#grand conspiracy of ''silence''

[oacest]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)

[sweetrevxnge]

Ghosts In The Snow

Chapter Seven

Pairing: Vampire!Kylo Ren x Reader AU

Summary: Six long years had passed under the reign of the First Order. The bitter winters grew longer, and as they did, hope faded from the hearts of the citizens of Hosnian Prime. As a lieutenant in the Resistance cavalry, it was your duty to nurture that ember of hope. After a mission takes an unexpected turn, you are taken prisoner by a commander in the First Order, a mysterious man with an insatiable appetite—for violence, power, and you. In the coming days, you must keep the spark of your own hope alive from the dark confines of the Commander's castle.

Warnings: sexual content, violence, blood kink, gore, mentions/descriptions of injury and death

*concurrently being published on AO3 and Wattpad as well!

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Spotify Playlist

Word count: 3.6k

Chapter-specific CW: torture (what fun!), period-typical sexism

A/N: the dead speak! lmao at least that's what it feels like coming back after an entire YEAR??? I kinda got sucked into playing 1,200+ hours of baldur's gate 3, romancing a certain vampiric elf time and time again, which gave me plenty of inspiration to continue this fic. I never meant to be gone for so long, so if you're still interested in this story, please let me know!

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What have you done?

To say that you were restless would be an understatement. The first order of business when you returned to your chambers was finding a safe place to store your stolen weapon, and now, hours later, you had yet to succeed. 

You paced the room, wearing holes in the soles of your slippers as you wondered if you had made the right decision. It was unlike you to have sticky fingers, but then again, these were unprecedented times. Boldness meant survival.

Above all, you feared Ren was privy to your thievery, despite his silence on the walk back to your chambers. The prick of blood seemed enough to distract him for a moment, or perhaps he was practiced in hiding his tells. Either way, the consequences of him knowing gnawed at your sanity.

Rey had tended the hearth while you were away, ensuring your chambers were kept warm and filled with the familiar scent of dry wood. Her diligence as a handmaid proved to be an unforeseen complication in hiding your contraband.

Instinct urged you to keep it close to your bed, but reason told you it would be found too easily there. Same with the lounges circling the hearth, whose velour cushions could conceal many things if asked to. Though a dagger lodged in one’s rear would raise many concerns, as well as promise unspeakable punishments to come.

For these reasons, you ultimately settled on the bookcase.

Towering in the corner was a collection of books and texts, dense enough to put even the most curious scholars to sleep. A perfect place to hide a dagger.

Dragging a footstool over as a makeshift ladder, you reached for a leather-bound book embossed with gold letters along its spine. Imperium Nunquam Fuit. Though written in Old Basic, you understood its meaning.

The Empire That Never Was. A phrase coined by Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin to describe the destruction of Alderaan during the Revolution. An unsavory way to speak about a fallen civilization—considering he was the man responsible.

You made quick work of hollowing the historical text, skimming the page you’d turned to before defacing it. This passage detailed the last of the Imperial attacks on Alderaan, near the end of the Rebellion. One of the more infamous sieges of the war, earning its place in history with a tithe of blood and destruction.

The lines of script told the story of how Imperial soldiers salted Alderaan’s lands and butchered the citizens—babes and crones included. The Empire was thorough, wiping out an entire civilization over a mere conspiracy. With few survivors, and even fewer successors, Alderaanian blood was a rarity. You supposed that was one of the many things that set General Organa apart from the rest.

Considering the contents, it was a book of little interest to the First Order—a perfect hiding place.

The point of your blade pierced the parchment with ease, as if slicing through a block of butter rather than a thousand-page text. Tragic as it was to ruin a book like this, what other choice did you have? Hosnian Prime’s Grand Archives likely stored dozens of copies; one locked away in the depths of the First Order’s fortress would not be missed.

The fit was snug, but it would do for now. As for the pages you’d carved out, they laid in a pile at your feet, a messy reminder that your room was not private.

You slammed the book shut and returned it, hurrying to clean the shreds of paper scattered across the red carpets. Despite your efforts, the fragments proved too difficult to clean with just your hands alone, forcing you to sweep them into your skirts.

As you carried the pieces to the hearth, a gentle knock sounded through the oak doors. “Gods,” you muttered as you rushed towards the fire, dumping the pages unceremoniously onto the crackling wood.

Another rap on the door.

“Just a moment, please!” It was impossible to hide the panic in your voice as you prodded at the withering pages with an iron poker. Time seemed to slow as you watched the flames engulf the ink, turning Alderaan’s history to ash once more.

“It’s me, my lady.” Muffled by the wood, Rey’s voice was barely audible over the fire, hissing with fresh fodder. If any good came from her being your visitor, it was her staunch etiquette. She would not barge in uninvited—unlike some of the castle’s residents.

Brushing the slivers of evidence from your gown, you opened the doors, mindful of the lingering ash in the hearth. “My apologies. I was…” You cleared your throat, smoothing out your skirts before finishing your lie. “Indecent.”

Demure as ever, Rey dropped her gaze as she curtseyed before you. “It’s no matter, my lady. I was sent to fetch you; the Supreme Leader requests your presence.”

The moment his name left her lips, cotton filled your mouth, forcing its way down your throat as you swallowed your fear. What reason would the Supreme Leader have to summon you—at this late hour, no less?

Your thoughts immediately turned to Commander Ren. Perhaps he had noticed your theft after all and reported your offence to Snoke. If that were true, you vowed to slice his throat first. 

“Did he give a reason?” you asked, trying to maintain your resolve.

Rey’s throat knocked in her slender neck. “He did not say.”

Part of you wanted to take the damned blade with you, but recklessness wouldn’t serve you. Though you did not recognize him as your ruler, you were not keen on adding treason to your ledger.

You sighed, coming to stand beside Rey at the door, shoulders pressed back and hands folded over your lap. “I’m surprised he didn’t send you with manacles.”

She said nothing, but the trace smile on her lips told you all that you needed to know. You couldn’t blame her for watching her tongue around you. Given what transpired last night, you would do the same in her position.

The two of you walked in near silence to the throne chambers, passing countless tall windows with panes stained a deep red, dark enough to block most light from entering. What little light did manage to seep through painted the halls crimson, giving the appearance of blood spilling over the floor.

The burned pages of text flashed in your mind.

Every step forward was committed to memory, including the number of paces between notable fixtures, as well as where each one stood in relation to your chambers. Still, there was no sign of an access point in this section of the castle. But your resolve did not falter. If there was a means of entry into this accursed fortress, there must also be a means of escape.

As you rounded the corner to another corridor, you glanced at your handmaid, noticing that her usual singular bun had evolved into three smaller ones, meeting the nape of her neck in a uniform line.

“You’ve changed your hair.” The observation came out as more of a question than a comment.

“Yes, my lady,” she said, delicate fingers reaching to touch the one near her collar. “An effort to be closer to the gods.”

You furrowed your brows. “How’s that?”

“As there are three of them, there are three knots. We servants are forbidden to worship openly, so we find other ways.” She closed her eyes for a moment, tilting her chin towards her chest. “Divine strength allows clarity of the mind.”

While you were not necessarily a pious woman, you were familiar enough with the gods from your upbringing to understand what she meant. As a child, you often prayed at your family’s shrine, asking for a bountiful harvest, good health, and, most of all, peace in the realm. For many years, they fulfilled your wishes. Now, your faith provided you with little comfort.

“Certainly,” you said, not wanting to discuss the subject any further. “Are we nearly there?”

“Just down this hall,” she said, her tone clipped. Either she was annoyed with the change of subject, or just as uneasy about seeing the Supreme Leader as you were.

True to her word, Rey came to a stop near the end of the corridor, leaving a short distance between you and the two looming oak doors, with iron enforcements woven into the grain and a guard posted on either side. Their faces were concealed by crimson veils, the signature regalia of the Praetorian Guard. Those tasked with protecting the ruler of these lands, whether they carried the title of Chancellor, Emperor, or Supreme Leader.

The warmth drained from your face at the sight.

“This is where I leave you, my lady.” Her face lacked its usual peachy hue, her freckles washed away by the candlelight. “The Supreme Leader does not allow us to enter these chambers, save for when he is passing judgment upon us.”

Standing before the faceless guards, you understood her unease.

“Will you be here to escort me back?” you asked, palms growing damp as you clutched the fabric of your gown.

“It is late. I must turn in for the evening.” She shifted her weight, eyes darting between you and the guards, whose presence seemed to loom over you from meters away. “Besides, I should think you do not require my assistance from this point.”

With that, she turned on her heels and retreated, her steps muted as she faded into the stretching darkness of the hallway. Turning to face the guards, dread settled in your stomach. Surely these warriors would not accompany you back to your chambers.

You studied them for a moment, the strategist in your mind seeking to understand what threat they posed. Both were tall and well-fed, given the size of their uniforms. The one to your left carried a bisento, while the other held a tall voulge, both equally unnerving. Their blades were pristine, foreign to combat. You wondered if the same could be said for those wielding them, too.

As if seeking to test your theory, they readied their weapons as you approached, each blade humming as it sliced through the air.

You came to a halt, the hair on the back of your neck now stiff. “I’ve been summoned by the Supreme Leader.”

The two remained poised to strike for a long moment before returning to their sentry state, offering one another a brisk nod as they pushed the heavy doors open, revealing the grand throne room. With tentative steps, you approached, pausing at the threshold.

Black marble columns lined the walkway to the throne, each manned by a knight of the Praetorian Guard, their crimson armor matching the First Order banners draped along the cobbled walls. Above the throne was the room’s sole window, with red stained panels filling the space between the spokes of the First Order insignia. Six steps carved of the same dark mineral as the columns led to the throne, lined with black velvet upholstery and a towering slate backing. Perched comfortably in the seat was Supreme Leader Snoke, draped in golden robes that flowed over his limbs like smelted ore, barely concealing the matching jewelry wrapped snugly around his fingers.

The paragon of humility.

He was joined by another: the fire-haired General Hux. His gaze snapped to you as the doors creaked open, beady eyes piercing you like darts from across the chamber.

“Ah, my guest of honor,” Snoke crooned, clasping his hands before his chest in delight. His tone fell icy as he turned to address the General. “Leave us.”

Confusion spread across his pale features as he turned to face Snoke once more. “But, Supreme Leader, there is still much to be discussed.”

“Perhaps I did not make myself clear. You are to leave these chambers at once, General Hux, or you will be removed.” Snoke’s gravelly voice rumbled through the hall with the force of a thousand footsteps, and reluctantly, Hux obeyed.

You watched the scene play out before you from the safety of the doorway, your feet rooted to the floor.

Snoke relaxed in his chair once more, beckoning you in with a hand gesture. “Please, come in, darling.”

Willing your feet to move, you did as he asked, eyes flitting between the Praetorian guard and the approaching General Hux, whose expression could only be described as irate as he brushed past you, black coat fluttering behind him.

Your heart was lodged in your throat as you neared the throne, feeling like a lamb being shepherded towards the maw of a lion. You stopped in line with the last of the guards before the Supreme Leader, leaving some distance still.

Snoke watched you with keen eyes, a stark contrast to his stoic front. “I do hope you are well, my dear. I can only imagine the days spent in anticipation of your wedding are agonizing.”

You frowned. “Is that why you summoned me? To ask me about my wedding?”

“Of course not. But pleasantries are the foundation of any proper conversation.” The humor fell from his voice. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, Supreme Leader.” The words left a sour taste in your mouth, like wine crafted from grapes plucked too early.

Satisfied, he settled back into his throne, resting his hands over the ornate armrests. “See? Deference needn’t be cumbersome.”

His mocking tone made your vision red, but you held your tongue. Invisible threads tied you to him and his guards, each one pulled taught in the silence. It would take nothing more than a misstep to cause one of them to snap.

He spoke again, this time with authority. “It has come to my attention that you are unaware of what is expected of you as a noblewoman.”

You let out a terse exhale. “I suppose I am. Perhaps that is because of the conditions under which I am becoming one.”

A thin smile curled on the Supreme Leader’s lips. “These are unprecedented times, lieutenant.”

The emphasis on your title made your skin crawl. Snoke was calculated, sadistic. With his power, he was untouchable. The red veils surrounding you served as a constant reminder of his invulnerability.

“Now, I am curious. How did you manage that?” he added, tilting his head in intrigue. “A commoner like yourself rising to the rank of a commanding officer is no easy feat—even more so for a woman.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I hardly see how this is relevant to my new status as a noblewoman.”

Despite your outward naivety, you knew too well what being a noblewoman would entail. You’d known from the moment your betrothal was announced. You were to be the docile wife of a commander, providing him an heir, a spare, and a warm bed whenever he pleased. Your military career would be swept away by the title of Lady Ren, all traces of your independence lost to time. You couldn’t think of anything less appealing.

“As a Lady of the First Order, you will be granted privileges seldom given to others, such as this.” Snoke motioned to the surrounding space, and you found yourself unable to decipher his meaning.

He isn’t referring to having an audience with the ruler of the realm as a privilege, is he?

He continued, “The safety of the castle. Our stronghold. You will be protected within its walls.”

Oh. Of course.

You suppressed a scoff. “I find that hard to believe, considering Commander Ren has attempted to strangle me twice over since my arrival.”

“I see,” he mused, pressing an index finger to his lips in thought. “My mercurial underling. If only his mind were half as quick as his temper.”

Somehow, your first instinct was to defend Commander Ren from his inflaming remark. While the Supreme Leader was correct about Ren’s temperament, he didn’t see the side of him that you saw—however infrequently it may have showed itself. There was a tenderness to him, fleeting in nature, like a luminescent star ripping through the night sky. You saw it in his eyes as he sat before your hearth, again when he laced your bodice.

Or perhaps what you felt was just the lingering effects of his charm.

Snoke’s rough voice broke your reverie. “Nevertheless, I’m sure Commander Ren had his reasons. Just as I’m sure whatever actions may have led to these outbursts will cease henceforth, won’t they?”

Before you could answer, a searing pain sliced through your skull, its barbed tendrils reaching into the deepest part of your consciousness. Every muscle in your body became succinctly rigid, frozen in place as an invisible force suspended you midair. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to call out; for the gods, for your mother—even for Commander Ren.

“You will behave yourself, insolent girl, or you will be disposed of.”

Despite your efforts, no sound would come from your throat. An eternity seemed to pass as the Supreme Leader kept you trapped, holding your feet to the fire of his anger. Mustering every ounce of strength, you forced your chin down in agreement, hot tears distorting your vision.

Without moving a muscle, he relinquished his hold on you, your knees cracking against the marble floor in an instant. The violet fabric of your gown pooled around you like the blood of a slain enemy, collecting the tears that fell from your chin.

Before you could find your voice, the creak of wood and subsequent rustling of armor behind you swiped your attention. The guards had readied their weapons, aiming at something other than you.

You flinched as the doors slammed shut, followed by a heavy—yet quick—footfall.

“What is the meaning of this?” Commander Ren’s voice was biting, filled with untamed fury as he entered the grand hall. His cloak rippled behind him like the night sea, silver sword in hand as he marched forward.

You scurried backwards on your tender palms, caught between his rage and the throne. He drew closer, only stopping at the intersection of two of the guards’ blades.

“Commander Ren, what a welcome surprise,” Snoke crooned. “Your bride was just leaving.”

His eyes found yours in an instant—wild and dark. Silently, you pleaded for his cooperation. If he were to strike at the guard, your life would be forfeit.

Outnumbered by eight blades, he stowed his own. “What have you done?” he demanded.

Though he was looking at you, his question was directed at the man atop the throne, whose enthusiasm at his subordinate’s display was palpable.

“Nothing you have not already done yourself,” Snoke growled. With that, he stood to his feet and stepped down from his throne, closing the gap you’d deliberately left and standing over you. “See her back to her chambers, Commander.”

A snarl flashed across Ren’s face as he pushed past the guards and kneeled before you, extending a gloved hand for you. Though he was quiet, his eyes were heavy with guilt.

With legs like a new foal, you accepted his help, gripping his hand like a lifeline as you stood. “Thank you.” The words floated from your mouth, burning your throat as they passed through.

He only nodded in return, guiding you away from the chamber. Because of his intrusion, the outer guards were now sealed inside, allowing some privacy in the dimly lit hall.

Ren came to a halt, moving both of his cool hands to rest on your shoulders, inspecting you. “Are you hurt?”

Averting your eyes, you shook your head dismissively, ignoring how your knees seemed to rattle with every step.

He let out an amused hum. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you will, Commander,” you managed to say through your dry mouth. “I’m fine.”

At that, the two of you carried on in silence, meandering through the castle, passing knights and servants alike down each corridor. Ren’s emotion rolled off of him like heat from a flame, slowly dwindling the further you were from the throne room.

As your legs regained their strength, so did your voice. “How did you know I was in there?”

“Does that really matter?”

“I’d say so. For all I know, you’re the reason he summoned me in the first place,” you argued, head spinning as you tried to recognize your surroundings. Only when you realized these walls were unfamiliar did your pace falter. “Stop!”

He obeyed, meeting you where you stood. “What?”

“Answer me.”

He let out a terse breath. “No, I am not the reason he summoned you. Come, we can discuss this later.”

At that, he began his stride again, but you didn’t follow. “No. I will not take one more step. Not before I know where you are taking me, as it is clearly not my chambers.”

“I’m bringing you somewhere private,” he finally answered.

“Are my chambers not private enough?”

“By the gods,” he hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “As I’m sure you’re well aware, it is unbecoming of me to be seen entering your chambers before we are wed.”

You scoffed. “How pragmatic of you.”

Ignoring your comment, he continued, “After your encounter with the Supreme Leader, I think it’s best if we avoid unnecessary speculation—for your sake.”

You couldn’t argue with him. If Snoke was inclined to submit you to the rawest agony over the slightest display of defiance, you could only imagine what else he was capable of.

“Fine,” you conceded, seeing reason in his words. “But let it be known that my cooperation does not reflect my satisfaction with this decision.”

A smile ghosted over his lips. “I know.”

[quinny19]

Rivals part 1

Hawks x Reader Rival-to-Lovers

Chapter 1: The Six Winged Hero ( hate at first sight)

Hawks knew the moment he saw you that he didn't like you.

Scratch that—he hated you.

Because there you were, standing in the middle of the Hero Public Safety Commission’s grand office, six enormous, pristine, feathery wings spread out behind you like some kind of celestial being. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the smug look on your face told him that you knew exactly how much this bothered him.

"Why the hell does she get six?" was Hawks' first thought.

The second thought? "I bet I can still fly faster."

The officials introduced you as the newest rising pro hero, a powerhouse with unmatched aerial speed, strength, and battle precision. A Seraphim-like quirk, they called it. "Seraph"—even your hero name was flashy.

