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rogue-durin-16 · 4 years ago

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YOU DRIVE ME MAD

Summary: Fred's and Y/n's silly rivalry may have more to do with love than with hate; after a fatal incident, some confessions are made.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Genre: angst-fluff

Tags:

Fred Weasley: @whiskeyn-rain @lumos-solemn

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa

Warnings: brief mention of violence, blood, language (this seems a lot darker than it is lmao)

A/N: idk man I just love this idiot so here it comes another oneshot. The reader's house is not specified btw. Enjoy <3

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

Fred spotted me and walked to stand near me before asking jokingly "On your way to kill a man, Y/n?" Oh, little did he know.

"what is that?!" I exclaimed at the sight of my friend's bruised arm.

"uhm... Nothing."

"who did that to you?" I knew the answer before I even got it. My friend had gone to break up with that Cormac McLaggen the previous night; she had finally listened to us and ended that toxic relationship they had, but apparently she got a souvenir from it.

"It's fine- he didn't mean to- Y/n don't do anything stupid." Too late, I saw red.

"I don't have time for your bullshit, Weasley." I curtly replied bumping his shoulder while I walked past him, making his smile drop in confusion. I never missed the opportunity to start a playful argument with him, but, as I had said, I didn't have time for that.

With the corner of my eye, I saw him joining my friends in the task of trailing after me.

I spotted the bastard chatting with his friends in the middle of the hallway that led to the Great Hall. "Oi, McLaggen!"

"Evening, Y/l/n." That filthy grin vanished from his face when I kicked him in the balls, triggering some gasps from our peers and a grunt of pain from him.

"Listen carefully, you loathsome pig." I leaned over to be eye to eye with him. "If you dare to lay a finger on my friend again— if you even think about it— I'll become your personal nightmare." I stood upright again, his eyes full of hate and rage following my movements. "You don't deserve a bloody warning, but I'm a generous woman." Poison dripped off my tongue, my eyes throwing daggers at him as I stepped back and turned around.

My eyes met Fred's worried ones while I made my way to my friends; they surely had told him enough for the ginger to know this was no time for joking and teasing.

His gaze then flickered behind me with panic and I realized a tad too late I shouldn't have turned my back to McLaggen; at the end of the day, pride overpowered honour in a lot of Gryffindors.

I spun around, grabbing my wand from my pocket, but I wasn't fast enough; before I knew what was happening, Fred was in front of me, serving as a human shield from the jinx.

The unknown spell hit his back and propelled us in my friends' direction. I was quickly on my knees, sitting Fred up and earning a grunt in the process, which I initially thought was caused by the fall. "Are you mental?!" My friend casted an Expelliarmus at the younger Gryffindor, long forgotten due to Fred's actions.

"My back— AH!" He yelped when I tried to pull him up.

"OI!" A first year who had made his way to the first row of students frantically gestured at Fred's back. "He's bleeding!!"

"What?!" I made him lean on me to take a look at his white shirt, now stained with blood. What I thought to be a harmless jinx turned out to be fatal.

"He's not supposed to be bleeding!" Cormac shouted, as panicked as I was.

One of my friends said something about going to look for George while the others shoot off to look for Madam Pomfrey.

"I'm gonna kill him..." Fred mumbled through gritted teeth, his voice shaky and weak. He felt so fragile in my arms, and I couldn't help the tears stinging my eyes.

"Fred—" his hands, which had been gripping my forearms, lost strength as the boy's body relaxed. "For fuck's sake don't fall asleep."

"... 'm trying..."

"FREDDIE!" His twin brother rushed to us, falling on his knees by his brother's side.

"I'm sorry." McLaggen had walked to us, keeping a safe distance.

"YOU'RE DEAD MCLAGGEN!" George stood up before I could stop him. Luckily for everyone, Madam Pomfrey showed up.

"Oh Lord! Mister Weasley, quick! Help me with your brother!" The Healer commanded, and soon they were pulling Fred off my grasp and rushing to the infirmary.

I was left in the middle of the hallway with my friends showering me with worried questions and reassurance.

What the fuck had just happened?

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

During dinner, several girls and a couple of boys came to congratulate me for kicking McLaggen's balls, and it would have been a lot more satisfactory if Fred Weasley hadn't stepped in the middle.

As soon as I finished my meal, I headed to the infirmary through the now quiet halls, only to find there were too many people visiting.

Of course, George was there, along with their younger siblings and Lee Jordan, but in front of them stood Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall and none other than Cormac McLaggen himself.

"—already told you it wasn't for you!"

"How is that an apology, Mister McLaggen?" McGonagall scolded him, refraining herself from hitting the boy herself.

"You better fucking run, McLaggen, because the moment I can step out of this bed I swear on Godric I will—"

"Enough, Mister Weasley!" I almost pitied the poor woman. Her House was probably the most problematic. "All of you must go to your dormitories, Mister Weasley needs to rest." I stood on the entrance of the room, unsure of whether I should leave or enter, until Flitwick's eyes landed on my form. He redirected McGonagall's attention to me, and I felt the need of shying away. "Miss Y/l/n," I didn't miss the failed attempt of Fred to move; luckily, he was stopped by his sister. "I suppose you wanted to pay a visit?"

"Uhm... I did, Professor." I confessed, fidgeting with the sleeves of my robe. "I know it's late—"

"Don't take too long." She spoke, motioning everyone to follow her. "Curfew is still at 10." She reminded me in a warning tone, passing by.

As soon as they were out, I made my way to Fred, who lay on his stomach in one of the beds, the sheets only covering his legs an hips in order to avoid the clothing chaffing his damaged skin.

"You have a heart after all, huh?" He teased once I stood in front of him.

"How are you?" He frowned at my genuine question; the ginger surely expected me to make a witty comeback, but again, it didn't seem the time.

"A tad better." He gave me a reassuring half smile, deciding to drop our banter for a night. "Flitwick said he used a stinging jinx but casted it wrong." Fred huffed. "A bloody tosser."

He motioned at the chair behind me and I sat down, scooting closer to the bed. I still couldn't wrap my head around the fact that he had jumped in front of me. It had hit his back, but I knew it was meant to hit my face —what a mess that would have been—, and I couldn't help but feel a bit guilty.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"It's not on you." I felt my face flaring up at the ease with which he saw through me. I wasn't the first time he did that, but it was the first time he didn't use it to tease me.

"I know, I just—" I sighed. "I don't know." Though my sight was casted down, I still felt his worried gaze on me. "I'm gonna murder him."

"I reckon George will overtake us both on that." He tried to laugh but ended up in a since instead. "Or Gin. Maybe they'll team up with Ron and we'll find a corpse in the Gryffindor common room tomorrow." This time it was me who laughed. "How's your friend?"

"She'll be alright." I informed, distracting myself with a loose string at the hem of my skirt.

"And you?" I met his eyes with a hum leaving my mouth. "How are you?"

"Been better." I confessed.

Silence.

"Can you pass me the water?" I nodded, holding the glass in front of him and putting the straw in his mouth so he could take a couple of sips. "Thanks."

"No worries."

Silence again.

"Did you eat something?"

He scrunched his nose. "Not really."

"I'll go grab something from the kitchens." I didn't get far before his long fingers wrapped around my wrist.

"I'd rather have you here keeping my company." I then sat down again, his fingers only leaving my wrist to intertwin with mines. "I'm not hungry anyway."

More silence.

"Your hand is really soft." I reckon those words involuntarily escaped his lips by the way his eyes widened. "I don't know why I said that."

"Yours is too, surprisingly."

"Surprisingly?" He quirked an eyebrow at me, and I didn't quite realise what his grin was about until I spoke again.

"I imagined they'd be more rough." Oh no. "That came out wrong— I meant—"

"That you've imagined what my hands would feel like?" He was trying to bite back a laugh at the way my face turned red.

"No!"

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Liar."

There we went again; the white flag was out.

"Fuck you."

"Please." My cheeks turned even redder, and I wanted to think it was because of the anger. "You look really cute when you blush."

"You look really cute when you keep your mouth shut."

"Then shut me, love." He wiggled his brows at me.

"I would, but I don't wanna punch you in this state."

"You're very agressive." He pointed out, shocked that I didn't get what he was implying. "I meant with a kiss."

"Ew-" I pretended to gag. "no!"

He tugged on my hand and pulled me to my knees falling right in front of his eyes with our faces inches away. "C'mon Y/l/n, we're dragging this on now." His eyes kept falling on my mouth after I had unconsciously chewed on my lower lip.

"We're... We're not dragging on anything." I wasn't sure if I was trying to convince him or myself.

"Do you want me to start? Alright, you drive me mad." He forced his gaze to be fixed on mine. "You're annoying, rude and a pain in the arse." I huffed. "But you're also quick-witted and caring and brave." Gosh I hated how easily he made me blush. "Sometimes I want to punch you in that pretty face of yours but other times— most of the times— all I wanna do is kiss you." His thumb caressed the back of my hand. "Hell, I threw myself between you and that blonker without thinking twice!"

He raised his eyebrows, silently prompting me to say something, but I just didn't know what to say.

"Miss Y/l/n," Madam Pomfrey called, making me let go of Fred's hand an stood up. "It's almost ten o'clock! Let Mister Weasley rest." I nodded, not even looking in Fred's direction as I exited the infirmary.

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

FRED'S P. O. V.

The morning after the incident, Dean and Neville dragged in an unrecognisable McLaggen; they were probably the only ones who cared about that bloke enough to take him to Madam Pomfrey, though they did it half-heartedly.

I was discharged after three days in, right before lunch, and obviously, I was received as a hero; several people came to praise my bravery or ask how I was feeling, but I just wanted to see one person.

That night in the infirmary I was sure she felt the same way —hell, I had been sure for a couple of months— but after seeing her reaction, I didn't really know anymore.

I could always tell her it was a prank, and we would go back to our usual bickering. "Weasley!" Shit. "Fred!" She specified when the four of us turned at the call of our surname, almost jogging in my direction. "Can we talk?"

"Go ahead, darling." I prompted her without moving from my seat.

"In private?"

"Nah," I begged Godric for her not to see behind my grin the panic that produced me the mere thought of being left alone with her.

"Are you joking?" She huffed and, after taking a deep breath, she spoke. I wasn't expecting her to speak. "So you see, you're cheeky and stupid and not nearly as funny as you think." Ginny spit her pumpkin juice due to Y/n's harsh words. "but I... ugh! Okay— I want to kiss you too."

This time it was Ron who choked on his drink. "What's going on?"

"I feel like we missed an important part of this conversation." George commented.

This time it was Y/n who awaited for an answer. "This is literally the most embarrassing thing ever, so at least say something." She commanded in a rather rude tone, tapping her shoe against the floor.

I winced ever so slightly at the effort of getting up, but it was worth it when I saw her expression as I towered her; I reckon I had never seen her that sheepish before.

"That's a really mean way of saying you're attracted to me." I observed, quirking a brow at her. "Dunno why I fancy you so much."

"Well that makes the two of us." I couldn't help but chuckle at her attitude before cupping her cheeks and bring her lips to mine.

Finally.

Despite being a short, innocent kiss, was enough to make us both blush and grin like idiots.

"Awww" I rolled my eyes at my twin's mockery, knowing damn well I wouldn't hear the end of it.

"Why do I feel like I'm gonna miss you two being at each other's throat?" I couldn't care less about Ron's question as Y/n pulled me down for another kiss.

Almost bleeding to death seemed worth it in that moment.

#fred weasley x reader #harry potter fanfiction #fred weasley #fred weasley x y/n #harry potter #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x slytherin!reader #fred weasly x reader #gred and forge #fred wealsey fic #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x hufflepuff!reader #fred weasley x gryffindor!reader #fred weasley fanfics #fred weasley fluff #fred Weasley hurt comfort #fred x you #fred x slytherin reader #fred weasley au

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quillify-tries-to-talk · 3 years ago

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Defense and Love

(A rewrite of that scene in Chain of Gold where Cordelia does not defend her brother when James calls him unworthy of his sister's love. Because I was angry. Because CC knows zero things about sibling interaction.)

Lemme know if you like it!

“I know you hate me for how I treated you in school, and rightfully so,” Alastair said. It was a wonder his voice was not shaking. “But however much you hate me, do not take it out on my sister.”

Please, the word hung from the very tip of his tongue, unspoken and desperate. His heart was galloping inside his chest with an almost painful intensity, even more so under Cordelia's watchful gaze. He couldn't break now. Not in front of her. She would ask, and how was he going to explain why he'd distorted into something he didn't recognize himself?

“Alastair," said Herondale in that low, cruel voice that took him back to the Academy, his own past coming back to haunt him, "you made my life a living hell at the Academy. But I’d never take it out on Cordelia. That’s something you would do, not something I would do.”

So he thought Alastair would hit his own sister. Good God. You don't know anything, rich boy, he wanted to snap. You have no idea what you're talking about.

Perhaps it was his own fault. He’d hurt so many people in his quest to guard his family. His life had turned into one horrific, monotonous nightmare. Protect them. Protect Layla. Let her be happy. Let my mother be happy. Let Father never come back.

The rational part of his brain had taken over the reins. He stood up straighter, schooled his expression into blank, icy indifference, the mask he’d perfected at school. Let Herondale think what he wanted. Alastair had a job to do and he wasn't about to let patronizing sermons get in his way.

“I see how it is. In school I had the power, and here you have the power to lord it over me. What’s your game? What do you want with my sister?”

“Your sister,” James said, speaking with a slow, deliberate coldness. “Your sister is the only thing keeping me from punching you in the face. Your sister loves you, Angel knows why, and you aren’t even the least bit grateful.”

The words were more powerful than any Shadowhunter weapon. They ravaged the remains of his heart over and over again.

He was ten and watching his father trip on the floor of his bedroom as he collected the brandy bottles littered around. Elias had been too drunk to tell who’d been into his room.

He was twelve again and practicing the iratze. It will help Baba, he'd thought then, childish hope still guiding him through the dark descending over the horizon of their lives.

“You have no idea what I’ve done for my sister." His voice came out rough and shaking. Horror of all horrors, Cordelia was still looking at him as though seeing him in a new light. Did she agree with James? She could. She was thriving here. "You have no idea about our family. You don’t know the first thing—”

He was fifteen again and refusing to train with Layla for the hundredth time because his body ached like one giant bruise. It was Pounceby. His jaw and neck tingled with the sting of the phantom bruise. He was watching the hope in his sister's eyes die. I am sorry, he'd wanted to say then. I truly am. But I can't let you see this. Live, Layla.

Something knocked against his shoulder. Hard. Only his training, both physical and mental, kept him from stumbling back in surprise.

It was Cordelia. She’d come to stand in front of him, the way Alastair had done when they were kids whenever their father had been home. Like a shield, he realized in disbelief. He wanted to push her out of the way, but her outstretched arm only resulted in him shifting to the side so he could catch her expression.

Anger.

He'd seen his sister annoyed. He'd seen his sister frustrated. He'd seen her distressed. He'd seen her scheme and calculate, always finding a way out of anything with her brilliant mind and ambition.

But never before had he seen her like this: dark eyes aflame, hands curled into fists, shoulders bunching up as though she was preparing to land a blow.

Oh. Oh no, no, no, no. A number of curses flashed through his head in all the languages he knew. Farsi. French. English. Urdu.

He looked down at her, and his expression visibly softened. Alastair tried not to narrow his eyes.

"James," Cordelia was saying. Her voice sounded normal. "You'd better go."

“Are you sure?” he said in a low voice. “I won’t leave you alone, Cordelia, not unless you wish me to.”

She seemed to rise taller, and in that moment Alastair was reminded why Cortana had chosen her. His sister looked the way their mother was, fire and embers and a gaze so piercing that the other person was left stuttering, though they'd originally come to scrutinize every inch of her. The colour of her eyes, her skin, why she covered her hair with a roosari.

He wished he had their courage. He wished he hadn't withdrawn into the shadows.

Thorns in your way, Esfandiyār, whispered Baba's voice inside his head. Why look back when you can look ahead?

But that would've entailed far worse consequences than a sermon.

Ahead? His thirteen-year-old, iratze-fumbling himself had wanted to snap as he'd stared at the glass sticking out of his foot, blood dripping on the floor. Ahead at your next bottle, Father?

Cordelia's voice rang out in the hall, sharper than the crack of a whip. "I will say this once and only once, James Herondale. So listen carefully." She took another step closer and Herondale's eyes actually widened. In surprise? Or in whatever the hell had happened between them before coming home? Alastair thought dryly.

"Do not for one moment think that you are my saviour," Cordelia said through her teeth. The words sent a jolt of surprise through him. "I am thankful for all your help, believe me, but my love for my brother has absolutely nothing to do with this."

A faint smile curled on the edges of Herondale's lips. "You still don't know what he did?"

Cordelia raised her brows, and oh there it was. The sibling resemblance. Clear as day in the anger cloaked behind disdain and a smile. "Why does my love for my family have to come between your feud?" she demanded. "Do I require your blessing to love them? You have notions about my brother that I would have expected from the Pouncebys."

He looked like she’d slapped him awake. "Daisy, I—"

She took a step back, and the anxiety on his face heightened. Cordelia herself was trembling.

And Alastair? He still couldn't believe his eyes. He couldn't move, save to draw breath. The scene unfolding before him seemed like a fever dream. Cordelia didn’t know how he’d tormented Herondale and Fairchild at the Academy. She had no idea of the bomb going off when he’d been mere inches from the building. She didn’t know why everyone hated him so much. He knew, and perhaps he was a greedy monster for making his sister choose between her love and her family.

She raised a silencing hand when Herondale opened his mouth. "You assume that you know my brother better than I do. You assume that I am still Daisy—the girl with pretty ribbons in her hair, who needs your help to distinguish right from wrong. I will find out what happened at the Academy, but I will not stand idle while you say Alastair doesn’t deserve my love. You don’t get to choose who does or does not deserve me." She smiled, eyes glittering with the storms of the night. "You hurt my family, Mr. Herondale, and you will face my blade.”

