until the surface was veiled in a warm, spiced coating. She took a slow spoonful, savoring the sweetness as it melted with the creamy warmth of the oats. 

The final bowl arrived–a dish of freshly sliced apples, each piece cut and arranged. Not a single seed marred their smooth, pale flesh; the cooks had taken care to remove every one of them–a precaution that had been enforced since Daenera’s conversation with Helaena about the potential uses of apple seeds, as though she could somehow manage to gather enough of them to even make the poison. 

When Edelin remained by her side, unmoving, hovering at the edge of her periphery, Daenera glanced up, catching the anxious furrow on the lady-in-waiting’s brow and the way her hands twisted in quiet distress. 

“What is it?”

Edelin hesitated, her gaze darting briefly towards Mertha before she leaned in. “It’s the prince… Aemond,” she said. “There’s been an… incident–”

“I don’t wish to hear it,” Daenera said curtly, her voice clipped with dismissal as she turned her attention back to her meal. She shook her head, her fingers resting near the lavender pouch on the table–though it did little to soothe her and the agitation stirring within her. She had no interest in hearing anything about Aemond; she did not care. 

With a quiet exhale, she scooped up another bite of porridge, the spoon hovering just before her lips as unease tightened in her stomach. Perhaps she would be so fortunate to hear that he had tripped over his own arrogance and tumbled down the castle steps to his end. If he had, surely she’d already been hauled off to some tower cell before breakfast, awaiting accusations that would come all too swiftly. 

But despite her desire to keep him out of her thoughts, the uncertainty of Edelin’s words burrowed into her mind like a thorn. It nagged at her, irritating and persistent. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and, almost despite herself, her gaze lifted again.

“What of Aemond?” She muttered irritably, her tone thick with reluctant curiosity, and shoved the spoon into her mouth. 

“There was an incident in the tiltyard this morning,” Edelin said carefully, choosing each word with caution. “The prince…seemed to be in a particularly foul mood.”

Daenera let out a soft huff, a sound that hovered between disdain and quiet amusement. A faint flicker of satisfaction stirred in her chest as she scooped another spoonful of porridge, her expression betraying a subtle smirk.

“Of course he was,” she murmured under her breath, savoring the thought of Aemond’s ill temper souring his morning. The idea of him pacing the tiltyard, frustration simmering beneath his rigid composure, pleased her in a way she couldn’t quite name. The sight would have been something to savor, a small and petty delight amidst the bitterness of her days.

She lifted the spoon to her lips, letting the warmth of the porridge fill her mouth, a thin smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she took her time, relishing the thought. 

“It involved Ser Wyllam Lefford,” Edelin continued, her voice steady as she gained confidence in her telling. “He cross paths with the prince and… made some remarks.”

Daenera’s brow lifted with mild interest as she picked up her cup of mint tea, watching the steam curl lazily from the surface. She brought it to her lips, savoring the warmth that seeped into her hands, the subtle heat prickling at her skin as she held the cup. She could only imagine the sour mood Aemond would have been in–she knew all too well that it wouldn’t take much to provoke him.

Edelin hesitated, her mouth twitching in the faintest suggestion of a smile despite her wringing hands. “Ser Wyllam found it curious, I suppose, to see the prince in the tiltyard so early after his… wedding night,” she continued, her words carefully chosen–heavy with implication. “And the word ‘kinslayer’ was mentioned…”

Daenera’s lips curled at that, a faint and involuntary smile as she imagined the scene–a knight’s careless words, the spark igniting Aemond’s temper. She sipped her tea, letting the warmth spread through her as she thought of his reaction.

“And Aemond didn't take it well,”  Edelin continued, her tone lowered yet steady, as if revealing a secret that the whole castle didn’t know by now. “He called Ser Wyllam craven, mocked his courage, and, well… they took up swords.”

Daenera inhaled deeply, letting the steam from her tea fill her senses with mint, a soothing balm against the harshness of the tale. She almost laughed, picturing Aemond’s arrogant stance, the subtle smirk that would twist his mouth as he faced Ser Wyllam. She could see the foolhardy knight settling into position, wholly unaware of his impending defeat, convinced of his own valor but blind to Aemond’s ruthless skill.

There was a certain grim amusement in imagining it–a scene as predictable as it was brutal.

“They came to blows, and the prince bested him easily,” Edelin continued, her voice dropping slightly. “But Ser Wyllam… He wouldn’t yield. He kept pushing, hurling insults–mocking the prince’s scar and…” She shifted her gaze, her eyes giving away what she couldn’t quite bring herself to say aloud–that there had been an insult involving Daenera. 

“The prince decided to leave Ser Wyllam a scar of his own,” Edelin went on. “He cut him cheek to cheek and left him bleeding in the dirt.” She paused, letting the gristly image settle between them. “He’s with the maesters now, getting tended to… though they say the scars will remain.”

Of course they would, Daenera thought. 

Daenera pursed her lips. Aemond should have killed Ser Wyllam. It would have been cleaner, easier to explain–a tragic training accident, nothing more. Leaving him alive, disfigured with scars that would forever mark him, was particularly cruel–and that would only serve to worsen his reputation. And he should know, more than anyone, that a man left with wounds of that nature would be a fertile ground for resentment and bitterness to take root. 

And yet, a shiver of something stirred in her chest–a thrill that curled around her heart and tugged at it. It was a strange, dangerous sensation, like standing mere steps from the gallows, witnessing the final moments of the condemned awaiting their fate–waiting for the stool to be kicked from beneath them, the rope snapping taut, bodies swaying in final, silent judgment. 

A flush of shame bloomed in her chest, coiling hotly beneath her ribs, the thrill she felt dissolving into something darker, more complicated. She shouldn’t find herself exhilarated by his violence, by the flash of fury she knew would have crossed his face. She shouldn’t be drawn to him in this way, shouldn’t feel that pull of fascination, that simmering, awful desire for him.

She took another sip of mint tea, hoping the warmth would drown out the bitterness that followed the flicker of excitement within her. But the taste only mingled with the lingering thrill, a reminder that whatever darkness lay within him seemed to find an answering shadow in her own heart.

Daenera swallowed her emotions, carefully smoothing her expression before turning to Edelin. “Thank you,” she said, her tone brisk, betraying none of the thoughts stirring within her. “Could you see if they’ve released Fenrick from the dungeons?”

Edelin nodded, dipping into a swift curtsy before she turned to leave. She moved deftly through the room, stepping around the chests and stacks of fabrics that seemed to shift positions with each of Mertha’s endless commands. The older woman was still fussing over the arrangements, her sharp voice cutting through the air as she directed the servants in her futile pursuit of order.

She nudged her half-eaten bowl of porridge to the side, its spoon lying idly against the rim, and drew the untouched bowl closer. The base of the ceramic scraped softly against the wood, a low, grounding sound amid the ceaseless clatter of the busy room. She cast a quick, sidelong glance at Mertha, who remained occupied with ordering the servants, her back rigid, one arm extended as she pointed sharply at a trunk, her voice carrying an edge of irritation as she directed them to unpack its contents. 

Her gaze drifted back to the small lavender pouch resting innocuously at her side. She slipped her fingers beneath the string at its opening, loosening it with a gentle tug and tilting the pouch just enough for its contents to tumble into her palm. A few sprigs of lavender spilled out along with the small, red berries nestled among the fragrant petals. Carefully, she shook off most of the lavender back into the pouch, setting it aside and focusing on the berries that remained. 

One by one, she placed them on the table before her, counting silently as she arranged them in a neat line. One, two, three, four… her fingers moved with deliberate precision, in a ritual of control, her heart pounding with her chest. Five, six, seven… her mind ticked along with the count, the rhythmic motion soothing her nerves. Eight, nine, ten. 

The berries lay in a neat line, small, dark, unassuming–each one a seed of death hidden in plain sight.

Daenera felt the weight of her actions settle around her, the heavy knowledge prickling under her skin. Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat a sharp reminder of what these berries were capable of–what they could, and would, do. Yet as dread curled at the edges of her thoughts, something else stirred within her: a quiet sense of ease, a strange calm that came with finally surrendering to the decision already made. The fear, the hesitation–it was as if they had been brushed aside by the simplicity of the act itself.

For the first time in days, Daenera felt in control, a power thrumming in her veins that quelled the chaos, if only for a moment. The choice had been made; the path lay before her. And with it came a stillness she had not known in a long, long time.

She brushed the lingering lavender petals from her palm, scattering their delicate scent into the air. She glanced up and saw Mertha inspecting lengths of brocade with a discerning eye, her fingers pinching the rich fabric as she ordered the servants to spread each one out across the table. The surface was already crowded, and soon the table would be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of material Mertha was intent on showcasing.

“Spread them out properly–no, not like that,” Mertha snapped, pointing towards the table. “The silver brocade there, the deep green beside it! I swear, you’re all as blind as bats!” She tapped her foot, watching as they struggled to arrange the brocade over the table to her liking. 

Returning her attention to her task, she began to peel the dried flesh from each berry with practiced care. The thin, shriveled skins resisted, but she separated them methodically, one by one, setting each seed aside in its own neat line. As she worked, she counted silently, each berry a steady beat in her mind. One, two, three... The gentle rhythm continued, quiet and purposeful. Four, five, six, seven… The act was methodical, almost meditative, each small movement grounding her, her heart steadying as she focused solely on the seeds. Eight, nine, ten.

Once she had stripped each berry down to its smooth, hard seed, she gathered the bits of dark, dried flesh and pushed them into a small, abandoned heap at the side of the table, out of her way.