Hawks plastered on his usual lazy grin, hands in his pockets. "Six wings, huh? Bit excessive, don’t you think?"

You blinked at him before tilting your head. "Oh, sorry—were you feeling insecure?"

His eye twitched.

And thus, the rivalry was born.

Scenario 1: The Speed Challenge (Because Everything’s a Competition)

It started with a simple mission—a joint patrol of the city. Should’ve been easy. Should’ve been peaceful.

But the moment you both took off, Hawks smirked. "Bet I can finish my patrol before you."

You, mid-yawn, stretched your arms. "Bet I can do it while half-asleep."

And you did.

Not only did you clear your patrol in record time, but you also managed to rescue a stranded cat, stop a runaway truck, and still arrive back at the agency before Hawks—while barely awake.

"Unbelievable," Hawks grumbled as he landed, wings twitching. "You weren’t even trying."

You gave him a lazy smile. "Maybe I’m just that good."

Mirko, who had been watching from the sidelines, burst out laughing. "Oh man, Bird Boy, I think she just flexed on you without even trying!"

Hawks scowled. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, rabbit."

Scenario 2: The Media Fiasco

The problem started when some tabloid snapped a photo of you and Hawks during a mission—standing a little too close, wings slightly overlapping.

"New Pro Hero Power Couple? Wings and Love in the Air!" the headline read.

Cue immediate denial from both of you.

"Absolutely not," you said, crossing your arms.

"In your dreams," Hawks scoffed.

But the internet? Oh, it thrived on the rumors. Fan edits, shipping hashtags, conspiracy theories about "secret dates"—it was a mess.

Endeavor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just ignore it."

Easy to say. Harder when the next press conference had a reporter boldly asking, "So, when’s the wedding?"

Hawks nearly choked on his coffee. You? You just blinked.

"Ah, well," you said smoothly, "Hawks would have to admit I’m better than him first. And we all know that’ll never happen."

The entire room exploded in laughter.

Hawks shot you a glare. "Oh, you are so dead."

Scenario 3: The Last Piece of Food War

It was supposed to be a normal lunch at the agency breakroom. Then came the last piece of takoyaki.

You and Hawks both reached for it.

A stare-down commenced.

"You take it, and you admit I’m the better flyer," you said.

Hawks smirked. "You take it, and you admit you like me."

Your eye twitched. "Nice try, Pigeon Boy."

"You blinked. That means I win."

You lunged for the takoyaki.

Hawks dodged.

Best Jeanist, watching from the corner, hummed. "Ah, the delicate threads of fate weave a complicated romance…"

Both you and Hawks turned to glare at him.

"Shut up, Jeanist!"

Scenario 4: Forced Partner Mission (AKA Hell)

When the Commission paired you and Hawks for an undercover mission, the entire hero community knew it was going to be chaos.

Disguised as a couple infiltrating a high-class villain gathering, you had to act the part.

"You two need to look natural," the handler warned.

"Define ‘natural,’" Hawks said, arms crossed.

"Like you actually tolerate each other."

Silence.

Then Hawks sighed, dramatically draping an arm around your shoulder. "What’s up, honey~?" he said in the most obnoxious voice possible.

You elbowed him. Hard.

"Ow—damn, woman!"

"Call me ‘honey’ again, and I’ll make you a flightless bird."

The handler groaned. "This is a disaster."

Scenario 5: The Almost Confession (But Not Really, Because Denial is Key)

It happened after a rough mission. You were both exhausted, sitting on the rooftop overlooking the city, wings slightly battered.

Hawks nudged your arm. "You good?"

You exhaled. "I’ve had worse."

A comfortable silence.

Then, quietly, Hawks muttered, "If you were my type—which you aren’t—you’d be almost tolerable."

You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "If you weren’t so annoying, I might almost respect you."

Another pause.

Then—

"Nah," you both said at the same time.

A smirk tugged at Hawks' lips. "Bet I can heal faster than you."

You rolled your eyes. "Bet I can ignore you longer."

The rivalry continued.

But the unspoken warmth between you?

That was another battle entirely.

[bumbled-bees]

Lily's Tumblr Ban and How Not to React

Lily's response to her Tumblr ban perfectly encapsulates her impulsive nature, her tendency to rewrite events to fit her own narrative, and her belief that retaliation is always justified.

The ban itself was entirely self-inflicted—she directly violated Tumblr’s policies by telling someone to "go play in traffic." Yet rather than acknowledging her own actions, she immediately spun a false narrative, assuming her critics had orchestrated the ban and rallying her audience to mass report Sai and Ant in retaliation. This was done live on stream, with her wife even asking if they should stop recording before engaging in a blatant act of harassment. Lily, in her usual arrogance, refused.

Then, of course, when the consequences of her behavior became clear, she attempted to cover it up. She took down the stream, edited out the segment where she encouraged mass reporting, and reuploaded a sanitized version. This is a classic Lily move—she thrives on plausible deniability. If something incriminating is recorded, she erases or edits it. If a past statement contradicts her current claim, she pretends it never happened and hopes no one has receipts.

Her belief in "turnabout is fair play" is another glaring example of her skewed moral compass. She genuinely seems to believe that if she perceives herself as wronged, she has free reign to retaliate in any way she sees fit. There’s no weighing of right or wrong, no consideration of proportionality—just pure, knee-jerk vengeance. This is why she’s so quick to call for dogpiles, spread misinformation, and lash out at critics.

The irony? This entire meltdown was over a punishment she objectively deserved. Her ban wasn’t some grand conspiracy—it was a direct result of her habitual use of thinly veiled "kill yourself" messages. She’s been doing this for years, defaulting to phrases like:

“Go play in traffic.”

“Drink paint thinner.”

"Take a visit off the edge of a tall building"

This is how Lily operates. She creates the conditions for her own downfall, refuses to take responsibility, and then plays the victim while lashing out at others. Every time she’s punished, she rewrites the story to make herself the martyr and convinces her fans to go after whoever she blames for her latest self-inflicted wound.

And Lily's response to being called out—“Wow, none of that happened, you lying piece of shit”—is a textbook example of her habitual gaslighting and outright denial of reality.

This is a perfect encapsulation of how she handles being caught. Instead of addressing the situation, acknowledging her actions, or even providing an alternative explanation, she defaults to complete denial, no matter how blatant the evidence against her is. It doesn’t matter that the stream happened, that people saw it, that her own wife asked if they should stop recording—in Lily’s mind, if she says it didn’t happen, then it simply didn’t.

This pattern is something we've seen over and over again:

Deny, even in the face of overwhelming evidence.

If evidence exists, erase it, edit it, or rewrite the story.

If people persist, double down and resort to hostility.

There’s no measured response, no argument, no attempt to justify or explain. Just pure, aggressive dismissal. Her approach isn’t to debate, defend, or clarify—it’s to bully and intimidate her critics into silence.

Of course, this particular lie is especially easy to disprove. The moment she encouraged mass reporting, she was live on stream, with witnesses and recordings. That’s why she had to scrub the evidence so quickly. But because she believes her audience will take her at her word without question, she assumes she can rewrite history in real time.

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

hi! can I please request carlos x female autistic! reader where the reader is having a off day and just needs to be distracted (can include smut if you’d like)

- a fellow female autistic :)

Cloud Gazing and Quiet Moments||Carlos sainz x fem!Autistic!reader

Summary- after a tough day Carlos distracts you with a drive and gazing at the clouds

Word count 471

Carlos had always been patient, but today, he could sense something different about you. You’d been quieter than usual, your responses short and your usual spark dulled. He noticed the way your hands fidgeted, your eyes darting to avoid his, the weight of the off day pressing on you like an invisible fog.

He didn’t push or ask too many questions. Carlos knew that sometimes words only made things harder, so he took a different approach.

“Hey,” he said gently, breaking the silence. “Wanna go for a drive?”

You glanced at him, hesitant, but the idea of being somewhere else—anywhere else—sounded appealing.

Minutes later, you were in his car, the gentle hum of the engine filling the quiet. Carlos didn’t bombard you with conversation. Instead, he let the road do the talking, driving through streets lined with trees, the sun peeking through the branches.

After a while, he pulled into the parking lot of a small, quiet park. Grabbing a blanket from the backseat, he gestured for you to follow. You found a spot under a big oak tree, and he spread out the blanket, sitting down with a grin.

“I brought snacks,” he said, pulling out a bag of chips and a bottle of your favorite drink. “Thought you might need a little pick-me-up.”

You sat down next to him, the soft rustle of leaves overhead blending with the faint chirping of birds. Carlos handed you the snacks and started talking—not about anything heavy, but random, silly things. Like the first time he tried to make pancakes and ended up with a kitchen disaster or the conspiracy theory his neighbor swore by.

He didn’t ask how you were feeling, didn’t try to fix anything. He just was there his presence a quiet reminder that you weren’t alone.

Eventually, a small smile tugged at your lips as you bit into a chip. Carlos noticed but didn’t point it out. Instead, he leaned back, hands behind his head, and looked up at the sky.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice light, “if you stare at the clouds long enough, they start to look like weird animals. That one looks like a llama.”

You tilted your head, squinting at the fluffy cloud he was pointing at. “That’s a duck, Carlos.”

He gasped, mock offended. “A duck? No way, that’s definitely a llama. Maybe with a weird beak.”

You chuckled softly, and the sound made him glance at you with a satisfied smile.

For the rest of the afternoon, you sat there together, pointing out clouds, munching on snacks, and letting the weight of the day melt away. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it didn’t need to be. Carlos had a way of grounding you, of making the tough days a little easier to bear.

And for now, that was more than enough.

[novaursa]

- Note: So, I'll give this a go here. Those who followed my work on AO3 will notice some changes, but the gist is the same. Also, please be kind. If you don't like it, just scroll over it. I post stuff for people to enjoy them and escape the burdens of their lives with me for a while. There is no grand conspiracy here. Just read and relax. Also, this is an AU fanfic and my own personal toxic blend of the show and the book(s).

- Title: zōbrie ānogar

- Rating: Explicit (18+)

- Romance: (Aegon II/OFC)

- Warning: All flags are up for this work. Aegon is also a warning on his own.

- Summary: It was written by Archmaester Gyldayn that on the day Princess Vaella Targaryen was born she was supposed to die. Until she fed upon her twin, Baelon. And when she turned one and five, she sought her end in the lair of Cannibal, in Dragonmont. But instead of feasting upon her, the dragon wept with her. And Archmaester had written a lengthy thesis on how wild dragon recognized a kindred soul in the Princess, as they both dined on their kin.

- Word count: 9 000+

- Parts: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Final

Part 1

The air was thick with anticipation and the clang of swords as the tournament raged on in the fields outside King's Landing. Knights clashed in the lists, banners fluttered, and the crowd roared, their cheers echoing through the castle walls. Yet inside the royal chambers, the atmosphere was tense and fraught with fear.

Queen Aemma Arryn was in labor, her cries of pain mingling with the distant sounds of celebration. King Viserys I Targaryen paced the length of the chamber, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, worry etched deeply into his face. This was the moment he had long awaited, the birth of his male heir. But the labor was not progressing as it should.

Maester Mellos hovered nearby, his brow furrowed as he consulted with the midwives. "The babe is in breech, Your Grace," he said, his voice grave. "We cannot turn it. If we do not act soon, we will lose them both."

Viserys halted, his heart pounding. "What can be done?" he demanded, though he feared the answer.

"We can attempt to save the child," Mellos replied, his tone heavy with the weight of the decision. "But it will mean sacrificing the queen."

The king's breath caught in his throat. He looked at Aemma, her face pale and slick with sweat, her eyes filled with agony and desperation. She had given him so much, had borne the burden of his ambitions and dreams. And now, he was faced with a choice that would haunt him forever.

"Aemma," he whispered, kneeling beside her and taking her hand. "My love, they say... they say they can save the babe."

Aemma's eyes met his, wide with fear and pain. "Do what you must," she gasped. "Save our child, Viserys. Promise me."

Viserys felt his heart shatter, but he nodded, pressing a kiss to her trembling hand. "I promise."

The maester and midwives moved quickly, their faces set with grim determination. Viserys stood back, his hands shaking, as they prepared for the terrible task. He could hear the clamor of the tournament outside, a cruel reminder of the celebration that had turned into a nightmare.

The room was filled with the sounds of Aemma's cries and the maester's steady instructions. Viserys felt his world narrowing to this moment, every second stretching into an eternity. And then, a piercing wail broke through the tension.

"It's a boy," one of the midwives exclaimed, holding up the tiny, wriggling form. The babe's cry was strong, a sign of life and promise.

Viserys felt a brief surge of relief, but it was short-lived. "Wait," the maester said, his eyes widening in surprise. "There is another."

The midwives worked quickly, and soon another child was brought into the world, a girl this time, smaller and silent. The room fell into a hushed silence as they examined her, worry etched on their faces.

"She is not crying," one of the midwives whispered, her voice trembling.

Viserys stepped forward, his heart aching. "Vaella," he said softly, naming her after an ancient Targaryen ancestor. "My daughter, Vaella."

The maester nodded, though his expression remained grave. "She lives, but she is weak."

The twins were placed side by side, Baelon strong and crying, while Vaella lay silent and still. Viserys looked down at them, his heart torn between joy and sorrow. He reached out to touch Vaella's tiny hand, and in that moment, her eyes fluttered open, indigo and bright, meeting his with a quiet intensity.

"She will be strong," he murmured, a fierce determination filling him. "She will live."

The room was filled with the mingled sounds of the babes and the distant roar of the tournament, a poignant reminder of the life and death that intertwined in the halls of power. Viserys knew that this day would be remembered, not just for the birth of his heirs, but for the choices and sacrifices that had marked its passing.

...

A few hours later, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen arrived at the nursery, her heart heavy with grief for her mother. She had loved Aemma deeply and the pain of her loss cut through her like a blade. The celebrations outside had turned into whispers of tragedy, and the joy of new life was mingled with the sorrow of death.

Rhaenyra’s steps were slow and measured as she walked through the halls, her mind reeling from the news. She understood, intellectually, why her father had made the choice he did, but it did little to soothe the anger and resentment boiling within her. She had wanted a brother, yes, but not at the cost of her mother’s life. And now, not only had she lost her mother, but her father had chosen a name for her sister without consulting her. She had wanted her sister to be named Visenya, after their legendary ancestor.

As she entered the nursery, she found the room softly lit and quiet, save for the occasional murmur of the maids tending to the infants. Rhaenyra’s gaze fell first upon her brother, Baelon, lying peacefully in his cradle, a small dragon egg nestled beside him, warm and glowing with promise.

"He's so small," she whispered to herself, reaching out to touch Baelon's tiny hand. His fingers curled around hers instinctively, and she felt a pang of tenderness mixed with her sorrow.

Then, she turned her attention to the cradle beside her brother's. Her newborn sister, Vaella, lay there, wide awake and silent. Vaella was pale, almost translucent, with an ethereal quality that unsettled Rhaenyra. Unlike Baelon, there was no dragon egg to keep her warm, yet the babe seemed content, her indigo eyes staring up at Rhaenyra with a calm intensity.

Rhaenyra knelt beside the cradle, her heart aching. "Hello, Vaella," she said softly, her voice trembling. "I'm your sister, Rhaenyra."

"Hello, little sister," Rhaenyra said softly, reaching out to gently stroke Vaella’s cheek. The baby did not react, her gaze unblinking. "Father named you Vaella, but I would have called you Visenya. A name worthy of a queen."

Vaella’s tiny hand moved slightly, as if reaching out, and Rhaenyra took it gently in her own. She marveled at how small and delicate Vaella was, a stark contrast to the strong and robust Baelon.

"She doesn't cry," one of the maids said quietly, approaching Rhaenyra. "She hasn't made a sound since she was born."

Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes never leaving Vaella's face. "She will be strong," she said, echoing her father's earlier words. "She has to be."

The maid hesitated before speaking again. "Your Grace, we were instructed to place a dragon egg in Vaella's cradle as well, but..."

"But what?" Rhaenyra asked, her tone sharp.

"We couldn't find one that seemed... right," the maid replied, her voice faltering. "The eggs are all warm, but none of them felt suitable for her."

Rhaenyra’s gaze hardened. "Then find one," she ordered. "She deserves the same chance as Baelon."

The maid bowed her head and quickly left the room. Rhaenyra turned back to Vaella, her expression softening. "I wanted you to be named Visenya. A name worthy of a queen," she whispered, brushing a finger gently across Vaella's cheek. "But Vaella is a strong name too. You will make it strong."

Vaella’s eyes remained fixed on her, unblinking and serene. Rhaenyra felt a strange sense of calm wash over her, as if the silent babe was imparting some of her tranquility.

She leaned closer, her voice a soft murmur. "I will protect you, Vaella. I will protect both of you. Mother's gone, but you have me. And I will not let anything happen to you."

Rhaenyra stayed there, watching over her siblings, her heart heavy with the weight of her promises and the sorrow of her loss. She knew that the days ahead would be fraught with challenges and dangers, but in that quiet moment, surrounded by the fragile beginnings of new life, she found a glimmer of hope and determination.

The nursery was a haven of calm amidst the storm, and as the first light of dawn began to filter through the windows, Rhaenyra vowed that she would honor her mother's memory by standing strong for her family, no matter the cost.

...

The next day dawned with a hushed stillness that seemed to permeate the entire Red Keep. The jubilation of the previous day had been tempered by the tragedy of Queen Aemma's death, but the court still held a flicker of hope in the promise of the newborn twins. Servants moved quietly through the halls, attending to their duties with a solemn air.

In the nursery, the maids and servants who had tended to the twins throughout the night were greeted by a scene of unexpected and harrowing sorrow. The once lively Baelon, who had been sleeping peacefully beside his dragon egg, was now eerily still in his cradle. His tiny chest no longer rose and fell with breath, his eyes closed in eternal slumber.

The discovery sent a shockwave through the nursery. Gasps of horror and grief filled the room as the realization settled in. The King's heir, his long-awaited son, was dead. The dragon egg that had been placed beside him now seemed like a cruel mockery of the life that had been so abruptly extinguished.

"Fetch the Maester," one of the servants choked out, her hands trembling as she tried to comprehend the tragedy before her. "Quickly!"

Maester Mellos arrived swiftly, his face a mask of concern as he took in the scene. He approached Baelon's cradle with a heavy heart, gently placing his fingers against the babe's tiny neck, hoping against hope for a sign of life. There was none. He bowed his head, his heart sinking with the weight of the loss.

As Mellos turned to the cradle beside Baelon's, a sudden and piercing wail filled the air. It was a sound so unexpected and startling that it caused everyone in the room to freeze. Vaella, the silent and still babe, had come alive with a cry that seemed to resonate with a power far beyond her fragile form.

