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batmanlovesnirvana · 4 months ago

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Chapter two | Under Gotham’s Shadow.

masterlist

pairing : battinson!bruce wayne x fem!oc.

words : +7k.

author’s note : The second chapter is here! Just a reminder that English isn't my first language, so if there are any mistakes, I apologize in advance. We're meeting a lot of new characters in this chapter, so I hope everything makes sense. If anything is unclear, feel free to ask questions!

cw : bruce being a dick as usual, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, comedy, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

AFTER LEAVING the mayor's house, Maryam reluctantly approached her car.

Sliding into the driver's seat, she finally allowed herself a moment to breathe. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel, shutting out the chaotic world outside. The muffled sounds of journalists shouting questions and the wail of police sirens barely registered as she tried to process the night's events.

Her mind replayed the grim scenes in a loop— the mayor’s lifeless body, the blood, the devastation in young George’s eyes. It was a deliberate murder, no doubt about it, and something deep inside told her this wouldn't be the last. A shiver ran down her spine as she pondered the motives behind the killing. Why target the mayor? She didn't know him personally and, to be honest, barely cared about the man. His face was familiar, but only in the way that all politicians’ faces are—seen, not truly known. Despite keeping up with politics, she could hardly recall anything of substance that he'd done for Gotham.

Sure, he’d put Salvatore Maroni behind bars, but Maryam suspected he was just another cog in the Falcone family's machine. Who in Gotham wasn’t at this point? The city was still in shambles, with criminals running rampant, homelessness skyrocketing, and the gap between the rich and poor only growing wider. Every promise the mayor made during his campaign had turned out to be empty words, nothing but lies wrapped in false hope.

Everything was a mess.

Yet, despite her cynicism, she found herself more worried about George than the murdered politician. The boy was innocent, a child who had nothing to do with the murky underworld of Gotham.

Her aunt had been babysitting him for three years now, and Maryam had often found herself at her aunt’s house, playing with the boy, listening to his innocent laughter. She couldn't help but feel a pang of protectiveness for him.

But what really freaked her out was the vigilante. She had quite literally stumbled upon him, and the memory sent a shiver down her spine.

He was taller than she imagined, his form imposing in a way that felt almost otherworldly. But it was his eyes that haunted her the most—those piercing blue eyes, the bluest she had ever seen. They weren’t just blue; they were the kind of blue that poets of the Renaissance would have wept over, likening them to the tragic skies painted by God himself, sorrowful and burdened with the weight of the world.

His eyes were like a sea under a storm, blue but ringed with red, the color of exhaustion, the remnants of battles fought, and the silent scream of hopelessness written in every shadow. They were the kind of eyes that held the world’s tragedies within them, where hope was a distant, dying light, struggling against the overwhelming tide of despair.

And the way he gripped her—firmly but not forcibly—sent a jolt through her, like a live wire connecting them. It was as if he was afraid of breaking her, as if she were a delicate flower and he was the brutal wind, dangerous and unpredictable, but somehow hesitant to cause harm. It was electrifying. No, it was more than that. It was mortifying. Yes, that was the right word.

The sensation of being held so carefully by something so dangerous—it terrified her.

Another sigh escaped her lips. She had to stop daydreaming, a habit that both gnawed at her and offered comfort in equal measure. But no matter how hard she tried, those blue eyes, full of a sadness she couldn’t comprehend, kept pulling her back into the memory.

Raising her head, Maryam stretched her neck and glanced at the clock in her car. The night had dragged on longer than she realized. She fished her phone from her back pocket, the screen lighting up to reveal a picture of her younger self with her parents and siblings, a bittersweet memory frozen in time. She quickly typed in her password, intending to call her aunt Meysa, but the screen flooded with notifications—several missed calls from her aunt and her siblings. By now, the news must have spread, and they would be worried.

She pressed the call button for her aunt and placed the phone on the dashboard, putting it on speaker. The ringing echoed through the car, the foggy windows a testament to the cold outside. She undid her updo, letting her hair fall, and massaged her scalp as she waited for her aunt to pick up. Finally, the call connected.

“Allo? Maryam, I have been calling you for two hours! You don’t respond to me or your sisters!” Meysa’s voice was thick with worry, not giving Maryam a chance to speak.

“No, I’m fine, Aunt Meysa. I was working—” Maryam started to explain but was cut off again.

“Like always,” Meysa said in Arabic, a tone of gentle reprimand in her voice.

Maryam sighed. “Look, I wanted to call you to ask if you’ve seen the news?”

“Not to ask how your old aunt has been doing?” Meysa teased.

“I literally saw you this morning!” Maryam replied in Arabic, exasperated.

“I know, I know... But yes, I’ve seen the news, although I received it before.”

Maryam furrowed her brows at this. “What do you mean?”

“Rebecca, the Mayor’s wife, called me in tears! I was getting ready for bed when my phone rang,” Meysa explained, then quickly added with a tsk, “She told me her husband was dead! Killed! Can you believe that, yah Maryam?”

Maryam listened, nibbling on her nails and massaging her scalp with her other hand. “Not really, it’s Gotham, have you forgotten?”

“I can’t believe they did that. Killing the Mayor. I never liked him anyway, but the boy? Miskeen, Wallah. I told her to bring him to me so I could take care of him, but she refused. She’s right; it’s better he stays with his mother and family. He must be traumatized.” Meysa continued, brushing off Maryam’s comment.

“I saw him and talked to him—” Maryam began, only to be interrupted again.

“You were there?” Meysa asked, surprised.

“Yep,” Maryam confirmed. “It was a horrible sight. And like I was saying, the boy was really traumatized. I tried to comfort him, but...” She grimaced, shaking her head. “Seeing that kind of thing really messes with your head.”

A heavy silence hung between them.

“You’re right,” Meysa agreed quietly. “I’ll talk to his mother when I can. I don’t want to bother her—God knows how things must be for her right now.”

Maryam only hummed in response, her gaze drifting to the chaos of journalists outside her car.

“What else did you see there?” Meysa asked, hopeful for more information.

“You know I can’t tell you, teta. It’s confidential,” Maryam replied, taking her phone in her hand.

Meysa huffed. “Fine, fine. I suppose I’ll see it in the papers tomorrow.” Then, as if remembering something, she added, “By the way, I made dinner—couscous.”

“Noted. I’m coming to sleep at your apartment then. I’m not working tomorrow morning anyway. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay. Salam, and be careful—or you might run into that satanic devil.” Meysa warned, her tone half-joking.

Maryam laughed, her thoughts flickering briefly to the vigilante. Oh, if only you knew. “Yeah, okay. Bye.”

She ended the call and started the car engine, the rumble breaking the quiet of the early morning. Without another thought, she sped through the empty streets, heading towards her aunt’s apartment.

────୨ৎ────

Bruce removed his helmet with a quiet exhale, the motion slow and deliberate.

The cool air of the cave brushed against his sweat-dampened skin, a stark contrast to the warmth trapped beneath the black armor. As he pulled the helmet free, the shadows lifted from his face, revealing a man who carried the weight of a city’s sins in his eyes. His blackened gaze swept the cavernous space around him, the dim light catching the maining streaks of dark camo that clung to the edges of his eyelids, a haunting reminder of the night he’d just endured.

He reached up, his fingers deftly removing the contact lenses, the tiny sensor bands embedded within reflecting the harsh glow of the monitors around him. The lenses were more than just a tool—they were a gateway to his world, a lens through which he witnessed the darkness that engulfed Gotham. He placed them on the workbench, their curved surfaces still warm from his eyes, before shifting his attention to the grainy video footage playing on the screen.

Nirvana playing on the background; the scene replayed in stark black and white, the distorted image of a gang member convulsing as he was tased in the neck. Bruce’s eyes lingered on the man’s face, reading the fear etched in every twitch of his muscles. He knew that fear well; it was the same fear that had once gripped him as a child, staring into the eyes of the man who had taken everything from him.

He stood, his eyes scanning the vast space of the cave, the eerie silence of early morning settling around him. The remnants of a bygone era surrounded him—an unfinished black muscle car sat hulking in one corner. Monitors lined the walls, their screens flickering with the latest news. The headline that caught his eye made his stomach tighten:

"MAYOR MITCHELL MURDERED."

The newscaster’s voice droned on, filling the cave with words that felt like distant echoes: "...this certainly isn't the first time Gotham has been rocked by the murder of a political figure. In fact, in an eerie coincidence, it was twenty years ago this month that celebrated billionaire philanthropist, Dr. Thomas Wayne, and his wife Martha were slain during Wayne's own mayoral campaign in a shocking crime that remains unsolved to this day..."

Bruce’s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening as the familiar pang of loss surged through him. The past had a cruel way of resurfacing, no matter how deep he buried it.

He sat back, his eyes scanning the footage on the monitor. He paused as the camera caught a glimpse of her—Dr. Maryam Halimi.

Even in the grainy, night-vision footage, she stood out, her presence both captivating and unsettling. Her expressive hazel eyes had been wide with shock when she stumbled upon him, her hair meticulously styled in a French twist updo, a stark contrast to the chaos around her.

There was something about the way she held herself, a blend of poise and vulnerability, that gnawed at him.

Her presence was an unexpected calm amidst the storm of violence and despair.

Bruce leaned in, his gaze sharpening as he studied her features. She had looked at him with those eyes—greenish-yellow, filled with tragedy, hauntingly beautiful, and framed by the weariness of someone who had witnessed far too much yet clung to a fragile hope. A sudden comparison flashed through his mind, almost disorienting: her eyes were like the sky at dusk, desperately holding on to the last traces of daylight before succumbing to the darkness. They were eyes that bore the weight of the world.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought, but it clung to him stubbornly. For a brief moment, he had seen his own torment reflected in her gaze. The deep blue of his eyes, like a painting etched in sorrow, had found a mirror in hers. It was a gaze that spoke of shared suffering, even if she was unaware of it.

Bruce replayed the scene, his heart rate subtly rising as he relived the moment she had stumbled upon him. He hadn’t expected her to be there, and the way she had frozen, her eyes widening in shock, had left an indelible mark on him.

He captured her image on one of his computer screens, letting it linger there before switching to another monitor to continue reviewing the footage.

A metallic clank echoed through the cave, pulling Bruce’s attention away from the screen. He looked up to see Alfred stepping out of the freight elevator, his figure cast in the half-light. The older man’s face, etched with years of wear and scars of a different kind, was a picture of quiet concern.

Bruce turned back to his work, avoiding Alfred’s gaze, but the tension between them lingered in the air like a ghost.

“I assume you heard about this...?” Alfred’s voice was low, tinged with the weary resignation of a man who had seen too much.

“Yeah,” Bruce replied, his tone clipped, eyes fixed on the footage he was fast-forwarding through—frame by frame, dissecting every moment of the crime scene.

Alfred moved closer, his steps echoing softly on the stone floor. He glanced at the screen, his eyes widening at the sight of Mayor Mitchell’s body. “Oh. I see...” His voice faltered as he took in the gruesome scene. “...dear God...”

As the image of the cipher filled the screen, Bruce froze the frame, his hand reaching to print the image. The lines of the eerie symbols etched into the Halloween card were now stark on the paper. Alfred’s breath hitched as he took in the sight, the chill of the moment settling deep into his bones.

“The killer left this for Batman?” Alfred’s voice trembled slightly, betraying the fear he kept carefully masked.

“Apparently.” Bruce’s reply was curt, as if discussing a minor inconvenience rather than a message from a murderer.

Alfred’s eyes narrowed with concern. “You’re becoming quite a celebrity... why is he writing to you?”

“I don’t know yet.” Bruce’s voice was flat, betraying nothing of the storm brewing inside him.

"And her?" Alfred gestured toward the computer screen where Maryam’s face was paused, captured in the moment their eyes had locked. Bruce hesitated, his gaze briefly shifting to the screen as Alfred studied the image.

"Does she have any link to what happened—"

"No," Bruce cut him off sharply, his tone leaving no room for further questioning.

"She’s pretty," Alfred murmured, his voice softening as a small smile tugged at his lips. "Quite a striking woman, if I may add. Or was it the way you scared her?"

Bruce's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "She seemed familiar."

Alfred glanced at him, curiosity piqued. "Do you know her?"

Bruce shook his head, his voice distant, as though reaching back into a memory just out of grasp. "I asked Gordon about her. He said she's a pathologist. Medical examiner. Her name is Dr. Maryam Halimi." His gaze lingered on her face for a moment before he returned to the other screen, burying himself in the work that never seemed to end.

A heavy silence settled between them, the only sound the hum of machinery in the background. Alfred sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to weigh the gravity of the situation against Bruce's relentless pursuit of justice.

"Have a shower," Alfred finally said, his voice carrying a hint of weariness. "The accounting boys from Wayne Enterprises are coming for breakfast."

"Here—why?" Bruce asked, irritation flickering in his eyes, a reminder of the ever-present tension between his two worlds.

"Because I couldn’t get you to go there!" Alfred retorted, frustration seeping into his voice as he met Bruce's gaze, the unspoken concern between them thickening the air.

“I don’t have time for this,” Bruce muttered, his own patience wearing thin.

Alfred’s voice softened, a plea underlying his words. “It’s getting serious, Bruce. If this continues, it won’t be long before you’ve nothing left—”

“I don’t care about that. Any of that.” Bruce’s words were sharp, final, cutting through the space between them like a knife.

Alfred’s eyes flickered with a pain that he quickly masked. “You don’t care about your family’s legacy?”

“What I’m doing is my family’s legacy,” Bruce countered, his voice low, edged with a conviction that left no room for doubt. “And if I can’t change things here, if I can’t have an effect, then I don’t care what happens to me.”

Alfred swallowed hard, his throat tight with unshed emotions. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Bruce's eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a warning. “Alfred, stop.” The words hung in the air, sharp and final. Then, without missing a beat, he added, “You’re not my father.”

The statement was cold, a barrier thrown up between them, meant to shut down the conversation. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the weight of everything unsaid. Alfred’s expression faltered, the faintest trace of hurt flashing across his face before he masked it with a resigned nod.

But the words lingered, echoing in the cavernous space of the Batcave, a reminder of the chasm that sometimes seemed too wide to bridge between them.

A thin, pained smile touched Alfred’s lips, barely masking the hurt behind his eyes. “I’m... well aware,” he replied quietly, his voice tinged with a sadness that Bruce chose to ignore.

Alfred’s eyes lingered on Bruce for a moment longer, searching for something—some sign of acknowledgment, a crack in the armor. But Bruce remained impassive, his gaze already drifting back to the screens, to the work that consumed him.

Bruce rose from his seat, the movement deliberate and final, signaling the end of the conversation. Alfred watched him go, a deep pain etched in his expression, the kind that comes from years of unspoken worries and unresolved conflicts.

The distance between them felt wider than ever, a gulf that no words could bridge.

As Bruce disappeared into the elevator, Alfred turned back to the computer, his gaze lingering on the screens Bruce had been working on. His eyes scanned the thumbnails from the lens footage, pausing on one that showed the boy in the ninja costume with Maryam crouched in front of him, trying to comfort the little boy. His heart clenched at the sight; the tenderness in her gesture stood out sharply against the brutality surrounding them, a small but significant act of humanity in a city drowning in darkness.

His gaze then drifted to the printed cipher lying on the desk, the eerie symbols from the Halloween card glaring up at him. Above them, in Bruce's sharp handwriting, were the words: "HE LIES STILL."

Alfred frowned, the weight of those words pressing down on him like a heavy shroud. He knew the dangers Bruce was courting, the dark path he was walking. But seeing those words, seeing the connection between the message and Bruce’s relentless pursuit of justice, filled him with a deep sense of dread. It was as if the very essence of Bruce's mission was encapsulated in that ominous phrase—a mission that seemed to be consuming him more each day.

Alfred let out a weary sigh and closed his eyes, the heaviness of the situation settling over him. The fear of what it might do to Bruce weighed heavily on his heart.

────୨ৎ────

Maryam stirred awake, the faint sound of voices and the clattering of dishes drawing her from sleep.

The room she found herself in was familiar, though now it bore the quiet solitude of the morning. This was the place she once shared with her younger sister Sherine during their teenage years—a space that had seen countless late-night conversations, whispered secrets and shared dreams. It wasn’t vast, just big enough to comfortably house two people.

The furniture was modest, with a couple of beds positioned against the walls, each adorned with mismatched bedsheets that reflected the distinct personalities of the two sisters.

A shared wooden dresser stood between them, and a small desk, once a place for late-night study sessions or scribbled notes passed between them, sat against the wall, bearing the marks of years gone by.

The room had a comforting, lived-in feel, with soft, warm colors that reflected the coziness of their aunt's home. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting gentle rays that danced on the patterned rug. A few framed pictures adorned the walls—memories of family gatherings and happier times.

Maryam rubbed her eyes, still groggy, and reached for her phone on the nightstand. The screen flashed to life, showing the time: 10:36 a.m.

She sighed, stretching her arms above her head, and then rolled out of bed. Her face was slightly puffy from sleep, and her hair, which had been washed the night before, had settled into bouncy curls that framed her bare face.

Yawning, she reached for her red robe, slipping it on and tying it snugly at the waist. The soft fabric provided a small comfort against the coolness of the morning. Shielding her eyes from the sunlight that streamed through the window, she made her way to the door.

As she entered the hallway, the sounds of life became more pronounced—familiar voices mingled with the clinking of dishes, the occasional clatter of cutlery, and the unmistakable melody of Um Kulthum filling the apartment.

The closer she got to the kitchen, the stronger the scent of coffee became, warm and inviting. It was a smell that always made her feel at home, no matter what else was happening in the world outside.

In the kitchen, her Aunt Meysa was on the phone, a foulard wrapped like a turban on her head and her usual apron draped over her jelaba. She was speaking loudly, gesturing with such vigor that it was as if the person on the other end could actually see her. The mix of broken English and Arabic in her voice was unmistakable.

"No, no, we take no more kids tonight! Already full!" She rolled her eyes with dramatic flair, as if the person she was speaking to was as thick-headed as the fog that sometimes rolled in from Gotham Bay.

At the small table, Aunt Jamila sat, the embodiment of calm despite the tumultuous life she’d endured. A cigarette was nestled between her fingers, a cup of coffee steaming in front of her. Her black hair was tied back, and her sharp yet warm brown eyes were fixated on the newspaper spread out before her.