The small, dark seeds rested in their precise row, undisturbed, as Daenera’s gaze shifted to the bowls in front of her. She reached for a small handful of blueberries and scattered them across her porridge. The dark berries stood out against the creamy oats, tiny bursts of color on the pale surface. She stirred them in slowly, watching as a few bled their juices, a faint swirl of purple spreading through the mix. Picking up a single raspberry, she popped it into her mouth, its bright sweetness blossoming on her tongue–a momentary pleasure amid her otherwise methodical work. 

With deliberate care, she added a few more berries, selecting a mix of blackberries and raspberries, letting them fall into the porridge. Her hand drifted to the bowl of walnuts beside her, each one still encased in its hard, protective shell, just as she had requested. 

She lined up the walnuts in a single row along the table, each one positioned as meticulously as the seeds before them. Next, she added a row of almonds, their smooth surfaces gleaming softly, followed by a line of pecans, their ridged shells dark and textured against the wooden table.

Once her rows were perfectly aligned, she selected a walnut from the line and placed it into the small stone bowl, setting it just so, her fingers lingering as if to ensure its exact placement. The pestle waited beside her, heavy and solid, fitting into her hand like an extension of her will. With a practiced grip, she lifted it, feeling its weight, and prepared to bring it down.

And without a moment’s hesitation, she brought the pestle down in a decisive, forceful motion. The sharp crack of the walnut's shell shattering rang out across the room, a sound so abrupt and resonant that it sliced through the steady murmur of the servants’ work. Conversations paused, hands stilled mid-task, and heads turned instinctively toward her.

Mertha whipped around, her expression darkening as her eyes fixed on Daenera, narrowing with that all-too-familiar look of reproach. “What are you doing?”

Daenera met her gaze briefly, unfazed, then brough the pestle down again with a second, satisfying crack, just to be sure. “Cracking walnuts,” she answered and set the pestle aside, reaching into the bowl to pry out the walnut’s tender center, ignoring Mertha’s pointed look. A faint bitterness spread across her tongue, earthy and sharp, but she chewed slowly, savoring it as if it were the most ordinary act in the world.

“Must you make such a–” Mertha began, her voice sharp with irritation. But her reprimand was cut short as a sudden clatter interrupted her. One of the servants had knocked over a stack of brocades, sending a cascade of richly colored fabrics spilling across the floor. Mertha’s head whipped around, her expression darkening with fury.

“Can none of you manage a simple task?” she snapped, her voice as cutting as the crack of Daenera’s pestle had been moments before. “Pick them up! They’re worth more than your entire year’s wages!”

The servants scrambled to retrieve the fallen fabric, their faces flushed with embarrassment as they hastily brushed off each piece, hands moving frantically to restore order. Their murmured apologies filled the air as they exchanged anxious glances, each hoping to escape the full brunt of Mertha’s wrath.

Mertha, however, was relentless. Her voice rose in a stream of criticism, picking apart their every movement, questioning their competence, and punctuating each remark with a disdainful sigh. Her disapproval settled heavily over the room, her fierce attention now entirely absorbed in berating them.

Taking advantage of her reprieve, Daenera allowed herself a small, fleeting smile. For once, she was invisible, shielded from Mertha’s scrutiny by the commotion. 

She placed another walnut in the mortar, bringing the pestle down with a controlled, steady force. The shell cracked with a satisfying snap, and she pried it open to reveal the softer kernel within, carefully dropping it into her porridge. At first, the sound earned her a scornful glance from Mertha, her mouth tightening as though to voice yet another reprimand, but soon Mertha’s attention drifted away entirely–just as she had intended.

Unbothered, she settled into her quiet rhythm, selecting from the rows she had so carefully arranged. She placed a walnut in the mortar, crushed it open, then reached for a pecan, then an almond, and then back to a walnut, before returning to an almond again. The order of her movements became meditative, a pattern she alone orchestrated as she cracked each shell, adding to the diminishing rows on the table.

The numbers shifted steadily under her hands–ten, seven, nine, eight. She continued, absorbed in her task as the counts dwindled further: five, four, three, six. The pile of empty shells grew beside her, while the porridge slowly filled with morsels of nuts.

Daenera tallied the nuts remaining on the table as she placed each back in its proper bowl, slowly clearing the space before her until only the small line of seeds remained. She gathered them carefully, letting them drop back into the lavender pouch with a faint rustle, and tucked it beneath her dress, slipping it into the pocket of her underdress before letting the fabric settle back into place.

Satisfied, she drew her bowl closer, the creamy porridge now flecked with nuts and berries. She stirred it thoughtfully, folding in the berries and nuts into the porridge, blending it all together. Reaching for the cinnamon sugar, she sprinkled a generous amount across the surface, letting the warm spice settle over the oats. Next came a drizzle of honey, its golden sweetness pooling between the layers, and finally, a few crisp slices of apple, their pale green skins a bright contrast against the hearty mixture. She plucked one slice for herself, savoring its fresh crunch as she let her gaze drift back to the room in time to see Edelin enter.

Daenera rose from her seat, catching Edelin’s gaze across the room. A tightness settled in her stomach, a mixture of anticipation and reluctance, as she picked up her bowl of porridge and walked purposefully toward him.

“Where are you going?” Mertha’s voice sliced through the space between them, sharp and bristling as she dismissed a servant with an impatient flick of her wrist.

“To see Fenrick off," Daenera replied, her tone cool and unyielding. “You’re welcome to stay here, if you prefer."

Mertha scoffed, her exasperation evident as she shooed away another servant, barking terse orders to hasten the final preparations. Yet, despite her clear displeasure, Mertha quickly fell in line, trailing closely behind Daenera. They each pulled a shawl over their shoulders as they left the room, its warmth a brief comfort as they stepped into the drafty corridor. The cool stone walls echoed their footsteps, and Daenera felt the weight of Mertha’s presence behind her, her reproach seeming to burn into the back of her head as they walked. 

The bowl of porridge radiated a gentle warmth, prickling against Daenera’s chilled fingers as she cradled it, its heat seeping slowly into her skin. The warmth was comforting, a small shield against the early morning air as she and Mertha moved through the shadowed corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast. Stepping out into the open, they were met by the crispness of dawn; the sky above was brightening, the earlier red hues of morning fading into a soft blue, streaked with a few wandering clouds. Despite the sunlight, a lingering chill clung to the air, sharpening every breath.

They walked in silence along the winding path toward the outer courtyard, the distant bronze gate visible ahead. Just as they neared the entrance to the courtyard, Daenera suddenly stopped, turning on her heel without a word. Her gaze drifted toward the Traitor’s Walk, and with quiet purpose, she redirected her steps toward it, the echo of her movements carrying her intentions without need for explanation.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mertha’s voice rang out, laced with indignation, as she quickened her pace to intercept Daenera, stepping squarely into her path a quarter of the way across the walk. Her expression was a storm of disapproval, her brow knit tightly in condemnation.

“You said you were going to see your traitor friend off,” she hissed, her voice low and sharp. “You have no permission to go wandering off elsewhere, let alone to the dungeons!”

Daenera halted, fixing Mertha with a withering stare. “I am going to see Patrick first. I want to ensure he’s well–”

Mertha scoffed, a bitter smirk twisting her mouth. “If you truly cared for the boy, you would have chosen to release him instead of that brute of a Dornishman.”

“Fenrick isn’t Dornish–”

Mertha let out a derisive huff, shaking her head. “His skin tells me otherwise…”

Daenera’s expression tightened, eyes narrowing coolly. “I will see Patrick. Surely, you can understand why. He’s just a child–and now, he’s to face his imprisonment alone.” Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the bowl she held, a quiet emphasis on the comfort she intended–and the mercy it would be. “Why else would I have brought this?”

Her gaze held unwavering on Mertha, cool and unyielding. "Try to find some compassion in that shriveled heart of yours, Lady Mertha. The gods might even commend you for it."

Mertha’s mouth tightened in a thin, disapproving line, but Daenera didn’t wait for a reply. Without a second glance, she stepped around her, striding past with determination, leaving the old hag to decide whether to trail after her or stay behind. She moved across the the Traitor’s Walk, a stone and wooden path flanked by pikes on one side, each bearing the grim remains of those deemed enemies of the realm–of her men. They stared down at her with their empty eye-sockets, the eyes long since plucked by crows and ravens. 

Mertha’s voice cut through the stillness like a blade, her sharp tone startling a flock of crows into flight from the battlements above. “Do you think you can just march wherever you please, Princess?” she sneered, her words dripping with contempt. “You’re not above the laws of this realm, nor beyond the reach of consequences. Traitors and criminals rot in these dungeons for a reason. Do you truly believe you can waltz in here without repercussions? That the rules don’t apply to you?”

Daenera continued forward, her posture rigid, each step purposeful as she ignored the voices behind her. She refused to look back, her gaze instead drifting upward to the looming half-round tower that housed the dungeons. The structure rose above her, its dark stone walls thick and unyielding, casting a long, oppressive shadow that stretched across the courtyard in the pale morning light.

The tower housed both the chambers of the King’s Justice and the quarters of the Chief Gaoler, as well as the barracks of the prison guards. Once, these walls had also been home to the Lord Confessor, though Larys had abandoned his residence here long ago, seemingly favoring his quarters within the Keep. The Keep and the tower remained bound by a narrow, guarded underground passage, secured by a locked iron gate and patrolled night and day.

 “Don’t you dare ignore me!” Mertha’s voice rang out, sharp and biting, echoing off the stone walls as she quickened her pace to keep up with Daenera. “I’ll see to it that you’re reprimanded for this behavior–strutting about as though you were queen herself,” she barked, her tone thick with reproach. “Mark my words, Princess, this reckless defiance will come back to haunt you, I will make sure of it. You’ll regret this, just as surely as those prisoners regret their crimes!”