"By the Seven," Mellos muttered, his eyes wide with astonishment. He moved to Vaella's side, noting the newfound vitality in her eyes, the strength in her cries. She was more alive now than she had been since her birth.

The servants exchanged uneasy glances, their grief for Baelon now mingled with a sense of unease. Mellos looked down at the wailing Vaella, his mind racing. It was an old superstition, a whisper from the past: when one twin died, the other sometimes took their soul, their strength. It was said to be a bad omen, a dark portent.

Mellos kept his thoughts to himself, though the notion unsettled him deeply. "It is a tragedy," he said aloud, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "The Princess Vaella has found her voice, it seems, but the loss of Prince Baelon is a heavy blow to us all."

One of the servants, a young woman with tear-streaked cheeks, looked at Mellos with a mixture of fear and confusion. "What does it mean, Maester?" she asked. "Why now?"

Mellos sighed, shaking his head. "I do not know," he admitted. "But we must inform the King. This loss... it will cripple him."

The servants nodded solemnly, their hearts heavy with the task ahead. As they prepared to deliver the devastating news to King Viserys, Mellos turned back to Vaella. The babe had quieted, her cries giving way to a strange, serene silence. He couldn't shake the feeling that something profound had shifted in the balance of life and death within this room.

"I will note this in my journal," Mellos murmured to himself, making a mental note to document the strange events surrounding the twins. He would keep his suspicions to himself for now, but the memory of Vaella's piercing wail would haunt him for years to come.

As the maids and servants moved to carry out their somber duties, the weight of the tragedy settled over the Red Keep like a shroud. The joyous celebrations of new life had been overshadowed by death, and the realm would feel the ripples of this loss for years to come. King Viserys, now a father and a widower, would have to navigate the treacherous waters of grief and responsibility, his heart forever marked by the sorrow of this day.

...

The day of the funeral dawned cold and overcast, the sky heavy with clouds that mirrored the somber mood of the assembled mourners. All gathered before the grand pyre that had been erected outside the Red Keep, a stark testament to the loss of both Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon. The scent of incense and the crackling of torches filled the air, but a profound silence hung over the gathering, broken only by the distant sound of waves against the shore.

King Viserys stood closest to the pyre, his shoulders slumped and his eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights of weeping. His grief was a palpable thing, weighing down the very air around him. He seemed almost a ghost of himself, hollowed out by the dual tragedies that had befallen him.

A little further down, Rhaenyra stood with her newborn sister Vaella cradled in her arms. She held the babe tightly, as if drawing strength from her tiny, warm presence. Vaella was silent, her indigo eyes wide and watchful, taking in the scene with an uncanny stillness.

Behind Rhaenyra, Prince Daemon Targaryen watched with a mixture of sorrow and concern. He stepped forward, placing a hand gently on Rhaenyra’s shoulder. "It's time," he said softly. "Your father needs you now."

Rhaenyra turned her tear-streaked face towards her uncle, her eyes filled with a mixture of pain and resignation. "I will never be a son," she whispered, her voice trembling. "And neither will Vaella."

Daemon's expression softened, and he squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "You are stronger than any son, Rhaenyra. And your father needs that strength now more than ever."

Taking a deep breath, Rhaenyra nodded. She stepped forward, feeling the weight of her duty pressing down upon her young shoulders. She could feel the eyes of the gathered nobles and courtiers upon her, their silent expectation adding to her burden. She glanced at her father, who seemed lost in his own world of sorrow, barely aware of his surroundings.

With tears streaming down her face, Rhaenyra looked up at Syrax, her beloved dragon, who waited patiently beside the pyre. The golden beast’s eyes glowed with a fierce intelligence, and she seemed to understand the gravity of the moment.

"Dracarys," Rhaenyra commanded, her voice breaking.

In an instant, Syrax unleashed a torrent of dragonfire. The flames roared to life, consuming the pyre in a brilliant blaze that lit up the overcast sky. The heat was intense, and the air filled with the acrid scent of burning wood and flesh. The mourners stepped back, shielding their faces from the searing heat, but Rhaenyra stood her ground, her eyes fixed on the flames.

The crackling of the fire was accompanied by the soft sobs and murmurs of those gathered. The loss of their queen and the young prince was a blow to the realm, and the grief of the people was a reflection of the profound sorrow felt by their king.

Rhaenyra looked down at Vaella, her tiny face illuminated by the firelight. "You are all I have left of her," she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her sister’s forehead. "I will protect you, always."

Vaella gazed up at her, silent and solemn, as if she understood the weight of her sister's words. Rhaenyra felt a fierce protectiveness surge within her. She might never be the son her father had wished for, but she would be strong for him, for her family, and for her realm.

As the pyre burned, Rhaenyra stood with her sister in her arms, a silent vow forming in her heart. She would honor her mother's memory, and she would ensure that Vaella grew up knowing the love and strength that had defined their mother. The flames roared higher, a testament to the fire that burned within the Targaryen bloodline, a fire that Rhaenyra vowed would never be extinguished.

...

Six months had passed since the tragic deaths of Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon, and King Viserys had made a decision that shocked the realm. He chose to marry Alicent Hightower, the daughter of his Hand, Otto Hightower. This alliance was seen by many as a strategic move to stabilize the kingdom, but it also stirred whispers and discontent among the nobles. In a further surprising move, Viserys named his daughter Rhaenyra as the heir to the Iron Throne, a decision that defied tradition and set tongues wagging throughout Westeros.

Another year passed, and Queen Alicent gave birth to a son, Aegon. The realm celebrated the birth of a male heir, but the decision to place him in the nursery with Vaella, who continued to grow normally and thrive, added an interesting dynamic to the royal family. Despite Rhaenyra's attempts to give her sister a dragon egg to hatch, Vaella showed no interest in any of them. After several unsuccessful tries, Rhaenyra stopped bringing the eggs, accepting that Vaella was different in her own way.

The connection between Aegon and Vaella was immediate and profound. Vaella's quiet presence seemed to calm the newborn prince, who basked in the comfort of his half-sister's company. This bond often agitated Rhaenyra, who felt a mixture of protectiveness and jealousy. She would frequently 'steal' Vaella away from the nursery, taking her for walks around the Red Keep or in the gardens, much to the dismay and complaints of the servants. Aegon would become fussy and cry until Vaella was returned to him, a fact that both frustrated and amused Rhaenyra.

One sunny afternoon, Rhaenyra and Vaella were walking through the lush gardens of the Red Keep. The scent of blooming flowers filled the air, and the gentle rustling of leaves provided a serene backdrop. Vaella, now a curious toddler with pale blonde hair and indigo eyes, held tightly to Rhaenyra's hand, her steps wobbly but determined.

"Do you like the flowers, Vaella?" Rhaenyra asked, kneeling down to pick a bright red rose and handing it to her sister.

Vaella nodded, her eyes wide with wonder as she examined the flower. "Pretty," she murmured, her voice soft and clear.

Rhaenyra smiled, but her expression quickly turned somber. "You know, sometimes I wish things were different," she said, more to herself than to Vaella. "I wish Mother were here to see you grow. She would have loved you so much."

Vaella looked up at her sister, her indigo eyes filled with an understanding far beyond her years. "Mama," she said simply, reaching up to touch Rhaenyra's face.

Rhaenyra's heart ached with the weight of her sister's innocence and the loss they both shared. "Yes, Mama," she whispered, hugging Vaella tightly. "But you have me, and I will always be here for you."

As they continued their walk, they passed a group of servants who were nervously whispering among themselves. One of them, a young maid, approached Rhaenyra hesitantly. "Your Grace, Prince Aegon is very fussy. He won't stop crying without Princess Vaella."

Rhaenyra sighed, feeling the familiar pang of frustration. "He can wait a little longer," she replied curtly. "Vaella needs fresh air and sunshine."

The maid bowed her head, retreating with a worried glance. Rhaenyra led Vaella to a shaded bench under a sprawling oak tree, lifting her sister onto her lap. "You know, Vaella, sometimes I feel like I can't do anything right," she confessed, brushing a strand of hair from Vaella's face. "But when I'm with you, it feels like everything is okay."

Vaella looked up at her with a solemn expression. "Love Nyra," she said, wrapping her small arms around her sister's neck.

Rhaenyra felt tears prick her eyes, but she blinked them away, smiling through her sadness. "And I love you, my sweet Vaella," she whispered. "Always."

As they sat together in the peaceful garden, the bond between the sisters grew stronger, a beacon of light amidst the complexities of court life and the looming shadows of their past. The challenges ahead were many, but in each other's company, they found solace and strength to face whatever the future held.

...

Two years had passed, and Vaella continued to grow normally, blossoming into a lively child. She spent her days in the company of her half-brother Aegon, who refused to be parted from her for long. This inseparable bond often infuriated Rhaenyra, who cherished her moments alone with Vaella but had to contend with Aegon's tantrums whenever his sister was taken away.

Despite Rhaenyra's best efforts, Aegon and Vaella were rarely separated. The young prince's attachment to his half-sister was so strong that the servants, exasperated by Aegon's constant cries, eventually allowed the two children to sleep in the same crib. It was the only way to ensure Aegon's peaceful slumber.

In the royal chambers, Alicent Hightower, now visibly pregnant with her second child, often expressed her concerns to King Viserys about this arrangement. One evening, as she lay in bed with Viserys beside her, she broached the subject once more.

"This is not healthy, Viserys," Alicent said, her voice tinged with frustration. "Aegon is far too dependent on Vaella. They should not be sleeping in the same crib. It's not proper."

Viserys, weary from the day's duties, sighed and rubbed his temples. "They're just children, Alicent. They'll grow out of it. Let them be."

Alicent's eyes flashed with irritation. "It's not just about them growing out of it. It sets a bad precedent. Aegon should be learning to be independent, not clinging to his sister all the time."

Viserys shrugged, clearly not wanting to engage in another argument. "They're happy, and they're safe. That's all that matters."

Alicent opened her mouth to retort, but then thought better of it. Instead, she turned away, fuming silently. Her pregnancy had made her more sensitive to the disturbances in the household, and Aegon's dependency on Vaella was just one of many concerns weighing on her mind.

Meanwhile, in the nursery, Rhaenyra watched as Aegon and Vaella played together. Aegon's laughter echoed through the room as Vaella chased him, her own giggles filling the air. Rhaenyra felt a mix of love and exasperation as she approached them.

"Vaella, come with me," Rhaenyra said, holding out her hand. "Let's go for a walk."

Aegon's face immediately crumpled, and he clung to Vaella. "No! Vaella stays here!"

Rhaenyra's patience was wearing thin. "Aegon, you can't always have her with you. She needs to spend time with me too."

Aegon shook his head vehemently, his eyes filling with tears. "No! Vaella stays!"

Rhaenyra sighed, knowing that any attempt to separate them would end in another tantrum. She knelt down and gently pried Aegon's hands from Vaella. "I'll bring her back soon, I promise."

As she led Vaella out of the nursery, the sound of Aegon's wails echoed down the hallway. The servants exchanged resigned looks, knowing it was only a matter of time before Vaella would be brought back to soothe the young prince.

In the gardens, Rhaenyra and Vaella walked hand in hand. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the path. Rhaenyra looked down at her sister, her heart aching with a mix of love and frustration.

"Why do you let him cling to you so much, Vaella?" Rhaenyra asked, her tone softer now that they were alone. "Don't you want to have time just for us?"

Vaella looked up at her with wide, innocent eyes. "Aegon needs me," she said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "He cries when I'm not there."

Rhaenyra's heart softened at her sister's words. She knelt down to Vaella's level, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I know he does, but I need you too, Vaella. You're my sister, and I love you."

Vaella smiled and wrapped her arms around Rhaenyra's neck. "I love you too, Nyra. Always."

As they embraced, Rhaenyra felt a renewed sense of determination. She would find a way to balance her love for Vaella with the demands of their unusual family dynamic. No matter the challenges, she would protect and cherish her sister, just as she had promised on that fateful day by the pyre.

Back in the royal chambers, Alicent lay awake, her thoughts troubled. She placed a hand on her growing belly and sighed. The future seemed more uncertain than ever, but she vowed to do whatever it took to ensure the safety and well-being of her children. As she drifted off to sleep, her mind remained filled with the complexities of their intertwined destinies, each step a delicate dance in the ever-shifting sands of power and family.

...

Vaella was six years old, and her fascination with dragons had only grown with time. Despite her lack of interest in dragon eggs, her eyes would light up whenever she saw Syrax, Rhaenyra’s majestic golden dragon. One crisp morning, Rhaenyra decided it was time for her sister to experience the thrill of flying.

Rhaenyra led Vaella to the Dragonpit, where Syrax awaited. The dragon’s eyes gleamed with intelligence as Rhaenyra approached, her scales shimmering in the early morning light. Vaella’s excitement was palpable, her small hand gripping Rhaenyra’s tightly.

“Are you ready, Vaella?” Rhaenyra asked, a smile playing on her lips.

Vaella nodded eagerly. “Yes, Rhaenyra. I want to fly!”

As Rhaenyra helped Vaella climb onto Syrax’s back, the young girl’s laughter filled the air, a sound of pure joy and exhilaration. With a final check to ensure Vaella was secure, Rhaenyra mounted behind her and gave Syrax the signal to take flight.

The dragon’s powerful wings beat against the air, lifting them off the ground. Vaella’s eyes widened in wonder as the Red Keep grew smaller below them, the world unfolding in a breathtaking panorama. The wind whipped through their hair, and Vaella’s laughter echoed in the skies.

Meanwhile, back in the nursery, Aegon was throwing a fit. He had watched in dismay as Rhaenyra took Vaella away, his cries growing louder with each passing moment. Alicent, now heavily pregnant with her third child, tried to soothe him, but Aegon was inconsolable.

“Where is Vaella?” Aegon wailed, tears streaming down his face. “I want Vaella!”

Alicent knelt beside her son, her patience wearing thin. “Aegon, you need to learn to be apart from Vaella. She has other things to do, and you need to be strong without her.”

Aegon shook his head vehemently, his face red with anger and frustration. “No! You can’t take Vaella away from me! Rhaenyra can’t take her away either!”

In his tantrum, Aegon grabbed one of his toys—a wooden dragon—and threw it across the room, where it shattered against the wall. His screams grew louder, and Alicent’s attempts to calm him seemed only to fuel his rage.

“Aegon, please,” Alicent said, her voice strained. “This behavior is unacceptable. You must learn to control yourself.”

But Aegon was beyond reason, his cries echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. Alicent stood, her hands clenched at her sides, her irritation mounting. She had tried to reason with Viserys about their son’s dependence on Vaella, but he had merely shrugged it off, much to her annoyance.

As Aegon continued to scream for Rhaenyra to bring Vaella back, Alicent felt a surge of frustration. She stormed out of the nursery, determined to find Viserys and make him understand the gravity of the situation.

She found him in the council chamber, discussing matters of state with her father, Otto Hightower, and other advisors. Ignoring the decorum, Alicent marched up to him, her eyes blazing with anger.

“Viserys, we need to talk,” she said, her voice low but fierce.

Viserys looked up, surprised by her sudden appearance. “Alicent, what is it?”

“It’s Aegon,” she said, struggling to keep her composure. “He’s in the nursery throwing a tantrum because Vaella is not there. He’s become too dependent on her, and it’s not healthy. You need to take this seriously.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. “Alicent, they’re just children. Siblings often form close bonds.”

“This is more than that, and you know it,” Alicent snapped. “He can’t be apart from her for even a moment without falling apart. This dependency will only grow if we don’t address it now.”

Viserys looked at her, seeing the worry and frustration etched on her face. He nodded slowly. “Alright, I’ll speak with Aegon. But give them time, Alicent. They’re still so young.”

Alicent sighed, feeling a mixture of relief and lingering frustration. ���Thank you, Viserys. I just want what’s best for them.”

Meanwhile, high above the Red Keep, Rhaenyra and Vaella soared through the skies on Syrax. The city of King’s Landing spread out below them like a tapestry, and Vaella’s eyes sparkled with wonder.

“This is amazing, Rhaenyra!” Vaella shouted over the wind, her laughter infectious.

Rhaenyra smiled, her heart swelling with pride and love for her sister. “I knew you’d love it, Vaella. There’s nothing quite like flying.”

As they flew, Rhaenyra felt a sense of peace. Despite the challenges and frustrations that awaited them on the ground, up here, they were free. She vowed to cherish these moments with Vaella, to protect and nurture her sister as best she could. For now, they had the sky, and that was enough.

...

As the sun began to set, casting a golden hue over the Red Keep, Rhaenyra and Vaella returned from their exhilarating flight on Syrax. The dragon landed gracefully in the courtyard, and Rhaenyra helped Vaella down, her heart still racing from the thrill of their adventure. The moment their feet touched the ground, Aegon came running toward them, his face streaked with tears and his cries echoing off the stone walls.

"Vaella!" Aegon wailed, rushing to her and wrapping his small arms tightly around her. "You’re back!"

Vaella hugged him back, her expression a mix of confusion and concern. "I’m here, Aegon. I’m here."

Rhaenyra watched, her annoyance simmering beneath the surface. "Aegon, you can’t just cling to Vaella like that all the time," she said, her tone sharp. "She needs her own space too."

Aegon looked up at Rhaenyra, his eyes filled with defiance and tears. "You can’t take her away from me! She’s mine!"

Rhaenyra’s patience was wearing thin. She knew it was foolish to argue with such a young child, but the possessiveness in Aegon’s voice grated on her. Vaella was the last connection she had to their mother, and the thought of sharing her sister in this way was intolerable.

"Vaella is not yours, Aegon," Rhaenyra snapped, her voice cold. "She is her own person, and you don’t own her."

Aegon’s face crumpled, and he let out another wail, his small body shaking with the force of his tantrum. "No! No! Vaella is mine! You can’t have her!"

The servants in the courtyard exchanged weary glances, clearly exasperated by the scene unfolding before them. Vaella stood in the middle, unsure of what to do, her eyes darting between her sister and her brother.

"Aegon," Vaella said softly, trying to soothe him. "It’s okay. I’m here now."

Alicent, drawn by the noise, arrived in the courtyard, her face set in a mixture of concern and frustration. "What is going on here?" she demanded, her gaze shifting from Rhaenyra to Aegon, who was still clinging to Vaella.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flashed with anger as she looked at Alicent. "Your son doesn’t understand that Vaella isn’t his to command," she said sharply. "He needs to learn some boundaries."

Alicent’s expression hardened. "Rhaenyra, he’s just a child. He doesn’t understand these things yet."

Rhaenyra’s temper flared, and she took a step forward. "And he never will if you keep coddling him like this! Vaella is not his to cling to every time he wants. She’s my sister too, and I won’t have her treated like a toy!"

