#its a small embroidered one he did himself

[synthshenanigans]

Made Hearts hoodie in animal crossing, its even got lil wings :}

[live-love-be-unique]

Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight

Summary: Bob draws your name for Secret Santa.

This is my submission for @lewmagoo Holiday Celebration. The prompt was “You're each other's secret santa”

And thank you to @translatemunson for helping with the banner

Parings: Bob x f reader

Warnings: none

It was all Rooster’s fault Bob decided as the familiar strains of “Santa Baby” filled the room. He’d suggested christening his new apartment with a Dagger squad potluck Secret Santa party.

Everyone piled into the living room, after stuffing themselves on the ridiculous amount of food they had all brought, ready to unwrap their gifts. This was a bad idea Bob realised, watching you smiling as the rest of the party exchanged their Secret Santa gifts. He cursed himself for getting you a gift so personal. He’d stressed about the perfect gift for the weeks before the party, finally he asked Rooster’s girlfriend, she’d become your friend when she started dating his fellow pilot, he figured she’d know what to get you, she’d suggest he get you something sweet or maybe “just tell her how you feel” she’d said.

After another couple of days stressing, he’d found himself surrounded by excited children and their exhausted parents in a Build-A-Bear at the mall. He chose a little bear with golden fur that the employee commented matched his hair colour perfectly and he even found a little aviator outfit to dress it in, sure it didn’t match his uniform but he thought you would find the little leather jacket and hat and goggles cute.

He looked away from his gift, which was still under the tree when you laughed as Rooster opened his gift, a bottle of whiskey wrapped in a pair of novelty boxer shorts with an obnoxious cartoon rooster and the word “cocky” printed on the front, courtesy of Hangman.

“Looks like we’re down to the last two gifts!” Javy announced. You stood and made your way over to the tree, picking up a beautifully wrapped box before turning to him.

“I guess that means we’re each other’s Secret Santa” you smiled brightly at him, holding the gift towards him “Merry Christmas Bob”

“Merry Christmas yourself” he smiled nervously as his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you your gift.

“Open it! Open it!” Hangman chanted loudly.

Bob glanced down at the beautifully wrapped gift in his lap, you smile brightly as you sat next to him on the couch. He slipped the navy blue ribbon off, his favourite colour, and lifted the lid to reveal a vintage record, one that he had spent months trying to find “where did you find this?!” he asked, turning the record over in his hands, reading the tracklist on the back.

“My uncle owns a record store and you mentioned you were trying to get your hands on it” you shrug, hiding a smile as you sip your wine.

His hands touch something soft and wrapped in tissue paper as he reads over the tracklist, noting his favourite songs. He glanced down to find there was another parcel in the box.

He unwrapped the small parcel to find a soft navy blue scarf “I thought it might be useful when you headed home” You pointed out one of the ends of the scarf as Bob’s fingers traced over his callsign and a little plane that you had embroidered on the edge. He could smell your perfume as you leaned closer to point out the little missed stitches and crooked bits of your handiwork “It’s not much I know” you started.

“No, I love it” he smiled up at you before realising how close you were sitting, if he leaned forward just a little he could kiss you…

The rest of the party started cheering you on to open your present “Ok, ok, I’ll open it” you laughed, reaching for the box in front of you. Bob stared at his hands as you opened the box. He bit the inside of his cheek as he waited for your laughter or your disappointment at the gift he had chosen.

“Oh he’s adorable!” He didn’t expect that. He looked up to find you holding the little bear, admiring its little scarf and leather jacket.

“A bear? You got her a….ow! What was that for?!” Bob silently thanked Phoenix as she leveled a slap to the back of Hangman’s head. Laughter broke out as Jake sat back rubbing his head and nursing his drink.

You sat next to Bob for the rest of the party holding the little bear you’d named “Bobby” in your arms as the rest of the squad argued over which Christmas film to watch first “he’s missing something” you noted as Coyote and Fanboy shot each other with the nerf guns they had gifted in their Secret Santa exchange “he doesn’t have your glasses”

“They did have glasses at the store and I almost brought them, but I thought it might make it too obvious it was from me” he chuckled at the thought of the little bear sporting a pair of his glasses.

“Well I think he needs them”

“You think so?”

“Of course”

“Maybe we could go and get them together and maybe…get lunch after?” Bob trailed off as he noticed you staring at him.

“Are you asking me out?” You smiled.

“Yeah, I think I am, if you’d want to that is” he asked nervously.

“I was hoping you’d ask me”

“You were?” You nodded and smiled up at him as you slid closer, laying your head on his shoulder.

As he wrapped the blanket from the couch over the two of you Bob saw the matching smirks of Nat and Rooster’s girlfriend as you cuddled into his arms. It was Rooster’s fault Bob decided, but as he linked his hand with yours he decided he’d buy him a thank you drink at the Top Deck next visit.

[mooishbeam]

Early mornings ran most peaceful for you. The distant chirp of rising birds, the lone Starskiff’s bumbling motor as it soars across the sky, a comforting breeze wafting through your hair. The pinkish rosy sky sent the midnight clouds to sleep, pouring the Xianzhou’s roofs in shimmering dawn light. 

It was one of the perks of being General Jing Yuan’s unofficial assistant. You committed to the activities you enjoyed all while working in the General’s own residence. His home hung above the rest, suspended in the throes of the galaxy, marking its existence in time and space. 

It’s so much more than you could ask for, and way more than you thought you’d ever receive. Truthfully, you believed your “house-sitting” business to be reaching a standstill. You hardly imagined it’d be the General requesting your expertise with a confident candor and dopey grin. 

The Dozing General conducted himself with pride and dignity, sacrificing his own life over the will of his cloud knights. You saw within him power only kings bore, possessing the ability to command a crowd. 

You saw more than just that, though. Dark bags, the few moments where his eyes flitted for half of a second, the armor weighing heavy on his back, silent mornings taught with tension and dread. The overworked, exhausting nature of never-ending paperwork and battle scars would naturally leave little room for housekeeping. Therefore, you did your best to make the bitter evenings pleasant. 

Your favorites were the lazy days, where you got to spend extra time with Mimi. Or wave-treading snow lion, as he liked to call her. The General isn’t good with names. 

The second mimi sees you, she’d roll on her stomach with the cutest doe-eyes you’ve ever seen from lion. Enticing you, you can't resist petting her. It’s like she knows the impact her cuteness has on you. Loafing in the courtyard, ripe with overgrown vines that wrap around the pillars and crimson pagoda roofs. You lazed the mornings away, digging in her fur as she purred and purred. The vibrations traveled through your hands often. Ivory fur filling the space between your fingers, puffing fits of lion hair on your cleaning clothes. A brighter white than the General’s hair, though rougher. You hoped his was softer. 

The General showed his face on occasion, when the sun’s radiance demanded attention. Never beyond mannerly greetings. Never beyond simple small-talk wrapped in a dainty bow of professionalism. Sometimes he’d appear with tea in hand, discussing the lengthy schedule in store. Other times, you existed in the quiet together. You wanted to ask about his preferred tea, how he met Mimi, why he didn’t sleep in on days off. 

Why he didn’t ask for help. 

Yet, you couldn’t manage to break the carefully built barriers separating you from the nonchalant facade. It was usually the ladder. 

Today was one of those days, using Mimi as a lower back rest as you corded your hands through her fur. She knows her strength, big, fluffy paws pressing gingerly on your knee as she attempts to make biscuits, careful to retract her claws. Her purring travels like an engine, and you use the other hand to provide the chin scratches she deserves. She curls around you, lovingly flicking her tufted tail on your thigh, and you laugh at her ability to behave like a kitten in the body of a 300-pound animal. 

The opposite door slides open, releasing a draft along the bonsai. 

Jing Yuan leans against the side wall. It’s apparent he’s exhausted, or he wouldn’t have approached you in this harrowing state. The long embroidered robe he wears to bed is in disarray, one side slumped from his shoulder to expose the hearty physique befitting of a General of his caliber. Satin pants hang dangerously low on his hips, one leg caught on the heel of his foot. 

He doesn’t seem to realize, however, as his hair nearly obscures his eyes, serving as a makeshift sleeping mask for the dreams he rarely has. Snow white curls spill down his back, hints of a red satin tie holding on between the strands. 

You wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t seem to realize you’re there in the first place. He’s already nodding off, wind passing through his bangs to expose his lidded eyes. 

“Good morning, General.” His head snaps up, and he tries to be discreet about peering through his hair to no avail. 

Jing Yuan tangles his fingers to pull the hair back from his face. Blearily blinking the sleep from his eyes, he adjusts to the morning glow. 

“Mhm, a fine morning, indeed.” He doesn’t mean it. It sounds rehearsed, noncommittal within the chain of grunts and deep whirrs of fatigue. The creases in his smile are shallow today. 

“Would you like me to prepare some tea?” 

“No need” he utters, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off the inevitable. “I’ll be leaving shortly.” 

“Any business you must tend to today?” 

“Not necessarily, but it would do me best to return to the Seat of Divine Foresight just in case.” You’re unaware of the frown forming on your face. Even on days off he worries about the state of the loufu in his absence. It’s hard to imagine the amount of responsibility. 

“If you must” you respond, cagey words laced with worry. It’s better not to pry for your sake. 

“I see you’re having fun with wave-treader” he drawls. 

“Shes been good all morning.” You pet her head and she leans into your palm. 

“I’m glad.” 

“She loves just laying here like this, such a well-behaved kitty.” Mimi stands, stretching on her hind legs with a sturdy yawn. 

You fight back the smile peeking at the corners of your lips when the General yawns right after her. He rubs the back of his head, “She’ll start to think she’s a kitty if you coo at her this often.” 

“I can’t help it, you should see the way she gets me. She’s doing it on purpose!” 

He releases a breathy laugh caught in the chambers of his restless body. “You’re easily swindled.” 

“I guess so.” You open and close your hand, bearing the feeling of losing your hand in her mountains of fur, “petting her calms me down.” 

“That’s why you pet her?” he asks, and you’re knotted in thought at the question. You remember the first time you saw her; how friendly she was as she immediately coiled over your frame and nudged her immense skull into you. 

“Mm, part of the reason. Her hair’s beautiful too, it shines like tassel silk in the sun.” You barely recognize you’re rambling on. 

“It reminds me of yours, General.” 

You pause. Stuck for what feels like an eternity. The embarrassment within you blooms in a sudden, almost paralyzing moment. You’ve shared an inside thought, and you can't bring yourself to look up at him. You suck in your lips, lost for words from your sudden mishap. 

Slowly dragging your eyes up his disheveled state, he’s already staring at you. Crescent moons—mirth plays at the creases on his eyes. 

“My apologies, General, that was unmannerly.” 

His half-baked gaze is fixed on you, gentle eyes spurred by golden sunrise, flecks of nutmeg and honey. A gaze so encompassing and sweet your ears burn like the summer heatwaves on Amphoreus. Even Amphoreus can’t compete with the heat collecting in your stuttering breaths. 

“I-“ 

“Would you like to try?” 

“…I’m sorry?” 

“I said, would you like to touch my hair? Perhaps you’ll receive the same calming energy.” 

You’ve imagined it pacing back in forth in your room, conversing with yourself on the logistics of asking your employer for a potential head pat. It’s been a reoccurring thought since you’ve met him. Soft, almost feathery in appearance as they curled around his chiseled jawline and kind laugh lines. 

You’ve weighed the pros and cons of even asking such a question, If you could reach beyond the rigid professionalism. And now it’s being handed to you with no consequence. It’s practically a trap. Though, you wouldn’t mind going down for the reward. 

You’re tumbling over your sentence, “Y-yes. I mean, yes please.” 

With confirmation he sways to you, stiff and unrefined, unknown qualities of your general. His bare feet slap the stone pathway, robe tie gone to the wind. 

The closer he gets, the more anxious you become. Jing Yuan coming to you for a head massage is like a dream you would’ve repeated in the dead of night, kicking your feet in the air. Now that he’s stopped in front of you, you can’t contain your excitement, buzzing in your kneeling position. He kneels down with you, satin bunching on the floor, leaving little to the imagination. He brings his arms to his sides, waiting. You gladly hold your palms out and he drops his head. 

