#author randomdragonfires

[lauraneedstochill]

oh Sam, here you are breaking my heart again! and then healing it with your writing, as you so often do 💔

I can’t believe this story is only 2.6K, it surely packed quite a punch. so many details sneaked into it — her noticing his mannerisms, his face expressions, his habits, him doing little things for her. AND him knowing full well that he is in love and that it has a great effect on him —

“He sees how she’s changed him. How the razor-sharp edge he’s carried for so long has dulled in her presence, as if she’s gently worn him down, one quiet moment at a time.”

— and of course, in true Aemond’s fashion, he is terrified that something’s wrong with him, and she’ll eventually leave.

But then we get to read her thoughts again, and I love that there is no doubt in her mind that she’s ready to accept all parts of him, with his anger and insecurities and whatever else he deems unworthy. The moment when he hugged her melted me into a puddle!

P.S. also, bringing my canon to life! Aegon standing up for his young brother the way he’s always wanted 🥺

“Aegon doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t hold back—because once, long ago, he left Aemond to fight alone. The price for that mistake was written across Aemond’s face, a reminder neither of them could ever forget.”

absolutely beautiful, as always, you truly should be proud of yourself 🌹

in your car, i'm a star (and i'm burnin' through you)

Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Girlfriend!Reader Oneshot

A/N | Yes, I'm still alive. Please take... whatever this is. I started spitballing and two hours later, this happened. Not my best work, lots of plot holes - but hey, at least I remember how to write lol. This was just to get my inspiration back, somewhat. Now I'll go back into hiding.

WARNINGS | NONE. Just a tinge of angst if you squint and complicated family dynamics. Hurt/Comfort drabble, really.

SUMMARY | She knows him, she loves that she does. But does she know him, truly?

WORD COUNT | 2.6k

Inspired by Love Song, by Lana Del Rey.

She knows him—or at least, she thought she did.

She knows him in the way his lip twitches just so, that subtle gesture standing in for a smile. She knows him from the lazy trails his fingers leave on the fogged-up shower glass, the only trace of his presence after he’s gone. She knows the way he walks—calm, feline, serene; as though he owns the room.

She knows his quiet confidence, the understated arrogance. She notices the rhythmic drumming of his fingers against the table as he studies his laptop, sleeves haphazardly rolled up, veins faintly visible beneath his skin. She recognizes how his face stays controlled, concentrated, yet always seems at peace.

She treasures the small things—the jam jar he loosens for her when he knows he’ll be gone before she wakes; he knows she can’t open it herself. She loves the way she seeks his warmth even in sleep, instinctively curling toward him like a moth to flame.

She notices the thoughtful details—the way he sets her mug next to the kettle before he leaves for work, her favorite tea bag already waiting inside. How he leaves his book open to the page she stopped at, knowing she’ll steal it from his nightstand. How he never forgets to replace the batteries in the remote, even though she wouldn’t notice until they were completely dead.

She loves how he adjusts her seatbelt when she forgets, his fingers brushing hers in a wordless reminder. How he orders her fries because he knows she’ll inevitably steal his no matter what. The way he folds her blanket at the end of the couch, even though he pretends it annoys him when she leaves it there.

Or how he always picks up her jacket when she tosses it carelessly over a chair, hanging it up with a faint shake of his head. How he coils her phone charger neatly, even when she leaves it everywhere, and always makes sure to charge her headphones before long trips because she never remembers.

She loves Aemond for who he is. She sees him, appreciates him, loves him, knows him—

Or at least, she thought she did.

He should never have brought her here.

He’s known for some time now—perhaps too long—that this was a mistake. Things are too easy with her, too peaceful, and he’s grown dangerously accustomed to it. The quiet has become a refuge, and he’s taken it for granted, blind to its fragility until now.

He sees how she’s changed him. How the razor-sharp edge he’s carried for so long has dulled in her presence, as if she’s gently worn him down, one quiet moment at a time. The way his heart still jerks when someone taps his shoulder, but her touch—the warm, steady weight of her palm—grounds him instantly. He loves how the bed feels when she’s in it, her warmth a quiet anchor that tethers him to something real. He loves the little hearts she draws on the shower glass when she’s up before him. Does she know it matters? Something so small, so effortlessly delicate, yet it lingers with him long after she’s gone.

He loves the sight of her sprawled on his couch, lying on her stomach with her calves kicked up, grinning at him like his world is hers to brighten. He loves the mess she leaves behind—her makeup scattered across his vanity, evidence of her presence. The second toothbrush in the holder, now a permanent fixture, though the thought of it being gone fills him with a dread he can’t quite name.

Her touch steadies him. Her voice slows him. Her presence halts the chaos of his world, if only for a brief moment, long enough for him to feel like he’s actually a part of it.

And now, she will leave. She’s seen him for what he truly is—the cracks beneath the surface, the brokenness he’s kept hidden for so long. She will leave.

She won’t be wrong to go. He wouldn’t stay either.

Going back home for Christmas is never something he looks forward to.

There are parts of it he likes, of course. He likes seeing his mother’s face light up when she greets him, the warmth in her smile wrapping around him like a blanket. He likes how Helaena beams at the thought of all her brothers being under the same roof again, her joy so pure and contagious it makes the house feel alive. He enjoys watching Criston ruffle Daeron’s hair as the younger one hunches over his notebook, too focused to care about the disruption. He loves watching Aegon embarrass himself with whatever woman he’s brought along for the season, loud and brash as always. Though he’d never admit it aloud—never—he sees himself in Aegon’s ridiculous gestures now that he has her. Aegon’s clumsy declarations of affection mirror his own, though his are quieter, subtler.

They’re all the same.

They’re all part of the same heart.

He likes who he is here, among the people who love him, who see him as something more than the jagged edges he keeps hidden from the world. He loves them back, fiercely, completely, in a way he rarely allows himself to feel.

This time, he brings her. Watching his mother embrace her with the same warmth she gave him fills him with something he can’t name. It’s as if his mother is returning a silent promise: Protect my son’s heart, and I will protect yours.

Criston’s approving smile lingers just behind them, and somehow, that quiet nod means more to him than any meeting with Viserys ever could. Helaena and Daeron whisk her away to explore the grounds, their easy chatter drawing her into their world effortlessly. Even Aegon, beer in hand, sides up to him with a mumbled, “She seems nice.” It’s as close as Aegon will ever get to openly welcoming someone into the family. In that, the brothers have always been guarded - just in visibly different ways.

He likes this part of Christmas.

But then, his father arrives. And with him, his golden daughter and her brood—a procession that feels more like a parade of veiled insults and subtle power plays.

In that moment, he wishes he’d kept her safe, whisked her away back to their flat, hidden her from the storm brewing on the horizon. Before Luke exposes him for who he truly is.

It happens before he even realizes it.

The thread, stretched taut for hours under the weight of veiled insults and sharp-edged jabs, finally snaps. Perhaps it was always inevitable—a breaking point years in the making, woven into the fabric of that night long ago, the night that changed everything.

He hates that she’s part of this charade, this grotesque tradition where both branches of the family pretend they are whole. The sickly-sweet veneer of unity grates at him, and watching her navigate it with grace only makes it worse. She listens to Daemon with a polite smile, nodding at his barbed remarks as though they’re harmless. It churns his stomach, the way she must endure this ugliness with a dignity he doesn’t think he could ever match.

He doesn’t know what Luke says. He doesn’t catch the exact words or the smirk that accompanies them.

It doesn’t matter.

He hears the snigger, feels the sting of the unspoken, and the weight of years-old memories crashes down on him like a wave. The next thing he knows, he’s let go of her hand, the warmth of her touch gone as he rises from his chair.

The room blurs, but his target is clear. Jace is on the ground before he even registers the punch that put him there. Off to the side, he sees Aegon slam Luke into the table, their mother’s expensive centerpiece shattering under the force. Aegon doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t hold back—because once, long ago, he left Aemond to fight alone. The price for that mistake was written across Aemond’s face, a reminder neither of them could ever forget.

For a moment, the room is chaos. The cacophony of shouting and crashing fades into a dull roar as Daemon strides in, yanking them apart with a scowl that could burn through steel. Rhaenyra mutters something about being thankful their father has already gone to bed, sparing him the spectacle. Alicent clutches Criston’s hand tightly—an odd development, one that might have piqued Aemond’s curiosity in any other situation. Criston, ever composed, smirks faintly at the boys he helped raise - finally fighting side by side.

But none of it matters. None of it reaches him.

The loudest noise is the deafening silence of her presence. She stands frozen, her gaze locked on the floor, her hands clenched at her sides. For the first time since he met her a year ago, she refuses to meet his eyes.

Shame curls in his chest, threatening to consume him whole.

Hours later, as the dust settles, his mother pleads with him to stay the night. He shakes his head. He can’t. Staying here feels wrong, like prolonging the damage he’s already caused. He needs her back at the flat, where the world feels small and safe again, where her warmth in his arms drowns out the chaos his family always brings.

If, that is, the fragile peace he’s built isn’t already beyond repair.

When she wakes, his side of the bed is empty. The sheets are cold—he’s been gone for a while.

She pads through the flat, barefoot and quiet, her home now as much as his, even if she’s never said it out loud. The absence of him unsettles her, as does the memory of the man she saw last night. It wasn’t the Aemond she knew. It wasn’t the man she's come to love.

The Aemond she knows is gentle, deliberate. Even last night, after the chaos, he was careful as he tucked her into bed, his hand brushing through her hair with quiet apologies whispered between the spaces of her breath. His voice was soft, steady, soothing—enough to almost make her forget why they’d left Dragonstone earlier than planned.

Almost.

He rarely speaks of the other half of his family, and now, she understands why. Daemon’s sharp tongue had been enough to make her wince in a ten-minute conversation; the indifference his father showed in the face of his nephews' presence was stunning. She can only imagine the weight of years spent enduring that venom.

Perhaps Aemond keeps his silence not out of indifference, but out of necessity—to keep the anger locked away, to remain the man she fell in love with.

She tries calling him, but he doesn’t pick up. The unanswered ring unsettles her more than his absence.

Sighing, she heads to the kitchen. She begins to prepare breakfast, the motions familiar and grounding. Pancakes, eggs, sausages—things he likes. The onions sizzle in one pan while the eggs cook in another, the sounds filling the silence he left behind. She tries calling again, balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear as she chops, but the call goes unanswered once more.

She knows why. He’s ashamed. She’s always suspected there’s more anger in him than he lets her see. She’s wished, in quiet moments, that he’d let her see it—not to judge him, but to show him that it wouldn’t change how much she loves him.

The food is ready long before he returns, so she eats alone, the stillness pressing against her. On the coffee table sits the watch she’d bought for him, still in its elegant box. She hasn’t had the chance to give it to him yet.

After clearing the dishes, she leaves them in the sink, knowing the housemaid will handle them later. She moves to the sofa, hugging her knees to her chest as she waits.

And then, finally, the sound of keys in the door. The soft creak as it opens. Footsteps. He’s home.

And he brought coffee.

She stands as he enters, the sight of him both a relief and a quiet ache. She takes the cups from his hands, her fingers brushing his briefly. He still won’t meet her eyes. Placing the cups on the table, she takes his hand in hers, leading him to the sofa.

When he sits, she moves to straddle him, her knees on either side of him. She holds him close, until she is all he sees, all he feels, all he can think about.

Her lips find his forehead first, soft and lingering, as her arms wrap tightly around his torso. She holds on as though she’s anchoring him, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. Slowly, she maps her way downward, each kiss deliberate, each touch an offering. His eyelids, his cheeks, his nose—she doesn’t stop until she finds his lips.

He smells of sweat, faint and earthy, and she remembers the perfectly placed shoes near the door. He’s been on a run, she realizes.

He’s been running, in more ways than one.

Her kisses shift, deeper now, but still tender. He responds slowly at first, his hands tentative on her hips before they find her back, pulling her closer. For a while, the world shrinks to just them—soft breaths, soft lips, soft touches. The tension in his shoulders begins to melt, his hand slipping up to cradle her neck as if grounding himself in her presence.

When the weight of the moment settles, he leans back, lying down with her beside him. She shifts to rest her head against his chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns over his t-shirt. His arm curls around her, holding her against him, as his lips press to the top of her head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, tinged with regret.

She lifts her head to look at him, her eyes soft, her voice softer still. “It’s alright. You’re so good to me…”

His expression shifts, something flickering in his steely, forever cautious gaze. She knows there’s more, an explanation forming behind his eyes.

But it can wait.

Right now, all she wants is for him to feel what she does. To know what she’s always known.

He’s home.

Moments pass, and he calms down again. Later, he murmurs.

“You should drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

She laughs, the sound light and easy, as she moves off him to pick up her cup. It’s a holiday drink—spiced, sweet, just how she likes it. He knows her well enough to bring her favorite, even when he’s apologizing for ruining the holidays this year. But as she takes a sip, she realizes all is not lost.