Maryam paused, blinking in surprise. Aunt Mila never read the paper. The last time she’d seen her aunt with a newspaper, it had been crumpled up to light the fireplace.

Strange, she thought.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” teased Moncef, her cousin, a few years younger and always up to something.

He was Aunt Meysa and Uncle Fawzi's only son, a boxer who owned a gym in Gotham, both training and fighting in the ring.

Maryam, unfazed by his usual teasing, just rolled her eyes and ignored him.

Rania, the fourth Halimi sister, was hunched over her laptop at the table. Her dirty blonde curls were pulled into a messy bun, held together by a pencil, and an earpiece was tucked into one ear. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, completely immersed in work for Bella Reál’s mayoral campaign.

Yesterday's fiasco had thrown her into overdrive, and she barely noticed the world around her.

At the far end of the table sat Warda, the second-born daughter. An engineer at Wayne Enterprises currently on maternity leave, had one hand resting gently on her rounded belly.

She was the only married sister out of the five, wed to a man named Ryan, a dentist. Despite the exhaustion that often accompanied pregnancy, Warda looked as radiant as ever.

Her dark hair, straightened and perfectly styled, brushed her shoulders as she leaned in to spread marmalade on her toast.

When Moncef made his remark, she glanced up, a warm smile spreading across her lips. “Sbah al khir, sbah al noor yah Milou,” she greeted, using one of Maryam’s many nicknames.

Maryam, stretching again to shake off the morning sluggishness, walked over and planted a small kiss on Warda’s head. Warda returned the affection with a tender smile before taking a bite of her tartine. Maryam moved to the counter, tugging her robe tighter around her waist as she poured herself a cup of coffee—milk and three sugars, her usual.

Meanwhile, Moncef, ever the joker, threw a few playful jabs in her direction as she poured the coffee. Maryam, long accustomed to his antics, didn’t even flinch.

Noticing the empty chair at the table, Maryam smirked to herself. The youngest sister, Alma—affectionately known as Lulu—was still in bed.

Typical, she thought. Lulu, the baby of the family, was probably the only one who could sleep through the chaos.

Maryam turned her attention to Aunt Mila, who hadn’t lifted her eyes from the newspaper. “Since when do you read the news, hmm?” she asked, raising one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows as she sipped from her mug.

Amina took a slow drag from her cigarette, her gaze still fixed on the paper. “Why wouldn’t I? The mayor’s dead. That’s big news.”

Maryam chuckled, turning back to the counter. She put her mug down and opened a drawer, rummaging through it for her favorite biscuits. “I’ve never seen you read the paper,” she said, her tone light.

Finally finding the biscuits, she tore the pack open with her teeth and turned back towards the table. “Actually, I’ve only ever seen you light fires with it.” She shot a sideways glance at Rania, who grinned without looking up from her laptop.

Amina sighed, finally folding the newspaper and meeting Maryam’s gaze. “Well, times change, and so do people, ya benti,” she said, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Even I, need to keep up with what’s happening in this madhouse of a city.”

Warda, still chewing her tartine, chimed in with a soft, teasing voice. “Oh, Maryam knows. She was at the crime scene last night.”

Moncef’s eyes widened as he snatched the newspaper from Amina’s hands, dodging her half-hearted attempt to pinch him. “You were?” he exclaimed, scanning the headlines.

Maryam rolled her eyes playfully, leaning back against the counter. “Thanks for the reminder, Warda. Like I needed it,” she quipped, though the corners of her mouth twitched into a small smile.

Moncef, still clutching the newspaper, leaned forward with curiosity. “So, what did you see? Give me the juicy details.”

Maryam shot him a look, already feeling her patience thin. “Moncef, how many times do I have to say it? I can’t tell you. It’s against the rules.” Her eyes widened to emphasize her words. “Besides, I woke up to Sherine hounding me for more info for her papers, and I still refused.”

Ali threw the newspaper at Maryam, but she dodged it with practiced ease.

Meysa, still on the phone, caught the exchange and snapped at her son, “Moncef, stop bothering your cousin! Go find something else to do.”

Ali grimaced and backed off. “Fine, fine. Just trying to get some interesting gossip.”

Maryam stuck her tongue out at him in mock defiance, earning a bemused look from Ali.

“So, what does everyone want for dinner?” Meysa asked, finally hanging up the phone. “I’m thinking Mloukhiah.”

Moncef chimed in, “I don’t know, Baba’s off to work at the bay until tonight, even though I told him not to go. The weather’s awful.”

Meysa scoffed. “Your father is as stubborn as a mule. Out there, getting drenched while Gotham spirals into chaos. What’s next? A gang of criminals taking over Wayne Enterprises?”

Maryam chuckled, her mind still partially occupied with the crime scene. “It’s Gotham, Meysa. Anything’s possible.”

Rania, finally looking up from her laptop, wore a serious expression. “The conspiracy theories are spiraling out of control. This is going to be a nightmare for Bella’s campaign. Every scandal just adds more fuel to the fire.”

Maryam leaned back against the counter with a smirk. “Welcome to my world, Rania. Looks like you’re becoming Maryam 2.0.”

Rania narrowed her eyes at her sister but couldn’t hide a smile. “Oh, please. I’m still young. Don’t age me prematurely.”

“Too late,” Maryam shot back with a laugh. “You’re already showing signs of stress. Look at those bags under your eyes.”

Rania leaned in closer with a smirk. “Ha! You’re one to talk. Your workaholic tendencies could turn anyone into an early retiree.”

“Maybe,” Maryam conceded with a grin, “but at least I’m not glued to a laptop 24/7.”

“Not glued, just constantly engaged,” Rania retorted with a cheeky smile.

Warda, ever the peacemaker, chimed in with a gentle smile. “Let’s not turn this into a competition over who’s the bigger workaholic. We all have our issues.” She glanced down at her round belly and stroked it lovingly. “Some of us just have different priorities.”

Meysa, always the doting aunt, leaned over and added, “Eat, Warda. You’re not eating enough for a pregnant woman. I don’t want my grandchild to be hungry.”

Warda quipped back, “I’m fine, Aunt Meysa. Don’t worry, my husband is feeding me enough.”

At that moment, Alma, the youngest Halimi sister nicknamed Lulu, stumbled into the kitchen. Her auburn, almost red hair was a mess of curls, and her eyes were half-closed as if she’d just been dragged from a deep sleep. “What’s going on? Why’s everyone so loud?”

Warda greeted Lulu with a warm smile. “Welcome to the land of the living, Lulu.”

Lulu took the coffee cup gratefully and sat down at the table. “I’m still half-asleep. What’s everyone talking about?”

“The mayor’s dead,” Jamila said matter-of-factly, lighting another cigarette.

Lulu’s eyes widened in shock, nearly spilling her coffee. “Wait, what? When did that happen?”

“Last night,” Maryam replied, watching her sister’s reaction with a concerned look. “It’s all over the news.”

Rania snorted and returned to her laptop. “Trust me, you’re not missing much. Just more chaos.”

Aunt Jamila exhaled a stream of smoke, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Chaos or not, this city’s going to hell. We’ve got to be careful. All of us.”

Warda nodded, her hand resting on her belly as she considered Amina’s words. “Yeah, we do. But we’ve survived worse, right?”

The room fell into a contemplative silence. They had indeed survived worse.

Breaking the silence, Maryam asked Lulu, “Where were you, anyway?”

Lulu groaned, leaning back in her chair. “Revising my bar exam.” She avoided eye contact with Maryam, her unease palpable.

“Really?” Maryam asked suspiciously, crossing her arms and frowning.

“Yep.” At this point, everyone stopped what they were doing and focused on Lulu, sensing the tension in the air.

With all eyes on her, Lulu finally exploded. “Okay, fine! I did go to revise, but then I went on a date with a guy!”

Jamila, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray, said, “See? Wasn’t that hard.”

“What guy?” Moncef asked, his tone protective.

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to tell you his name. I’m not even sure if it’s serious,” Lulu said, trying to deflect.

“Well, is he hot at least?” Rania asked with a mischievous grin.

“What do you mean ‘hot’?” asked Aunt Meysa, looking puzzled. “Is he sick or something?”

“No, Meysa,” Aunt Jamila clarified, “she’s asking if the boy is handsome.”

Maryam said nothing, but her gaze fixed on her sister, already forming suspicions about who the new guy might be. She hoped to god it wasn’t who she had in mind.

“Yaani, oh my god, it’s my life. I’m 26! Leave me alone!” Alma snapped suddenly, throwing her spoon onto the table and storming off to the bathroom.

Ali raised his arms in mock surrender. “I have to go open the ring anyway. Salam!” He left the kitchen, grabbing his energy drink on the way.

Seizing the opportunity to escape, Rania pushed back her chair, shutting her laptop with a decisive click. “Yeah, me too. I’m heading to the office. The team needs me.” She grabbed her bag and called after Moncef, “Can you please drive me?!”

“Be careful,” Warda called out, but the only response was the door slamming shut.

Maryam emptied her coffee into the sink, quickly washed her cup, and left the kitchen.

Aunt Jamila called after her, “Don’t make her even more mad!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Maryam responded with a wave, already heading out the door.

────୨ৎ────

Maryam leaned against the bathroom doorframe, crossing her arms and giving her sister a stern look as Lulu brushed her teeth. “Please tell me it’s not who I think it is.”

Lulu leaned over to spit out the toothpaste, avoiding Maryam’s gaze. “Oh god, it is,” Maryam muttered, beginning to pace anxiously. Her fingers pressed against her temples. “Vittorio Falcone. Of all people—”

Alma quickly placed her hand over Maryam’s mouth, her eyes wide with alarm. “Keep your voice down!”

Maryam lowered her hands, her frustration palpable. “Can you blame me, Alma?” she said, using her full name to emphasize her annoyance. “You promised me you wouldn’t talk to him—”

“He kept insisting, Maryam!” Lulu cut in, placing her hands on the counter. “Sending me flowers, gifts, waiting outside uni and work—”

“And I warned you!” Maryam’s voice rose. “I said you’d be tempted by him and his charms! Ever since that night at the restaurant, and the way he looked at you while you worked! He knows what he’s doing; he’s playing you—”

“Maryam, he’s not that bad when you get to know him—”

“He’s part of the fucking mafia, be for real right now!” Maryam exclaimed, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “And not just any member—he’s the oldest son of Carmine Falcone!” She lowered her voice further. “The literal heir to the Roman throne.”

Alma shook her head, dismissing Maryam’s concerns. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Lulu,” Maryam said, taking her sister’s shoulders, “please don’t be fooled by them. I know them, I’ve worked near them. They’re dangerous.”

“I talked with him,” Alma said, though Maryam continued to shake her head. “We’re just friends. He says he’s going to make everything legitimate when he takes the reins, which he already has and has started doing some changes!” she explained, her tone pleading.

“Doesn’t matter,” Maryam said firmly. “He’s still dangerous. And you’re not even Italian. Why would he want to go out with you? It’s just so strange.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Alma said suddenly, her tone serious. “I know who he is, but all I ask is for you to trust me on this.” She absentmindedly played with a strand of her red hair. “We’re not together; if anything, I just went on that date with him so he’d stop pestering me. It’s nothing serious, really.”

“Look, I know he’s handsome and charming or whatever, but it’s not like in the movies. Please—” Maryam started, but Alma cut her off.

“I know what I’m doing, Mar. I’m not a baby anymore, and you know that.” Alma began to gently push Maryam out of the bathroom. “Don’t worry about me. Really.” With that, she pushed the door shut and locked it, leaving Maryam outside, bewildered and even more worried.

She leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumped as she tried to steady her breathing.

Maryam felt a pang of helplessness—she had always been the protector, the one who stepped in when things went wrong. But here, with Alma’s stubborn defiance, she was powerless.

The thought of Vittorio Falcone, the heir to one of Gotham’s most feared crime families, being involved with her sister was unsettling.

Her pulse quickened as she imagined the worst-case scenarios: Alma being used, manipulated, or worse. The danger was all too real, and Maryam’s protective instincts flared up with a fierce intensity. She remembered her own experiences with the criminal underworld, the threats and violence she had witnessed, that she had endured.

It was a world that left scars—both physical and emotional—and she couldn’t bear the thought of her sister being dragged into it.

Maryam’s fingers gripped the edge of the door poignet, her knuckles white with tension. She fought to push down the rising wave of anger and fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She understood Alma’s need for independence and the desire to make her own choices, but the stakes were too high.

Maryam had always been the voice of caution, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that this time, she had failed.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Alma’s footsteps retreating on the other side of the door. Maryam took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. The cacophony of the house—the clinking of dishes, the distant chatter—seemed to amplify her sense of isolation. Her family was moving on with their day, while she remained stuck in this moment of worry and frustration.

Maryam’s heart ached with the weight of her responsibility. She knew she had to find a way to protect Alma without pushing her further away. But for now, she felt powerless, her attempts to safeguard her sister thwarted by the very person she was trying to protect.

With a sigh, Maryam pushed away from the wall and decided to leave the bathroom door.

She needed to refocus, to address the rest of her day, and maybe—just maybe—find another way to keep her sister safe without losing her.

Maryam trudged back into the kitchen, her mood heavy with the weight of the earlier confrontation.

Warda was slowly rising from her chair, preparing to leave. “I have to go back to the house. I promised Ryan we’d go shopping for the baby. He took the day off just for me,” she said, leaning in to kiss her aunts goodbye.

She then turned to Maryam with a knowing look. “Don’t be too hard on her,” she advised softly before grabbing her coat and leaving, her floral perfume lingering in the air.

Aunt Jamila, still sifting through the pile of envelopes, glanced up. “Looks like the Mayor’s wife invited us to the funeral,” she said, holding up a sleek black envelope.

“Oh yes!” Meysa exclaimed, recalling the phone call. “She phoned me this morning and said she wanted us to come.”

Maryam nodded, tying her hair up with a practiced motion, her mind still churning from the argument with Alma. “I’ll be here,” she said, her tone clipped. “But I’ve got work. I’m heading back to my apartment, and then I’m off to meet Gordon for lunch.”

Aunt Mila gave her a once-over, her keen eyes noticing the tension in Maryam’s posture. “Don’t work yourself up too much,” she advised, her voice carrying a mix of concern and firmness.

“Don’t worry,” Maryam replied, trying to sound reassuring.

But her mind was elsewhere, already dwelling on the tasks ahead.

With that, she turned and made her way to the room where she had slept, intending to change into something more suitable for the day’s events.

────୨ৎ────

After arriving at her apartment just outside the Narrows, Maryam quickly changed out of the clothes she had worn the previous day, opting for something more suitable. She selected a sharp outfit, something that matched her professional demeanor and the gravity of her work.

Heading to the bathroom, she swiftly straightened her hair with an iron, though she didn’t leave it down. Instead, she went for her usual French chignon updo, securing it neatly at the nape of her neck. With practiced ease, she reached for her makeup bag and began her routine: a touch of concealer to brighten her eyes, bronzer to accentuate her tan skin, a quick brush over her eyebrows, a flick of mascara on her lashes, a hint of blush, and finally, her signature red lipstick, which added a bold pop of color to her plump lips.

A spritz of her usual oud perfume added the final touch as she glanced at the time on her phone. Satisfied with her appearance, she slipped on her black high-heeled boots, her long black coat that she secured with the ceinture around her waist, grabbed the dossier she had prepared—complete with the photos and notes from the crime scene—along with her black bag. After ensuring her keys, phone, and wallet were inside, she opened the door of her apartment and stepped out of her apartment.

As Maryam stepped out into the hallway, the familiar sounds of her building greeted her. The muffled cry of a baby echoed from one of the nearby apartments, and somewhere down the corridor, a couple's argument punctuated the otherwise quiet morning. She sighed, tightening her grip on her bag. This was Gotham, after all—a city where peace was always fleeting.

With a quick glance back to ensure her door was securely locked, he began her walk towards the stairwell. The weight of the dossier in her hand was a reminder of the seriousness of her work, pulling her thoughts back to the task at hand. The voices behind her faded as she descended the stairs, the familiar creaks and groans of the old building, along with the click of her high heels, accompanied her steps.

Despite the less-than-ideal living conditions and the constant noise, this place had become a part of her, just like Gotham itself. She thought about her aunts’ constant urging to leave the city, to find a better life somewhere like Metropolis or Central City.

They couldn’t understand why she chose to stay, why she remained in a city that seemed to chew people up and spit them out.

But Maryam knew. Gotham was in her blood. It was a city that had shaped her, toughened her, and no matter how dark it got, she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She often joked that if she worked anywhere else, she'd probably die of boredom.

Here, every day was a new challenge, a new puzzle to solve, and as much as the chaos drained her, it also fueled her.

Her salary might not reflect the work she put in—the long hours, the emotional toll—but money wasn’t what drove her. It was the people, the ones who needed her, and the small victories that kept her going.

Each time she uncovered the truth behind a death or brought a criminal one step closer to justice, she felt a sense of purpose that was worth more than any paycheck.

As she reached the ground floor and pushed open the heavy door leading outside, the cold air hit her face, sharp and bracing. She squared her shoulders, letting the door swing shut behind her as she made her way to the subway.

────୨ৎ────

The diner was a relic from a bygone era, its faded charm unmistakable despite the wear and tear.

The once-vibrant red booths had lost their luster, now marred by cracks and scuffs. The linoleum floor, a worn pattern of black and white squares, squeaked with every step. Old-fashioned pendant lights cast a soft, yellowish glow over the space, creating an ambiance that was both cozy and antiquated.

The walls were adorned with vintage photographs and a few outdated advertisements, giving the place an air of nostalgia. A jukebox in the corner remained dormant, its music silenced by the passing years.

Inside, a handful of patrons sat scattered across the booths and tables—some reading newspapers, others engaged in quiet conversations. The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and the faint scent of cleaning products, a mix that added to the diner’s homey but slightly worn-out atmosphere.

Maryam spotted Gordon seated in a booth near the window, absently stirring a coffee. He looked up as she approached, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“Maryam, right on time,” he greeted, standing up to kiss her cheek. “I’ve already ordered your usual—Diabolo mint.”

Maryam returned his smile and slid into the booth across from him, her black high-heeled boots clicking on the floor as she settled in.