As Daenera stepped through the dungeon entrance, the guards stationed there sprang to attention, rising from their posts as she approached. The heavy gate groaned in protest, its wrought iron frame scarred by rust, patches of orange corrosion bleeding into the dark metal.

“I’m here to see the boy,” she declared, her tone firm, expectant. Behind her, Mertha and Edelin kept close, shadows at her heels–watchful ones.

“She is not!” Mertha’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unyielding, as her hand shot out, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Daenera’s arm. Her nails bit in with punishing force, a silent rebuke conveyed through pain. “She has not been granted permission to enter the dungeons,” Mertha announced to the guards, her gaze narrowing as they exchanged wary glances. Turning back to Daenera, Mertha’s voice dropped to a harsh hiss, her words laced with disdain. “And no proper authority has approved this little act of compassion of yours!”

The guards looked between the two women, uncertain, their eyes flicking to Daenera for direction even as Mertha’s grip tightened, her fingers pressing bruises into her arm, as if to hold her in place by force alone.

Daenera steadied her breath, her face a mask of calm even as she resisted the urge to shove Mertha’s head into the stone wall beside them, imagining the sickening sound it would make upon impact. Instead, her voice slid smoothly, carrying the conviction of her lie. “I’ve been granted permission,” she said, her tone unwavering as she addressed the guards.

She gave each one a measured look, her gaze piercing. “My husband himself has allowed me to see the boy,” she continued, her words carefully chosen, layered with just enough subtlety to sound believable. “He knows I worry for the child, as he is my charge and he promised that I’d be allowed to see him.” She held the guard's gaze, letting her words hang in the air before glancing at Mertha, whose grip tightened painfully, sharp fingers pressing deeper into her skin.

Daenera did’'t flinch; instead, she leaned slightly into Mertha’s hold, as though inviting her silent defiance. “You may well have heard that the prince’s temper is already.” she added, her voice dropping to a lower, more dangerous tone, “less than forgiving this morning. Do you think he would take kindly to learning that his own wife was refused entry into the dungeons on his authority?” She watched the flicker of uncertainty cross the guards’ faces, relishing it.

She let silence settle between them, thick and simmering, hoping that her carefully crafted deception–and the implied threat of her husband’s wrath–would compel them to yield.

Daenera allowed herself a small, chilling smile as she fixed her gaze on the guards, her voice laced with quiet menace. “If you choose to stand my way and hold me back at her urging”–she inclined her head subtly toward Mertha, letting her disdain show through her expression–“then perhaps we’ll all share in the prince’s displeasure today.”

The guards exchanged uneasy glances, the tension between duty and fear plain on their faces. They shifted, their frowns deepening as the weight of her words sank in. The morning’s clash at the tiltyard had left a distinct impression on everyone; the prince’s wrath had been swift and merciless, and the memory of it still lingered.

Mertha’s lips tightened, but she reluctantly released her grip, her fingers sliding off Daenera’s arm with visible reluctance. Yet before she fully let go, she leaned in close, her voice a barely audible hiss. “The dowager queen will hear of this,” she whispered, her tone brimming with barely-contained spite.

Daenera raised an eyebrow, meeting Mertha'’ gaze without flinching. “Then be sure she hears every word,” she replied, her voice as smooth as silk yet cold as winter frost.

One of the guards detached a torch from the wall, its flame sputtering in the damp air, leaving a dark, sooty impression on the stone where it had been held. The imprint lingered like a shadow etched into the rock. The guard turned and motioned for them to follow, leading them past the iron gate and through a warped wooden door, its gray planks splintered and rough to the touch.As the door creaked shut behind them, they descended deeper into the bowels of the dungeons.

Daenera turned, passing the bowl of porridge to Edelin, who took it with careful hands. The lingering warmth from the bowl clung to Daenera’s palms, a fleeting comfort in the cold, damp air of the dungeons. Free now, her hands felt strangely empty, but she flexed her fingers, preparing to offer comfort to Patrick in whatever way she could. 

The air was heavy, a thick, choking mix of stale odors–piss, excrement, the unmistakable tang of decay. Rats scurried along the walls, quick and furtive, fleeing the torchlight that threw twitching shadows across the damp, moss-laden stones. Daenera’s eyes narrowed, steeling herself against the filth and darkness, her mind focused only on the purpose that had brought her into this squalor.

Thin slivers of daylight pierced the shadows, filtering through the narrow winds set high in each cell. As Daenera and her small company  moved through the dim corridor, faces emerged from behind iron bars–men whose eyes tracked their every step, glinting with a mix of malice and hunger. Some prisoners stretched their arms through the gaps, fingers clawing at the air and brushing the hem of her skirts, their nails chipped and grime-streaked. 

Jeers and hisses echoed off the stone walls, mingling with crude laughter that curled with bitterness, filling the stale air. Yet beneath their taunts, softer voices rose, murmurs of desperation–please and fragmented prayers, slipping past cracked lips. Daenera moved steadily through the clamor, her expression a mask of resolve, her gaze fixed ahead, as if the pleas and taunts were no more than whispers of the wind–because they were no more than that. She could do nothing for them, nor was she sure she would. 

Behind her, Mertha grumbled under her breath, swatting away reaching hands, seemingly unafraid, while Edelin squeaked, clutching the bowl tighter and quickening her step to walk right behind Daenera. 

At last, they stopped before a small, dingy cell. Inside, a boy sat on a narrow cot, his thin shoulders cloaked in a ragged blanket. Grime and streaks of tears marred his face, his eyes puffy and red. At the sound of the guard halting, he looked up, eyes widening with recognition and hope. 

As the guard slid the torch into a holder beside the cell, casting a warm, flickering light, the boy sprang to his feet. He stumbled towards the door, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste, his small hands reaching through the bars to grasp at Daenera’s skirts. His cheeks were damp, fresh tears spilling down as his voice broke with emotion.

“M-my lady-princess!” He choked out, his voice tight with despair. “They took Fenrick–they said he was going to be released, but they took him like they did the others!” His grip tightened, as if Daenera alone could shield him from whatever fate lay ahead. “They…they took him!” The boy sobbed, his small hands gripping her skirts as if he could somehow pull her through the iron bars to be closer to him. “Now I’m all alone! I’m scared–Fenrick told me not to be, said you’d find a way. But I’m scared…” His misty eyes looked up at her in desperation and fear. “Did they kill him like they did the others?”

“Fenrick is fine,” Daenera replied softly, stepping forward until she was able to reach through the bars, her hand brushing gently over his matted hair, her fingers moving with a mother’s tenderness. “He’s fine.”

Patrick pressed his face against the cold bars, straining as though he might somehow push his way through to her. His fingers continued to clutch at her skirts, a frantic grip only a frightened child could muster. 

“But they took him, like the others!” He cried, his voice raw. “I heard them–I know what they did!”

Daenera’s heart twisted painfully at the thought of this boy, trapped here, forced to listen as his friends were led away one by one to meet their ends at the gallows. She imagined him curled in some dark corner, helpless as the echoes of death reverberated through the stone walls, knowing that they would soon come for him too. And how terrified he must have been when they came for Fenrick. 

“Fenrick is alive and safe, Patrick,” She murmured, her voice steady though her throat tightened with emotion. “He’s safe, I swear it. They’ve released him.” 

When the boy finally lifted his head, Daenera saw his red, swollen eyes, the evidence of sleepless nights and relentless tears–his cheeks were streaked with pale lines, revealing the boy beneath the grime. His nose was chafed and puffy, a thin line of snot trailing down to his cracked, parched lips. The sight stirred something deep and painful within her–a gnawing shame that she couldn’t bear to ignore, a sharp urge to gather him into her arms, to soothe the sorrow and fear etched across his face.

She swallowed, blinking back her own emotion as she turned toward the guard, her gaze expectant. She waited in silence, willing him to open the door that separated her from the boy. The guard hesitated, his hand moving to the ring of keys at his belt, the metallic jingle loud in the heavy silence.

But before he could act, Mertha’s cold voice cut through the moment. “Do not open that door,” she commanded, each word edged with authority. “The princess has received no permission to do so. Once you open it, I doubt the boy will willingly return to his cell.” Her gaze held firm, betraying no trace of sympathy as she surveyed the scene.

Daenera leveled a sharp, icy glare at Mertha before shifting her gaze to the guard, her expression hardening with a quiet, commanding authority that seemed to fill the space between them. She let a heavy silence hang for a moment, studying the guard with a cold, unwavering stare. Then, in a voice as sharp as a blade, she said, “Open the door.”

The guard hesitated, his eyes flickering uncertainty. Sensing his hesitation, Daenera’s voice dropped, her tone laced with a quiet, dangerous edge. “Unless, of course,” she added with a faintly raised brow, “you’d prefer that I inform my husband of your… inability to handle something as simple as a child.”

Her words hung in the air like a challenge, and a flicker of defiance crossed the guard's face before it quickly faded. Daenera didn’t need to raise her voice; she knew the weight of Aemond’s reputation–and the consequences he might face if he refused his wife. 

The guard fumbled with the ring of keys at his belt, each metallic clink echoing through the cold corridor. At last, he found the right key, turning it in the lock with a heavy click. The cell door creaked open, its rusty hinges groaning like a wounded aminal. Daenera suppressed a shiver as the sound clawed at her spine, a chill settling over her skin. She barely acknowledged the guard as she stepped forward, gently pulling free from Patrick’s fearful grip. 

The moment she crossed the threshold, the boy wrapped his arms tightly around her waist. He buried his face against her, his grip desperate, as if fearing she might turn to smoke at any moment. 

“Please–please, don’t leave me here,” he choked out, his voice frayed with grief and fear. “I want to go home. I want to go home to my mommy!” His words poured out, his shoulders trembling, each stance laced with despair. “I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to die. I want to go home. When will they let me go home?”