“I got you something,” she says, setting her cup down and reaching for the small box she left on the table.

Wordlessly, he takes it, his fingers brushing hers as he sits up beside her. She cups her coffee again, letting its warmth seep into her palms as she watches him open the gift.

The watch gleams under the soft morning light, the craftsmanship striking. He notices the details immediately, running his thumb over the smooth edge of the dial.

“Valyrian steel,” he says, his tone flat yet certain. It’s not a question—of course, he’d recognize his preferred metal. He always does. That’s who he is: the kind of man with a preferred metal, precise and particular in ways that often amuse her.

“I had it sourced from someone in imports,” she begins, her words spilling quickly, almost bashful. “The permits are hard to procure, and it took months—”

He stops her mid-sentence, pulling her into a hug. It’s sudden and firm, his arms wrapping around her in a way that leaves no room for misinterpretation.

“Don't leave,” he murmurs into her hair, his voice carrying an honesty that makes her chest tighten.

She smiles against his shoulder, her hands resting lightly on his back.

"I'm not going anywhere."

She knows him, and he loves that she does. And it truly is that simple.

[in-a-mountain-pool]

9 people you want to know better xoxo

Tagged by: @bouncehousedemons

Last song i listened to: ReaLiTi - Demo - Grimes

Currently watching: Game of Thrones, Sex and the City

Currently reading: The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood (Gotta support my Reylo authors making that coin! It’s fun working out who-was-who from the original fic!), Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami 

Current obsession: House of the Dragon, Final Fantasy VII Remake, The Legend of Zelda Tears of the Kingdom, Theatre school

No pressure tag: @bottlesandbarricades , @targaryenrealnessdarling , @misspascalpunk , @randomdragonfires  , @aemonds-fire , @valeskafics , @ruby-dragon , @humanpurposes

[arcielee]

Wait So Long

Summary: You are trying to surprise your boyfriend and it does not work out like you had planned. Pairing: modern Aegon Targaryen x FemaleReader   Word Count: 2279 Warnings: Implied sexy times, but this is purely fluff. Author’s Note: Here is another part of my series-that-isn’t-really-a-series. This is a collaboration piece I did with the darling, talented @f4ll-for-you ♥ Her work is amazing and I cannot thank her enough for her help with this piece! And a shoutout to my amazing beta reader @foxee-d-or.  Taglist (my Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @sirenofavalon @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aspen-carter @aemondx @fan-goddess​ @babygirlyofthevale​ @randomdragonfires​

“Yeah, I know, Cree, but I keep telling you and Jace that I fucking suck at this game,” you heard Aegon whine into his headset, animated with his hands and wielding the controller as an emphasis to his words. “And, yet, I still play with you all, only to be verbally abused by you cunts-” his eyes rolled over and he saw you. 

One of the many things you cherished about your relationship with this man was his ability to read you like a book, to such a degree he seemed more aware of the emotion you were feeling before it registered with yourself. Aegon moved in a fluid motion, beginning with the words, “Hey, I’ve got to go right now,” before he tore off and abandoned both the headset and controller on the couch; he pushed from his seat and moved towards you, his brow furrowed with concern.

Then you felt it, the tears that spilled from the corners of your eyes and bunching your lashes together. You did not know when it started, perhaps the frustration that had been building since you first took on this contract role, something you have been adamant about six weeks prior.

In the beginning, you saw his hesitation, but you coaxed him into believing it was a good idea, and in theory it had been. You promised him this job would allow you to polish your portfolio and you promised to quit that customer service role you currently worked. You explained your excitement to finally do something with your damn degree and how you could use the extra money to upgrade your equipment.

“I can buy you new equipment, though,” he had argued and you vehemently refused, continuing on about your independence, how this was your career, your passion.

And he listened to your every word, watching you in a way that was so uniquely him and you loved him for it: the slight tilt of his head, how his lips pursed together when he was not quite yet convinced, how his lavender eyes moved back and forth with your presentation. 

“Only four weeks?” was all he had asked when you were done. You swore yes. 

Now you were on to your seventh week, dealing with a client who was unhappy with everything you presented, with their ceaseless revisions that kept prolonging the contract; yes, the pay was nice, but you were unsure if it was worth your sanity.  

In truth, you did want to utilize your degree and this opportunity would allow you to be rid of the customer service role you had since uni, to finally transition to remote work life. You also had an ulterior motive: a gift for Aegon. 

He had always spoiled you and you loved him for it, but you were also frustrated that any gift you managed seemed to pale in comparison. “Babe,” he laughed the one time you tried to bring it up to him, “I’m a fucking trust fund baby. Just allow me to pay it forward, since you have already done so much for me as it is!”

This only made you all the more determined to contribute, as meager as your income seemed prior to this contract, but Aegon never breathed a word of complaint, other than he hated you being away from the apartment you shared. 

It was the selling point. “If I take this, I will quit that job,” your tone honeyed and your eyes doleful. “This way I can work at home and be with you.” 

But also, you desperately wanted to buy him a dog. 

The idea came from his friends, Jace and Cregan, when you had a moment alone to press them for an anniversary gift for Aegon. They hemmed over their words and finally Jace mentioned getting him a dog and Cregan nodded enthusiastically. 

“He sends us clips all the time,” he continued. “Specifically a golden retriever.” 

You squealed your excitement at the possibility to outshine your boyfriend gift wise. “This is perfect! There is no way he can top that!”

They had exchanged looks, but said nothing. 

Fate presented itself with a text from Cregan, letting you know his half-sister’s dog was pregnant from a dog park mishap, which also happened to be the same dog that began Aegon’s fixation on them. You texted Sara immediately and she offered your pick of the litter, letting you know her dog was about five weeks along. 

It felt like everything was falling into place: the contract job would finish a week after, you could take Aegon to choose his pup, then go to Cregan and Jace’s apartment to collect the pet paraphernalia you had been hoarding there. 

There was a moment when Cregan stopped by to grab the royal purple collar and leash, that Aegon happened to return home sooner than you planned. 

Your relationship had a rocky beginning, but through his rehabilitation came an unwavering trust between you both. You considered yourself lucky to have Aegon as your boyfriend in that regard; there was no hint of jealousy when he found Cregan at the apartment, but his confusion was apparent when he saw him holding the leash and collar. 

“I was showing her the collar,” his friend stammered. “I bought it for this…girl I am dating-uh, fucking,” Cregan had a white knuckled grip and you watched Aegon for his response.

“Uh,” he narrowed his eyes on him for a moment. “That’s good for you?” 

Cregan was quick to leave. 

Sara let you know the puppies had been born but that was four weeks ago and you were three weeks extended into this contract with the most unpleasable, nit-picking cunt clients. You wanted it to end; you had already sneaked away to pay the pet deposit and all that was left was to bring Aegon to be surprised by the litter, but instead you received your umpteenth email of revisions needed and it would damn you to another week of this never ending misery. 

At first, you felt confident when you accepted this contract; you always had a knack to gauge colors, pigmentation, and you were software savvy to pick up on whatever the client was using. The interview left you feeling like they would value your expertise, but instead the weeks whittled away at your self-confidence, having you second guess your every attempt to begin this damnable career. 

You thought to quit it all and just accept being spoiled by Aegon. 

“Hey, pretty,” you heard Aegon coo and it returned your attention to the kitchen. He was rounding the counter and moving towards your spot; you worked here because the lighting was what you wanted and you appreciated how it overlooked the living room, where the curtains were drawn and allowed whatever sunshine was available to pour in. 

Aegon would crash onto the couch when he knew you were at the end of your workday and you liked looking up from your laptop screen, exchanging glances with him. 

“What’s going on?”

His arm wrapped around your shoulder and you allowed your head to fall to his chest; silent sobs of your budding frustration wracked your body. You felt him tuck you under his chin, wrapping both arms around you, with the whisper of, “Come on, sweet girl, I know you need to cry, but remember to breathe…” 

The tears eventually subsided and he pulled you from the counter, bringing you back to the couch. He pulled you into his lap and held onto you still, while he hummed one of the many songs he seemed to have on repeat in his mind; his singing, his musical talent was a newer habit he discovered during his rehabilitation and was something you adored, along with his sobriety. 

When he finished his chorus, you pulled back from his chest and he reached to grab your chin, turning your head to meet with his eyes. 

“Quit the fucking contract,” he repeated, time and time again. “I will pay you whatever they will pay you and you can stay right here in my lap, but, you know, without the tears. Perhaps lingerie instead? It would be purely professional, of course.” 

Your laughter felt groggy from your tears and he moved his large, warm palm to wipe your face dry. “Aeg,” your voice cracked, but you could not help your smile. “I’m gross.” 

“Yes, you are,” he agreed with a smirk, wiping his hand dry on his jeans and moving to your other cheek. “Quit these cunts, they do not deserve you.” 

“But…” and you faltered for a moment, realizing it was best to come clean with your true intention with the job. “But I also wanted this because I have a surprise for you.” 

He groaned, falling back into the couch and pulling you against his chest. “How many times must I tell you that I already have everything I want,” and he wrapped his arms tight around your waist, nuzzling into your neck. “Must you make me repeat the cliches? That your presence in my life is present enough? That you, pretty girl, are my gift?”

You giggled and squirmed from his hold, the stubble on his jawline tickling your neck. You pulled back to look into his beautiful eyes and his wide cheesy grin on display. “I know, but I wanted to something more, give you something you really want-”

“I am dead serious about my contract opening,” he dead-panned. “About the pay and the underwear.”

You looked at him, his smile so contagious, and leaned forward to capture his lips with your own. His fingers combed through your hair, holding the back of your head; his lips felt warm and soft against your own, his beard growth tickling still. You giggled and he moved to rub his face against your neck again, goosebumps rippling over you.

“But what about a puppy?”

He stopped his movement and pulled back to take you in. “That was the gift?” The excitement bubbled in his voice, his eyes bright as they looked over you. “You were really going to get me a puppy?” 

You nodded, smiling from his reaction. “Sara’s dog had a litter and I already paid all the fees, I have been getting the supplies, then we would go and pick you out a new furry friend…” 

His hands cupped your face and he pressed a kiss to your hairline, then tilted your head back to find your lips again; you melted against his chest. “This is why you have been working this shit job?” He pulled away, his tone accusing. “I have been absolutely heartsore watching you slave away for these ungrateful swines who cannot tell the difference between azure or cerulean-”

“...you couldn’t either when we first started dating,” you remind him with a grin. 

He held up a finger. “True, but if I hired a brilliant graphic designer, I would listen to your expertise and learn.” You blush and he sighed, pulling you against his chest for another hug and it was your turn to sigh, loving how well you fit against him.  

There was a moment of silence and he continued. “A dog is a big responsibility and I would need your help,” he leaned forward and pressed his lips against your neck. “I am also not a fan of the stress they have been causing you, your anxiety has been in overdrive since this contract keeps being extended…” 

You sighed again and he shifted his legs, catching your chin to bring your eyes to meet with his own. “I know you want this for your career and I will support whatever you choose,” he began, his eyes wide and watchful, the hint of a smirk to his lips. “I feel I must repeat myself and let you know I will happily fund you to be my perfect girl.” 

You cannot help but roll your eyes, but giggled knowing that he would actually pay you to be a homebody, if it meant he got to be around you all the time. 

The evening was spent with your laptop off, your notifications muted, and cuddled up with Aegon while watching some TV show you had been binging together. There is comfort being curled up, a pleasant warmth shared that inevitably lulls Aegon to sleep and you listen to his soft snores. 

You were careful to pull away, creeping towards your laptop and reading the emails missed; not one included a thank you for your effort shown thus far, or any indication that your supposed contract would be over any time soon. Rubbing your eyes as if it would wipe away your frustration, you decided you had enough, that there were other jobs, other opportunities, and you didn’t deserve to be treated like this. 

After pressing send on your resignation email, you slammed your laptop shut and felt a mixture of relief and worry wash over you. The sound caused Aegon to stir, his sleepy eyes barely open. “Babe?” he sounded confused, almost delirious. 

“After careful consideration I have decided to accept your offer,” you joked, doing your best to mark the worry that brimmed beneath.

Aegon smiles, your words registering and waking him up. “Wonderful,” he breathed, pulling you in and sprinkling kisses over your face. “We start tomorrow with picking up our puppy,” and he giggled in a way that made your heart swell in your chest. “Then, we have to pick out a uniform…”

You giggled and grinned with how he suggestively wiggled his eyebrows, feeling a sense of relief washing over you and letting you know that you made the right decision; you could trust that, together, you would figure it out.

Arcie’s Masterlist // modern Aegon Targaryen masterlist

[humanpurposes]

What are your top Aemond fic recs?

If you look through the #fic recs on my blog I've got loads there that I love, but here a few of my personal faves!