“Thanks, Jim. My aunt sent over some cakes for Barbara,” she said, handing him a small box. “She thought Barbara might enjoy them.”

Gordon’s smile widened as he accepted the box. “I’m sure she will. She’s always been a fan of your aunt’s baking.”

Maryam nodded, pulling out the dossier from her bag and placing it on the table, her expression serious.

“I’ve compiled everything from the crime scene—photos, notes, and the autopsy details,” she said. “There’s a lot to go through, but I’ve highlighted the key points.”

She leaned in slightly, her voice steady. “The pattern suggests a personal motive. I’m leaning towards someone with a clear objective, possibly targeting specific individuals.”

Gordon listened intently, his brow furrowed in thought. “And you think this might be just the beginning?”

Maryam’s gaze was unwavering. “Yes, I’m afraid so. The killer seems to have a goal in mind, and if my analysis is correct, this could be part of a larger plan.”

Gordon nodded thoughtfully. “Now that you're suggesting it, I’ve been hearing some unsettling whispers about potential future targets.”

He took a sip of his coffee, the weight of the situation evident in his tone. “Anything else?”

Maryam sighed, leaning back in her seat. “Yes, my aunts and I were invited to the mayor’s funeral. I think it’s important to be there, considering everything.”

As she spoke, the TV mounted on the diner’s wall flashed news coverage of the murder, catching both their attention for a brief moment.

Gordon glanced at the screen, then back at Maryam. “It seems the night of the murder is still making headlines.”

Maryam huffed, a hint of frustration in her voice. “Well, the Mayor’s dead—it’s kind of a big thing.” She took a sip of her Diabolo mint before adding, “It’s all over social media. My sister Rania, you know her—dark blonde hair,” she gestured to her own hair, “she works comms and public affairs for Bella Real’s campaign.”

Gordon hummed in acknowledgment. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, it’s been hell since yesterday night,” Maryam said, her tone weary.

Gordon nodded, taking another sip of his coffee. “Man, tell me about it. The whole city’s on edge.”

They shared a moment of silence, the gravity of the situation settling in. The TV continued its coverage, but their focus remained on the task ahead.

“Anyways, anything new from the Bat about the case?” Maryam asked, a note of hope in her voice as she tried to pry any information from Gordon.

Gordon chuckled softly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Well, you certainly made quite an impression on him, that’s for sure—”

Maryam cut him off, blushing slightly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Gordon shrugged, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he adjusted his glasses. “But seriously, no, I haven’t heard anything from him since last night.”

Maryam mumbled under her breath, “Probably rotting in his cave.”

Before Gordon could respond, his phone rang, the screen displaying an unknown number. He answered it with a hint of skepticism, holding the phone to his ear as he listened intently.

Maryam took a sip of her Diabolo mint, waiting patiently for the call to end.

After a few minutes, Gordon hung up and looked at Maryam, a hint of intrigue in his expression. “That was him.”

Maryam’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Oh, really?”

Gordon nodded. “Yeah. I’ve gotta go, but I’ll make sure to keep you informed.”

“Of course, don’t hesitate to call,” Maryam replied, watching as he stood up and placed some money on the table.

Gordon offered her a nod. “Take care, Maryam. I’ll see you around.”

She watched him leave the diner, heading toward his car, the weight of the situation lingering in the air as she finished her drink.

previous chapter (chapter one) | next chapter

Halimi Family

Parents :

Idris Halimi (the father, deceased)

Anastasia Nikolaevna (the mother, deceased)

The sisters :

Maryam Halimi (the oldest) — 30, doctor, medical examiner.

Warda Halimi (second born) — 29, Engineer at Wayne Enterprises.

Sherine Halimi (third born) — 28, Journalist

Rania Halimi (fourth) — 27, Comms and public affairs for Bella Real Campaign.

Alma Halimi (youngest) — 26, Law student

Paternal aunts :

Meysa (Halimi) Saeed

Jamila Halimi, nurse

Paternal Uncle :

• Fawzi Saeed (husband of Meysa), fisherman

Paternal Cousins :

Moncef Saeed (son of Amir and Meysa), owner of a Boxing Ring in Gotham.

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danikamariewrites · 23 days ago

Note

Happy Spooky Season! I was wondering if I could request a platonic Rowan looking out for Aelin's teen sister? I feel like he'd be a strict, but protective big brother by insisting on dropping her off at places, like the theatre, picking her up again, accompanying her into Orynth, guarding her during balls (if he's busy then assigning his former cadre to do it for him), etc. And she gets annoyed by it, until his behaviour comes in clutch one day when he spots her in some kind of sticky situation and helps her out.

Big Brother

Rowaelin x little sister!reader

Warnings: short but sweet

When Rowan first came into your and Aelin’s life you were very annoyed by him

He was always in your business and annoying you

But you annoyed him so things were even

You didn’t trust Rowan at first. Hell you didn’t trust anyone around your older sister, especially someone you could see her falling for

Aelin told you about Chaol and you hated him. Who was he to say that you and your sister were monsters?

After Maeve and Erawan you worked out your differences with Chaol and Dorain

Speaking of Dorian, you had a massive crush on him but Rowan shut that down real quick

He also shut down your crush on Petrah Blueblood, “one person in this group being with a witch is enough.” Rowan had scolded. You just stuck your tongue out at him and stomped off to your room

Aelin and Rowan were like your surrogate parents

Your big sister had looked after you all your life

Aelin was your protector and made sure you never had to train to be what she was, but enough to fight and cause the most harm to someone who was trying to hurt you

You were a feral child around Arobynn because you always got bad vibes from him. You also hated the way he looked at your sister

Aelin did baby you, she still does and so does Rowan, but she never hid the truth from you

Once Terrasen was rebuilt, as princess, you started to get involved with the community. Your main focus being schools and the public library

When not attending his kingly duties Rowan was escorting you from event to event, making sure you stayed safe

“Ro, there has never been an attempt. I don’t need a babysitter, I can handle myself.” Rowan raised a silver brow at you. “There hasn’t been one because I’m good at my job, little sister.” The darkness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine and made you think about your security detail and how protected you and your kingdom are

During special events if Rowan can’t watch you like a hawk one of the Cadre is assigned to you

Fenrys is for low risk events; putting the two of you together is beyond chaotic. You two are the ultimate sibling duo and you always have fun with Fenrys. He absolutely sees you a little sister and loves having you as a companion especially after Connall

Lorcan is for high risk outings; Lorcan is scary dog privilege. He stares down anyone who even breathes in your direction. Lorcan stands faithfully by your side, arms crossed and weapons on display, for hours on end. As much as you would like to mess with him, you actually behave when Lorcan is around. You know if he’s escorting you it’s serious

Gavriel is just back up; He’s your uncle! Of course he’s more than happy to drop everything to be with his niece. Plus he spoils you to make up for years lost out on family time

As much as you find Rowan’s presence annoying at times there finally came a day where you were thankful for his protection

Heading out to a speaking engagement at the primary school you were trying to find any Cadre members to escort you instead of two security guards

Rowan has your schedule, so he should’ve been free. But alas, the buzzard was stuck in meetings with your sister

Uncle Gav was out doing you have no idea what, Lorcan was home with Elide, and Fenrys was away with Vaughn, who you still haven’t actually laid eyes on by the way

You opted to take two of your normal guards to escort you

But without Rowan to walk them through security protocols you were walking around without knowing about any threats

Everything was going smooth. You made it to the school, your talk with the children went very well! They loved to hear stories from you about the Queen and King. They loved to play with you and tell you anything that pops into their little heads

It wasn’t until you were on the way back to the castle that trouble found you

Your carriage was stopped abruptly, the horses neighing and rearing up on their hind legs at the danger in the middle of the road

“Stay here, princess!” Your guards shout, leaving you alone closed in the carriage. You weren’t afraid at first. Not until you heard shouting and fighting. You couldn’t hear much. The men who stopped you were a small group. They wanted revenge on Aelin for killing Dorian’s father. Who know loyalists to the former King of Adarlan were around

Before things could escalate further a flash of white light had you shielding your eyes as you peer out the window, the men thudding against the ground

“Take them to the prison!” You had never been so relieved to hear Rowan’s voice. You stayed locked in the carriage until he came and got you

When Rowan opens the door you fling yourself into him, wrapping your arms around him neck. “I have never been so grateful for you not minding your business.” Your brother laughs, hugging you back. “Let’s get you home, Aelin has been worried.”

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theidiotwhowritesthings · 2 years ago

Text

A Fresh Start [1]

Din Djarin x F!Reader

Warnings: use of fake name, reader is hiding from a shady past

Word Count: 4,506

Summary: When you made plans for your future they never involved being hired by a Mandalorian to baby-sit his adorable, green gremlin of a child. However, after your life fell apart in the span of one disastrous night, you found it to be the only feasible option you had left. Nevarro was a far cry from Coruscant, but the thriving community turned out to be exactly what you needed. Every day you spend in Nevarro you fall more and more in love with your new life, but when your past rears its ugly head you find that perhaps peace wasn't meant for everyone.

Chapter #01: TWO PORGS, ONE BLASTER

Chapter Summary: The Marshal is looking to hire a nanny, and you just so happen to be moving into the city.

“remember to live while you’re busy surviving.” -d.j.

Din Djarin was busier these days than he ever had been before. Even compared to years ago, when he was picking up dozens of bounty pucks and collecting quarries left and right, it was nothing compared to now. If he had known that being Nevarro's marshal would be so hectic, he may have never accepted it. At the thought, he sighed. That was a bold faced lie. He still would’ve taken the job in a heartbeat because the pay was better than anything he had ever made previously. Speaking strictly in terms of credits, it was significantly less than the various bounties he’d pick up, but the job brought him peace of mind. It brought safety to Grogu. More than just safety, it gave the child the opportunity to grow and learn in an environment where he wasn’t at risk. They had settled here a couple of months ago, and for most of that time Grogu had been happy and free of night terrors. It was a blessing Din couldn’t quantify. He’d work every second of every day if it meant the child grew up safe and loved.

At the thought of his son, he picked up his pace toward the repair shop run by Peli who had ventured from the sands of Tatooine to the growing and thriving Nevarro. She was usually the one who watched Grogu while he was working. When Peli couldn’t, there were a handful of others in town who were more than happy to help out. Din was eternally grateful that the community was willing to go above and beyond as a favor to him. In the beginning, he had actually brought Grogu with him on the job. It wasn’t absurd. Back in the day, when his journey with Grogu first began, he brought the child along on bounties. A day in the life of a small community Marshal was actually quite tame in comparison. Still, that wasn’t normal, and Din wanted normal. School would be starting up soon, as summer ended, and Din was excited to get Grogu enrolled.

He had a stable job and they had a home. Starting Grogu's education was the next step in establishing picture perfect normalcy.

The loud noise of Peli’s shop filled the air as he got closer. All three of the garage’s hanger doors were lifted and open, and Din could see it had been a busy day for the mechanic. Ships, speeder bikes, droids. There was a large collection of mechanical works being actively repaired.

“Peli! Marshal's here!” A mechanic barked out the moment he stepped into the garage. Din turned his way, but the employee didn’t bother looking up from the work they were occupied with.

Din pressed further into the shop. Helmet glanced around, looking for a blur of chaotic green, but his eyes didn’t land on his son. “Mando!” Din spun in place as the curly haired woman marched up to him. Peli was one of the few people in Nevarro who didn't refer to him as Marshal. She said she didn't want it to go to his head. Other mechanics dove out of the way to avoid her path. Though she was short in stature, Peli could command a room with voice alone. Her jumpsuit was covered in splotches of engine oil. “Took you long enough!”

“Peli.” Din nodded in greeting. “Where’s Grogu?”

“Your son,” Peli jabbed a finger in his direction, “ate a handful of bolts today.”

Din stiffened. “He what!? Where is he?”

“Just joking. He didn’t.”

“Peli, that isn’t funny.”

“It’s not a joke.”

Din resisted the urge to palm the front of his helmet into his hands. He let out a weathered sigh, “Did he eat metal bolts or didn’t he?”

“Not today. No telling about tomorrow.” Peli scoffed. “This shop is no place for a kid! I’ve been telling you that for weeks now!”

Din set his hands on his hips. “No, you haven't.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking it!”

The sound of familiar babbling alerted him to his son’s presence, and Din turned in time to see Grogu quickly waddling in his direction. Argument with Peli forgotten, he grinned and scooped up the child who continued to babble enthusiastically.

“Hey there, you little womp rat.” Din rubbed his belly and Grogu wrapped his arms around his hand in response. The sound of his laugh made Din chuckle himself. As important as his goal of normalcy was, Din missed the uninterrupted time he used to have with his son. There was a lot wrong with their previous adventures, a lot of danger, but nothing beat the long days in hyperspace and hiding where his only responsibility was to care for the child. “I heard you’ve been giving Peli trouble.”

Grogu laughed again⏤ not even attempting to hide his guilt. Peli wagged her finger in his direction once more. “You see? It’s only a matter of time until he swallows one of my tools. Then what would we do? I’d be a tool short!”

“I’m sorry, Peli.” Din chuckled. “School will be starting up soon. You won’t have to watch him during the day then.”

“He’ll still need watching after, won’t he? Your work day isn’t done until evening!” Peli argued. “And what about the nights when you get called into work?”

Din winced, but he kept his head still so Peli wouldn’t notice. She wasn’t wrong. There had been a handful of times when Din's presence was required at the station and he was forced to drop Grogu off with Peli in the dead of night. She lived in a small apartment beside the shop, and her shop was on the way from their home to the station. Stopping to leave Grogu with her was too easy to resist. It wasn't like he could leave the child at home alone.

Grogu began to tap on the side of Din’s helmet and he began to bounce the child in his arms to distract him. “I’m sorry, Peli. I really appreciate everything you do for us. You know that, right?” Peli waved his words away with a huff. As brash and grumpy as the woman could be, especially on a busy day, he knew Peli loved spending time with Grogu and he knew that complaints aside she’d always be willing to help out. It was why he was so grateful for her. “My hands are tied right now. I don’t know what else I can do.”

“Hire someone, you lug!” Peli scoffed. “Get a live-in nanny.”

“Live-in nanny?” Din questioned, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

“Yeah. Someone who can watch little bright eyes around the clock when you can’t. Someone who’ll be there at 3AM when you get called into the office. Why do I gotta come up with all the good ideas around here?”

Din didn’t love the idea, but he couldn’t deny the merits of it. Once upon a time, he would’ve shot it down immediately. However, he wasn’t who he once was. Din had learned that going out on a branch to trust someone didn’t always end bloody. The community was filled with people Din had taken a chance on and was rewarded in his risk. He had friends he trusted, and they never would've been in his life if he hadn't taken the risk in the first place.

“Where…” Din cleared his throat. “Where would I even find one?”

“Whoop, whoop!” Din and Peli both turned to see a mechanic a few feet away. They had been buried under a speeder bike but jumped up in excitement. Dirty goggles hung around her neck and the light pink color of her skin made the black grease stains stand out more. “Howdy, Marshal Mando.”

“Nima.” Din greeted with a nod. He didn’t know every single person who worked for Peli, but Nima was Peli’s right hand mechanic. The young Twi’lek was extraordinary with a wrench if Peli was to be believed, and Din knew it took a lot to impress the older woman. “How are you?”

“Real swell.” Nima stepped closer, rubbing her hands on a rag tucked into her overall pocket. “Not to be nosy, but I heard you got a job that needs filling and I have a cousin who needs a job.” Din tilted his head and waited for her to elaborate. “My cousin is moving here⏤ well, let me clarify, she’s not my actual cousin by blood. We’re cousins by marriage. Her mom’s sister married my mom’s brother. We⏤ wait, they actually got divorced like a year ago so I don’t know if we technically⏤”

“Nima!” Peli barked. “The point!”

“Right, right, right.” Nima shook her head. “My maybe not cousin is moving to town, and she’s looking for work.”

Din lifted a hand to lightly grasp Grogu’s hands as the kid tried to pry his helmet up. “Does she have experience with kids?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Nima nodded. “She’s a superstar with kids. Total magic.”

Peli slapped her hand against the beskar of his chest plate then pointed at him. Din sighed and gave them both a slight nod. “I’d be willing to meet her, but that’s it. No promises.”

“She’ll be in town by the end of the week!” Nima cheered. “I’ll bring her around!”

Grogu began to whine, and Din thanked both women before making his way out of the garage. It was time for dinner and the child was quick to get fussy when a meal wasn’t on its way. Plus, Grogu had gotten accustomed to nights in the privacy of their home when Din would remove his helmet. It had become a part of their routine.

“Buir, buir, buir.” Grogu chanted.

“I know, I know.” Din chuckled as he unlocked the front door. Once in, he used his free hand to pull his helmet off and tucked it under his elbow with a smile.

Grogu patted his face in excitement. “Buir!”

“Let’s get some dinner ready, ad’ika.” Din stepped further in. Hearing Grogu speak Mando’a warmed his heart. Hearing him speak at all warmed his heart, really. Din was convinced his son knew more basic and Mando’a than he’d shown. The few things he did say he only said in the safety of their home. Another reason Din was excited for school to start, he hoped it’d excite Grogu into speaking more.

Din set the boy down so he could move around the kitchen easier, and he couldn’t bite back the smile of ease on his face. He loved his life, he loved his son, and Din didn’t think things could get more perfect than what it was right now. He just hoped adding in a new face wouldn’t disrupt their routine.

You absentmindedly let your fingers trace the ugly, jagged scar along your collarbone. The wound had healed months ago, but there was something about the rough skin that haunted you. It didn’t hurt. If anything the tissue there was numb, and that bothered you more than anything else. For some reason, it felt wrong that you weren’t in pain.

The transport ship rumbled to a stop as it landed, and it snapped you back into the moment. You straightened in your seat and glanced out the window. A year and a half ago nobody ever spoke of Nevarro. It had been a blip in the Outer Rim for bounty hunters and those hiding from the New Republic. Now, it was a bustling trade post flourishing with life. From where your ship sat on the landing pad, you could see the white and gray buildings of Nevarro stretching out into the black, glassed land of the mountains that sat on the edge of the lava plains. It still wasn't a very large community. Not yet, at least. Your eyes scanned the land beside the landing pad. You had lived in the beautiful greenery of Naboo, the bustling cities of Coruscant, and the sandy dunes of Tatooine. This was vastly different in comparison.