Daenera closed her eyes, his raw, pleading voice piercing her heart, each word needling into her chest until it felt almost unbearable. A prickle of tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and her throat tightened as she fought for composure. The boy’s desperation stirred something deep within her, a flicker of fierce protectiveness mingling with guilt and helplessness. Her mouth was dry, her tongue heavy against the roof of her mouth, as she struggled to find the words that might soothe his fear, though she knew any comfort she could offer would feel hollow in the face of his terror.

“You’ll be home soon,” Daenera managed, her voice steady but strained, the words both a promise and a lie. “It’s just taken a little longer than we expected to arrange everything, but tomorrow… you’ll be on your way.”

The words cut against her throat, each syllable as jagged as broken glass, but she forced them out, offering him the fragile gift of false hope. Yet, in her heart, she knew it was less a lie and more a bitter truth disguised, a desperate attempt to give him some semblance of comfort amidst the horrors surrounding him.

From outside the cell, Mertha gave a loud, disdainful huff, her disapproval practically radiating through the bars. Daenera could feel Mertha’s judgmental gaze boring into her back, laden with scorn and unspoken reproach. But she dismissed it, casting aside Mertha’s disapproval like a distant, irrelevant noise. She had more important matters here.

“Really?” His small voice quivered, and he looked up at her, his eyes wide with a hope so fiercely it nearly undid her. The tears clung to his eyelashes, shimmering in the dim light, and he blinked, as if trying to blinked away his doubts. “I’m really going home?”

She nodded, a soft, comforting smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Yes,” she murmured, brushing a tear from his cheek with a tenderness she hadn’t thought herself capable of in this moment–a tenderness that pained her. “Yes, you are.”

For a moment, a calm washed over his face, and he clung to her a little less tightly, the weight of his fears lifted, if only a little. She felt her heart constrict, knowing this calm would not last–not for her at least. But for now, she held him close, letting him bask in the warmth of her presence, and hoping that, for tonight at least, he could sleep with something other than dread in his heart. 

She knelt down to meet Patrick’s gaze, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from his face as he sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve, inadvertently smearing his tear-streaked cheeks. Her hands, soft yet steady, rested on his small shoulders, moving in slow, comforting circles along his arms as she looked at him. 

“You’ve been such a brave boy,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, though she held her composure firmly in place. She offered him a gentle, reassuring smile. “Your parents would be so proud of you, just as I am. You’ve already done so well. Just one more night, can you be brave for me, just a little while longer?”

The boy nodded, his face lighting up with a small, fragile spark of courage. Daenera’s heart ached at the sight, but she kept her smile in place, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze. 

She looked over her shoulder, signaling to Edelin with a subtle nod. The young girl stepped forward, her footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet, and paused at the cell’s threshold. She extended a bowl of porridge, steam rising in soft tendrils from its surface, filling the cool air with a warm, earthy sweetness. Daenera took it carefully, feeling its gentle warmth seep into her hands before turning back to Patrick, whose eyes had widened, following the bowl with an almost reverent gaze. 

“You’ll need all your strength for the journey home,” she murmured, gently passing the bowl into his small, eager hands. “I added berries and nuts for you,” she continued with a gentle smile,  “and a little honey and cinnamon sugar too. Eat it all up, and as you drift to sleep, think of home.”

Patrick’s gaze lifted to meet hers, wide-eyed and glistening with newfound hope. He nodded slowly, then suddenly threw his arms around her, clutching her tightly, his small hands pressing into her back as though she were the anchor keeping him steady. She closed her eyes, letting herself lean into the embrace for a moment, drawing a deep, steadying breath as she forced down the wave of emotion that threatened to spill over. 

“Thank you, lady-princess,” he murmured softly in her ear before releasing his grip, stepping back to allow her to rise to her full height once more. She watched as he retreated to the small, worn cot in the corner, clutching the bowl of porridge with a fierce grip as though fearing it would be taken from him. Settling himself down, he wasted no time, his eyes fixed intently on the food as he filled the spoon and brought it eagerly to his lips. Each bite seemed to bring a flicker of life back to his weary frame, and he ate with a hunger that spoke to more than just an empty stomach–it was a hunger for comfort, for normalcy, for home.

She lingered for a moment, watching him, the dim light casting a faint glow across his face as he ate. She felt a deep ache in her chest but swallowed it down, letting the quiet satisfaction of this small solace settle over her.

Daenera stepped out of the cell, the heavy door groaning shut behind her. She heard the metallic snap of the lock and the faint jingle of keys as they turned, a sharp reminder of the walls that separated her from the boy and everything else behind these cold, unfeeling bars. She held herself tall, her posture rigid, but her hands betrayed her–pressed tightly together, her nails digging sharply into her skin, the bite of pain grounding her in the weight of her choice. 

As she began to walk down the dim corridor, Patrick waved a small hand, his hopeful smile a faint glow in the shadows, lingering in her mind even as she forced herself to turn away. She moved deeper into the hall, where other prisoners awaited, their faces remaining half-hidden in the shadows. Hands reached out for her again, grasping desperately as she passed, fingers clawing through the gloom as if trying to drag her into their misery–into their cells as though she belonged there with them, as though wishing to drag her down into the pits of the seven hells with them. Their murmurs rose, hollow voices laced with bitterness and despair, following her down the hall like a ghostly chorus, urging her towards the edge of something darker and deeper. 

A rough hand shot out from the shadows, snagging the edge of her skirts and pulling her to a sudden halt. She looked down, her gaze hardening as her eyes fell upon the grim face pressed against the rusted iron bars. The man’s face was marred by a gruesome wound–half of his nose missing, as though savagely bitten off, the raw, jagged flesh a startling pink in the flickering torchlight. The shadows seemed to carve his features deeper, accentuating every harsh line and hollow, making his plea all the more desperate.

“Please, Princess,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and trembling. “‘M begging yer… I did nothing wrong! ‘M innocent! I’ll do anything–anything, just have mercy!”

The man’s eyes gleamed with a desperate hope, his words tumbling over one another, as if pouring out his last chance for salvation. The air was thick with the damp stench of the dungeons, his hand trembling as he clung to her skirts. 

“Get back, you beast,” the guard growled, kicking the prisoner’s hand away from her dress with rough force. The man’s grip broke, his fingers slipping from the fabric as he cringed back into the shadows. 

Daenera didn’t spare him a glance, her attention drawn instead to a distant, rhythmic sound–a cane tapping against stone, each tap reverberating down the hall like an ominous heartbeat. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled in response, instinctively bracing her for the arrival of the figure that sound heralded.

“Princess, I didn’t expect to find you here,” came the smooth, silken voice of the Lord Confessor, his words gliding through the dimness as he emerged from the shadows. He moved through thin slivers of pale light streaming from the narrow, high-set windows in each cell, stepping into the torch’s glow. The guard held the torch higher, illuminating the Confessor’s face, his eyes gleaming with a predatory sharpness. They were small, dark, and glittering with a false warmth, like the beady gaze of a rat–or perhaps something far more dangerous.

“Your man has already been released…” he continued, his gaze fixed on Daenera with an unsettling intensity, his lips curling in a hint of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I know,” Daenera replied, her voice cool and measured, her gaze unwavering as it held his. “I came to see the boy.”

“Ah,” Larys murmured, a low, unsettling sound as he tilted his head, his expression twisting into something darker than mere curiosity. “The boy is well looked after, I assure you,” he said, a hint of mockery threading through his words. “Though it’s unfortunate he must remain here…” His eyes drifted to the nearby cells, where shadowed figures leaned closer, observing with avid interest. Behind the iron bars, they shifted and muttered, faces barely visible but filled with malice or desperation, each of them carrying the burden of some crime that had placed them in this cold oubliette of despair. “It’s no place for a boy, really.”

“On that much, we agree,” Daenera replied, her tone icy, her gaze hardening as it flicked from Larys to the dim corridor around them. The smell of damp and rot hung heavy in the air, and though her voice was steady, her fingers tensed at her sides. She could feel Larys’s unblinking gaze lingering on her, assessing, as though amused by her defiance.

“To think–a mere boy deemed such a profound threat to the crown that he warrents confinement among rapers and thieves,” she said, each word a measured accusation. “One would imagine his innocence might grant him some small mercy… or is that privilege reserved only for those who serve the crown’s interests?”

“The crown can scarcely afford to be merciful to those who threaten to disrupt the peace of the realm,” Larys spoke, his voice a measured murmur, heavy with the weight of conviction. “Innocence,” he continued, “is often the first sacrifice in times like these. Yet, the realm’s safety must always come first, must it not?”

He advanced a step, his cane striking the floor with a deliberate tap, the sound sharp in the silence. His eyes, calculating and unreadable, rested on Daenera as though assessing her reaction. “It is a shame, isn’t it,” he mused, “that the boy remains here, trapped, while others walk free–and by no fault of his own. But then,” he continued, his voice a touch lower, “such choices are never so simple, are they?”

Daenera swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep her gaze fixed ahead, resisting the urge to glare at Larys–tears burned at the back of her eyes, threatening to press towards the surface. His words clawed at her conscience, twisting in her mind, a bitter taste at the back of her throat that nearly choked her. She gathered her composure, drawing herself up before replying stiffly, "Lord Confessor," her voice just steady enough to betray nothing of the turmoil within.

Without another look, she moved past him, each step a conscious act of will as her heart weighed heavily in her chest. She made her way through the cold, damp corridors of the dungeons, the air thick and stagnant, pressing down on her like the stone walls around her. Her footsteps rang against the stone floor, the echo rising, accompanied by the hurried shuffle of her escort. The guard hastened ahead, holding a torch high to cast light upon the narrow path. Shadows stretched long and dark in their wake, swallowing each step as she walked towards the stairs, her mind wrestling with each word Larys had left behind.