Alicent’s face went pale, and she took a deep breath, trying to maintain her composure. "This isn’t helping anyone, Rhaenyra. We need to find a way to help Aegon understand without making things worse."

Rhaenyra’s eyes filled with tears of frustration. "Vaella is all I have left of my mother. I won’t let him take her from me."

With that, Rhaenyra turned on her heel and stormed away, leaving the courtyard in tense silence. Alicent watched her go, a sigh escaping her lips. She turned her attention back to Aegon, who was still clinging to Vaella, his sobs quieter but no less heartbreaking.

"Come here, Aegon," Alicent said softly, kneeling down to his level. "It’s okay. Vaella isn’t going anywhere."

Aegon looked up at her, his face streaked with tears. "But she left me. Rhaenyra took her."

Alicent gently pried his hands from Vaella and pulled him into a hug. "I know, darling. But sometimes Vaella needs to do things with Rhaenyra too. You’ll see her again soon, I promise."

Aegon nodded, sniffling, but his grip on Vaella’s hand remained tight. Vaella, sensing his distress, squeezed his hand back, her expression one of quiet understanding.

Alicent sighed, looking at the two children. "Let’s get you both inside. It’s getting late."

As she led them back into the Red Keep, she couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of worry. The tensions between Rhaenyra and Aegon were growing, and she knew that unless something changed, these small conflicts could become much larger as they all grew older. For now, she focused on comforting her son and ensuring that Vaella felt secure, hoping that they would find a way to navigate these troubled waters together.

...

Fifteen-year-old Vaella Targaryen sat quietly beside her father, King Viserys I, in his chambers. The room was filled with the intricate model of Old Valyria that Viserys had been painstakingly working on for years. The delicate spires and towers of the ancient city gleamed under the soft light of the candles, casting intricate shadows on the walls. Vaella's small hands delicately placed a tiny bridge between two towers, her face scrunched up in concentration.

Viserys, now looking much older than his years, his health visibly deteriorating, watched his daughter with a fond smile. Despite his efforts to hide it, Vaella knew he was unwell. The signs were clear in the way he moved, slower and more deliberate, and the occasional wince of pain that crossed his features.

"You're doing wonderfully, Vaella," Viserys said, his voice soft but filled with pride. "You have a steady hand."

Vaella smiled up at him, her indigo eyes bright. "Thank you, Father. I love working on this with you."

Viserys nodded, his gaze drifting to the model before him. "It's a piece of our history. A connection to our roots." He paused, then turned to her. "How was your time with your nephews, Jacaerys and Lucerys?"

Vaella's face lit up. "It was interesting. Maester Mellos was teaching us about Targaryen history, the stories of our ancestors. Then Laenor told us about the great sailors who ventured all the way to the Summer Isles. I love hearing about their adventures."

Viserys chuckled, a raspy sound that ended in a slight cough. "I'm glad you're learning and enjoying your time with them. It's important to understand where we come from." He hesitated for a moment before asking, "And how is Aegon handling the changes?"

Vaella's smile faded slightly, and she frowned, her brow furrowing. "Not very well, Father. He doesn't like it when I'm away. He gets upset and still sometimes throws tantrums."

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. "Aegon has always struggled with separation. He has a strong bond with you."

Vaella nodded, looking thoughtful. "I know he loves me, and I love him too. But sometimes it's hard. He doesn't understand that I need to spend time with others too."

Viserys placed a gentle hand on Vaella's shoulder. "It's not easy being the center of someone's world. Aegon needs to learn that you have your own life, your own interests."

Vaella looked up at him, her eyes filled with determination. "I'll help him understand, Father. I'll be patient with him."

Viserys smiled, his eyes softening. "You're wise beyond your years, Vaella. Your kindness and patience will serve you well." He paused, his expression turning more serious. "And how are you, my dear? How are you handling all these changes?"

Vaella shrugged slightly. "It's a lot, but I have you and Rhaenyra. And I love spending time with my nephews. They make me laugh and I enjoy learning with them."

Viserys nodded, feeling a pang of pride and sorrow for his young daughter. "You're a strong girl, Vaella. Stronger than you know. Always remember that."

Vaella hugged her father tightly, feeling the frailty in his embrace but also the warmth of his love. "I will, Father. I'll always remember."

...

In a quieter corner of the Red Keep, Aegon paced back and forth, his young face twisted in frustration. His younger brother, Aemond, sat nearby, trying to focus on a book but finding it impossible with Aegon's incessant complaining.

"They took her again, Aemond! They took Vaella to spend more time with Rhaenyra and her bastards," Aegon fumed, kicking at a loose stone on the floor. "They think those boys are more worthy than me!"

Aemond looked up from his book, his blue eyes sharp. "You shouldn't talk like that, Aegon. It's dangerous."

Aegon scoffed, his face a mask of indignation. "Why shouldn't I? Mother calls them bastards all the time. Everyone knows it's true."

Aemond closed his book with a sigh, setting it aside. "Just because Mother says it doesn't mean you should repeat it. It's disrespectful, and it will get you into trouble."

Aegon glared at his brother, his anger unabated. "You’re just jealous because Vaella likes me more than you."

Aemond raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued despite his annoyance. "Why is Vaella so special to you, Aegon? Why do you always want her around?"

Aegon’s expression hardened. "You're stupid for even asking that, Aemond. She just is. Nobody loves me like Vaella does. She understands me."

Aemond rolled his eyes, leaning back against the wall. "That's stupid. She's just a girl. She can’t make everything better."

Aegon stepped closer, his fists clenched at his sides. "Shut up, Aemond. You don't understand anything."

Aemond shrugged, his expression indifferent. "Maybe I don't. But I heard Maester Mellos talking to Mother once. He said Vaella ate her twin. Maybe that’s why you think she’s so special. She’s got something extra from her dead brother."

Aegon’s face contorted with a mixture of horror and fascination. "What are you talking about?"

Aemond smirked, enjoying the shift in power. "It’s true. Mellos said Vaella didn't cry when she was born, not until her brother died. Maybe she took something from him. Maybe that’s why you feel so close to her."

Aegon stood silent for a moment, absorbing his brother’s words. Then, a twisted smile spread across his face. "Good. If her dead brother gave her something extra, then it's better for me. He would have taken her from me too."

Aemond frowned, not expecting that reaction. "You’re strange, Aegon. You know that?"

Aegon shrugged, a hint of madness in his eyes. "Maybe. But Vaella is mine. And no one will take her from me. Not Rhaenyra, not anyone."

Aemond sighed, shaking his head. "You’re going to get us all in trouble one day, Aegon. Mark my words."

Aegon ignored his brother, his mind already returning to thoughts of Vaella and the frustration of being separated from her. He would find a way to keep her close, no matter what it took.

…

The morning sun cast long shadows over the Dragonpit as Jacaerys, Lucerys, Aegon, Aemond, and Vaella made their way to the massive structure. The air was filled with the heady scent of dragon musk and the sound of wings flapping. Inside the pit, three dragons awaited their riders, their scales shimmering in the sunlight. Vaella stood quietly by Aemond's side, the two of them the only ones without dragons to bond with. While Aemond's frustration was evident, Vaella seemed content, her serene demeanor a stark contrast to her younger brother's visible agitation.

As the dragons were led out one by one, Vaella watched with a mix of awe and quiet longing. When Sunfyre appeared, his golden scales glinting brilliantly, Aegon eagerly grabbed Vaella's hand and pulled her along. "Come on, Vaella, let's attend to Sunfyre together."

Vaella allowed herself to be led, her eyes widening as they approached the magnificent dragon. She gently stroked Sunfyre's scales, feeling the warmth emanating from his body. Aegon stood beside her, his pride evident as he showed off his bond with the dragon. Vaella smiled softly, her affection for her brother momentarily overshadowing her usual frustrations with him.

Later, once the dragons were fed and content, Aegon let go of Vaella's hand and turned his attention to Aemond. There was a mischievous glint in his eye that Vaella did not like. Aegon, Jacaerys, and Lucerys huddled together, whispering and giggling before calling Aemond over.

"Come here, Aemond!" Aegon shouted, his voice filled with feigned excitement. "We found a dragon for you!"

Aemond's eyes lit up with a mixture of excitement and suspicion. He approached cautiously, glancing back at Vaella for reassurance. She gave him a small, supportive smile, but her unease grew.

As Aemond drew closer, the boys stepped aside to reveal a pig adorned with makeshift dragon wings and a painted snout. "Behold, the Pink Dread!" Aegon announced with mock grandeur, barely able to contain his laughter.

Jacaerys and Lucerys burst into laughter, pointing at the pig and doubling over with mirth. Aemond's face turned bright red with humiliation, his eyes welling up with tears. Vaella's expression darkened, her initial amusement giving way to anger.

"Aegon, Jace, Luke, that's enough!" Vaella's voice was sharp, cutting through the laughter. "How dare you humiliate Aemond like this?"

Aegon's laughter faltered as he met Vaella's furious gaze. "It was just a joke, Vaella. We didn't mean—"

"Do I deserve the same?" Vaella interrupted, her voice cold. "I don't have a dragon either. Is this how you plan to treat me too?"

Aegon stumbled over his words, his face turning pale. "No, Vaella, I didn't mean—"

But Vaella had already turned on her heel, her expression stormy as she walked away from the Dragonpit. Aegon rushed after her, desperation in his voice. "Vaella, wait! Please, don't be mad at me. I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

Vaella stopped and spun around to face him, her eyes blazing with anger. "You always do this, Aegon. You act without thinking and hurt the people who care about you. Aemond looks up to you, and this is how you treat him?"

Aegon reached out, but Vaella stepped back, shaking her head. "I thought you were better than this."

"Vaella, I'm sorry," Aegon pleaded, his voice trembling. "I didn't mean to hurt you or Aemond. Please, forgive me."

Vaella took a deep breath, her anger still simmering but her voice softening slightly. "Apologize to Aemond. Make it right with him. And think before you act next time."

Aegon nodded, his eyes filled with regret. "I will. I promise."

As Vaella turned and walked away, Aegon stood there, watching her go with a heavy heart. He knew he had to make amends, not just with Aemond but also with Vaella. The bonds of family were fragile, and he had to learn to cherish and protect them.

Inside the Dragonpit, Aemond stood alone, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Vaella approached him, her expression softening. "I'm sorry they treated you like that, Aemond. You deserve better."

Aemond looked up, his eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Vaella. You're the only one who seems to understand."

Vaella hugged her brother tightly. "We'll find our own dragons one day, Aemond. Until then, we have each other."

As they walked away together, the bond between them strengthened, a promise of loyalty and support in a world filled with uncertainty and strife.

…

That evening, Vaella sat in her chambers, the events of the day weighing heavily on her mind. The candles flickered softly, casting gentle shadows on the walls, as she tried to find some semblance of peace. Her thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock on the door.

“Vaella, it’s me,” Aegon’s voice came through the door, hesitant yet determined.

Vaella sighed, already knowing why he was here. “Come in, Aegon.”

Aegon entered, closing the door behind him. He looked uncertain, his usual bravado tempered by a mix of guilt and frustration. “I wanted to apologize again. The idea was Jace and Luke’s, not mine.”

Vaella made a grimace, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Then why does it reek of you, Aegon?”

Aegon’s irritation flared, and he stepped closer, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Why do you care so much about annoying Aemond? He’s just—”

“He’s my brother too, Aegon,” Vaella interrupted sharply, her eyes blazing. “Just like you are.”

Aegon pressed on, his voice lower but intense. “But you love me more, don’t you?”

Vaella frowned, seeing the familiar possessiveness in Aegon’s eyes. It had not diminished with time, if anything, it had grown. “Aegon, I will always love you. But I also love Jace, Luke, Aemond, and even little Joffrey. We’re all family.”

Aegon stepped even closer, their faces now mere inches apart. “But you love me more, right?” he asked, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper.

Vaella’s heart pounded in her chest, her emotions a whirlwind of love, frustration, and understanding. She met his gaze steadily, her voice soft but firm. “Yes, Aegon. I love you more.”

Aegon’s tense expression softened, and he leaned in to kiss her forehead, a gesture that held both affection and possessiveness. He then began to shed his attire, his movements slow and deliberate. Vaella watched him, her own feelings a mix of resignation and affection.

“Aegon,” she warned gently, “if your mother finds out we’re sharing a bed again, she’ll yell at both of us.”

Aegon shrugged, climbing into her bed with a dismissive smile. “Let her yell. I don’t care. Come here.”

Vaella’s resolve wavered, and eventually, she couldn’t help but smile. She slipped into the bed beside him, the ritual familiar and comforting. They had been sharing a bed since they were babes, a habit that had persisted despite Alicent’s disapproval.

As they lay together, Aegon wrapped his arms around Vaella, holding her close. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The warmth of his embrace was soothing, a reminder of their unbreakable bond despite the chaos around them.

They didn’t fall asleep right away. Instead, they lay in the quiet, drawing comfort from each other’s presence. Vaella felt Aegon’s breath against her hair, his hold on her gentle yet possessive. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to relax for the first time that day.

“Vaella,” Aegon murmured, his voice soft in the darkness. “I promise I’ll never let anyone come between us. Not Rhaenyra, not anyone.”

Vaella sighed, her heart aching with a mixture of love and sadness. “I know, Aegon. And I’ll always be here for you.”

They held onto each other, finding solace in their shared closeness. The world outside might be fraught with tension and uncertainty, but in this moment, they were simply a brother and sister, bound by love and loyalty.

…

Alicent Hightower strode through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, her frustration mounting with each step. She had been looking for her eldest son, Aegon, to confront him about the cruel prank he and Rhaenyra’s sons had played on Aemond. Finding his chambers empty had only intensified her annoyance, as she knew exactly where he would be—once again with his half-sister, Vaella.

Alicent had tried her best to separate the two as they grew older, understanding the potential complications their bond could bring. But no matter her efforts, Aegon always found his way back to Vaella, their connection unbroken. She couldn't help but recall Maester Mellos’ words about Vaella being strange since birth, and the implications of that observation gnawed at her.

Meanwhile, in Vaella's chambers, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to Alicent's rising tension. Vaella and Aegon lay in her bed, still entwined in their embrace. Aegon’s lips trailed down her cheek to her neck, eliciting a soft hitch in her breath. She clutched at him gently, feeling the warmth of his body against hers.

“Aegon,” she whispered, her voice breathy with both pleasure and concern, “promise me again you won’t mock Aemond like that again.”

Aegon’s kisses paused for a moment as he sighed. “I promise,” he murmured before resuming his tender exploration. His hands roamed over her curves, their touch growing more familiar and intimate with time. His movements against her nightgown became more urgent, her quiet moans filling the room.

Just as Aegon’s urgency peaked and he found release, spilling his seed onto Vaella’s thigh, the door to her chambers swung open. Both Aegon and Vaella sat up abruptly, alarmed and disheveled.

Alicent’s worried frown deepened as she took in the sight before her. She quickly closed the door behind her, her gaze intense. “Did you do it?” she demanded, her voice strained with a mix of anger and fear.

Vaella blushed deeply, realizing the insinuation behind Alicent's question. “No, Mother. We didn’t… we never go that far,” she stammered, her words tumbling over each other.

Alicent sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly with relief, though her irritation remained. She turned her focus to Aegon. “And what about the pig, Aegon? The Pink Dread?”

Aegon deflected, his tone dismissive. “It was Jace and Luke’s idea.”

Alicent scolded him, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t lie to me, Aegon. You were just as much a part of it.”

Aegon rolled his eyes and lay back on the bed, clearly unwilling to continue the conversation. “Fine, whatever,” he muttered.

Vaella interjected, her voice calm but firm. “I made him promise not to mock Aemond again, Mother.”

Alicent’s gaze softened slightly as she looked at Vaella. Despite the tension, she recognized the sincerity in her stepdaughter’s words. “Good. That’s good,” she said quietly. Before leaving, she turned back to them, her expression resolute. “This is the last time you two will share a bed.”

Vaella nodded, understanding the gravity of Alicent’s words but knowing deep down it was a promise neither she nor Aegon intended to keep. “Yes, Mother,” she replied.

Alicent gave them one last look, a mixture of concern and resignation in her eyes, before she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

As the door clicked shut, Aegon sat up again, his demeanor shifting from defiance to a more contemplative mood. “She won’t keep us apart, you know,” he said softly, reaching out to take Vaella’s hand.

Vaella squeezed his hand gently, a small smile playing on her lips. “I know, Aegon. But we should be careful.”

He nodded, pulling her closer. “Always,” he promised.

They lay back down together, the quiet of the room wrapping around them like a comforting blanket. In the stillness of the night, they found solace in each other's presence, knowing that no matter what, they would face the world together.

…

The meeting of the small council was underway in the grand chamber of the Red Keep. The air was thick with the scent of burning candles and the tension of unresolved conflicts. Rhaenyra, dressed in her regal black and red attire, sat at the head of the table, her face composed but her eyes betraying the urgency of her thoughts. King Viserys, though visibly weakened by his illness, was present, his presence lending an air of gravitas to the proceedings. Alicent Hightower, her face a mask of controlled composure, sat beside him, her eyes watchful and calculating.

As the discussions turned to matters of succession and alliances, Rhaenyra seized the moment to present her proposal. "To ease the tensions between our families," she began, her voice steady and clear, "I propose that my son, Jacaerys, be betrothed to Helaena. This union would strengthen our family bonds."

A murmur ran through the room, and all eyes turned to Alicent, who clenched her hands in her lap to keep her composure. "And to further show goodwill," Rhaenyra continued, "when Syrax lays her next clutch of eggs, Aemond may choose an egg for himself."

Alicent's face tightened, her distress at the idea of her daughter marrying a boy widely rumored to be a bastard threatening to show. She forced herself to remain calm, her voice measured as she replied. "While your proposal is... thoughtful, Princess, I counter with a suggestion of my own. Let Aegon and Vaella be engaged to each other instead."

Rhaenyra's eyes flashed with anger, but she controlled her temper. "That is out of the question," she said firmly. "Vaella deserves more than a life tied to Aegon."

Viserys, who had been silent, finally spoke up, his voice weak but resolute. "I agree with Rhaenyra. Aegon is my son, but he is not suitable for Vaella."

Alicent's composure slipped for a moment, her eyes blazing with frustration. "You did nothing to sever the link between them, Viserys. And now you dispute this match? How can Rhaenyra's son be good enough for Helaena, but our son is not good enough for Vaella?"

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. "Aegon is impulsive and lacks the qualities necessary to care for someone as precious as Vaella. She deserves a kind and understanding partner."

Alicent stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. "This is not about what Vaella deserves," she snapped, her voice shaking with barely controlled anger. "This is about your favoritism, your willingness to sacrifice my children’s future for the sake of Rhaenyra's."