You let a few others leave before rising yourself. As you followed the very small crowd off the ship you stretched your legs out best you could without stopping. It had been a long trip from Mos Espa to Nevarro. The second your feet stepped onto the landing pad you heard your name being screamed by a familiar voice. It was almost odd to hear it said aloud after so much time, but the voice of your old friend kept you from flinching. A broad smile crossed your features and you barely had time to turn before you were tackled in a hug.

“Oh, I missed you so much!” Nima cheered in your ear. She squeezed you tight enough that all you could manage was a small pat on her back considering she had your arms pinned to your side.

“I missed you too.” You wheezed. “And now I’m beginning to miss air.”

Nima released you, taking a step back, and you sucked in a large breath. She bounced in place, her pink lekku whipping around her, “I’m so happy you’re finally here! It’s been way, way too long!” It was true, and seeing Nima brightened your mood significantly. “How was your trip-”

The beginnings of your name began to slip from her mouth, but your hand snapped out to cover her lips. Her eyebrows rose in confusion, and you just offered her a sheepish smile. "Soran. Call me Soran. Remember?" Her eyes widened and you could see a flash of regret in her eyes. She had simply forgotten. "It's okay. No biggie. Just... Soran, okay?"

"I'm so sorry. I just got so excited." Nima apologized. "Don't worry, I didn't use your real name with anyone in town or anything." You nodded and made your way to where luggage was being placed on the landing pad from the storage bin. Nima walked a step behind you. You scooped up your bag, wrapping it around your shoulders, and Nima looped one arm through yours. "I'm so happy you're here."

The words were said with such sincerity that it warmed your heart. It made you wish you had taken her up on her offer ages ago. She began to drag you across the landing pad toward the start of the town. Her cheery attitude and happy-go-lucky demeanor was contagious. She was talking up a storm, something about work, while you gazed at the street you walked down. The path was paved and the street was filled with people milling about happily. A few vendors sold goods in the open at stalls, and you could hear the music of a band from further down the street. It was a cozy and warm atmosphere, and it wasn't the kind of place you expected Nima to settle down.

You met Nima during your teenage years when part of her family married part of yours. The two of you had grown close and without a doubt she was one of your closest friends. Family really. It was why at your absolute lowest you had caved and accepted her invitation to join her in Nevarro. Nima worked at a local mechanic shop which turned out to be her calling. She had always been good at tinkering with anything mechanical, but she was thriving under the instruction of the woman she worked for. At least, that's what she was constantly telling you. Nima had found her happy place, and you were ecstatic for her.

“⏤and Peli is still awesome.” Nima continued. “When we're not busy, she's letting me work on this old Razor Crest with her. It's some sort of secret project and the ship is in really bad shape, but I'm learning so much. It’s the best job ever.”

“That’s amazing, Nima.”

“Oh! And speaking of awesome jobs, I got you one.”

Your eyes widened. “Huh?”

“A job and a place to live. I got it covered.”

“Wow. I’m…seriously impressed, Nima. So, that means your boss is okay with me helping around the shop with inventory and stuff?”

Nima paused, then cursed in her native tongue. “I knew I was forgetting to do something. I was supposed to ask Peli about you.”

“If you didn’t ask her if I could work there, then where am I working?” You questioned in confusion.

“So, the Marshal has this super cute kid, and he needs a round the clock nanny.” Nima gave you a thumbs up. You blinked in shock, unable to find the words to voice your disbelief. She took this as a victory cheered. “I knew you’d love it.”

You shook your head. “No, no. This is a bad idea.”

“What? No way.” Nima shook her head with a pout. “You need a job and you need a place to live. I got you both in one. Two porgs, one blaster.”

“I⏤That’s⏤You said it wrong.” You said.

Nima furrowed her brow at you. “No, I think you just don’t get it. It means, like, you have two problems, the two porgs, and one solution takes care of both. One blaster.”

“It’s two porgs, one stone.”

“Why would I use a stone to hit a porg when I have a blaster?”

“You wouldn’t, but if you had a blaster you could shoot way more than just two porgs.”

“Yeah, but you only have two porgs right now.”

You waved your arms in the air as if you could swipe away the pointless argument. “This is⏤ No. We're done with that. My point is, this is not a good idea. I’ve never been a nanny before. The last time I baby-sat a kid was literally ages ago, and it was for a few evenings. I didn't live with the kid or the family.”

“You’re great with kids. I’ve seen it!” Nima argued in your favor.

“Being good with kids is not the same as helping raise one.”

Nima shrugged. “Nuance. Besides, everything else in town right now is part time work and you said you wanted a full time job.” You had said that. The more time you spent busy, the less time you had to think. That was the plan at least Bury yourself in pointless work. “I mean, you could pick up the job of local physician.”

You stiffened. “Nima⏤”

“Our main doctor sucks. Like you wouldn’t believe. Laziest asshole this side of the Outer Rim. It's the one fault of Nevarro in my opinion.” Nima scoffed. “You would do so much better⏤”

“Don’t.” You said firmly, and Nima grew quiet. “I’m not… I’m not doing that right now. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m not allowed to⏤ to⏤” You cleared your throat. “I’m not allowed to practice medicine until the trial is over. Officially.”

Nima squeezed your arm. “The trial will be over before the year's end, at the latest, and there is no way they aren’t throwing that kriffing asshole in jail for the rest of his miserable life.” This was the exact thing you wanted to avoid. It’s literally why you ran away in the first place. “Nothing about what happened was your fault.”

“Nima, can we not?” You blurted. “I just…” Your lungs felt heavy and even though you were more than capable of breathing none of the air you sucked in was rewarding. “Tell me more about the job. The Marshal’s kid.”

Nima shot you a concerned look before nodding. “Right.” She forced a smile onto her face. “He’s a Mandalorian and his son is a 50 year old precious, green gremlin.”

“Um, what?”

Nevarro was shockingly beautiful. You had heard it was, and that it was slowly becoming a staple of the Outer Rim, but hearing it was different than seeing it with your own eyes. The population was about four thousand and it was constantly growing. Every single person you passed took the time to greet Nima, and she took the time to introduce you. It hadn’t been an exaggeration when Nima said it was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone. The two of you emptied out at the end of a street into a large, open plaza. In it's center sat a tall bronze statue of a droid.

“That's the Magistrate's building.” Nima pointed to the tall, intricate building behind the droid statue. It was active with people going up and down the stairs that led into the building. “Magistrate Karga is super cool. He used to hand out bounties to hunters. Wild shit.”

“So, the Magistrate was an Agent of the Bounty Hunters’ Guild and your Marshal is an actual Mandalorian?”

Nima nodded. “The Marshal's Deputy used to be a Shock Trooper.”

“Wow. I’m not sure I’m qualified to even live here.” You mumbled.

“Don’t be silly. You’ll fit right in.” Nima slotted her hand into yours and began to drag you down the street. She had taken you to her small apartment first, to give you time to set down your belongings and wash up, but she was quick to pull you back out into the streets. It was cute how eager she was to show you around Nevarro, and you could tell between her and everyone you met how proud they were of their community.

Nima pointed out a few shops as you passed, but it was clear that her aim was to take you to the Marshal's station. You shot her a dry look that she only grinned at in response.

“Seriously?”

“He needs somebody super soon and you need a job. Plus, a place to live. You think I want you on my couch for the rest of your life?”

You shoved her with a laugh. “I haven’t slept on your couch a single night yet, and you’re already tired of me?”

“Just come on.” Nima dragged you building nestled amongst others. It was decorated similar as the rest of the town with white bricks and dark blue flags.

The Marhsal's station wasn’t overly large. Outside, parked to the side, were a few speeders and inside the front doors was a small lobby with a woman sitting behind a desk. Nima greeted her by name, introducing you in a rush, before pulling you through. The receptionist didn’t seem surprised by this behavior and didn’t make the moves to stop either of you. You wondered if Nima came barging in here often. Was she close to the Marshal?

The hallway from the lobby led into a clean and brightly lit room. The back wall was made of windows where the lava plains could be seen since the station was at the edge of town, and there were three desks planted in the center of the room. Off to the left side were two cells, cordoned off with silver bars, and you found yourself happy to see no one was currently being held in custody. Despite having the cells present, the entire room had a casual feel to it. A dart board was hung up on a wall, darts sticking out of it, and the desks were covered in office supplies and holopads.

“What’re you doing here, trouble maker?”

“Cara!” Nima cheered as a large woman stepped into the room from a different door. She untangled her hand from yours to rush over and greet this Cara woman with a hug. She was tall and broad, and the tattoo band around her right upper arm hinted to you that this must be the Deputy Nima mentioned earlier. The ex-shock trooper. She surely looked like someone who used to work in that line of action. “I brought my cousin by to say hello!”

Cara’s dark eyes rolled over to you in amusement. “Yeah. I see the family resemblance.”

"This is Soran." Nima introduced you with the name you had adopted months ago for the sake of anonymity. “And this is Deputy Cara Dune. Resident badass.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” You offered your hand. “Can I call you Cara or do you prefer Deputy badass or…?”

Cara chuckled. “Cara works.”

“Where is everyone?” Nima glanced around the room. “I’m looking for Marshal Mando.”

“Hey, Mando!” Cara yelled back through the door she came in from. She marched past the two of you to drop down into a chair at a desk. She rested her hands behind her head and casually kicked up her legs. “Our generator out back keeps cutting out.”

Nima's eyes widened, curious, “Oh, yeah?”

“It’s been a wreck since early this morning.”

“Cara, it’s making that noise again. Can you call Peli?” A deeper, modulated voice called out. You straightened in your posture as a Mandalorian dressed in silver beskar stepped into the room. Everything you knew about Mandalorians came from legend and stories. You had never met one before. The Marshal’s broad figure and confident, yet casual pace, screamed power. A blaster was hooked to his hip. He was the picture of intimidation, and you’d find yourself nervous if it weren’t for the baby carrier strapped around his chest⏤ the one with a large eared, small green toddler tucked safely in place. It cooed happily with his hands wrapped around the fingers of the Mandalorians gloved hand.

Nima clapped her hands. “Don’t bother Peli! I’ll fix it right now!”

“I’ll show you where it’s at.” Cara pushed up.

You opened your mouth to argue, but no words came out and you watched in shock as your friend abandoned you with the Mandalorian and child. You blinked in shock, mouth held open. Suddenly, Nima stuck her head back in the room. “Oops. Mr. Marshal Mandalorian, this is my cousin I was telling you about.” She grinned at you. “Cousin, this is the mighty Marshal Mandalorian and his adorable green bean child I told you about.”

With no further words, she left once more. You were gonna kill her. Most definitely. The sound of a throat clearing made your eyes snap back to the man standing across from you. His silver helmet had a t-shaped visor of black glass that gave you no hint at the expression he wore. The two of you just stared at one another for a long moment. Awkward silences were the bane of your existence and you tried to avoid them at all costs. To a fault, arguably. You thrust a hand out to him with a nervous smile. "Hi. You can call me Soran. I'm the cousin Nima always talks about, but I'm not her actual cousin, er..."

"Right." The Mandalorian replied. He shook your hand. "Call me Mando."

"Mando? Like, short for Mandalorian?" You chuckled, and he didn't reply. You rubbed your hands against your pants. Thank the Maker, he had been wearing gloves and couldn’t feel your clammy palms. If you hadn't already decided to murder Nima for abandoning you in this situation, you would've chosen to do it for offering your services to this man. A service you weren't even qualified for. Still, you needed work, a lot of it, and if this was your best option you'd do what you'd have to. “So, is this your son?”

At the question, the child began to babble happily. His adorable, nonsensical words were a good distraction from beating yourself up over asking such a stupid question.

“Yes. This is Grogu.” He responded. The modulator gave his voice a husky quality that was hard not to notice. Grogu was still babbling, but now he released his father’s hands to reach out to you. He opened and closed his hands in a grabbing motion and at the small child’s request you couldn’t help but lift a hand up to him. Grogu grasped at your finger and you offered him a small smile. “Nima says you’re looking for a job.”

Your eyes snapped up from the kid to Mando. “Uh, yes. I am.” It was silent between the two of you again, save for Grogu’s happy voice. “To be honest though…" Your brain screamed at you to lie. Tell him you had an extensive history of babysitting and were well suited for the job. However, lying had never come natural to you. It always left a terrible taste in your mouth. You sighed, "I’m by no means a professional nanny. I’m actually not even an amateur one.” Mando didn’t respond or move his head in any way to hint his thoughts. You cleared your throat. “What I mean is, I like kids, and I’m responsible enough to keep one alive." You winced at your wording. "I just- I’m a quick learner and I'm dedicated to the work I put my mind to.” Grogu tilted his head in the cutest manner you had ever seen, but his father stayed silent. You let out a low whistle. “I am not doing a very good job of selling myself, am I?”

As seconds passed, you were tempted to throw yourself out the back window and find the nearest river of lava to jump into. Just to hide from your embarrassment. Finally, he spoke, “Where are you from?”

Your eyes widened at the direction his question took this conversation. “Oh. Naboo. I was born there, grew up there too, but I lived in Coruscant for a long, long time. Only recently moved to Mos Espa on Tatooine. That's where I just came from.”

“What kind of work do you usually do?”

As if this casual interview couldn’t get worse. You rolled various answers around in your head before settling on the best thing you could. “I worked in a medical clinic.” He was quiet and you assumed that meant he wanted more. As much as you hated lying, as terrible as it made you feel, this was a necessity you reminded yourself. This kind of lie wouldn't hurt anyone. It would protect you, keep you safe. “Receptionist." You blurted. "I scheduled appointments, re-supplied the stock, counted out credits. That kind of stuff.”

“Work…keeps me busy.” Mando said. “I just need someone else around. Keep an eye on the kid while I’m out and sometimes at night if I get called in.” Your eyebrows rose. “I haven’t ever hired a nanny before. I’m... not sure what it’s supposed to entail or the usual pay. I just need help.”

You nodded. “I can do that. I can be helpful. I’m not sure of the pay either, but I’m also not picky. Maybe just a trial period, and see how it goes? A learning curve for both of us.”

Mando nodded in agreement and held out a hand for you to shake. A sigh of relief left you and you tried to pull your hand away from Grogu who refused to let go of your fingers. You lifted your opposite hand to awkwardly grasp his outstretched hand and shook it once. You didn't quite know how to feel about this acquisition. This wasn't where you thought your life would end up. The thought of starting this job filled your belly with nervous energy. You had to succeed at this. Honestly, you were just happy the Mandalorian was willing to give you a chance. More than anything that was what your life needed. A chance. An opportunity. A fresh start. On the plus side, learning how to do a completely new job would be a good enough distraction from your past, surely.

A/N: if you see this on AO3 and think ‘omg she stole this’, I promise I didn’t. That’s me on AO3 too. Pinky swear.

#the mandalorian #din djaren #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #Female reader #mandalorian and grogu #grogu is a little shit #but a cute little shit #cara dune #peli motto #nevarro #star wars #i'm still stupid bad at tags #but whatever #protective din djarin #good dad din djarin #nanny AU

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sinning-23 · 9 months ago

Note

Can we have a first kiss scenario with bertholdt and whoever else you want, thanks

OF COURSEEE! HERES PT 2 of the my first kiss headcannons!

Ps. Sorry this took so long I had to rewrite a part after it got deleted and it made my UPSETTI

Bertholdt

Your first kiss was in secret. You had been dating the tall and quiet brunette for a while and after dinner in the dinning hall you two had decided to walk for a bit together. He was a hel of a whole lot taller than you so when you did finally kiss he was bent down to meet your lips. He’s quick to have a grip around the back of your neck as the kiss manages to deepen. Times like these the height difference is a nuisance, so he doesn’t hesitate to pull you up a bit more while you stand on your tiptoes.

His face is beet red and you can’t help but laugh.

“Did you want to walk jsut so you could kiss me away from everyone?” You ask, your hand overlapping his, which was still on your neck.

His blush darkens. Guilty

"I-I just dont like the idea of everyone see us do that. I get teased you know." He admits as you chuckle, pressing another kiss to his lips and soon his cheek, and finally all over his face.

Levi

It was an accident. You had only done it out of reflex. Everyone deserved forehead kisses before a good night rest. Thats just like- science (Hanji strongly disagrees that it’s science)

Anyway, yo u had been up finishing paperwork with one another and he had slipped into a nap, his head was rested against his hand and he would sometimes fall forward, startling himself awake. This time however, he hadn’t dropped his head at all, and his breathing had become far deeper.

A smile falls over your lips and you stupidly pressed your lips to the captains temple.

He shoots awake, glaring at you as if you were spontaneously combusting.

“Did you just kiss my forehead l/n?

You are free, trying to find a way to explain yourself without coming across as a complete and utter fool.

"I-I...Captain, I apologize. It was out of habit." You gulp, seeing him furrow his brows a bit before resting his head completely don't he desk.

"Uh-huh. Dismissed l/n."

Erwin

It wasn’t common knowledge that Erwin was a married man, but even though you were somewhat secret, you relished in being his lifelong partner. You first kiss was actually at the wedding.

It was the tiniest ceremony, only some of Erwin’s closest colleagues and friends. He said a few words, the whole scene feeling as if you two eloped more than got married.

PDA wasnt particualart something Erwin favored and given both of your current positions it was wise to keep your relationship hidden, especially when Erwin had plant y targets on his back. The last thing he wanted was for harmt o come to you.

On the day of your 'ceremony' You decided that you should at least be out of uniform and dressed nicely with one of your favorite shirts and pants. Ernwin had done the same and here you were standing in front of one another.

He doesnr speak whwn he slips teh ring onto your finger, he only lingers there, his eyes fxated on the band now secure on your body. Like some form of ownership. it was odd but somewhat comforting? It would have relieved him far more if he had know you'd felt the same that day. whe you slipped the metal loop onto his had in return.

"I suppose this makes me your wife now." You hum, hand creeping up to child his face. He's exhausted, but so are you. Taking a chance eon love in this world was a risk but one he was open to talking with you.

"I suppose so." He responds, his lips pressing to yours in a sweet, and sealing kiss.