As if he were in a trance, his forehead meets your shoulder and remains there. A flurry drapes onto your torso and you flinch, face submerged by the thick, untamed mane. No longer Mimi, but the General himself. 

You’re extra timid. You steadily brush your knuckles against his locks. The way you imagined, downy and dense like low lying clouds in a deadened fog. Only luxury products could produce his healthy texture. Hibiscus? Mint? You can’t tell, but it sure smells like it. A fresh, slightly floral scent envelops your nose. You nudge a bit closer, far from tactful. Fluorescent hibiscus haunted by a rainstorm. You inhale deeply, savoring the aroma, when you hear his husky snicker buried underneath. 

“I appreciate the compliment.” 

“Sorry.” 

You move towards the top. Thick from root to tip, curls forming in every which angle. You test the waters and gently scratch his scalp. When he doesn’t react, you continue to trace your nails along it, light pressure, similar to the movements provided for the lion's care. You slowly move from the beginning of his hairline to the end of his scalp, guided by the curve of your fingertips. 

A deep, guttural hum escapes his lips, rumbling in his chest. It travels against your skin. You’re beginning to see more parallels between him and Mimi than you’d like to admit. His arms relax, lowered like cinder blocks at his sides, and you slowly begin to feel the full pressure of this heavy man resting on your shoulder. 

The weight of his burdens is released by your touch, and you feel it dissipating within the pleased sighs and breathy murmurs, eyes shut in pure surrender. Even his lashes curl beautifully, kissing the highs of his cheekbones, blessed by the gift of basking amber. You knead and press at the wispy strands on his temples with scrunches of snow. 

“Mm. That’s good” he says, whisper-light. 

You massage his scalp between your fingers. Taking breaks to smooth the entwined curls. Mimi rests her head on the garden stones, with the rest of the space being furnished with comfortable, safe silence. Picking at the red ribbon until it pulls loose, more hair spills like a blizzard against his fair back. 

“General?” 

He doesn’t reply. The heaving rise and fall of his chest challenges your balance, but no response. “General, are you awake?” You say it quieter this time. If he were to drift asleep, let it be the fate of Lan. 

“Hmm?” he mumbles. 

“Would you like me to tie your hair for you?” 

“That would be nice. Thank you.” 

Your greed gets the better of you, pretending to reach a strand intended for the ponytail just to immerse your fingers in the soft bearings of his nape. An indistinct hum in response is enough for you to keep going. The hairs gentle here, and you’re unhurried sweeping your hands over it. You grab a small bundle of hair at the back of his head and collect it in the neatest ponytail you can manage in this spot. You fold the ribbon around it and pull tight in an acceptable bow. 

Absent-minded touches tuck the stragglers behind his ears. His face warmed, you’d check his temperature if you weren’t also burning up. With his hair tied properly, you can see the hair on his muscles, leading further to the tufts peeping over the waistband. You quickly avert your gaze. 

“I am done.” 

It takes a minute for him to register. “Thank you” he sighs. He’s finding the strength to pull himself out of sleep, raising his head when your hands suddenly ghost behind his back. Not pressuring, but reassuring. There’s a red patch spread across is forehead. 

“However, if you are still tired, I would be honored to stay here while you rest.” He regards you, mischievous grin tugging on his mouth. A laugh puffs from his nose, and he turns his cheek to lay on your shoulder again. He relaxes into your embrace, to which he closes his eyes. 

“Then 5 more minutes wouldn’t hurt.” 

© mooishbeam - please don't steal, copy, or post my work to other platforms :)

[cherryheairt]

Dragon Dreamer pt. XII

going forward, I will be changing a lot of events. ik GRRM HATES to see me coming. Some will be small, others will be big. I want Daenys to play a much bigger role in the Dance, and take creative liberties on stuff the show did not show us or stuff that would be in s3.

tags: @beebeechaos @r-3dlips @emery-aka-emmy @watermel0nsugarhigh @delaynew @hueanhdang @purple-1995 @fall-winter-heart97 @thelastemzy @saintkittykat @littleblackcatinwonderland @pedro-pascal-love @reyndaisy @theadharablack @thatkindofgurl @alexandra-001 i missed y'all its been almost a week

When Daenys learned that Corlys, her grandsire, was severely injured and may be on his deathbed, she was distraught. Her main concern wasn't for Corlys, she knew that since he survived such a brutal attack to his throat, he would endure well. Salt and sea, the Velayron man was. The sea did not take him that day, nor would it for many years. She did not forsee it, nor did she feel the impending doom of death when she thought of him.

The impending doom did not come from Corlys, who lie in a comatose state in Driftmark, but from Vaemond Velayron. The aura of black and blue surrounded him like a defensive shield, striking out when another got near. Never married or siring any legitimate children, Vaemond only cared for himself and his power-hungry interests.

While she resented being forced to come along to King's Landing while Rhaenyra defended Luke's claim to Driftmark, she was glad to support her brother. If anyone would make a good leader, it would be Lucerys.

She was vulnerable here, in the snakepit that was the capitol. Even in the crowd surrounding the throne, filled with the people who would testify either for or against Lucerys' claim, she felt many different eyes on her.

Alicent Hightower, her soft brown eyes hardened at the sight of Rhaenyra and her children. Every time Daenys glanced her way, even briefly, she looked down upon the younger lady with a scornful sneer. Similar looks were cast to Rhaenyra, who clutched her boys protectively. Daemon stood next to his wife, in between Daenys and Rhaenyra, respectively. An amused smile was placed on his lips during the whole precession.

Aegon Targaryen, who's gaze flitted around the room in ever-increasing boredom. Occasionally, he stared at Daenys, but with a blank look in his eyes that gave away his zoned out mind. He would rather be anywhere but here.

Helena Targaryen, who Daenys missed greatly in their time apart. Ravens had not been enough, she missed her company. Whenever Daenys met Helena's eyes, the bored look that Helena also held brightened, and she smiled across the aisle at her niece.

Aemond Targaryen, who's one eye had not left Daenys the whole time. The dark purple hue seemed to be a void of emotion, with Aemond giving away none of his feelings on his face. He had grown taller and leaner since their time in Driftmark. A true dragonrider. Daenys had only sent him one letter, apologizing profoundly for Luke's actions, sending him an embroidered eyepatch for good measure. An image of Vhagar, though condensed greatly to fit on the small black leather canvas. Aemond had never sent any letters back, to her knowledge. Perhaps he was looking at her with blame and distain, an emotion he didn't hide while looking at Daenys' brother.

Across the aisle, a ways behind Vaemond, who stood in the middle, Rhaenys stood with her ward Baela and her twin Rhaena. Through the years, Daenys had grown much closer to Rhaena since she had lived on Dragonstone with Daemon and them. They had grown to become true sisters, a strong connection between the two. Rhaena was quiet compared to her twin but grew more outgoing during her years at Dragonstone. Baela, during her ward with their grandmother, unfortunately grew distant with her sister and father unintentionally.

Rhaenys greeted Daenys with a hug and kissed the young girl's head during their walk inside the Red Keep. They exchanged many letters after Laenor's passing, bond growing from their mutual loss. Rhaenys was quite lonely, only having Baela on Driftmark for company while Corlys was out at sea for years at a time.

When Otto Hightower summoned Rhaenyra to vie for her son's claim, she began strong.

"I would start by reminding you all that twenty years ago, in this very room—"

The grand doors opened, revealing a guard who announced, "King Viserys Targaryen; King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and protector of the realm."

The court held their breath while Viserys staggered down the aisle. Bedridden for years, Viserys had not attended court in half a decade. Daenys grimaced at the sight of her grandsire, though she refused to look away respectfully. Alicent and her father stiffened at the sight of Viserys, thinking that they had the processesion going exactly the way they planned—in their favor.

Viserys would defend his firstborn, no matter what.

Rhaenyra gave her father a grateful look, relief coming from her in waves as she stood back to her original spot. The rest of Rhaenys' and Viserys' words were tuned out to Daenys. All she cared for was the betrothal announcements between her brothers and stepsisters. The rest was useless, knowing that Viserys would establish Luke as heir to driftmark firmly and without question.

Vaemond's yell tore her from her thoughts. "Her children...are BASTARDS!" He screamed to the courts, making Luke and Jace flinch in Rhaenyra's hold.

Daenys shuffled uncomfortably next to Daemon, while he stepped subtlely in front of her. "Say it." He hissed out quietly, urging Vaemond on as he clutched Dark Sister's black pommel.

Vaemond took the bait, turning to Rhaenyra spitefully. "And she. is. a whore." Every word was enunciated strongly.

Viserys, wheezing, stood from the Iron Throne with his dagger clutched in his bony hand. "I will have your tongue for that."

A sudden 'splat!' caught everyone's attention first. Helena gasped, covering her ears and shutting her eyes tight at the bloody sight. Daemon had cut off Vaemond's head, leaving it to drop to the floor, followed by the rest of his body. Daenys held a gag at the sight and smell of fresh blood, turning her eyes away from the gore.

Aemond, across from her, finally lifted his pursed hips into a smirk, eye gleaming at he stared at Daemon.

"Seize his weapons!" Otto Hightower demanded, though Daemon was swift to clean off his sword and sheath it again.

"No need." He said as if nothing had happened.

When Viserys started to shake and wheeze again, attentions were transfixed to the King once more. "Fetch the maesters!" Alicent called out, genuine concern cracking her voice. Perhaps the once good thing about the Queen was her love for her family and husband.

Rhaenyra ushered her kids out swiftly, leaving the room behind. Passing her uncles and aunt, Daenys glanced briefly towards each one.

Aegon finally held an amused expression, looking around the room for reactions and having no concern for his father's condition.

Helena, still covering her ears and turned from Vaemond, followed after Daenys.

Aemond held her stare as she passed, though he did not move so much as a muscle.

Daenys split from her mother and grandmother, telling them she would return for supper. Supposedly, the Hightower-Targaryen family would sup all together for the first time in years after Viserys rested.

Helena led her niece to a spacious and well-lit room by the hand. The floor was littered with toys, though it still appeared clean. Daenys gasped, met with the sight of two white-haired children quietly playing together on a rug.

Helena proudly smiled, removing her other hand from her ear finally and squeezing Daenys' hand. "This is Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. I know I've written to you about them, but I wished for you to meet them, too."

Daenys nodded enthusiastically, earning the attentions of the twins below. Helena and Daenys kneeled together, quite in sync for two ladies who have spent years apart, to greet them.

Daenys introduced herself as 'Aunt Daenys' although she was technically not. Jaehaera seemed to accept the new presence immediately, holding out a wooden wolf for Daenys to take and play with her, another carving of a dragon clutched in her other chubby palm.

Jaehaerys was decidedly more shy, crawling into his mother's lap while he watched his twin and aunt play. Daenys delighted in the activity, knowing her little brothers must be lonely back at Dragonstone, only in the company of their nursemaids. Helena and her chatted through the rounds of playing while Jaehaera dug through a box of toys, inviting Jaehaerys to pick new ones with her.

Hours passed and well into the afternoon, as Helena and Daenys took turns switching off embroidery pieces to find ways to continue each other's art and add to it (their little tradition since they were both young girls). Both were saddened to hear that they were summoned for supper, eager to finish their work before the day ended. Helena's original work was a centipede, Daenys had continuted the piece by making it weave through a field of grass and flowers. Daenys' started with a blue dragon, much like Dreamfyre, and Helena added a snowy white one intertwined with it, a likeness to Morningstar.

"Perhaps I could convince mother to stay an extra few days in the Red Keep, and return on my own on dragonback." Daenys offered Helena as they walked.

She hated the Keep, but never knew how much she truly missed Helena's company until she spent time with her again. She would bear a few nights here, knowing she could avoid everyone and only spend time in the nursery. Daenys was older now, a woman grown. Surely she could handle such things better.

"I should like that," Helena murmured, arms interlaced with Daenys as they walked towards the table. It was only half-filled with members of their family. A spot was left in the very middle for Viserys, occupied on the sides of his space by Alicent and Rhaenyra.