As they ascended the stone steps, Mertha’s voice sliced through the silence behind her, sharp and reproachful, echoing with a tone as grating as the rusty hinges on the prison gate. “What possessed you to let the boy think he’d ever be going home again?” 

The narrow, winding staircase seemed to strengthen Mertha’s shrillness, every step dragging the reprimand deeper, yet Daenera remained firm, her face set in stone as she climbed further away from the boy’s cell. “It was a kindness.”

Her words lingered in the air as they passed through the prison’s iron gate and stepped into the pale, crisp light of morning. A lingering chill clung to her skin, as if the cold of the prison had seeped into her very bones. She took a deep breath of the city’s air, trying to rid herself of the clinging stench of damp stone and despair. 

Mertha scoffed, shaking her head as she cast a disdainful look at Daenera. “A kindness?” She sneered. “You mistake cruelty for kindness. I’ve always known you to be wicked, but I never thought you could be this cruel–and to the boy no less.”

“And what do you know of kindness, Lady Mertha?” Daenera’s voice cut through the stillness of the Traitor’s Walk, sharp and unyielding as steel. She stopped, turning halfway to face Mertha, her gaze as cold and unforgiving as winter’s first frost. “You speak of kindness, yet I see none in you. It’s you who mistakes kindness for cruelty.”

Mertha’s eyes narrowed, her chin lifting with a righteousness that seemed to fuel her every word. “I am not the one filling the boy’s head with false promises,” she retorted, her voice laced with scorn. “nor am I the one who put him in this place. That was your choice, Princess. Do not forget that. He’s in that cell because of you, and because of you alone. Offering him a hope you cannot fulfill–that is a cruelty beyond measure. What will he do, come morning, when no one arrives to take him home?”

Daenera’s hands clenched, her nails biting into her palms as she fought the urge to reach, the sting of Mertha’s words landing like a fresh blow on an open wound. She held Mertha’s gaze with steely resolve, her expression set in a mask of ice. She knew the truth of what awaited him, the inevitability of dawn’s cold clarity–knew what awaited him before then. 

Mertha shook her head slowly, her voice laced with contempt and an air of self righteousness. “You belong in a cell beside him–that’s where you should be, witch.”

Daenera’s gaze narrowed as she stepped forward, measured and composed, her gaze set on the older woman’s hardened, scornful face. A sense of smug satisfaction bloomed in her chest, and a slight, almost imperceptible smile tugged at her lips as she stepped closer to Mertha. Her voice dropped, taking on a silky, condescending tone, each word a carefully placed barb meant to cut and remind Mertha of her place. 

“Take care with your words, Lady Mertha,” Daenera said, her voice laced with a quiet menace. “It would do you well to remember where you stand.” She stepped closer, her presence looming as Mertha instinctively glanced at the sheer drop from the edge of the walkway. “And where I stand.”

Mertha stiffened, drawing in a sharp breath, her chin lifting in defiance. Yet Daenera didn’t miss the brief flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, a crack in her otherwise steely façade. Her eyes darted around the walkway, searching the area for anyone who might have overheard her slip up–there was only Edelin, whose eyes remained on the ground.

Daenera continued, her tone as smooth as silk but as sharp as a blade. “And what would you do if you found your head mounted alongside my men’s?”

She inclined her head subtly towards the pikes lining the wall above the Traitor’s Walk, their gruesome display of decaying flesh turned to feasts for the maggots, the crows having long since stopped picking at them. The words hung heavily in the air, an unmistakable threat wrapped in the guise of polite conversation.

Mertha’s gaze flickered uneasily towards the pikes, each one topped with a decaying head–the same head’s she had shown her not long ago. Daenera didn’t follow her glance; she kept her eyes on Mertha, unwavering, cold. She didn’t need to look–those faces had visited her more times in the night that she cared to count, mounted on pikes, dangling lifelessly at the end of ropes, and she knew more would soon join them. 

Her face paled, her jaw clenching as she tried to mask the unease creeping over her. A flash of indignation sparked in her eyes, and she opened her mouth as if to respond, but Daenera was already turning on her heel, her strides deliberate and unhurried as she walked away, leaving Mertha to stay or follow.

Daenera made her way towards the outer courtyard, her steps steady and deliberate, each footfall crunching against the gravel path.The walls of the Red Keep rose around her, their sheer height and rough stone seeming to lean inward, casting her in a darker shade of morning. Her gaze flickered over the familiar walls–what had once been home. The morning chill lingered in the air, each breath visible as a faint puff of vapor before it faded away, much like her childhood illusions of safety within these walls. She drew her shawl closer around her shoulders as a cool breeze swept through, making the fabric billow slightly and tugging at her dark hair.

As she approached the outer courtyard, the expanse of it opened up before her, flanked by tall, imposing gates of burnished bronze that gleamed faintly in the early light. Beyond them, she could see the city’s rooftops beginning to stir with life, and a faint murmur of distant voices reached her ears. 

The outer courtyard buzzed with activity, a hive of movement and sound that echoed off the high stone walls. Clusters of guards gathered in loose formations, murmuring among themselves as they awaited the call to their posts, their armor clinking with each shift and turn. Along the walls, weary men stood watch, their gazes fixed on the horizon as they awaited the arrival of their replacements, their faces drawn with the fatigue of a long night’s duty.

Servants bustled about, arms laden with remnants from the recent wedding celebration. Baskets brimming with leftover bread, cakes, and cuts of meat were piled onto carts, ready to be sent through the gates toward the orphanages of Flea Bottom. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread lingered faintly in the cool morning air, mingling with the earthier aromas of the courtyard.

Around them, remnants of wedding finery were being stripped away. Servants flitted back and forth, carefully removing ribbons and banners, collecting delicate glass lanterns and flowers to return them to storage. Ladders scraped against stone as they climbed up to retrieve garlands, replacing them with banners. 

Other servants tended to the daily grind, heads bent over their tasks at makeshift worktables near the kitchens. A group of women plucked feathers from chickens, their fingers quick and efficient, while nearby, others peeled piles of potatoes, their hands moving with the ease of practiced repetition. Their low conversations and laughter blended with the courtyard’s hum of activity. 

And there, in the center of the courtyard, Aemond stood, his hands clasped behind his back, exuding a quiet, formidable presence. Daenera’s steps faltered as her gaze settled on him, her heart growing heavy in her chest. She lingered, watching him from a distance, unnoticed. His hair, pale as spun moonlight, cascaded over his shoulders, catching the morning light with an ethereal glow that seemed almost unreal against the starkness of his form.

She studied the sharp curve of his profile, relieved that he hadn’t seen her yet–that she remained in the sanctuary of his blind side. He was clad in a deep green leather cloak, rich and dark, draped over his broad frame with an understated elegance. His sword hung at his hip, its polished hilt gleaming, the weapon itself imposing, too large almost. She couldn’t stop the fleeting thought of blood–whether traces still clung to the blade from that morning. A faint shudder traced down her spine at the thought, but she shook it off, forcing herself to step forward.

Daenera circled around him slowly, coming to stand quietly at his good side. She turned her gaze towards Fenrick, who was stationed beside the horse that had been afforded to him, hands steady as he checked the leather straps of his saddle.

“Will you let me say my farewells?” she asked, her voice barely above a murmur, the words lingering in the air between them. The question was met with silence, a tense weight settling in her chest as she waited. She glanced sideways at Aemond, his gaze fixed forward, but a subtle shift in his expression–an almost imperceptible flicker–told her he had heard. He was just as aware of her as she was of him.

Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, Daenera looked away, the quiet ache in her stomach twisting as she attempted to steady herself. She busied her hands, reaching to adjust the shawl draped over her shoulders, her fingers tracing along the edge of her neckline. Her fingers slipped behind the fabric, brushing over the hidden letter she’d carefully tucked away. She folded it tightly into her palm, feeling the weight of the words written there, and with a final breath, she moved toward Fenrick.

Each step felt heavy as she walked away from Aemond, yet she was acutely aware of his gaze trailing after her. It was more than a simple glance–his attention felt like a tangible force, a heat that prickled against her skin, coaxing gooseflesh to rise along her arms and sending a shiver down her spine. His gaze felt all-consuming, as though it burned into her very soul, a silent claim that lingered even as the distance between them grew.

Fenrick looked up as Daenera approached, his posture shifting as he stepped away from the horse, seeming to sense the urgency in her stride. Her pace quickened, her heartbeat drumming in her chest, and without hesitation, she closed the gap between them, unfolding her arms to embrace him tightly. He wrapped his arms around her in return, pulling her close. She felt the tickle of his hair brushing her nose, the rough texture of his cloak pressing against her chin as she held onto him the same way Patrick had held onto her. 

There was so much she wanted to say to him–words that pressed against her heart, each one aching to be released. She longed to ask for his understanding, to explain all her choices that had led them to this moment, the choices she’d made to secure his freedom–the sacrifices she’d made. She wished she could seek his forgiveness, to confess her sins to him. 

But she knew their time was short, and her voice dropped to a low murmur as she leaned in closer, speaking quickly into his ear. “Finan will have secured you a way out of the city,” she whispered, her tone steady but urgent. “I don’t know the details.”

Fenrick’s head dipped in a slight nod.

“Take this letter to my mother,” she continued, the weight of the request heavy between them. “You’re the only one I trust with this.”

He tightened his grip, his response equally low and solemn. “I won’t fail you,” he promised, his tone laced with resolve. After a beat, he added, his voice rough with concern, “Are you safe? Has he hurt you?”

Daenera shook her head gently, pulling back from his embrace, though she kept hold of his hands, folding the letter into his palm. “I’m safe,” she assured him softly, her voice steady. “He hasn’t hurt me.”