Silence descended. Herondale’s eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced between Alastair and Cordelia. A flicker of longing passed across his face as he saw Layla, there and gone. Alastair was gifted with a long, hard, assessing look.

“You may take your leave now," Cordelia said coldly.

James's expression shuttered. Was Alastair the only one who noticed his sister's wince? Guilt twisted in his gut.

"Very well, Miss Carstairs," Herondale said in a low monotone. "As you wish."

As soon as he was out of sight, Cordelia seemed to shrink, deflate.

Alastair snapped back to his senses. There were a number of things demanding his attention but he crossed the room to catch his sister by the elbow, older brother once more. His head was still reeling with the impossible absurdity of what had transpired.

"Layla?" He tested out the name hesitantly. "What? I mean, you shouldn't have—"

"He said you don't deserve my love." She turned to face him, and to his horror, her dark eyes gleamed with tears. Tears on my behalf, he thought dizzily.

What was this day?

In all the eighteen years of his life, he’d been used to working from the sidelines, slow and quiet. People did not need to see his tears, his frustration at himself. Only the anger and the sneering indifference he put up to keep them away. It had always been that way, ever since he had held Cordelia in his arms as a confused two-year-old.

She is so small, mâmân!

I know, joon. Will you promise to help her?

“Why, Layla?” he snapped, and she flinched. He wanted to hit himself all over again. “Why did you do that? Herondale is not wrong. I have hurt people. I have done horrible, despicable things. You’re going to lose out on potential allies because of me, do you realize that? How will you save Father then? I thought--” He broke off, not wanting to say the dreaded word.

She lifted her chin and glared. “You thought what, dâdâsh?”

It was jarring to have heard her defend him, even more jarring than hearing the language of his home, the language he’d spent years shoving down because it tended to attract the wrong sort of attention. It was jarring that she’d even noticed his trembling hands or the tears that were clawing at his throat, begging to be let out. It had been years since he’d truly cried but London seemed hell bent on breaking him. He'd never really thought how much he'd needed Cordelia by his side. How many years had passed with just pushing and pushing and pushing people away until time sped by and they simply grew out of their love for you.

His sister was no longer a baby. She was nearly as tall as him, looking him in the eye, silent and waiting.

"I thought you-you... loved him."

She closed her eyes. "I do. I think so. It doesn't mean I stand by idly while he goes on insulting my brother. It certainly does not mean that I hold back on my own feelings." Her eyes opened. A wry smile played on her lips. “You keep forgetting that only I am allowed to insult you, Alastair.”

Hoarse laughter escaped him, and Cordelia looked delighted to have been the cause.

Taglist: @youngreckless @eugeniaslongsword (look, your annoyance inspired me lol), @cant-think-of-anything @reesecarstairs @cherilyn-rose @carstairs-hopelessly

#alastair carstairs #tsc #chain of iron spoilers #thomas lightwood #chain of iron #choi spoilers #cordelia carstairs #chain of gold #here it is people #I finally did it #first fanfic ever fuelled by my rage lmaoo #cassandra clare #tlh #tsc: fic #my writing #div rambles about shit

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subcorax · 5 years ago

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various hugs as rated by jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute, london

OG Archives Crew:

tim stoker pros: very large and buff, but also soft. will squeeze jon as tight and as long as he wants. is six foot whatever and jacked so he's way bigger than jon and can entirely envelop him, which is the closest thing jon's getting to a weighted blanket these days. cons: tim is an oldest and favourite cousin, which means that when he hugs people smaller than him, they're usually children. as a result, there is a roughly 30% chance that if jon goes in for a hug he'll get a hair ruffle and lifted slightly off the ground to go with it. overall rating: 9/10. tim gives truly excellent hugs.

martin blackwood pros: will literally give jon a hug whenever he asks for one without making it feel awkward, which is nice because jon almost always feels awkward talking to people. will also sometimes ask jon if he wants a hug if he's looking a bit pathetic lately. is made of 60% soft wooly jumpers and 30% stuffing, the most warm and comfortable hug. also usually strokes jon's back while he's at it, which is extremely nice. cons: sometimes if jon's leaning into the hug a bit too much martin will physically make him stop working and take a nap, which is not doing great things for jon's work ethic overall rating: 9.5/10. i may be in love with you, martin, but i do actually need to do work sometimes?

sasha james pros: casual hugger, doesn't make jon feel weird about it, just goes in for a quick hug and a peck on the cheek when she's heading out for the day, or if she feels like it. she smells very nice. he kind of wonders what shampoo she uses. cons: despite being sturdier than she looks, she is not quite large enough to apply the force that jon perhaps wants in a hug. overall rating: 8.5/10. delightful, but without the capacity for a proper bear hug a la martin or tim.

not!sasha pros: no. cons: you know when you're at a family gathering and a relative that you only distantly recognize the face and name of comes up and hugs you like, way too familiarly, and it's kinda cloyingly creepy? it's exactly like that overall rating: stranger/10. please never do that again.

Latter Days Crew

melanie king pros: has never in her life half-assed a hug. seems to be trying to break jon's ribcage, which he appreciates. cons: she is often very angry at him, and so does not hug him very often. overall rating: 6/10. good when he got it but he does not often get it.

basira hussain pros: she doesn't really do Full Hugs with jon, she's more likely to toss an arm around his shoulder and pull him against her side, kind of a Bro Side Hug situation, which actually goes a long ways towards making him feel Human and Included and Not Hated. good friend bro hug. cons: kinda lacking in creature comforts. basira is not very soft or demonstrative. not exactly a shoulder he would be comfortable crying on. overall rating: 7/10. he appreciates the sentiment.

daisy tonner pros: daisy WILL go in for a Full Hug with jon, especially after the buried. she is also Strong and will squeeze him, and often seems to need a hug as much as he does. sometimes smells like basira's perfume and sometimes like her own deoderant, both of which are nice. cons: she will make fun of him for leaving tear stains on her shirt. jon has never had a big sister but he thinks that this is what cain and abel were on about. overall rating: 9/10. fantastic except for the schoolyard bullying

Miscellaneous Archives Staff

elias bouchard pros: gives a surprisingly firm, steady hug. like, there's something almost paternal about it, jon just feels proud that elias is proud of him. also he's in a fancy suit and wears very expensive cologne, it just feels like hugging something kind of luxurious and expensive. cons: literally everything else about elias overall rating: latent parental issues/10. it was weird. he tries not to think about it.

gertrude robinson pros: jon never actually met gertrude, but all of the photos he's seen and her voice on the tapes reminds him of his grandmother, so he kind of imagines it'd be like hugging her. a balance between firm and frail, smelling vaguely like all old ladies start to smell like. cons: outside of the nostalgia factor for him, grandma hugs aren't actually that great overall rating: hypothetically, 3/10. he feels like he's got perfume stuck up his nose.

gerard kaey pros: seemed like a cool dude. taller than jon, and exceedingly kind. seemed like he would be really open to a hug. cons: he was a ghost when they met, so they could not hug. overall rating: hypothetically 9/10. jon's adding extra points out of guilt.

michael shelley pros: seemed pretty nice from what he's heard? cons: seemed pretty boring from what he's heard? overall rating: hypothetically 5/10. he seemed fine.

Various Other Avatars

peter lukas pros: very broad. soft belly. big coat. beard. definitely is capable of giving a Good Bear Hug. cons: literally everything else about peter lukas. also he'd probably be cold overall rating: MORE latent parental issues/10. this will never happen. jon's just kind of touch-starved at this point.

michael pros: very friendly about it. exceedingly friendly about it. seems truly delighted by the concept of hugging jon. cons: is equally truly delighted by the concept of stabbing jon. overall rating: ooo ow ouch pointy/10. mistakes were made.

helen pros: actually seems to like jon every now and again. smells like real estate agent perfume. no, he doesn't know how to explain it. it's like a professional scent. cons: stabbed jon again, but accidentally this time overall rating: ooooo ouch pointy but in a pantsuit/10. god he's getting desperate

jared hopworth pros: many arms to hug with cons: none of those arms are his. several of them are bulging with meat and bones the way arms are not supposed to. smells like raw steak. overall rating: 2/10. jon does not have standards anymore.

jude perry pros: very butch, which jon has learned to trust, in a hug partner cons: Literally Made Of Boiling Wax overall rating: hot/10. considerably more mistakes have been made.

georgina barker pros: it's georgie. jon knows georgie. jon fucking adores georgie. she is very smart and comfortable and soft and knows how much he likes having his hair scratched like that. cons: she has absolutely no compunctions about telling jon that he's a fucking idiot, and like sure, he deserves it, but can it wait until after the hug? overall rating: 8.5/10. can i have a cup of tea please georgie. no i will not be releasing you from the hug to let you go and make the tea.

the admiral pros: admiral cons: none overall rating: 10/10. the perfect hug.

#the magnus archives #tma #magnuspod #magnus pod #the magnus institute #no i will not be taking questions at this time.#long post

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ficsilike-reblogged · 4 years ago

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Sea Salt: One

Summary: As a noblewoman from a small (and nefarious) kingdom in the Stepstones and quiet Lady-in-Waiting to Princess Elia Martell, she is accustomed to being looked through rather than looked at. The only exceptions to this rule are Prince Oberyn and Lord Willas Tyrell but they are often far from the dark shadows of the Red Keep or Dragonstone. She finds comfort in her quiet friendship with the princess and the delight of the darling royal children. But as Prince Rhaegar places a wreath of blue roses in the lap of Lady Lyanna Stark and rebellion starts to rage, she knows she will have to live up to her reputation. But luckily, she seems to have two allies lurking in the shadows.

Pairing(s): Eventual Willas Tyrell/F!Reader/Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand

Word Count: 10.2k (these are all going to be monster chapters. I apologize)

Rating for this chapter: T for a bit of violence. but not much. my over-use of italics and my love for ASOIAF lore. If you have any questions or need clarifications, please just ask! I’m playing fast and loose with a bit of it, and a few ages, too. But I’m always happy to answer any questions you have!

(banner by my darling @starlight-starwrites)

Chapter One: The Salt of the Tears

Or you can read on Ao3!

For all its supposed charms and storied history, Westeros had very few redeeming qualities. Most of the noblemen Y/N was forced to associate with during her time in the kingdom were filled with intolerable hubris and a lack of humor. They also liked to joke about her ‘little kingdom’ in the Stepstones as being inferior and nefarious—it would have been better if they could actually choose what they wanted to call her home. It seemed to be impossible to be both inferior and nefarious. And everything was so…bland this side of the Narrow Sea. She was used to Skilliga where people could trace their ancestries to Yi-Ti, the Summer Isles, the Bone Mountains, and beyond, all of them proud and varied. All of them fleeing the constrictions of their old lands and finding freedom in the islands and the homes they dug into the rock. They were proud to defend themselves in any way that was necessary and gained riches and notoriety with their famed corsairs. And, finally, the clothes were itchy and constricting and the food was largely unseasoned.

But there were a few bright spots in her time in the Seven Kingdoms. Mostly, it was Princess Elia Martell. Her nearest and dearest friend. Accepting the position had not truly been her decision anyway. She had been woken up by her uncle Hammond, the king of their little kingdom, nearly four years ago with him tossing a heavy scroll at her head.

“Tywin Lannister is offering to open up trade with Westeros again if you behave yourself at Court and marry some lord they choose. I’ve had your things packed. You leave at sunup.”

And Y/N knew that she was serving her kingdom by becoming a faceless peon for some pompous princess and then, perhaps, a broodmare for some strange man—but that did not mean she was going to be happy about it. In fact, she had been fully prepared to be the worst lady’s maid the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen…until Princess Elia.

Elia with her quick wit and soft smiles.

Elia with her musical laughter and unfailing loyalty.

Elia. The best friend she had never dreamed of ever gaining.

They would spend hours together in either her rooms or Elia’s chambers at Dragonstone, speaking of their lives before the Targaryens, laughing about the charades of courtly life, and dreaming about their futures.

“What type of queen will you be?” Y/N asked with a tease as they passed a jug of sweet grape juice between them. Rhaegar was out…somewhere, probably pondering some ancient prophecy that didn’t make any sense, and Y/N was happy to not have to pretend to care about anything that came out between his thin lips. “Quiet and mysterious?”

Elia laughed and shook her head. “I have had my fill of being quiet, I think. No. I do not want to be a quiet queen.”

“No? Then you may be the boisterous queen, always telling Tywin Lannister than his ideas are preposterous and he is not the true king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Elia shushed her, fighting another bout of giggles and reached for the jug but knocked one of the numerous pillows from the bed, revealing a small blade atop the blankets. “Another one?” Elia asked with a huff. She handed the blade over with a frown. “Honestly, dear heart, you seem to think that everyone means you harm.”

Y/N took it and carefully hid it away in another place with a shrug of her shoulder. “I have met only three people who I would trust to not stab me through the heart when I’ve turned my back. It is better to be prepared than to be caught unaware.”

“Please tell me that you do not still keep half a dozen blades on your person when we go to court or the market.”

“Of course not.”

“Oh, good-”

“It is now a perfect dozen.”

Elia walloped her with a pillow, fighting another laugh. “You are a menace.”

“I am your most trusted confidante in this wretched city,” Y/N retorted, knocking the pillow away with a smirk. “You need better friends.”

Elia shook her head, still smiling. “You are enough trouble for several lifetimes, dear heart. You and Oberyn will be the cause of all my grey hair before Rhaenys reaches her fifth nameday, I am sure of it.”

Y/N smiled at the sound of the Dornish prince’s name. It had been too long since she had seen him. While he had been somewhat sent into exile after the suspicious death of Lord Yronwood, the youngest Martell had hopped across the Narrow Sea to become a sellsword for a moment after growing bored at the Citadel and visiting his sister at Dragonstone where he had met Y/N and she had somehow endeared herself to him. “He will be joining you for the tourney at Harrenhal, yes?”

The princess nodded. “It will be good to see him. I always hated knowing he was off in Essos.” Elia sighed before she glanced at Y/N. “And I’ve received word that Lord Willas will also be in attendance.”

“Do not.”

“Do not what?” Elia repeated, leaning closer to her friend with a conspiratorial smile. “I simply mentioned his name.”

“You know exactly what you are doing!” Y/N growled, knowing it would only mean Elia had won—as she always did.

Willas was the firstborn of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, and Lady Alerie Hightower. He’d been an only child for most of his life, his mother having trouble carrying to term several times before little Garlan was born over a decade later. And Y/N was very fond of Willas, just as he seemed fond of her. He was happy to make her laugh when he was at court, seeking her out when he should have been speaking with Rhaegar and gaining the crown prince’s favor for The Reach (not that it was necessary) or attending some vapid luncheon with other noblemen.

“He is a good man. And you deserve a good man.” Elia patted her shoulder, soft smile on her face.

“He is the heir to Highgarden-”

“Mama?” A quiet voice at the door had them turning to see little Rhaenys, rubbing her teary eyes. Her kitten, little Balerion, was sitting dutifully at his princess’ feet and quickly kept pace on his little legs when she walked into the room.

“Come here, sunshine,” Elia said, opening her arms toward her daughter and carefully scooping her up onto the bed. She gently pushed Rhaenys’ hair away from her damp cheeks and kissed her forehead. “Tell me what is wrong, my love.”

“Another nightmare?” Y/N asked. Balerion meowed until she bent down and helped him onto the bed where he quickly curled into a ball in the princesses’ laps.

Rhaenys nodded, a few more tears trailing down her cheeks. “It was scary, mama. A big dog came in and…” she hiccupped and Y/N felt her chest squeeze at the little girl’s pain.

Elia hummed and patiently waited for Rhaenys to finish telling her what she had seen in her dream. While the massive dog her mind had conjured scared her, it was the manticore that crawled from beneath her father’s bed that truly frightened her. Its vicious tail going straight for her throat over and over again until she woke up with little Balerion pawing at her nightgown, trying to stop her cries. “It is just a dream, sunshine. You are safe here. I will not let anything hurt you.”

Rhaenys sniffled and nodded but continued to hold her mother tight. “I know, mama. You and Lady Y/N will protect me.”

Y/N reached out and curled the lone strand of silver hair that Rhaenys had around her finger. “Of course we will, princess. Our world needs its Sunshine.”

The little princess finally turned her head out of her mother’s chest and smiled at Y/N, tears still gathering at the sides of her eyes. “I’m your sunshine, too?”

“You are,” Y/N said with a smile, gently tugging at silver strand before letting it curl back around her ear. “You are my sunshine, your mother’s sunshine, your grandmother’s sunshine, uncle Oberyn-”

“And father?” Rhaenys asked. “Am I his sunshine, too?”

“Of course,” Elia said and then kissed Rhaenys’ hair again. “Your father loves you very much.”

The three spoke in hushed tones for a little longer—just long enough for the little princess to fall asleep in her mother’s arms. Elia was careful as she slid off Y/N’s featherbed and kept her daughter in her grasp.

“I suppose it is time for us all to retire.”

Y/N nodded and offered to help put Rhaenys back to bed but was waved off by Elia, as she knew she would be. Elia was always fond of the little, quiet moments she stole with her daughter. Away from the pretenses of courtly life and the expectations of her husband’s father. This was Elia at her brightest, her strongest. When it was just her and her sunshine.

Y/N often wondered if she’d ever have moments like that—moments of soft reprieve from the trials of courtly life, either here in Westeros or back home in Skilliga, near the Stepstones in the Narrow Sea. She also wondered if Rhaegar would ever pull his head out of his ass and realize that Elia was his wife and not some thoughtless vase he could ignore and only pick up out of necessity. She wondered what the future held. For everyone.

But, whatever it did, she hoped it treated Elia well. It was what the princess deserved.

Y/N gently rubbed Elia’s back with a frown. It was the third time this morning that they had to have the wheelhouse stop so the princess could empty her rolling stomach. She quickly handed Elia a bit of juice and a damp cloth as she stood tall again with a wince.