Aemond sat at one head, while Luke and Rhaena took the opposite.

The table seemed to naturally divide by sides, though Daenys chose to sit between Helena and Aemond rather than next to Jace, lest she also be forced next to Aegon.

Alicent offered to pray before they ate, to which Viserys complied with a pleasant smile for his wife. Having never prayed at supper before, Daenys sat awkwardly as others either clasped their hands and closed their eyes, or politely looked down at their plates while Alicent prayed for Vaemond to rest in peace. Daenys had chosen the latter, though she did so in a much nicer way than Daemon did. He held in a snort at the Queen's words, holding no regret for his murder.

The first to make a toast before dinner was served was Viserys. "My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins Baela and Rhaena. A toast to the young princes."

"Hear, hear!" Daemon was first to say in support. Perhaps he benefited the most. He would be King, then his firstborn daughter would be Queen right after through her marriage.

Goblets clinked in toast to the marriage. Many murmured their congratulations, besides the side that Daenys sat in. She felt out of place with her short cheer.

Viserys clanked his cane to the cobble floor, standing up on shaky knees while leaning against the table for assistance. "It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow. The faces most dear to me in all the world—yet grown so distant from each other."

He unclasped his golden half-mask, revealing a missing eye and half rotted face. Daenys struggled to hold her stare, not wanting to displease her grandsire or offend him. "My own face is no longer a handsome one. If it ever was." He jested weakly. "I wish you to see me as I am. Not as your king, but as your father. Your brother. Your husband. Your grandsire. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts." He pleaded with the people around him, earning either uncomfortable stares or bittersweet ones.

He sat with a heavy sigh, regaining his breath.

Rhaenyra toasted next, voice youthful and strong. "I wish to raise my cup to Queen Alicent. I love my father, but she has tended to him with unfailing devotion and for that she has my gratitude." She faced the queen with a reminiscent smile gracing her face.

Once Rhaenyra sat, Alicent was quick to take her turn. "I raise my cup to you and your house. You will make a fine queen. To further solidify our alliance and newfound love for one another," Alicent rubbed her husband's shoulder sweetly, smiling down at him. "I wish to propose a marriage. Though Aegon is already wed, as our eldest son, Aemond's hand remains free. As does your eldest daughter's."

Daenys stiffened in her seat, meeting Aemond's eye, which remainded composed and unsurprised. Had be brought this to Alicent? Or did Alicent demand it of him?

Viserys' face lifted at the suggestion, placing his hand over Alicent's and looking to Rhaenyra. Not even bothing to look at Daenys or Aemond. "I think it would be a most wonderful idea. Daenys could live here again, and perhaps all of you could come back, too." He hinted.

Rhaenyra was still in her seat, glancing between her father, Alicent, and the two seated at the end. Daenys held a pleading look in her eyes, urging her mother to not agree immediately.

Rhaenyra nodded subtly, sending a placating smile towards the two next to her. Beside her, Daemon scowled and rolled his eyes. "That is a generous offer. I will take some time to consider it."

Alicent nodded her agreement, sitting once more. Daenys forced her heart to stop its rapid beating, knowing her mother had delayed what might become her life's misery. Daenys would not mind Aemond much, nor living with Helena again. But Alicent and Aegon were two figures she could not bear to live with, nor the court that followed their Queen so blindly.

A silence filled the room, as everyone sipped their wine to the many toasts. Aegon lifted himself from his seat with a coy smirk, flitting to the space between Baela and Jace, whispering something that Daenys was not privy to. Jace slammed his hands to the table angrily, startling its occupants. He cleared his throat lightly while Aegon sat himself back in his seat.

Aemond stood, taller than Jacaerys at full height, staring him down from across the table. A warning to Jace that woefully went ignored as the younger started to speak.

"To Prince Aegon and...Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. As men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family's good health, dear uncles." He raised his cup, concluding his shockingly nice speech. Daenys was surprised that he composed himself so well.

"To you as well." Aegon sighed, forced to politeness. Aemond sat, as Helena whispered beside Daenys.

"Beware the beast beneath the boards." No one else must have heard her, and if they did, they decided to ignore her. Helena didn't even seem like she realized that she spoke.

"I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. And perhaps, Daenys, if she does choose to marry my brother." She smiled genuinely to each in turn, a breath of fresh air compared to the tense atmosphere. "They'll be married soon. It isn't so bad, mostly he just ignores you—except sometimes when he's drunk." Her words were meant to be comforting to the bethrothed women, but she clearly had no affectionate experiences in her own marriage, so she could not offer such comforts.

Daenys raised her glass high to her stepsisters, following Helena's toast while Aegon melted into his seat. "Yes, to Baela and Rhaena. We will truly be sisters, soon." She grinned to them, earning raised cups back.

Viserys ordered the music to be started, and immediately Jacaerys stood to action. Daenys looked at him warily, wondering if he had meant his speech as a ploy to lower Aegon and Aemond's guard. He stood behind Daenys' seat, offering a hand to Helena. She took it, slightly confused, while he led to the dance floor from Aegon's side.

The two young aunt and nephew jumped and danced around the empty space near the table, with their parents watching on happily. Daenys watched, too, laughing and clapping at their display. Had they ever had a dinner go so well before?

Aemond stood next to her, sighing through his nose. He offered a hand out to Daenys, too. "I didn't think you would dance." She whispered to him, though did not reject his hand.

"I don't." He said simply. His hand was calloused from years of sword training, though unscarred from no real battle experience. Aemond led her past the young dancers, leading her into a more refined and graceful ballroom dance. Further from the table, they could speak lowly without worry of being overheard.

"Did you receive my letter?" Daenys started, avoiding his intense stare. Even with only one eye, he managed to share a similar look that Daemon had when looking at his niece. Possessive and controlling. He was a far cry from the sweet boy he once was.

"Just the one. All those years ago." He said, narrowing his eye down at her. "Though none of mine have been graced with an answer."

She faultered, "I was unaware that you sent any back."

Aemond pursed his lips, "of course. They must be keeping such things from you. Ever sheltered by Rhaenyra and Daemon on that rock, you remain."

Daenys, though embarrassed, knew he was right. She was quite sheltered, more than most ladies who were presenting themselves to court for suitors. But she did not need to trouble herself with such things. She didn't need a husband.

Daenys moved on, "who's idea was the marriage proposal? Last time there was one between our families, Alicent shot it down."

Aemond glanced at the table towards her family. "I did. My mother had a change of heart, perhaps. It would be beneficial to finally have a reason for our families to bridge this distance between us."

He sounded like he didn't believe his own words, like he was reading from a script.

"Indeed...though I doubt it would be so simple. Things never are between us." She sighed.

"They can be."

She scoffed lightly, looking to her mother and Alicent, who were conversing with soft smiles gracing their features. "They are in good moods now, while Viserys is here to be a deterrent. Even if we married, his death will split us apart."

"Marriage is sacred. Your husband and his children would be whom your loyalties lie with." Aemond stated.

"I would never choose a man over my family." She narrowed her eyes, pausing her practiced steps. "Is that what you want? My loyalties to be pledged to you and your family?"

He stayed silent during her barrage, only clenching his jaw as he listened.

"Or perhaps it is my dragon you want?" She challenged. "I thought you were above the manipulations of your mother and grandsire. Smarter than your dimwitted brother. I was wrong."

"Daenys—" Aemond started to speak, but she pulled her arm from his loose grasp and strided out of the dining hall. She had no reason to listen to his words. Years ago, she had sought a friend in Aemond, the one who shared in her torment. Now, she knew he was just like his mother, calculating and deceitful.

That night, as Rhaenyra and her family headed back to Dragonstone following a tiff between all of their children, Daenys did not dream of Viserys' demise. Rhaenys had stayed the night at the Red Keep alone, being locked in her guest chambers while Aegon was being crowned King. After her escape with the Red Queen Meleys, Rhaenys told Rhaenyra of the news.

Visenya was lost that day.

Daenys was unsure why she didn't see such a catastrophic event like the King's death—but for once she did not blame herself. She blamed the Hightowers and their lust for power.

🗡

Most of the day passed fairly quickly. Cregan and Daenys spent it in solitude, only each other as company. She thought of bringing Cregan back to Dragonstone and returning alone, but wished selfishly for some more time with her bethrothed before she left him. One more day together wouldn't hurt.

After their prayer with the weirwood, Daenys felt invigorated with the sunny weather the day had provided. She turned to Cregan, who eyed her excitement with mock suspicion.

"We should swim," she suggested to him, with an excited glint to her violet eyes.

"Swim? Do you mean at the God's Eye?" Cregan asked. It was the only body of water so close to Harrenhall, but she could always fly to another one of her choosing.

"Yes, I did say that I would bring you swimming one day."

"You said that you wished to." He corrected. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know how, I won't be the most pleasant company."

Daenys snickered, "perhaps I might ask Davos, then. A Riverlander would most definitely enjoy a swim on a day like this one."

He gave her a scorned look, pitful grey puppy eyes downtrodden at the mention of her choosing another man over him for company.

She grabbed his hand, giggling all the while at his expression as she led him outside. "I merely jest, Cregan. You can stay on the shore and watch me." She shrugged playfully.

Cregan hummed, looking her up and down pointedly. "In your dress? We have brought no swimclothes with us."

"I have my shift, I'll make due." She brushed his concern off, lifting her skirts with her spare hand to save them from grass stains. She'd hate to dishonor the lady who previously wore them, after all.

Cregan swallowed beside her, nodding. It's not like he hadn't seen her in her shift, or less than that, but the context was different—he was too worried for her life to concern himself with such frivolous thoughts. Now, both spending their leisure time together, they were free to do as they pleased.

According to courting and bethrothal customs, unmarried men and women shouldn't be without a chaperone. However, it was much too late for either to start caring for traditions.

The walk to the God's eye was brief, though the sun shining on them had earned thin sheens of sweat and flushed faces. Daenys was eager to get into the cooling water, oblivious to Cregan's mental struggles beside her. At the shore of the massive span of water, Daenys began to rid herself of her dress, folding it neatly and placing it on a rock, along with her stockings. Left only in a sheer white shift, she stepped into the water, turning to face Cregan, who was still fully clothed and avoiding eye contact.

"You're sweating buckets, Cregan." She stated, amused at his stubbornness. "At least take your tunic off and dip your feet in. It'll help you cool off."

While ladies were made to wear uncomfortable corsets and dragging dresses, Daenys was always grateful that at least they were cooler than men's many layers. Sometimes up to five or six for a day-to-day outfit, not even mentioning the ones presentable enough for court. Jacaerys oft complained about the heat of King's Landing back when they lived at the arid Keep, though he was relieved by Dragonstone's much more appeasing climates.

Cregan, with his thicker layers meant for permanent chills, must be near passing out. Perhaps she got too excited. They could've enjoyed a nice day in Harrenhall's walls. Maybe.

He obliged when she sent him a secondary beseeching look. He shrugged off his heavy tunic, left in a much lighter cotton undershirt. It hung off his frame much looser, allowing him to acclimatize much faster. The unbuttoned 'V' shape of his neckline hung much lower than that of his tunic, revealing the smooth skin of his chest.

Daenys turned back to hide her expression from him, knowing if he saw it, he would think her uncouth. She waded through the swallow water, soaking herself with the cold water. It was a great relief for the Princess, taking away the uncomfortable sweaty stickiness from her body and replacing it with fresh, cold water. Though she'd never swam in the Riverland lake, it still brought back many fond memories of her father Laenor, a simpler time when she swam almost every sennight. Now, it had been months since she last found time to.

With the water up to her shoulders, she dunked her head in and dived under, eyes quickly adjusting to the freshwater. Unlike the saltiness sting that the ocean always gave her, the lake was much more accommodating. By the time she had emerged, silver hair clinging to her body in the same way her shift did, Cregan was sat in the grainy sand, legs dipped into the water as he watched on.

He grinned when she resurfaced. "Refreshed, my Princess?"

"It would be nicer if you joined." Daenys mused, sharing in his light mood.