Rhaenyra remained seated, her expression unyielding. "Alicent, this is not about favoritism. It's about what is best for Vaella and the realm. Jacaerys and Helaena's union would benefit everyone."

Alicent glared at Rhaenyra, her frustration and anger boiling over. "I will not allow my daughter to be used as a pawn in your game, Rhaenyra. This discussion is over."

With that, Alicent turned and stormed out of the chamber, her mind churning with resentment. How could Rhaenyra's bastard be deemed good enough for Helaena, yet Vaella be too good for her son? The injustice of it all gnawed at her, fueling her determination to find a way to secure her children's future.

Back in the council chamber, an uneasy silence settled over the room. Viserys looked tired, his earlier resolve waning. "Let us continue," he said quietly. "There are other matters to discuss."

Rhaenyra nodded, her mind already moving to the next topic, but the tension from the earlier confrontation lingered. She knew that Alicent's anger was far from quelled and that the coming days would bring new challenges. But for now, she focused on the task at hand, determined to protect her family and secure a future where they could all find peace.

…

Vaella Targaryen noticed the change in the atmosphere of the Red Keep after the birth of her sister Rhaenyra's third son, Joffrey. The castle felt like a simmering pot, ready to boil over. The departure of Harwin Strong and his father, Lyonel, back to Harrenhal only added to the tension. Whispers and sideways glances became more frequent, and the sense of unease permeated the halls.

One afternoon, as Vaella was wandering the corridors, she overheard some of the servants talking in hushed tones. "Did you hear? Princess Rhaenyra is taking her family to Dragonstone."

Vaella's heart skipped a beat. The idea of her sister leaving was unthinkable. She hurried through the winding passages, her mind racing with worry and confusion, until she found Rhaenyra in her chambers, packing her belongings.

"Rhaenyra!" Vaella cried, bursting into the room. "Is it true? Are you leaving for Dragonstone?"

Rhaenyra turned to her, her face calm but her eyes betraying the storm of emotions within. "Yes, Vaella. We are leaving."

Vaella felt a lump in her throat. "But why? Father will be devastated. And I can't bear the thought of losing you. Please, you can't leave me here."

Rhaenyra walked over to her sister and placed her hands on Vaella's shoulders. "You know why I must leave," she said gently. "The situation here is becoming untenable. For the safety of my children and myself, we need to be away from the court and its intrigues."

Vaella's eyes filled with tears. She knew the truth about the parentage of Rhaenyra's children, but it mattered little to her. They were her nephews, and she loved them dearly. "But people will talk no matter what you do," she said, her voice trembling. "Why can't I come with you?"

Rhaenyra sighed, her heart aching at the sight of her sister's distress. She pulled Vaella into a tight embrace. "You are so brave, Vaella," she whispered. "But I need you to stay here and look after our father. His health is failing, and he needs someone he can trust by his side."

Vaella clung to Rhaenyra, her tears soaking into her sister's dress. "I don't want to lose you," she said, her voice muffled.

Rhaenyra pulled back slightly, looking into Vaella's indigo eyes. "You won't lose me. We'll write to each other, and I'll visit whenever I can. But you must promise me that you'll be strong and take care of Father. He needs you more than ever now."

Vaella nodded, her heart heavy with the weight of the responsibility. "I promise," she whispered.

Rhaenyra kissed her sister's forehead, a bittersweet smile on her lips. "You are my heart, Vaella. And I know you will do great things. Stay strong, for both of us."

As Rhaenyra continued to pack, Vaella stood by, feeling a mix of sorrow and determination. The castle felt more oppressive than ever, but she knew that her sister was right. She had to be strong for their father, to be the anchor he needed in these troubled times.

The day Rhaenyra and her family left for Dragonstone, Vaella stood beside her father, watching the dragons take flight. The sky was filled with the beating of powerful wings, and Vaella felt a tear slip down her cheek. She glanced at Viserys, who looked frail and weary, a shadow of the king he once was. She took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently.

"Don't worry, Father," she said softly. "I'll be here for you. Always."

Viserys looked down at his youngest daughter, his eyes filled with a mixture of pride and sadness. "Thank you, Vaella," he whispered, his voice trembling. "You are my strength."

As the dragons disappeared into the horizon, Vaella felt a sense of resolve settle over her. She would honor her sister's trust and protect their father, no matter the cost.

[theyungihven]

Truth Or Dare ⁉️ ⁕ Hongjoong

HALLOWEEN EVENT

☆ pairing: hongjoong as Dracula x Human? Reader

☆ genre: mystery, fantasy, horror,

☆ warnings: mentions of blood, sacrifice, vampires and ghosts

☆ word count: 2.1k+

☆ synopsis : You and your friends dare to spend a night at the infamous Dracula's Castle but things go astray as one by one everyone goes missing and you come across the man rumoured to be Dracula.

“You gotta do this!” You hear your friends yell or more like discuss something in the secret hideout. 

The hideout is an abandoned laboratory where you sometimes work on illegal stuff. The discussions take place every day here where everyone in your friend group (it's just 2 people) gather to share about the current news (conspiracy theories) and rumours they heard around the town while you are busy building your prototype.

“Bro, I don't wanna die too early. First, fucking global warming, now this shit? Nah I'm out!” Claire shouts as she bangs the old lunch table discarded in the room. Well that's Claire, one of you two friends, being herself. You smile at her humour which strangely manages to entertain you.

“But they offered a reward of 250 grand, if we spend a night there and return alive.” You listen keenly to Kevin who explains the plan before you to decide to jump into their conversation. He's obviously got a strategy if he's pitching the idea, doesn't he? He has to!

“Alive? The fuck is going on there?” Claire yells  in terror as it laces her body manifesting itself in her tone which shivers and shrieks.

“Rumour says, it's Dracula, who was sleeping till last month in the villa.” Kevin whispers loudly as if he intended you to hear on their spill the tea session.

“Which shithead woke him up, for fuckssake?” Claire huffs and pushes back her chair. You hear the screeching of the rusty metal and make a note to check their safety because you don't want anyone to break their bones from falling off that thing.

“Someone from med school. They're missing apparently.” Kevin slurs his sentence as if he's making things up or masking up the important details. Cheeky little Bastard who's always up to something. Probably some anatomy geek must have gotten all curious to see Dracula in the flesh and fainted in there or lost his way.

“And now, we're going there to feed him?" Claire shrieks, whose voice sounds like a scared five year old upon seeing a clown which she is to be honest.

“No, obviously! To show whoever is hiding in there, that they cannot hide for long.” Kevin's sentence catches your attention and you think whether to join them or wait and hear more. Of course, you choose the latter.

“So... we're going to expose them?”Claire asks excitedly as if in hopes of going on a ghost hunting mission. They are her time passing activities and the ghost files is her favourite show. “What if it's a cannibal or serial killer?”

“Can you speak positively for once, Claire?” Kevin shrugs, shaking his head in disappointment.

“Sorry.” Claire says softly and the conversation stills, creating an awkward silence in the room. 

You finally decide to interrupt as you pull your chair to their table and make yourself comfortable on it. “So, what's the plan?” You say, chewing the strawberry flavoured gum and reading the expressions on their faces.

“See who finally decided to pay attention?” Kevin mocks you and you roll your eyes at his statement. 

“Does the area have connectivity? Comms? Anything?” You ask him, because he certainly has some information on this if he's even mentioning the topic but he has a tendency to hide things till after the disaster is done.

“Nope everything's dead. There's a strong magnetic field apparently…” He trails on his words, again and clicks his tongue.

“What in the Stranger Things?” Claire wonders with her mouth hanging open. 

“Shut up Claire! You’re watching too much science fiction.” Kevin yells at her, sending a stern glare at Claire who turns her head down with a frown on her lips.

“We gotta do it the pirate way.” you suggest calmly, leaning back on the chair and folding your arms.

��Pirates?” Claire asks, raising her eyebrow and leaning forward with enthusiasm.

“I forgot you had pirate blood for a minute.” adds Kevin and Claire acknowledges the fact with ahh. 

“So, if we don't have comms, drones and walkies aren't gonna work. We gotta get flares and some type of marker to make a path for entry and exits.” You say looking at the table and your friends exchange looks.

“A blueprint of the place!” Claire exclaims as if she has figured out the answers to one of the world's unsolvable riddles.

“It's not your fucking aunts house!” Kevin says loudly, giving Claire the ‘I'll murder you’ eyes.

“Yeah he's right. But the villa is not that big to get lost.” You mumble, moving forward and setting your arms on the table. 

“How do you know that?” Kevin gives you the sceptical look as if you're a notorious criminal with disgusting crimes.

“It was once our family property, that was a long time tho. Some feud happened and we lost it.” You confess and their faces have the funniest expression you've ever seen. Confused, surprised and wtf?

“You have a map?” Kevin yells in your ear and you retort meters away, squeezing your eyes close  due to the pain.

“Kinda, it's a tracing, rather than a map.” you say, rubbing your ear and a flicker of hope lights up on Kevin's face. 

“Atleast, we have something.” Claire mumbles as she shares a smile.

“Be at my house at 7, we'll discuss stuff there. That's it for now.”

***

“Listen, the Manor has two exits.” You explain, spreading out the old one dimensional tracing of the Manor and its illustrations.

“Didn't you say it was a villa?” Claire says, setting her hands on her waist as she stares at the floor plan.

“Can we kick her out?” Kevin suggests and the idea doesn't sound bad considering her level headed ass. 

“It's dangerously close to Yes, but what if I get bored? We'll need her.” You trail, spreading out the second floor plan of the Manor.

“Fair. So, Claire, just shut your mouth and listen. No speaking over someone.” Kevin says and shushes Claire who pouts, giving him the puppy eyes.

“Okay so the first exit is at the front, obviously for the people and the second is at the back for the goods.” You say with your finger tracing the main gate of the Manor and then the back gate. 

“Ohhhhhh!” Claire coos, and Kevin giggles at her reaction while he gets ready to smack her on head.

“Yeah. Shut your mouth before a fly lands in there. Anyways, moving on!” You say, thinking about your next sentence and Claire slaps her hand to her mouth. 

“Are we dividing up and going from two exits?” Kevin asks, and you look up at him, eyes diverting themselves from the map and landing on his face.

“Yes, you read my mind. You two will go from the front door to distract whatever is in there and I'll go with someone else from the back.”

“Is this someone else, late to the meeting?”

“Hey there!” A voice says and it is followed by the garage door smashing open with a thud, “Sorry I had soccer practice.” Yunho, your arch nemesis on friendly terms, says and shares an awkward smile.

“This is my neighbour, yunho.” You introduce him and drag him by his arm to make his tall ass body stand next to yours.

“Hello, very nice to meet you.” He waves at your friends with a bright smile and Claire gives him heart eyes at which you cringe. 

“You both are polar opposites!” Kevin comments and you feel heating rising on your cheeks.

“We get that a lot!” You and Yunho say at the same time only to meet each other's eyes the next second and shy away. 

“What did I miss?” Yunho says after clearing his throat as he glances in your direction. His golden blond hair falls over eyes and you observe the way his gaze flickers from your face and back to map.

“Whatever I said to you, last night.” You say, finding something to stare at besides his brooding figure.

“Okay then, I'm saved I guess!” Yunho says as he nervously chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“The next phase of the plan is when I signal you, we move to the first floor. The highest is the second floor which has a library in the attic.” You say and it excites something in Yunho judging by the creepy smirk on his lips.

“Attics scare me!” Claire says, her voice shrieking with fear of the darkness.

“What doesn't scare you Claire?” Kevin says in a monotone as he turns his head in her direction.

“Him!” Claire points in Yunho's direction at which you can't help but sigh.

“Flirt somewhere else, lovebirds. We got shit to do.” You roll your eyes then go back to thinking about what to say next.

“How are you going to communicate?” Yunho asks, giving you his starry puppy eyes and you can't help but gulp nervously. What is he even trying to do?

“Well, I have a perfect device for that.” You say, distracting yourself from the tall and beautiful blonde beside you with a bright ass smile.

“Where?” Claire asks as if she's looking for something and fails to find it.

“Our friendship bracelets. They work with a higher bandwidth of 7GHz.” You say, pointing at the bracelet on Claire's wrist.

“7g WiFi?” Claire exclaims and you hear an audible sigh from Kevin, at which Yunho giggles and earns a glare.

“Yeah kinda like that.....i guess.” you mumble under your breath.

“Yunho doesn't have one, though?” Someone asks while your mind pulls you in a trance and you start to zone out.

“He does.” You say, almost mumbles as you start to slip into the fever dream.

“He DOES?”  They yell. 

AT THE MANOR

“You know what to do. On the signal, disperse. It's two taps, distinct and repeating 3 times. If anything goes down, the distress signal is continuous tapping. Light the flare ONLY if its a fucking emergency, and if we need to abort the mission.” You yell as low as possible while they listen to you attentively. 

“Yes sir!” Everyone shouts, tightening the strap of their backpack of supplies.

“Remember to mark your way up to the second floor. People get lost there.” You say and everyone exchanges confused looks. “It's a spell.” You remind them and they nod their heads. “Now, go. Meet you at the library!”

According to the plan, you and Yunho go through the back gate while Claire and Kevin from the front gate. The sound of the rusted iron screeching when Kevin pushes the gate echoes around the Manor and you curse under your breath. 

The way up to the first floor had been easy, then after the signal from the other team gave clearance, you decided to head to the second floor alone bidding Yunho a goodbye. It had been strange for a while, walking down the eerie, empty hallway with the feeling of something watching you the whole time. 

You stand in the middle of the never ending hallway, a ghostly whisper greets your ear and sends shivers down your spine. 

What in the fucking hell?? 

There's a ghostly touch on your arm, ice cold as it traces its finger down your warm skin. When you turn to face the monster, there's no one behind you. Then you feel it, a looming shadow over your shoulder but when you turn again, it's gone. 

So, you walk on because standing still is more dangerous. You choose to run when you see a pale face in the middle of the corridor grinning wildly at you which sends terror down your body. Your heart beats at an amazing speed as your breath shortens, adrenaline running through your body which initiates the flight mechanism because there is no way you're dealing with that demonic thing in this haunted mansion. 

“I've been searching for you for so long.” A voice echoes in the hallway or is it your brain playing tricks on you. Luckily you find the stairway leading to the second floor and run towards it but things take a turn when you realise, it is a trap. 

“I thought you were a smart girl.” The sinister voice echoes in your mind again as you walk away from the door that shut itself only to bump into something hard. Turning around you come to see the very pale face you had seen in the hallway but very clearly now. 

The man stands in front of you in his full glory, the navy uniform and wounds from the battle still decorating his lifeless body. “You traitor!” You feel a sharp pain in your chest and you look down to see a dagger pressed to your heart. “You'll repay the blood we shed that night, you vampire.” Everything goes black when he twists the knife and the last thing you see is a scared yunho trying to save you.

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Path to Totality

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin, Shar, Selûne, minor Aylin/Isobel Length: ~2000 words Rating: T, for canon-typical violence

Summary:

Dame Aylin has a goddess aunt as well as a divine mother - and what one calls her own, the other lays equal claim to. A look at the fraught relationship between the Nightsinger and her Nightsong through the centuries.

Also on AO3.

This was my contribution to the @bg3womenswrongs fanzine, and I had a lot of fun writing it, mulling over some staple Shar horribleness and Aylin's stubborn, bright defiance to it.

You can still get your copy of the full zine by reaching out to the mod team - which I wholeheartedly recommend, because it turned out great! You'll also be able to read this fic with @teelahselai's lovely spot art included. The zine will be made freely available on March 8th.

—

Path to Totality

The Nightsinger becomes an aunt on a day that would have otherwise swiftly faded into the sheer vastness of her existence.

It is par for the course for her vapid sister; this insistence on life and creation, this blemish she sears into the world. Selûne's lurid intrusions writ small, contained to a single being. The puny scale is pitiable, when before her efforts resulted in teeming swarms and the cacophony of an entire universe under the burning sun she lit. Shar takes offence just the same, and so it will be snuffed out just the same.

A babe, conspicuously placed at the temple's entrance in a basket - not even a thing ostentatious and silver. No; plain wicker, with plainer wrappings to keep it warm against the autumn chill.

At the first cry that tears itself free from its garishly powerful lungs, as the wail goes on and on even as some poor moon-bedecked acolyte rushes out to fawn over the detestable little creature, Shar knows her one desire is to silence it forever.

-

The temple in whose care she was placed is put to the torch by ill-omened purple-clad figures before Aylin learns to walk. Enclave to enclave in secret, from temple to monastery to cloister, Aylin grows up hunted, a blazing target for agents of her Mother's greatest enemy.

She grows up honed to perfection, trained and taught and sharpened to an edge so keen it threatens to cut even when she might not mean it to. 

But she also grows up loved. Even if her Mother is a distant lodestar, She is present in ways Aylin does not think anyone understands, no matter how much she tries to explain, how deft with words she becomes in her efforts to convey the peculiarities of her own existence.

-

Selûne calls her handiwork daughter and whispers cloying lies to her as she sleeps. Fawns over her, dotes on her, lavishes her with gifts, pays all lip service possible to the futile illusion named love.

Shar's niece grows up a spoiled brat, indulging in everything life has to offer.

And then, in the blink of an eye, the wailing babe has become a monster; invasive and aggressive, a perfect picture of her creator. For a little while - insignificant, in the grand scheme of things - the brute foils Shar's plans with great insistence and vulgar, stomping relish.

-

The joy of dismantling a well-hidden Sharran conspiracy; the satisfaction of sheer righteousness coupled with the ever-rousing rush of battle - there are few things as intoxicating.

One of the acolytes accompanying Aylin in her assault on the cloister approaches, ornate scroll in hand. Aylin glances over to where her fellows are ransacking a collection of Sharran texts and accepts the proffered scroll.

Tenets of the Enduring Night: A Caution

Let all who seek to lose themselves in the Nightsinger's eternal embrace heed this warning: there is no reward for work left undone. And no lone servant of the despicable moon has cut short as many worthy efforts as the Moon Daughter herself. A creature violent and merciless--

She lets her eyes slide off the rest of the overly-decorated drivel and crumples the parchment in one gauntleted fist, raising it above her head, grinning. "How right they are, to fear Dame Aylin." 

Amidst answering jeers and cheers from her comrades, Aylin cries out: "Hark, Nightsinger! Accept this most personal offering!"

She calls holy fire into her hand and watches as her grip fills with ash.

-

Her plans are on a scale unfathomably larger than her sister's decision to produce gaudy progeny. Yet Shar returns her gaze to the insufferable wretch, again and again, even while plotting to twist the very Weave to her own ends, to corrupt or obliterate Selûne's staunchest support.

So Shar watches as one of her faithful finally strikes her niece down. It takes a dozen trained assassins catching her unawares, unarmoured. But even barely out of squirehood she is as resilient and strong as an ox, and shrugs off a good number of blows.