Hanji

Hanji was chaotic to say the least, but that was all the more reason to love them. On this particularly hot summer evening, There was much work to be done while they filed the reports from their experiments. You on the other hand simply sat pretty atop the center while they paced back and forth between stored specimens and paper to scribble on.

You'd quite fond of them, sticking around at hours of the night to listen to ramblings about titans and new discoveries. Of course, you hadn't told them that seeing as you were supposed to remain professional and a crush on your superior was far from that. Anyway, Hanji had asked is you seen this super important vial they needed and lo and behold it was behind you.

So, like any sensible person would, you grabbed it and handed it to them with a soft smile.

“AH! I could just kiss you!” Hanji cheers, holding your face before pressing the silliest, most comical kiss to your forehead before strutting out the lab to complete whatever new task was at the forefront of their mind.

Miche

It wasn’t your first kiss…but your last. Apparently there had been a breach in the wall and now you were tasked with evacuating near by villages. Miche, was talked with the obvious titan issue and your stomach dropped to the soles of your feet. You didn’t doubt your husband’s capabilities, no. He was highly skilled, but your intuition was harder ever wrong…and something bad was bound to happen if you two split up right now. Your panicking, hands shaking in the handles of your swords, the situations options limited.

You fight the oncoming panic and move to the roof he was currently standing on. He turns to face you, the look nothing short of confused and slight anger.

“You need to go. Now.” He speaks, more of an order than anything excised god knows if he’s show you jsut how wallet your panicked state effected him, he’s follow you in a heartbeat.

“I won’t say everything will be okay-“

“When you come back everything will be okay.” You explain, voice shaking. It breaks his heart

You can feel your eyes burn, tough he was skilled, you felt as if there was no fighting the feeling of impending doom.

You press your lips to his, your faces melting together like two puzzle pieces. How facial hair is scratching your face but you would have it any other way.

His face is tinted afterwards, and his lips purse as if he wished to say something. It was easy to see what it was so you said it instead.

Love is such a funny and cruel thing in this life

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starryhiraeth · 1 year ago

Text

Toddler Headcannons

Acotar & Tog

PT 1 here-

Acotar pregnancy Headcannons

(Btw I’m so sorry it’s been so long, I’ve been doing my exams and I’ve been so busy with them but I’m back so please feel free to request anything)

(There might be spelling errors, idk I did read through it but it’s anyones guess at this point🤷‍♀️)

Rhys-

•He might as well shout from the tallest mountain that he has a daughter

•Will bring her EVERYWHERE, even high lord meetings, she’s just sitting there ether on yours or his lap, or she’s playing with toys in front of you

•You cant tell me Rhys isn’t the parent to dress his kids in thousands worth of designer clothes that they are going to grow out of within like a month anyway

•SPOILED FUCKING ROTTEN, she is SO cheeky, most times her giggles will echo throughout the halls. She has absolutely NO FILTER, at the high lords meeting she’ll point a Beron and repeat what she heard Rhys say when talking about him “Ginger cunt” it was quite an awkward meeting after that

• He literally can’t say no to her, and she knows this, all she has to do is the puppy/baby doll eyes and she gets whatever she wants

Azriel-

•Your two daughters are polar opposites, of course they had Illyrian wings and Az’s hair but they have your eyes and Az adores it, he’s very protective over his daughters

• Thea is much more gentle than her sister, when she was younger she was scared of her shadows but now they are a comfort to her and Az taught her how to wrap them around herself like a blanket (she has gotten stuck a couple times tho)

•She usually does that blanket thing whenever she’s snuggling with Az, they are both very calm so she defo a daddies girl

•Petra is a mini psycho, not really but she is much more wild, when she was a baby she would have massive tantrums whenever she wasn’t near you, she’s a mummas girl, and was never scared of her shadows but instead used them to freak out her sister #sistertings

•Like I said, Petra was much more wild, like she would act first and think later, this stresses Az out SO MUCH because he’s scared something will happen to her but it brings him comfort when he sees her finally calm while asleep laying on you whilst your on the sofa

Cass-

•Goes flying with Jaxs almost everyday, it gives you a mini heart attack every time but you trust that he won’t drop him, Cassian would rather fly into a volcano then put your son at risk

•Jaxs is prone to having tantrums, he doesn’t mean to be stroppy, he is just very emotional and doesn’t know how to explain is and so he cries and sometimes hits

•The first time Jaxs hit you in a tantrum, he was 2, it wasn’t hard and he tried hugging your after but Cassian was pissed, he put Jaxs on the naughty step and was scared his son would just get more violent, to which you had to explains that Jaxs just had big emotions for a small child and is learning

•After that you all fell asleep in an armchair, you in Cassian’s lap and Jaxs in yours, somehow it was beautiful and chaotic, Cassian held you both closer and couldn’t remember a time when he had been so happy

•When he’s not unhappy, Jaxs is the most rambunctious, you can’t count how many times he’s come to you with a red mark on his face because he ran into a glass door, he’s a sweetie though and such a carbon copy of his father, also I can totally see Cassian wearing those baby carries that go across the front, with no shame, he’s comfortable in his masculinity

(Btw, he’s still hung up on the fact that you didn’t let him call Jaxs Cassian Jr)

Lucien-

•Lucien is very warm, idk how to explain it but I imagine him giving very homely vibes

•Kalea is the same, she likes staying close to her parents and really likes nature, so much that every Saturday you all go on walks in the country side

•There, Kalea chases butterfly’s and picks flowers, though the orange ones are always here favourite

•She doesn’t really have a favourite parent, she just finds comfort in both of you and is a little cautious meeting those she doesn’t know but when she gets to know then she is super cute

•You two are Lucien’s entire world, nothing, and I mean nothing could make him happier then playing board games in pyjamas as a family, Infront if the firelight whilst the sun sets

Eris-

•So-Berons dead!

•Anyway, he DOES make tiny thrones next to yours and his for your sons, Idris is the older one but Maël is the one who acts older, Idris is the one accidentally setting trees on fire whilst Maël judges from a distance

• Maël will usually be found in your lap, playing with whatever necklace you have on and trying to relax when suddenly Idris, with the tips of his hair on fire comes running through the hallways yelling like a madman and 2 seconds later Eris is running after him

•After that Maël will probably mutter something like “They crazy mama” to which you just nodded

•Eris will make some serious changes to the decor in your house, whilst growing up all Eris remembers is the lifeless dark hallways so he changes that immediately, he is determined to be better than his father and give his children a happy childhood

Helion-

•Yuna is the probably one of the most spoiled children ever! And I mean like- if it were a modern AU her room would be worth like 30Mil by the age of 5

•Her favourite colour is gold and she is absolutely covered in it! Gold clothes, gold jewellery, gold glitter, gold everything!

•speaking of gold glitter, it’s everywhere! And if you think for one second that Helion is embarrassed to be covered in gold glitter then I’ll just let you know that he is the one who keeps buying it for her, He wears the glitter and wears it proud!

•Your lives are luxuriant! Just imagine, in a row, Helion, you, Yuna, all in massage chairs with cucumbers on your eyes and face masks in silk robes detailed with golden flakes…you lucky bitch

•Yuna will sit on her fathers throne ALL THE TIME, she’ll be high lady one day and she knows it, actually there were many times where you sat on Helion lap on your throne and Yuna had a mischievous smile on her face as she sat on her fathers throne all by herself

Dagdan-

•Okay so- Rune and Zara kind of hate each other, they are always arguing and I don’t mean normal sibling arguments, it actually worries you and since Dagdan thinks that twins are important and doesn’t like them fighting, he’ll sit them in a room and tie there hands together when they argue. Think:

•and as much as you feel bad for your babies it kinda funny

•the only time the twins get along is when they are making CHAOS

•Setting the throne on fire ✅

Trying to jump into the cauldron ✅

Stealing their great uncles crown and throwing in a nearby river ✅✅✅

•You and Dagdan love them but sometimes you’ll put them in Brannagh’s room and just take off, for her to look after them for a couple days 😂

Tamlin-

•soooo- there was a joke on my last post in the comments about Tamlins kid being born with dark hair and purple eyes and as funny as I thought that was, I’ll continue will my original plan😂

•Tamlin originally thought he would want a son but when your daughter arrived he couldn’t have ask for anything more or different, he loves her more than life and have every plant based nickname for her “Petal” “rose” “Lily flower” and the list goes on

•Persephone is the sweetest child that ever was, she had Tamlins hair and your eyes and lots and lots of freckles, she also has dimples ☺️

•She is know an as the “The realms Joy” throughout spring court and the people love the little princess though Tamlin sometimes worries that the harshness of become a ruler will kill her happiness, you assure him that she’ll have people by her side to help her

•She does this really cute thing where she’ll go up to someone, usually you or her father and ask what your favourite flower is, it doesn’t matter if you’ve already told her, she’s little okay? She forgets these things!, anyway she’ll ask your favourite flower and after you say it she’ll nod her head and march out of the room only to return 25 minutes later with basket full of the flower that you named and maybe a couple weeds she’s just so happy she could give them to you and Tamlin will have them put in a vase every time, weeds and all

Im so sorry this took like a century to write 😂

Anyway, exams are over so I can write so much more now and I’m open to requests

I’m honestly kind of surprised how much I wrote for Tamlin, but I guess it’s Tamlin fans lucky day, your welcome 😉

Anyway ummm

Bai?❤️

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prodbymaui · 1 year ago

Text

Guilty Pleasure

before this night is over, I want you in my arms

PAIRING: na jaemin x reader

GENRE: celebrities in love

WORD COUNT: 931 words

WARNINGS: mentioned edging, public sex (?), voyeurism

SYNOPSIS: Just the ideal couple enjoying each other's warmth on a cold night.

A/N: my first dream fic on this blog, yay! I hope you enjoy this one <3 tell me your thoughts! (this is just another surge of a brainrot so don't mind the grammatical errors and lack of plot + porn)

Escaping the after-party of this big celebration for a minute was out of the equation. You're one hell of a party-goer and, obviously, has a knack for parties which is why you haven't thought of getting out of here even for a mere second to breathe. But one text from your loving boyfriend and you're already excusing yourself from the dance floor.

JM: Where are you, love?

Spotting Jeno not far where you stand, you quickly stride towards him, steps careful not to trip on your favorite heels. You exchange pleasantries with a slap on his arm. ''Where's Jaemin?''

The man comically flinch in surprise, turning around. ''Well, hello to you too. He's out in the back. Do you want me to accompany you?''

Shaking your head, you wave your hand dismissively, sending him a 'thanks' before heading out to finally meet your boyfriend. There Jaemin is, clicking on his phone with his blazer hanging on his left arm, his dress shirt opened until the fourth button.

You don't know whether it's the alcohol in your system that is responsible for the quivering of your legs or something else. The light emitting from his phone enables you to get a view of his adonis face. It's definitely something else.

Your heels clacks the ground but the music coming from inside of the building overpowers it. Jaemin looks a bit surprise as you wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face on his chest. There isn't much of a height difference between you but the warmth of Jaemin's body has been a comfort area for you ever since.

He places his blazer on your naked shoulders before sneaking his arms underneath it, hugging your waist. ''Bless me with some words next time, will you? I was about to whip those arms away thinking it was someone else.''

You let out a breathy chuckle, slapping Jaemin's bicep lightly before gripping the fabric of his dress shirt. Humming, you close your eyes as you let your lips touch the skin of Jaemin's neck, placing sweet pecks on areas you could reach without moving too much.

Looking up, you meet the loving eyes of your boyfriend that speaks a thousand words; I adore you. I cherish you. I want this to last forever.

You couldn't help but smile shyly at the amount of fondness in Jaemin's eyes. Caressing the side of his face, you tip-toe to place a kiss on his slightly chapped lips. It isn't even a second after the first one when you lean in for the second time, deeper this time.

Jaemin's hands grips your waist a little tighter, head bowing to force his tongue inside your mouth as you gasp for air. Jaemin licks everywhere he can, biting on your lower lip before moving on to suck on your tongue. Your lipstick smudges but Jaemin thinks it only makes things better.

With the little bits of his sanity, Jaemin is able to hear the slow music that is being played at the party. He takes this as a chance to move your body along with his, swaying you side to side while he pours out his feelings into the kiss you are sharing.

For the paparazzis who's watching you right now, this is surely a private moment worth the risk of invading. A former child teen star and her best friend turned into lover sharing a sweet kiss after they escape the chaotic party to enjoy each other's presence? This will truly make the headlines and bring them a lot of cash. Everyone loves a sweet moment from famous celebrities!

Anyone who would see the pictures are gonna be filled with adoration mixed with envy as they watch Jaemin, the ever-so-boyfriend-material, hug you tight in the midst of the cold night while whispering what seem to be sugary words on your ears.

Well, it is partially true. Indeed, these are some sugary and sweet words but no one knows it is partnered with sensual and dirty connotations. They don't know that the reason for your shaking legs isn't the cold. They don't know the real reason behind Jaemin's charming smile. They don't know the actual words being whispered.

Jaemin's fingers works on swiping his phone underneath the blazer he lent you. ''Are you gonna cum for me, pretty? Right here where the media can possibly catch us? Oh, how dirty you are, darling. I don't have to do much to have you fucked out in my arms. Look at those legs going jelly over a toy vibrating inside your pussy. You're falling apart. God, you're so beautiful.''

Your eyes rolls to the back of your head and your tongue lols out. Jaemin turns your back in any possible angle your face can be seen, covering you. The graph in his screen curves up courtesy of his fingers.

''You've held in so well, darling. Come for me. Just like that. There we go. Such a good girl, always a good girl for me.'' Placing a kiss on top of your head, Jaemin brushes your hair soothingly.

Your boyfriend stops swaying your bodies and steadies you in his arms because if it weren't for his hand on your waist, you would drop down to the floor the moment you came.

Still couldn't believe what happened, you pinch Jaemin's nipple through his dress shirt. ''Aww--''

''That's what you get for edging me for an hour and making me cum on public.''

Jaemin chuckles lowly. ''Isn't that great, love? Another box to tick off our list--''

Yep, no one can definitely know about this.

#nct smut #nct #jaemin smut #na jaemin #nct dream smut #nct dream #nct scenarios #nct hard thoughts #nct imagines #nct fanfic #jaemin scenarios #jaemin imagines #jaemin boyfriend #jaemin x reader #nct x reader #prodbymaui

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diminuel · 6 days ago

Note

In the fun little Roger/Garp idea (AU?), if they are the parents of Ace, would Ace know who his mother is? Would that impact Garp and Ace's relationship? Would Dragon still end up his little brother as a son?

Delightful question, thank you! Pondering this kind of insanity is just what I need!

I think we need to figure out what the setting for this is.

Let's go with a scenario where Garp (who I assume is a woman, since you mentioned her being Ace's mom) is unable to deny Roger his preposterous dying wish of leaving a legacy in the world. She'd already be pissed because they have Dragon, is that not enough? Roger's going to die and the thing he's worried about is legacy? But she can't say no to him no matter how frustrating the bastard is. She doesn't want him to go with regrets.

But then the asshole goes and causes a new age of piracy and suddenly Garp's life is going to be a lot more complicated.

As a marine, Garp has her hands full. She's already worrying about her oldest making bad choices in the aftermath of his dad's death and now there's a hunt on for any potential blood that Roger might have, any women connected to him, any children he could have fathered.

And for some reason Dragon was flying under the radar, she was flying under the radar (maybe Sengoku was running interference, you never know) but this kid? Something tells her that the child that Roger wanted to be his legacy is not going to be so lucky, that the burden of his will and his name is going to be Ace's ruin.

Hiding the kid is probably going to be the best course of action. And maybe Dragon doesn't know about Ace and doesn't find out until he seeks a safe place for his own child. Garp might just recognize this as some strange turn of face. If Dragon wants to risk raising this kid with his warlord wife/husband? Well, here's another one. Good luck. (Dragon would be used to his mom's brand of insanity so this doesn't even shock him too much and since he didn't tell her about Crocodile and Luffy until he absolutely had to, he can't even be grumpy with her.)

And maybe if Ace and Luffy grow up together Garp is granny to Ace too. Though I think Ace would know? And it probably wouldn't make him feel great. Dragon was one thing - Roger probably wasn't even a pirate by the time Dragon was born - but Ace's mom made the decision that he should be born into a world that she knew would hate him. And once he was born she didn't even want him. I think it could really mess with Ace. And no amount of supportive (adoptive) parents would fix it properly. And Marineford would be a hot mess, even worse than it already is now. >w<

And of course we can go with a sillier version where things aren't that dire. Garp could be chaotic and just drop the child on Dragon with a "I'm too old for this, it's time for you to stop your stupid revolutionary fancies and start being a responsible family man!!" (And maybe Roger is alive too in his version. Ace would find both of them very annoying. Garp would always be very offended - in an exaggerated way - when Ace would call her grandma, refusing to call her mom. They'd just be Grandma and Roger to Ace even though Dragon would always make sure to call them mom and dad to maybe get Ace to pick it up, but no. Ace decided that Dragon is his dad and Luffy is his brother, he will not hear anything else. Maybe once he meets Whitebeard he's gonna find another dad and then Dragon would be offended. Crocodile would also be offended because he objects to WB on principle X'D)

#heroes-legacy #Diminuel replies #*gigglesnort*#Roger/Garp

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novaursa · 1 month ago

Text

The Flames We Loved (to cry wolf)

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it. The story gets progressively worse with each chapter. You have been warned.

- Summary: It started with Harrenhal and the year of false spring, where you danced with a dragon trying to calm his flames.

- Paring: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Note: Just another reminder how the canon timeline of the books doesn't apply for this fic.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: to devour

- Next part: to live forever

The winds were cold and fierce on Dragonstone, whipping against the walls and howling through the corridors as if the island itself sensed the tension of your exile. You sat by the window, watching the waves crash violently against the rocks below, your hand resting protectively over the small swell of your belly. The familiar ache of dread and resignation gnawed inside you—a child, once more, to be hidden away, passed off as another member of your family, yet another secret woven into the tangled web of lies and danger that held you captive.

Rhaella was silent nearby, her face pale and drawn. She sat beside you, her hands working steadily on an embroidery, though her fingers trembled slightly each time the wind banged against the window. She understood all too well the nature of your exile, the twisted reality of your life under Aerys’s rule. Her own life had been marked by the same, the endless cycle of fear and submission, though she rarely spoke of it. But her presence, steady and quiet, offered some comfort, a reminder that you weren’t alone, even in this cold, isolated fortress.