Fenrick’s dark eyes shifted past her shoulders, and she didn’t need to turn to know his gaze was fixed on Aemond. There was a darkness there, something raw and vengeful–a depth of loathing she hadn’t seen in him before. After a long moment, he tore his gaze from Aemond and looked back at her, his expression softening as he met her eyes. His hands tightened around hers, the letter hidden securely within his roughened grasp. 

She took in his face, noting how much older he looked now. Deep shadows carved beneath his eyes, and fine lines etched their way across the corners, the marks of sleepless nights. His skin seemed paler, and the faint streaks of gray threaded through his beard and temples had grown more pronounced. The beard was longer now, left untrimmed, something he would never have tolerated under different circumstances.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured, his voice low and weighed with genuine sympathy. 

Daenera’s throat tightened as she swallowed back her grief, the familiar ache pressing hard against her ribs. She gave a small shake of her head, managing to murmur, “And I yours.”

“Joyce…” Fenrick’s voice broke as he spoke her name, the single word laden with grief.

“She’s been buried,” Daenera replied softly, though she knew it was a hollow comfort, a mere consolation. Yet at least she had that to offer him–she thought of her brothers, whose bodies had been lost, their resting places unknown. How much harder it was to grieve when there was no grave to mark the end, no place to lay flowers, no finality. 

Fenrick’s gaze turned sharp and cold. “Who did this?”

“The Lord Commander,” Daenera answered, pausing as she remembered the change that had occurred while Fenrick was imprisoned. When last he’d been free, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had been Ser Harrold Westerling. “Ser Criston Cole,” she clarified.

Fenrick’s jaw clenched, and he gave a curt nod, his gaze hardening with a quiet, unyielding resolve.

“The others…” Daenera’s voice wavered, and she shook her head, unable to finish, the words too bitter to bring to her lips. She didn’t need to tell him–he would understand, but the horror of it clawed at her all the same. Their bodies had been desecrated, hung as grotesque warnings for all to see, a spectacle meant to spread fear. And even that wasn’t enough; after decay had begun its grim work, their heads had been removed, stripped of any last dignity, and mounted high above the Traitor’s Walk–a final, callous display.

“That’s enough,” Aemond’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding, slicing between them with the finality of an executioner’s blade. Daenera turned her head, meeting his gaze, his expression as immovable as stone–cold, unfeeling, with no trace of sympathy or understanding. His eye were hard, steely, a silent command for her to end this exchange.

She cast her gaze back to Fenrick, who shot a defiant glare in Aemond’s direction before loosening his grip on her hand, allowing her to step back. His movements were subtle but practiced, slipping the letter into his pocket as he pretended to adjust his belt. He then reached for the saddle, gripping it firmly as he lifted his foot into the stirrup.

Daenera took a few steps back, watching as he mounted the horse and guided it around to face the gates. Their eyes met one last time, an unspoken farewell passing between them. Fenrick gave her a single, resolute nod, a promise held within that brief gesture, before turning his gaze forward. With a firm press of his heels, he urged the horse onward, moving through the gates and into the city.

In that moment, she felt as though she had been pulled back to her childhood, to the day when she’d watched Ser Harwin ride away, carrying with him a promise he would never fulfill–a promise that had turned to ashes in the wake of a fire. 

Now, watching Fenrick disappear beyond the gates, the same hollow feeling clawed at her.

She turned from the sight, steadying herself as she walked towards Aemond. She stopped beside him, close but with a deliberate distance between them, each facing in opposite directions as though they were two sides of the same coin. 

“Give him a head start before you send men after him,” she said quietly, though her heart pounded, the words laced with a plea she barely concealed. 

Aemond’s voice came soft, with a chilling edge, like the delicate glide of a blade just before it breaks the skin–it held a strange sort of tenderness, almost amused at the accusation. “I’m not sending men after him.” 

The words send a shiver down her spine, slipping beneath her defenses with the ease of a loving blade. It settled somewhere deep within the ruins of her heart, awakening something unexpected–a faint, unsteady flutter that stirred low and deep in her stomach, unsettling and inescapable.

She frowned, her gaze drawn to him despite herself, lingering on his face as she studied him with quiet intensity. Her eyes traced the controlled, unyielding lines of his expression, the cool, impenetrable mask he wore, each edge calculated, each glance guarded. Yet, as she took in his demeanor, an unfamiliar feeling stirred within her chest–a strange, fragile, and unsettling sliver of hope, dreadful in its vulnerability, daring to take root where she did not want it.

“If not your men,” she murmured, her voice edged with caution, “then others.”

“I’ve told them not to send anyone…” Aemond’s gaze shifted from where Fenrick had disappeared to meet hers fully, his stare intense and unyielding. He watched her with something that made her heart betray her–a glint of hunger and danger, possessiveness tempered by a dark softness, as if she were something precious and perilous all at once. 

“Yours is not the only message he carries,” he added, his voice a gentle murmur. He held her gaze.

Daenera tore her gaze away, feeling as though his eye had stripped away her skin, reaching into the very marrow of her being. It should have shocked her, the way he seemed to know–how he had seen through her pretense, how he’d known she would do something like this. But instead, it struck her as something far more intimate, a silent invasion that didn’t rattle her so much as fill her with a sense of vulnerability–of being known in a way she hadn’t permitted. She didn’t want him to see her like this, she didn’t want him to see her–to know her. 

And yet, in the ruins of her heart, that resistance seemed to ring hollow, fading into an ache she couldn’t quite dismiss. Somewhere, in those ruins, something primal and dark stirred within her, growled with a rumble that sounded an awful lot like laughter. 

“I suppose we’ll see who's message they’ll believe,” she murmured, her voice steady, though she could feel the tremor of something far less certain simmering beneath.

And here we go, the final, full chapter of Season 1 of the story!

This was literally ALWAYS going to be the final chapter of Season 1 of the story. It seemed fitting, some plot lines come to an end and other's have been begun. The Season started with her coming to King's Landing with all her servants, and it ends with her alone. We've begun her 'Cunt era/ruthless era' that we'll see more of in season 2--which will open literally later that day or the day after.

There's a lot you can expect of S2 of the story--so far it's divided up in Act 1; pre B&C and act 2; post B&C And in Act 1 we'll see a lot of development as well as some deterioration of relationships. We'll get Daenera being a menace and seeking to make everyone miserable in her grief and anger, we'll see some things come to fruition and we'll see that some sacrifices are futile. We'll deal with a lot of contradicting emotions and the political landscape of having to hate Aemond but also relying on him. We'll see Aemond being both ruthless, cruel and violent, but we will also see him make an effort and deal with the consequences of his actions as well as trying to be better (for Daenera), while also trying to uphold this image of his. The whole Love VS Duty comes into play. And of course, the pregnancy as well as the birth and some fluff with the child.

There will also be new POV's added, and we'll follow what is happening on Dragonstone more and have some plot lines added/altered that I feel like were either missing or just not right in the show. I have a lot to try and make up for and it's going to be… rough to say the least, but I hope you'll understand the road I'm taking the characters on as well as their development/devolvement, and try and understand where they're coming from.

There will be some plot lines in season 2 that I will either scrap entirely, or pick apart and use what I can. Some plot points will be added to BEFORE B&C and somethings will just be generally changed--it's solely to make up for the timeline changes I've made. We'll also see some new minor battles and some more effort on putting strain on King's Landing. The political landscape of alliances will be stretched so some things take more time than in canon, but again, it's solely to fill the 7 months I need filled before B&C.

I know a lot are just here for Daenera/Aemond, but this story has grown and I like to add to canon or explore canon characters, and I think it's good to get another perspective every once in a while so we know what's actually going on in the world outside Dae/Aemond.

I hope you'll be will me for season 2! I will give myself a few days off to just completely rest up before I start Season 2 of the story, so I will have a hiatus until January--I expect the first chapter of season 2 to come out one Friday in January, when I don't know but I will give updates to you.

I have also updated the first chapter of the story and changed the prophecy--it's better, I think. And I've gone through the story, but if you come across the mention of the prophecy that is the old one, please leave me a comment so I can fix it.

AND!!! There will be another small prologue out next week!!!!

[pagannatural]

2.13 Houses of the Holy

- Religious plot begins in earnest. Sam is Able and Eve and original sin and also Christ dying for those sins. He is Dean’s disciple. Dean is Cain and Adam and the Holy Spirit and God. Their conflict is destiny/blood/family vs free will/choice/love, the pure vs the tainted vs the merely human. The muddy non-dichotomous nature of love and of good and evil.

So far the question of the brothers saving each other and the world has been self-contained: only Dean can save or kill Sam, and in doing so, himself. In other words only Sam can succumb to evil and damn his brother or retain his humanity and his brother. Their struggle is religious by definition. Religion in supernatural is characterized by the trinity of good, evil, and human, and the brothers are twin souls who need each other to stay human. Sam needs to overcome his shame and belief that he isn’t chosen, that he doesn’t belong; Dean needs to overcome his guilt and belief that he can never be enough. The threat of them losing their humanity and free will is literal as they will learn they’re destined to become vessels, but they don’t know that yet.

- Dean is lying on the motel bed listening to “Hair of the Dog”. Right when Sam walks in these lyrics are playing in his ears:

Heartbreaker, soul shaker/I've been told about you/Steamroller, midnight stroller/What they've been saying must be true

These lyrics pertain to Sam and his fate. This song was chosen very intentionally, it’s shown on Dean’s iPod screen. It’s foreshadowing. And Sam is Dean’s heartbreaker soul shaker.

Sam stands there next to a partition decorated with burlesque silhouettes of women, watching Dean’s body being shaken on the bed. It’s kind of a weird image. Dean looks like sleeping beauty the way the bed is lit. Or like a main course.