(Disclaimer that these are based off personal preference and I am not the person to ask if you wanted fluff)

Canon Era

the death of peace of mind by @lightningandfireinmybones

The Last of the Dragons by @undertheorangetree

Dangerous Games on AO3

Now I'm Covered in You (technically a medieval AU) by @inthedayswhenlandswerefew

Consequences by @targaryenrealnessdarling

I'm A Fire And I'll Keep Your Brittle Heart Warm by @randomdragonfires (Sam's entire masterlist tbh but this one's my fave I think 🥺)

Of Blood and Fire by @theoneeyedprince

Rev. 22:20, Carrion Flowers and Anhedonia by @ewanmitchellcrumbs (Ange's entire masterlist really)

Modern AUs

Light The Way by @ewanmitchellcrumbs

Rumours and The Commune by @adragonprinceswhore

Literally anything by @sapphire-writes but I really love Down In Flames and A Cursed Place

No Pain No Gain by @targaryenrealnessdarling

Anything by @oneeyedvisenya makes me feral but especially love Dragonstone Hollow, Tipping Point and Catalyst

Rip my heart, heal my soul by @flowerandblood

Family Reunion on AO3 (this one is very dd:dne, ye be warned)

ALSO someone wrote a Misery au with fan!Aemond x author!reader and I CAN'T FUCKIN FIND IT :( but that was v good

Edit: Found it!! Misery by @elaratyrell

[witchofthevale]

↷ september '23 fave fic recs!⋆☂｡☽˚.

Okay, okay here we go! This nearly killed me to make, so you better read them.

I'm kidding... I think.

Gentle reminder that what I consider 'fave' is by my own personal tastes and preferences, and you might not agree with them and that's okay! These are very lovely authors you can peruse on your own to find the right fic for you, and there are always the tags + algo. Just because your favourite fic isn't here doesn't mean it's not good; it could be potentially for a variety of reasons (I haven't read it yet, I have just not this month, I don't vibe with that character, etc).

That's what I love about the individuality in fandom and writers— there will always be that right fic from that right author that just hits all your good spots.

This is mine. For the month of September. If you find your next favourite fix here— I'm glad! If not, that's still swell! Hope you find it!

To the writers— thank you for writing such brilliant fics! I struggled setting this up because of how many I enjoyed 💝.

Anyways...

More quick reminders!

This is set chronologically; both by character name and by fic title.

If you are familiar with my blog, you will mainly see HOTD, some TLK, then random characters.

There may be smut! There may be dark fiction! I support and consume both! Please read trigger warnings actively! You are responsible for your own person! Community Labels ruin fandom ecosystems, stop snitching! Ignore or block at bloody will!

There are no series parts here. That is in a different display post that is still being processed lol.

If you see repeated author names, it can be numerous things— mostly, they're just that good, okay? Okay.

These are only for September 2023. I've read about 500+ on this account alone, and would die if I tried to go back before then, sorry. You can still check them out through tag navigation here!

I've also added some of my works that I enjoyed writing for the month, because why not.

Now that's fucking over, I hope you enjoy!

ABRAHAM (Grantchester)

*Untitled Piece by @ewanmitchellcrumbs

AEGON TARGARYEN II

Ceilings by @sapphire-writes

Lemon Cake To My Tea by @darlingofvalyria

Merciless or Ruthless? by @lovelykhaleesiii

Moan for Me by @st-eve-barnes

AEMOND TARGARYEN

A Mutual Feeling of Hate by @fan-goddess

Gelato by @oneeyedvisenya

Hell Hath No Fury @fromforeigntofamiliarity

His Love by @valeskafics

I'm A Fire, And I'll Keep Your Brittle Heart Warm by @randomdragonfires

Revolution by @valeskafics

The Black Stag by @darlingofvalyria

Til Death Do Us Part by @asumofwords

Unnerved by @dulcewrites

*Untitled by @ewanmitchellcrumbs

*Untitled by @missglaskin

Vulnerability by @valeskafics

ALDHELM

My Heart by @silens-oro

BILLY TAYLOR

The Perfect Send Off by @ewanmitchellcrumbs

BILLY WASHINGTON

Lonely This Christmas by @ewanmitchellcrumbs

DAEMON TARGARYEN

Ask, and You Shall Receive by @ewanmitchellcrumbs

A Thousand Words by @arabellasleopardcoat

Capital by @arabellasleopardcoat

Curse of Womanhood by @just-some-random-blogger

*Untitled by @barbiedragon

Valyrian Bride by @cryingforlife

HARALD SIGURDSSON

A Political Arrangement by @valeskafics

JACAERYS VELARYON

In Bastards of Blue, Wager in War by @darlingofvalyria

MAEGOR TARGARYEN

Little Lights by @dreamsofoldvalyria

OSFERTH

Lacnunga, Or, Remedy by @assortedseaglass

SIGTRYGGR IVARSSON

Little Warrior by @ewanmitchellcrumbs

SIHTRIC KJARTANSSON

Hours by @valeskafics

It's Urgent Darling by @sihtricfedaraaahvicius

Take No Wife by @valeskafics

TOM BENNETT

A Good Wife by @valeskafics

Rest by @fidelias

VISERYS TARGARYEN III

*Untitled by @barbiedragon

MULTIPLE CHARACTERS

Conquerors Reborn by @undertheorangetree | Helaena, Aemond x Reader

El Tango De Roxanne by @valeskafics | Jace, Aemond x Reader

Royalty Fucked by @oorhaellaoo | Baelon, Alyssa x Reader

[hotd-bigbang]

Author: @randomdragonfires | Artist: @azperja

Title: Time Can't Stop Me Quite Like You Did | Category: F/M | Rating: Explicit. | Word count: 17.2k

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, rape/non-con.

Summary: She leans on the doorway and watches as Aemond Targaryen takes a lengthy drag out of his cigarette - tiny embers of the burning tip being the only light in all the space around him. He has always been this way - isolated and deep in thought, always. It is at this moment that it strikes her. It's him that she's in love with. It's always been him.

.Read the full story on AO3.

Created as part of the House of the Dragon Big Bang '23 event on @hotd-bigbang

[adragonprinceswhore]

Fic author’s self rec

When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let's spread the self-love 💞

Thank you for the tag Lyn @aemonds-fire 😙

1. Colour My Mind, Bring Me Back

I swear to god, sometimes when I write this I black out and it’s like melancholic, unexplainable nostalgia consumes me and that’s the fic. I’m still trying to figure out the best ending, it’s approaching but I can’t visualise it yet.

2. Rip It Up And Start Again

I love a modern AU where the characters stay as toxic as they are in canon 🫶 Currently listening to brat and thinking about a part two because I love my loser soulmate Aegon.

3. The Commune

Again, love me some toxic, modern AU. If you like power-hungry hubris-fuelled Aemond, this is for you!

4. One Whore Is As Good As Another

I love exploring Aegond’s dynamic - from Aegon being a bully to Aemond ‘proving’ himself in the most destructive ways. This was so fun to write, that’s why it’s a favourite!

5. The Way I Feel Under Your Command

The idea of this fic is very dear to me; it’s the one where I get to explore themes close to my heart like classism, peer exclusion and unavoidable heartbreak. I don’t know if I’m doing a great job writing it tho, it’s not ‘flowing’ as easily as I’m used to. Still, I really enjoy how chapter 1&2 turned out!

Tagging five people: @humanpurposes @randomdragonfires @theoneeyedprince @troublesomesnitch @venmondiese

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favourite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers (if you feel like it, no pressure) Spread the self-love 💖 - @moris-auri 💖

I am late on this one but I wanted to do fics I haven't said yet :)

thank you for the ask my lovely! I'll do a mix so I am not repeating myself lol

My first Billy fic I ever wrote, thanks to @ewanmitchellcrumbs great request! I have a soft spot for this one!

An amazing request from @randomdragonfires, still one of my faves I've written!

My first Michael Gavey fic, I love that little nerd and I liked writing sucking him off lol

I fear I will never reach the heights this did 😂

thank you for the ask my love <3

[towriteloveontheirarms]

Get to know me

Thank you for tagging me @adragonprinceswhore and @happilyhertale ♡

Nickname: My name's too short for a nickname

Sign: scorpio

Height: 5´4

The last thing I googled: shipment tracking for a package I´m waiting on I guess

Amount of sleep: Enough to keep a crippling depression alive

Dream job: stage actor

Favorite song: atm it´s Barbie & Ken by Scene Queen, but it changes constantly

Movie/Book that Summarises Me: I honestly don´t know

Favorite instrument: Guitar (I´d love to learn how to play)

Aesthetic:  I don´t really follow one set aesthetic

Favorite authors: Edgar Allan Poe

Random fun fact: I have worn glasses ever since I was less than one year old.

No pressure tags: @ajthefujoshi @bl4ckph0enix @hopelesswritergall @humanpurposes @randomdragonfires @valeskafics and anyone who wants to!

[aemondwhoresworld]

MAE rec. (still UPDATING)

( a place where i will recommend all of my favorite HOTD work )

𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄. 𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍

≡ i read mostly angst stuff but ofc with happy ending also some don’t .

≡ pairing aemond targaryen x reader

≡ there are some fic that i listed in a one-shot list might be a 2 shots or more but i’m not sure if the author will update more to that fic so if there is another part to it, i’ll surely update. thank you!

≡ i don’t own any of these work, this is just a recommendation list. also thank you to all the writers.

≡ please be free to recommend more fic if you have any other angsty, fluff, etc fic

≡ WARNING ⚠️ MINOR DN | LATEST UPDATE: 1 JULY 2024

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐒 𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐍. rec

⌗ one-shot

A CURE FOR A BAD DAY — by @venmondiese

A FATHER’S LOVE — by @drakoneve

AEMOND’S CROWN JEWEL — by @dreamfyrie

BASTARD — by @maidragoste

BALANCE THE SCALES — by @ichorai

BEWITCHED — by @achaoticeternal

DRAGONS, KNIGHTS AND PRINCESSES — by @runningmunson

DEAR HUSBAND — by @princessbellecerise

ELECTRIC TOUCH — by @achaoticeternal

HIS LADY WIFE — by @aemondsladywife

HOW LONG CAN WE BE A SAD SONG — by @namelesslosers

IN A WEEK — by @oneeyedvisenya

SALT AND ASH — by @clints-lucky-arrow

SWEET, WONDERFUL YOU — by @thekinslayed

I COME TO YOU A SINNER — by thekinslayed

SCAR — by @runningmunson

THE DEATH OF A LIFE — by @fan-goddess

MY DRAGON — by @sapphire-writes

WON’T LET GO — by @vhagarlovebot

CAN’T LOSE YOU — by @sassypossumm

I’M A FIRE AND I’LL KEEP YOUR BRITTLE HEART WARM — by @randomdragonfires

THE TEST OF LOVE — by @just-some-random-blogger

THE CURSE OF SIN — by @sylasthegrim

ARROGANCE IS PERDITION — by sylasthegrim

I WON’T FALL FOR SOMEONE WHO CAN’T MISBEHAVE — by @lauraneedstochill

THIS — by @sourcherryandsprinkles

KING’S LANDING MARKET — by @multific

DARK CHERRY — by @desireangel

⌗ multi-part

THE OTHER WOMEN — by @bichachonacho

part 01. the other women

part 02. retribution

part 03. repentance

part 04. appatent

part 05. enamoured

part 06. atonement

alt ending. night changes

OF FLOWERS & DRAGON — by @aemonds-sapphire

MOONBLOOM (can be read as part 2)

MY FIERCE LADY — by @runningmunson

part 01 ; part 02

WHISPERS UNSAID — by @theold-ultraviolence

part 01 ; part 02

WORK FOR IT — by @lovelykhaleesiii

part 01 ; part 02

PARALLEL LINES — by @randomdragonfires

UNBROKEN BETROTHALS — by @the-monstermash

part 01 ; part 02

⌗ modern!aemond

BLACK CHRISTMAS — by @valeskafics

A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

BE QUIET — by @youraverageaemondsimp

ALL THAT I’M LIVING FOR — by @valyrianglass

TIL DEATH DO US PART — by @asumofwords

THIS — by @daenysx

⌗ series

HIS SAPPHIRE PRINCESS — by @myladysapphire

ROBBED AND GIFTED — by @flowerandblood

⌗ ewan mitchell

CHEMICAL OVERRIDE — by @endless-ineffabilities

THE REHEARSAL — by @simpingland

[arcielee]

Date With the Night

Summary: Aegon is obsessed with you and will do anything to keep you for himself. Paring: AegonTargaryen x Modern!FemReader Word Count: 2763 Warnings: Masturbation, oral (female receiving), overstimulation, little bit of spit, and p in v.  Author's Note: Okay. So, this is going to be a short series set within the same timeline as Aemond and his Modern!FemaleReader. Thank you so much @f4ll-for-you​ and @squirmhoney​ for being my beta readers, my muses ♥  I hope you all enjoy! Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @sirenofavalon @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess​​ @babygirlyofthevale​ @randomdragonfires​ @httpsdoll​  Series: Call It Dreaming 

You were unsure how to explain to your friends that the heartbreak that your suffering seemingly evaporated overnight. The only one with any insight as to why was your roommate; she had burst into your room with smiles, wanting to verify that you finished the water she left you and her eyes rolled over you with the compliment on the collection of love bites that Aegon somehow left on your skin.