“It was like this with Rhaenys,” Elia murmured, a hand cradling her stomach. The maester had confirmed she was with child again, the day before they set off toward Harrenhal for this stupid tourney. "You remember, don't you?"

Y/N did. And she worried then, too. But the Maester had also found that this would be Elia’s last pregnancy. Her body would not be able to handle another. And Rhaegar had only nodded once before turning and excusing himself from Elia’s chambers to play his stupid harp, looking out his chamber windows with a familiar (and consistently grating) pensive look on his face.

“The dragon must have three heads,” was all Y/N heard him say when she was eavesdropping on the conversation the husband and wife shared later that night. He was obsessed with some sort of prophecy. It was as if he didn’t care that his wife was of fragile health and pregnant with his child.

Y/N hated him.

Hated the stupid, silver-haired prince.

“We can stop for the day,” Y/N said. “It is not as if the tourney will be held up by your absence. You need your rest.”

Elia shook her head and told the wheelhouse driver to continue on and the large caravan started to move again. “The sooner we arrive, the sooner I can rest. You know I do not sleep well on the road.”

Rhaenys, the little sun, had slept through most of the travel, curled up on the velvet pillows on the other side of the wheelhouse, barely aware of any goings-on aside from when they stopped for the night or meals. And that was the way Elia preferred it, sheltering her daughter from courtly life and its trappings.

Elia reached out and patted her hand with a small smile. “It is worth it, dear heart.” She leaned back and shut her eyes for a moment. “I know when I hold this babe in my arms, all of this will seem like a distant memory. All of it…all of this is worth it.”

Y/N was not convinced. But she nodded anyway. “Tell me, do you think Ser Arthur will beat Rhaegar this time?”

Elia laughed.

The tourney was the largest the Seven Kingdoms had seen in generations. Ten days filled with jousting, melees, archery, axe-throwing, and horse racing. And feasting. Every night ended with a feast in Harrenhal’s great room, filled with piles of food and jugs of expensive wine and ale.

It was exhausting. And much too far from a substantial body of water for her to feel truly comfortable. She needed the sea, the water. Thankfully, Rhaenys also found the tourney lacking and was happy to accompany Y/N to the edge of the lake known as the God’s Eye and they enjoyed the chilled water and allowed the hungry fish to nibble at their ankles.

Y/N had grown up watching horse races, bet on boat races around the islands of Skilliga, and even participated in a few events herself. This tourney was…boring. Excessively so. Elia, more than once, had to nudge her to keep her from dozing in their box. Thankfully, the company was good.

Arthur Dayne was a kind man, a fine knight, a member of the fabled Kingsguard and Sword of the Morning. Y/N was sure they would sing songs of his deeds long after his soul had left. And he had the honor of knowing he was the crown prince’s dearest friend. (Y/N did not think this was an honor but did not voice that to the kind knight and tried not to hold it against him.)

But Y/N saw how his eyes softened whenever Elia would appear. His easy smile was near-permanent whenever she would whisper into his ear with some joke or story. He was in love. A soft, gentle love with a bedrock foundation. It was so different than the lukewarm platitudes Rhaegar dealt her within the confines of their marriage.

Maybe in a different life, Elia and Arthur could have lived a happy life in Dorne together. Far away from the Mad King’s machinations and paranoid delusions and Rhaegar’s apathy. But now, in this life, Arthur had to be content to simply stand at her back in their royal box when he was not participating in the tourney—right now he was readying for his turn in the melee and Elia had wished him luck before he departed.

Ser Lewyn, Elia’s uncle and knight of the Kingsguard, was another knight assigned to their box and they knew they could speak freely in his presence. He was a man of quick wit and fiercely protective of his niece and her baby. He was one of the few people who knew of Elia’s second pregnancy and was quick to have a servant fetch her something to eat or drink if needed. “And you are as lovely, as always, Lady Y/N,” Lewyn would say with a wink. He was such a flirt—but it was always in good humor. She knew him to have a lover in King’s Landing to whom he was devoted.

For the moment, Elia and Y/N were alone in their box, unguarded. She knew that anyone would be foolish to try anything but it still set her on edge when she noticed the fabric at the back start to sway with someone coming up. Her hand slowly slipped toward one of the small blades she kept in her boot but then she recognized the man slipping into the box. It was Oberyn—three days late and smirking. He winked at Y/N and pressed a finger to his lips before he snuck up on Elia and roared with laughter when she nearly leapt from her seat when his hands clapped over her shoulders. “You brute!” She yelled as she smacked his arm. “I have told you a thousand times to cease your sneaking!” But she laughed on the last word, betraying her happiness to see her younger brother.

Oberyn was just as dashing as he had always been, just as confident. And just as unattainable. He was more than a handful of years older than her and as much as his reputation preceded him, was very picky on whom he lathed attention.

She was too young for him. He has said so himself not a year ago at their last meeting when Y/N had all but thrown herself at him, too into her cups to stop herself.

“You have so much life ahead of you. I would not dare think I was worthy of usurping your time when you have the world at your feet.”

It was a gentle rejection, but a rejection all the same. He was a good man, leagues far and away from the men who would jump at a chance to bed a young highborn girl or take her to wife. But that did not mean her heart did not clench every time he smiled at her or whispered a joke in her ear at the expense of the tourney knights or an unrepentant letch of a lord who caught his eye between jousts. He told them of his adventures with the Second Sons and how he founded his own sellsword company, too, after he grew tired of the politics within the Sons’ hierarchy while Elia and Y/N told him of the ‘excitement’ of the tourney and the actual excitement of the appearance and disappearance of the Knight of the Laughing Tree just the day past. King Aerys, raging and paranoid, had even sent Rhaegar to find the mystery knight and unmask him but the dragon prince came up emptyhanded.

“And I see little Lord Willas is here,” Oberyn said, dipping his head just so to indicate the box opposite them, across the jousting grounds. Willas was sitting at his father’s side, the shining wood of his cane visible even from a distance as it leaned against the seat beside him.

It was only Y/N’s third day in the kingdom when she attended the tourney when the accident happened. She knew Willas to be too young to truly be participating, he was only a few years older than Y/N, but Lord Mace Tyrell had pushed him. When Oberyn met him on the field, it was an accident. A tragic accident. Willas’ leg was crushed beneath his horse and Oberyn had been mortified, sending the Dornish healers he’d brought with him to the tourney to care for the young lord.

But the damage had been done.

Willa’s leg was in constant need of a brace and he walked with a cane. The Tyrells blamed Oberyn for crippling their heir. Well, most of them did. Willas bore no ill-will toward Oberyn and was often seeking him out when they were both present. “I am not sure if it is to spite his father or to truly try to mend the divisions between Dorne and The Reach all on his own.”

“I believe he seeks out your attentions because he enjoys you as much I do, my prince. Willas is not the sort to have ulterior motives when it comes to his companions or friends. If he did, I assume he would tolerate our dear Rhaegar’s presence a bit more,” Y/N mused as she half-heartedly clapped for the nameless, faceless victor of that round. She had stopped paying attention ages ago.

Oberyn huffed at that and turned to look at Willas and he caught the lord’s eye.

Willas raised his hand in greeting, a soft smile on his face—until Mace grabbed his wrist and all but shoved his son’s hand back down.

Y/N did not stop the laugh that bubbled out of her throat, even as Elia nudged her.

“He does blush such a pretty pink,” Oberyn mused, earning himself a nudge from Elia, too. “Do you think he will finally ask you to dance tonight, little shark?” He winked with the well-worn nickname, stemming from her house’s sigil of a large, white shark.

Y/N quickly turned in her seat to stare at Elia who looked away, a sly smile on her face. “Please tell me you did not speak to your brother about Willas.”

“I have no idea what you are insinuating, dear heart.”

“Willas is a good man, little shark. But you will have to contend with his family if you finally allow him to court you.” Oberyn patted her knee. “You will need every bit of your Skilligan strength to stop yourself from killing them.”

“Hush, Oberyn. They are not all terrible.”

“You, dear sister, are the soon-to-be Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms. It would be improper to think of you as anything other than the Realm’s Sun.” Oberyn smiled as Elia rolled her eyes. “I am the man who crippled their heir.”

“Willas does not believe it was your fault. We just need for Mace Tyrell to die and Dorne and The Reach will once again be fair weather allies. Olenna and Alerie are much more agreeable.”

“I could help,” Lewyn said as he stepped back into the box, carrying a sleeping Rhaenys. The two had slipped away from the festivities when the little princess complained of a headache and her great-uncle had been happy to shepherd her away for some rest in the shade and a bit of juice. Elia easily took her daughter into her arms and let her continue to sleep against her chest.

“A kind offer, uncle. But Oberyn is simply continuing to be the most dramatic of Martells.”

Lewyn reached forward and bopped his nephew on the head with a smirk. “I know.”

The day gave way to night and they were once again shuffled off to the Great Hall of Harrenhal for the night’s feast and dancing. Ashara Dayne, Arthur’s sister and another companion to Elia, joined them at their table, looking a little flustered as her pretty purple eyes kept jumping toward a table near the door where a small grouping of Northmen were seated.

“Which one has caught your eye?” Y/N whispered to her, trying to figure out which solemn-faced man captured her attention. Ashara was a romantic, always singing love songs to Rhaenys before her afternoon naps. She was kind-hearted and sweet, if not a little shy. Y/N enjoyed her company and how she cared for Elia. That was all that truly mattered anyway.

“The quiet one,” Ashara murmured.

“They are all quiet,” Elia said in return, also trying to figure out which one Ashara was speaking about. “Except for that she-wolf. She seems fond of making noise. I heard she thoroughly beat a handful of men for attacking that little Crannogman.”

“And then the Knight of the Laughing Tree beat them again at the joust,” Y/N muttered, thinking aloud. “Curious.” She turned to Elia. “Tell me, was the she-wolf in her box when that knight took his turns at the joust?”

Elia looked at her with a frown. “What are you implying, dear heart?”

“I do not know,” Y/N said with a shrug but then her eyes narrowed on one of the Starks at the table and poked Ashara. “That one? With the dour expression?”

“He is not dour.” It was nearly a pout. “He is just…quiet.”

Elia hummed and nodded. “Hm. Yes. The Quiet Wolf. I believe his name is Eddard. His brothers call him Ned. Is that right?”

Ashara’s cheeks bloomed with color and she looked away. “Yes, his name is Ned.”

Elia and Y/N teased their friend a little longer before the night’s festivities started and the people splintered off for dancing or singing or drinking contests—Robert Baratheon was the current champion of that impromptu tourney. Elia wanted to listen to music and had Y/N and Ashara move with her to one of the smaller chambers where they could hear someone plucking at a harp’s strings.

What they saw when they arrived was not entirely welcome.

Rhaegar was sitting on a bench, his familiar harp across his lap, and the she-wolf beside him with tears in her eyes as he sang a sad song they had all heard hundreds of times. (It was not as if he could write songs himself.) The young girl was clearly besotted with the prince.

“Princess,” Ashara murmured, turning toward Elia, trying to shield her from the sight. “I do believe Arthur is in the next room over. You promised him a dance, did you not?”

Y/N watched Elia straighten her shoulders and press a practiced smile to her face. “Yes, I believe I did. I could definitely benefit from a bit of revelry anyway.”

And one dance turned into two and then three as Arthur coaxed smiles from Elia that had Y/N releasing a breath she did not know she was holding.

She could kill Rhaegar, should kill him. She didn’t care if she was sent to the Black Cells for the rest of her life or if her head wound up on a spike—if it meant Elia was free. Free to love her babies without reproach for not looking Valyrian. Free to love whom she pleased (probably Arthur). Free to laugh and smile and dance. Free.

That was all Y/N wanted for her friend.

She watched the quiet wolf’s brother, Brandon she thought his name was, approach Ashara and point out Eddard who seemed to be trying to hide behind his tankard of ale with a vibrant blush on his cheeks. Ashara quickly made sure that Y/N was fine on her own before letting the elder Stark wave his brother over and they slowly, adorably started to dance. She watched from for a while and then spotted Elia now dancing with Lewyn with a sleepy Rhaenys balanced on her hip, too.

A quiet, rhythmic tapping of wood against stone caught her attention over the din of the music and she turned to see Willas stepping to stand at her side, a small smile on his face. “My lady,” he said with a tip of his head.

“My lord,” she replied with a smile of her own and a small curtsey. “It is good to see you again. Dragonstone and King’s Landing are far less agreeable since you were called back to Highgarden.”

Willas smiled, tucking his chin a bit. “I would prefer to be at your side, even if it is in that snake pit.” Y/N patted the seat beside her but he shook his head and held out a hand toward her. She didn’t comment on how his fingers shook. “I cannot dance, not truly, anyway. But I would be honored if you allowed me the honor of spending the next song with you.”

The smile that crept across her face could not be stopped and she quickly placed her hand in his and stood as the last beats of the song started. They took their position toward the edge of the floor, trying to keep to themselves as the next song started. And it was true, they could not truly dance. His leg could not accommodate the stomps and hard turns the song called for—but it was okay, because she had not taken the time to memorize the steps anyway. Instead, they swayed in time with the beat, taking an occasional turn to step to the side, ignoring how some onlookers clicked their tongues or whispered behind their hands about how ridiculous they might look.

“Tell me, how is Highgarden?”

“It is just as lovely as I have said before. My father is insisting on building a new aviary for my next nameday.”

“I assume this is because you mentioned once that you wanted to take up hawking? Hm?” She asked with another grin.

“He wants, so desperately, for me to be some sort of great man. Fit for song and legend. I think I will only continue to disappoint him.”

Y/N stopped her uneven swaying and simply squeezed his hands. “You are not a disappointment, Willas. You are the most intelligent man I have met and you are a capable man—capable of ruling HIghgharden in a way worthy of song. You do not need to be a warrior for that. I do believe that the world needs more smart, kind men. Like you.”

Willas sighed and shook his head. “You are too kind, my lady. But I do doubt that my father will be convinced of your reasoning.”

“Well, perhaps it is better that you are your grandmother’s favorite instead of your father’s. Your mind can and should be your greatest asset, Willas. It is one of the things I admire most about you.”

He finally looked up at her, another shy smile on his lips. “You admire me?”

“Of course. How could I not?”

His pale cheeks flooded with color and he nearly stumbled on the next step but quickly righted himself but stopped moving, holding her hands just a bit tighter. “My lady, I… Y/N…I was hoping if you would give me the honor of-”

Y/N nearly fell as someone collided with her back and Willas’s cane slapped to the floor in a clatter, gaining too much attention for Willas to continue.

Y/N turned to see some Northern lord—Roose Bolton, if she remembered correctly—sneering at her and Willas.

“Careful, my lady.” His voice was low and deep and might have been soothing to listen to if his pallid and angular face did not betray the complete lack of soul beneath his skin. She had only one other interaction with him and it had been on the tourney fields just before the first joust and he had been sneering with a few of his bannermen about how the Dornish knights must be tiny men with how small their horses seemed. (Of course, the Dornish Sand Steeds were smaller, but they were also faster and more durable than the horses these Northern lords were so fond of and could outlast them for days. Y/N had laughed heartily when Roose had been unseated by a Dornish knight not yet past his five-and-ten nameday.)

Willas huffed as Roose walked away and shook his head. “I will never understand that man. But if he was half as handsome as he was clever, the Realm would be in peril. I do not trust him.”

“I cannot say I enjoy his presence either.” She brushed away her discomfort and turned back to Willas, trying to press a smile onto her lips. “But what were you saying?”

Willas opened his mouth and was quickly interrupted again by Ashara, who did look apologetic to her credit, tugging at her sleeve. “Princess Elia requires our presence, my lady.”

She turned back to see Willas sigh before he nodded once. Before Y/N could excuse herself, he grasped her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “I will find you again, my lady. Please enjoy the rest of your night.”

Y/N squeezed his hand before letting it drop back down to her side. She wished him well with her heart a little heavier in her chest, and let Ashara lead her back toward Elia who was standing with Lewyn and Oberyn and clutching a sleeping Rhaenys to her chest. But that was not what bothered her. No. It was the tears in Elia’s eyes and how Oberyn seemed ready to run his sword through anyone who looked at him incorrectly. “What is it? What has happened?”

Oberyn turned to her, teeth bared in a snarl. “The Mad King has once again let his thoughts be known that Rhaenys is too Dornish for his tastes.”

“She woke from a nightmare and I took her to her mother,” Lewyn explained. His large hand was pressing against Rhaenys’ back and Elia’s hands, a warm grounding force. “His Grace was nearby and little Rhaenys waved at him—she knows him as her grandfather.”

“Of course she does. Rhaenys’ heart is much too big.”

“And he turned his lip up at her and called her a…” Elia sniffled and held her daughter tighter. “A burnt leaf on the Targaryen tree. He said the only reason he knew she was his son’s daughter was the bit of silver hair she had.”

“How cruel!” Y/N exclaimed before turning to Lewyn. “Tell me no one heard him. Tell me that king of yours did not say this in front of anyone but you.”

And Lewyn’s answering silence was heartbreaking. He only continued to hold Elia and Rhaenys a little closer, a shallow consolation.

“The room was filled with people. Even the prince was there—he said nothing to stop his father’s tirade. Against his own daughter!” Oberyn was raging.

“Did Rhaenys know what he was saying?”

Elia shook her head, a tear slipping down her cheek. “No. She only thinks the best in people, my little sunshine. She was happy to be called a leaf.”

Y/N sighed and stepped forward to wipe the tear from her friend’s cheek and press a kiss to the sleeping child’s head. “The old man’s time is coming. I promise you that.”

“Y/N!” Ashara hissed. “You cannot say such things.”

“I will say such things when he says such things. Damn my uncle’s trade agreement. Damn it all. I will kill a king. I will do it.”