A slit neck, however, is difficult to ignore, even for her. And so she gargles her final little ditty and falls to her knees, hands clawing not at her gushing wound but at the nearest assailant as if she wants to take them down with her. Then she collapses into a silent, dead heap at their feet.

A disappointing showing, in the end. Shar has learned how much creating this one cost her sister - she keeps giving of herself, dividing among her allies, basking in her own shameful weakness.

But then, bathing the alleyway in a rancid glare, as the few surviving adepts gape in fear and begin to scuttle away, useless failures all, the godspawn rises.

-

When Aylin awakens from her first death, as she struggles to breathe with flooded lungs and feels her briefly stilled heart bursting into a flurry of activity to pump life through veins once more, a woman stands calmly before her.

Dizzy, Aylin clambers to her feet, gulping air greedily through a newly gold-knit throat.

Her assailants are dead - but though she gave a good account of herself, not all of them died by her hand. The woman steps through the smoking shadow-laced ruin of the assassin who succeeded, and Aylin knows who this is as surely as she knows her own Mother.

"Have I thwarted one too many of your plots, Lady of Loss?" There is no fear lancing through her as the woman looms over her, no - this is all the thrill of a battlefield distilled into a single, fateful encounter. Aylin would make of herself a liar if she denied yearning for this: a chance to face the true architect of much of her existence. She squares her shoulders, grins, and taunts through bloodied teeth. "Go on then, strike me down. Even you will find it a futile exercise."

"You will die when I will it," Shar speaks, voice absent all inflection. "But die you will."

Aylin scoffs, spits at her feet. "I have accepted my duty as my holy Mother's sword. Her blessing, by my birthright, lies upon me. You and yours will never snuff me out. As surely as the Moon returns to the sky--"

"You will die," Shar repeats, as if Aylin hadn't even spoken, "but first I will take from you and take and take, until nothing is left. Until, having lost all, you finally approach my perfection, my void. This, my kin, is your birthright as well."

Then, in a swirl of dancing shadows, she is gone.

-

Her niece finds a mortal to fawn over; an insipid little moon cleric.

And throughout it all she is as a loudly buzzing fly, entangling herself in webs she cannot even comprehend.

-

She is adored, or she is reviled. Aylin has yet to inspire indifference. 

Hunted, from the moment she drew her first breath on Faerûn. Smuggled amongst her Mother's faithful, concealed as a Sharran hiding from the world  - she thinks it shameful, now. Endangering those who only sought to give their anointed protector a chance to grow into her own strength, to protect in return.

She is an emissary of light, but her whole life her baleful aunt has made her a herald of woe, as well.

Fitting, then, if unbearably bitter, that Reithwin was ultimately the same. Where, instead of merely passing through, unmoored and unshackled, Aylin once dared to think she might be afforded something like home, a morsel of a life, a moment of peace.

With Isobel.

Without her, a grim blanket of mourning has draped itself across the town and its surroundings. Even Selûne's light seems muted and distant - and so all manner of dark creatures have decided to crawl out of the woodwork.

Like this one: an assassin, pouncing upon Aylin on an ill-lit forest road. Burying a scimitar in her shoulder and sending her sword flying.

"You seek to test me?" Aylin wheels around to face the man. He is dressed to remain unseen, but with hints of telltale purple. "Reconsider."

"The Moonbitch's chokehold on this place is finally weakening," her would-be challenger cackles. All sense is gone from him, gorged far too thoroughly on what his ilk so reverently term loss.

Her arm shoots out before she has even thought to command it to. A gauntlet seizes the man around the throat, grip merciless and unshakeable. He chokes as he is lifted to the very tips of his toes - still not high enough to face her eye to eye. In her long life, Aylin has found Sharrans never quite managed to.

"Her will is made manifest through me," Aylin growls, hold tightening until the man gargles audibly. "I have urged you to reconsider. Now I urge you to make whatever peace you wish with your lady."

She knows Shar's ways, how she lures the unsuspecting, the weakened, and the lonely in with her siren song. Shar will not help you carry your burdens, no; she will make you forget they ever existed, and would that not be such a relief?

Aylin does not forget; the utter infallibility of her memory stands against everything Shar represents. It is the haven where Isobel now resides.

The Sharrans are misguided, and targets of her pity - until they are not. And the line, in recent times, has crawled so very close to not to start with.

When one assassin becomes three, Aylin's prayer is the same as a hundred times before.

Guide my hand, to guide your blade to victory. Guide me to my foes, to guide them to their deserved doom.

Then, a more recent thought; one just barely suppressed so that duty could be allowed to take precedence: Guide her back to me, Mother.

The answer is not new; a mournful sigh, fresh grief mingled with ancient woes. She is lost to us, daughter.

But Aylin replies, even as she spills blood or feels hers spilt. For her entire being chafes sorely at the invocation of loss, at the injustice of this being her lot.

Find her. I beg you.

-

No army, no conquest, no devotion or offering Ketheric Thorm makes is as sweet as this one: her sister's brutish champion, brought to kneel at last. Safely ensconced in the heart of Shar's realm.

When from her pool of silvery blood the hateful creature whimpers for her mother, only to be met with nothing but the perfect silence of her perfect domain, Shar knows her victory is at hand.

"Why not call to me, my kin, when your poor mother cannot hear?" She taunts, letting her shadows caper at the edges of the cage. "Do you not know? Whatever Selûne calls her own, I lay equal claim to. It is time you sang for me. In return, perhaps, your own burdens--"

"Never," the Nightsong rages in vain, as is her wont, chin jutting proudly, her rag-clad arrogance driving her to speak over a goddess.

Shar has not killed her niece just yet. But she has made her hers, and that, perhaps, is the greater triumph.

-

Though it takes a century, she is found.

-

Aylin revels in bonds undone, in love regained, in glory restored.

Through a haze of joy and triumph tinged with such bittersweet ache, Aylin knows: as surely as the Moon returns in the sky…

…it is only a matter of time.

Even with the blows struck against her - her choice of a Chosen denied, her curse undone - it will not take long for the Nightsinger to make herself heard once more.

Aylin is a proud beacon against the encroaching night. But she has perhaps felt too keenly the reality of wading through the darkness in order to spare others its bite.

When she sees Shadowheart - fresh from her fateful battle, her promised resolution, with questions brimming in her eyes under newly-silvered hair - she feels the fist of familiarity tighten around her heart.

"Come," Aylin beckons. "You are not the only one whose life she has made a battlefield."

[arcaneconfessions]

You claim to be a general arcane confessions blog but seem to only answer anti-Jayvik asks. Just rename yourself anti-Jayvik confessions at this point

Alright, I don’t usually answer asks like these, but I’ve been getting a weird influx of “accusations” (for lack of a better term, even though it seems entirely too serious for this situation) that I’m showing either an anti Jayvik or pro Jayvik bias in the confessions I post. My answer to these strange asks is to direct your attention to the screenshot below:

Here are all the posts I have tagged either Jayvik or anti Jayvik. There is technically more anti Jayvik confessions, but the difference is by 30 posts. If I’m an anti secretly trying to silence Jayvik shippers I’m not doing a particularly good job at it, and if I’m a secret rabid Jayvik shipper trying to silence Jayvik antis I’m also doing a bad job at it.

At the end of the day, if you want to see more confessions that are for or against a certain ship or character, all you have to do is send it in. As long as it follows the rules I will post them. No need to make up some sort of grand conspiracy about my posting criteria.

- Mod Vi

[daziechane]

You’re Allowed to Lose Interest—Even If You’ve Poured Time Into It

At some point, we all outgrow something we once loved. Maybe it’s a hobby, a community, a show, or a career path. You used to be all in—spending time, energy, maybe even money—but now? Not so much.

The problem is, we convince ourselves we have to stay interested because we’ve already put in so much effort. (I'm lookin' at you, knitting) That’s the sunk cost fallacy talking, and it’s a load of crap.

"Marie Kondo" Your Interests

Marie Kondo says to get rid of things that don’t spark joy. Great advice for cleaning out your junk drawer or closet (ratty old hoodies, you no longer spark joy), but even better advice for your time and energy. If something no longer excites you, you don’t have to keep forcing it. You’re not obligated to stay interested in something forever just because you once were.

Sunk Costs Are Sunk—Let Them Go

The sunk cost fallacy is that little asshole voice whispering, But I’ve already spent years on this. I can’t just quit now! Except, yes, you can. Just because you’ve put time or money into something doesn’t mean you owe it a lifetime commitment. The only thing that matters is whether it still adds value to your life now. If it doesn’t, cut your losses and move on.

And yeah, we’ve all heard “Nobody likes a quitter.” But let’s be honest- nobody likes a miserable, burned-out jackwagon clinging to something out of sheer stubbornness, either. Quitting isn’t failure. It’s just refusing to keep throwing good time after bad.

Stop Making Up Dramas to Fill the Void

Here’s another thing I’ve noticed: When a steady source of content or engagement dries up—whether it’s a creator going silent, a group fizzling out, or a passion just fading—people lose their gotdamm minds. Instead of accepting the quiet, they start making up stories. And not just any stories—escalating, over-the-top, apocalyptic stories.

Did they disappear because of a scandal? Was there a secret feud? Is something awful happening behind the scenes? MIND CONTROL??!

No. Sometimes, things just stop. People move on. Not everything needs a grand conspiracy behind it. But because silence makes us uncomfortable, we scramble to fill it—even if that means manufacturing a crisis.

You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to buy into it, either. If something fades away, let it. If someone stops posting or participating, maybe they just had other shit to do. It’s not always a mystery to solve.

You’re Allowed to Change

Interests aren’t life sentences. You can be obsessed with something for years and then wake up one day and realize you just… don’t care anymore. And that’s fine. You can always pick it back up later, or not (still lookin at you, knitting). Either way, you don’t owe anyone (including past you) an explanation.

So if something no longer excites you, don’t force it. Just move tf on. There’s something better waiting on the other side of that empty space.

[sailor-hufflepuff]

darklina (or any pair you’d like) + “Midnight Sun”

(Sorry, just realized that that’s a book in the Twilight series after typing it out. 😂)

That would actually be a perfect title for a fic I’ve had in mind for a couple of years, but haven’t written because I don’t know if I have the emotional fortitude.

I ended up doing five paragraphs instead of five lines, because I have no self control.

******

The Sun Queen sits where she always sits: at the window seat, gazing out into the world. It doesn’t matter what room she’s in, or who she’s with; her husband, the servants, foreign dignitaries, the Grisha council, in her chambers or the war room or the dining hall. If there is no seat, she stands. The one single exception is the throne room, and only because “sit on the throne beside me” had been one of the conditions of their marriage. Even then, though, she sits in the white marble seat with a straight back, hands in her lap, face blank and eyes staring over the heads of the court, unseeing. Aleksander spent the first few years of their marriage fighting it, then decided to “let her have her temper tantrum”, and allowed her to do what she wished. Two decades later there has been no change, and he is growing frustrated. This is not the marriage he had envisioned when he dreamed of his Sun Summoner.

******

Something was wrong. For weeks Aleksander had been fighting a growing sense of dread, well honed by centuries of life. He had spies sent out, did a security check of the staff, cancelled all possible public events, and hunted for any sign of a conspiracy. And still, it hung at the back of his mind, ice cold and firm. He was in the council room, going over security protocols when it snapped… the very moment the entire palace was rocked to its foundations. People screamed, furniture fell over, vases broke, but he was dead to it all, standing, hand clutched over his heart where the tether - that vital link between he and his wife, spun by antlers, and destiny, and the making itself - was suddenly, horribly, gone.

******

It took four hours for them pry Alina’s body from his arms. She looked so peaceful there, a smile on her face - the first he had seen since the war - and ink staining her fingers from the note she wrote him before downing the poison that had been carefully crafted to kill an immortal. Even after the healers had taken her away to examine and prepare for her funeral, he knelt on the floor, arms empty, staring at nothing. All alone, in his grand palace, where no one knew his name. Alone. Alone. Alone.

********

The funeral is grand. The entire country is ordered to wear mourning bands around their arms, businesses are closed, and no music may be played. The court are arrayed in mourning colors, the women veiled, the men unshaven. There is utter silence as he stares at her body on the pyre; one of his advisors has given a brief speech about her life, but they had only read the words he had given them, or what was publicly available. Nothing personal. Because no one knew her. Her otkazastya friends had died in the war. Her few Grisha friends had been executed for treason. She had no family, never spoke to the servants or nobles, never joined in any social activity. She may have only bred dead for a week, but she had been a ghost for decades.

********

He wakes up in a war tent, still feeling the phantom flames of the pyre he had thrown himself on, rather than face an eternity alone. As Ivan runs him through his schedule for the day, he is handed a manifest for a fold crossing and he stares, fixated on one name. Alina is here. She is alive. She believes herself otkazatsya, and when he cut away those ties he didn’t bother to make sure she had new ones. Alone amongst Grisha, and unable to trust him, she had been nothing and no one, her note said. The paper crumpled in his fist. Not this time. This time, would be different.

*****

[multifamdomfan]

The Tyler Obsession

@kantimplora

After the chaos of Crackstone, Laurel Gates, and the Hyde attacks, Nevermore tried to move on. New teachers were hired, repairs were made, and students attempted to return to normal.

Except Wednesday Addams was incapable of normal.

Every conversation, every passing moment, every opportunity, she found a way to bring up one particular subject: Tyler Galpin.

It started as mild concern—at least, that’s what Enid optimistically called it. But over time, it became something… more.

---

Lucas barely had time to greet her before she hit him with her interrogation.

“Oh, hello, Wednesday.”

“Have you seen Tyler?” she demanded, stepping closer with that intense stare that made most people uncomfortable. “Where is he? Is he sane?”

Lucas took a step back. “Uh… I think he’s still locked up?”

Wednesday hummed in thought and stalked off, mumbling about psychiatric evaluations and the ethics of supernatural imprisonment.

Lucas watched her go, brow furrowed. “That was weird, right?”

Enid, who had been lingering nearby, groaned. “You have no idea.”

---

During lunch, Enid attempted to distract Wednesday with positive news. “We have a new botany teacher!”

“Since the last one tortured Tyler in a cave and mind-controlled him,” Wednesday said without looking up from her food which she was stabbing imagining that it was Laurel Gates.

Enid dropped her fork. “Wednesday.”

“He deserves retribution,” Wednesday continued, almost absentmindedly. “And I will be the one to deliver it.”

“Or,” Enid said, exasperated, “you could just… not?”

---

The new principal stood before the student body, beaming with enthusiasm. “And does anyone have any ideas on how to improve our beloved school?”

“Unban Hydes.”

The words cut through the air, and an awkward silence fell over the crowd.

The principal cleared their throat. “Uh, that’s… not exactly what we were—”

“They are an oppressed group,” Wednesday continued as though she hadn’t been interrupted. “Have we considered rehabilitation over imprisonment? Perhaps a program to prevent manipulation by vengeful botanists?”

Enid groaned into her hands. “Please, for the love of all things spooky, stop talking.”

---

Ajax approached Wednesday in the lounge, holding a steaming cup. “Hey, Wednesday, do you want some coffee?”

“Not unless it’s Tyler’s,” she said immediately.

Ajax just stared at her. “You do realize he’s not dead, right?”

She looked at him with mild irritation. “Of course he’s not dead. If he were, I’d be even more interested.”

Ajax slowly backed away.

---

Eugene caught up with Wednesday in the courtyard. “Hey, Wednesday!”

“He didn’t even kill you,” she muttered to herself. “I need to ask him about that too.”

Eugene nearly tripped over his own feet. “Wait—what?”

“I should be dead too, technically.” She tilted her head in thought. “Yet he hesitated. Fascinating.”

“I—okay, I don’t love the fact that you’re disappointed about that?” Eugene said nervously.

---

Finally, Pugsley reached his breaking point.

“Okay, what is with this guy anyway?!” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air.

Without a word, Wednesday reached over and yanked a cloth off a massive corkboard, revealing what could only be described as an elaborate conspiracy web. Dozens of newspaper clippings, crime scene photos, and red string connections filled the board, all pointing to one name: Tyler Galpin.

Pugsley’s eye twitched. “Oh no.”

“I’m glad you asked,” Wednesday responded, “You see, Tyler Galpin is a fascinating enigma. On one hand, he was a pawn in Laurel Gates’ grand scheme, forced into Hyde transformations beyond his control. On the other, he displayed an unsettling awareness of his actions, hinting at a deeper psychological complexity.”

Pugsley gawked at the sheer amount of effort that had gone into her so-called investigation. “You—this is insane. This is actually insane.”

Enid threw her hands in the air. “That’s what I keep saying!”

Lucas squinted at the board. “Wait… did you break into the facility to get some of these records?”

Wednesday didn’t answer.

“Wednesday,” Enid groaned, “please tell me you didn’t.”

The silence was loud enough to answer for Wednesday.

“Oh my god,” Enid whispered.

Eugene adjusted his glasses, looking somewhat impressed. “Okay, but for real, did you? Because that would be kind of badass.”

Pugsley turned to Wednesday in disbelief. “I thought you hated this guy!”

“I hate many things,” Wednesday said simply. “But hate and obsession are often two sides of the same coin.”

The group exchanged glances.

“She has a crush,” Ajax whispered.

“No, she has a problem,” Enid hissed back.

Pugsley took a deep breath. “Wednesday, whatever this is? It’s not healthy.”

Wednesday regarded him for a moment before turning back to her board. “That remains to be seen.”

Enid groaned.

There was no stopping her now.

[adventure-showdown]

What is the Greatest Doctor Who story ever told?

and so we enter the final stretch, just 64 competitors remain, the seedings have been finalised and its time to make some even tougher calls. How long will the EU underdogs last and will your favourite be the ultimate victor (probably not)?