Back in King’s Landing, however, the silence was filled with a different kind of omen, one that hung over the Red Keep like a storm cloud. Word of your absence had spread quickly through the court, and whispers of your condition, carefully unspoken but unmistakable, ran through the halls. Every lord and lady, every advisor, knew the risk that came with your absence—that Aerys’s volatile mood would only grow darker as he brooded alone in the shadow of the Iron Throne. They had learned well enough from the last time you were sent away, and none dared to breathe a word that might ignite his fury.

Then, just as the court’s anxiety reached its peak, a new omen arrived in the form of a Stark messenger. He entered the Red Keep with a quiet solemnity, clad in the unmistakable greys of the North, his face impassive as he delivered the message from Lord Rickard Stark.

“Lord Stark will arrive within three days' time, Your Grace,” the messenger announced, bowing low, his voice steady though the words carried a weight that rippled through the court.

The courtiers held their breath, eyes darting toward the throne, where Aerys sat in stiff silence. His face was impassive, but his advisors, the ones who knew him best, exchanged uneasy glances. They had learned to fear the king’s calm as much as his fury, for it was the quiet before the storm—the stillness before the fire ignited.

Aerys leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he considered the words. For a long moment, he said nothing, the silence in the throne room growing heavier with each passing second. His fingers drummed lightly against the arm of the Iron Throne, a slow, methodical rhythm that belied the chaotic thoughts likely swirling within him. His advisors watched with barely concealed dread, their expressions a mixture of caution and resignation.

“Three days,” Aerys murmured finally, his voice soft, almost contemplative. “Lord Stark comes south to claim his prize, does he?”

The messenger hesitated, choosing his next words with care. “Yes, Your Grace. He comes as arranged, as per the alliance between House Targaryen and House Stark.”

Aerys’s lips curled into a smile, but there was no warmth in it. “Of course,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying an edge that sent a chill through the room. “An alliance. A marriage. Duty.” His gaze shifted to his advisors, lingering on each one as if daring them to speak.

None did.

The silence stretched on as Aerys continued to smile, a predatory gleam in his eyes. Those who knew him best—the advisors who had seen him at his worst, who had weathered his fury and survived his punishments—knew better than to trust his calm. They knew that this quiet acceptance was merely a mask, one that would slip the moment he found the right opportunity to strike.

He turned his gaze back to the messenger, studying him with an intensity that bordered on cruelty. “You may return to Lord Stark with my warmest welcome,” he said finally, his voice dripping with false hospitality. “Tell him that we eagerly await his arrival. My court, after all, has been far too quiet of late.”

The messenger bowed deeply, visibly relieved to have his task complete. He backed away slowly, not daring to turn his back on the king until he had exited the throne room entirely.

As the doors closed behind him, Aerys’s expression shifted, his calm facade cracking just enough for his advisors to glimpse the dark fury beneath. His fingers resumed their drumming, faster now, each tap echoing through the silent room.

“It seems,” he said softly, his voice carrying a dangerous undertone, “that the wolves of the North believe they have some claim on my blood.”

The advisors exchanged uneasy glances, each of them well aware that any response might provoke his wrath. Tywin Lannister inclined his head slightly, his gaze unreadable, but he said nothing. Even he knew that no words would quell the fire building within the king.

Aerys’s smile faded as he leaned back against the Iron Throne, his eyes unfocused, lost in whatever twisted thoughts were consuming him. “They come for her,” he murmured, almost to himself. “They think to take what is mine. My daughter, my blood.”

One of the braver advisors, Ser Gerold Hightower, took a cautious step forward. “Your Grace, the Starks come only to fulfill the promise made—”

Aerys’s gaze snapped to him, cutting off his words with a glare that made Ser Gerold fall silent instantly.

“They come to steal her,” Aerys hissed, his voice low and venomous. “They come to take her from me, to take what is mine and drag her to the cold North.”

He paused, a sinister smile forming on his lips as he considered his next words, the glint of wildfire flickering in his gaze. “But they will find the South less welcoming than they expect,” he continued, his tone laced with cruelty. “The wolves will come to the Red Keep, but they may not leave as they arrived.”

The courtiers looked at one another, a ripple of fear spreading through the room. They understood the implications of his words, the threat that hung in the air like smoke.

The king’s rage had not abated; it had merely changed shape, turning into something colder, more calculated. His calm was a weapon, one that he intended to wield with deadly precision when the time came.

And so the court held its breath, waiting, dreading, knowing that in three days’ time, Lord Rickard Stark and his son would arrive at the Red Keep—and that Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King, was ready to welcome them with fire and blood.

The arrival of Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon was an event that sent ripples through the capital, spreading like wildfire through the crowded streets of King’s Landing and into the towering halls of the Red Keep. The Starks, grim and foreboding, rode southward under the grey banners of their house, their arrival heralded by the chill wind that seemed to follow them from the North.

The Stark party approached the Red Keep with solemnity, their banners fluttering in the breeze, each figure in sharp contrast to the warmth and vibrancy of the South. At their head rode Lord Rickard Stark, his face etched with lines of wisdom and resolve, the weight of his duty evident in his gaze. Beside him was his eldest son, Brandon, whose youth and strength radiated from him with each step his horse took, his proud eyes scanning the keep with a mix of caution and curiosity. Behind them rode the loyal bannermen of House Stark, men as fierce and steadfast as the icy land they hailed from.

The Red Keep was prepared for their arrival, though the atmosphere was charged, the courtiers silent as they watched the procession of northern lords making their way into the great hall. Whispers filled the air, speculation on the king’s mood, on how he would receive the wolves from the North, on whether the princess’s absence had further soured Aerys’s disposition.

But as Lord Rickard and Brandon dismounted, their cloaks sweeping the floor, they were met not with the expected coldness but with a surprising warmth. Aerys stood waiting for them on the dais, a thin smile stretched across his face, his hands outstretched in an uncharacteristically welcoming gesture. His dark red robes gleamed with gold thread, and he looked every inch the regal king, though his eyes held a gleam that made even the bravest courtiers wary.

“My lord of Winterfell,” Aerys greeted, his voice smooth and deceptively friendly. “It is an honor to welcome the wolves to our humble court.”

Rickard and Brandon approached the king, their expressions carefully neutral, though you could see the hint of skepticism in Rickard’s gaze as he dipped his head in a respectful bow. Brandon followed suit, his youthful confidence tempered by caution as he observed the room, noting the tension that clung to every figure present.

“Your Grace,” Rickard replied, his voice measured and respectful. “House Stark thanks you for your hospitality. We have traveled a long road to reach the Red Keep.”

Aerys’s smile widened, his eyes glinting with something inscrutable. “Yes, yes, and we are most pleased to have you here. The North is dear to my heart, after all. Such loyalty, such steadfastness. I have always held House Stark in the highest regard.” His words dripped with an almost mocking sweetness, but his tone was so smooth, so carefully measured, that few would dare to question it.

Rickard maintained his composure, bowing his head once more. “We are honored by your regard, Your Grace.”

Aerys’s smile remained fixed, his eyes studying each of the Starks as though they were pieces on a chessboard, each one ripe for manipulation, for destruction, should he choose.

He gestured for them to move closer, and the courtiers watched as Rickard and Brandon stepped forward, their Northern stoicism clashing with the opulence of the Southern court. Brandon’s eyes scanned the room with a quiet intensity, taking in every face, every whisper, his jaw set as he looked upon the lords and ladies who seemed so alien to him.

Aerys’s tone remained honeyed as he spoke again, addressing both father and son with the air of a benevolent ruler. “We trust your journey was not too harsh. The roads can be treacherous, but I see that the North breeds strong men, unshaken by hardship.”

Brandon, standing proudly beside his father, gave a nod. “We are no strangers to harsh journeys, Your Grace,” he replied, his voice steady, respectful, but with an edge of youthful confidence. “But we look forward to a warm welcome here in the South.”

The room fell silent, all eyes on the young Stark. There was a subtle challenge in his words, a suggestion that he expected more than just formalities from the king—that he had come to claim what was promised, to take the princess back to the North as his bride. Whispers stirred among the courtiers, excitement and dread mingling as they sensed the undercurrents of the exchange.

Aerys’s smile tightened ever so slightly, though he kept his composure, nodding in agreement. “Indeed,” he replied, his tone rich with false warmth. “The Red Keep opens its gates to you, and all we have is yours to enjoy.”

Brandon inclined his head, the weight of his purpose clear in his steady gaze. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke again, his voice lower but firm. “And the princess, Your Grace. Y/N. Is she—”

The shift in Aerys’s expression was immediate, abrupt, as if a switch had been flipped. The mask of civility, the practiced smile, all faded in an instant, leaving only the raw, naked anger that he barely kept in check. His entire body tensed, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on Brandon with an intensity that could have burned through steel.

“What did you say?” Aerys’s voice was low, dangerous, a quiet rage that sent a chill through the room.

Brandon, caught off guard by the sudden change, paused, uncertain of how to respond. He glanced at his father, but Rickard’s expression remained impassive, though there was a flicker of warning in his eyes.

“The princess, Your Grace,” Brandon repeated, his voice cautious now. “We… We came to fulfill the promise made. To bring her north, to Winterfell.”

Aerys’s hands clenched at his sides, his entire demeanor shifting from welcoming to something cold, hostile. The glint in his eyes had darkened, and his voice, when he spoke, was filled with a barely contained fury. “The princess,” he hissed, each word dripping with venom, “is not yours to claim. She belongs to me.”

The hall fell into stunned silence, the courtiers frozen, every face turned to the king as they awaited his next words. The advisors at his side exchanged tense glances, knowing how dangerous the situation had become, how one wrong move could ignite Aerys’s temper like wildfire.

Rickard stepped forward, his voice calm but firm, hoping to salvage the situation. “Your Grace, we come only to honor the alliance. It is by your will that this marriage was promised.”

But Aerys’s eyes remained fixed on Brandon, his fury unrelenting. “You think you can take what belongs to the blood of the dragon?” His voice grew louder, each word a lash, his tone filled with something unhinged, a dangerous edge that silenced even the bravest lords. “You dare come here, to my court, and speak of claiming her?”

Brandon straightened, a flicker of defiance in his eyes as he met Aerys’s gaze. “I mean no disrespect, Your Grace. I only ask for what was promised.”

The hall held its breath as the king’s fury deepened, his face contorting with a rage that was barely contained.

The air of the Red Keep grows foul as Rhaegar strides through its familiar stone corridors, a darkness settling like a shroud over the usually bustling halls. Whispers, stifled gasps, and the occasional flicker of fearful eyes follow him as he makes his way toward the Great Hall. Something sinister lingers in the air, an almost visible weight that presses on him as he rounds the corner.

Varys steps out from a shadow, his face a mask of concern and reluctance. He touches Rhaegar's arm lightly, a warning.

"Your Grace," Varys murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "It is unwise to interfere. He will see any defiance as betrayal." There’s a tremor in his eyes, a barely concealed desperation that Rhaegar has rarely seen on the man’s face.

But Rhaegar’s jaw tightens. "My father does not reason with any longer. This madness... how far does it go, Varys?"

A grim silence, heavy with meaning. "He has called for the pyromancers, my prince."

In the Great Hall, Rhaegar steps inside to find a horrifying tableau: Lord Rickard Stark, bound and forced to his knees, his silver hair streaked with sweat as he stares defiantly up at his captor. Beside him stands his eldest son, Brandon, his wrists lashed together, his face marred with bruises and cuts from his struggle.

Aerys sits on the Iron Throne, his eyes wild, face shadowed by a sick smile that only deepens as he watches Rhaegar approach. "Ah, Rhaegar, you’ve come to join the festivities!" he calls out, his voice echoing through the hall with a strange, gleeful malice.

Rhaegar’s stomach turns as he glances from Lord Rickard, silent and proud even on his knees, to Brandon, whose gaze seethes with fury. "What is this madness?"

"Madness?" Aerys laughs, the sound shrill and fractured. "It is justice, my son, for the insult these wolves dared bring upon our House. They dared to think they could steal what is mine!" His gaze sharpens, a gleam in his eye as he rises, robes billowing as he gestures toward Rickard and Brandon.

The crowd holds its collective breath as Wisdom Rossart, cloaked in the colors of the pyromancers, steps forward. In his hands, a greenish flask glints in the torchlight, promising nothing but ruin.

"And you, Rhaegar," Aerys sneers, his gaze piercing. "Are you to be my loyal son or my enemy?"

Rhaegar grits his teeth, silent, his heart pounding as he assesses the scene. Behind him, Varys’ whispered warning echoes in his mind. He cannot intervene. Not here. Not now. Not with the lives of innocents at stake.

Aerys waves a hand, impatient. "Ser Oswell! Ser Lewyn! Hold Brandon and bind him with that Tyroshi rope—tight enough that he may watch as his father is cleansed of his sins." The guards hesitate only a moment before moving forward, gripping Brandon with iron hands, forcing him down. They lash the rope around his neck, pulling it taut, and his head snaps forward, his face a mask of rage and desperation.

Aerys smirks, eyes gleaming. "So it begins."

Rhaegar's heart clenches painfully as he watches Lord Stark’s dignified form against the mocking flames. He wants to move, to protest, but a glance from Varys, brief yet pleading, stays his hand.

The pyromancers step forward, and with each slow, deliberate movement, the air grows colder—though the fire is only moments away from being unleashed.

The room is silent but for the strained breaths of Brandon Stark, suspended by the Tyroshi rope, toes barely scraping the cold stone floor. His wrists strain against the leather straps binding them behind his back, muscles bulging as he fights with everything in him to reach his father, each movement making the rope tighten around his throat. His once-steady grey eyes are now wild and unfocused, darting to Rickard as the pyromancers make their final preparations, pouring thick trails of green liquid in a circle around him. The smell of wildfire fills the hall, sharp and stinging.

Aerys watches from the Iron Throne, an eager glint in his eyes, lips twisted in an expression of depraved delight. His gaze flickers to Brandon, who’s wheezing with each frantic jerk against his restraints, but the king’s attention always returns to the man chained before him.

“Father!” Brandon manages, his voice hoarse and desperate, raw with both fury and helplessness. He surges forward again, every muscle tensing as he pulls against the rope. The movement only tightens the noose around his neck, choking him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even hesitate.

Rickard’s head remains high, though a flicker of pain crosses his features as he watches his son suffer. “Brandon, hold fast,” he says, his voice steady despite the chains and the hopelessness of the moment. His gaze flickers briefly to the Iron Throne, where Aerys sits, eyes gleaming like coals in the dim hall. “Your Grace, if you are to take my life, then do it. There is no need for cruelty.”

Aerys leans forward, his fingers curling around the jagged arms of the throne, blood beading on his knuckles from where the swords slice into his skin. “No need?” he echoes, his voice a high, mocking lilt. “Oh, but Stark, cruelty is the very heart of justice.” He grins, baring his teeth in a smile that’s far more feral than human. “And you would rob me of the pleasure?”

He raises a hand, giving Rossart and the other pyromancers a sharp nod. The wildfire is ignited, and the sickly green flames leap to life, casting an eerie glow that washes over the hall and paints every face in ghastly shades.

The flames quickly climb around Rickard, who grits his teeth, his expression twisting in pain as the heat rises, licking up his legs, searing his skin. But he does not scream, not at first. He stands as tall as his chains will allow, face stoic, defiant even as the fire hungrily consumes him.

Brandon screams first, a guttural cry that reverberates through the hall as he watches the flames engulf his father. He lunges forward, his face purple with strain as he stretches toward Rickard, every muscle taut, every instinct screaming for him to reach the man who raised him, the man who now burns. His vision blurs, and he coughs, choking as the noose cuts deeper into his throat.

"Father! Father!" he chokes, voice barely a rasp, strangled by the rope and by the sight before him. His eyes widen in horror, the realization that he can’t save his father sinking in as the flames rise higher, curling up Rickard’s body, searing flesh and cracking bone.

Rickard cannot hold back the scream this time, the pain too great as his flesh begins to blacken, skin blistering under the intense heat. He gasps, a strangled noise that wrenches from his throat, and even then, there is no plea, no beg for mercy. His eyes turn to Brandon one last time, the look of a father who knows he has no choice but to leave his son to face this fate alone.

Brandon fights harder, straining, pulling against the rope until his face turns red, veins bulging along his neck. His feet slip against the stone floor, desperate for purchase, but there is none, and he chokes, the rope cutting into his skin, his breaths coming in shorter and shallower gasps. His grey eyes grow dimmer, the fire’s reflection dancing in them, the light fading as life is squeezed from him with every strangled breath.

Near the back of the hall, Jaime Lannister turns his head, unable to watch. He’s young, barely a man, and the horror before him churns his stomach, the sounds of burning flesh and Brandon’s dying gasps ringing in his ears. He clutches his sword, the weight of his Kingsguard cloak suddenly feeling unbearably heavy on his shoulders. This was not the honor he had imagined when he swore his oath, not the justice he believed he would serve. The taste of bile rises in his throat as he forces himself to keep his gaze averted, his jaw clenched.

Aerys laughs, the sound maniacal, relishing each agonized scream, each desperate choke that escapes Brandon’s lips. “Yes!” he cries, his voice exultant, arms raised as if to embrace the flames himself. “Let all who would challenge me see their fate! Let all who would take what is mine burn!”

Brandon’s strength fades, his legs trembling, his feet barely brushing the floor now, and his breathing slows, each gasp weaker than the last. The noose tightens, relentless, a merciless executioner, and finally, his eyes roll back, his mouth falling open as he sags, body limp. He dangles from the rope, lifeless, his father’s screams fading to silence as the flames consume him, the once-proud Lord of Winterfell reduced to ash before the court.

The hall is silent, save for the crackling of the flames and the mad, triumphant laughter of Aerys, who sits on the Iron Throne like a king drenched in the blood of his enemies, his eyes gleaming with sick satisfaction.

Rhaegar stands in the shadows, his fists clenched, a low, sick feeling twisting in his stomach. He has never felt more powerless, more ashamed, and he knows, with a terrible certainty, that this horror will burn on in the memory of every man who stood here today.