It did not make sense, you could not comprehend how your subconscious literally fucked away the name of whatever asshole you had dated. You slipped into the bathroom attached to your room and looked over the marks that decorated your neck and your chest.

You decided the day would be for recovery, nursing the slight hangover you had with lots of water, and that night you curled up to fall asleep, only to wake up in the dimly lit room that clearly belonged to a king. 

Aegon Targaryen and he was a man obsessed.

The morning after, he mourned his empty bed, rolling towards the side you had slept on and drinking in your fragrance, his mind recalling the softness of your skin and the hint mixture of something floral with vanilla. He felt drunk on the memory of you and fucked his first to completion, with your name spilling from his lips like a fervent prayer. 

That evening, he called a Cargyll knight to accompany him to scrounge every inch of Flea Bottom; Ser Erryk made a face, but could only agree with a reluctant, “Yes, your grace.” 

They slipped through every alley, visiting every brothel and stopping every whore in search of you, only to return to the Red Keep empty handed. Aegon felt defeated, refusing Lord Larys’ offer of any cunt within the kingdom. Instead, he wished for quiet and for wine, demanding the pitcher to be left for him. The handmaiden was quick to fill his goblet and leave the king; he sensed her trepidation but he had no appetite for flesh or food, so instead he drank. 

This is how you found him. 

You were confused at first, but brightened at the sight of Aegon. He had been sulking in a chair and straightened when he heard you say his name, the sweetest sound to his ears. His pupils swallowed the lilac of his eyes as they washed over your figure, hidden beneath an oversized shirt that was barely long enough to touch the peaks of your thighs, your face flushed with your smile. 

He bound from the chair like a man starved, pressing against you and his lips crashing against your own. “You came back to me,” he moaned and your tongue curled into his mouth, tasting the same bittersweet wine as before. His large palms roamed your curves, falling to your hips and grabbing into them, crushing you closer to his chest. 

Your sigh was as sweet as your voice and Aegon adored how your body reacted to his touch, to his kiss, how you arched against him until you were flushed against his chest. His face nuzzled into the curve of your shoulder to your neck, the feeling of his lips, of how his teeth bit into the flesh sent the shiver of goosebumps that rippled over you. 

“I must taste you,” he hummed into your neck, between his sloppy kisses. He took a staggered step backwards, dragging you towards the bed. “I must have you,” he nearly whined. 

His palms were warm and clammy when they grabbed onto your hips again, twirling you to face him, a quick kiss to your lips before he pushed you back against the mattress. You were gleeful, a giggle spilling from your lips that stopped when you noticed his stare. 

You pushed up to your elbows and looked at him. “What is it?” 

Aegon looked at you for a moment and his tongue wet his lips. “Tell me, what are these called?” he groaned the question, his fingers reaching to touch the thick lace of your thong you wore underneath your nightshirt. 

You giggled again, remembering how he lusted over your modern underwear the last time. “It is a thong,” you told him, reaching to grab the hem of his shirt and pulling him until your lips nearly touched. “It is a kind of… undergarments, from my world.” 

His brow quirked like an internal debate to question the latter half of the sentence. However, lust won over in that moment once he felt the lace beneath the pads of his fingers and he surged against you, his hot mouth finding your own. 

You moaned into the kiss as he deepened it, an urgency to taste you and his tongue clever. His hand grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head, your nipples pebbling in the cool night air. You lay back onto the bed and his lips set to worship your body, his large palm cupping your breast to latch onto the soft flesh leaving a flush of pinks and reds as his mouth continued over your curves. 

His fingers curled into the lace and he carefully pulled away your thong, dipping forward to trail kisses towards your center. You feel the shiver of pleasure run the length of your spine, blossoming at the base and its sinuous spill into your lower abdomen from the tentative licks of his tongue. He moaned into your cunt, drunk off your taste that was as intoxicating as your scent.

You whined with the stretch of his finger, then another added, curling within your warmth wet and pressing deep within. You mewled in response, trying to shift your weight, but his other palm clasped onto your hip to hold you in place, his eyes dark and watchful with his probing, searching until he found that sweet spot that caused your eyes to roll into the back of your head, your back arching into his fevered touch. 

Aegon hummed and finger fucked you to the precipice of your release; you nearly cried when he pulled away, the flutter of your velvet walls as you watched him lick his fingers clean. “I wish to feel your pleasure,” he murmured darkly, unlacing the ties of his trousers, “but only around my cock.” 

“Aegon,” you breathed and he leaned forward, his lips silencing you and you felt his length pressing against the softness of the inside of your thigh; you moaned at the touch.

He hovered over you and his smugness displayed on his wine stained lips, then tilted his head forward to allow a line of his saliva to break from his mouth and onto your cunt. You whimpered when his fingers pressed to mix his spit with your arousal, his hand then grabbing his shaft and his head running the slickness of your folds, relishing with how you squirmed beneath him. 

“You are beautiful,” his voice was low, lust laden, “with how desperate you are for my cock.” 

You moaned as he sunk into you, the stretch, his girth that filled you so completely. “You take me so well,” he murmured. 

You felt his hold on your hips and his pace was brutal; his hips snapped against you, his eyes watchful as you unraveled beneath him, wanton with your cries and clenching with your peak. Aegon pulled back with a guttural groan, the pearly ropes of his own release across your stomach. 

There is almost a tenderness with the after care, how he peeled off his shirt and wiped you clean. His hands would not leave you, out of his desire for you but also out of fear that you will leave again, which you assumed that you would. 

But you returned the following night and the one after, unsure as to what brought you to Westeros but eager to fall into his arms again, enjoying how they wrapped around your abdomen, crushing you against his body, his pleading whispers into the soft divot beneath your jawline, “Why must you leave me? Why can’t you stay with me?” 

His lovely lilac eyes are red rimmed from the lack of sleep with your late night rendezvous as well as the wine you knew he over indulged as he waited for your return. There was the fraying desperation that boiled beneath his skin as he struggled, and failed, to keep his hold on you in King’s Landing. 

“Aegon,” your voice is soft, gentle to remind him, “I do not belong in your world.” 

“Neither do I,” and he meets your lips with a crushing kiss that draws the very breath from your lungs, as if you are the lifeline to his own sanity. 

Each night would end the same, the insatiable fucking that left a delightful ache between your thighs and him so cuntstruck but still in want for more. He would pull your bare body against his own beneath the covers and sprinkled kisses over your features, you giggling with how it tickled partnered with his end of day stubble. 

For him, every sound you made was musical. “Stay with me,” he begged again. 

Your fingers rested on his jaw, your thumb pressing gently onto the mole on his chin. It was an exhausting topic between you both, one where you could not even give any insight as to how you ended up here to begin with, or if it was even fucking real. Every night was spent entangled in his embrace and the next morning you would wake back in your bed, naked and missing yet another pair of your underwear. 

Instead you kissed him and he responded hungrily; his large palms pulled you closer still and you felt how he hardened once again, how it pressed into the softness of your stomach and the trill of pleasure that curled in your core. You shifted when his arm snaked around your abdomen, pulling your backside to be flushed against his bare chest and his cock pressing against your ass.  

Aegon nuzzled into your neck with sweet kisses, the warmth of his tongue that ran from the curve of your neck to your earlobe, a soft nip as his hand dipped between your thighs. “So wet for me already,” his exhale was warm and tickled your skin. 

The pads of his fingertips moved with familiar precision, knowing your intimate touches and he relished with your visceral response, your breathy sighs. You moved your hips back to press against and he bit into your shoulder, his groan a low vibration and it made your skin rise. His hand moved to slip his length between the warm flesh of your thighs, a rhythmic rubbing against your slick slit. 

It was slow, allowing him to caress every inch of your body, pulling you so close you felt his heart beating against your backside. He pushed against your entrance and you gave a shuddered sigh; his palm had its hold on your hip and the steady thrust of his hips until he sheathed inside you, his breath bated between your shoulder blades and your mewled cries in response to how he hit that sweet spot within you. 

That next morning, Aegon woke up and saw that his bed was empty and his frustration spilled from his seams, throwing the bedsheets aside, storming around his chambers as the servants scampered underfoot, trying to help him begin his day. His skin felt agitated, aflame with the touch of their hands and he barked at them all to leave the room, then a bellowed demand that he must speak with his brother.

Aemond will know what to do.

Instead the Lord Commander came into his room and informed him that Prince Aemond had left yesterday for Harrenhal and had yet to return. 

His witch, Aegon remembered. 

Sunfyre soared above the Red Keep and westward until he heard the roar of his brother’s dragon. Vhagar was waiting on the shores of the God’s Eye, the large, reptilian eyes watchful as he abandoned his dragon and moved inside the castle, following the thick smell of sage that led towards the throne room. He found the witch perched on the throne, with a mortar cupped in one hand and a pestle in her other; there was a white chalked design that stretched in front of where she sat.

Her eyes were bright beneath the smeared, dark kohl and her painted smile was almost knowing, as if she expected him to show. “My king,” she almost purred. “How may I be of service?” 

Aegon balked for the words, unsure of where to begin. “I am looking for someone,” he finally said.

“And she is not of this world?” She finished with the curl of her lips, pushing from the cracked throne and moving past him, towards a large oak table to set down her herbs. 

His brows raised in response but he remembered something Aemond had mentioned about her, she sees much and more. “I am unsure where she is or how I can find her…” 

Her Riverland accent was thick and cut him off, “I would need something of hers, to find your woman.” 

Aegon pulled out a pair of your laced underwear, unabashed, and Alys just watched him, her eyes blinking slowly before she took it from him and dropped it onto a marble slate. “My king,” she searched through the collection of glass vials, plucking one filled with a lavender powder that she sprinkled on top of the fabric; there was a small burst of flame and she continued, “I know she is not of this world. There is a portal, something bridged between our world and hers. I cannot allow it to stay open, as my path is meant for this change of events, so you will not have long to return–” 

“I will not be returning.”

She stopped and looked up to see his eyes that now burned with a renewed passion, his want for you. “I am unsure where Aemond is,” he continued, “but I need you to give this to him.” And he removed the conqueror’s crown and placed it on the table, amongst the vials of her makeshift alchemy. “He was meant for this role and I trust he will be a fair king until Jaehaerys is of age.” 

Alys said nothing, but only hummed as she returned her attention to the table and picked up a piece of chalk. She kneeled to the cobblestone and moved her arm to retrace the lines; when she finished, she faced him as she wiped her hands together. “Once you step through this portal, you will be unable to return to Westeros, my king.” 

“Yes, you mentioned that already,” his tone was irritable with how she repeated her words, presenting it as if he was making a poor choice or her form of judgment.  

In truth, it could be viewed as such, but it was a choice that was his to make. The weighted responsibility was heavy on his shoulders, always unwelcomed, always unwanted with how it affected every aspect of his life. Growing up, he often shirked the burden to his brother, with the hopeless dream to sail away to Pentos, Issos, somewhere, anywhere across the sea to be rid of the politicking of King’s Landing, his damn Targaryen bloodline. 

Instead, he had been dragged to the Iron Throne and the ancestral crown placed on top of his head curled his spine with the weight of the duty, the expectancy that gleamed in the rubies that decorated it. Even after the war was won, with Rhaenyra and Daemon tried and executed, he found what he said remained true: he had no wish to rule, no taste for duty. 

He was not suited for this life.

Aegon knew this was the better option for all involved. He would leave and allow his sister Helaena the peace she wished for, as she did not desire him or their false marriage, and he hated the forced action that was required for the sake of an heir to the Iron Throne. His mother would grieve, perhaps, but soon she would gloat when the crown was rightfully placed upon Aemond’s head; he was meant to wear the crown, he had shouldered the lessons and the responsibilities, and Aegon knew this. 

And Daeron, well, he could not really remember much of him anyway. 

“Please tell my brother that this is for the best,” Aegon watched the witch. 

Alys nodded, the shimmer of her glossy, dark hair with the deft motion. “Of course, my king.” 

He stepped forward and left Westeros behind. 

[humanpurposes]

Fic authors self rec!

When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let's spread the self-love 💞

Thank you for the tags @moris-auri @adragonprinceswhore @targaryenrealnessdarling and @arcielee thanks for thinking of me ❤️

My most recent!! I really love the relationship between Aemond and 'Nightbloom' if I do say so myself, two people clinging to comfort in whatever form they can.