“You’re enjoying that way too much, it’s kind of making me uncomfortable” Sam says while looking up at the wall behind Dean exactly like he did when he was trying to avoid staring at Dean’s ass in an earlier episode. Very heaven-help-me.

His discomfort seems like attraction. I want to break down this scene because it’s played as a joke, like it’s funny that Dean is so hedonistic, but he’s essentially just using the massage function on the bed. He’s fully clothed and he’s listening to music, just chilling. He’s bored. So the joke is either that this isn’t really that intimate and yet Sam is so uncomfortable for Some Reason that he’s having a hard time looking straight at Dean, or that Sam really has walked in on an intimate moment and he responds by staring and going up to Dean all flustered and asking him to stop. Either way, Sam is watching Dean experience pleasure, and gulping because of it.

It highlights that Sam is uninterested in sex, and food, and pleasure in general, and it bothers him that Dean is. Sam later calls it Dean’s “sick habit” and tells him he’s like one of those lab rats that pushes the pleasure button instead of the food button until it dies.

I noticed recently that even in the pilot, Sam is shown kissing Jessica and acting loving with her, but the shot of them in bed has them apart and Sam facing away from her in his sleep. It’s Dean who ogles her in her underwear. Sam has been shown clinging to Dean, sleeping facing him, checking him out, and chastising him for his womanizing. The one woman he kissed was for Dean’s benefit. Sam’s relationship with his sexuality is consistently shown linked directly to Dean. Maybe exclusively to Dean at this point.

After this exchange, Sam goes into the bathroom and washes his hands for Some Reason. Because he’s feeling unclean?

-interesting how the killers’ houses shake like there’s an earthquake before what they think is an angel appears to them- the second guy is even lying on his bed when it starts shaking. Dean is on his shaking bed when Sam appears to him at the motel, like Sam is his angel.

-Dean says Sam has him on lockdown. So Sam insisted that Dean stay back for his safety. He’s looking out for him, always asking Dean to stay safe.

-Sam believes in angels and god because of the monsters they hunt, Dean doesn’t believe in angels or god because of the monsters they hunt. The difference in the way their beliefs developed is that Dean believed in angels as a small child until his mom burned to death and he learned monsters are real, whereas Sam was certainly never encouraged to believe in religion and had to find something to cling to in the chaos and uncertainty of how he was raised. Sam felt unclean or like something was wrong with him so he tried to separate himself from the monsters. Dean believed he wasn’t good enough so he chose not to believe in a god that was a disappointment and that he believed he would surely disappoint.

- Sam tells Dean he prays every day, which Dean didn’t know. He acts like this is some kind of betrayal. I think the betrayal is literally just that he didn’t know and he wants to know every single thing about Sam.

-Sam collapses after seeing what he thinks is an angel, and Dean gets on his knees to put both hands on him. He keeps touching him when they’re walking out. He hauls Sam to his feet bodily.

This frame is so good because Dean is glaring at the angel statue and Sam is looking up at Dean.

Sam wants to be chosen by an angel. He thinks that would mean he’s good. He felt left behind and second-best by his dad, and felt that Dean would choose hunting and John over him for much of his life. He realizes now that Dean chooses him.

-Dean makes sure the woman he saves is okay and has a cell phone and tells her to call 911 before he runs after her assailant. He cares more about the wellbeing of the victim than he does about catching the bad guy.

-when Sam says “you were right” Dean gives him this look that’s so full of love, it’s plain that Dean doesn’t care about being right. He just sees his little brother in pain and wants to make it better.

-Sam sits down so that he’s looking up at Dean during their conversation. He has tears in his eyes talking about wanting to be saved. Dean tells Sam “I’m watching out for you”

Sam doesn’t doubt Dean’s dedication to him and desire to protect him. But doesn’t think Dean can save him, and more importantly he’s afraid he can’t save himself. He sees Dean as fundamentally good and strong but he also harbors judgment toward Dean for needing him. It’s protective for Sam to not need anyone, which is why his arc deals with the isolation of shame. Religion can’t save him because it doesn’t make him believe he is good, and because ultimately it leaves him alone.

-Dean tells him that he witnessed “God’s will” the way that the perp was just killed in front of him. He’s letting himself hope and giving Sam hope. They’ve both seen so much chaos and evil, they need to believe there’s good and meaning in the world. Dean’s doubt challenges his beliefs about the world and himself, and it’s his words that give Sam the hope he needs.

-episode is about lost souls and purpose. A series of people who the show depicts as lost are given a sense of meaning and belonging to something bigger than themselves, but the problem is that they don’t question it—they simply obey, acting as if without free will. They’re wrong, but they’re happy and full of certainty. Sam and Dean are lost too, but they’re unable to have blind unquestioning faith. The result is that they do good: Dean protects and shows kindness to a woman who was attacked, Sam facilitates a way for a spirit to be put to rest. But they have doubt, which means they also have fear. And they’re left knowing that they have themselves and each other. It’s meant to be complicated and frightening and painful because that’s what it means to be human, and that’s where love and compassion live.

[ofthemorningstars]

Nap Time

TerzOmega ~ Domestic Family Fluff

730 words

Ao3 Version

It's nap time in the TerzOmega household, and everyone is still getting used to their new routine following the birth of their second child.

Content Warning: implied mpreg(cis), mention of pregnancy complications

---

It was the early afternoon when Starlight started to get cranky. Right on schedule.

Omega wasn’t surprised; his first child, now a precocious three year old, was blessedly predictable, as far as young children went. His youngest, still a newborn, was not quite so easy-going yet, and after nearly an hour of trying to settle her down for her nap, Astrid and Terzo were finally asleep in their bedroom.

Omega knew he’d likely have to sit and read to Star for about ten minutes before she fell asleep, so he ran to the bathroom first, telling her to stay put. When he returned, of course, she was nowhere to be found. Omega sighed and began hunting for her, checking her room first, hoping to find her waiting with a book. He grimaced when he found her bedroom empty.

As he passed his and Terzo’s room, he glanced through the half-open door, not expecting to find her there as he thought she knew better than to disturb her sister, but he had to backtrack, doing a double take. There was Starlight, laying with her head on the shoulder of a still-sleeping Terzo, eyelids heavy and sucking her thumb.

Omega’s heart melted at the sight. Silently he crossed the room to them, gently sitting on the bed, taking care not to shift too much and risk waking his sleeping husband. Terzo needed all of the rest he could get, since the birth of Astrid. They both did, really, but Terzo had so much anxiety after she was born that he had been struggling hard to fall asleep. He’d come closer to dying once again this time than either of them liked to admit, and they had reluctantly agreed that their second child would have to be their last. The experience had shaken them both.

Omega put a hand to Starlight’s head, brushing her silvery white hair out of her eyes.

“My little Star baby, we need to let Papa and Astrid sleep. Come on, we’ll go nap in your bed,” Omega spoke softly to the toddler. Starlight shook her head, curling up closer to her Papa and clinging to his shirt with the hand that wasn’t in her mouth. Omega couldn’t help the tender smile that threatened to overtake his face.

He couldn't bring himself to be upset with his daughter for wanting to be close to her Papa. He was sure it had been a difficult adjustment, having to share her parents’ attention with a new baby, even though she loved her little sister. Guilt tugged at him. 

Rather than argue and risk causing a commotion, he decided it would be smarter to settle down beside them, placing a hand on his daughter’s back, rubbing slowly. Soon her breathing deepened, became more steady. Even as he was drifting off himself, he couldn’t wipe away the grin. He allowed his eyes to close, grateful for this peaceful moment together as a family.

—

Terzo opened his eyes groggily, trying to get his bearings. He became aware of his body in increments, eventually noticing the weight pinning his right shoulder. He looked down in confusion, vision still blurry. All he could see was white.

He propped himself up on his opposite elbow, trying to get a better look. His heart sang when he recognized his daughter’s face, looking positively angelic as she slept with her head in the crook of his arm. He chuckled warmly, kissing the crown of her head. He had missed getting as much time with her as he used to, but he knew it would level out once Astrid wasn't as high-demand as she was now. He hoped she realized that this imbalance in attention was temporary; his Star would always be his baby. 

It was then that he noticed Omega’s sleeping form behind her, his hand still resting on her back. Terzo’s stomach did a backflip; all of them sleeping soundly in the same room was a rare sight indeed. He turned his head, craning his neck to check on Astrid in her bassinet, humming happily when he saw that all was well.

Terzo took a moment to reflect on the last few years, on all of the impossibilities that they had overcome, on how lucky they had been. The gratitude soaked bone-deep. He let the warmth he felt in his chest overtake him, lulling him back to sleep.

[awearywritersworld]

as i'm re-reading 'men are so quick to blame gods' (for like the 3rd time it's so good) what hit me is - how is yuuji going to deal with the mc almost dying? i mean, yes sukuna being so moved by love that he's able to push him down and be by her side is both sweet and heartbreaking but that's also yuujis gf who he loves and he's just what, unconscious? and the last thing he's seen is her, looking dead in a pool of blood...