"I am perfectly content watching." He avoided her offer with a placating smile. Hands resting leisurely over his knees, simply relaxing in the sun and cooling water's contrast, Cregan really did look content. His face was free of worry, and his rigidly straight posture softened.

She hummed her acknowledgment, knowing she couldn't get him to swim with her this time. One day, she would succeed. Daenys did, after all, comvince an ever-stubborn man of Stark blood to ride a dragon.

After some diving and searching for whatever pretty trinket caught her eye, Daenys dained herself to simply float on top of the water, hands rested on her belly. In one of them, clutched protectively, lie a small grey pearl. In the sunlight, it gleamed a rainbow iridescence. In the shade of her palm, it was perfectly grey. It had taken her an umpteenth amount of tries to find, which she stopped counting after the seventh try, and perhaps a hundred dud pearls that she deemed unworthy. One thing she had learned during her escapades was that she had not lost her touch for the water, still able to hold her breath for long periods of time and open her eyes easily. Still, she was no match for her father's abilities. He took to the water like a true Velayron, disappearing under its depths for minutes at a time.

Daenys wondered when she would get chances to swim up in the cold North. Only when she visited her family, once they had reclaimed the capitol? Such sacrifices were the baselines of marriage for women. She would be more fortunate than most with her dragon as an aid to travel—most women who went so far for marriage never saw their homes again. Cregan clearly held no love for the water. How could he? He was not raised being surrounded by it, instead by mountains of snow and dense woods. She did love the wood, too. The serenity and quietness.

The sun had long since left her skin kissed with light brown freckles, the time apart from lengths in the sun having long since faded her previous ones. When she felt the heat start to irritate her eyelids, she opened them and squinted toward Cregan, who lifted his head from his arms and gaze from the gently waving water to her.

Daenys outstretched an arm lazily to him, beckoning wordlessly for assistance. Perfectly capable of swimming herself the few feet she was from the shallow sand, she felt knackered from the warmth and expending activity.

Cregan chuckled at her reaching, shaking his head teasingly. "You just swam laps around the God's Eye, I'm sure you can manage a few more feet on your own."

"Can't." Daenys said simply.

He raised a brow, smiling, "I'm sorry?"

"I'm incapacitated. Cannot move." She elaborated slowly.

He nodded, even slower, leaning back on his forearms. She forced her eyes not to leave his at the movement and sudden shift of his shirt. "I guess we're stuck here, my Lady."

"Seems that way."

They were at an impasse. One waiting for the other to give up. Stubbon Stark and conquering Targaryen. Eventually, one had to cave. Daenys was confident that she could stay in place for hours, even in the sun, while he would eventually burn up and regret even taking a step from Harrenhall's stone walls.

She relaxed in the water again, rolling the grey pearl between her fingertips idly. Cregan watched on, admiring the glow the sun provided her skin It was afternoon already, they had spent almost all day outdoors. Neither complained, though, for the much-needed distraction.

Daenys was reminded of the simplicities of life that the commonfolk lived. Not the ones in King's Landing, who often were criminals or victims of criminals, working day and night with little reward. No, not them. The ones who lived far from courtly society and its selfish royals. Those who lived in small villages far from big cities, who relied on one another and loved their neighbors like family. Worked hard on their family-owned farms and shops, retiring for the afternoon in their homes and laughed with their loved ones while they feasted on breads and cheeses their neighbors traded to them for handcrafted clothes. Those are the people Daenys envied, who lived full lives and never stopped to wonder what their life might be like in another's place.

She would be very content, she thought, to live a simple life like that. With Cregan as her swordsmith husband, and her as a fisherman. Both returning home at the end of their work days to a gaggle of children running around at their feet, squaking loudly about what they had learned that day. People would come nosing their way into their house over the evening, bringing food and smiles into the house while friends and family sat together. Sara and her husband first, living right next to them. Then, Daenys' mother and Daemon, bringing young Aegon and Viserys in their arms to play with their nieces and nephews. Corlys and Rhaenys, telling tales of how their two children were out enjoying a long voyage together on the open seas. The last ones to join would be Jacaerys and Lucerys, with Baela and Rhaena respectively.

The entire family would sit and talk of their days, as they had every night before that, and retell tales that all have listened to a million times before but never interrupt the joyous expression the storyteller held while speaking. The children would all have their own table, though eventually want to be a part of the adult's conversation and squeeze themselves on top of their parent's laps. The adults, after playfully scolding their babes, would still allow it with a gentle kiss on top of fluffy heads.

The perfect life. One that none of Daenys' loved ones could ever achieve.

The sound of sloshing in the water forced Daenys to focus once more, glancing up to meet Cregan's face staring down at her. Gently, he grabbed her hands and slightly dragged her close to himself, turning her to face him. She grinned up at him, "that was fast."

"I've enjoyed the view all day. I'm not so stubborn as to scorch myself for the sake of pride." Cregan chided. With a large hand resting itself on the dip of her waist, the Lord brought her to the shallowest parts before lifting her to her feet. "Now, is the Princess still too tired to walk, or does she require assistance?"

Daenys steadied herself with her hands on his shoulders, narrowly avoiding touching any bare skin on his chest, though it tempted her. His touch was hot on her waist, burning through even her wet shift. She felt breathless despite her lack of movement, forgetting to speak for a long pause of time.

"Daenys," he murmured lowly, brushing his thumb over the soft skin of her stomach. She was reminded of his size—a true testiment of his ancient Stark blood. Looking down at her past his straight nose, hands large enough to engulf her midsection from the curve of her waist to her belly buttom. From behind Cregan, one might not be able to see Daenys, his broad shoulders and height a perfect sheild.

The touch made her shiver, though she brushed it off as the wet cotton clinging to her skin. "I...Yes, I can walk." She finally managed to mumble out. He smiled once more, leading her out of the water by the hand, though he noticed she switched the pearl to the other to be able to grasp his.

"What have you found, my lady sailor?" He asked, leaning down to squeeze water from his trousers and half of his shirt.

She lifted her palm for him to see the grey pearl, showing it off like a dragon would show its prized treasure. Morningstar, too, had oft stolen whatever shiny thing caught her eye during flights, bringing them to Dragonstone's pit and waiting for Daenys to come down to see it. She had her own little pile of knickknacks, though some of the smaller ones lay in Daenys' chambers. Strangely, none of the others (apart from Syrax) had the same interest in material things.

He straightened, lifting the ball to his eyeline. Daenys bit her cheek to stop her grin from getting any bigger. It was a perfect match to his own eye. She only kept the pearl for the theory, being too far from Cregan to keep bringing little pearls back and bother him with silly comparisons. She simply went off her memory, which seemed to serve her perfectly.

"It's a...?" He left space for an answer, not entirely sure of it himself. Right, she thought. He'd never left the North. They don't eat much seafood there, so there's no cause to learn about sea life besides the few species of fish that graced their waters.

"I forgot, you've never been so far down before." She hummed. "A pearl. Formed in clams or muscles—I like to keep any that catch my interest."

"I've heard of them. Used for necklaces, right?" He asked, placing the pearl in her palm again after she twisted her own skirts.

Daenys nodded. "I've made a few of my own, though I can't wear them to court. Too juvenile, my mother says. Sometimes, I can put them into my hair, but the process takes too long to make it a common accessory."

"I'd like to see that." Cregan said softly, admiring the way she scrunched her hair to attempt to dry it quicker. With the retained water, the silver hair looked a darker milky grey. It made the purple hue of her eyes stand out more, especially in the daylight.

Twisting the bottom of her skirts, Daenys laughed. "My maid won't be happy to hear that. Perhaps I'll have to teach you how to put them into braids, if you'd truly like to see it."

He handed the pearl back to her once she finished. "I would be happy to learn, if only to ease the burden of your poor maid."

Daenys picked up her dress from its place on the rock, finding it pleasently warmed. She didn't put it back on, knowing it would only get wet from her shift. She'd have to be swift when returning to her chambers, lest Davos, Simon, or any of Simon's sons see her in such a state. Cregan did the same, carrying both of their clothes bundled up under an elbow.

As they walked, Cregan spoke up. "I have been to the capitol. Once, briefly, but that visit was enough to last a lifetime."

Daenys perked up, turning to Cregan as they walked together. "I've never seen you before. Was it recent?"

He shook his head. "Actually, it was for your nameday tourney."

She groaned. "Of course. I hated those every year, but my grandsire insisted that all of his children and grandchildren got a tourney for their nameday celebrations. Starks do not typically attend tourneys, seeing as they happen so often. What made you come?"

At her complaint, he snorted briefly. "I was one and ten at the time, two years before my father passed. He insisted that I was old enough to attend court at the capitol, and it had been many years since he had attended himself—the last being to swear an oath to your mother.

I was a young, excited boy who was ill-equipped to handle the secret meanings behind Southerner's words. I took everything literally, not knowing that everyone I spoke to was insulting me to my face."

Daenys hummed sympathetically. "Yes, it is a nasty habit. Whatever could they have insulted you for?" She asked, curious.

He blushed slightly, a tinging of red dusting his ears. "My accent, my looks, whatever they saw that seemed 'different'. Back then, I was all gangly limbs and height, not yet experienced in swordtraining. They hid such distastes in compliments, something I was not aware of until I told my father, and he warned me to both speak and listen carefully in the Crownlands."

"Your looks?" She was bemused by the implication. Surely, no one would find Cregan uncomely. Even in the awkward youth years. Or his accent, a small part of her mind said. His accent was perhaps her favorite part of Cregan, it made her mind go hazy whenever he spoke more than his usual curt sentences. Another Stark trait was to not speak more than necessary.

He shrugged, "Starks have prominent genes. We've always had dark hair, straight noses, long faces, and perhaps taller frames than most men. We are not bred to be pretty, like some are."

Her mind went to the peacocking men that were born and bred in the Crownlands and the places attached to it. Of course, ladies of the realm were meant to be pretty, and if they were not, then at least they were trained to act elegantly. Though, the men were often 'pretty' too. The Hightowers, for example, were a picture of good genetics. Otto Hightower's two children, Alicent and Gwayne, were both considered beautiful with their auburn hair and dark eyes. Though Gwayne was a knight, he was sought after by many. The two must have taken after their mother Alerie since Otto looked nothing like either. The Tyrells, too, were considered blooming flowers of beauty, well-groomed and mannered.

The Targaryens, Velayrons, and Daynes all held traits that the realm agreed to be most beautiful. Whores dyed their hair silver just to be paid more, and men sought after them twice as much as a regular looking woman. Tales were written of Valyrion women, even by those who've never laid eyes on one. Songs were sung by bards, poems written by romantics, gossip spread like wildfire when another was presented to court. Daenys had heard a few about herself, to her surprise. Though the realm did not hold her in high regard, her beauty was apparently taken the opposite. A song had once called her 'The Dawn's Light' for her silver waves and lighter-than-most violet eyes. A poem called her 'The Dreamer Reborn' but moreso as a statement than a compliment. She scarsely heard any gossip since her leave from the capitol, so any other poems or songs in her name went unknown. Similar to her mother, 'The Realm's Delight' she was given such titles as a young girl. Women did not earn their titles from great accomplishments but rather their looks alone, most of the time.

The Valyrion-featured men, too, were hauntingly charming in looks just as their female counterparts were. Aemond was considered a handsome young prince before being named 'Aemond One-Eye'. Aegon, too, was conventionally handsome when his mouth was shut. Daenys was quite unsure of Daemon or Viserys' looks, seeing as they were both no longer in their prime youth at the time Daenys was born. Though she was sure her father Laenor was widely known to be a charmingly handsome man, for his sailing adventures had proven him a popular figure to men and women alike.

"Perhaps you are not pretty." She started, smirking up at him. "No Northern men could be, with their laborious lives. Handsome is more fitting, I would say. Though mayhaps other ladies can only assume a Northern man to be a brutish and unrefined beasts of men, simply because they are unused to different appearences."

Truly, Cregan was taller and broader than most, even more impressive for his young age. He would surely make most Andal men question their own masculinity, to which the Andals would turn to insults to counter their insecurities.