Will always be that girl. I love her.

Would be my fav fic of mine if I could actually get round to finishing it aaaaaa 🥲

I love an AU and this has been so fun to write so far. Love my girl Floris, also part 3 features what I think is my best smut hehe :)

Cheeky bit of Tom Bennett because I love him and I'll always have a soft spot for Kitty Wheelan.

No pressure tags ✨ @randomdragonfires @sapphire-writes @undertheorangetree @barbieaemond (and anyone else who fancies it, pls tag me coz I’m nosy)

[arcielee]

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings:  Death mentioned in graphic detailing, night terrors, SA implied/mentioned, overall sexism because it is the 9th century. MDNI, 18+ Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 2136 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior.       Author’s Note: This will be a hybrid of the books and TLK show. The timelines will be adjusted for the plot and the names will match the Old English/9th Century. Please be mindful of chapter warnings as this shit will have dark moments and mature themes.   Thank you to my darling beta reader @aspen-carter​ for helping me with this first chapter and to my darling @killergirlfuria​​ to help me with the summary, as I am terrible at them. UPDATE: Thank you for this gif! @itbmojojoejo​ ♥  Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! Dividers are by @saradika​​​ Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond​ @annikin-im-panicin​ @watercolorskyy​ @schniiipsel​ @aspen-carter​ @aemondx​ @fan-goddess​ @babygirlyofthevale​ @randomdragonfires​ @httpsdoll​ @tssf-imagines​

Chapter 1 

The day was warm and bright, a beautiful day suitable for the celebration of the marriage between Æthelred of Mercia to the trueborn daughter of King Alfred. Wessex swelled from the festivities, with the bittersweet smell of ale, foods, and sweat that meshed with the wave of bodies gathering within the city walls. 

Osferth was tall and lithe, able to see over the heads of the crowds, and surefooted to slip in-between the masses as he searched for one man in mind, as his uncle had encouraged.

Uhtred of Bebbanburg. 

Before this, his life had been spent in the shadows of the monastery, well aware of his paternal heritage but unallowed to breathe a word about it. His clandestine confinement consisted of the repetition of scripture and prayer to atone for sins that were not his own, and it did not feed his faith, but instead allowed his bitterness for his banishment to fester within. 

This changed on his thirteenth name day when Leofric came for a visit; he remembered him to be large, his voice low and grizzled as he regaled his time spent with the Dane slayer and he even shared about his mother; she had died during childbirth, but his uncle swore her strength was passed to him. 

“I know you are angry, little man, but this is the safest place for you right now,” and his large palm rested on his thin shoulders, a fatherly squeeze for reassurance. 

Osferth was heartsore when he learned of uncle’s death; the memory of those days they spent together was something he cherished, replaying in his mind and becoming a balm for his bitterness. His grief allowed a moment of complacency until his eighteenth name day when the abbot brought him a sword and a piece of parchment; he realized the scrawl of words belonged to his uncle and they brought a newfound peace, a drive with how Leofric spoke that  a man could be set on a path, but only his steps could create his own destiny. 

The letter ended with a mantra, destiny is all.

So he left the monastery, wearing his weatherbeaten albe and with the baldric wrapped around his slim waist, that kept the gifted sword sheathed at his side. 

He traveled, following the trail of celebrators into Wintanceaster until he saw him ahead, lounging on the steps and surrounded by his men; their eyes were watchful as Osferth pushed forward, he only stopped when he saw the blue eyes of the ealdorman-of-many-monikers focus on him.  

“Lord,” he began, “you knew my uncle, Leofric.” 

He saw how his eyes softened at the mention of the name and Osferth knew he held his attention. “Leofric was a great man,” Uhtred tilted his head up, looking over the young man. 

Osferth nodded. “I have come to serve you, to be at your side as my uncle had.” 

The motley men that surrounded Uhtred varied from Dane to Saxon; he heard the scoff and lilt of a dark haired, dark eyed man who muttered how they had no need for a baby monk. Osferth swallowed, “I have come to serve as a warrior, lord.” His eyes did not leave Uhtred. 

He could see the quiet assessment from Uhtred, how his blue eyes surveyed him, and then he heard a smaller man, who was standing apart, who spoke out loud of his heritage beyond Leofric–that he was Alfred’s bastard. 

“You are Alfred’s son,” Uhtred said, in part a question, but also a clarification. “Your father would not be pleased to learn you’ve come to offer me your sword.” 

“And what has he done for me?” He struggled to smooth the bitterness that edged his tone. “Sent me away so I could become a priest or a monk, to be forgotten or simply denied my very existence altogether?” It was his turn to scoff. “But if I were to stay in Wessex, what would I expect to find? Favour?” 

Uhtred raised his brows with his words and looked over at his Irishman, who only shrugged in response. “You may never see Wessex again,” his eyes did not break away from him.

“Then I would give my thanks to God for that,” and their looks showed Osferth it was not the expected reply. “It is the stench, lord,” he clarified, his eyes flitting around the people crowding the city.  

Uhtred grinned, but before he could speak further, a guard called to his attention that the king called for him. Osferth shifted his weight under the guard’s gaze and Uhtred stood up, his eyes rolled over him once more before he said, “If you have a sword, you may stay,” and followed after the guard. 

His lips curled with what he considered his small victory and his hand fell to the hilt, a pat on the pommel to reassure it was there. He felt the dark eyes of the Irishman focus on him. “Can you wield that, baby monk?” he asked Osferth. 

“Well enough,” he replied and he heard a chuckle, looking behind to see a Dane with his arms wrapped around a woman whose auburn hair burned more red in the sunlight. “Though, I am willing to learn…”

“Well, thank the gods for that,” and the Irishman stepped down and placed a palm onto his shoulder, a squeeze to show comradery, or perhaps to feel for his strength, with a hold that reminded him of his uncle; his grin showed beneath his beard. “Let’s leave this noise and see what you are capable of then, baby monk.” 

+ + + +

Keavy would allow her mind to return to the days she spent at the nunnery, a brief reprieve that allowed her to relive the only bit of peace she experienced since she arrived across the sea. 

It began with the abbess and her pitied look when the slavers rolled through; Keavy was barely ten years of age, thin, quiet, and did her best to stay hidden. She remembered the warmth in her kindly brown eyes when the abbess looked to her and called for the cost of the little girl. 

He had scoffed at first, but when she pressed, he only requested a cup of ale in exchange and it was quickly provided. Keavy watched the bob of his neck, how it spilled from the corners of his mouth and stained his tunic as he downed it. He belched when it was finished and shoved her forward. “She is yours, nun, but know that she has been cursed.” 

She fell to the ground, her legs weak from the weeks at sea, unable to stop herself from hitting the dirt path. Keavy felt the burn in her palms and knees, her scars that lined the left side of her jaw and cheek–a parting gift of desperation from her mam the night their village was raided. 

It was a night seared within her blood and that often returned to her with violent flashes when she slept. She was haunted by the cries from the villagers, how her daid handed her his dagger before taking a sword and leaving to fight with the other men. Her mam had begged and screamed for him not to leave, as anyone could see from the flames curling from the rooftops, licking the night sky, to the blood soaked earth that this battle was already lost. 

Stories had terrorized the coast of Irland of the blood-lust traders and slavers who ravaged the shores, taking whatever they deemed profitable. They spoke of how villages would be nothing but ashes, how the surviving men would be sold off as slaves, of the horrors of what would happen to women and girls. 

Her hands shook as she tied the belt around her waist, hiding the sheath beneath the layers of her skirt while her mam continued her screams. Keavy clung to the dagger as if it would keep her tethered to her daid, crying when her mam finally ripped it from her hold; her own hands shaking as she attempted soothing sounds that were choked by her tears. “I will not kill you, child,” she breathed and Keavy saw the manic fire in her blue eyes. “But you are far too pretty to survive across the sea.” 

Her daid kept the blade sharp, his prized possession that came from his father before and his before that. She did not feel it until it nicked into her jawbone and only then did she cry, the blood spilling onto her clothes; she screamed for her mam to stop and fought back to pry it from her hands when the door barged in. 

They were faceless, large and covered in blood and grime. Her mam was killed without so much as a scream and another grabbed her, searching for cloth for her wound and unaware as she tucked the dagger back into its sheath beneath her skirts. There was the tear of fabric and he pressed it to her face, before dragging her from her home, dragging her towards the shore. 

She would never forget the heat of the flames, how she choked on the soot and smoke as she stumbled over the fallen bodies around; her hand pressing the cloth on her face and the other gripping her side, holding the handle of the blade. There was a bold moment that seized her chest, to plunge it into his side and run to find her daid, but then she saw him, one of the dead amongst the many bodies, with his sword in his hand and his eyes empty as they bored forward. 

Keavy remembered how the fear replaced and gripped her heart and her vocal chords; she would not scream because she knew that no one would come for her. 

She did not know how she survived crossing the sea, nor could she remember much more than the crude stitches that were given onboard, an attempt to save her, and the burn of her fever that ached her bones. “It is because God has a plan for you, little one,” the abbess would tell her later.

“I am cursed,” she would say, partly in defiance, partly to watch the reaction of the abbess and her wide brown eyes. 

“Hush, child,” she would scold her, as always. “That man was a godless heathen and knew not what he said. He thought your worth was equal to a cup of mead!”

The nunnery she was brought to was built to overlook the rolling fields of Ebchester, with a river that curved through the hills. Here the abbess seemed relentless for the salvation of Kaevy’s soul and Keavy would allow the repetition of her fables and scriptures, all while palming the Celtic silver cross she wore beneath her plain tunic. 

She remembered the day when Lady Gisela arrived, how her kindred spirit called to her and the lady was all too pleased with the bold Irish girl who shadowed her steps. The abbess allowed her to stay, Dane or not, and Keavy was delighted with her company over the other Saxon nuns. 

Gisela had a kind smile and took care to answer her questions about her life before Ebchester. Keavy admired her worldly insight and her attention was rapt to the stories she told her about the love she shared with Uhtred of Bebbanburg. 

“My lady, how do you know he will come for you?” Keavy asked, with a genuine curiosity of the faith Gisela held that seemed comparable, if not stronger, to the faith the nuns held for their Christian God.

“It is something you know,” Gisela smiled and it was as bright as the sun that warmed them. “You will know this when you are older.” 

Keavy saw a glimpse of Uhtred of Bebbanburg, of Uhtred Ragnarsson, when he arrived as the savior promised. The day began with the arrival of strange men who spouted of the power of their God and how it allowed them to marry Gisela against her wishes; the abbess held onto Keavy tightly as she struggled forward, choking on the same helplessness she felt the night her village burned. 

Uhtred was a force when he arrived, barging through the doors; when the abbot refused to be quiet, he killed him to silence him. The nuns cried, but Gisela and Keavy watched him. “Child, look away,” the abbess had whispered, but she was a young woman now and could not help the sense of satisfaction she felt as she watched the abbot bleed out on the wood floors. 

Keavy remembered when they had left and for the first time she had prayed, not to a deity in specific, but the quiet prayer for Lady Gisela to enjoy her happiness. The stories she had shared stayed with her and allowed a sense of hope that she had not felt before.

Chapter 2 | masterlist

[arcielee]

Farewell Wanterlust

Warnings:  Sexism because it it the 9th century, tw: noncon, sexual assault mentioned, violent actions and torture describe. MDNI, 18+ Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 4107 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior.      Author’s Note: This will be a hybrid of the books and TLK show. The timelines will be adjusted for the plot and the names will match the Old English/9th Century. Please be mindful of chapter warnings as this shit will have dark moments and mature themes.     Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! Dividers are by @saradika​ ♥ Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @sirenofavalon @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aspen-carter @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @randomdragonfires @httpsdoll @triscy @assortedseaglass @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek​ @heavenly1927​ @greenowlfactif​ (bold for those I could not tag, but requested!) 

 Chapter 2

It had been ten days since the brothers, Erik and Sigefried, besieged Lunden. 

The city fell easily, which was something Keavy knew was inevitable from the mumbled worries of his lordship Æthelstan, something that he shared between her and his mug of ale. Though he had been baptized, she still saw the Dane that thrummed beneath the flesh and how it vibrated with that instilled knowledge, haunting him late at night to know that despite the structured wall that surrounded them, they did not have the manpower to keep it properly guarded. 

Keavy had been sent to Lunden after her refusal to join the nunnery in an official capacity. She was well aware of the weight of her decision, how it would uproot her, but the abbess did not fault Keavy for her choice; she knew this from the soft touch of her hand to her cheek that was not damaged, her simple gesture of understanding before she left Ebchester. 

She had grown into a strong-willed woman, both bright and vivacious. In all accounts, she was lovely as her mam claimed: she possessed womanly curves that pressed the seams of her simple frocks, with a milky white complexion and dark ringlets that billowed with her every determined step. 