“No, no, dear heart. I cannot ask that of you—nor you, Oberyn,” Elia said, watery eyes cutting toward her brother. “I need you both at my side to handle whatever comes next.”

What came next, however, was Rhaegar winning the jousting tourney, with Elia’s favor hanging on the handle of his lance. There was a stupid tradition of the victor crowning a woman the ‘Queen of Love and Beauty’ and giving them a crown of blue roses. Y/N expected for Rhaegar to place the small bunch of flowers on Elia’s lap and be done with it.

But no.

The silver-haired prat rode right by his wife and laid the wreath in the lap of the she-wolf, Lyanna Stark.

All the smiles died.

Elia grasped Y/N’s wrist as she moved to stand, keeping her seated. “Your anger is appreciated. But I would not have more eyes on me for my husband’s indiscretions.”

It did nothing to quell the rage she felt burning in her throat. But she could be quiet. “I have Sweetsleep in my bag.”

“Y/N,” Elia snorted and shook her head. “No.”

“You’re right. Tears of Lys would be a better suit for his crimes against you.”

Elia finally uncurled her fingers only to tangle them with her friend’s as she managed a small smile. “You make me smile. Even when my heart is full of sorrow.”

Y/N’s kissed her friend’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “You deserve to smile, Princess. I will gladly play the fool if it makes you happy.”

Elia nodded and patted her hand. “I know, dear heart. I know it very well. But I…” the words died on her tongue as she turned to look around the box and found it lacking… “Oberyn.”

But Oberyn was already gone.

“Find him,” Elia whispered in a rush. “Before he does something rash. Stop him.”

Y/N instantly shot to her feet and darted out of the box in search of the Dornish prince. Luckily, it did not take long for her to find him, he was only a few paces away with his spear in hand.

She reached out and grabbed Oberyn’s arm and pulled him to a stop. “You cannot, my prince.”

“He has dishonored my sister in front of the entire kingdom. You cannot think to stop me from taking vengeance.”

“Elia said no. Would you hurt her further? You would be caught and executed and she and little Rhaenys would be as well. You know the Mad King’s wrath knows no bounds.”

Oberyn’s shoulders slumped but his teeth remained bared. “You are both too kind.”

“I offered to put Tears of Lys in his wine. I am not kind. But I would not make Elia suffer more than she already has.” She paused and watched Oberyn nod, appeased—for now. “Come, let us try to make our princess smile, hm?” Oberyn was breathing hard and Y/N pressed her hands against his chest, trying to help him breathe a little easier. “Calm—for now, at least, my prince. Breathe with me.”

He nodded and pulled in a few deep breaths through his nose and his grip on his spear loosened just a fraction. Oberyn leaned forward and brushed a kiss against her forehead. “Despite what you think of yourself, you are gentle hearted, little shark.”

“I know I am the worst sort of woman to have at your sister’s side, apparently. Always ready to murder if it would make her smile. Hardly well-mannered, too.”

“On the contrary, little shark. You are the best friend I could ever hope for her to have.”

The road back to Dragonstone was quiet, thankfully. Rhaegar had ridden ahead of their wheelhouse, not looking at his wife for longer than a few moments and kissed Rhaenys on her head before he set off.

It was for the best, probably. Y/N was not sure she could have stopped herself from murdering him if the opportunity presented itself—and it was always so easy for ‘bandits’ to attack a travelling party.

Oberyn was only able to accompany them so far before he had to divert his path—he had been called back to the sellsword he founded to deal with a contract dispute.

“I do not have to go,” Y/N heard him whisper to Elia the night before he left. “I can stay with you, Rhaenys, the baby. I can stay at your side.”

“I will be fine, Oberyn. I can handle this.”

“I know you can. But I don’t want you to do it on your own.”

“I’m not on my own.”

The wheelhouse hit a bump and Y/N made sure the sleeping princess on her lap didn’t jostle too much. It seemed that Rhaenys could sleep through almost anything. Even if her dreams were becoming increasingly erratic. The last night of the tourney, just a handful of hours after her father crowned a woman who was not her mother, Rhaenys had woken up in tears, babbling about dragons and fire and clouds of snow that never stopped. Elia had hummed her old lullaby until her daughter fell asleep again and it broke Y/N’s heart.

The two women she loved most in the world were hurting and there was nothing she could do about it.

“You’re good with her,” Elia said, a hand over her stomach. “And she adores you.”

Y/N smiled and curled her finger around the errant strand of silver again. “I adore her. I can only hope that if I ever have children, they are half as well behaved as her. She is wonderful, Elia. Your little sunshine.”

Elia smiled and drummed her fingers against her stomach. “I can only hope that this one is less troublesome as they come into the world.”

“I will be with you every step of the way.”

“I know, dear heart.”

And Y/N silently said a prayer to her gods—and then said another to the Seven that Elia was fond of, too—hoping for the best. Wishing for good health for Elia and her babe.

But her prayers were not answered.

Elia’s sickness continued and lingered as her pregnancy progressed and then King Aerys demanded Elia give birth within the ‘safe haven’ of the Red Keep in King’s Landing. He did not care that travel was not advisable in her condition. He did not care that Rhaenys was not sleeping well lately.

The Mad King cared for nothing and no one aside from himself. It was glaringly apparent.

It was just another reason for Y/N to hate these stupid Seven Kingdoms. She missed Skilliga. She missed how she could hear the ocean from every room in her family’s home, a massive, sprawling fortress carved into the steep rock face of the fractured islands—just like every other castle and fortress in their kingdom. She missed how clean the air was in her kingdom—smelling sea salt and fog. King’s Landing smelled of piss and moldy bread. Dragonstone was not home, not really, but it was far better than the city—and she feared far less for her friend there than she did at the capitol.

But she kept her mouth shut and held Elia’s hand as little Aegon came screaming into the world with a few strands of silver hair already crowning his head. But Elia was even more delicate after the birth, frequently needing to rest and seeking the guiding hand of healers who supplied her with calming teas and cooling balms. Y/N felt the exhaustion and relief rolling off her friend in waves as Aerys proudly presented his grandson to court, proclaiming him the heir to the stupid pointy chair. All of this made no sense to Y/N. Rhaenys was born first—did it truly matter that she was a girl? Women were set to inherit just as much as men in Skilliga—it simply mattered who was born first.

Oberyn had proudly told her that it was the same custom in Dorne—but the other six kingdoms in Westeros did not follow those rules.

And while the court celebrated the birth of another heir, Rhaegar took it upon himself to remind his wife that, “the dragon must have three heads,” before he kissed Elia’s brow and set off toward the vast library—again.

Arthur, however, hovered between dutifully following his prince and friend and staying at Elia’s side. The rigidity in her posture let those who knew her best know she was close to tears even though her smile had not moved from her face as she watched Queen Rhaella happily parade her grandson around the throne room, letting her ladies maids ooh-and-ahh over the new prince.

“Go, Arthur,” Elia eventually murmured. “I know he needs you.”

The famed knight’s shoulders dropped just a fraction before he bowed the slightest bit, excusing himself and walked away.

But Y/N was not done, feeling something bubbling her gut as she watched him near the door and she slipped away and pulled him to a stop.

“My lady?” Arthur said, eyebrows scrunched together as he looked at her hand on his arm.

“Ser Arthur, if you love her, as I know you do, protect her. Do right by her, by her beautiful children. Try to make Rhaegar see reason. See that his wife is good and gentle and all he needs.”

Arthur, proud, sweet Arthur, nearly crumpled at that and he nodded—just once—before turning and walking away.

“What did you say to him?”

Y/N turned at the sound of the small voice to see Prince Viserys looking up at her with hard, lilac-colored eyes. It must have been a miracle for him to escape the ever-present Septa and guard at his side—Aerys and Rhaella seemed to be hellbent on protecting their second son from some unseen threat. “I told him to make sure your brother stays out of trouble, princeling.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“And I don’t think that matters. Your mother will be looking for you.”

His thin lips pulled into an even thinner line but he nodded and walked away.

Apparently the Targaryen family was filled with presumptuous little pigeons. Truly, the only ones Y/N truly liked were Rhaenys (who was more of a Martell anyway) and Rhaella (whom she rarely saw as she was constantly nursing healing bruises and cuts from her husband’s ‘attentions’.) And she was sure Aegon would take after his mother too, making him another one of the few the Seven Kingdoms did not deserve. But Y/N pushed that thought out of her mind as she discovered Elia, still cradling Aegon, weeping in her chambers that night. A bit of parchment was set beside her on her undone featherbed and Y/N hurriedly tried to stop her tears, to know why her dearest friend was crying, but Elia only pointed a finger at the parchment and silently told Y/N to read it.

The seal of a snarling wolf was stamped on it with a wax seal and she could already feel herself growing angry.

The missive was short. But it said enough. It was from the she-wolf, Lyanna Stark. She was responding to the raven Rhaegar must have sent earlier—stating that she would meet him in the Riverlands in just a few moons’ time and that she was excited to be at his side, and away from her oaf of a betrothed, Robert Baratheon.

Y/N crumpled the note and threw it into the roaring hearth.

“I’m going to kill him.”

Elia sniffled and shook her head. “You cannot. I will not have my babies grow up without a father.”

“And I cannot have him shame you so. You deserve more than this pompous little lizard can give you—crown prince or not.”

Aegon fussed in his mother’s arms but quieted as Elia pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Rhaegar told me that he must have three. The prophecy he’s been obsessed with since he was a boy demands it, he believes. Something about the prince who was promised.” Aegon’s little hand reached up toward his mother and Elia caught it, letting his fingers wrap around her as she kissed his thumb with a watery smile. “The wolf girl—she will sate Rhaegar’s need for a third baby.”

“This prophecy he believes in is madness,” she hissed. “I will not allow him to treat you like this-”

“It is done, dear heart. He has made his decision.”

“Have you made yours?”

“What choice do I have?” Elia asked with a mirthless laugh. “He is the crown prince and I am-”

“A princess of Dorne. Mother of his two children.”

Elia waved her hand and looked down at her son. “All I want in this world is for my children to be happy.” She sighed, shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. “It is not the wolf girl’s fault. Rhaegar can be very persuasive. I hold no ill will toward her.”

“And toward Rhaegar?”

Elia’s beautiful eyes cut to her before falling down to her lap. She did not answer.

“The offer still stands for me to kill him, you know.”

“I know, dear heart. And I thank you for it. But I need you by my side. I know the times ahead will be turbulent. The Realm has not had a king with more than one queen since Maegor the Cruel.”

“He means to marry her?” Y/N hissed. The anger she felt bubbling grew hotter as Elia nodded and wiped at her cheeks.

“We shall both be his queens, I suppose.” Elia paused and sniffled once more. “I could love the child she bears Rhaegar as my own.”

And that took the wind from Y/N’s sails in an instant. Plans for a slow murder evaporate and she crossed the room to sit at Elia’s side, her hands coming up to rest on her friend’s shoulders, mindful of the babe in her arms. “Your heart was always too big,” Y/N said. “And I shall be at your side until the end of my days.”

Dragonstone was a welcome reprieve from King’s Landing. She could truly smell the sea again, leeching a bit of the tension from her shoulders. It was even more of a respite when Rhaegar left (again). He had been playing his stupid harp and looking even more melancholy than usual before he kissed Rhaenys and Aegon on their little heads and bit Elia farewell.

Y/N knew what he was setting off to do—the little She-Wolf waited for him.

And she also knew that Arthur had finally confessed his repressed feelings for Elia and had gently kissed her under rising sun before he was called away by an unsuspecting and unknowing Rhaegar who waited for his trusted friend at the gates of the castle. She had spied it from her chamber window and had not told Elia what she had witnessed, only noting that she was fond of smiling that day. The smiles continued as Elia received ravens from Oberyn and Willas, filled with words of congratulations for her new babe and well wishes for her and her growing family. “And Oberyn wants you to know that you are not allowed to be Aegon’s favorite as you are Rhaenys’—he has deemed it selfish and he will challenge you to a duel if it seems that Aegon prefers your company to his when he visits next.” Elia laughed and showed her the slip of parchment with Oberyn’s flourishing handwriting.

“And Willas wishes for me to give you his best, and hopes that you remember your dance at the tourney as fondly as he does.” Y/N tried to pull the parchment from Elia’s fingers but it was jerked away at the last moment as Elia laughed. “Oh no, dear heart. I am going to keep this to read when you have babies of your own our dear little Willas!”

But the smiles would not last.

It started as whispers than grew to a scream. Lyanna Stark had disappeared with Rhaegar Targaryen. Was she kidnapped? Had she gone willingly? Elia had tried to dissuade the Stormlands from taking up arms against the crown, led by a ‘hurt’ Robert Baratheon, but Y/N surmised that the ravens the princess had sent had gone unheeded. The Baratheons wanted blood and they would have it.

And that meant that the paranoia of the Mad King was now proving prophetic.

Aerys had killed two Starks and wanted the heads of the others who were leading the Northern infantry toward the Trident. He wanted Jon Arryn to send him the head of his former ward, Robert Baratheon as a show of loyalty.

Arryn refused.

War raged.

Aerys called Elia back to the capitol.

“He is only doing this to make sure Dorne stays loyal,” Elia whispered to Y/N as they lay together in Elia’s bed as a storm raged outside. “But House Martell keeps its promises—there is no need for threats. No need to keep me and my babies as hostages.”

Tears slipped down Elia’s cheeks and Y/N gently wiped them away. “I will protect you, Elia. I promise you that.”

The sail of the ship was emblazoned with the sigil of House Redwyne—Willas’ grandmother’s house. The stupid burgundy grapes on blue cloth had never been a more beautiful or welcome sight.

Willas.

Her dear, sweet Willas had heeded her call. And now it was time for Y/N keep her loved ones safe. She had a sleeping Rhaenys (and tiny Balerion) in her arms and Elia had a fussing Aegon in hers as they slipped from Elia’s rooms and took the servants’ stairs down to the courtyard and toward the seldom-used docks on the north side of the fortress as thunder rolled overhead with a coming storm. The stone steps had weathered away and the wooden ladder down to the dock had been washed away ages ago. Y/N had to hand Rhaenys to her mother for a moment before she jumped down to the dock and took the sleeping girl back into her arms.

The Redwyne ship was nearly there. Their sails had been pulled down, letting them look like unmarked and unnoticeable trade ships.

“Princess Elia?” A voice boomed in the dark.

Elia looked back toward the castle and then down at Aegon, her grip tightening. Rhaenys stirred in Y/N’s arms and opened her eyes, little brow furrowing at the commotion around her. Y/N carefully set her down on the dock, holding her hand tightly before turning back to Elia.

“You can make it, Elia. Just jump. I will catch you!”

Another shout of her name had Elia looking backward.

“Elia!” She hissed. “We must go!” It would only be a matter of time before someone discovered the three bodies Y/N had dropped to clear the way for the little family. They never saw her or her hidden blades coming in the dark.

But Elia was frozen and the shouts of her name grew louder. Slowly, so slowly, Elia’s head turned and with a flash of lightning, Y/N saw what she was looking at: a fleet of ships blazoned with the three-headed Targaryen sigil headed toward the eastern dock.

They had come.

Elia turned, still clutching Aegon to her chest. She kissed him once more before pressing him down into Y/N’s arms. “Go. Go now before they catch you. Protect my babies.”

“We can make it! Elia, please-”

“Mama!” Rhaenys cried. “Mama!”

“Go, my sunshine. Remember, I will always love you.”

Y/N looked out to see the ships were docked and a small army had come to take Elia and her children away to King’s Landing.

“Princess Elia, you have been commanded by King Aerys to present yourself and your children in court immediately.”

She had to go.

Her choice had been made.

The Redwyne sailors were accommodating to the two crying babes and frazzled, foreign woman on their decks as they sailed toward Skilliga. They made sure they were settled in the captain’s quarters and left them with a bit of water and berries before mentioning that, “Lord Willas hopes you will write to him when we arrive at Skilliga.”

The captain had the good grace to look a bit ashamed before excusing himself.

“Where’s Mama?” Rhaenys asked as she snuggled down into the well-worn blankets of the small bed.

“She is…visiting your grandfather.” The words were bitter on her tongue and she pulled the blankets a little higher to Rhaenys’ chin and kissed her hair. “Get some sleep, sunshine.”

“What about Aegon?” Rhaenys asked, eyes fighting to close.

“I will make sure he gets some sleep, too.”

Content with that answer, Rhaenys nodded and finally let her eyes fully close. And after checking on the little prince, tucked away in a bassinet made of a half barrel and a mound of blankets—a far cry from the golden crib he had at Dragonstone, she let herself cry.

Rhaenys was fond of how her voice echoed in the halls of her temporary home. She would laugh and sing and talk and just listen to it echo as little Balerion circled between her feet. And that gave Y/N a small bit of joy, to know that Rhaenys was still able to smile—even if she asked for her mother every time she work and every time she was tucked into bed. Even if the little princess still screamed with terrible dreams filled with fire and ice almost every night.

Aegon was a happy baby, content to be in Y/N’s arms and babble at the dolphins and sharks he could see from the fortress’ windows.

It was good to be home. Truly, it was. The sound of the sea and the scent of its salt were a balm to her fraying nerves but it was lacking something now—lacking Elia.

Every night, Y/N would pray to each and every god and goddess she could think of to keep Elia safe. To let her come back to her babies. To live the life she wanted to when this rebellion was over.

Every night.

But, again, her prayers were unanswered.

Hammond slipped into her room before the sun rose nearly a year since their escape from Dragonstone and gently woke her by rubbing at her shoulder, like he had done thousands of times before. He had been her father, her only parent, since her parents died of a simple sickness when she was twelve. And now, it seemed, it fell to him to be that parent again.

“I have to tell you something, Y/N. I am so sorry.”

The words rang in her head, echoing over and over again as he continued to tell her what had happened in Westeros. News had reached their little kingdom that Aerys was dead. Rhaegar had been beaten and killed at the Trident. Robert was King. And Elia had been murdered.