Cregan hummed thoughtfully, holding an almost bashful smile. "Not many southern ladies would consider a Stark 'handsome'. Especially a Velayron. None from the North have married a Valyrion." He mentioned.

"We are the first, then."

"Indeed," he took her hand in his, forgoing joining arms for the warmth of their hands. His hand, even interlaced with her own, was calloused and large. Quite like a paw, she bit back from saying. Without his leather gloves that he had to don in the cold, she felt the safety of his protection right in his palm.

"How was the tourney beside the cold welcome you received? I remember that my father Laenor fought in it, as he only cared for those dreadful tourneys when it was one of our namedays."

A part of her wished to have met him back then. Perhaps she could have made a friend, her first one that was not of her own blood.

"More boring than I expected. As a boy, I wished to be a great jouster to show off my house pride, but it wasn't at all what I expected." He said. "Also, I was quite disappointed to find that the star of the tourney was missing from the Royal Pavillion."

Daenys blushed, unable to meet his amused look. "I only stayed to watch my father's joust. I made appearances, then left when no one's eyes were on me."

"Everyone's eyes are on you, Princess." He chuckled.

She nodded slightly. "Unfortunately. That is something I dreaded during those days. Who did end up winning that tourney? I forget."

Cregan shrugged once more, "I don't know either. I didn't stay til the end."

At her confused glance, he continued. "I got bored of watching men fall from horses. So, I wondered off to explore the 'Great Red Keep' I had heard so many things about. I got lost in the halls—which are much too big for one family, in my opinion—and stumbled upon the very princess that was missing."

Daenys furrowed her brows together, trying to recall ever meeting a young Cregan Stark. "I don't think I remember speaking to you."

Cregan shook his head. "I never found the courage to approach you. But I knew who you were, even from afar. You sat at a windowsil, overlooking the crowds of people. You looked so lonely, with that wistful look in your eyes."

"Why didn't you talk to me, then?" She asked him.

"I was scared that you might think of me the same way the other young ladies did. Though you looked lonely, you also had a peaceful aura that I could not dare to disturb."

She nodded her agreement. "I have grown used to enjoying my own company. Though, I have grown to enjoy yours, more."

He squeezed her hand lightly. "You shall not be alone anymore, ever. If I have a say in it."

They reached Harrenhall at a more leisure pace than they had left with. The sun was starting to set now, and their bellies were rumbling with hunger. Daenys and Cregan jogged through the halls of Harrenhall, luckily not running into any people on the way. They shut the door to Daenys' room behind them, giggling and laughing like a pair of juveniles sneaking under their parent's noses. Cregan and Daenys politely turned while changing together, underclothes long since drying during their walk.

Daenys sat at the creaky vanity she was provided, unbothered by the water rotted wood. If it worked, it worked. At least the mirror was clean. She worked to brush through her drying hair, a plain giveaway to her activities. Her hair was famously hard to dry, her vigerous routine for her hair alone taking hours each week. Without any of the oils and soaps that she had on Dragonstone, Daenys found that her hair dulled slightly in the North, only being restored when she returned home. She hoped it would not do so again at Harrenhall. Though she did not think herself to be a vain woman, she cared for her hair greatly. It was something she had grown for years, having not cut it since her father passed.

The last haircut she had was done by her father, who taught her how to take the best care of it and always styled it despite her maids being well able to. Daenys knew she'd eventually have to trim it again, but she'd prolonged it for years already in a weak attempt to keep his every memory.

The pearl sat next to the brush while she started to plait her hair up in a braided romantic tuck, which would leave no hair cascading down her hair. If it was all so bunched up, none would notice its dampness.

Cregan sat himself on her bed, tunic placed loosely on in his idleness. There was no need to trap himself fully in his warm clothing until they needed to be presentable. His eyes never left her as she threaded expertly through her hair, seemingly zoning out as he did.

She finished as fast as she could, perhaps a little sloppy. But, she didn't wish for Cregan to be left waiting in boredom too long. Daenys stood from her stool, turning to her bethrothed. She patted her hair down slightly, brushing over it to neaten it. "Im sorry, I worked as fast as I could."

Smiling patiently, Cregan stood and took her hands from her hair, kissing her knuckles tenderly. "Don't worry. I have never seen such perfection, my beautiful Daenys."

Taken aback, Daenys found herself utterly speachless. Where had that come from?

"Thank you, Cregan." She murmured, finding only enough propriety to unconsciously respond to a compliment. My?

His smile seemed to deepen at her pause, taking her by the same hand he kissed and leading her outside of the room. "Let's have our supper, I'm sure the other guests of Harrenhall are wondering where we are."

Daenys nodded, following at his side to the dining room. The halls had started to become familiar to Daenys, even though it had only been barely two days since they arrived. Around the table already sat the majority of Harrenhall's residents. Simon, of course, and his small family, who mostly stayed quiet as mice. Davos, who sat slouched back in his seat, spinning his utensil upon the table with a frustrated expression. Daemon, too, though he looked drowsy still. Slightly faraway, like he was in a permanent waking dream.

As Daenys passed him, he glanced up at her. His eyes cleared slightly, a nearly horrified look on his face. "Rhaenyra?" He asked, sitting up in his seat.

Daenys exchanged a glance with Cregan, staring down at her stepfather afterwards. "Rhaenyra is still at Dragonstone." She said carefully.

In their shared native tongue, Daenys could speak without giving anything away to the others in the room, who stared at them in bemusement.

Daemon squinted at her for a few more seconds, sitting back into his seat once more and blinking harshly. He nodded, saying nothing else.

Daenys needed to visit Alys again. Perhaps she would know something about Daemon's strange behavior. Or perhaps she was the reason for it. The tea was something she did not partake in and would not attempt to now that she saw Daemon's weariness. But, she would not yet point any fingers until she confronted the woman.

Daenys sat herself between Davos and Cregan, prepared to soothe the impaitients and frustration that she knew Davos was experiencing.

"It has been a full day, Your Grace." Davos shifted in his seat, restless. "I have not heard word of what you intend to do for my father in terms of the Bracken's treason."

Daemon rubbed at his temples. "I will fly out on Caraxes tomorrow. No later than noon. I sent a raven to Lord Willem already, he and the Bracken Lord will meet me in a sectioned place of my choosing."

"Are we to be privvy of this meeting? Or must it be held in such secrecy? Davos asked. Daenys agreed with him. Who knows what the combined tempers Willem and Daemon will bring together. Though she would not say that in front of Willem's own son.

"I will act alone." Daemon glanced at her. "As I have since I arrived in Harrenhall."

"What great that has done us." Daenys muttered. "We seem to be at the verge of turning swords against us rather than rallying them together."

"I will not sugarcoat my demands for a child, this is war." He spat back.

"Telling a boy to kill his grandsire for the sake of expediting his own control is certainly no way to gain loyalty." Daenys sipped her wine, not feeling a heavy appetite when no one else was eating besides Simon's sons.

Davos looked at her bewilderedly as if to ask if he really said that. Daenys smiled into her cup shortly, wiping it off her face before she set the cup down.

"What do you intend to do with the Brackens?" She continued.

"You need not concern yourself with my business. It will be delt with accordingly."

Daenys sighed quietly. "At least answer me this. Will you recruit or burn the Brackens?"

The room silented further. Daemon stared between Davos and Daenys.

"I will do what I must to obtain the best men for our Queen's cause." Was his answer. "While I fly out on Caraxes, you should pay a visit to the Tullys. To...ascertain their Lord's condition. Perhaps things have changed."

"Since the day before?" She scoffed.

Daemon gave her a harsh look. "We do not have time to wait for an old and withered fool to die in order to get the Tully bannermen."

"We certainly had time to wait for Viserys to die." Though her words were unnecessarily cruel, especially towards Viserys' own brother, Daenys couldn't find it in her to care. She was never close with her grandsire, but scorned the way his own closest kin abandoned him to the Hightower snakes' clutches.

"Watch your tongue." Daemon leaned forward in his seat.

"I would not let war change me."

"You've not seen war yet, daughter."

Daemon often called her that. Something he did not share with her brothers when he merely referred to them by their names. It frustrated Daenys, knowing he had no right to call her his daughter when he appeared so suddenly in her life. She was nothing like her stepfather. He was the last man who could be her father.

He's the one who got rid of Laenor. Manipulated Rhaenyra into sending the father of her four eldest children away. Daemon, alone, was the reason she mourned her father for years. Rhaenyra would never have done such a thing to her children if her uncle was not so cunning.

"I will not." She said finally. There was no room for argument in her tone. "Tomorrow, I will deliver the Master of War to the Queen's council, then return to Harrenhall and await the news you bring."

"Fine. Sit idly here as the council and I make moves to take back the throne. It is not like you'd be much use at Dragonstone, either." Daemon leaned forward in his seat, closer to the faces across from him before taking his leave to his chambers.

Seething, Daenys chose not to make a scene in front of the other occupants in the room. Instead, she quickly turned to Davos. "I hope to see you returning to your family soon, Ser Davos. I hate to see you stuck here for menial reasons, I think your father and Daemon will work something out with the Brackens on the morrow."

Davos smiled weakly. "It's only been a day and I feel my mind melting with the idleness. I wish to be on the battlefield, marching with my Aunt Alysanne."

She nodded. "I understand. We share that sentiment, at least."

Dinner passed by quickly, with Simon taking hold of the conversation and switching it to a more appropriate topic. Tension did not leave the air all night, however. When Daenys big goodnight to Davos, Simon, and the rest, she allowed Cregan to lead her to her chambers.

A distant feeling nagged at the back of Daenys' mind, as if warning her something would happen soon. It was a miserable impending feeling that she could not answer. "Goodnight, Cregan." She said before he could stop to check on her, knowing that look on his face meant he was worried for her.

She settled into her sheets, knowing that a dream was awaiting her. It was best to get it over with, to see it, and wake up again to be able to prepare for whatever would happen.

Daenys was correct. She had begun to get better at predicting when she would dream. This time, she was landlocked on a rolling grassy hill, watching hundreds of soldiers holding up Green Targaryen banners marching towards an unknown destination. Greenery surrounded her on all sides, through forests and healthy grass. She followed after the leagues of men, who did not see her, and mapped out every possible landmark in her mind. Eventually, the men reached a treeline where they stopped. For cover, most likely.

Men did not hide in forests from other men, but from a dragon's birdeye view.

Daenys spotted a large castle nearby, the destination that the men must have in mind. Behind her, more men rolled up with large crossbows that had to be dragged with multiple horses. The arrows they held were almost as tall as Daenys. Men from the castle were sent out to defend their home, a meager number compared to the ones marching upon them. But, like any loyal knights, they would all die protecting their Lord and his house.

Men did not hide in forests from other men, but from a dragon's birdeye view. Men did not need to kill other men with five-foot-long arrows. She saw Criston Cole, flanked by Ser Gwayne Hightower, and she knew. They were waiting for a dragon.

🗡

Daenys shot out of bed quickly, finding no time to dress herself in the dress laid out for her. It was just after dawn, the sun was already peaking out over Daenys' bed through the windows and cracks in the roof.

She rushed out to the dining hall, where Davos was whispering hushedly to Ser Simon. "Simon, Davos!" Daenys commanded their attention, making them both swing around on the balls of their feet to see their panicked Princess.

In her white shift, completely inappropriate for wandering strange halls, she earned stares with differing looks. Simon, with concern that only a father could hold, and Davos with a hand at his sword's pommel, ready to defend his Princess if need be.

"Princess?" Simon asked.

"In the Riverlands—What castle holds a tower slightly higher than the rest with a sphere on top?" She panted out. "Forests and grassy hills around it, it is slightly smaller than Harrenhall in size but longer."

The two glanced at each other, Davos answering first. "That sounds like Rook's Rest. It is right between us and Dragonstone. May I ask why, my Lady?"

Of course. Rook's Rest, a perfect spot for the Green's to take and cut off Dragonstone from the land.

"I must go. See to it that Cregan Stark stays here while I am gone, Ser Simon."

"But, Princess—!" She didn't stay, running off to Daemon's chambers.