(((again, i love the story, can't wait for updates<3333)))

hey there nonnie!! thank you for your love of the series!<3 i really appreciate you taking the time to consider this aspect of the story!!

sooo obviously in the warehouse, sukuna forcibly took control of his vessel, but i left it a bit more ambiguous as to how/why he was in control when gojo came by to visit.

this is how i would conceptualize the aftermath between he and yuu—

sukuna and yuuji haven't discussed what happened at the warehouse, even if it was the first time sukuna had ever assumed control of his vessel's body by force.

sukuna doesn't try to do so again. for now, he's too preoccupied with your condition.

but that doesn't mean the occurrence hasn't nestled itself somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind. was it a one time thing, driven by his desperation to save you? or did it open a door and give him the freedom to do so as he pleases? and if that is the case, what would that mean for him?

yuuji, on the other hand, is too busy with the guilt riddling his every thought. he can't get the image of your near lifeless body out of his head. he can't get over the way he just stood there frozen and staring.

he's forced to grapple with his morality, a notion that he's always held in high regard. he knew those sorcerers. he'd even gone on missions with some of them.

and now they're all dead, save for one. would he have been able to bring himself to kill them eventually, or would his feet have stayed planted on the concrete while the last bit of life you were clinging onto slipped away?

would it have been wrong of him to value your life over their's? sorcerers do nasty work for the general good, and he's already seen enough of his comrades die as it is... can he really say that killing them all was the best option?

so he's in agony— caught between his usual selflessness and his desire to be a good lover to you.

perhaps you deserve someone willing to throw morality out the window if it means you'll live to see another sunrise.

and so he and sukuna wordlessly alternate between who is in control, seeming to have an understanding on some level neither of them fully comprehend.

yuuji sits at your bedside, your hand in his and his mind in disarray. sukuna does the same, performing rct in timely intervals and praying to the gods he doesn't particularly believe in.

[phramboise]

— gold dust woman :: lieutenantjohnpricexfemalereader

heart’s blood in ink piece, part II

tags and warnings: heavy substance use; blood, scars, death. this is more of an addiction piece than it is cod fan work, this is vivid imagery. none of this is romanticising.

wordcount: 1.1k

There’s a biro on the bedside table, and some napkin that she found that he put in her pocket, with nothing to write down in her language of inarticulate phrases. Should she wake him? What would she say if she does so? What would a dying person say? Would an apology of someone who kills herself deliberately be accepted? She should just let him sleep, that’s the better thing to do. There’s no fixing it anyway. Maybe she’ll writhe and hiss and that’ll be ugly. She doesn’t want him to remember her like that, she doesn’t want him to remember her at all. He’ll blame himself; he’ll make a mess out of it. Death feels futile until it comes. Somebody should’ve slapped the fact to her face, when dead there’s no him. Or it would be better if she were to be intoxicated now, it hurts to feel yourself dying.

Feels different. Feels heavier than grave. She should clean off her filth, she figures as much. Gets up and picks dusty ziplocks that she swiped in haste under their bed, wipes the glass table clean. Useless prospectuses and an ashtray turned upside down for her bedside carafe. Ash in the bottom of the bottle. Crystalline, her sybarite hair in morphs he loves best. Demure, a defatigable ennui. Puts on his favourite dress. She apologises, she cries silently. Then she washes her face, puts a bit makeup on. Forces herself to throw it all up so maybe she’d have another day without thinking of death, nothing comes out. Health is a hefty burden in her heart tonight. Has he ever seen a dead girl lying on his side?.. she puts on some more colour. They were supposed to go on a winter holiday this season. The dog has her vet appointment tomorrow.

He’s sleeping, she heads downstairs.

Swallow it down, there’s a clot down at her throat and it’s not of guilt this time. This one is physical, copper and iron, cocaethylene and dried blood, hints of cologne and sweat. Caramelised tobacco, blood scabs. They mix, scented lotion itches on her track marks, pooling some ill-warmth on red splotches of her wilting skin. She doesn’t remember the last time she had a dream. She doesn’t recall a REM sleep. She doesn’t remember the last time her hands were steady enough to hold the needle up to the insides of her elbow to inject it proper. She tries to settle with the veins of her hands, misses once, wastes one; pokes the vein through, wastes another. It melts in everywhere but the right places, it boils inside. Feels it swell, sees the thinned blood pooling under her skin instantly. She can’t be slow enough; she can’t be precise. Steady. Keep her hand still. She can’t find her clean straw, and saline spray is out. Her peripheral is blurry, and her skin is prickling hot, whisper-thin warm linen clings to her and she’s conscious of her breathing as it wheezes through snivels. She’s far too gone to cook and draw it anymore, -the latter try surely went straight to her brain- and everything in her tells her to just lay down, go back to his side to shake him to hold her through withdrawals. It’s not some impulsive want anymore; it’s a strangling need. A call, which she has no freedom to deny, a pull towards the ugliests of deaths. Fingertips grow colder as pearls clog veins, and some thunderclaps at the side of her brain. Nsaids were always a bad idea; now she literally feels the blood in her skull as it tingles her nape.

She sits at the base of the stairs. Knowing that the sun won’t shine this bright in one instant, it’s her eyes that are this sharp, stark white. It’s so white it almost buzzes at her ears; she won’t hear if she’s to make a sound. It’s funny how she prays. She thinks she wants to pray; she thinks she wants to redo it over. Relive it all from the start, and not do anything. Nothing to herself, nothing for herself. She wishes the thorny roses would caress, not wound his tender hands, she wishes that he would not drown in melancholy that is her. She wishes that a rain would wash away what she has rotted inside of him, that the flowers she could not bloom in would sprout within inside. She wishes so much for him that she forgets herself. She wishes he would always laugh. She wishes so much for him that she forgets herself; she loves herself when she wants him.

Hugs her knees to her chest. She thinks her mouth is making whispers up to the ceiling, her mind choosing words to make her seem faithful somehow. All that goes is a whine, and a hiss that living don’t speak.

It starts in her stomach, up to her heart. Nadir of her life, the tingling on her nape ivies around her arm, not letting go as she shakes it off. The horror and the wonder, yet she waits calmly for it to vanish for only a minute.

It will be over soon.

—

The flame of the candle had reached the end of the wick and began to drift like a drunkard struggling to stand. The last glow before it went out was a weak flutter. The candle goes out and the smell of paraffin reaches her nose for the last time with the rising smoke. She wiped her tears, sent a postponing mail to the vet, filled the dog’s food bowl for the morning, turned to head for the stairs to lie down next to him again.

No one slaps the death to her face; it’s herself that does it. Few steps intertwining, a limp body that thuds onto the parquet. A silent plea, one single tear, not a last breath but ragged gasps and her kind of snaste. She wanted it to be him, to decide for her, leave her no freedom. He’s the kind to lose the bets, bets on losing hands. One tight grip on her heart is what robs her the last bit of freedom to decide when and where to die. Harsher than a slap, hurts more than a needle through infected wounds. At least backlofen soothes the muscle. Each inch of her is burning, but at least he’s not here to see it. She couldn’t make it upstairs, laid on a proper position, ready. Now her mascara is ruined too.

;

Tomorrow morning, he’ll wake and find her on the ground. Solid and steady, not warm anymore. He won’t be angry for she didn’t keep her pinky promise, didn’t call him when she needed; he’ll feel he should’ve come over somehow. Her thought is the thorn that burgeons and rends, and her face is the very essence of the rose in his restless dreams.

Tonight, she spares him a sleep.

;;

I was about to give to ends for you to pick, the other was slightly happier. Then this happened. Thank you to you two anonymous angels who commented on heart’s blood in ink, and one other when I posted it for the first time- for this is just for you. I hope you’ll reach to me again to tell me what you think of this, if this is as expected, or if it’s moving if not. Lots of love 🤍

[blushweddinggowns]

“Steve, you have to breathe,” Nancy said. Calm as ever as she kneeled in front of him, “Please. You’re going to hyperventilate. Count with me, okay? One, two, three…”

Steve tried to listen to her, but he could barely get past two before he was seeing it again. Eddie, pale and lifeless in his arms. Eddie, bleeding out right in front of him. He couldn’t see anything else, he couldn’t focus on anything else. Not when he was covered in his blood. Not when his whole world was on the edge of ending. 

He could feel when Nancy left eventually, leaving him alone to wheeze and cry. He was making one hell of a scene, but Steve was too out of it to even realize how many people were staring. He felt like he was going insane. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening.

It couldn’t.

Suddenly, Steve could feel arms wrapping around him. He almost fought it, confused and scared before he caught a glimpse of Robin through all of his tears. 

He didn’t know where she came from but that didn’t stop Steve from clinging to her. 

“It’s okay,” She murmured into his hair, “I’m here. Everything is going to be okay.”

It was a lie. But Steve from nodded along with her, focusing on her voice as he tried to calm down.

It took… awhile.

He didn’t know how much time had passed before he was finally loosening his grip on Robin’s shirt. He wiped at his eyes, probably only managing to make his face even dirtier before looking at her. He had made her a mess, her shoulder wet with tears. Her front dark red, transferred right from Steve’s saturated shirt to hers. Red with blood, Eddie’s blood. A cruel reminder that had Steve instantly tearing up again. 

But he swallowed it back, “What are you doing here?”

His voice came out like a croak, barely there as he tried not to break down for the third time.

Robin frowned, wiping at her own eyes, “Chrissy didn’t… things didn’t go as planned. But that’s okay. Because she’s going to be okay. And Eddie’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be fine.”

Steve wanted to tell her that wasn’t true. That she hadn’t seen what he’d seen. It wasn't her life that was on the verge of ending.

But he didn’t. Too scared and tired to argue. Believing her felt like the easier way to go.

He put his head on Robin's shoulder, not offering an answer but not giving a rebuttal. He was too busy looking around the room, taking everything in. Everyone was there. Max and Lucas were huddled together in the corner, whispering to each other. Nancy was kneeling in front of a bloody Dustin, holding his hands as she muttered quietly at him. He wasn't really responding. Just nodding along to whatever she said as he looked down.

He looked devastated. 

He should be.

Steve shoved the hateful thought back, guilt instantly taking its place. It wasn’t Dustin’s fault Eddie was dying. It was Steve’s. 

It was Steve who let everyone else convince him to do this stupid fucking plan. It was Steve who wasn’t there when Eddie had needed him. Who left Eddie alone, cold and dying in a nightmare world. 

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