Though Saxon men admired these physical traits, they all were overlooked the second their eyes fell to the parting gift from her mam. Her scar had healed dark, with blood red markings from the crude sutures that knitted the flesh together; it curled below her chin and stretched back towards her ear, with a second slash into her cheek downwards to her jaw bone. 

She was aware she was a gift for the baptism of Æthelstan of East Anglia but did not mind him; she was pleased to learn how he almost pitied her, which in turn allowed her a freedom within the city limits. He had noted right away how the Saxon men would be quick to look away with the superstitious whispers that she was a witch, some with a visible shudder, and were quick to disregard of her existence; he understood the blemish would allow her to be overlooked and she served as a set of eyes and ears amongst the cityfolk. 

Keavy ignored it all, their reactions, readily accepting her role and requesting to be trained alongside his men, so she could properly handle a sword. And he allowed it. 

It was a freedom she now mourned as she found herself pinned under the dark gaze of Sigefried these last ten days. 

The Danes had come under the cover of night and she awoke to the screams that rolled from the shores, echoing in the stone halls of the manor. She moved from the bed, throwing on her frock and cloak, grabbing her dagger and tucking the silver Celtic cross beneath her neckline. Keavy moved quickly from the castle, hiding in the shadows of the city as she made for her escape. 

She had come across a guardsmen, a young man she recognized from training in the courtyards, and he reached to take her hand. They moved together, quick and quiet amongst the bloodshed, slipping into an alleyway of cobblestone where they found a lone Dane taking a piss. 

The lad pushed her backwards, perhaps with a gallant effort to defend her but instead he was killed quickly. This distraction allowed her to draw her own blade and plunge it into the softness underneath the Dane’s jaw, far enough to gut his tongue so he could not scream. 

As she watched the blood seep between the stones, she thought back to the night when the slavers came and she knew from the haunting echo of slain screams that Lunden was lost. She wiped and sheathed her dagger, removing the silver cross, and wrapped both in her blood stained cloak. Keavy then picked up the sword and used it to lift some of the stones, burying it beneath, then dipping her fingers into the fresh blood that pooled and marking the stones.

She swore that she would survive this as well, that she would return for it, but if not, let it remain buried rather than be taken. 

Once she finished, a looming figure stepped to block her path. His face was shadowed and closer she saw his pupils were blown, which made his eyes as black as the night. He looked past her. “Did you kill them?” His tone gravely, and he said it with a smile that reached his eyes in a way that made her skin crawl. “You have killed one of my men so I ask how will you repay for this loss?” 

Her arms trembled with her grip on the sword, her fear rooted her stance but wavered under his dark eyes.  “I am not afraid to die tonight, Dane,” she spat back at him, but her bold tone cracked and betrayed her. 

His laugh was deep and reverberated around her. “I can see this,” and he was quick to close the space between them, knocking the steel from her grasp. It clamored to the stone and she felt his hot breath on her face. “You are not Saxon,” his larged palm grabbed her face and she felt the burn of her scar from his hold. “Do they teach their women across the Irish sea to fight?” 

She would not answer him, but she also did not look away. He only chuckled, his hand moving to grab a handful of her curls and pulling her as he made his way back towards the castle. Keavy grit her teeth, struggling to keep with his steps and ignoring the cheers from the Danes they passed as he took her to one of the rooms. 

Her fear now settled into her core, but she would not give the satisfaction of screaming as she knew still that no one would come for her. Lunden now belonged to the Danes and she knew her mam never considered that the marr given would not be a deterrent for their heathen cocks. 

It was fortunate and unfortunate how Sigefried seemed entertained by her stubbornness, her refusal to seek his favor and, in return, he would try and frighten her, to see the cracks in her practiced stoic mask. “When my cock tires of her, I will hump her with my good hand,” she once heard him say to his brother, the blonde Dane named Erik, and they laughed as he lifted his knifed arm.

Keavy just watched him with her steeled gaze, ignoring how her fear shuddered the length of her spine. I am cursed, she thought. Whatever faith the abbess tried to behest from the days spent in Ebchester died in the bed she was forced to share with the Dane. 

Each day dragged with her pettied struggle to remain alive. The Danes seemed insatiable in every sense, but she made sure to serve and refill their cups as the ale, which allowed her to slip from his grasp some nights, but the following day he would return his attention to her with a hungover vengeance. 

On the tenth day, she remained in the shadows of the courtyard, watching as the Danes nailed men to crosses. They were priests sent from Æthelstan to negotiate and the brothers treated them as sport. 

She watched, stone faced and her heart heavy, trying her best to block out their screams. Just the prior night she had been tasked to feed them and she managed to slip them apples from the orchid and hard cheeses along with the bread rationed for them. They begged her to free them but one had been quick to shush the men. 

“Do not risk their fury,” he warned her. His head was shaved, his beard haggard and his expression severe on his already hardened face; he made sure to thank her for the fresh fruit before she left them. 

Now she watched these same men with her solemn expression as they were nailed to the wood, the screams echoing throughout the courtyard. Keavy felt the eyes of Sigefried on her and he beckoned her closer; her steps felt heavy as she brought herself to stand behind and between him and his brother. 

“I still do not understand how this kills a man,” Sigefried casually commented, unaffected by their tortured cries. 

His brother shifted his weight, his unease more apparent. “Sigefried, take his head and be done with it,” and there was the hint of him pleading. 

“A cross kills a man slowly, lord, over days,” and their attention turned towards the same priest that spoke to her last night. In the sunlight, she saw the dirt on his face and the dark circles that framed his dark eyes. “It is both torture and execution.” 

“There,” his brother clasped his hand onto his shoulder. “You have your answer. Now take his head and be done with it.” 

And Keavy could no longer hear their exchange, her focus now fastened onto the men that walked towards them; her eyes watched the one who led them, his presence perking the interest of one of the heavier Danes that stood off to the side. 

“Uhtred Ragnarsson,” he announced. 

His very name breathed fire into her chest, a renewed flame for hope. 

Uhtred of Bebbanburg. 

Her mind returned to the stories that Lady Gisela had shared, how she swore of his honorable spirit. Keavy watched him like a beacon presented for her freedom. “Lord Uhtred of Bebbanburg,” her voice rasped to interrupt and the eyes of the men fell to her, stopping the exchange they were having. “My lord, I know your lady wife.”

She saw that her words caught his attention and she burned under his hard stare, but before she could continue, she felt the backhand of Sigefriend catch her across her mouth. Her knees buckled and she fell back into the dirt, the taste of iron in her mouth, but she did not let it falter her words. “I owe her a debt, lord.”

As she prayed that the words would hold weight and take root, Uhtred peered at Sigefried. “Who is she to you?”

From behind, she saw the tension in his shoulders, but his response was nonchalant. “Just some Irish whore we found here,” his tone was sly with his following implication and it made her stomach curdle with disgust, “I have been having my fun with this one.” 

Her jaw steeled, another crack in her mask, and she could feel how she trembled from his words with a white fury that burned within. 

Uhtred paid her no mind, his focus remaining on Sigefried. “She seems irksome to you, but perhaps she would serve my wife better, to repay this debt owed,” a smirk played on his lips. “You claim bygones today and my family grows. The extra hands can be of better use than to play with your cock.” 

She burned, but she heard the dark chuckle of Sigefried. “She may frighten your children,” and he gestured to his jaw with cruel humor. 

“They have strong stomachs,” another voice spoke and her heart lifted with the familiar lilt of his diction. 

Keavy did not dare lift her eyes from the boots of the men that spoke of her like she was not present. Her chest tightened with her struggle to steady her breath and the silence rolled over them with a palpable tensity that stricken her bones. 

“Of course,” Siegfried began, his words were slow and heavy with venom. “As a gesture of goodwill.” 

For the second time in her life, she found her worth being bartered and then a large palm reached to grab her shoulder, shoving her forward. Keavy fell in front of them, catching herself on her hands and knees, and they burned from the impact. 

“Osferth,” and she looked up to see Uhtred watching her. “Take her to the docks and wait for us there.” 

“Yes, lord,” and a shadow stretched over her. She felt a hold that held no maliciousness, no ill intent, just the gentle touch that belonged to the man called Osferth. His slender fingers wrapped above her elbow and he helped her to her feet; she saw how he towered over her, how his eyes bore into her own.

His features, his jawline were sharp but she saw a kindness, a softness to the expression he held; it complemented his eyes, a color that reminded her of the spring days at Ebchester, when the sky was without a cloud to blemish the brilliant blue. 

Osferth began to pull her away from the crowd of men who now called for food and drink, and she followed him, her mind vibrating with the realization that she would soon be gone from this damned city. 

+ + + +

There was something almost akin with how the Irishman instructed his swordsmanship that reminded Osferth of the days he spent with his uncle, years ago. Finan was not as tall as him, but he was sturdy, with a surliness that peaked beneath his dark beard and his dark brow that furrowed above his scrutinous gaze; Leofric had a hardness that had been embedded into his demeanor and would edge into his timbre, whereas Finan’s lilt brought a comfort to his critiques. 

“You have a pretty solid foundation, but your stance is a bit lazy,” Finan chewed on some straw, reaching forward to correct his posture. “But if I was a betting man, I would guess you wouldn’t be killed right away.” 

They remained in Wessex for several days, indulging in the celebration with an insatiable want of women and ale. Sihtric remained knitted at the side of the same woman with auburn hair, while the rest were seated around a table, their cups overflowing and spilling into the wood as they crowed when they learned of Osferth and his virginity. 

He argued his time spent at the monastery hardly allowed women to flow through, but Finan would not hear of it. “There are things in life you must allow yourself, an almost right of passage for any man,” and it was the first time he noted a genuine grin beneath his beard. Finan grabbed the pitcher to refill his cup and Osferth took a grimaced sip, the taste bitter and burned down his throat. “Don’t worry, baby monk, you will learn to love it.” 

Uhtred offered insight about quality over quantity and Finan guffawed in his mug. He continued on about his wife, how when he saw her, he just knew. “With ale, you must accept whatever has been poured into your cup,” Uhtred swirled whatever liquor remained in his mug, “but a good woman is something you must be able to decipher and then cherish.” 

Osferth watched the hue of pink that washed over his cheeks, whether from his thoughts of his lady wife in Coccham or perhaps the ale. “How did you know, lord?” His naivety pressed.

Uhtred smiled at him, bringing his fist to thump against his chest. “It is in here, it is something that tells you.” 

Osferth remembered that moment when they were in the courtyard at Lunden, when he first saw her. 

They had left Wessex on horseback towards the shores of the Temes; Mercian lords had accompanied them and the boats were a reprieve from their ceaseless, loud complaints. They followed the river to the docks of Lunden that bustled with merchants, who seemed unaffected by the siege. 

They followed behind Clapa, who led a wide berth with his large steps as people parted to allow him to pass, and they pushed until they came to the courtyard, halted by the body crudely displayed upright on a cross. Their unease shuddered off when Finan spoke with certainty, “Tis’ a death, nothing more.”

Osferth found that the vulgar show of sacrilege vested a response instilled from his days at the monastery and he crossed himself, his dirty blonde locks spilling forward when he bowed his head for a quick, silent prayer for the dead man. 

The sun poured into the courtyard ahead and Danes were staggered around with a half-interest in the grotesque crucifixion demanded. The attention turned onto them and Osferth found himself fixated the moment he saw her, how still she stood in the Dane brothers’ shadows. 

There was a severity in her green eyes as she looked them over and they brightened with a familiarity, something that flickered across her pale features. She wet her pink lips before she dared speak out loud, claiming their attention as well as the backhand from the dark haired brother. Her knees buckled and she fell back, her lips now red with blood, her eyes burning. 

“Don’t do it, baby monk,” Finan growled, low, and he felt the touch of his hand to his stomach. Osferth realized his fists were clenched. “I see your eyes have not left her–let him handle it.”

Though the words did not ease his rigid stance, he remained rooted at the Irishman’s side, his eyes watchful. Osferth thought back of his last day at the monastery, the warm meal prepared for him and the comfort of the bed he had slept in for the prior eighteen years. The abbot had approached him to ask if he truly wished to leave this humble life behind and he had answered earnestly that he had to go. There was a pull from the echo of his uncle’s words that regaled Uhtred of Bebbanburg, how he was an honorable man, how he was a fair man, and this was what propelled his steps to leave this life behind. 

Destiny is all. 

And in the courtyard, he saw the personification of his uncle’s words with how Uhtred bartered with Sigefried to hand over this woman, with her eyes that burned. 

The Dane had shoved her forward and Osferth moved outside his volition towards her, breaking away from Finan and with the covered command from Uhtred to take her to the docks, a way to conceal his unprecedented action. Osferth helped her stand, pulling her away from the courtyard and the heathens that filled it. 