“A-are you certain?” She asked, the words strangling the breath from her lungs. “Surely it cannot be-”

“They said the Lannister men presented her body to Robert, rolled in a red curtain.”

A sob wrenched its way out of her throat as she crumpled back into her blankets. Gone. She was gone.

Her uncle let her cry for a moment, sitting on the edge of her bed like a stalwart guard until she caught her breath.

“But there is some strange news, too. It seems the Lannister men thought they needed to prove the Targaryens were dead. Two little bodies were presented to the Usurper too. They claimed they were little Rhaenys and Aegon.”

“What? What? I-”

“Only you, it seems, knew that Elia had come to the capitol alone. They must’ve killed a poor kitchen maid’s children, thinking they were the prince and princess.” His roughened hand gently wiped at her cheeks. “I sent you to that wretched kingdom in hopes that we could strengthen our alliance, grow our fortunes. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

And Y/N could only cry.

It was only a handful of moons later that a servant came into Y/N’s rooms and announced that a strange man had demanded Y/N meet him on the small island off the shore of her family’s fortress, the only island outsiders could land on safely.

Y/N knew it was stupid to go. Knew it was stupid to kiss Rhaenys and Aegon on the crowns of their head as a nurse Y/N had hired watched them. Knew it was stupid to take the small boat she had carved when she was only eight out to the island by herself. But she did it anyway. She needed it.

On the little island, a small patch of tall, green grass surrounded by soft sand and sharp rock, stood a man she thought had died.

Arthur was standing there, his white KIngsguard cloak long gone and the armor missing as he held a small bundle in his grasp. And he was bleeding. Bleeding bleeding bleeding. But he trudged forward and pressed the small bundle into her arms and then he nearly collapsed to his knees at her feet.

“It is finished.”

She looked down at the bundle and gasped. A baby—there was another baby.

“What? Arthur? What is this? Who?”

“Rhaegar wanted to name him Vaemond. But Lady Lyanna…she kept calling the babe Jon before she even brought him into this wretched world.”

This was Lyanna’s baby. The baby Elia said she would love as her own. And so now, she must, too. Y/N huffed and the babe in her arms squirmed, full lips pulled into a pout. “Then Jon he will be.” Rhaegar had done enough damage to his children. “Where is Lyanna?”

“Dead. The childbed took her.” The words were punched out of him and his unfocused eyes looked at the babe in her arms. “You’ll care for him, won’t you? He’s innocent in all of this.”

“So was Elia. So are Rhaenys and Aegon.”

“So it is true then?” The hopeful gleam in his eye made her chest lurch. “You have her children? They’re safe? I thought it was just rumor that Elia had been alone when she arrived in King’s Landing. I thought she would never leave her babies…”

“She only left them to keep them safe. And, for now, they are safe.”

Arthur was quiet as Y/N looked down at the baby in her arms. Jon’s pudgy little arms reached out toward her and she adjusted her hold to let him wrap his hand around one of her fingers. And she was lost. He was a precious little one. Another babe for her to care for.

Arthur suddenly fell to his knees and Y/N hurried to try to keep him upright while still keeping little Jon comfortable. But Arthur pushed her hands away, leaving blood on her skin from where he had touched her so briefly. “Will she forgive me? When I see her��will she forgive me for helping her husband in this stupid fight for prophecy?” His purple eyes filled with tears and they slipped down his dirty cheeks.

Y/N did not need to ask who he was asking about. She knew. “Elia forgave you the moment it happened.”

Arthur nodded and hung his head. He was finished. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Rest, Arthur. You have earned it.” She placed her hand against his head, the closest she could be to him in the moment and, in the next few breaths, he was gone. His body slumped to the soft grass.

Y/N sighed and held Jon a little closer. Another one…another person she had considered a friend had been taken and she was alone again. And, she promised herself then. This would be the last time she cried. This would be the last time she lost someone.

This would be the last time.

AND ANOTHER BANNER BY MY BABY MARS @thesadvampire

A/N: Please let me know what you think. This is a bit of a slower burn so I hope you guys don’t lose interest. :) thanks for reading!

#oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell imagine #willas tyrell x reader #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones #asoiaf #oberyn martell #willas tyrell

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honey-dewey · 3 years ago

Text

Light Me A New York Torch

Pairing: Oberyn Martell/GN! Reader

Word Count: 2,045

Warnings: Mentions of canon-typical violence, mentions of gore, ghosts

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

The prompt for this week’s Writer Wednesday was given, as always, by the lovely @autumnleaves1991-blog, and the masterlists are created by @clydesducktape.

You couldn’t remember when it started. When you began to see the people no one else could see. But it had been going on for years, and it was no longer as unsettling as it had once been. Instead, the slightly faded people wandering through the crowds of Sunspear were a comfort, coming with the knowledge that after death, there was still some kind of life.

The ghosts never bothered you, and they never bothered others. They mostly kept residence where they’d been buried, never venturing past the wrought iron gates of their respective cemeteries. But occasionally, especially whenever you made visits to the castle, you would see ghosts, their silver fog trails and oozing injuries marking them as some of the valiant dead. They liked to sit in on meetings, especially the important ones. You never cared, always nodding a brief hello if you were alone.

But it was the Princess of Sunspear who you spent most of your days with.

Elia Martell was buried just outside the castle, in a cemetery dedicated to members of the Martell bloodline. Her name was etched beautifully into a tombstone, her two children beside her. You never met the kids, but Elia loved to spend time in the sun with you, listening to stories you told. Now, you sat on a small bench, waiting for your ghostly friend, a bag of fabric beside you as you worked on a new robe for the Prince.

“Is that for Oberyn?”

You looked up, smiling at Elia. Her face was near ruined, the color faded with death, but her smile was still beautiful, even if it was streaked in blood.

“Of course,” you said, examining the neat backstitching you’d been working on all morning. “Who else wears fabrics this expensive?”

Elia laughed, sitting beside you and looking out over the sea. “How is he?“ she asked softly. “Is he doing well?”

You nodded. “He is.” You set down the sleeve you’d been holding in favor of focusing entirely on Elia. “Doran fell ill, so Oberyn is going to be heading to King’s Landing for him. He leaves in a week’s time.”

Elia hummed. “Travel will do him good,” she decided. “He’s grown too comfortable here in Sunspear.”

“Comfortable?” You asked with a laugh. “How so?”

“He’s like a cat,” Elia said, echoing your laugh. “A cat who’s found an awfully gullible human to leave it a bowl of cream every night.”

You laughed, your project abandoned in your lap. “Unfortunately,” you said once you’d regained yourself. “I think this cat is soon to be declawed. Did you hear what Doran was planning on doing?”

“Please, enlighten me.”

You and Elia both jumped at the new voice, and you turned to see the last person you wanted to see right now. Prince Oberyn.

“Ah, my Prince,” you said, bowing your head. “I didn’t see you there.”

Oberyn smiled, looking at the bag at your feet. “Who were you talking to?” He asked, entirely unaware of Elia sitting beside you, her bloodstained eyebrows turned up in worry.

“Old ghosts,” you answered honestly, knowing he wouldn’t believe you. Most people never did. “Elia likes the castle gossip.”

Oberyn chuckled, laying his hand atop his sister’s tombstone. “She always did,” he hummed, and Elia stood, standing beside her brother. She gently reached out to touch his face, her thumb gliding over his cheek.

“Tell him he’s too thin,” she said softly, her voice full of worry. “He looks too sad.”

You sighed. Elia, no matter how long she remained youthful, would always be Oberyn’s older sister. She would always harbor that deep flame of concern in her belly. “Elia’s worried about you,” you said, not bothering to stand.

“I suppose she would be,” Oberyn said, turning back to you. “Mind if I sit?”

You shifted your stuff over, allowing Oberyn to sit beside you. He peered into your bag, smiling a bit. “Fabric looks nice.”

“Well, it is for you,” you said, drawing the half finished sleeve out of the bag again and picking up where you’d left off. “I figured you’d like the color.”

“It’ll suit me well,” Oberyn agreed.

Elia looked from you to Oberyn, her face lighting up. “Oh gods!” She said eagerly. “He likes you!”

You ignored her, not wanting Oberyn to assume you were out of your mind. “Are you bringing Ellaria to King’s Landing?“ you asked, picking up your needle and continuing to rhythmically backstitch the hem of the sleeve. “I don’t think she’s been yet.”

“She hasn’t,” Oberyn said. “I will bring her when I leave. She’s grown bored here in Dorne. She’s never truly left the kingdom, and I promised her travel.”

You nodded. “Does she need a new robe?” You asked. “I have some beautiful sheer fabric that I can’t wait to use.”

Oberyn smiled. “You work too hard,” he said lightly. “Ellaria is not in need of a new robe.”

“I work just hard enough,” you countered. “I’ll make her a new one when you return.” You tucked your things into your bag, the waxed spool of thread falling gracelessly on top of the pile of fabric. “I’ll see you tomorrow Oberyn.”

Elia followed you all the way to your sewing room, which was shocking, considering she almost never left the cemetery. The entire time, her face practically glowed, and as soon as the door was shut, she squealed with happiness. “He’s in love with you!”

“Who, Oberyn?” You asked, dragging the wooden dress stand towards your desk and beginning to put fabric pieces onto it. “That’s like saying I’m in love with expensive fabrics. It’s a damn near daily occurrence. Oberyn being in love with me means nothing.”

“Mhm,” Elia hummed, sitting up on the windowsill and watching you pin the half-finished sleeves to the body of the robe. “Do you like him?”

You almost stabbed yourself in the finger. “No!“ you insisted, grabbing a pin cushion and sticking the head of a pin into your mouth. “He’s funny and kind and, sure, maybe a bit handsome, but no! I’m not in love with him!”

Elia’s cat-like grin told you that she didn’t believe you in the slightest. “You love my brother,” she said happily. “Oh! This is amazing!”

Rolling your eyes, you threw an empty spool at Elia, watching it soar through her chest and out the open window. “Hush up,” you said firmly. “I need to focus.”

Seven days of focus later, you were presenting Oberyn with his new robe, Elia by your side.

“How does it fit?” You asked, smoothing the fabric between Oberyn’s shoulders, watching it stretch as he shifted. “Too tight, too loose?”

“It’s perfect,” Oberyn promised, turning. “I’m sure I’ll be the envy of everyone in King’s Landing.”

You smiled. “Be careful on these buttons,” you urged. “If you lose any of them, I might just cry. They were very expensive.”

Oberyn chuckled. “If I have time,” he said. “I shall look in the King’s Landing marketplace. They might have some nice fabrics and things for you.”

Your belly heated. “You don’t have to,” you said, sending a minuscule glare in Elia’s direction as she grinned wildly.

“You deserve a thank you,” Oberyn insisted. “I know you must’ve worked many long nights to finish this robe.”

“It truly was not that bad.” You didn’t disagree with him. You knew just how long you spent awake to put that robe together.

Oberyn’s smile never faded as he turned to his horse. “I’ll be back,” he promised. “Tell Elia I’ll visit her when I return.”

Elia hovered her hand over Oberyn’s. “Stay safe little brother,” she said, and although he couldn’t hear her, you swore Oberyn’s eyes shone brighter as he turned his horse away and rode off.

Two weeks later, after many boring days, you were met with a surprise. The cemetery had not one waiting figure, but two. Elia, ever the permanent fixture, and then another horribly familiar body.

“Oberyn?”

The second figure turned, and you gasped. Oberyn’s face looked as if someone had torn it to shreds. His eyes were no more than rusted red craters in his face, and his mouth was stained in blood. His hair was sticky and matted to his temples, where two identical injuries lay. He was in his leather armor, and you were desperate to know what happened.

“So you weren’t joking,” Oberyn murmured. “You really can see ghosts.”

“What happened?” You asked desperately, not caring if anyone heard you seemingly talking to yourself. “Who did this to you?”

Oberyn sighed. “I was the Imp’s champion,” he said. “In a trial by combat. I fought The Mountain, and lost spectacularly.”

You wanted to scream. “Why?”

Elia shifted on her tombstone. Oberyn took a breath. “Revenge,” he admitted. “For Elia.”

You let out a watery sob. “You bastard!” You screamed, swinging your fists as Oberyn, who merely took the fist to the face, allowing it to pass right through him. “You stupid bastard! I can’t believe I’ve lost you! You! I can’t-“ you fell to your knees, sobs wracking your body. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Who says I’m going anywhere?” Oberyn said, crouching beside you and letting his fingers glide under your chin. The chill racing through your skin forced your head up, so you were looking into his face. “I’m not going anywhere, my little seer. You’re stuck with me for as long as you live.”

You reached out, thumbs ghosting over Oberyn’s bloodied cheeks. “You’re a mess,” you mumbled. “A bloody fucking mess.”

“Well,” Oberyn hummed. “I did just die yesterday.”

The rest of the day, you lay in the cemetery with Oberyn and Elia, occasionally joined by two children Elia admitted were hers. The leaves on the surrounding trees were finally beginning to fall, peppering the ground with dots of vivid orange until the once green grass was hidden beneath a blanket of autumn. It was peaceful, even when silvery clouds rolled through the sky and bells began to toll in the city. Shouts, too far off to decipher, split the air, and wails followed shortly after.

“It seems the world has learned of my death,” Oberyn murmured.

“It seems so,” you agreed. “The common folk have lost a good man.”

Oberyn smiled. “But not you,” he said. “You’ll never lose me.”

You laughed. “I do believe I am stuck with you forever,” you said. “Wanna head into the market tomorrow? I need to make you a funeral robe.”

Looking up at the fog silver sky, the breeze making the leaves dance on the air before they fell to the ground, Oberyn nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly, watching Elia play with her children. “We can make it a date.”

“A date,” you repeated. “Of course.”

#game of thrones #Oberyn Martell #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell x you #Pedro Pascal #My writing #writer wednesday

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melanielocke · 3 years ago

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Conceal, don't Feel - One

Do you wanna build a snowman?

This is the first chapter of my Frozen Carstairs sibings AU

CW: abuse, toxic relationship, alcoholism

@alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 and I both came up with a similar idea separately from each other, so this is a story separate from hers, but if you like this one I recommend you check out Frozen Heart. I’m not yet sure how often I will update, but I’m currently working on chapter 7 and 35.000 words in (chapters are pretty long).

Taglist: @alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite @a-dream-dirty-and-bruised @alastair-appreciation-month @writeordie-4 @amchara

I cannot seem to tag @lightwoodsimp, sorry

Alastair didn’t know where his parents were taking him. It didn’t matter. He would go anywhere, would do anything if it meant she could be saved. It was his fault she’d gotten hurt. He called out to her. Warned her.

‘You’re going too fast. Slow down, Layla!’

It had been too late. Cordelia was hurt. His fault. He’d hurt her, he’d hit her with his ice. His father had been furious, of course. He’d deserved that. His mother had been more gentle, had taken him into her arms and whispered that it was going to be okay. A lie. It wasn’t going to be okay because he’d hurt his sister and that made him a monster. Just like Father had been afraid of.

But Father knew where to go. Father knew how to fix this. A trail of ice followed their horses. Alastair barely noticed it anymore. It would draw attention. It pointed right to him, to his wrongness. Just like he deserved. Alastair didn’t know why he couldn’t control it anymore. He’d been too excited about it, had used it to play and have fun and build snowmen in the middle of the summer. But that was wrong. Ice was wrong and shameful and dangerous. And so was he.

They stopped in a small village hidden at the foot of the North mountain. Alastair had studied the geography of the kingdom many times but did not know there was a village here. He’d heard stories, there were trolls living here. That was why people avoided this place. Alastair would say he was too old to believe in trolls, but he was magic. Who knew what else was out there?

He descended from the horse, hiding behind his mother. He’d always been closer to her than to Father. He trusted her to keep him safe. Not that he deserved her protection.

A man approached. He was a little shorter than Father, with dark hair like Alastair’s, but blue eyes and light skin that was common in Arendelle. Alastair had never seen the man before, who was he? Certainly not a troll. There was a girl around Cordelia’s age behind him, stepping forward curiously to his sister. Cordelia had not woken since Alastair had hurt her.

‘Hello,’ the little girl said. ‘My name is Lucie, who are you?’

‘Lu, I don’t think the princess can hear you right now,’ her father said. ‘Don’t worry, your Majesty, I’ll get my wife. She’ll find out what’s wrong with your daughter.’

The man disappeared into one of the houses, but the little girl remained behind, poking at Cordelia.

‘She’s not going to wake up,’ Alastair said quietly.

His father glared at him, whereas his mother took his hand firmly. ‘Don’t say that, joon-am. Your sister will be fine.’

‘Who are you?’ Lucie asked him.

Alastair frowned. This was part of Arendelle, wasn’t it? How did someone not recognize the king and his family?

‘My name is Alastair,’ he said softly, not meeting the little girl’s gaze.

‘Come, Lu,’ Will said. ‘Tessa and Jem are going to take care of the princess.’

A woman with brown hair kneeled down in front of little Cordelia, a man with dark hair and eyes beside her. He looked familiar, but Alastair wasn’t sure why.

‘Jem, please help my daughter,’ Father pleaded.

‘Of course, uncle,’ Jem said. ‘You and your family are always welcome here, you know that.’

Alastair was confused. Jem was his cousin? But then why had they never met? He knew about the mysterious cousin, of course. His father had been the youngest of two brothers once, his older brother Jonah had been king before him. He’d had a son too, prince James. King Jonah and his wife had died though, and prince James had disappeared, during his father’s regency. When it became clear prince James was gone for good, his father had been crowned king. Alastair had always assumed he must have died. There were rumors king Elias had murdered his nephew so he could claim the throne. Alastair was glad to know those rumors weren’t true. But why had Jem been here all this time?

‘My wife Tessa can heal her,’ Jem continued.

Elias raised an eyebrow. ‘I though she was Will Herondale’s wife.’

‘All three of us love each other,’ Jem said and Alastair was intrigued. ‘Arendelle might not understand, but there is no need to conform to what society wants from us here.’