She pushed at the doors, grunting when she was met with resistance. A clanging was heard, she knew he must have barred the doors with something. She continued to push and pull aggressively at the doors, eventually making the protective bar he put up fall to the ground. By the time she yanked them open, Daemon stood in front of the doors with a sword held high to her face.

"Daemon," She started, gritting her teeth. "You must come with me. We will ride to Rook's Rest, where an amush has been laid for Rhaenyra's dragons."

Daemon did not lower his sword, stuck in that same hazy mindspace that she had seen him in before. "Begone, witch. I will hear no more of this."

"Daemon!" She pleaded, stepping closer. "I need you, now. I don't know who is waiting or who Rhaenyra is sending. What if it is Baela, or Jace? Their dragons are too small and young to fight like ours—Come on!"

Daemon scowled at her, as if he were looking right past her. He stepped forward, too, til his Valyrion steel blade was touching her neck. "You are not Rhaenyra." He said, convincing himself that he was merely dreaming.

She swallowed harshly, shaking her head. She had no time to wait for him to find his own mind. Daenys would not be his mother, she couldn't stand idle as a dragon and its rider unknowingly flew to its own death.

She stepped away, nodding. "If I do not return, Daemon, you can tell your wife that you have doomed me."

In her own chambers, she hastily put on the dress that was laid out for her. A pale grey, resembling a misty morning like the one that graced the Riverlands this morning. It would be harder to see today, Daenys knew, she must be vigilant to guide Morningstar.

Morningstar flew with a vigor, right below the cloudbanks, to be able to see everything. It was a fast flight to Rook's Rest, passing over mountains of green trees before the fields opened up to the plains that the castle stood on. Below, men were fighting already. Shouts were heard from below as Morningstar crossed Cole's forces towards Rook's Rest, where she circled briefly.

She ran outside, calling Morningstar to her at the door. Caraxes followed, though only roared frustratedly as he knew he could not fly with them. They sensed her urgency and fear. On top of Morningstar, Daenys could see Cregan start to race outside, barely dressed himself. He shouted after her only when she shouted her command. Daenys glanced back at him apologetically, knowing he would advise against such reckless actions. She would not let herself be stopped, not this time. She waited too long for Jaehaerys and was only a minute too late to save the boy.

She tried to ignore the helpless look on Cregan's face as she turned away.

There.

It was Rhaenys and Meleys, coming from across the sea to defend Lord Staunton's keep. A breath of relief left Daenys, knowing that her mother had sent the most capable fighter she had available. "Grandmother!" She shouted over the men below, grinning at the sight of the Red Queen. Selfishly, she was glad it was not Jacaerys or Baela.

Rhaenys did not share her joy, instead falling into place beside Morningstar with a worried shout of her own. "Go back, Daenys! This is not your battle!"

In her grand dragonscale and steel armor, she looked just like a Queen. Her commanding presence solidified it even more so. "It is a trap, Rhaenys, I cannot leave you to face a dragon alone," Daenys told her stubbornly. She would not leave Rhaenys, there was no argument about it.

Rhaenys stared long and hard at her granddaughter, an image of herself and her niece. Finally, she nodded curtly in acceptance. It was futile to argue with the young Targaryen.

Together, they spun their dragons around to hover right over the plains. Dragonfire spit out from Meleys and Morningstar both, showering over the enemies in a display of glowing orange and blue. Screams of agony were heard as the fire spread from man to man, no steel armor able to save them from flames so hot.

Daenys cringed at the sounds and the smells. She was killing men by the hundreds, perhaps, it was uncountable over the distance and flames. Only weeks ago, she had wondered if she would be able to use fire against her enemies in such a violent way, now she was doing it without question or mercy.

They did not deserve mercy, but Daenys did not wish to kill. She held in gags at the overstimulating sounds and smells around her, staying firm and strong as Rhaenys was. Her grandmother did not flinch nor faulter, a confident Princess with her experienced dragon, a bond that could never be broken.

Repeatingly, the two dragons lifted and found new targets on any men who dared to still be out in the fields, and any who were too slow to retreat into the woods. When Daenys noticed a steady march of the majority of the men creeping out from their cover, she lifted her gaze to the skies. In the distance, a dragon was flying toward them at top speed from the direction of the capitol.

She squinted, meeting Meleys' turnaround from above the water. "It's Sunfyre!" She shouted to Rhaenys, who silently nodded and ordered Meleys to meet The Golden.

"Angōs, Meleys." She commanded her dragon with a fierce determination. The red dragoness roared in response, speeding up to meet the usurper. Morningstar, perfectly meeting her stride, trilled with excitement.

They were mere yards apart when Daenys heard, "Dracarys!" From Aegon. Immediately, Sunfyre spit his own orange dragonfire at the two. Meleys swooped down, taking the fire to her advantage, knowing it blinded Aegon momentarily. Morningstar flew up sharply, turning to follow behind Sunfyre. That fool.

In the midst of his confusion, Aegon turned his head every which way to locate his enemy counterparts, yelping when Sunfrye was grasped from below by Meleys. The Red Queen dug her sharp talons into the younger dragon's chest, digging deep gouges right through the scales. She tossed Sunfyre down, watching him fumble to steady himself.

Daenys found herself at an impasse. Sunfyre was too small to tagteam in a way that would leave Morningstar's ally unharmed. If either shot fire, they would risk hurting each other and not Aegon. Sunfyre managed to right himself, flying just over the grass and spraying buckets of boiling hot blood on Aegon's own men.

Sunfyre whined in pain the entire ascent back into the air. Daenys felt sympathy for the poor thing. It was only doing as he was bid by his rider. Meleys didn't let him get far, biting at Sunfyre's wing in the air and dragging him across. Morningstar finally took the opportunity to join, Daenys noting that bites and scratches were much easier to aim than fire. Her dragon latched onto the other wing's thin membrane, leaving Sunfyre unable to fly himself and instead hang lamely between the two beasts.

Sunfyre managed to angle his neck wildly, hanging on to Meleys' horn with his jaw. He tore it clean off of the dragoness, throwing it down to the ground. A deep grumble caught Daenys' attention as Morningstar let go of the bloodied and ripped wing. "It's Vhagar!" She shouted to Rhaenys, who turned to see the great behemoth approaching with Aemond.

"Thank the Gods!" Aegon shouted in relief, even as Meleys held Sunfrye's neck in a fearsome grip.

Morningstar sharply flew up to get out of the line of fire, howling out for Meleys to follow her.

A shout was heard from Aemond, though Daenys could not decipher it over the sounds of growls and wings flapping. Fire shot from Vhagar indiscriminately, shooting right at Aegon.

Was Rhaenys even the target for that? Daenys thought to herself, horrified at the sight below her. Sunfyre's ripped wings both caught fire, the blood exposing the insides enough to be lacking shield as they usually would. Rhaenys swiftly met Morningstar in the higher skies, watching with Daenys as the rider and dragon fell to the trees.

Vhagar continued on, Aemond not attempting to check on his older brother.

Meleys and Morningstar flew side by side, both riders turned to assess the situation. Panting, they worked to catch their breath. Daenys pet Morningstar's neck, checking her for injuries. Luckily, she went unharmed from her brief fight with the smaller dragon. Meleys had sustained few injuries, too, bar from the missing horn.

"Grandmother, we can keep going to Dragonstone. Or Harrenhall, even! Vhagar is thrice our size, we should get Caraxes and Daemon."

Her words seemed to go through one ear and out the other to her grandmother. Rhaenys sat straight and proud, ever a picture of grace even in battle. "I will not be leaving this battle, Daenys." She told her solemnly. "But you will. Continue on, without me." She commanded.

Daenys shook her head vehemently, shocked at the implication. "I will not leave you, grandmother. I cannot."

Rhaenys met her eyeline with a pleading look, though only got a determined one in return. "I will follow you into battle." Her granddaughter continued, blinking away watery eyes.

The Queen Who Never Was nodded, only once. "Angōs, Meleys." She murmured to her dragon, who made a similar hollow sound.

"Naejot, Ñāqatubis qēlos!" Daenys shouted, earning a more invigorated sound from Morningstar. Her blood ran hot, nearly burning through the saddle and Daenys' legs if they had touched the scales. She didn't want to back down, and neither did Meleys.

Rhaenys buckled herself into her saddle. Daenys narrowed her eyes at her grandmother but did not speak out against her. She simply followed her actions. She was the more experienced rider, after all.

Ahead of them, Vhagar had her back turned to them. Aemond has thought they fled when Sunfyre went down, they both had the speed to outfly Vhagar easily. He turned in his saddle, cursing. Roaring, Meleys sped up and angled herself to fly upside down, Morningstar quick to mimic her movements more clumsily. Both dragons matched their actions, moving to latch both of their feet to one of Vhagar's. All three dragons jerked at the stop, spinning in circles as if merely dancing in the air.

Though, the fire and roars told the onlookers otherwise. Daenys felt dizzy at being upsidedown and spinning, but held herself steady. "Do not fire, Morningstar! Bite!" She yelled her command, fearful of burning her grandmother. From this angle, it would be hard for flames to reach Aemond anyway. Flames only served to blind the other dragon. Morningstar grumbled but obeyed, forcing fire back down her throat. She bit at any green limbs or scales flying her way, finally managing to latch onto Vhagar's thick tail and biting down hard.

Beside her, Meleys clawed at Vhagar's chest successfully, searing blood running down all of the Dragon's scales as they spun. Vhagar roared in pain and anger, releasing a wave of hot flames into the air.

With Morningstar's grip on the tail's end, she lost control of her talon's grip and loosened it enough to lose it entirely. The now free claw kicked at Morningstar, sending her away and to find her grounding in the air again. Though, it did not come as a success to Vhagar. Lying limp in Morningstar's massive maw was nearly eight feet of her tail. Bit off entirely.

Though it would not kill Vhagar, she dragoness would never fly completely straight or as fluid as she once did. Tails were vital for balance. Morningstar trilled in victory as Meleys threw Vhagar to the ground, both flying up again as the larger was forced to get a running start in order to fly again.

Daenys panted slightly, seeing Rhaenys fly in sync next to her.

"Are you and Morningstar okay?" She asked, rising above the smoke and also out of breath.

She nodded, looking around her briefly. "I think so. Are you two?" Meleys had lost quite a bit of blood from her chest scratch, though did not look any less strong as she flew.

Meleys turned to Rhaenys, whining softly as she glanced at her rider. Rhaenys smiled solemnly, comforting her dragon. It did not go unnoticed by Daenys that she had chosen to stay silent rather than answer.

"Grandmother." Daenys said. "This is a victory. We have injured Vhagar greatly, and Sunfyre and Aegon might be dead as we speak."

Both turned to fly towards the open water, and Daenys breathed a heavy sigh of relief. She would take her grandmother home safely, where she could continue to advise her mother in Daenys' temporary absence.

They flew over Rook Rest's tallest tower, relieved to see that Vhagar had fled.

Meleys, ahead of Morningstar, was suddenly thrown up into the air. Morningstar roared and halted her flight with angled wings as the other two ascended high into the air. Meleys was trapped by the neck in Vhagar's maw now, unable to do anything but cry out in agony. As Morningstar flew up to try and meet them, hot blood poured down onto the dragon and rider. It burned, though Daenys forced herself to wipe it away and cover her eyes with a hand. Morningstar faultered slightly, blindly flying and shaking blood from her face.

High above Rook's Rest, Vhagar let go of Meleys, dropping her down to the shore. Go after Rhaenys or finish off Aemond from behind? Daenys had no time to think, she simply moved on instinct. "Grab her!" She shouted towards Morningstar, who swopped down and grabbed Meleys' heavy body by the sides. The dragon screeched in pain again, though still could not manage the strength to fly again. Morningstar grunted with the effort, barely able to carry Meleys in her claws. She would not be able to save Meleys. She was bigger than Morningstar and too heavy to be carried anywhere but the hover she held her in.

Rhaenys stared up at her granddaughter with apology already written across her face. She was content to die with her dragon, but heartbroken to leave her grandchildren and husband in the living world.