The storm is a monstrous thing, howling against the walls of Dragonstone as if the sea itself is raging, desperate to consume the ancient fortress whole. The waves crash like thunder against the rocks, and the wind howls through the corridors, rattling shutters and flickering every candle within the keep. The sound is ceaseless, a wild symphony of nature’s wrath. Yet within the birthing chamber, all the world shrinks to the quiet agony of the bed, the sweat-soaked sheets, and the desperate cries of a woman in labor.

You clutch the sheets, your knuckles white as the pain crashes over you again, sharp as a blade and relentless. You bite back a scream, teeth gritted, each breath short and labored. Rhaella hovers at the bedside, one hand pressed to her own lips, fear shining in her eyes. Though she is the queen, her face betrays her, marked with a mother’s worry and a woman’s terror. Childbirth, for her, is something haunted. She lost too many, buried too many, and nearly lost herself in the last.

“Breathe, Y/N,” Rhaella urges softly, her voice trembling as she places a cool hand on your forehead. “Breathe, my love. You’re strong, you are. Stronger than I ever was.”

You gasp, forcing yourself to nod, the words a small comfort through the haze of pain. Her voice grounds you, helps you cling to the world around you as the midwives bustle around, readying cloth and basins of water, their faces taut with uncertainty.

“The storm won’t ease,” one whispers, glancing toward the shutters that shudder violently with each gust of wind. “It’s as though the world itself cries out.”

Rhaella glances toward the window, worry etched into her face as she listens to the relentless pounding of rain and the furious roar of the wind. She turns back to you, her hand trembling slightly as she brushes damp hair from your face. "My darling, you’re almost there," she soothes, though the tightness in her own voice betrays her fear. "Just a little longer. Your brother, your son…they’ll need you."

You cling to her words, each one pulling you through the storm within you, even as the pain deepens, sharper than before, tearing a scream from your throat. You feel the weight of every breath, the strain in every muscle, your body working with a force that’s both brutal and unstoppable.

One of the midwives presses her hand to your belly, her face tense, but her tone is gentle. “My lady, the babe is close. With the next pain, you must push.”

Rhaella grasps your hand, her fingers cool and firm against your fevered skin. Her own knuckles are white, though her voice remains calm as she whispers, “I’m here, Y/N. I won’t leave you.”

You push, the world narrowing down to nothing but the effort, the ache, the need to bring life into this world despite the fury of the storm battering against Dragonstone. The pain shatters through you, blinding and consuming, until you think there can be nothing left.

And then, with a final, gasping push, there is relief. A soft, weak cry pierces the air, faint but growing stronger with each second. The midwife holds up a small, wet bundle, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, the room falls into silence as she gently places the babe in your arms.

“She’s here,” the midwife murmurs, her voice a mixture of awe and relief. “A little girl, my lady.”

You look down at her, your heart swelling with an overwhelming tenderness. She’s so small, impossibly so, with a dusting of silver-gold hair that clings damply to her scalp, her skin as pale as moonlight. Her eyes are squeezed shut, but her tiny fists flail, her mouth opening in a furious little wail as though protesting her entry into this storm-torn world.

“Daenerys,” you whisper, the name coming to you as naturally as a breath. “Her name is Daenerys.”

Rhaella’s face softens, a look of deep, bittersweet joy filling her eyes as she reaches out to touch the baby’s cheek, her fingers gentle. “Daenerys… she will be as fierce and as beautiful as her name,” Rhaella murmurs, her voice a mixture of pride and sadness, memories of lost children haunting her gaze. “Your sister, Shaena, would have loved her.”

You nod, feeling a pang of sorrow for the sister you never knew, the child Rhaella lost at birth. This little one, Daenerys, is a part of that legacy now, a bright spark against the darkness.

The storm seems to soften as you hold her, the wind and the waves receding as if the very heavens have grown quiet to bear witness to her birth. You look down at Daenerys, her tiny hand reaching out to grasp your finger, her cries softening as she nestles closer to you. There’s a fire in her already, you can feel it, as though she holds a piece of Dragonstone’s storm within her.

Rhaella leans close, resting her forehead gently against yours, her voice a soft, choked whisper. “You have given her the greatest gift, Y/N. You have given her life and hope.” She hesitates, then adds, her voice even softer, “May she never know the pain we’ve seen.”

You nod, feeling the weight of her words, her wishes. This child, your Daenerys, will be a flame in the darkness, a hope for House Targaryen, a piece of you that no storm, no madness, can ever take away. And as you hold her close, feeling her heartbeat steady and sure against yours, you know that for this one moment, the storm has passed.

In the depths of sleep, you find yourself wandering once more beneath the shadows of the Kingswood, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. The moon is high and pale, casting an eerie glow over the forest, illuminating the shapes that move just beyond sight. The trees sway as if whispering secrets to one another, and every rustle sends a shiver down your spine. Somewhere in the distance, a low, mournful howl cuts through the silence, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

You wake with a gasp, the echo of that agony radiating from the base of your neck and shoulder, a throbbing ache that feels as real as the day it happened. You sit up, heart pounding, your skin clammy as you press a hand to the old scar, feeling the rough, raised skin beneath your fingers. It burns, as though the memory has reignited the wound itself.

Beside you, the faint light of dawn filters through the heavy curtains, casting a dull glow across the room. Rhaella stirs nearby, half-awake, her expression softening with motherly concern as she looks at you. “Y/N,” she murmurs, reaching out a gentle hand to touch your arm. “What is it? You were restless… did you dream?”

You hesitate, the remnants of the vision clinging to you, thick as fog. “A dream,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “Of the Kingswood…of him…of that night.”

Her face tightens, and she nods, her own gaze clouded with memories she would rather forget. “Your father is…unforgiving, in his ways,” she says, her voice laden with a sadness so deep it seems endless. “I feared for you that night. I always fear for you.”

You look down, feeling the dull ache in your shoulder flare with every heartbeat. “I remember his words he told me once,” you say softly, your fingers trailing over the scar. “Loyalty demands sacrifice. I thought I understood…until the raven came.”

The memory of the raven’s arrival floods back, vivid as the dream. The message it carried, the news of Brandon’s death, the horror and finality that seeped into your bones as you read of how he died—strangled by his own father’s failure to save him. The words had chilled you to your very core, settling in you like a shadow you could never escape. It felt like another death, another wound as brutal and searing as the bite of the wolf.

Rhaella watches you, her gaze filled with both pity and sorrow, a sorrow that has defined her own life. “Aerys takes what he wants,” she whispers, voice trembling, her hand reaching to rest on your shoulder. “And he leaves nothing but ashes.”

You swallow, your throat tight as you remember the dead, grey eyes of the wolf, the way its life had slipped away under your hands. Brandon’s eyes had been the same, you knew it even without seeing them, the cold grey finality of his death haunting you. You feel it in your bones, the weight of the lives your father’s wrath had claimed.

“Sometimes, I wonder if that’s all we are to him,” you say, voice raw, a truth you have never dared to utter. “If we are nothing but tools for him to wield, lives for him to shape and shatter as he sees fit.”

Rhaella’s fingers tighten on your shoulder, her gaze softening with a mother’s love, fierce and unbreakable. “Not to me, Y/N,” she whispers, her voice barely a breath. “To me, you are my child, my daughter. My greatest hope.”

You look at her, the warmth of her hand anchoring you against the darkness that gnaws at the edges of your heart. “Then I will try to remember that,” you murmur, voice steady, though the ache remains.

As the morning light brightens, you cling to the feeling of her hand on your shoulder, grounding you in the here and now. You know you carry these memories like scars, reminders of the pain, the sacrifice, the unyielding loyalty demanded of you. And though the dreams may come, though the past may haunt you, you are determined to live beyond them, to shape your own fate, if only for the sake of the children who depend on you—the children who may one day look to you as their only hope.

The Red Keep is alive with the murmurs of courtiers, their voices rising and falling in nervous harmony. Aerys sits upon the Iron Throne, his fingers tracing the jagged, cruel edges of the swords fused into the throne, a twisted smile playing across his lips. He leans forward, listening to Varys’ counsel on matters that seem to bore him, his gaze distant and his fingers restless. Even seated, he shifts constantly, the stirrings of a fire within him that no amount of steel can cool.

Then the doors of the throne room creak open, and Grand Maester Pycelle shuffles in, carrying a sealed scroll in his gnarled hands once again, his expression a mixture of anxiety and trepidation. The old maester’s footsteps echo through the vast hall as he approaches, and all eyes turn to him, curiosity thick in the air.

“Your Grace,” Pycelle says, bowing low, his voice quivering ever so slightly as he holds out the scroll. “A raven has arrived from Dragonstone. The storm delayed it, but the news… the news is joyous.”

At the mention of Dragonstone, Aerys’ gaze snaps to attention, the lethargy vanishing from his posture. His eyes gleam, a sudden spark of anticipation lighting within them. “Speak, old man,” he demands, his voice sharp with an edge of impatience. “What word from my daughter?”

Pycelle bows again, hands trembling as he breaks the seal and unrolls the parchment. “Your Grace,” he begins, his voice resounding through the hall, “the Pri… the Queen has safely delivered a princess on Dragonstone.”

For a moment, silence blankets the hall, stretching as everyone waits for the king’s reaction. Aerys’ face breaks into a smile, something wild and fierce, the kind of smile that unsettles even the bravest in the court. The news seems to ignite a flame within him, a manic delight that rolls off him in waves, filling the room with a strange tension.

“A daughter,” he repeats, almost in wonder, his voice filled with a twisted pride. “A daughter, born from the fire and fury of Dragonstone. She will be magnificent… as fierce as her mother.” His words are laced with an innuendo that turns a few heads in the court, but no one dares comment.

Aerys rises from the throne, the motion abrupt, his steps echoing as he descends, a wild gleam in his eye as he turns to Varys. “A daughter born in the storm,” he says, almost to himself, before his gaze sharpens, landing on the Master of Whisperers. “Varys, make the preparations. I want her, the babe, and my Viserys brought back to me. And the queen,” he adds as if she were an afterthought. “They will return to the Red Keep, to stand by my side.”

Varys inclines his head, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes flicker with something unreadable as he considers the king’s demand. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he replies smoothly, folding his hands before him. “I shall arrange everything necessary to ensure their safe and swift return.”

Aerys seems to take delight in the thought, his gaze turning inward as if imagining his family before him, his daughters, his son. “Yes,” he murmurs, his voice softening, almost tender as he envisions the scene. “My jewel by my side, with my son and daughter… the Targaryen bloodline strong as ever. They belong here, with me, at the heart of my kingdom. Dragonstone is no place for them to hide.”

Pycelle clears his throat, daring to speak again, though he looks to Varys as if seeking reassurance. “Your Grace, the storm was… fierce. The midwives report that the… queen endured much to bring forth this child, but she is resilient.” He pauses, hesitating under the intensity of Aerys’ gaze. “They say the babe was born healthy, though… delayed, by nature’s fury.”

Aerys’ expression shifts, a shadow crossing his face at the mention of the storm. But then his smile returns, sharper now, his eyes glinting. “She will be all the stronger for it,” he declares, his voice rising with conviction. “This child, my Daenerys, has been forged in fire and fury. She will be a true Targaryen, born in the midst of the storm, as I was born to conquer fire itself.”

The courtiers exchange glances, wary of Aerys’ sudden enthusiasm, his gaze burning with an intensity that feels more like insanity than joy. But no one dares question him. They stand silent, their heads bowed, unwilling to draw his attention.

Varys steps forward once more, his voice as smooth and calm as a dark river. “Shall I send word to Dragonstone at once, Your Grace?” he inquires. “It would take time to arrange the ships and guards for such a journey. The princess and the queen will need protection.”

Aerys considers this, his fingers brushing against the hilt of the dagger at his side, his mind whirling with thoughts only he could understand. “Yes,” he replies, almost absently. “They will be protected. Send the best, Varys. I will not have anything jeopardize their return. Not storms, not ships, not the Seven themselves.”

He pauses, his gaze drifting toward the distant window, where the skies are clear now, but the memory of the recent tempest lingers. “And ensure my daughter’s chambers are readied,” he adds, a glint of pride in his eyes. “I want her close, where I can see her, where I can… cherish her as she deserves.”

Pycelle’s voice breaks the silence, a tentative whisper. “Your Grace, might I suggest a feast to celebrate the birth of the princess? Such a joyous event surely warrants celebration. The court… the court would be honored to share in your joy.”

Aerys laughs, a strange, mirthless sound that echoes through the hall. “Yes, let them all bask in her birth,” he sneers, his tone filled with mocking grandeur. “Let them see the future of House Targaryen, and let them remember their king’s strength, his bloodline’s power.”

Varys bows low, a faint, enigmatic smile on his lips. “It shall be as you command, Your Grace. I will see to every detail personally.”

Aerys watches him, nodding in satisfaction, his expression growing almost serene as he envisions the reunion. “Good. And remember, Varys… no delay. I have been kept from my daughter long enough. She belongs here, with me. I will have my flame, my Daenerys, my son… all of them here.”

Varys inclines his head, his eyes flickering with something unreadable as he replies, “Your Grace, it will be done.”

The Red Keep looms before you as the ship docks, its shadow falling over you like a reminder of the darkness that festers within its walls. The journey from Dragonstone has left you weary, your body still fragile from the second childbirth. As you step onto solid ground, your eyes follow the attendants as they carry Daenerys away, her small, bundled form barely visible from where you stand. Viserys, a little older now but still as vulnerable, is also whisked from your side, held close by another attendant as they guide him towards the separate quarters prepared for him.

The welcoming party is small, unceremonious this time. A handful of courtiers bow low, their faces drawn and wary, eyes flickering with apprehension as they take in the sight of you, alone with your mother. They seem relieved, yet a peculiar heaviness permeates the air. You notice the way they shift uneasily, their glances darting, as if even the walls of the Red Keep harbor secrets too dangerous to whisper aloud.

As you make your way through the stone corridors, memories flood back—memories of when you last returned to King’s Landing, after Viserys’ birth. Then too, you were kept apart from him, the delicate façade maintained that he was Rhaella’s child, and not yours. You had watched from a distance, each glimpse of him a reminder of what you could not claim openly. Save the few times Aerys ordered the boy to be brought to you. And now, with Daenerys, the arrangement remains unchanged.

At last, you reach the chambers that have been prepared for you, the familiar scent of burning incense and freshly washed linens greeting you. The room is lavishly adorned, every comfort arranged with meticulous care, but it feels like a gilded cage. The crib meant for Daenerys is absent, and the silence in the room is a hollow one. You wonder where they have taken her, if she is safe, if she is as unsettled by these walls as you are. But you can do nothing but trust that she is being cared for, as Viserys was cared for.

Then there is a matter of the realm itself that seems to tremble under the weight of what has transpired since you last left. The whispers had reached even Dragonstone: stories of rebellions stirring, of lords questioning their loyalty, of silent alliances forming in darkened rooms. Aerys had unleashed chaos with the execution of Lord Stark and his son, and though the halls of the Red Keep are quiet, there is an undercurrent of unrest, a tension so thick it’s nearly suffocating. Yet you know your father pays no mind to any of it. He never sees beyond his own desires and fears, blind to the seeds of revolt he has sown.

You settle onto the bed, exhausted, feeling the familiar ache in your bones, the lingering strain from the birth. You have barely a moment to gather your thoughts when the heavy doors creak open. You know who it is without looking, feeling his presence fill the room, drawing every breath of air with it. Aerys steps forward, his eyes finding you instantly, an intensity in them that makes your heart quicken, though whether from dread or something darker, you cannot tell.

He approaches, his gaze softening in a way you have not seen in moons, a way he reserves only for you. "You’ve returned at last," he murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, a trace of genuine tenderness seeping through the madness.

You nod, forcing a smile as you sit up, smoothing the blankets. “I have, Father,” you reply, your tone careful. “The sea was unforgiving, but we weathered it.”

His eyes flicker, a look of satisfaction, pride, though his gaze always returns to you, his hand reaching out to trace a finger along your jaw, a featherlight touch that feels both comforting and cold. “Another child to carry on the Targaryen bloodline,” he says, his voice laced with possessive pride. “Another fire in the darkness.”

You hesitate, feeling the words catch in your throat. “I… I named her Daenerys,” you say softly, almost fearing his reaction, though you had wanted it so fiercely. You look down, finding it difficult to meet his gaze. “I know I should have waited for you, but… it felt right. I wanted it for her.”

To your surprise, he dismisses it with a wave of his hand, an indulgent smile touching his lips. “Daenerys,” he repeats, rolling the name over his tongue as if savoring it. “A fitting name. You chose well.”

Relief floods you, though you’re careful to hide it. His mood is mercurial, and you know too well how quickly his gentleness can turn. For now, he is pleased, and it feels as if the warmth of a rare summer day has found its way into the room.

Aerys settles beside you, abandoning the feast in favor of your company, his presence both familiar and unsettling. He speaks of Daenerys, his words laced with a strange pride, his voice softening as he reflects on the strength of her lineage. “She will be like her mother,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Strong, fierce… unbreakable.”

The words feel like a promise and a curse, woven together in the way only Aerys can manage. He shifts his gaze to you, his hand resting on your shoulder, the touch almost too gentle. “I have missed you,” he says, his voice soft, almost vulnerable. “The nights are hollow without you, Y/N. But you are here now. And you will stay.”

You force a nod, though the walls of the chamber seem to close in around you. “I am here,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper. The truth presses down on you, that this peace is temporary, that as soon as you have recovered, he will expect you by his side every night, the weight of his gaze, his touch, his demands. You are bound to Aerys by blood, by promises, by the terrible love he holds for you—one that consumes you as though you are both his salvation and his curse.

Aerys smiles, a rare, almost serene expression crossing his face as he watches you. “Yes,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You are home. And all is as it should be.”

...

The Great Hall is awash with light and laughter, but for all the grandeur, Rhaegar feels a strange hollowness at the heart of it. The feast stretches long into the night, tables overflowing with food and wine, courtiers gathered in small clusters, each celebrating the arrival of the new Targaryen princess. Yet, the two people he most expects to see—the king and his twin sister—are conspicuously absent. His gaze sweeps the hall once more, hoping against reason that she might appear, but all he finds are polite nods and masked glances.