He’d always been taught love was between a man and his wife. Clearly Jem didn’t think so. He couldn’t find love, he reminded himself. He had his ice, his cold heart. It would be nice, to live here with a love, but that was not his destiny.

‘It is for the best you left, I think,’ Elias said.

‘Don’t be rude, dear,’ his mother said. ‘They can help Cordelia.’

‘There is ice in her head,’ Tessa said. ‘I can remove it, don’t worry. It’s good the magic didn’t reach her heart. A frozen heart is the one curse I cannot break, but the head can be persuaded.’

Alastair wasn’t sure what Tessa was. She was magic, like him, right? How did she know so much about the ice, about the frozen heart? Did that mean there were others like him?

‘Lucie!’ Tessa called.

The little girl sat down beside her mother. ‘Yes, mama?’

‘You want to help, darling?’

‘Of course.’

‘My daughter is the heir to my gift,’ Tessa explained. ‘She will learn in time how to remove ice herself, in case the prince has more accidents. But for now, we’ll do it together.’

Tessa and Lucie both put their hand on Cordelia’s head. Alastair held his breath, this had to work right? Otherwise he would have killed his sister. Alastair knew he was a monster, of course, but he didn’t want his sister to suffer for what he was.

‘I must warn you, there will be a side effect,’ Tessa said. ‘Messing around in her head will affect her memory. I am doing the best I can to contain the effects and limit the memory loss, but she will lose all memory of Alastair’s magic.’

Alastair frowned. ‘So she won’t remember I have powers?’

‘No,’ Tessa said. ‘But when you’re ready, you can explain it to her. I think it might be good to work on your control first and tell Cordelia once you feel secure you won’t hurt her again. Remember, fear is your enemy. You’re always welcome to stay here, with us. People think trolls live here and stay away, you would be safe..’

The offer sounded tempting. Away from his family, from the people he hurt…

‘No,’ his father said. ‘Alastair is the crown prince of Arendelle, he will be king one day. Power or not, he must be prepared for his role. We’ll limit our staff, close the gates to limit his contact with people, so no one will find out and no one else will get hurt. He’ll learn to control it, I’m sure. Besides, your lifestyle would be a bad influence.’

Alastair’s heart sank. Of course, he was prince too. Destined to be king. It didn’t matter what he wanted. Why should a monster like him be king, he wondered, but he knew his father wouldn’t budge on the subject.

Cordelia coughed a little before opening her eyes. ‘What’s happening?’ she said, a little sleep drunk.

‘You’re all better,’ Lucie declared. ‘Although I think you still have a strand of white hair. Otherwise your hair is very pretty.’

Cordelia smiled. ‘Where am I?’

‘My name is Lucie,’ she said. ‘Will you play with me?’

‘Of course,’ Cordelia said. ‘I like making snowmen.’

‘We must go home now,’ Father said sternly.

‘Oh, that’s too bad,’ Lucie said. ‘Will you come another time, then? I’d so love to have another girl my age around. It’s just me and my cousins here and they’re all older than me.’

‘Of course,’ Cordelia said. ‘I’ll play with you.’

‘I think it would be good for us to check on Alastair’s progress regularly,’ Tessa said. ‘It would be unsafe for me to leave this village, so please come here whenever you’re ready, or if you need help.’

In the end, Alastair never returned to the village where his cousin lived. Neither did Cordelia, not even to play with Lucie. A day later, she did not remember what had happened at all. As far as the people of Arendelle knew, that village didn’t exist. Tessa was a witch, after all, and so was her daughter. The people might turn on her, his father had explained. They might turn on him too. And he would deserve that. That’s why he needed to learn control.

‘You’re too sensitive, Esfandiyar,’ his father would say.

He’d learnt a rhyme over the years. Conceal it, don’t feel it. He repeated it to himself whenever he felt too much, whenever he was going to lose control. He’d received a pair of gloves from his father, something he claimed would help him.

It didn’t take long for Father to grow more absent though. Often he was sick. His fault, he was putting too much pressure on the family. All his fault. His thoughts were spiraling as they so often did, out of control as the storm inside. His fingers tingled, ice formed on the floor, on the walls. Conceal, don’t feel, he told himself. That was the only way to control.

When Alastair was eight years old, not long after the incident, his father was interested in how using the sauna would affect him. He’d never been, as he was too young and his mother wasn’t so sure it was safe for him, but his father insisted it was worth a try.

‘It might be the solution to your control problem,’ Elias had said. ‘The sauna could melt the ice.’

Alastair had been scared, but he’d been willing to give it a try. Most humans in Arendelle used a sauna from time to time, so why shouldn’t he?

It had been a nightmare. As soon as the sauna had been turned on and gotten warm, Alastair had started screaming. It was agony, fire burning his skin and everything inside, the ice begging for release.

He couldn’t use magic in here, and it hurt so much.

‘Let me out!’ he’d screamed.

It had taken some time until Father had given up and finally let him out. He wasn’t burnt, there were no signs on his body that he’d suffered. The pain had been real though. He was still so shaken he froze the entire corridor, for which his father had become angry. Later that day, Father had disappeared into his bedchambers with a bottle of a smelly drink.

Alastair would never get into the sauna again. Never. There was ice inside of him, and it didn’t like the heat. Perhaps he should try it, perhaps he should stay for longer and let it burn out the ice inside of him. Perhaps he could be free. But Alastair didn’t dare go inside the sauna again, he never wanted to feel that pain again.

***

Cordelia was lying on the floor of the ballroom. She was sure her mother would hate to find her here, but what else was she supposed to do? She sighed, would there ever be a ball here? There had been balls once, that much she remembered. She and Alastair weren’t allowed to attend yet, but they’d snuck out of bed to watch from the corridor together.

There had been so many people. Nowadays, it was only the staff, her family and Risa, her mother’s lady in waiting. Didn’t her parents understand she wanted someone to play with?

Once she’d played with Alastair almost every day. They would build snowmen and ride a sled and have snowball fights. But that had been a long time ago. Nowadays Alastair would barely acknowledge her. If he spoke at all, it was to tell her to go away and not bother him. He spent most of his time in his bedroom. Cordelia didn’t understand how one person could spend so much time in bed, especially considering he was not sick like Father. Didn’t he want to have something to do? She would play with him all day if only he opened his door.

But Alastair preferred the solitude, it seemed. He rarely even yelled at her to go away anymore. He just pretended she didn’t exist. He was studying to be king now, whereas Cordelia did not have such a responsibility. She guessed he was too mature and grown up for her now and she was just his stupid little sister. It was frustrating.

It had all started so sudden, and Cordelia had never understood why. One day they’d built a snowman together, the next Alastair didn’t even speak to her anymore. He only ever emerged from his room to eat, and to take walks on the palace grounds. Her mother didn’t want her to go there, for she might fall and hurt herself, or rip her dresses. It didn’t make much sense, because she’d followed Alastair from a distance once and there was barely anything to trip over. When Alastair had spotted her, he’d gotten angry and yelled at her to leave him alone, that this was his place, why couldn’t she at least let him have that?

Cordelia guessed her brother didn’t like her anymore.

‘What would you do, Joan?’ she asked.

No response. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Joan, of course, was a painting in this room, a woman in armor riding a horse. The painting had always fascinated her, because Cordelia wanted to be a warrior too and carry her own sword. It was probably all very improper, a princess talking to a portrait, but what exactly did her parents expect her to do?

Father was sick all the time nowadays, and Cordelia would often sit with him and read him stories. Alastair came in sometimes, glared at both of them, and left. At least her father still cared for her. At least it was something. Even if he mostly ignored her when he wasn’t sick, or talked to her about a potential marriage alliance when she was older. She’d never even met someone around her age, how was she supposed to get married? Her mother didn’t have time for her anymore, she had to take over from father when he was sick and run the kingdom and whatever free time she had left she spend with Alastair.

No one knew what was wrong with Father, and Cordelia worried for him. She vowed to spend as much time with him as possible, to always be there for him, because even if he was sick, he was the only one in her family who still had time for her.

‘If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?’ she asked Joan.

No response.

‘That’s right, me too. Anywhere is better than here.’

***

When Alastair was nine years old, a year after the incident, he’d made little progress on controlling the ice. If anything, it had gotten worse.

‘You’re not trying,’ his father accused him. ‘Do you want to turn your bedroom into a snow landscape? Do you like the cold? Do you like that by freezing the bathroom, you broke all the pipes? It cost a fortune to replace everything, and I couldn’t explain what happened.’

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Alastair had said, the fear he often felt around his father gripping him.

Would he be locked inside the sauna if he didn’t do better? He was trembling on his feet as his father grabbed his elbow and took him down stairs into an old dungeon.

‘When my brother Jonah was king, he stopped using these dungeons to hold prisoners. He believed keeping people in dark and dirty cells like this was inhumane. But we do not always have the luxury of choice.’

His father showed him to a cell with a pair of cuffs, chained to the floor, designed to fit around his hands. Because that was where the magic came from, that was why the gloves helped.

‘If you cannot control yourself and become a danger to those around you, I will have no choice but to use these. Do you understand?’

Alastair was shaking, snow escaped from his hands and twirled around him. He swallowed. ‘Yes, Father,’ he said weakly.

‘And don’t act so scared,’ his father scolded. ‘With that poison inside of you, you absolutely cannot feel.’

Of course. Conceal, don’t feel. That was the only way to keep it hidden.

That night, Alastair dreamt about the chains in the dungeon, about his hands being bound, his father leaving him there.

‘You’re too dangerous,’ his father said. ‘You must stay here from now on.’

Alastair pulled at the chains, tried to break free, but it was no use. He woke up in the middle of the night, lying in the snow. On his bed, he reminded himself, but everything was covered in snow and ice. He should clean this up, he determined. He did not know how to unfreeze anything, but he could sweep the snow up and outside of the window before Father found out and determined he should be chained in that cell.

He’d considered telling his mother about the cell and the chains and that he was scared, but ultimately decided against it. He was far too scared to find out that when it came to it, she would let it happen. Worse, that she already knew.

***

Alastair was thirteen when his father presented him with the family sword. Legend had it the sword was magic, but the properties of the weapon had been lost over time. No king of Arendelle had ever died in battle while carrying it though, and some speculated the sword watched over them, protected them. Alastair didn’t know what too believe when it came to cortana. He knew his sister wished she could be the one to own the sword, but Alastair knew as future king he was supposed to bear it. He was sure Cordelia could practice with it when he wasn’t using it.

‘Now, Alastair, this is an important part of the Carstairs legacy,’ Elias said. ‘If you can use this sword, you would be protected if people ever learnt of the ice that’s inside your heart.’

That’s what Elias often called it, the ice inside his heart. Don’t feel, Alastair reminded himself. He wasn’t supposed to feel, or he would upset the ice. Elias treated it as something separate from him, a demon that would strike if Alastair didn’t work hard enough. He didn’t think that was right, but didn’t dare say anything.

Elias presented him with the sword. Alastair had never held it before, had only admired it from a distance. He took the hilt in his hand and immediately dropped it, yelping in pain. As soon as the hilt touched him, a pain shot through his hand. His skin was red, blisters were forming where the sword had touched him. He’d sustained burn marks.

His mother came in when she heard him scream and rushed him to the infirmary immediately, where he’d gotten his hand bandaged and lied about what had caused the burn, claiming he’d wanted to help in the kitchen and touched a hot pot. A horrible shame crept over him and gripped his stomach. He was unworthy. He couldn’t even hold cortana. The family sword, the weapon that had been carried by all great kings and queens before him, had chosen to burn him.

***

‘I have a surprise for you, dear,’ her father said with a smile.

It had been ages since Cordelia had seen him so healthy and she was glad he was having a good day. She missed him. She’d wanted to go to his bedroom and read to him, but Alastair had told her she couldn’t. When she’d asked for more information, he’d refused to explain and just said she wouldn’t understand. Alastair often treated her as if she was stupid and did not understand anything, but Father never did.

She didn’t know what to do with her brother anymore. She’d loved him once, that she knew. Part of her still did. But she was fairly certain he didn’t love her anymore. He’d left her all alone. At least he still had her father, even if he was gone so often. It wasn’t his fault he was sick.

‘What is it?’ Cordelia asked.

‘It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, now would it?’ Elias said with a chuckle.

Cordelia’s dark eyes went wide as her father showed her to the room where cortana was kept. For years she’d begged to touch the sword, to practice with it. But the sword wasn’t hers. As heir, it belonged to Alastair. Even if he’d never shown interest in it, even if wielding cortana had been Cordelia’s dream for a long time.

‘I’ve discussed with your brother, and we decided that since you are so attached to cortana, it should be yours,’ her father said. ‘You are worthy of the sword.’

Cordelia picked it up. She’d never trained with it, although she did know the basics of swordplay. With nothing else to do, she’d watched the guards train from a distance and had copied their movements. It felt good in her hands, like it fit perfectly and had always belonged to her.

‘Now, a sword is a great responsibility,’ her father said. ‘Cortana has a sharp edge and a dull edge. You can always choose mercy, and that is what the old kings and queens of Arendelle became known for. Remember that.’

Cordelia nodded. ‘Of course. I will not let anyone harm us, but when I defeat my enemy I will always offer mercy.’

***

There was only one other person outside of his family and Tessa’s who knew about Alastair’s powers. It had been an accident, really. Alastair was allowed to go outside onto the palace grounds and practice. Cordelia wasn’t allowed to go there with him, so no one would see if he lost control. It was the only place where he could get some air. But it wasn’t enough, and sometimes the walls of the palace felt suffocating. He longed to get away, to disappear.

So one day, he’d made sure no one saw him and had snuck over the wall. It had been easy, really. He’d built a ladder out of ice. In the summer heat, it would melt and no evidence of his escape would be left behind. He could control the ice inside him when he set his mind to an explicit goal.

Honestly, the problem arose when he felt. Better to freeze his own heart. But he couldn’t help but feel when Father yelled at him, when he drank so much he couldn’t stay awake anymore. It was all his fault, he knew. Father wouldn’t have started drinking if he’d been better, if he had never hurt his sister. But he was a monster and he deserved his father’s anger.

He knew Cordelia hated him. He had accepted it. She would be safe and Alastair would never hurt her again. If that meant she hated him, it would be alright. Tessa had said once he could tell Cordelia about his powers when it was safe again, but Alastair feared it would never be. He had nightmares sometimes and woke up in a snow landscape instead of a bedroom. Sometimes the emotions just became too much.

On the other side of the wall was another forest, and here he could be himself. He would be alone, yes, but Alastair would always be alone. Most of the time he didn’t mind the solitude so much. At least here he wasn’t trapped within those walls.

He just walked, not sure where he was going. He would find his way back to the wall eventually, he told himself. A castle was hard to miss. He didn’t even notice the boy in the woods until he was right behind him.

‘Hello.’

Alastair was startled. He wished he could say he’d responded with some decorum, but that would be a lie. Instead, ice had shot out of his right hand, with which he had been leaning against a tree. He was stuck, frozen against a tree. Great, just his luck.

‘Are you alright?’ the boy asked.

Alastair wished he could have turned around, but his hand was still very much stuck, glove and all. There was only so much the glove did. He still had to control his own emotions. Conceal, don’t feel. He’d broken that rule, and for what?

He finally broke off the chunk of ice from his hand and turned to face the boy. He was around Alastair’s age, with brown hair and hazel eyes. There was a reindeer following him, sniffing Alastair curiously.

‘I’m fine,’ he said between his teeth.

‘Were you born with the powers, or cursed?’ the boy asked curiously.

‘What kind of question is that?’ Alastair bit at him.

‘I’m sorry. That’s what my aunt said is what distinguishes sorcerers. But you don’t have to answer. I just never met someone with magic like yours before. What’s your name?’

Alastair had to think quickly. The boy didn’t recognize him, didn’t know he was the prince. He couldn’t know, because then he would spread his secret and soon the whole kingdom would know the crown prince was a monster with ice in his veins.

‘Esfandiyar,’ he said.

It was his middle name, and a little known fact. It was a name from his mother’s home country, an ancient hero his mother used to tell him stories about. It was one of the few fond memories Alastair had of being young. So much had revolved around his cursed ice.

‘Thomas,’ the boy said, offering his hand. ‘Thomas Lightwood. And this is Sven, my reindeer.’

Alastair smiled weakly, refusing to take the boy’s hand. He knew he had to go home, but he hadn’t spoken to another boy his age in forever. He didn’t want to go.

‘Why are you here in the woods?’ Alastair asked.

‘Oh, I was just on my way home with Sven after delivering my mother’s cakes. I like this part of the woods. I always came here before I was allowed to leave by myself. Why are you here? Is it because of your magic? Are people scared of your ice?’

‘People don’t know,’ Alastair said. ‘And you can’t tell anyone.’

‘I won’t,’ Thomas promised. ‘But your powers seem so awesome. I wish I had powers.’

‘No you don’t,’ Alastair said. ‘No one would want to have ice inside of them. It’s very hard to control, and you can hurt people. Badly.’

Thomas tilted his head. ‘You’re not going to hurt me, are you?’

‘I don’t want to,’ Alastair said. ‘But that does not matter. The ice does what it wants.’

‘I’m not afraid, Esfandiyar,’ Thomas said. ‘That’s a beautiful name, by the way. I wish my name was even half so extraordinary.’

‘I need to go,’ Alastair said, determined.

He would not hurt someone else, he vowed to himself. Conceal, don’t feel. It didn’t matter that Thomas was the first person in years to see him and not be afraid.

‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ Thomas asked. ‘I always take this route after delivering my mother’s cakes. I can meet you around this time every day of the week.’

Against his better judgement, Alastair said yes.