ROUND 1 ROUND 2 ROUND 3 ROUND 4

FINALS

Grand Final: The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances vs Midnight

Third Place: World Enough and Time/The Doctor Falls vs City of Death

SEMI-FINALS

World Enough and Time/The Doctor Falls vs The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances WINNER: The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances

City of Death vs Midnight WINNER: Midnight

QUARTER-FINALS

World Enough and Time/The Doctor Falls vs Heaven Sent

Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead vs The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances

Fires of Pompeii vs City of Death

Scherzo vs Midnight

rounds 5-7 under the cut

ROUND 7

Remembrance of the Daleks vs World Enough and Time/The Doctor Falls WINNER: World Enough and Time/The Doctor Falls

Heaven Sent vs The Three Doctors WINNER: Heaven Sent

Turn Left vs Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead WINNER: Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead

Vincent and the Doctor vs The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances WINNER: The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances

Partners in Crime vs Fires of Pompeii WINNER: Fires of Pompeii

Blink vs City of Death WINNER: City of Death

Caerdroia vs Scherzo WINNER: Scherzo

Midnight vs Bad Wolf/The Parting of the Ways WINNER: Midnight

ROUND 6

Chimes of Midnight vs Remembrance of the Daleks WINNER: Remembrance of the Daleks

World Enough and Time/The Doctor Falls vs The Robots of Death vs Children of Earth World Enough and Time/The Doctor Falls

Heaven Sent vs Dalek WINNER: Heaven Sent

The Three Doctors vs The Wedding of Sarah-Jane Smith WINNER: The Three Doctors

Alien Bodies vs Turn Left WINNER: Turn Left

Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead vs The Romans WINNER: Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead

Vincent and the Doctor vs Captain Jack Harkness WINNER: Vincent and the Doctor

The Husbands of River Song vs The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances WINNER: The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances

The Curse of Fatal Death vs Partners in Crime WINNER: Partners in Crime

The War Games vs Fires of Pompeii WINNER: Fires of Pompeii

The Natural History of Fear vs Blink WINNER: Blink

City of Death vs Doctor Who and the Pirates WINNER: City of Death

Father's Day vs Caerdroia WINNER: Caerdroia

Zagreus vs Scherzo WINNER: Scherzo

Midnight vs Survival WINNER: Midnight

Bad Wolf/The Parting of the Ways vs Night of the Doctor WINNER: Bad Wolf/The Parting of the Ways

ROUND 5

The Chimes of Midnight vs Unnatural History WINNER: Chimes of Midnight

Remembrance of the Daleks vs The Curse of Fenric WINNER: Remembrance of the Daleks

World Enough and Time/The Doctor Falls vs The Greatest Show in the Galaxy WINNER: World Enough and Time/The Doctor Falls

The Robots of Death vs Children of Earth TIE

Heaven Sent vs The Five(ish) Doctors Reboot WINNER: Heaven Sent

The Green Death vs Dalek WINNER: Dalek

The Star Beast vs The Three Doctors WINNER: The Three Doctors

The Marian Conspiracy vs The Wedding of Sarah-Jane Smith WINNER: The Wedding of Sarah-Jane Smith

Time Crash vs Alien Bodies WINNER: Alien Bodies

The Mind Robber vs Turn Left WINNER: Turn Left

Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead vs Solitaire WINNER: Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead

The Romans vs An Adventure in Space and Time WINNER: The Romans

Vincent and the Doctor vs The Five Doctors WINNER: Vincent and the Doctor

The Magician's Apprentice/The Witch's Familiar vs Captain Jack Harkness WINNER: Captain Jack Harkness

Countrycide vs The Husbands of River Song WINNER: The Husbands of River Song

The Holy Terror vs The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances WINNER: The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances

The Curse of Fatal Death vs Human Nature WINNER: Curse of Fatal Death

Partners in Crime vs Lungbarrow WINNER: Partners in Crime

The War Games vs The Daemons WINNER: The War Games

Fires of Pompeii vs The Metaphysical Engine or What Quill Did WINNER: Fires of Pompeii

A Death in the Family vs The Natural History of Fear WINNER: The Natural History of Fear

The Happiness Patrol vs Blink WINNER: Blink

City of Death vs Mummy on the Orient Express WINNER: City of Death

Ghost Light vs Doctor Who and the Pirates WINNER: Doctor Who and the Pirates

Death of the Doctor vs Father's Day WINNER: Father's Day

The Curse of Clyde Langer vs Caerdroia WINNER: Caerdroia

Zagreus vs Genesis of the Daleks WINNER: Zagreus

Pond Life vs Scherzo WINNER: Scherzo

Midnight vs The Time Meddler WINNER: Midnight

Survival vs The Temptation of Sarah-Jane Smith WINNER: Survival

Bad Wolf/The Parting of the Ways vs The Caves of Androzani WINNER: Bad Wolf/The Parting of the Ways

Reset vs Night of the Doctor WINNER: Night of the Doctor

[a-separate-peace-musical]

A Secret Peace

Again, I want to thank everyone supporting this project. It’s actually mind-boggling to me and I’m so grateful.

Here’s the lyrics for another song: A Secret Peace. Finny tells Gene his conspiracy theory about the war as they train for the Olympics. This one was so fun to write.

The words in italics are just dialogue

—

FINNY

I think it’s obvious if you look under the surface

GENE

What’s obvious?

FINNY

Why they’re forcing us into service

You know the Roaring 20s? A time of jazz and fun

People did what they wanted, they were wild and young

But the old men, who run the country didn’t like that much

So they tried Prohibition, but that was a bust

They caused the Depression and that worked on our parents

But they needed something else for us

GENE

What are you saying?

FINNY

The war, it isn’t happening

It’s just a grand old story

They’ll control us with fear and rationing

While they eat steak in their mansions in glory

GENE

Are—are you serious?

FINNY

It’s all a charade

A game that they’ve played for decades

They keep us afraid in this world that they’ve made

GENE

That’s very amusing, Finny, but I hope you don’t play this game too much with yourself. You might start to believe it, and then I’d have to make a reservation for you down at the Funny Farm.

FINNY

The whole world is a Funny Farm today

Just think about it

The old men made this and we’re stuck in the middle

They’ve hidden the truth, twisted like a riddle

There’s a secret peace and they won’t show it

It’s all one big joke and only they know it

GENE

And you

FINNY

Yes, and me

GENE

And what makes you so special? Why should you get it and all the rest of us be in the dark?

FINNY

Because I’ve suffered!

Heavy silence

FINNY

Did I ever tell you I was training for the Olympics?

GENE

No, you didn’t.

FINNY

Well, I was. And now I’m not sure I’ll be, you know, completely in shape by 1944. So I’ll train you for them instead.

GENE

There won’t be an Olympics in 1944. ‘Cause of the war…

FINNY

Leave your fantasy out of this. We’re grooming you for the Olympics in 1944, pal.

GENE

I can see/it’s foolhardy

But I don’t suppose there’s any harm in aiming for a dream

And peace returns to Devon

Only for me

As the days go by we fall into a rhythm

Our own separate vision

Of the world and its inner workings

He keeps up the charade

And I find myself falling in the

World that he’s made

FINNY

It’s all a conspiracy

Just think about it

GENE

And so I thought about it

It was true, our view of the war was distant

Only what was told us

We saw nothing with our own eyes

Maybe this was their way to mold us

Maybe there’s no real threat

And maybe we won’t have to die yet

And I know I don’t believe him

But it’d be nice if it were true

So I partake in this game of innocence

As we train, just us two

And we establish our own secret peace

Separate from harsh reality

And my fears of the war, they all slip away

Like dew in the sunlight, evaporating

And suddenly I know/my place is right here

With him, in our secret and separate peace

And I feel like I just dodged a bullet

I feel like I dodged a barrage

The tidal wave has passed us by, for now

Peace returns to Devon

Only for him and me

And suddenly I know/my place is right here

With him, in our secret and separate peace

Yes, now I know/my place is right here

With him, in our secret and separate peace

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

this is two stories you’ve written so far that use beans as a central image. is this deliberate? can we expect to see more beans?

you've uncovered the grand Beanverse conspiracy. you know too much and must be silenced.

you know i realised the same thing halfway through writing it. it wasn't consciously deliberate. chronologically QSH's Beantown was actually written before the Cao Beans. the surface-level explanation is that the author fucking LOVES beans. as a kid i'd just grab a bunch of beans from the kitchen and play with them, so that part was based on real life. come to think of it, i even had my own Imperial Eunuch (my cat alex). huh. life imitates art ect.

the Deep Literary Analysis is that beans symbolise resilience, nourishment and dormant potential. beans start out small and unremarkable, indistinguishable from their peers, but under the right conditions they can sprout into towering giants. e.g. the magic beans from jack and the beanstalk, and later jack himself as he slays the giant and realises his true potential. they also represent the transformative power of time/nature, and the difference facets of people. the seed, the edible vegetable, and the stalk kindling all spring from the same root. this complex interplay has long been observed by chinese poets, e.g. the famous bean poem where the beanstalks are used to cook the beans is used as a metaphor for familial strife, and was later attributed to Cao Zhi and his turbulent relationship with his brothers.

[not-ur-manic-pixie-dream-girl]

Yearlings | Chapter 19

Pairing: Aragorn x OFC, arranged marriage AU

Summary:

yearling (plural yearlings)

A young horse that is between one and two years old;

Still a wild thing, untamed, knowing only the endless horizon of the plains, the world vast and waiting. It knows neither the weight of the saddle or the pressure of the bridle, untouched by the responsibilities that will one day rest heavy upon its back.

Elira, daughter of Rohan, once knew only the whisper of the breeze and the freedom of the endless fields. Yet now, bound by an arranged marriage to a king, she finds herself standing at the crossroads of duty and desire. Within the shadowed halls of Gondor, where power shifts and secrets linger, she must learn to carry the weight of a future she never chose. Alongside Aragorn, a man whose own burdens weigh heavy, she will face the slow, inevitable taming of her heart—a heart torn between the wild call of freedom and the quiet, steady pull of love between two souls learning, together, to carry the weight of grand destinies.

In a world where future is yet uncertain, Elira will come to understand that love, much like a yearling, must be nurtured, tamed, and made her own, before it can bear the weight of all that is to come

Word count: 6,514

Content warnings: grief, angst, war

AO3

The study was dimly lit, the fire casting flickering shadows against the stone walls as Elira stood, her gaze fixed on Aragorn, who paced before her, his brow furrowed with tension. The silence between them was thick, as though the very air was weighted with the knowledge of the dark times that lay ahead. 

She could still hear the words of the guard echoing in her mind, the warning of the conspiracy unfolding in the very heart of Gondor. Her mind reeled, the implications of it all crashing over her in waves, each more overwhelming than the last. The conspiracy had begun as court intrigue, whispers in darkened hallways, but now it was about to erupt into open confrontation. She could barely grasp the reality of it all. Nobles from Gondor conspiring with the leaders of Harad, an army moving closer by the hour. The tension in the room felt suffocating, as though the walls themselves were closing in on her. And Aragorn… Aragorn was pacing before her, as though trying to outrun the chaos that loomed on the horizon. His movements were sharp and restless, his usual calm composure lost in the torrent of his thoughts. 

She couldn’t look at him without feeling a pang of fear deep within her, the thought that this might be their last moment of peace. The only thing that seemed certain was the danger they now faced. She had thought she was prepared for the threat to Gondor, but this… this was different. The world they lived in now felt like it was crumbling around them, piece by piece. 

Aragorn had stopped pacing for a moment, turning abruptly to face her. His eyes, usually steady and commanding, were clouded with something she couldn’t quite place—an urgency, a fear. His jaw was set in a grim line, and the hands he clenched at his sides betrayed his inner turmoil. 

“Elira,” he said, his voice low and tight, as though each word took great effort. “You have to leave. Now. Find somewhere safe until it’s over.” 

Her heart lurched, the words cutting through her like a blade. She had known that the situation was dire, but the command to leave—to leave him—felt like the ground had been pulled out from beneath her. 

A surge of emotion flooded her chest, and she stepped forward, refusing to allow him to shield her from the truth. His gaze met hers, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background. He wants me to leave, her mind screamed with disbelief, a visceral rejection of what he was asking. She could feel her heart racing in her chest, its beats loud and insistent in her ears. Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.  

She lifted her chin, her gaze meeting his with a quiet, resolute fire. “I’m not leaving,” she said, her voice clear and unwavering, though her chest tightened with the weight of her decision. “I know how to fight, Aragorn. I will fight.” 

A flicker of exasperation crossed his face, but he didn’t hesitate. He stepped toward her, his eyes searching hers, as if he were hoping to find some way to change her mind, to make her see the danger in front of them. But she couldn’t see it, not like he did. She couldn’t understand why he thought she would cower in fear. She wasn’t weak. She wouldn’t be left behind. She couldn’t. 

 “Elira,” he said, the desperation in his voice making her heart ache. “You don’t understand. Gondor alone does not have the strength to win this war. The forces at play are too great. The only chance we have is holding on long enough for Éomer to bring reinforcements from Rohan.” 

Elira shook her head, her frustration rising like a storm inside her. “We’ve just talked about this,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I will not stand by and hope for the best. I cannot.” Her eyes darkened with the intensity of her conviction. “I will not hide while you go off to face this.” 

She paused, her gaze unwavering. This was not her way. This was not who she was. She had been raised to fight, to stand beside those she loved, not to turn away when the world called for action. She could feel the heat of that conviction rise within her, burning away the doubts that tried to settle in. She wasn’t going to let him send her away. Not like this.  

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze flicking to the floor as if he were weighing her words, as though trying to find another way to make her understand. But there was no understanding to be had. Her heart was set, and it had been for some time now. 

“Elira,” Aragorn’s voice was almost a whisper, raw with frustration. “Please. You must go. It is too dangerous here, for you, for everyone.” His eyes lifted, and she saw the strain of something deeper in them, a fear that she had never seen from him before. “If you stay, I cannot protect you.” 

Her heart clenched at his words, her chest tightening with the weight of them. He did want to protect her—she knew that. But she wasn’t a helpless woman to be sheltered away like some fragile thing. She had seen too much, lived too much to be coddled like that. Her father had been a protector, a man who stood strong in the face of danger, and she had been his daughter. She would not dishonor that strength now. 

Her heart twisted, but she stood firm. “You cannot protect me either way,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, “and yet you still ask me to go. But I won’t. You cannot make me.” She took a step forward, closing the distance between them, her resolve as solid as the stone walls surrounding them. “I won’t let you go alone. I won’t sit behind while you face this.” 

The room was silent for a long moment, but it was a silence that filled her with a sense of certainty. She could see the internal battle playing out in his eyes. She knew what he was thinking—how dangerous this was, how much he wanted to protect her. But he didn’t understand. He couldn’t see how much she needed to fight beside him, how much she needed to be with him, standing side by side 

Aragorn’s face hardened for a moment, and then his voice broke through the tension. “I’ll return, Elira,” he said, his words heavy with meaning, “but until then, you have to go. You must be safe.” 

The pain in his voice was like a knife twisting in her heart, but she refused to allow it to break her. Her thoughts spun like a whirlwind, memories of her father, of the man she had loved so deeply, and the pain of his loss still fresh in her mind. Her voice caught in her throat, but she forced herself to speak, to speak the truth she had kept buried for so long. 

“My father told me the same thing,” she said, the words coming out raw, more from her soul than from her lips. “He told me to stay behind, to be safe, and I let him go. I won’t let you go. Not without me, Aragorn.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard. “I won’t lose you.” 

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a painful reminder of the depth of the love she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge before. But in that moment, she could no longer ignore it. Her thoughts were no longer of duty or honor, but of him. Of the man standing before her, whose life had become intertwined with hers, in ways she could no longer untangle. 

“I’ll not forgive you,” she continued, her voice trembling with emotion, her words a vow. “I’ll never speak to you again if you don’t let me go with you.” She could feel the desperation in her own words, raw and unyielding. 

Aragorn’s eyes darkened, the weight of her words settling heavily between them. She could see him struggling with the decision, torn between his love for her and the undeniable need to protect her. 

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, finally, Aragorn’s shoulders sagged as if some invisible weight had been lifted. He closed his eyes briefly, a gesture of both exhaustion and resignation. 

“Promise me,” he said, his voice low and full of anguish. “Promise me that you will be careful. If you must come with me, promise me that you will not do anything reckless.” 

The vulnerability in his voice caught her off guard, and for a moment, she felt a pang of guilt for the desperation in his words. He was not asking for her obedience, not truly. He was asking for her safety, and it tore at her heart. But she knew, deep down, that they were stronger together than apart. 

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his. “I promise,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, “but I will not stay behind. I will fight with you, Aragorn.” 

His face softened for a fleeting moment, and his hand reached out to touch hers, a gesture that spoke volumes of the bond between them. It was a small, simple thing, but it was enough to remind her that in this moment, they were together—no matter what came next. 

“Then we will face this together,” he said quietly, his voice filled with an iron determination that she had always admired in him. 

And in that moment, Elira knew there was nothing in this world or the next that could separate them. Not the armies that marched against Gondor, not the betrayals that lay in wait, not even the weight of their duties. Together, they would stand. 

***

The first snowfall of the season had begun to blanket the Pelennor fields, transforming the landscape into a shimmering sea of white. The air was sharp and crisp, with the scent of snow mingling with the scent of horses and leather. The soft flurry of flakes fell steadily from the gray sky, dusting the tents, the soldiers, and the weapons alike. A hush seemed to fall over the fields, the world muffling beneath the thickening snow, and for a moment, everything felt still—paused, as if awaiting the first blow of battle. 

Elira walked beside Aragorn, her cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders, the hem brushing lightly against the ground as they made their way through the camp. Their boots crunched softly in the snow, but the sounds of the camp were louder—voices raised in conversation, the jingle of armor being adjusted, horses whinnying, soldiers giving orders in low voices. But the noise didn’t seem to reach Aragorn. His gaze was fixed ahead, his face unreadable, as always, but there was a quiet tension about him that Elira could feel in the air between them. 

She glanced at him, watching how his brow furrowed slightly as he observed the men around him, how his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing as he spoke briefly to a captain nearby. Elira knew well enough what he was seeing: fewer soldiers than he had hoped for. She could feel the weight of his unease, though he showed no sign of it outwardly. He moved with the calm of a king, but there was something in the way his shoulders were set, in the stiff line of his neck, that told her something else was on his mind. 

“Far fewer than I expected,” Aragorn muttered under his breath as he turned to his captains. His voice was low, edged with frustration. “The dissent is clear. More than I hoped.” He clenched his jaw, his hand brushing against the pommel of his sword. His words were meant for his officers, but Elira caught them too, her own heart sinking. 

“How many are we?” one of the captains asked, his voice steady but laced with concern. 

Aragorn’s eyes scanned the camp once more, the grimness of the situation setting deeper into his expression. “No more than half of what we had hoped,” he replied quietly, his gaze resting on the soldiers as they moved about, preparing for what was to come. “And of those, I know not how many will truly stand when the time comes. Too many have already joined the ranks of our enemies.” 

Elira stood slightly behind him, watching the men. Some were quietly murmuring to one another, others polishing their swords, while still others seemed distant, their eyes unfocused. There was no telling which ones would remain steadfast, which ones would waver when faced with the harsh reality of the coming battle. Her gaze drifted back to Aragorn, and she could see how his eyes followed the soldiers with a deep, pained scrutiny. 