Daenys unbuckled herself swiftly, reaching down and maneuvering her body to hang off the saddle with all but a leg and arm holding her up. "Climb up, hurry!" She begged her grandmother, who was only attached to Meleys through her own buckle. Her hands were at her sides, already accepting her honorable dragonrider's death.

Daenys could not accept such a thing.

Daenys sobbed at the look, shaking her head. Tears fell towards Rhaenys, landing on or past her ashen face. "Grandmother, please—!" Vhagar had returned.

Morningstar was thrown by Vhagar's talons, losing her grin on The Red Queen. Daenys couldn't even watch her fall, spinning around in the air as Morningstar fought to find air. Above, Vhagar roared as Daenys screamed.

"Go!" She pleaded as Morningstar finally straightened out, immediately fleeing towards Harrenhall.

Vhagar did not follow this time, instead clumsily landing near Sunfyre's fallen spot. Daenys panted heavily, looking below and behind her desperately to spot Meleys. The dragon had fallen to the shores below, where the land met sea. So close to Dragonstone. They were so close to Dragonstone.

Daenys numbly looked forward, releasing her death grip on the saddle's handles. Red poured out from Morningstar's scaled side, revealing the damage Vhagar's throw had done to her. "I'm sorry, Morningstar." She whispered, leaning lamely over the saddle and staying like that for her entire flight.

🗡

Upon landing, Morningstar had been silent. Perhaps mourning Meleys just as much as Daenys was mourning Rhaenys. They had lived close together, flying often to Driftmark and Dragonstone as all the other dragons who got along did.

Daenys saw Caraxes waiting by the entrance, where she had left him. Weakly, she couldn't even greet the Blood Wrym as he called out for the dragon and rider. Cregan, too, waited for her. Dressed now, it seemed like he waited outside the entire time since she had left, with no way to follow her.

The thought vaguely registered in her mind as Morningstar huffed and leaned down. Through bleary eyes, she saw Cregan climb her wing and reach out to hold Daenys' face in his hand. He wiped a spot of blood from her brow, frowning.

Her sleeves had burnt off entirely, leaving small bits of fabric to conseal her modesty. The last thing she cared for at the moment, if she were honest. Dragon blood smeared across her as if it were her own: covering her face, hair, neck, arms, and dress. She did not have time to go to Dragonstone and don her scaled armor.

"What has happened?" He asked softly, working with the cuff of his sleeve to gently wipe away at her face. It was in vain, though, only working to smear it further when it had already dried. Daenys slumped her head into Cregan's neck, shaking her head defeatedly. He clutched her in his arms immediately, lifting her from her saddle and carefully bringing her down the wing and to the grass. He glanced at the wounded dragon behind him, who seemed to nod encouragingly at him as she continued laying down.

With only Ser Simon at the entrance, Cregan passed by the older man with a shared concerned glance. Davos had left after Daenys did that morning, to meet with Willem Blackwood and the Brackens before Caraxes and Daemon set off. Horseback was much slower, after all.

His return depended on his father's command, but if he did, it wouldn't be until later that night.

"Have someone bring food and a bowl of clean water to the Princess' chambers." Cregan told Simon, who nodded and went off to find a servant.

Daenys hung in his arms as if she were dead, despite being uninjured. She did not want to live, not with the sins that weighed so heavily on her soul. Three deaths, she was indirectly responsible for.

Two people Aemond had directly taken from her. Kinslayer, twice over. Mayhaps three, if Aegon did not survive his injuries.

Two deaths that Daemon did not intend for, but would be held responsible for by Daenys.

Luke, Jaehaerys, Rhaenys. The three names twirled around her mind like the ghosts themselves coming back to haunt her. She had finally learned to trust herself—trust her mind. And all she had gotten was a front seat view of the death instead of the ability to change it.

No, perhaps she could change it still. She just wasn't trying hard enough. She didn't push Rhaenys hard enough to retreat, nor fought Vhagar hard enough when she had the chance. Rhaenys died for her mistakes.

Morningstar almost did, too. Perhaps Aemond only gave her mercy to torment her with her guilt. He knew she couldn't kill him. Not like she could all those soldiers in front of the castle.

Ik I said Thursday for update day, but I got stopped a lot for various things. I hope this chapter didn't disappoint, wanted some cute and some action.

She was not a kinslayer, not directly. Even so, she had witnessed the deaths of four of her kin. Four would not be the last, not in this dance of dragons. It would not stop until all the dragons and their riders were dead.

🗡

Ñāqatubis qēlos - Morning Star

or Tubis qēlos, I was getting two different answers

Half of this chapter is me trying to make a cute day out. Beach episode! 😋 and procrastinating the process for the last half, which was a nightmare to write. Born to write whimical dreams and drama, forced to write dragons fighting to the death or whatever.

Will Cregan be mad that Daenys didn't come to him first? Left him, waiting for news of her death on dragonback?

Did anyone get the little Phantom of the Opera quote?

Every time I see Vhagar compared to other dragons, the reality of her ACTUALLY being the biggest is still so jarring. She isn't just a bit bigger by technicalities, but a behemoth compared to them. She makes Meleys, the third biggest in the world, look like a baby dragon compared to her. When she crushed those men to basically nothing with her hind foot, damn. Makes me wonder how big Balerion was and why every dragon after the Doom grew smaller and smaller. Probably due to some magic only available in Old Valyria, I would adore a show purely about the dragon country. I love dragons sm, I wish we had more live actions media for them 😪

Daenys talks about her perfect life with Cregan and all of their loved ones. I wonder how Winterfell functions as a society, being less formal than the south but still holding its own type of regality. I think the Starks in GOT were quite like the image she pictured, pre-show. Tight-knit though the siblings squabbled like true siblings do, but always having family dinner and telling each other about their days. They never got to get a normal ending, but I think if they had and the sons and daughters eventually married off, everyone would still visit Winterfell often to have get togethers and see each other. Take Ned Stark's parenting and compare it to Tywin, Robert, Stannis, etc. Very indifferent and detached, only seeing their kids as succesors and political pieces rather than kids to love and cherish.

Did Rhae Rhae name Daenys after her dreamer ancestor or after her father disguised with her ancestor's name, no one will know except for her (every time I type Daemon it trys to correct to Daenys PLS).

Daenys not wanting to seem thirsty for cregan, meanwhile he's getting the opposite idea and thinking she looked away because she was totally indifferent and he's like 🙁 i lost my touch (the winterfell ladies are DEFINITELY all over their Lord Stark) and maybe thinking she doesn't care for his looks, being a different standard of beauty from southern men.

Can you tell I love the gentlemanly hand kiss thing? It's a lost art, not even considered romantic most of the time and simply being a polite greeting or farewell gesture, but its so intimate in its own way compared to a hug or handshake.

ALSO thinking about Silverwing/Vermithor size difference. Silverwing is pretty small, like Syrax size. Vermithor is HUGE and is completely a different size category than the dragons below him including his lovely dragon wife. Syrax and Caraxes are similar sizes. It reminds me of that meme with the tiny male rabbit looking up at his humongous fem rabbit wife and its kinda reversed for Silver and Vermithor, and also mirroring Daenys and Cregan slightly with their size difference and color schemes.

One thing I've unintentionally done is make Daenys insecure about her being deemed mad and unsociable by others, but one thing she's never been insecure about is her looks. In fact, she doesn't deny when Cregan or a bard calls her beautiful or something of the like. I think that part of her character kind of ran away from me and did itself. Shes surprised when someone finds her tolerable to be around and seeks her conpany, but only happy when someone compliments looks. There's a lot of insecure MCs who worry about their looks (no shade to that, it makes characters more relatable) but I think Daenys hasn't been insecure of her appearances, only her actions.

I google a million stupid questions per chapter. This chapter's: can pearls be found in lakes? Of course they can, Cherry, muscles and clams still live in lakes.

[distant--shadow]

The Witch and the Widow – Chapter One – The Lake

Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.

Maybe murdered. Apparently. That is what brought Imogen here - indirectly, at least.

Not that she's with the law enforcement or anything. Not that, definitely, though ironically being an officer - an interrogator - would suit her well, at least on paper. Passion and enthusiasm would be a different question - and that's why she's here. Sorta. Indirectly, again, for a different question. Words travel, by means of mouth or ink or thoughts (apparently, she had found out), even though thoughts should not travel past the head that they were made in. But they did, and continue to do so, and Imogen had heard enough accounts about the man himself (the Lady’s husband, when he was alive and after the fact), had seen enough women squashed under the boots of the men they were tied to to intimately know and understand a flash decision made in a moment for self-preservation-

all too often women tempered their instincts to allow themselves to become the soil underfoot rather than the sole of the shoe

so much as to say that Imogen does not care much if Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.

She cares more about what the words whispered and weaved and waded in the time after wrote:

Laudna Bradbury had used witchcraft to murder her husband.

The only utterances of magic Imogen had heard of, had seen, had unexplainably received taken telegraphed by inner voice and grey matter before that rumour, were her own.

Imogen needs answers, desperately, as though a necessity purely imperative like breathing and eating, and so she brought herself to the source of the lake before it divided and weakened and meandered from river to muddy stream to drink directly from her-

(it.)

Laudna Bradbury is a widow, a widow who continues to live on the estate her husband’s heraldry and wealth had afforded them, company kept by a small team of housemaids and gardeners and the like.

and it is a large estate, a lot to look after, for sure, certainly, with its couple hundred maybe more years in age and just as many acres. There's hairline cracks in the stucco, a missing roof tile here and there

but there is no denying that it is a fine example of architecture, certainly was the highest of fashion at the time. A grand country house with an East Wing and a West, bay windows and towers and pleasing ratios between alcove and doorways and arches and walled topiaried gardens that extend from north to south, illustrations in stained glass ornately framed with flowering climbing ivy

statues that step out from domesticated bordering jungles, now appearing more as gargoyles thanks to the decay of time, noses eroded like they have rotted off, birds’ nests of briars thorned crowns or horns

rosemary bushes skirt the main building’s façade, perfuming the sometimes hot-and-humid, more often brisk-and-grey air carried through the opened lead-lined boiled sweet coloured window panes into the dark mahogany-panelled and silk-embroidered tapestried interiors.

Off of the West Wing there is an extension nearing the height of the gargoyled walls that surround the estate. This is the wall that fortifies the Lady Bradbury’s private garden; with doors adjoining directly to her study - both of which are off limits. Imogen doesn't know much of pretty and imported flowers, but she knows local common sense, knows what berries to pick and which weed’s sap causes a blister that will never heal again should it brush her skin.

Through small cracks in the masonry delicate tendrils curl out; leaves crawling, surfacing, small purple flowers with yellow tear-drop centres blooming.

Deadly nightshade.

She wonders what else grows behind the wall, patiently biding its time until the decay of such allows it through. 

It is in the stables that Imogen spends most of her own time; her years of experience working under Master Faramore awarded her an earnest recommendation, and it sure helped that a couple of the Lady’s mares and a stallion were from his own livery, that they had been raised and trained by Imogen's own hands before they left them.

She needs answers, so she has taken herself to them, to the lake to drink from. She observes from a distance, listens to any whisperings and wonderings that bed with her in the servants’ quarters.

The days are long, mostly spent between mucking and feeding and exercising and grooming the horses and watching the Lady Bradbury taking a walk around the herb garden with knees as muddied as the kitchen staff’s, or cutting bark segments from off of the trees that dot the grounds as if she were operating in front of an amphitheatre of flora and fauna students whilst Imogen brushes down one of the horses or shovels hay

and despite the distance and Imogen's best efforts to remain subtle, the Lady Bradbury’s eyes would sometimes catch hers observing (staring, admittedly), and she would smile, and perform a barely perceivable curtsey (one of many behaviours outside of expectations), and Imogen would tip her brimmed suede hat in return, and would think of how despite the fact that the Lady’s practices of class and boundaries and what is proper were different, a bit odd, nothing of the woman's behaviour suggested that of a killer - only the situation that she stood in - the peculiarly beautiful widow with a walled off poison garden. And so maybe the same is to be said of her magic, should she even be harbouring or practicing any (although admittedly her appearance certainly is bewitching…)

and it's like the instances before but unlike them - Imogen stealing glances of the Lady Bradbury as she potters about her estate (she probably really does potter, she fills so much of her time with crafting and making. Imogen wouldn't be surprised to see her pale skin elbow-deep in caked-on terracotta pigment digging out clay rich soil into old whisky barrels to have carried by willing hands to a throwing room with a secret kiln.) but on this day, when their eyes in new routine now inevitably meet across the wildflower-speckled field (that in itself is unusual, highly out of vogue, it isn't the acres of well-kept uniform lawn and paths laid with talking-point pebbles imported from the coast that the other estates boasted and Imogen had glanced when ferrying Master Faramore’s horses elsewhere) the Lady Bradbury takes pause, before she starts to make her advance towards Imogen.

shit.