His steps were not hurried, but his long legs made for a long gait as he moved to exit the city, his hold on her hand keeping her in the wake of his steps as he pushed through the crowds. 

“Please, priest,” he heard her say and he peered over his shoulder, slowing his steps and watching her as she looked over the buildings they passed, her eyes almost frantic. “Please, before we leave, I must take what belongs to me.” 

Osferth stopped and turned to face her, his chin tilted down to look at her. He watched the rose coloring dust her fair cheeks and the tip of her nose, how the pink clashed with the scar that lined her cheek and jawline. His eyes returned to her own and he only said, “I am not a priest.” 

She blinked then tried to correct herself. “Forgive me, monk–”

“I am not a monk, nor a holy man any longer,” he interrupted, his brow knitting over his eyes. “I am simply Osferth,” he added and he felt a warmth that bloomed in his chest from how she peered up at him through her dark lashes; he admired the bright green of her eyes with a halo of gold that burned around her pupil with her stare. 

She watched him for a moment before she reached to take his hand, her palm dry and cool against his own. He allowed her to lead until she made a noise of recognition, moving down an alleyway until they came to where blood had clearly been split, with markings that burned dark against the stonewall. 

Without a word, she dropped to her knees, her fingers desperate to pull up the stones before he unsheathed his sword and offered its leverage. She finally unearthed a dark piece of fabric, almost black with the mixed stain of blood and soil that broke off in chunks as she unraveled to reveal a silver, detailed cross and a dagger. 

She first slipped on the necklace, tucking the pendant beneath her neckline, and then her fingers trembled with its hold as she tried to fasten the belt around her wait. There was a moment he wished to reach forward to help her, but instead he let his hand fall back to his side. 

When she finished, she turned to face him with her face flushed; he saw blood was smeared across her chin and she wiped her hands on her skirt, her dark curls limply falling to in front of her face. Osferth felt that warmth cradling his heart, but said nothing and offered his hand to her. He was pleased how she took it without  hesitation, how well it fit within his own, and they made their way towards the docks. 

Once outside the gates of Lunden, he felt he was able to take a deep breath, though the waste thrown on the shores were still rancid. “Wait here, lady,” he said, his tone low and kind, and he went to find a bucket of cleaner water and rags. 

When he returned, she only said, “I am no lady.” She dampened the cloth to wipe away some of the blood and dirt, her pearly complexion showing through the streaks. “You may call me Keavy.” 

He nodded, his eyes still watchful as she cleaned away the grime; his gaze trailed the scarring again, a deep blood red for the new skin. “Was he…” he began and he gestured to his jaw, “was he the one who did this to you?” 

“It was from before,” she answered and he saw how her hands fidgeted with the cloth. “Osferth,” she spoke his name slowly and he liked how it rolled with her Irish lilt, “have you been in service to Uhtred of Bebbanburg for a while?”

He shook his head, a small smile to his lips. “No, lady, only a few days now.”

“Just Keavy,” she corrected him with the slight tilt of her head and he burned from the tensity of her green eyes. “Do you think he has sound judgment? Is he a fair man?”  

He noted the trepidation of her voice and the concern that lined her question. “From what I have seen and learned about him, he is very just,” and he paused a moment before he added, “I will say that he is a man that respects honesty and will give it in return.” 

Her lips pursed in response and she nodded with the soft movement of her curls.

Osferth wished to reach forward and pinch a tendril between his fingers, to find his tongue and press for more, but instead he heard Uhtred call to them; they both looked to see him and the men in tow, making their way towards the docks. They split to their respective boats and Osferth stepped in, turning to take her hand and help her as she made her way forward to sit on the behind the stempost, where Uhtred now held onto. 

They rowed out with the collective grunts with each pull; Osferth felt the burn between his shoulder blades as they made their way against the flow of the Temes. A silence settled over the men until they seemed far enough from Lunden before Uhtred asked: “What is the debt owed to my wife?” 

Osferth looked up, watching how her shoulders wilted and then squared with her breath. “She saved my life, lord.”

Uhtred looked back at her with an amusement that played across his face. “How did my wife save you?” he clarified. 

“By allowing me to use her name to escape the Danes that held Lunden,” she admitted and then allowed a shaky exhale. “I knew her from when she stayed in Ebchester, until you came for her,” she added with one breath. 

“Ebchester?” Finan called from behind, his tone light. “Did you ever confess to Beocca that you killed a holy man?”

The men chortled and Osferth felt a sly smile of his own that widened when Keavy turned around to watch their response. Her relief was apparent and there was a glow with her smile, the dimples on the left side of her face exaggerated by her scarring.

She is lovely still, came the intrusive thought to his mind. 

“He is aware,” Uhtred called out over their laughter. “And he understands why it was warranted!” Their laughter swelled over their boat alone, while the Mercians followed silently in their wake as they made their way back to Wintanceaster.

previous | Chapter 3 | masterlist

[arcielee]

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings:  Mentions of sexual assault, implied PTSD, detailed bloodshed. MDNI, 18+ Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 3896 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior.  Author’s Note: Stiorra and Oswald are aged up a bit. Again, this is a hybrid of the book series and Netflix series. 💜 Thank you @itbmojojoejo​ for being my beloved beta reader. Enjoy!      Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! Dividers are by @saradika​  💜 Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @sirenofavalon @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aspen-carter @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @randomdragonfires @httpsdoll @triscy @assortedseaglass @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek​ @heavenly1927​ @greenowlfactif​ @babyblue711​ (bold for those I could not tag, but requested!)

Chapter 3

The air seemed sweeter the further west they went, just the soothing rhythmic row as they followed the curves of the Temes. Ahead, Keavy spotted horses grazing near the shore and they docked, greeted by a man who called to Uhtred. “I had them brushed, lord,” his words searching for favor. “And fed as well!” 

Uhtred rewarded him with a silver coin for the care and the men began to climb from the boats. She appreciated that Osferth lingered, his hand outstretched to take her own, his firm grip that helped her onto solid ground. She smiled at him before her attention returned to the horses; she took shy steps towards one whose ears twitched with her approach, its large eyes watching her. She held out her hand flat and giggled with the way its muzzle tickled her palm. 

“You will be riding with me, Keavy,” and she turned back to see Osferth moving towards her, his arms folded behind his back. His tongue wet his lips. “Have you ridden one before?” 

“I have not,” and she smiled again, her hand moving to follow the crest and reaching on her tiptoes to try and scratch behind its ears. “What must I do?”

As the men found their respective horses, she followed Osferth to a brown mare with a white diamond on her forehead. He allowed her a moment as she held her palm out once again, her tentative scritches to the jawline before he stepped closer, taking her hand to place on the cantle. “Keep your hold here,” his voice was low with his command, before he kneeled with knitted hands to cup her step and help her aback, and then he pulled himself up. 

Keavy burned as he settled himself behind her, the feel of his solid chest against her backside and the same tenderness of his touch as before, respectful, almost hesitant. She grabbed the reins and held them for him, her soft sigh when he reached around her to take them.

They began towards Wintanceaster and she found his presence was not suffocating, unlike how she felt around the Thurgilson brothers and their men. There was a comfort, a consideration with his subtle actions towards her, how he held his arms to hover above her thighs until she placed her hand on his forearm to show he could rest them on top, to his warm tone in the shell of her ear as he explained the simplicity of riding horseback. 

“Keep your hold with your thighs,” and she flushed with his words. 

It was uneventful otherwise, just  the soft murmuring exchanges between them; Osferth allowed her to take the reins and she smiled with how his palms fit over her hands, the vibration of his chest with the low instructions that tickled her ear. 

Once in Wintanceaster, they dismounted and only then Keavy noticed the man from before, his brown eyes squinting in recognition of her. “I am so pleased you escaped, priest,” she said. 

He introduced himself as Pylrig. “The Lord allowed me an opportunity I had to take,” his smile grim beneath his haggard beard. “I am glad you are out of their shadows. It seems, perhaps, that He has something planned for you as well?” 

She gave a noncommittal hum in return and Pylrig and Uhtred left, the Mercian lords following behind them. “What do we do now?” Keavy turned to look at who stayed behind.

She saw the glint in the Irishman’s eyes, a wolfish grin beneath his beard. “Now, cailín, we will fill our time with food and ale while Uhtred relays to the king what we saw in Lunden,” and they began to move towards the tavern; Finan dipped into the doorway and looked back to Keavy. “In return, the king will question Uhtred’s loyalty and I assume we’ll be banished back to Coccham within half a day.”

She made a face. “That seems…absurd.”

“Ay,” he agreed, “but that is what we do. Still plenty of time to drink, though,” and with that he called out to the owner. “We need pints!”  

They settled around a table and Keavy felt the curl of apprehension as the mugs were set down for them. But as the night continued, as the ale flowed, she did not see the flare of cruelty the liquor seemingly brought out in the Danes in Lunden, but instead her cheeks were rosy from laughter they shared stories. 

The night waned away and eventually Uhtred returned, calling to Keavy. She pushed from the table, her limbs heavy from the day, and followed behind him as they pushed towards the bar. Uhtred spoke with the man and her eyes flitted over the tavern, returning to the table and catching the brilliant blue of Oferth’s steady gaze; she felt her lips curl upwards but he quickly returned his attention to the men. 

An ewer was placed in her hands, folded fabric draped over her arms, and she looked to follow Uhtred. They came to an empty room with empty beds, moving towards another door where a smaller room was attached. 

Inside was a bed small enough to fit within and a crude, wooden table with a shallow washbin on top with a looking glass that hung above. In its smudged reflection she spotted the empty gaze of a stranger, realizing the dark circles beneath her eyes and the beginning bruise on her chin from the backhand earlier. 

Keavy suddenly felt very tired. 

“I imagine you need your rest from the day,” Uhtred spoke like he had heard her thoughts. “My men will continue to drink, but we will not bother you.”

“Thank you, lord,” her voice was hoarse and she looked into his eyes for a moment. “I did not mean to lie… I will repay the debt to Lady Gisela, she truly did save me–” 

“She spoke of Ebchester before,” he interrupted her, pausing in the doorway a moment. “She told me there was a girl who had the spirit that reminded her of me,” and he smiled. “I understand you did what was needed to survive and I trust that you will repay your debt.” 

He left her, closing the door behind, and she exhaled deeply, a release of the anxiety that bound tight in her chest, her exhaustion lifting from her shoulders, and she looked at her reflection once again. 

Among the fabric she found cleaned rags and peeled the frock she wore, her hands and eyes flitting over the damage caused from the prior days: the dark bruising on her thighs, the scabbing on her hip from the sheath worn on his sword hand…

Keavy shuddered off the memories; she poured the cool water from the ewer and used the homemade soap to scrub every inch, to remove the grime of Lunden, to peel away that tainted layer of skin. Her chest felt tight until she saw her reflection once more, a raw redness that now flushed her pale skin, and she finally felt she could breathe again. 

She slipped on the tunic and crawled beneath the covers, allowing herself to cry until she fell asleep. 

+ + + +

The next morning, Osferth was first in the stables; he was feeding straw to his mare when Finan and Sihtric rounded, with Clapa clamoring behind. “Don’t worry, baby monk,” the teasing lilt of the Irishman was loud, “she has to ride with you, as you are the slimmest of us all.” 

He felt his blush reach to the tips of his ears as they chuckled, but before he could say a word, Uhtred then walked up with Keavy. Osferth felt his eyes go to her, admiring the curve of her neck shone with how her dark hair was braided back, the leather strap of her necklace peeking beneath the collar of the oversized tunic worn, her waist was cinched from the belt that held her dagger. 

Osferth fell back a step when she approached, the warm crimson of his cheeks spreading to his neck and chest from how bright her eyes shone, from the sweetness of the smile she offered him. 

He swallowed thickly. 

It was the boom of Finan’s voice that brought his attention back. “Where to, lord?” 

As expected, they were to return to Coccham. Like yesterday, Osferth helped Keavy up first before he climbed up behind her, swallowing the mixed scent of wood ash with lavender and thyme on her skin. She nestled against his chest and he swallowed again as he reached for the reins, caging her against him. 

Uhtred moved his horse to the front and the rest fell in line, following the trodden path that led back to Coccham. Finan paced his horse alongside and Osferth was quiet as he listened to them talk of Irland; he shared his somber story of a love left behind, how she was ripped away and when he tried to retrieve her, he became cursed with the blood that was shed. 

“I believe your curse remains in Irland,” her voice was soft and Osferth peered down, watching as she turned to face Finan, his eyes trailing the marr that lined her jawbone. “That it remains in the soil across the sea.” 

Despite the tragedy Finan shared, his tone was still teasing. “Do you feel as if your fortune is turning now?” 

Keavy pursed her lips together. “I would have said no if I was asked a few days ago,” she admitted, looking back in front of them. “However, I keep being informed by holy men and women that their God has a plan for me.” 