She could feel the hesitation in the air, though Aragorn did his best to mask it. His men did not question him, though. Not a single one looked to him with doubt. They followed him with a loyalty that was palpable, and in that moment, Elira realized something. Aragorn wasn’t just a king to these men. He wasn’t simply the ruler they served. He stood among them, one of them—a warrior, a leader. He had earned their loyalty not through his crown, but through his presence on the battlefield, through the blood he had spilled beside them. 

The thought sent a ripple of pride through her, and she couldn’t help but glance at him again, this time noticing how his expression had softened, just slightly, as he regarded his men. It was in the way he commanded without speaking, in the way they obeyed his silent gestures. Even without a word, Aragorn was a figure who inspired a devotion that no throne could bestow, a devotion born from respect, from battle-tested trust. 

But still, she could sense his unease, as though a heavy cloud hung over him, darkening his thoughts. Even now, as they walked side by side, there was something that made her wish to reach out, to comfort him, but the space between them felt too great, too charged.  

She remembered the words Aedwyn had spoken to her months ago, before she left Rohan, as they stood at their father’s grave: “We are daughters of Rohan, Elira. We face the challenges set before us, whether we understand them or not. Father taught us that. He taught us to endure.” 

Her heart clenched tightly as she thought of her sister, of the lessons their father had imparted to them, how they had shaped her, how they had shaped both of them. The cold winter day seemed to heighten her awareness of the weight of those words. We endure. 

Fear had settled deep within her, a fear she didn’t know how to shake. But it was not a fear that would stop her. In that moment, as they walked through the camp, Elira’s mind sharpened, and she realized with a sudden clarity that her father’s teachings were not merely for times of peace. They had been meant for this. We endure. That was what she would do. She would stand. She would not yield. 

Elira’s steps slowed for a moment, but then she caught herself, pushing away the lingering doubts. She would fight. She would face this, whatever came, just as her father would have. And though fear still gripped her heart, she felt the stirrings of something stronger. She would not stand back and watch. She would stand beside him. 

Aragorn turned his head slightly, his gaze finding hers as she walked beside him. He didn’t ask if she was all right, didn’t need to. They both understood the unspoken weight of the battle ahead, the risks, the dangers. There was nothing to be said, only the shared understanding between them. His eyes were full of quiet strength, but there was also a fleeting trace of something vulnerable, something that hinted at a fear he would never show to his men, but one that he could not entirely hide from her. 

Elira met his gaze as they continued to walk, and though he didn’t speak of it, she knew he was thinking of what they faced. But she also saw the fire in his eyes, the courage that never faltered, even in the darkest of times. She didn’t need to hear him speak to understand that Aragorn, despite everything, was still the man who had once led her people to victory at Helm’s Deep.  

“I’ll stand with you,” Elira said softly, the words coming from a place of certainty. “Whatever comes, I’ll endure.” 

Aragorn turned to her then, his gaze softened for just a moment, and she saw something in his eyes that she had been longing to see—a quiet understanding. He didn’t say anything, but the look was enough. He trusted her. He knew that she was not just his queen, but his equal. 

Together, they walked on through the camp, the snowflakes falling around them, knowing that the dawn would bring a battle neither of them could avoid. Yet, in the midst of it all, they were ready. They would endure. 

***

The night in camp was cold, a chill that slipped beneath the blankets and settled into the bones. Elira lay on her cot, staring up at the dark ceiling of the tent. The faint rustling of the canvas in the wind was the only sound that reached her ears, but beneath it, she could hear Aragorn’s restless shifting. His breath was steady for a moment, and then it would hitch—too shallow, too quick, as though sleep eluded him just as it eluded her. 

Her thoughts were a blur, swirling like the wind outside. She wondered if her inability to sleep was born of fear for herself or for him. It was hard to separate the two. The battle that loomed on the horizon seemed a storm too big to weather, and the thought of it consumed her. But it wasn’t the fear of the battle that kept her awake—it was the thought of losing him. Would it hurt less to die in battle than to lose him? The question burned inside her, unbidden, and she closed her eyes, fighting the rise of panic that surged in her chest. 

She heard Aragorn shift again, the creak of his cot barely audible in the night. He was not asleep either. He’s scared too, her mind grappled with the realization, but she swallowed it back. Aragorn, King of Gondor, the man who had faced countless dangers, was scared. She had seen him in command, strong and steady, but tonight, in the quiet of the tent, she could hear the tremor in his movements. 

Unable to keep still any longer, she exhaled softly, her breath catching in the cold air, and murmured wryly into the darkness. “It’d be really ironic if I fell off my horse tomorrow because I couldn’t get any rest tonight.” 

The words hung in the air, and for a long moment, there was only silence. Then, to her surprise, she felt the bedroll shift beside her, the weight of him moving as he sat up. His presence felt larger in the dark, and she could sense his gaze on her. His brows were knit together in thought, and when he spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. 

“The sleep never comes any easier,” he said quietly, as if sharing a truth only understood by those who had known too much of war. 

His words struck her in a way she hadn’t anticipated, and for a moment, all she could do was lie there, still. Does it ever come easier for any of us? The question drifted through her mind, but she could not find the answer. She had known pain, loss, fear, but never the weight of a kingdom, never the responsibility he carried. She could not fathom the burden he bore daily, but in that moment, she felt the weight of his words settling between them like a quiet understanding. 

Without a word, Aragorn extended his hand toward her. His fingers, rough from years of battle, seemed fragile in the moonlight that filtered through the tent’s opening. Elira’s breath caught in her throat for a moment as she considered his silent offer. She could feel the weight of his gaze, even though she did not look at him directly. There was something in the way he extended his hand—a quiet need, perhaps, or a desire to connect. In the darkness, it felt like an unspoken promise. 

For a heartbeat, she hesitated, unsure of herself, unsure of what to say, or even if words were needed. Her heart pounded, not from fear of the battle, but from something else entirely—a tension that lay between them, thick and undeniable. It had always been there, between them, lurking in the quiet spaces, in the moments when words failed them. But tonight, it felt stronger than ever before, as if everything was teetering on the edge of something neither of them could control. 

But then, the pull inside her chest—an instinct, a longing—rose up. She couldn’t deny it, and she knew she didn’t want to. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly as it met his. The contact sent a warmth through her, a sharp contrast to the chill that had settled in her bones. His touch was firm, steady, but there was something tender about it—something that made her heart flutter in her chest. 

Without another word, Aragorn gently pulled her toward him. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though he didn’t want to startle her or push too quickly. And yet, she allowed herself to be guided, feeling his strength surrounding her. 

When she finally settled against him, her head coming to rest on his chest, a soft breath escaped her. His heartbeat, strong and sure, echoed in her ears, a reminder of the life within him. It was a steady, comforting sound, and yet she could feel a tremor beneath it, a subtle tension that betrayed the quiet strength he always displayed. 

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. The warmth of him seeped into her skin, but it wasn’t just the warmth of his body that made her feel safe. It was the steadiness of him, the unspoken promise that whatever came, they would face it together. But even in that moment of quiet comfort, she could feel the faint tremble in his hands—just as she could feel her own body betraying her, her limbs tight with unease, her heart thudding beneath the weight of the night. 

It wasn’t just the battle that had them both on edge—it was each other. The thought of losing him, of waking up to find him gone, was a sharp pain she didn’t know how to bear. And in his arms, she realized he felt the same way. She could sense it in the way his grip tightened ever so slightly around her, in the soft tremor of his breath, in the way his body seemed to ache for the peace that had always eluded them. 

There was no need for words. Their shared fear, their shared vulnerability, was enough. 

Minutes passed in silence, and still neither of them spoke. The night stretched on, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears, but in Aragorn’s arms, Elira felt, for the first time that evening, something close to steadiness. The storm of thoughts that had raged within her—of battle, of loss, of all the terrible things that could come—began to settle. She closed her eyes, listening to the quiet rise and fall of his breath, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her ear. It was unwavering, grounding her in a way nothing else could. For this moment, this fleeting time, she allowed herself to be still, to simply be held. 

Then, softly, almost too softly to hear, Aragorn began to sing. 

The sound was quiet at first, no more than a murmur against the hush of the night. His voice, low and rich, wove through the stillness like a thread of silver, each note measured, solemn, yet laced with something gentle—something meant to soothe rather than stir. The melody was old, she could tell, something ancient, something that had seen the rise and fall of ages. The words, though unfamiliar to her, were unmistakably Elvish, their cadence flowing like a river, smooth and unbroken. 

Elira did not understand their meaning, but she did not need to. The song carried with it a sense of deep sorrow and quiet hope, of long journeys and distant shores, of loss and love and things unspoken. There was a wistfulness in the way he sang, a reverence, as though the very act of shaping these words in the darkness was a prayer, a remembrance of all that had come before and all that was still to come. 

She felt her body relax, her limbs losing the tension she had not even realized she still held. The weight pressing on her chest lessened, the racing of her thoughts slowing to match the measured rhythm of his voice. It was a balm against the raw edges of fear, a reminder that there was something beyond the battle waiting for them come morning. 

Aragorn’s hand, which had been resting lightly against her back, traced slow, absent circles there, as though he, too, sought solace in the song. He sang for her, but Elira sensed that he sang for himself as well. Perhaps he had done this before, on the long, lonely nights in the wilds, with only the stars for company. Or perhaps it was something deeper—something woven into the very fabric of him, an echo of the years he had spent among the Elves, of the home he had once known but could never truly return to. 

The song faded, the last note lingering in the hush between them, and for a long moment, neither of them moved. 

Elira let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding. The tightness in her chest had eased, the fear that had coiled so tightly around her heart loosened. She shifted slightly, pressing her cheek more firmly against him, closing her eyes. 

“You should sleep,” he murmured, his voice no more than a whisper. 

She gave the barest nod. “So should you.” 

A faint chuckle, soft and breathless, ghosted against the crown of her head. “Perhaps now, I will.” 

Elira said nothing, but she felt it too—that quiet understanding between them, the knowledge that, for tonight, neither of them was alone. 

As the hours passed and the night deepened, exhaustion pulled at her limbs, slow and inevitable. The tremors in her chest, the quick beat of her heart, faded into stillness. Elira could feel her body relaxing, the tension in her limbs finally ebbing away. Aragorn’s breathing became more even, and she could sense him falling into the same quiet solace. 

And as her own eyes fluttered closed, she realized she wasn’t alone. Not tonight, not ever. 

In the stillness of the night, they both drifted into sleep, together—finally, truly, in each other’s arms. 

***

The camp was alive with the sounds of war. Armor clanked as men fastened their breastplates and greaves, adjusting sword belts and testing the weight of their shields. The sharp scent of oiled leather and steel hung thick in the cold morning air. Horses stamped restlessly, their breath curling in the chill, their riders murmuring soft words of reassurance even as they themselves stood on the edge of unease. Fires smoldered low, their warmth almost forgotten in the face of what was to come. 

There was no jesting among the men now, no idle chatter. The light-hearted boasts that had passed through the ranks in the nights before had faded, replaced by a grim, heavy silence. They all knew what lay ahead. 

Beyond the camp, the Pelennor stretched out, blanketed in frost, the grass brittle and white underfoot. And in the distance, just beyond sight, an army gathered. An enemy that had once been mere whispers in the halls of Minas Tirith was now a reality waiting on the horizon. 

Elira stood by Faelan’s side, tightening the last strap of the saddle with steady hands. She should have felt nervous. Should have felt that same tightness in her chest she had felt thenight before. And yet, she did not. Not yet. 

The weight of her weapons—her bow slung across her back, the quiver of arrows at her hip, the sword at her side—was a comfort, something familiar amid the uncertainty of war. She ran a hand down Faelan’s sleek neck, feeling the strength beneath the mare’s skin. Faelan flicked an ear toward her, snorting softly, and Elira allowed herself the faintest of smiles. 

Leaning in close, she pressed her forehead lightly against Faelan’s and whispered, “Today we shall see what you are made of, my girl. What both of us are made of.” 

The mare huffed in response, as if she understood, and Elira exhaled, her breath misting in the cold air. But the moment of stillness broke as she heard approaching footsteps, measured and firm. She knew who it was before she turned. 

Aragorn. 

Her breath caught, her heart giving a sudden, treacherous leap in her chest. And now, at last, the nerves came—not for the battle, not for herself, but for him. 

She turned to face him as he stopped beside her, his gaze sweeping over her, taking in the bow, the sword, the resolute set of her shoulders. He looked as he always did before a fight—steady, calm, yet with a weight behind his eyes, a knowing of what was to come. His armor was fitted, his cloak stirring slightly in the breeze, Andúril at his hip, his face carved with the solemnity of one who bore the weight of many. Yet it was not the King of Gondor she saw in that moment, nor the battle-hardened ranger who had roamed the wilds. It was simply Aragorn—the man she had come to know in quiet moments, in shared glances, in words unspoken. The man she could not bear to lose. 

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The camp stirred around them, men preparing for war, but the sound of it faded into something distant, unimportant. Here, now, there was only the two of them. 

Elira swallowed against the tightness in her throat. Say something, she told herself. But what words could be spoken on the edge of battle? What words would not tremble beneath the weight of all that was unsaid? 

Aragorn felt his heart lurch in his chest. 

There were moments when the weight of his crown, his duty, the destiny that had been set before him since birth, seemed to press down upon him with crushing force. Moments when he felt the weariness of it settle into his very bones. But then there were moments like this. Moments when he saw her, and the world seemed to narrow into something far simpler, far more dangerous. 

She is afraid to lose you. 

The thought struck him like a blade, swift and cutting, before she even spoke a word. He saw it in the tightness of her jaw, in the way her breath faltered just slightly. And when she did speak, her voice quieter than he had ever heard it, he felt it settle deep in his chest, beneath armor and flesh and bone. 

“I have lost much already,” she murmured at last, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. She looked at him then, truly looked at him—the steady line of his jaw, the shadow of strain beneath his eyes, the way his fingers curled slightly, as if he wished to reach for her but did not dare. A breath shuddered through her. “I cannot bear to lose you, too.” 

It would have been easier if she had not said it. 

Would have been easier if she had simply nodded, offered some jest about watching each other’s backs, something light enough to ignore the truth that loomed between them. But she had spoken plainly, and now he could not look away from it. 

His gaze softened, but there was pain in it, and something else—something deeper, something unguarded. Slowly, he reached out, his hands finding her waist, his grip gentle yet firm, grounding her in place. The moment he touched her, she felt the strength of him, the warmth of his hands even through the fabric of her tunic. And yet, beneath that warmth, there was the faintest tremor in his fingers. 

It was a terrible thing to realize—he was afraid. Aragorn, who stood before armies, who had faced wraiths and warlords and all manner of foes without faltering, was afraid. Not of battle. Not of death. But of something far greater, something unspoken between them. 

She felt her own hands tremble as she lifted them, resting them lightly against his forearms. She had meant to steady herself, but the moment she touched him, it was as if the world narrowed to the space between them, to the press of his fingers against her waist, the heat of his breath as he leaned in. 

He bowed his head until their foreheads touched, and Elira closed her eyes against the wave of feeling that threatened to break over her. She could not bear this. She could not bear him. Not like this. Not when war stood between them, when they did not know if they would have another moment beyond this one. 

Aragorn closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers, letting his breath steady against hers. He could not let himself think of what lay ahead. Could not let himself think of the field, of the clash of steel and the cries of dying men. Of what might happen if the tide turned against them. 

Of what might happen if he lost her. 

His fingers tightened at her waist. 

“I will not ask you to stay behind,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost pained. “I know you would not. But—” His breath hitched, his fingers tensing at her waist. 

He wished he could. He wished he could beg her to stay, to send her somewhere far from the coming battle, to know with certainty that she would be safe. But he had known from the start that such a thing was impossible. 

He had seen it in her from the first time he looked at her—the fire in her, the stubborn, unyielding strength that made her who she was. She was not a woman who would wait behind, who would be content to let others fight in her place. And even if she were, it would not matter.  

She was his. 

Not in name, not yet—not in the way he longed for her to be—but in every way that mattered. 

And he would not lose her. 

She did not need him to finish. She could hear the words in the silence, in the weight of his hands upon her. But I cannot bear the thought of losing you. 

Elira let out a soft, unsteady breath. Her fingers curled around the leather of his bracers, gripping tighter. 

“You had best not do anything reckless,” she whispered, a desperate attempt at lightness, but there was no jest in her voice. Her heart was pounding too fiercely, her throat too tight. “You are not just any soldier. Gondor needs you.” A pause, her breath faltering. “I need you.” 

The words slipped free before she could stop them. Too much, too close to what she could not allow herself to say. 

She felt rather than saw his reaction—the faintest intake of breath, the way his hands flexed at her waist as if he might pull her closer, the way his forehead pressed more firmly against hers. 

Aragorn exhaled sharply. The words were a knife to his ribs, a blow he had not been prepared for. 

She needed him. 

It would have been so easy to close the space between them, to press his lips to hers, to finally—finally—let himself have what he had denied for so long. The battle be damned. The war, the world, all of it. For this moment, there was nothing but her, nothing but the desperate, aching need to tell her— 

But he could not. 

Not here. Not now. 

His fingers brushed the fabric at her side, barely there, almost hesitant. “I promise,” he murmured, the words barely a whisper on his lips, but whatever he meant to say, whatever hovered between them, he did not—could not—give voice to it. 

Because they both knew the truth. 

If they spoke the words—if they let them take shape in the air between them—then there would be no taking them back. And war did not allow for such things. Not now. Not yet. 

So they stood there, breathing each other’s breath, hands curled into fabric and leather, the weight of battle pressing against them but not yet breaking through. 

Aragorn exhaled slowly, the warmth of it ghosting over her skin. Then, with a careful slowness that nearly undid her, he lifted a hand, his fingers brushing against her cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The touch was fleeting, hesitant—far too tender for a morning before war. But it lingered, and so did she. 

Finally, reluctantly, he pulled away. 

She opened her eyes to find him watching her, something unreadable in his gaze, something she was afraid to name. 

“We will see this through,” he said at last, steady and certain. But there was something else beneath it, something softer. “And when we do—” His voice caught, just barely, before he swallowed and finished, “—we will have time to speak of all that is left unsaid.” 

Another promise. One he prayed he would live to keep. 

Elira nodded once, unable to trust herself to speak. 

Then he stepped back, his hands slipping from her waist, leaving behind only the memory of warmth. The world beyond them returned—the sounds of soldiers, of swords being drawn, of battle drawing near. 

Elira turned back to Faelan, gripping the saddle’s pommel with white-knuckled fingers. 

The moment had passed. 

But the weight of it lingered. And whatever had been left unspoken between them— 

She only prayed there would be time to say it. 

As Aragorn turned, stepping away from her, he knew one thing with absolute certainty. 

Whatever happened, whatever the day brought— 

He would fight not for crown or country, not for the weight of his destiny, not even for the men who looked to him as their king. 

He would fight for her.