He weaves through the hall, making his way toward his mother, who stands quietly at the far end of the chamber, her expression serene, though her eyes are weary. She accepts the courtiers' congratulations with the grace that only years of endurance have given her. But even in the midst of whispered blessings, Rhaegar sees the worry beneath her composure, the faint line of worry that etches her brow. As he approaches, a well-wisher steps aside, allowing him a clearer view, and she meets his gaze, relief flickering in her eyes.

“Mother,” he murmurs, offering a gentle smile as he bends to kiss her hand. “You seem… tired. Has it been a long night?”

She glances at him, her gaze a mixture of pride and sadness. “Long, yes, but not entirely unpleasant,” she replies, a quiet edge of irony in her tone as she inclines her head slightly in acknowledgment of another courtier’s congratulations. “These courtiers have no end of praise for… my newborn daughter.”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightens slightly, but he nods, letting the fiction remain unspoken. “You carry it well,” he says, his voice low and filled with understanding.

She casts him a soft, almost melancholic smile. “Years of practice, my son. This is but another page in a book I’ve been reading since before you were born.”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardens as he considers what she has endured, what she continues to endure, and his thoughts drift to his father. “Where is he, then?” he asks, his tone clipped. “Surely he should be here, if only to honor… your sacrifice.”

Rhaella’s face shifts, an unreadable emotion passing over her features before she lowers her gaze. “He appears to have… retired early tonight,” she says carefully, her voice soft, almost resigned.

Rhaegar’s expression darkens, understanding settling heavily on him. His father’s absence, coupled with the absence of his sister, can only mean one thing. The king has left the feast to seek her company, and the thought fills him with a dull, simmering anger. “So the rumors will stir again,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, more to himself than to his mother. “They will see his absence and hers and draw their own conclusions.”

Rhaella’s gaze turns sorrowful. “They never stopped whispering, Rhaegar,” she says, her voice heavy with regret. “But be careful. Your sister has returned after much hardship. Do not worsen the strain upon her heart.”

He clenches his jaw, nodding, though his resolve is already set. “I missed her, Mother. I can no longer stand to be kept from her side.”

Rhaella sighs, resting a hand on his arm. “Go, if you must,” she says, though her voice carries a warning. “But tread lightly, my son. Aerys’s temper is unpredictable, especially when it comes to her.”

He gives her a gentle nod, gratitude in his eyes, before turning to make his way across the hall, his gaze focused on the far entrance. The crowd parts for him, their conversations falling to murmurs as he passes, but his path is blocked briefly by a golden-haired figure—Lady Cersei Lannister, her mouth curved into a knowing smile. She stands with her father, Tywin, his presence as commanding as ever, though his expression is carved from stone.

Cersei inclines her head, her green eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief as she addresses Rhaegar. “Your Grace,” she begins, her voice laced with false sweetness, “how unfortunate that both your father and your sister are missing from the festivities. I had hoped to congratulate them both properly for… their new addition.”

Rhaegar’s gaze narrows, a flash of cold annoyance in his eyes, though he holds his composure. But before he can respond, Tywin’s hand clamps down on Cersei’s shoulder, his gaze sharp, his tone a low, cold warning. “Cersei,” he says quietly, though there is no mistaking the steel in his voice, “you would do well to mind your words, especially in such company.”

Cersei’s smile falters slightly, though she maintains her composure, inclining her head gracefully as she steps aside. “Of course, Father,” she murmurs, though the gleam in her eyes never truly fades.

Rhaegar offers Tywin a brief nod of acknowledgment before moving past them, his pace brisk as he weaves through the courtiers, searching for a familiar figure. His eyes find Elia Martell standing near the end of the hall, her gaze warm, though it holds a shadow of concern as she watches him approach.

He reaches her, his tension softening momentarily in her presence. “Elia,” he murmurs, his voice gentle, though the urgency remains in his tone. “I need to see her. My twin… I need to know she is truly well.”

Elia’s expression tightens, and she reaches for his hand, holding it between her own. “Rhaegar,” she says softly, caution threading her tone. “You know as well as I do that the king is likely there, with her. He would not be pleased by your presence.”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardens, his lips pressing into a thin line. “He can’t keep me from her forever, Elia,” he replies, his voice fierce with determination. “She is my sister. I cannot turn my back on her.”

Elia’s eyes soften with understanding, though there is worry in her gaze. “You have always been bound to her, Rhaegar,” she murmurs, stroking his hand gently. “But think of what it would mean to cross your father tonight, in such a fragile moment. He… he is unpredictable.”

Rhaegar takes a deep breath, his expression softening slightly as he meets her gaze, but his resolve remains firm. “I understand, Elia,” he says, his voice quieter now. “But I missed her deeply. I cannot remain in this hall, listening to strangers speak of her as if she is some distant figure. I need to see her, if only for a moment.”

Elia’s gaze lingers on him, her eyes filled with both love and sadness. “Then go, my prince,” she whispers, releasing his hand. “But be cautious. The king’s wrath is not to be taken lightly.”

Rhaegar nods, pressing a kiss to her hand. “Thank you, Elia. I will return to you shortly.”

With that, he turns, leaving the warmth of the feast behind as he strides purposefully through the corridors of the Red Keep, his steps quickening with each passing second. His heart pounds as he approaches the familiar hallway that leads to her chambers, the door just a few paces away.

...

The door to your chambers opens with the heavy creak of iron hinges, and Ser Gerold Hightower’s voice rings through the quiet room. “Prince Rhaegar Targaryen,” he announces, his tone formal, though his gaze briefly flickers with something that might be caution as he steps aside, allowing Rhaegar to enter.

You sit up slightly, a flicker of surprise in your eyes, but you quickly mask it, knowing well that your father does not take interruptions lightly. Beside you, Aerys lounges, one arm draped casually along the edge of the bed, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the blanket. His gaze sharpens when he sees his son, an expression hovering between annoyance and amusement crossing his face. The firelight catches the gleam in his eyes as he studies Rhaegar, his lips curling slightly in a smile that feels as much a warning as it does a welcome.

“Rhaegar,” Aerys drawls, his voice slipping between silk and steel. “To what do we owe this intrusion?”

But Rhaegar’s gaze is fixed only on you, his indigo eyes softening as they meet yours, a warmth in them that momentarily eases the chill in the room. He takes a step forward, almost as if he is drawn to you, the familiar bond between you transcending the tension filling the air. For a brief moment, it’s as if the world outside these walls fades, and it’s just the two of you, siblings reunited after too long apart.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, voice gentle, his eyes scanning your face with a mix of relief and longing. “I needed to see you, to know you were well.”

You give him a faint smile, though you sense the storm brewing in your father’s gaze beside you. Aerys shifts, his amusement fading, the shadow of impatience creeping into his expression as he sits up, straightening his posture. “My daughter is well enough,” he says, his voice clipped. “Why else would I be here?”

Rhaegar tears his gaze from you, finally turning to face his father, his face composed but his eyes hard. “Father,” he says evenly, his tone respectful but firm, “the feast is underway in the Great Hall. Your absence is already noted, as is hers. Mother is alone, accepting congratulations that are not hers to bear.”

Aerys’s lips curl into a mocking smile, his eyes gleaming with something that borders on cruelty. “I am precisely where I should be, Rhaegar,” he replies, his voice low, filled with an edge that could cut glass. “And my queen is where she belongs. That is sufficient.”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightens, and he takes a breath, his gaze sharpening as he presses forward, refusing to be dismissed so easily. “Your Grace,” he says carefully, yet there is a warning in his tone. “The lords whisper of rebellion in darkened corners, of discontent stirring in the far reaches of the realm. Each move we make is weighed and measured. Your absence tonight… it will add fuel to the fire.”

Aerys’s expression shifts, amusement vanishing as his eyes narrow, a dangerous glint flickering within them. “And what, precisely, do you mean by that?” he demands, his voice low, cold, the weight of his anger palpable in the room.

Rhaegar meets his father’s gaze unflinchingly, his own expression steeled, though there is a faint tremor of something raw beneath his composure. “Rumors have already taken root, Father,” he says, his voice steady despite the tension in his words. “Rumors that would see us torn apart from within, that would see blood spilled before our very gates. Every decision matters, every step we take either strengthens or weakens us.”

Aerys’s gaze sharpens further, his lips thinning, though there is a twisted pleasure in his eyes as he leans back, his fingers tapping against the fabric beside him. “And you believe that my absence from a mere feast would tip the scales?” he sneers. “You think these rumors hold more weight than the strength of Targaryen blood?”

Rhaegar doesn’t waver, though there is a flicker of sadness in his eyes, a heaviness that speaks of the burden he carries. “Strength, yes,” he replies, his tone unwavering. “But also duty. A king’s presence brings unity, reassurance. Your absence invites… doubt.”

Aerys lets out a laugh, sharp and humorless, a sound that echoes off the walls with a metallic ring. “Doubt,” he repeats, mocking, his gaze flicking back to you as if seeking support. “Tell me, my daughter,” he says, his tone lilting with a dark humor, “do you feel doubt when you are by my side? Or do you feel secure, protected?”

You swallow, your gaze darting between your father and brother, the tension thickening like smoke in the air. “I… feel secure,” you reply carefully, your words measured, though your heart twists as you speak them. “But, Father, Rhaegar has a point. There is unrest, and the people need to feel they have a strong leader. They look to you.”

Aerys’s gaze softens ever so slightly as he regards you, though his eyes flash with something darker as he looks back at Rhaegar. “You both doubt me, then?” he asks, voice low, dangerous. “Is that what this is?”

“No,” Rhaegar says swiftly, his voice firm. “I do not doubt you, Father. But I see the cracks forming, and I want nothing more than to see this house endure.”

Aerys’s eyes harden, his lips curling into a sneer. “You presume to lecture me on endurance?” he hisses. “I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms. I have held this realm together, and I will not be dictated to by my own son.”

Rhaegar’s face remains impassive, though a flicker of sorrow crosses his eyes. “As you say, Your Grace,” he murmurs, bowing his head. “I only wish to ensure the strength of our house endures.”

Aerys’s sneer softens, though the anger in his eyes remains, tempered by a twisted pride. “Then remember, Rhaegar,” he says, voice cold, “it is I who am king, and it is by my will that this realm endures. Now, leave us. My daughter requires my company, and your presence is… distracting.”

Rhaegar hesitates, his gaze flickering to you, a silent question in his eyes. You nod subtly, understanding the message he cannot speak aloud. With a final, lingering look, he turns, leaving the room with the weight of unspoken words pressing heavy upon him, his heart burdened with the fear that each step takes him further from the sister he loves and the family he fights to protect.

...

The corridors of the Red Keep feel colder as Rhaegar walks, his footsteps echoing through the silence that now seems to fill the castle. The nursery is just down the hall, past the chambers prepared for the younger royals. The walls are adorned with banners of red and black, symbols of House Targaryen, but even the proud dragons feel muted, shadowed under the weight of what this place has become.

As he reaches the nursery door, a young attendant bows low, his face respectful yet filled with caution. “Your Grace,” the attendant murmurs, glancing up at Rhaegar’s face with reverence. “Shall I give you a moment alone?”

Rhaegar nods, gratitude flashing in his eyes. “Yes, please. I would like to see them without the distraction of courtly eyes.”

The attendant nods, gesturing for the other servants to leave with him, and the door closes softly behind them, leaving Rhaegar in a quiet that feels sacred, almost reverent. The room is dimly lit by soft, warm candlelight, illuminating the cradles that lie side by side. The room smells faintly of lavender and fresh linens, an oasis of calm within the storm raging outside these walls.

He approaches slowly, his heart thrumming with a mixture of apprehension and awe as he comes to stand over the cradle where his sister—and niece—lies sleeping. Baby Daenerys is swaddled in soft crimson and black blankets, tiny fists peeking out as she sleeps, her silver hair catching the faint light and glimmering like moonlight. She looks impossibly small, impossibly fragile, and he feels a pang of protectiveness rise within him, fierce and unrelenting.

“Daenerys,” he whispers, barely audible, his voice filled with a reverence he did not expect. The name feels both familiar and strange on his tongue, a reminder of the legacy she will carry, the storm she was born into.

For a moment, he simply watches her, memorizing every tiny feature—the curve of her cheeks, the hint of silver lashes against her skin, the faint rise and fall of her breath. She is a miracle, he thinks, his sister’s strength and spirit brought to life once more in this small, perfect child. He reaches out, his hand hovering just above her, almost afraid to disturb her slumber, but the need to feel her warmth, to confirm her presence, becomes too strong to resist.

Gently, he lets his fingers brush against her small hand. Her skin is soft, delicate, and she stirs, a tiny murmur escaping her as her little hand instinctively closes around his finger. Rhaegar feels his heart tighten, a wave of tenderness and sorrow crashing over him, and he realizes that this is the first time he has truly allowed himself to feel the weight of this bond.

“Hello, little one,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You are beautiful, just like your mother. Fierce, too, I suspect. There’s something of her strength in you already.”

Daenerys shifts slightly, her small fingers gripping his with surprising strength. He chuckles softly, the sound barely a breath, his thumb gently stroking her tiny knuckles. “You are loved, Daenerys. You are so loved, and I swear I will protect you. Whatever happens… I will be here for you.”

He glances to the other cradle, where Viserys sleeps, his little face peaceful, oblivious to the weight his birth has placed upon him. Rhaegar steps over, his gaze softening as he watches his younger brother—his nephew. The deception feels like a brand on his soul, yet he knows it is necessary. These children will be kept close, within their mother’s legacy, as long as he can ensure it.

“Viserys,” he murmurs, reaching out to touch the boy’s head gently, fingers brushing over his fine silver hair. “You may never know it, but you were born into fire. You and Daenerys… you will be the last lights of House Targaryen.

He returns to Daenerys’s cradle, watching her tiny face relax as she drifts back into the deep slumber of the innocent. Rhaegar stands there, caught in a quiet, bittersweet moment, the weight of his vow settling upon him. He will protect them. He will shield them from the chaos that threatens to consume the Seven Kingdoms, no matter the cost to himself.

Gazing down at Daenerys, he lets his hand rest over hers, feeling the warmth of her small palm against his skin. “One day, I hope you will understand the choices we made for you,” he whispers, his voice breaking slightly. “One day, perhaps, you will be strong enough to change this world. Stronger than all of us.”

A soft knock sounds at the door, and he quickly pulls back, his mask of composure slipping into place as the attendant returns, bowing as he steps in. “Your Grace, the court awaits.”

Rhaegar glances back at the cradle one last time, his heart heavy with the knowledge that this precious, fleeting moment of peace is over. He straightens, nodding to the attendant before stepping away, leaving the nursery and his quiet promises behind, though the memory of Daenerys’s tiny fingers wrapped around his own remains etched upon his heart.

...

Your chamber is silent save for the crackling of the low fire in the hearth. Aerys remains lounged beside you, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm, a touch that should feel comforting but instead fills you with a hollow sense of foreboding. You feel the weight of his gaze, every breath steady and measured, as if savoring each moment he spends in your presence. The scent of burning candles and incense fills the air, thickening the quiet that hangs between you.

You cling to him, drawing closer, seeking something solid to ground yourself in the maelstrom that surrounds you. You know too well that this peace, if it could even be called that, is temporary. Soon, the court will find another reason to whisper, to stir the embers of discontent, and with each day, the threat of rebellion inches closer. But for now, he is here, calm and attentive in his way, and you hold on, bracing yourself against what you know will come.

Carefully, you clear your throat, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Father,” you begin, your tone soft and cautious, the question hanging between you like a fragile thread. “There are… things I have heard. About Lord Stark and his son, Brandon.” You pause, choosing your words carefully, watching his expression closely.

Aerys’s eyes flicker, his expression tightening, though his lips morph into a smile that holds a hint of malice. He shifts, his fingers curling around your shoulder, holding you in place as he considers your words, as if weighing how much to reveal. The silence stretches, every heartbeat feeling like an eternity.

“Ah, yes,” he says finally, his voice a low, almost sinister murmur. “Rickard Stark and his fool son.” He chuckles, the sound dark, laced with a cruel satisfaction. “They dared to challenge me, to question the strength of the Iron Throne. They came, demanding things they had no right to, and they paid for their arrogance. Like I've told you I would.”

You swallow, feeling the air grow colder around you, your fingers tightening against the fabric of his cloak as you try to keep your expression steady. “But the raven… the message,” you say carefully, “it said that Lord Stark was… burned. And Brandon… that he… watched.”

Aerys’s gaze sharpens, a flash of anger crossing his face, though it fades into something that could almost be described as delight. “Yes,” he replies, his tone laced with pride. “I had him burned before the court, before his son’s very eyes. And Brandon, well… he had the privilege of feeling his father’s pain. A fitting end for wolves who would dare to defy a dragon.”

A shiver runs through you, the coldness of his words settling into your bones. You feel your stomach turn, the image of Brandon and his father’s deaths haunting the edges of your mind, even as you try to push it away. You lean against Aerys, trying to hide the tremor that runs through you, to steady yourself against the storm that brews within him. Each time he speaks of fire, of punishment, you see the glint of madness in his eyes, an unquenchable flame that seems only to grow with each act of cruelty.

He senses your unease, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in an almost gentle touch. “Do not fear, my dear one,” he murmurs, his voice softening, as though seeking to comfort you in his twisted way. “You are safe with me. None will dare harm you as long as I breathe. This realm may rot, but I will burn it all before anyone touches what is mine.”

You force yourself to nod, finding a flicker of reassurance in his words, though you know too well that his protection is a double-edged sword. You rest your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes, trying to find calm in his embrace, even as your heart pounds with the knowledge of what he is capable of, the lengths he will go to protect his vision of power and control.

After a long silence, Aerys shifts, his voice lower, softer, as if a rare tenderness has slipped through his hardened facade. “You should rest,” he says, his hand stroking your hair, his fingers gentle. “Tonight, I will be the one who watches over you, as you have so often watched over me.”

The words are a balm, a promise wrapped in his own fractured way, and you feel your muscles relax, your eyes growing heavy as his touch lulls you. For this one night, you let go of the fears, the questions, the thoughts of rebellion and ruin, trusting that perhaps, in this moment, he will keep his word.

And as you drift into sleep, his presence beside you, you hold onto the sliver of peace his words have granted you, even as shadows linger on the edge of your dreams.

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