He met Thomas in the woods everyday for nearly two weeks. He didn’t lose control of the ice anymore, not when they were together. Thomas was nice, and liked telling him about his life. He didn’t even seem to mind that Alastair avoided all of his questions. One day, Thomas had baked some extra cakes and shared them with Alastair. It was Alastair’s fifteenth birthday, and although he still hadn’t told Thomas about who he was, he had mentioned that his birthday wouldn’t be celebrated. Cordelia had given up on him a long time ago, and his parents didn’t have the time. It was sweet of Thomas to think of him, the only person who had in years. It was almost better than the cakes themselves. Almost.

‘I really hope my mom won’t find out, but these are the best cakes in the whole world,’ Thomas said. ‘My mother taught me how to make them herself. Well, my cousin Christopher likes the lemon tarts more.’

‘Your parents are both bakers?’ Alastair asked.

‘No, just my mom. My father is on Arendelle’s council, although I don’t think the king listens to him a lot.’

‘Oh, that’s too bad,’ Alastair said.

He wasn’t surprised his father didn’t listen, often he wasn’t even there for meetings. But his mother would, right? She’d always been calmer and gentler than Father. But she wouldn’t go against his father’s wishes.

‘And my uncle Gabriel and aunt Cecily sell ice. They travel to the north mountain and the frozen lakes at winter and cut off ice and transport if back to the city and sell it.’ Thomas smiled. ‘I always wanted to go with them when I’m old enough. But what’s the point of going all the way to the north mountain when you can just conjure ice out of thin air?’

‘Believe it or not, making that journey is probably less dangerous than asking me to supply the world with ice,’ Alastair said.

‘Perhaps,’ Thomas said. ‘But I’m certain there’s a way to control it. I haven’t seen you lose control at all since when we first met and I startled you.’

‘I feel less around you,’ Alastair said. ‘I’m not supposed to feel and at home I do that a lot. But with you, it’s better. I don’t think I feel anything.’

Thomas frowned. ‘Oh,’ he said and Alastair suspected something was wrong.

‘What is it?’

‘I thought you liked spending time with me,’ he said. ‘But now you say you don’t feel anything.’

‘That’s a good thing,’ Alastair insisted. ‘I’m not supposed to feel.’

‘Everyone’s supposed to feel, Esfandiyar,’ Thomas said. ‘If you don’t feel anything when you’re with me… I guess you don’t like my company as much as I thought. Maybe it’s better if I don’t come back.’

Alastair’s eyes went wide. His fingers started tingling. No, no. Conceal, don’t feel. Don’t let it show.

‘No!’ he said. ‘Please. I’m all alone, you’re the only person who understands. You weren’t meant to find out, but you did, and now you’re all I have.’

Thomas looked confused. ‘But that means you did feel something, right? If you truly felt nothing, you wouldn’t care if I left.’

Alastair shook his head. ‘No, when you said you would leave, I did feel. Please stay with me, Thomas. I don’t want to feel. Usually, it’s like a storm and I have to fight to keep the ice inside. You make everything better. With you I don’t feel the storm.’

‘I think you’re a little confused about what it is to feel,’ Thomas said. ‘You know it’s more than sadness and fear, and anger right? Happiness is also feeling. I feel happy when I see you in the woods.’

‘Perhaps that’s it,’ Alastair said. ‘Do you think it’s alright for me to feel happiness? Even if I’m not supposed to feel?’

‘Of course, Esfandiyar. What is the point, if you can never be happy? I have to go home before my mom realizes I’m late. But can I see you again tomorrow?’

‘Always,’ Alastair said.

The last day he met Thomas, the other boy was acting a little shifty. Alastair wasn’t sure what it was. It made him nervous. He knew to expect bad things when people acted like that.

‘Esfandiyar, there’s something I need to tell you,’ Thomas said.

His cheeks were red, and Alastair didn’t think it was from the cold. Alastair waited expectantly, but Thomas didn’t continue.

‘What is it?’ Alastair asked.

‘Well, you see,’ Thomas began, stumbling over his words, but he was not to finish them.

His father came stumbling into the woods, Alastair could tell from his demeanor that he’d been drinking. His fault, he should have stayed in the castle. Of course they’d notice he’d snuck out.

‘Alastair, where have you been?’ the king asked.

Thomas looked at Alastair, and then at the king. ‘Alastair? Oh heaven, you’re the prince, aren’t you?’

Alastair sighed. ‘Esfandiyar is my middle name. I’m sorry Thomas. I shouldn’t have lied to you.’

‘Who are you?’ his father hissed at Thomas, and Alastair hoped Thomas wouldn’t notice his slurred speech, betraying to a trained ear that he was drunk.

‘Thomas Lightwood, your Majesty,’ Thomas said softly. ‘My mother is a baker. My father is Gideon Lightwood, he represents the commoners on your council. I was just on my way home. I swear I didn’t know he was the prince. I am so sorry.’

‘Go home, Lightwood,’ the king said. ‘And do not let me catch you here with my son again, or I’ll have you thrown into the dungeons.’

Thomas took Sven and disappeared. Alastair dreaded what would come next. Father could be unpredictable when he was drunk, dangerous even. Alastair was terrified he would be dragged into the dungeons to those cuffs, or to the sauna.

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Alastair said softly.

‘What were you thinking,’ his father snapped. ‘You’re a prince, not some peasant boy. How can you risk them finding out?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Alastair repeated. ‘He was nice to me.’

‘He’s a peasant boy, of course he’s nice to you if he thinks it’ll win the prince’s favor,’ Elias said. ‘You must learn these things, or you’ll fall for anyone with even a little bit of charm.’

‘He didn’t know I was a prince,’ Alastair protested.

Elias didn’t even look at him. ‘Of course he did. Everyone in the kingdom knows who you are. He lied to you to bring you into a false sense of security. You’re so naïve, to have believed him. I have sent for someone to come and teach you about ruling a country. It’s about time you learnt to be a proper prince.’

Alastair looked back once more, but Thomas was long gone. Alastair went back to the forest the next day, desperate to hear what Thomas had wanted to tell him, even if it was only once. But Thomas had been nowhere to be found, and Alastair had returned to the palace, defeated. He was all alone.

His father was right, it was time to be a proper prince. He was fifteen now, he was old enough to understand how the kingdom worked. His father couldn’t fulfill his duties anymore, not with his drinking eating away at him and his mother doing everything she could to fill in the gaps. It was time for him to step up.

#Conceal don't feel #Frozen AU #Alastair Carstairs #Cordelia Carstairs #Sona Carstairs #Thomas Lightwood #Lucie Herondale #the last hours #tlh

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merry-thieves · 4 years ago

Text

Possible meanings of Chain of Iron snippets

Yes, this is going to be a long post.

I didn’t put all teasers here only those where I could actually come up with something.

Alastair looked amused. “Never before have I heard such a concise statement of the ludicrous philosophy with which you and your school friends go through the world.”

So, Alastair is definitely speaking to one of the Merry Thieves

probably James, since Al and Matthew aren’t on the best terms and conversations between Thomas and Al would go in another direction (either fighting or with way more feelings)

it seems like James and Alastair are on quite good terms here if Alastair isn’t snappish and shows his true (happy) emotions

Anna was fortress-surrounded by her friends: tall, handsome Thomas; Christopher, who shared his sister’s stern delicacy of feature, peacock Matthew, who always looked as if he’d just rolled out of an unmade bed piled with silks and velvet. And Eugenia Lightwood, who hadn’t bothered to take off her canary-yellow gloves or hat, as if she were ready to run out the door any moment.

They all eyed Ariadne suspiciously as she approached Anna. Anna didn’t seem to see her at all; she was leaning back with one booted foot braced on the wall behind her. She was all lean black and white lines, her close-fitting jacket following the outline of her slim curves, her head thrown back as she laughed. Her ruby pendant glimmered in the hollow of her throat.

Keep your head up, Ariadne, she told herself. You can do this.

“Hello, Anna,” Ariadne said.

First of all, Eugenia is in this group which is interesting regarding the main characters in Chain of Iron

Is Eugenia part of the main group? Has she an important role to play? (we are supposed to find out the reason why she is disgraced)

We have Ariadne’s pov here, so she might play a big role too in Choi, at least we will have more of her and Anna’s relationship

Also, she calls Matthew “peacock” which is so accurate and funny!

Alastair’s gaze flicked to Matthew. “Why,” he said, “are you not even wearing a hat?”

“And cover up this hair?” Matthew indicated his golden locks with a flourish. “Would you blot out the sun?”

Okay, Matthew and Alastair aren’t brawling which is a good sign

Also, where are they? There has to be a good reason if both of them are attending and standing next to each other

I’m guessing they’re outside since they’re supposed to wear hats

The brave princess Lucretia raced through the marble halls of the palace. "I must find Cordelia," she gasped. "I must save her."

"I believe the Prince holds her even now, captive in his throne room!" Sir Jerrod exclaimed. "But Princess Lucretia, even though you are the most beautiful and wise lady that I have ever met, surely you cannot fight your way through a hundred of his stoutest palace guard!" The knight’s green eyes flashed. His straight black hair was disarranged, and his white shirt was entirely undone.

"But I must!" Lucretia cried.

So, the main thing I want to point out here is that Lucie is crushing so hard on Jesse!

and does she picture him with an open shirt or am I reading too much into this?

James spoke at last, and there was real kindness in his voice. “You must give people time, Alastair,” he said. “We are none of us perfect, and no one expects perfection. But when you have hurt people you must allow them their anger. Otherwise it will only become another thing you have tried to take away.”

Alastair seemed to hesitate. “James,” he said. “Does he think —“

Soooo, James and Alastair are friendly now? (please, please, please)

And who does Alastair have to give time? Matthew or more likely Thomas?

Also, James is one eloquent babe

“I know that you’ve been doing something — something you’re keeping secret. I’m not angry,” Cordelia hastened to add. “I just wish you’d tell me what it is.”

Lucie tried to cover her surprise.

it was about time that those two speak about all their secrets! They want to become Parabatai for Raziel’s sake!

but I have the sneaking suspicion that Lucie is going to deflect the question or is going to make something up to avoid telling the truth

(please let me be wrong)

“Alastair! Cordelia!” A familiar voice bellowed up from downstairs.

Sona went white and laid a hand against the wall to steady herself. “Elias?”

I’m not sure about you guys but going white and bracing oneself against a wall doesn’t seem like someone is happy

So, I guess Sona isn’t really happy that Elias is back

is there another reason besides the drinking why she isn’t

and is Elias mad at his children? I mean he is bellowing

also why is Elias mad at all? All his charges were dropped and he is a free man once more

Cordelia shivered a little, though it was not cold in the room. “There is something weighing on you, Matthew,” she said gently. “A secret. Will you tell me what it is?”

She saw his hand go to his breast pocket, where he often kept his flask. Then he lowered it stiffly to his side and took a deep breath. “You do not know what you are asking.”

“Yes, I do,” she said. “I am asking for the truth. Your truth. You know mine, and I do not even know what makes you so unhappy.”

Cordelia told Matthew everything about her father and maybe about her feelings for James

if we’re lucky Matthew tells Cordelia about the poisoning and someone can finally help him (I think CC said that Matthew would tell Cordelia everything in Chain of Iron, hopefully that’s true)

also, Matthew doesn’t want to drink after Cordelia told him the story about her father

Matthew also found out why Alastair had been so mean in school and that Matthew can't really partially blame him for what happened with Charlotte

Jesse glanced out the window. They were passing through Piccadilly Circus, nearly deserted at such a late hour. The statue of Eros in the center was lightly dusted with snow; a lone tramp slept upon the steps below it. “Don’t have too much hope, Lucie. Sometimes hope is dangerous.”

“Have you said that to Grace?”

Jesse shook his head. “She won’t listen.”

is there a possibility that Lucie won’t try to raise Jesse from the dead and instead tries to stop Grace from doing so? (the parallels between this and qoaad are uncanny)

I don’t think that there is anything that will stop grace from trying to perform necromancy other than force

“I’ve been trying to hate you,” Thomas said quietly, “for what you did to Matthew. You richly deserve to be hated for what you have done.”

Alastair’s dark eyes glittered. “It wasn’t just his mother I slandered. It was your father, too. You know it. So you don’t have to—to act all high-minded about this. Stop pretending you are only upset on behalf of Matthew. Hate me on your own behalf, Thomas.”

he is calling him Thomas!!! Ahhhh! (so they’re probably alone)

Thomas doesn’t really hate Alastair at this point but also hasn’t fully forgiven him

at least he hasn’t thrown Alastair into the themes

maybe Thomas is trying to suppress the fact that Alastair also wronged Thomas’s own family and it’s easier for him to direct his attention to Matthew’s family?

His golden eyes were fixed on her, fierce as a hawk’s gaze. She said, "It doesn’t matter what I said. I wanted them to leave you alone —"

"I don’t believe you," he said. She could feel the slight tremors running through his body — tremors of stress, that meant he was holding himself very still. Holding himself back. "You don’t say things you don’t mean, Daisy —"

Okay now, what did she say? I’m guessing something quite flattering or that she loved him maybe?

also, who didn’t want to leave James alone? Some bigoted Enclave members?

is James trying to fight against the bracelet’s spell? Or is he breaking Cordelia’s heart yet again?

James closed his eyes. Against the back of his eyelids, he could see the city take shape—the minarets flung darkly against a blue sky, the silver river. Cordelia’s voice, low and familiar, rose above the clamor of his nightmare. He followed it out of the darkness, like Theseus following the length of thread out of the Minotaur’s labyrinth. And it was not the first time. Her voice had lifted him out of fever, once, had been his light in shadows. . . . A sharp pain spiked through his temples. He blinked his eyes open: he was firmly back in the present, his friends all looking at him worriedly. Cordelia had already moved away from him, leaving behind the lingering scent of jasmine. He could still feel where her fingers had rested against his shoulder.

JORDELIA! (Sorry; I just had to get that out)

What city is this? One in a demon dimension?

And does James have some kind of visions now? Interesting...

I love the connection between James and Cordelia

Apparently, the gracelet is trying to suppress James's feelings and memories of Cordelia...but please tell me he notices here that he is in love with her?

Also, Cordelia is trying to stay away from James :(

Hands caught his wrists; he was hauled up roughly, an arm around his back. he smelled brandy and cologne.

“Matthew,” he said, in a dry voice. “James needs water,” Christopher said. “Do we have any water?” “Never touch the stuff,” said Matthew, settling James onto the long sofa. He sat down next to him, staring so intently into James’s face that, despite everything, James had to stifle a laugh. “I’m fine, Matthew,” said James. “Also, I don’t know what you expect to discover by looking into my eyeball.”

Okay WHAT IS UP with James in the latest snippets?!? I NEED answers!

Is James follwing in his father's footsteps? Regarding drugs you know...

Also, Matthew has a tendency to stare into Jame's face (not that I blame him)

Christopher!

Okay, I'm devestated that James knows it's Matthew because he smells of alcohol. I'm NOT okay!

Also, what kind of stuff is this?

“You should have told us,” said Thomas. “We would have helped you move your things. I’m exceptionally good at carrying large objects.” “And think of all those hairbrushes you would have had to relocate,” Lucie said. “Haven’t you got six or seven?” Matthew glowered at her affectionately. “I try to be at least as stylish as our local ghosts.”

I think it's clear that Matthew just moved and didn't tell any of his friends of his plans...Why Matthew, why?

Also, Thomas and Lucie are just so wholesome how they try to brighten the situation with their comments

Sooooo, is Thomas also good at carrying people *cough*Alastair*cough*, just asking...?

How many Hairbrushes does one need? Seriously, what kind of purpose do seven hairbrushes serve?

Don't worry Matthew, only Magnus can beat your stylishness

That’s all for now! Should I add anything else in your opinion?

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rosy-cheekx · 4 years ago

Text

I Want To Be A Real Fake

@kaiserkorresponds said: Black and White + "I want to be a real fake" + formal clothing <3

Prompted fic that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I received it! Hope you like it, Kaiser!

Jon would not consider himself fashionable. He has a distinct sense of style, yes, but that style lately has been Tired-Academic-Works-in-a-Cold-Office,-Steals-Sweaters-When-Necessary-core. Not exactly suitable for the business casual dress code The Magnus Institute “requires” (no one seemed to pay attention to the Archive staff’s choices of attire), but certainly not suitable for the small rectangle of cardstock Elias Bouchard hands him, on a quiet spring morning in the Archive.

“What’s…what’s this?” Jon asked, staring at the neat, printed text as if it was Greek. (If it were Greek, at least, he could decipher parts of it. He was an English Lit student, after all, and he had really enjoyed etymology.) The card was a stiff black and white, with the black owl logo, the symbol of the Magnus Institute, printed in the top middle. Glancing down at it, he saw a date, and the words: “black-tie.” Shit.

“My apologies, I forgot how tired your position tends to leave you.” Elias’s voice was prim and polite, but Jon still winced inwardly. “As a head of a department, you are now strongly encouraged to attend the fundraiser I host in April each year. Our donors are fascinated by our departments, and especially the Archives. Gertrude’s disappearance has raised questions as to her successor, and I trust you can assuage the concerns of our donors at your accomplishments in the position.” Jon chose to believe that Elias’s keen eye didn’t sweep the mountains of paperwork that surrounded his desk as he surveyed the small, poorly lit office. “I’m certain you’ll be able to find appropriate attire for the occasion.”

He turned on a heel, halfway to the door before seemingly considering something. “Ah, and Jon, one more thing. Gertrude always requested she bring an assistant. Would you like to do the same? I am happy to accommodate one more for the catering count.”

Jon snapped his mouth shut, utterly dumbfounded by the responsibility just thrust upon him, and nodded mutely, before clearing his throat. “Ah-um, yes, I would appreciate that. Does it matter which one?”

“Someone who can make a pleasant impression, please.” Elias raised an eyebrow, nodded almost imperceptibly, like he had made a decision, and rapped his knuckles on the doorframe on the way out. “I trust your judgement.”

Jon counted to thirty, to be certain Elias wasn’t coming back, and slouched into his office chair, scanning the save-the-date again, without the immense pressure of Elias’s eyes on him.