“Do you believe that?”

“No, but I can respect it,” and she was quiet a moment before she added, “I choose my own fate.” 

They followed the sun as it curved above and began to tuck away into the treeline, the evening shadows stretching until Uhtred called them to dismount and set camp. Osferth climbed down and reached for Keavy. “Your legs may be unsteady,” he warned her and she gripped his arms to balance herself. 

“Osferth,” but he saw she was smiling, his name the sweetest sound on her tongue, “I am sore.”

His cheeks dimpled with his own grin. “I swear your legs will grow use to it,” he offered. 

As they settled around the fire, Uhtred called Sihtric for the first watch. It seemed only a moment that his eyes closed before the Dane woke him, and Osferth pulled himself upright and placed his sword across his lap, watching the silver light that poured through the trees as the others continued their fitful sleep. 

When he tried to wake Finan for his turn, he received a grizzled, “Fuck off, baby monk.”

So Osferth watched as the fire dulled to a glowing ember when a soft cry caught his attention; he looked to see Keavy flinch in her sleep, her eyes opening wide and her breathing rapid. 

“Keavy,” Osferth called to her, his voice low; he moved closer, careful, “Keavy, you are in Wessex.” 

She pushed herself upright, nodding her understanding. “Just a dream,” her voice was weak and she took a deep breath. “Osferth, should you not be sleeping?” 

He felt himself grow warm under her gaze, grateful the fading fire masked the coloring in his cheeks. “Finan is a heavy sleeper,” he mumbled. 

“Then allow me to keep you company,” and she wrapped the fur around, moving to seat herself on the log he rested against. “Tell me your years spent in the monastery and we can compare with the ones I spent with the nuns.” 

Keavy kept her tone light, unwilling to attempt to sleep again, so he fed a log to the fire and they talked with the low crackling of the rekindled flames. They shared the stories of their paths and what brought them to Uhtred; there was an ease, a comfort, with their exchange and he mentioned her words from earlier. “My uncle told me something similar,” and Osferth looked to her, “how it is our steps that create our own destiny.” 

Keavy hummed, a smile on her lips as she poked the flames with a stick. “Wise words,” and she bit her bottom lip. “So, this was your choice, then? You truly left the monastery behind?”

“I would say.”

“Well, if I was you,” she continued, almost shy when she looked to him, “I would cut my hair, to shed the remnants of that monk lifestyle, perhaps along with the pet name they chose for you.” 

Osferth watched her and she grinned with her words, her scar deepening the dimple in her cheek, and the fire seemed to breathe life, warmth into her features. His tongue wet his lips and he looked away. “Perhaps I will,” was all he managed and then he pushed himself to stand, excusing himself for a moment. 

In part it was to relieve his bladder, but also he needed a moment to breathe; his steps pulled him deeper into the trees, with the thoughts of the amber glow from the flames and how they reflected the golden halo in her eyes.

+ + + +

Keavy did not care for the night, as it allowed shadows for traders, for slavers, for Danes to roam without consequence. She remained seated for a moment, allowing the blood to leave her cheeks as she listened for his footfalls, the crunch of the leaves beneath his feet until they faded too far for her comfort. She knew she should allow him his privacy, but her stomach knotted and it compelled her to follow after, as though something within the trees beckoned to her.

Her own steps were soft and she soon spotted the lithe figure of Osferth, his backside to her, as well as a hulking shadow that crept towards him, with a sword and shield in hand. Without a thought, without a sound, she sprinted forward, her dagger gripped in her hand.

Osferth turned towards the noise and she heard the sickening crunch of the shield that cracked across his chest; he fell back against the ground, the air swept from his lungs. 

She struck into the back of the leather cuirass; the Dane cried out, her other hand grasped and pressed until the blade sunk to its handle into his flesh. There was the wheezed escape of his last breath and he collapsed to his knees, falling face first into the earth.

Keavy remained standing over the body. 

Osferth looked to her and she stared back, her eyes wide. “Are you hurt?” her voice trembled, spilling from her lips. 

He did not answer and his expression seemed pained with his fluid motion, pushing to his feet and unsheathing his blade, shoving her aside and swiping across. Keavy fell back and she looked up to see his blade connect with the throat of another Dane, not deep enough to sever but enough for his head to snap back and the body to crumple to the ground. 

“Quick,” Osferth rasped, moving to pull the blade from the backside of the first Dane and handing it to her, “there will be more.” 

They ran, leaving behind the men slain, away from the sound of more that followed after. “Uhtred,” Osferth gasped, his lungs burning with the alarm. “Finan! Sihtric!”

Uhtred and his men moved quickly, as a unit, bleary eyed but their swords drawn, quickly creating a circle and facing outwards to whatever was coming. Osferth pulled Keavy and they tucked into the readied stance of men; she felt his soft touch, his gesture for her to step back, but she saw his unsteady hold of his sword arm and her own tightened around her dagger that was still red with blood. 

Keavy could feel her heart pounding against her rib cage as she watched the Danes move towards them, seeing a heavier set Dane that step forward. “Uhtred Ragnarsson,” his tone almost gladsome as he sheathed his sword.

But the rest did not relax until Uhtred sheathed his own sword, calling the Dane by the name Hæsten. They listened to the awkward exchange over what he claimed to be a misunderstanding, that Hæsten continued on that his men paid with their lives. “Had we been aware they were your men, we would have just continued on our way, Uhtred.” 

“And which way is that?” Uhtred called as they retreated back towards the woods, which brightened as the moon tucked away and the early hour of the morning began to peek through the treeline. 

Hæsten wore a sleazy grin. “Why, to Lunden, of course.” 

As the Danes made their way, the adrenaline seemed to follow. With the mumbled command to break camp, Keavy looked to Osferth and saw him hunch forward, his hand pressed to his chest with a staggered step. She moved towards him, but Finan was quicker to catch him; she saw the blood begin to stain through the thick, burlap fabric of his albe, creating a diagonal line of red from his shoulder and across his chest. 

A satchel was brought and Finan moved quickly to remove the layer, and after a lookover he began to wrap the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. Keavy shared what happened in the woods as Uhtred watched; there was a glimmer of pride to his features and his brow raised when he asked, “You killed them?”

“I killed the first one, lord,” she corrected, but her eyes did not leave Osferth. His complexion seemed ashen and he smothered a grimace as Finan knotted the fabric. “Osferth beheaded the second one.” 

“We will celebrate your first bloodshed once we’re back in Coccham,” the Irishman grinned and clasped his hand on the shoulder that was not bandaged. Osferth’s eyes fluttered from the touch, but he kept quiet. “I don’t believe anything is broken, but I know you will be sore, baby monk.” He then looked up to Uhtred. “It may be best to have Lady Gisela look him over, lord.”

Uhtred nodded, calling Sihtric to accompany them, announcing that Keavy would ride with Osferth and return to the village as quickly as possible. “We will not be far behind,” he finished while the men continued to disband the camp. 

Keavy pulled herself onto the horse, turning to help Finan with Osferth behind her. He groaned softly when seated and she pulled him arm with the whisper, “Wrap your arm around me, I swear I won’t let you fall.” 

There was a warmth from his hold and it spread to her cheeks as he rested his jaw on her shoulder. Her heels pressed to quicken to a trot, keeping the pace with Sihtric, and she felt the vibration of his groan. Keavy placed her arm on top of his, her hand over his own with a soft squeeze. “Hang in there,” her voice was so low that she was certain he would not have heard, but she felt his hold tighten around her waist. 

Coccham was a welcomed sight, its walls built sturdy amongst the trees at the Temes’ shore; the village was coming alive in the early hours of the morning with the callouts of their return. Lady Gisela stepped from the main house with two children in tow, and her brow raised when she spotted them. 

“Sihtric, you return without my husband and instead bring me a face that I do not know…” and her lyrical tone broke off, a smile pulling at her pink lips with her recognition, “and a face that I do remember.” Gisela gave a sweet sigh of disbelief. “Welcome, Keavy.” 

Had Osferth not anchored her with his grasp, she felt certain she would have fallen from the horse with the surge of relief that washed over her. Sihtric dismounted and moved to help them down, explaining, “Uhtred is not far behind us, lady,” his tone almost apologetic as he gestured to Osferth, “but he needs your help.” 

Gisela nodded, her children passed off to another set of hands, and they moved back to the hall, towards a side room with a cot. She was not fazed with the removal of the bloodied bandage, her tone was kind but sharp with her instruction and Keavy was quick to return with a filled ewer and fresh bandages. 

Her composure was the same as Keavy remembered from the days at the nunnery, she had the same gentleness with the soft flit of her hands across Osferth’s chest. The sunlight poured through the window and Keavy could see the gash from the shield edge that struck him, with a bruising color that bloomed around it. 

“Nothing is broken,” her sweet tone said with certainty, “and the bleeding has stopped, so sutures are not needed. However, you are bruised to the very bone. You will need rest, to allow the skin to mend, whoever you are.”

Sihtric supplied, “He is Alfred’s bastard,” and Keavy saw the discomfort that played across Osferth’s face from the words spoken. 

“I am Osferth, lady,” he rasped. “I am simply called Osferth.” 

Gisela only smiled, finishing the fresh wrappings and then wiping her hands before she stood up. “Well Osferth, you will rest here until my husband returns and tells me what we are to do with you.”

“Thank you, lady,” he sounded weary, but his hooded eyes still watched Keavy as she moved from his side to follow back into the main hall. 

Sihtric left to tend to the horses left out front and Gisela then turned her focus onto Keavy, her hazel eyes glinting with a golden warmth as she looked her over. She still glowed with the same prowess Keavy remembered, with a matured beauty that accompanied her motherhood. “You have grown into a woman,” she began, gesturing for Keavy to sit with her at the table. A cup of ale was poured, a clean plate filled, and she quietly thanked her. “Let us begin from when we last saw one another in Ebchester.”

It was a dam broken as she shared the summary, beginning with her service to Guthrum of East Anglia, to the siege of Lunden and about the brothers Erik and Sigefrid. 

She could not control the hurt that choked her words and Gisela reached across, taking her hand into her own. “My sweet girl,” and her sweet voice was a balm for her broken soul, “I spoke to Uhtred that you were clever, and you did what was needed to survive still. You can rest, as you are now welcomed here, always.”  

“Thank you, lady,” she sipped from the goblet, the ale burning her throat. 

It was then Gisela called for her children and she met Stiorra, a bright eyed little girl who had only begun to walk, and Oswald, who smiled shyly from behind his mother’s skirts. “My hands are full with them and your help would be welcomed.”

Keavy smiled and felt shy to ask, “Should I bring a plate to Osferth, lady? I would think he would be hungry.” 

Gisela watched her, a shift in her smile, something knowing that played behind her eyes and the dark lashes that framed them. “He will need to be tended to,” she agreed, and a fresh plate was brought out. “His bandages will also need to be changed, so you should continue to check on him daily until he is well enough.” 

“Yes, lady,” and her green eyes were bright with her returned smile.

previous | Chapter 4 | masterlist

[humanpurposes]

🌵, 🛼, 🥤, 📚, ❄️, 🌿, 🦴, 🐝 <333

omg no too many 😭 (just kidding) Thanks for the asks Miranda!! xx

ask me stuff

🌵 ⇢ share the link to a playlist you love

Not so much a playlist but the Dune 2 soundtrack!! I've been screaming about this to everyone lately but Hans Zimmer is a genius man.

🛼 ⇢ describe your latest wip with five emojis

🐲🌫🩸😢🔥

🥤 ⇢ recommend an author or fanfic you love

Currently reading signs amidst the starry mirth on ao3!

📚 ⇢ what's the last thing you wrote down in your notes app?

Boring work stuff lmao

❄️ ⇢ what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best?

I mean... I think my fics are all my own "dream fics", my writing is nothing is not self indulgent :)

🌿 ⇢ give some advice on writer's block and low creativity

Give yourself a break and DON'T FEEL GUILTY ABOUT IT ❤ Rest is a huge part of productivity and creating.

My other go to for writer's block is changing up my environment, getting out the house, going for a walk to a cafe and bringing my laptop. I also find that if I'm stuck, writing by hand or typing on my phone, just writing in a different medium, is surprisingly helpful.

🦴 ⇢ is there a piece of media that inspires your writing? 

I find inspiration in a lot of places, it often tends to be relationships between characters, bits of dialogue from a book or a film, certain dynamics that "speak" to me. Or paintings and visual art as well, having a specific feel in mind when I approach writing a particular scene.

🐝 ⇢ tag your biggest supporter(s) and say one nice thing about them

@randomdragonfires miss girl you are my pretty little princess!! I so admire your work ethic and your thoughtfulness. You genuinely inspire me so much as a writer and as a person. I'm so proud of you and I'm super grateful for your friendship 🩵