“The Magnus Institute Fundraiser Gala,” it read below the embossed owl, within a thin black border. “23 April, 7-10 pm. Black tie. Catered.” Jon traced the owl with the pad of his finger, flipping the card over to see, in Elias’s thin cursive: Make a good impression, Jon.

God, this is going to suck.

“Sasha, come on.” Jon wasn’t one to beg, but desperate times and all that. He had cornered her in the breakroom, while Martin was on a research trip and Tim was getting takeaway from the chippie down the street. “It’s only three weeks away, and you’re the one I trust the most. Please.”

“Jon,” Sasha sighed, smoothing her skirt patiently. “I would if I could, I swear to you. But my sister’s wedding has been planned for months, I’ve already requested time off, and I can’t undo all that for a work party.”

“Fundraiser,” Jon corrected instinctively, even as he signed in resignation. “Fine. I just really didn’t want to go alone.”

Sasha scoffed, shaking her head to herself as she opened the fridge and pulled out her bagged lunch. “You have two other assistants you know. What about Tim? Or Martin?”

Jon wrinkled his nose at the thought of bringing nervous, rambling, doe-eyed Martin to the gala. “God no. Martin would be too much; I need someone who can handle themselves and hold a decent conversation. I need someone who can attend a black-tie gala and look more at-home than me.” A withering look from Sasha.

“So why not Tim, then? He can do all those things.”

“Do all what things?” Jon jumped and spun around to see Tim, carrying a grease-spotted bag in one hand and a paper soda cup in the other. He surveyed Tim in a moment: the button-up shirt, red and printed with tiny black balloons, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, dark black hair artfully mussed. High cheekbones dotted with freckles, and what Jon swore could be the faintest bit of eyeliner.

“Tim, would you like to go to a fashionable, catered work party with me?”

“Boss,” Tim lowered himself to a knee and held out his soda solemnly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Tim, that’s backwards. The kneeler isn’t the one who accepts,” Sasha chuckles helpfully.

“You’re just jealous of our love, Sash!”

Good Lord.

Jon was really hoping the food would be good. He was in Tim’s flat, in the toilet, checking himself in the mirror one final time. His hair was carefully braided, courtesy of Tim’s deft hands and coiled into a thick bun at the base of his skull, gold and emerald hairpin snugly in place. His suit was nice: a respectable white shirt, dotted with tiny lime-colored flowers he had to strain his eyes to see, under a dark green suit jacket and matching trousers. The suit itself was cut in a rather androgynous style, pulling tight at Jon’s waist in a way he rather liked, and contrasted beautifully, he thought, with the smooth brown of his skin. He flicked an invisible piece of lint from his thigh and, satisfied, stepped into the hall to tell Tim he was ready to go.

“Tim, I’m all-woah,” the exhale was accidental. Tim’s suit was certainly not subtle. He was wearing a deep blue turtleneck, hair perfectly coiffed. Over the turtleneck, the suit jacket was white, a spray of water-color flowers in all shades of blue and purple shifting with every movement. The navy blue heeled suede boots on his feet accentuated his already-tall frame “Tim, you look good,” Jon breathed.

“Ouch. No need to sound all surprised. I know I clean up well; I dirty pretty damn good too.” Tim chuckled and adjusted his sleeves. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. ‘I don’t want anything too crazy.’”

Jon grinned shyly, rocking on his heels of his own, less intimidating dress shoes. “I like it, I think. It feels nice.” The excitement over how good he felt in the clothes had, all too briefly, suppressed the impending doom he was feeling about the evening’s events. “Are you ready for tonight?” he asked for what must have been the fiftieth time, spinning the solid black ring he wore around his finger.

“Yes, Jon. Talk about the reorganization process as a structural renovation, converting files to audio formatting for future accessibility, don’t talk about artefact storage even a little, don’t get caught up with anyone too pretty, I get it.” His voice was flat, bored by the repetition. “This is going to be fine.”

“What-what if it isn’t, though, Tim? What if they ask about Gertrude or how their money is being used, o-or how the restructuring is going? I can’t bloody well tell them I’m using a tape recorder that’s probably older than I am.”

“Jon,” Tim’s well-manicured hand was on his shoulder, nails the same blue of his turtleneck. “Take a deep breath. For Gertrude: be honest. It was a tragedy, and you hope she’s found, but until then you’re doing your best to act on her wishes as her replacement. And for the rest, be vague. Restructuring is going ‘as well as can be expected’ or ‘is running quite smoothly with the help of your three wonderful assistants.’” He winked. “And tell them you’re using a multimedia system, that’ll confuse those old boomers enough to move topics. And it is technically true. Laptops and a tape recorder are multiple medias. Anything else we can riff, you know? I can talk with the best of them.” He eyed Jon meaningfully. “This will be fine. It’s one night. And we’ll get chips after. Promise.”

Jon nodded and closed his eyes, breathing steadying. He was grateful Tim had been available. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“So, how did you know what black tie meant?” Jon asked, eyeing Tim across the seat of the cab. They’re on their way now and Jon’s hands are steepled tightly, pressing his fingertips against each other until it hurts to do so. “I had to Google it last week when I went shopping, in case we had to wear literal black ties.” He needed to talk about anything, anything but this stupid fundraiser they drove steadily towards.

Tim grew silent for a moment, considering his words. “My brother was an extra in a movie once and started dating a stylist for one of the leads. He fibbed his way into getting us tickets for premieres, so I’ve made my way through a few high-fashion events.” He shrugged, fiddling with a thin silver bracelet along his wrist, were Jon knew the letter D was carved in delicate cursive. “I like it, too, you know? Dressing up for events. It makes me feel debonaire, like a spy.”

Jon shook his head in disagreement. “Makes me feel fake,” he mumbled, eyeing the lorry floor beneath them. “Like everyone knows I don’t belong. I hate having their eyes on me and knowing they’re better than me.”

Tim prodded Jon with his elbow gently, raising his eyebrows in a comforting manner. “That’s it though, isn’t it? We aren’t fake. We worked our way here. Hell, you’re the boss of an entire department, Jon. We’ve gotten to where we are in the Institute because we deserve to be here. And anyways, everyone at that party next week is gonna be fake. They’re pretending to care about our jobs, and we pretend to care about their money, and they pretend they’re even the ones who write the checks and not some snooty financial advisor in Wales.”

Jon shrugged, trying to keep himself from biting back that he wasn’t enough, didn’t earn this spot, that Sasha deserved it more than he did and was doing nothing to prove to Elias he was up to the monumental task of being the Head Archivist. He didn’t, though, and instead took a steadying breath, nodding to Tim’s comforting words.

“And anyways,” Tim continued, shrugging. “Even if we have to be fake for a night, it’ll be fun. We get to be a part of ‘the queen’s high society,’” he added in a high-pitched, overly fake RP accent, eliciting a chuckle from Jon. “And Rosie said the catering Elias orders is divine. Apparently we should keep an eye out for tiny samosas?”

As if on cue, the cab shuddered to a stop. Jon thanked the driver, paid, and followed Tim out.

The Institute looked different under the pretense of wealth and success. It was still the same building of course, but the floor was clear of the rain mats and the smooth marble floor paved the way to the library, the main sitting room of which had been cleared as a rather respectable grand hall to host a party. Tables lined the cordoned off books, hot plates and silver trays steaming slightly. Bottles of wine lined a bar, behind which a vested individual with slicked-back hair was pouring small glasses and taking orders. A quiet orchestra completed the scene, cello and piano in a delicate duet. Before tonight, Jon couldn’t have imagined this many people in the Institute alone, least of all the library. Not that it’s packed. There’s maybe thirty or so well-dressed individuals milling about, the din of conversation white noise in comparison to the floating of the music.

Tim’s hand is on his back, pressing kindly into his spine. Oh yes, he remembers dimly, and nods, allowing Tim to guide him into the library and hand him a glass of wine. They stand out a little, two beacons of color around what is a pretty drab spectrum of black and grey, save for a few spectacular dresses in the crowd. Jon finds he doesn’t mind it, except that it may lead to unwanted conversation. It’s not his looks he fears being judged on, but that he be found wanting when it came to his capabilities. He was always selectively self-conscious like that, some things utterly meaningless, others inexplicably important.

Jon isn’t a huge fan of wine, but he finds himself clinging to the glass as a lifeline as he and Tim meander through the crowds, largely ignored. The music is intoxicatingly simple; he finds himself caught up in the deep reverberations of the cello as they walk, feeling it deep in his chest. There were, in fact, samosas, as well as small cannoli, and he and Tim piled plates as high as they could without garnering stares.

There weren’t many people Jon recognized; he didn’t even see Elias as he scanned the crowd for faces. Wine in one hand, a plate in the other, he thought maybe the night wouldn’t be too bad.

Jon shivered, the sensation of being stared at prickling the back of his neck. He spun around, trying to appear casual, and spotted Elias at last. He was standing with a large man, broad and wearing a deep blue suit, scruffy beard a mix of tawny and white. Elias crooked his finger, smiling primly. As Jon made his way over to the pair-who he could’ve sworn he hadn’t seen previously, he was intercepted by a short bald man in a plum velour suit, leaning heavily on a cane.

“Ah, Archivist,” he smiled warmly, extending a hand to shake before seeing Jon’s hands were full, and nodding his head instead. “Congratulations on your promotion. Elias has told me he expects great things from you.”

Jon smiled politely, glancing over to see Elias and the other man gone again. Regretfully, he turned his attention back to the man. “It’s a shame about Gertrude, yes, but I’m hoping I can do her proud,” he said in a practiced tone. He glanced over his shoulder. Where was Tim? He was just with him.

“Of course, of course. I was hoping I could have a word?”

“W-with me?”

“Yes, you see, I was rather concerned when I heard Gertrude’s position had been left open. When Elias said you yourself where at the junction to take over, I wanted to meet you for myself. I worry about the Archivists in your institute, so many of you do such monumental work for so little recognition. Do you worry your work to be meaningless? Your name insignificant when it is all said and done?”

(It is this conversation he remembers, months later, when he demands to record Prentiss’ attack. He refuses to be another mystery, a name on a placard to be wondered about.)

“I-ah, yes? No?” What was the right answer here? Jon stammered out a half-assed reply about doing his best, midway through when he felt a hand firmly on his shoulder, where his neck and collarbone met. Glancing to his peripheral, he saw a golden ring, an eye, and was frustratingly grateful to hear the cool tones of Elias Bouchard over his shoulder.

“Now Simon,” he said, voice even, “you aren’t trying to scare my dear Archivist, are you?” He gave the shoulder a squeeze but remained put. “Jon, I believe you’ve heard of Simon Fairchild, a significant donor to our establishment.”

Jon nodded wordlessly, not really listening to the two bureaucrats delve off into some topic or other, craning his neck to look for Tim. The music had picked up, he registered dimly, a orchestral melody led by a violin, sharp and whimsical.

“Jon?” Another squeeze to his neck, and Jon tried not to wince. “Wouldn’t you agree,” Elias asked, voice patient at surface level. “That the best way to move forward is to restructure the Archive?”

Jon nodded, trying to recall the answer he had rehearsed. “Yes, ah—my team and I have worked quite hard at recording the statements a-and organizing them in a way that will last long-term.”

“Ah, what a delight,” Simon—Mr. Fairchild—said warmly. Jon was reminded of the voices adults would use when they spoke to him as a child, when his inane facts about space or etymology had moved from endearing to obnoxious.

The conversation lasted for what felt like days, Jon feeling rather like Mr. Fairchild’s cane: a statement piece, contributing nothing to the conversation but unable to find a smooth exit. Leading questions from Elias led to thankfully rehearsed answers before Simon found his own exit and walked away smoothly, eyes wide and taking the room in.

“I-I really should find Tim,” Jon muttered, glancing around the room anxiously.

“Nonsense. He’ll be back,” Elias said, releasing Jon’s shoulder and taking his elbow in turn, “I would like to introduce you to a few dear friends of mine. I believe Tim is keeping one occupied at present.” Jon sighed inwardly (and maybe outwardly as well) and allowed himself to be led around the room. His wine glass was empty, as was his plate and he found it snatched away by a member of catering. He had nothing to cling to, to keep his hands busy, and was struggling not to pull out his delicately-placed hair pin just so he could fiddle with something.

Jon was taken on a tour of old rich people of England. Names flew past him, conversation buzzed around him, and still Jon felt like nothing more than a well-dressed trophy to be ogled at. Did Gertrude do this every year, he wondered dimly. No wonder she disappeared. He fiddled with the ring on his finger, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times, speaking when needed, and feeling the swirl of the orchestra build up in pressure behind his eyes. The music was beautiful but hard to listen to. Something about it was ugly, hiding a dark secret behind the innocent melodies.

Eventually, the evening was so much of a blur that he couldn’t even begin to fathom how much time had passed. It may have been weeks, may have been merely twenty minutes. Jon glanced down for his watch before realizing he had taken it off at Tim’s flat and never strapped it back on. Pity. It only added to the dreamscape reality he seemed to be participating in.

At last, Elias led him towards the large burly man that was suddenly in view (hadn’t he always been? Jon wasn’t quite sure. The wine must have affected him more than he thought with the nerves) and Jon saw Tim, similarly trapped in conversation as he had been. He smiled apologetically as Jon and Elias approached and the larger man smiled warmly at the newcomers.

“Ah, Archivist. I hope you don’t mind I stole your companion away briefly. I was curious about the nitty-gritty of your Archive. Timothy here was very informative.” Tim winced at the use of his full name and a part of Jon smirked, relating to the sentiment of being called Jonathan or worse, John.

“I’m glad he can answer your questions.” Elias spoke before Jon could open his mouth. “I’m quite proud of the Archive staff. Jon chose well and I am sure the four of them are going to do great things together. Jon, you remember the Lukas family?”

Jon nodded, confused for a second before the man in front of him extended his hand. “Peter Lukas, at your service.” The hand was cold, and a feeling of dismay washed over Jon as he shook it. He couldn’t help the feeling that the shake of that hand was a seal of his fate.

The orchestral music had picked up, a swirl of strings and piano, ascending in pitch until it grated at Jon’s ears. No one else seemed to react to it, however, as the manic notes pulling at something inside Jon’s brain, something he couldn’t explain. It was almost like a migraine, but sharper and deep in his spine and in his ears. Elias let go of Jon’s arm at some point during the conversation with Peter Lukas, a discussion about boats, maybe? Travel? This was the conversation Elias was so keen on Jon being a part of?

As Jon felt that grip relax, the glint of the ring on Elias’ finger seeming to wink at him, Jon took a staggered step backwards. “Mr. Lukas, ah-Peter, it’s been a pleasure. Elias, ex-excuse me.”

Jon turned and dashed out of the library, feet carrying him on instinct through the winding halls and down the stairs of the institute, deep into the Archives. He stopped when he felt his feet echo against the cold, solid lino of the archival storage and bent over, hand on the wall, gasping in shallow, rapid bursts. It was too much, it was too much, he thought he could do this but it was too much and he wasn’t enough for them-

“Woah-boss.” Tim was there. When did Tim get here? Was he speaking out loud? Shit. “Jon, yeah-hey, Jon. I’m here. You’re okay. Take some deep breaths, okay? You’re going to black out if you’re not careful.”

Jon felt his suit jacket being shrugged off of him and the newly allowed freedom of his shoulder helped. He took a deep, sputtering breath, the sweet oxygen flooding his system and sharpening his thoughts.

“The-the music and the talking,” he said under his breath, Tim craning to listen without infringing on his personal space. “Too-too much.”

“The music? Jon, hey, hey, just focus on calming down, okay? That was a dick move of Elias to separate us immediately. I was talking to that Lukas guy for way too long. Not even sure what we talked about. I think he’s just one of those guys.” Jon smirked to himself as he focused on the floor beneath his feet, breathing slowly until his heart rate had resumed a normal rhythm.

“Says you,” he mumbled, eyes closing as he pressed his warm cheek to the cold wall.

“You bastard!” Jon felt a light swat on his shoulder. “I listen to people! I have meaningful conversation; just ask Martin and Sasha and Alexa from Library and Calvin from Artefact Storage. I am practically a professional listener.”

Jon smirked, satisfied with his jab and turned around, now pressing his back to the wall. “God, Tim, I do not want to go back in there.” It was hard to admit out loud, even if the evidence was written all over his face.

“Okay. So, we won’t.”

“What?” the answer was so mind-bogglingly simple, Jon reeled.

“We don’t want to be here. We’ve talked, we’ve eaten. Let’s just leave. I can tell Elias I had an emergency and you had to escort me home, like a true gentleman.”

“Lie to Elias? I feel like that cant end well.” The offer was tempting, Jon hadf to admit.

“I mean, Sasha has keys to my flat. I could ask her to start a fire, if you think that’s sufficient?”

Jon barked out a laugh at that. “Ah, no, lets save a fire for something big. Yes. Let’s-let’s go, Tim. And-er, I suppose I should thank you. For coming tonight. I know its not an ideal way to spend an evening.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim did a twirl, Jon’s own jacket slung over his shoulder. “I look hot. You think I’d pass up an opportunity to dress up like this? You’re dreaming.” He smirked and took Jon’s arm, leading him back up the stairwell. It felt different than Elias’s touch. That had been a cold tug, directional and leashed. This felt…snug, more like a link in a chain than anything else. Comforting, reassuring.

(Luckily, they weren’t laughed out of the Nando’s they popped into late at night. Lemon and herb and spices covered their hands, but they were careful to keep their jackets clean. Jon, when looking back on the evening; remembers this moment, talking and laughing and letting the fresh night air was over them. Elias, Lukas, and Fairchild be damned. He’d deal with that tomorrow.)

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fanfic #fanfic to a tea #jonathan sims #tim stoker #prompt fic #black-tie #elias bouchard #still a dick #peter lukas #simon fairchild #sasha james #me? write everyone BUT martin>#amazing

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