She's been brushing the same patch of short thick hair on Foie Gras’ shoulder for so long that she's surprised there isn't a bald patch. Maybe the Lady Bradbury is worried as such. Maybe Imogen has been too obvious in her observing (admitted staring). Maybe she has been found out.

She feels her brow start to perspire, the muscles in her limbs wishing to move erratically and awkwardly and restlessly and to carry her to stand out of sight hidden behind the thick neck of the horse like an obvious child playing hide and seek behind a tree trunk, or to flatten the creases in her breaches and her linen tunic and pick out the strands of hair and hay that have lodged themselves into their weave, untwist the grasp of her suspenders over her shoulders - but she practices restraint - is trained and cautious and intentional and thorough she was only being thorough with the mare, casts her gaze in iron like the blacksmith hammering the horseshoes and steels herself for the Lady Bradbury’s approach.

Her skirts are full and structured and plumed by many layers of petticoats that hide the movement of her feet across the wildflower lawn, causing her to appear to be drifting like the bees do from petal to petal, pollen dusting her pleats though ghostly her skin in contrast to the fine fabrics that she dresses for the part, black in mourning, still, bodice tight and sleeve leg of mutton, an ornate decorative layer of black lace laying over each yard of textured textile like spider webs on porcelain patterns, her husband's tableware collecting dust in the kitchen cupboard.

real impractical for how tending towards practical the Lady dares to be, hands on, too busy for errant hairs in piano key ivory and ebony windswept and loose from the high bun she pins in place with a cameo broach, a memento mori engraved in silver and inlayed with ruby eyes and tied with red ribbons. Her skin also proudly displays the age and perhaps trauma that her hair does, lines from laughter and furrowed brows and the feet of the crows that cry from the top of the chimney pots

Imogen has heard her call them her children (the birds that is, not the wrinkles) - has heard her talk to them as if they are responding, oftentimes giving her own tampered voice to do so (and to Imogen’s amusement)

The Lady never had children of her own; those are their own rivers of rumours within themselves. Imogen did not care for that stream of gossip at all.

The Lady steps closer, and the yet-to-be familiar fog of her mind cocoons Imogen, water transmuted into mist against jutting rock at the plummet of rapids, relief from the laborious work and humidity, her previous restraint to keep her body in check breaking as she visibly swallows and licks her lips, suddenly aware of how dry they had been.

The Lady Bradbury rests her hand on the back of Foie Gras’ neck, fingers long and pale and decorated in black lace like mother of pearl inlay and marquetry on a lacquered curious curio cabinet that perhaps Imogen had eyed through a stained glass window standing in the corner of the out-of-bounds office.

“Good day. It's Imogen, correct?” her delicately veiled fingers comb through the mare’s mane, her dark mahogany eyes seeming to look over the gloss of Foie Gras’ coat to inspect the way the late morning sunlight rests upon its sandy hues before turning her attention back to Imogen with a smile.

She hadn't spoken much to the Lady since she was hired a few weeks back - not much being that this is the third time, after her interview and a brief acknowledgment when being shown around by one of the housemaids the day she started.

The Lady Bradbury’s lips are painted a deep purple, an unusual colour for sure; Imogen had only seen illustrations and paintings of the dignitary from era’s passed in shades of peach and pinks and reds, stencilled in exaggerated shapes, and as with the landscaping of grounds, to wear such obvious make up itself is frowned upon, old fashioned, conveniently equated with providing false fronts.

The Lady’s teeth are bright, especially in comparison to the purpled dark lips.

and sharp

especially in comparison to how soft-

“You must pardon me, have I got it wrong?”

shit, fuck-

“Oh! n-no-” Imogen was staring, definitely “I apologise m’lady. You are right, it is Imogen.”

God dammit - she’s gonna get herself fired, fired for daydreamin’ and giving the horses receding hairlines and ignoring the Lady of the Manor when she addresses her-

The Lady chuckles to herself delicately, an act displaying a markable absence of frustration and bewilderment.

“From Master Faramore’s, yes? How are you finding the new environment? I am sure the stables here pale in comparison to his, but I do not believe that they afforded such space and the opportunity for frequent walks around such a beautiful lake…”

“Certainly, m’lady. There are less of them so they get more attention, they can be well looked after-”

“Indeed, plenty of grooming at the very least-”

Imogen can feel the hot blood rush to the surface of her cheeks, unable this time to wrangle her body’s motor reflexes.

“I have yet to visit the lake m’self, I am sure they enjoy bein’ taken by you though, they always seem happier when they come back.”

“Is that so? Well, I must insist you see the lake for yourself, if not only to relish the fact that you took great part in an amount of their contentedness.”

The Lady Bradbury looks to her expectantly, Imogen expected to have a reply for the unexpected.

“Would you accompany me this afternoon?”

Imogen can read thoughts. She can read thoughts but what if the Lady Bradbury can too? Or what if she can tell that she is imposing? Would she find herself in the bottom of that lake on her very first visit? A drink more filling than what she had wanted, her lungs full and void of buoyancy. Imogen can read thoughts but she dares not to read the Lady’s.

She can feel them, though, that first and second and now third time in her vicinity, feel how they are different, an audible silence amongst the swarm of bees wings and small talk and anxieties

At some point the Lady had stepped around Foie Gras’ head to stand beside Imogen

She smells like sage and gunpowder

On the day of her interview she had smelled of eucalyptus and raw animal fat-

“You’re quite the thinker, aren’t you?”

Of that she is guilty, though usually she can argue that the majority of the thoughts that weigh her down are not her own.

“Apologies m’lady, I wasn’t sure I had heard you right. Did you want a horse saddled for you for this afternoon?”

Imogen had never thought that her accent sounded particularly thick or clunky, but it felt as heavy as her mind tends to be around other company when speaking with the Lady, her tongue all thick tangled muscle swelling against the roof of her mouth and her teeth.

Perhaps this is some sort of witchery. She waits for the molasses to take a hold on her muscles and limbs, for the her skull to be crushed concave from the inside

But it doesn’t happen.

The Lady smiles (again)

“Almost. One for you and one for me, if you would accompany me around the lake - there isn’t a cloud in the sky today and it would be a shame to keep the clear reflections of the mountains to myself and Foie Gras here.”

Imogen is thrown. Yes, y’all could argue that this is exactly what she came here for; time alone with the Lady Bradbury, the opportunity to form a rapport or to subtly pluck at her brain but there is something in the way that she carries herself, how she talks to Imogen with ease and lack of formality that is alarmingly disarming, and leaves Imogen cloudy on why she came here in the first place-

“C-certainly, if it’s what the Lady wants-” she chuckles (again, again) waving her hand dismissively before catching herself and laying it over the patch of hair on the mare’s shoulder that surprisingly hasn’t thinned from all of Imogen’s enthusiastic (distracted) brushing.

“I will take Ceviche; you seem to have formed quite the bond with Foie Gras.”

Imogen can only nod with lips parted in silenced protest as she feels her cheeks flush again.

~

The walls of the stable are thick and stone, absent of windows save for the upper halves of the handful of wooden doors that allow for the horses to pop their heads out in eager greeting to Imogen as she walks towards them with their buckets of feed.

It is a clear day, as the Lady Bradbury has said, hot and humid and Imogen is grateful for both the surroundings and the company of the stable.

As she rakes the trodden-in and dirtied hay across the flagstone floor she allows the earthy scents of the dried grass to remind her of the smell of the sage, the crumbling mortar imitating gunpowder.

She wipes the back of her shirt sleeve across her brow, skin also sweating at the wrist where the gloves wrap work-beaten leather over shielded skin

Soft skin, mostly - save for where her fingertips appear to be frost-bitten.

A fairly visible reminder of why Imogen is here, should she forget again in the Lady’s presence-

Not that she would dare to take off the gloves.

That would only lead to questions.

‘Jammed in between horse-drawn carriage and stable door’ - she used to say, before the purple bruised tips started to migrate further, splitting out like surfaced capillaries that encompassed her fingers one knuckle at a time

They mark half-way over her palms now – like someone had dipped fine dense vegetable roots in an inkwell and struck them in lashings across her hand, punishment obfuscating her palmistry.

She hears one of the horses whinny – Ceviche most likely, a little restless, the black stallion not having been let out onto the fields yet today, as Imogen was now preparing him for his ride to be taken shortly.

The Lady’s saddle is very ornate, the leather finely tooled and decorated with organic flowing arrangements that resemble leaves and petals and insects with patterned wings or many many limbs

Its material and stitching is kin to the other saddles, the ones for notable guests and stablehands alike, brands the same maker’s mark

After a short amount of time observing (staring), Imogen suspects that the Lady tooled it herself.

~

The Lady does not ride sidesaddle – she straddles the stallion proper.

Imogen can only assume that she changes from her garden-strolling undergarments to allow for this, having never worn a crinoline herself - that would both be out-of-class, and, more importantly (to Imogen at least) - real impractical.

She had noted as such about the Lady on the first day she had seen her taking one of the horses (it was Carpaccio, a black and white paint) out of field.

It was the first instance of out-of-expected behaviour that she had witnessed.

Imogen can admit to herself that such a small thing had ignited her warming to the widow.

~

Imogen allows the Lady Bradbury and her steed to take the lead, pace set by the older woman’s enthusiasms making themselves known in short enough time from pointing out ‘notable’ forms in the sloping rock faces lining the well-worn path, covered in blankets of moss and ferns and tall stems of bell-shaped pink and white foxgloves and pomanders of wild thistles.

“I just can’t help but imagine what tiny creatures would love to make home between the cracks in the rock and the tree-stumps.”

“’lotta mice and rats I imagine, probably squirrels-”

“Well, yes, certainly…”

Ceviche’s slow walk carries on ahead of Foie Gras’, and the Lady sways with his gate in the saddle, though despite this Imogen could just about read the slight deflation in her shoulders when she had replied to the Lady’s statement.

Her head turns over her shoulder, gaze searching and challenging Imogen’s, caught staring (again), dark eyes hollows of homes burrowed in rocks, the high sun exaggerating high cheekbone architecture, pleasing ratios of brow to bridge of nose.

“…I refuse to believe that there are no imps or fairies when the land is so perfectly carved for them.”

“I can only say I’ve heard stories…” Rumours, rivers.

“Certainly, else you would not be here, would you?”

The Lady holds her gaze a moment longer, as if expecting Imogen to have an answer worth vocalising for that. Imogen feels her pulse begin to thud at her temples, the sweat returning to her hairline and underneath the cuff of her gloves.

The Lady giggles melodically and dismissively, returning her attention to whatever catches its fancy on the path ahead.

“How ugly it is that we must quarry and build. I have thought more than once about leaving the manor to the animals and the girls and making my home in the cave by the lake- oh, I am so very thrilled to show it to you.”

Her excitement cuts the atmosphere, spring back in her step transposed through the steed’s, one hand off of his reins and gesturing in the air.

“You can see it from the upper floors of the house – though that is rather rude of me to say, isn’t it? If you will allow that injustice to fall upon the architect and how societal structure seems to love its walls and assigning basement dwelling.”

Imogen finds herself inadvertently allowing Foie Gras to fall at a pace beside the Lady and Ceviche.

“That’s alright, most nights I tend t’lodge in the stables; eases my mind that I’ll be near the horses should anythin’ happen.”

“Plenty of wild animals around, yes? They do get spooked so easily.”

“I like how you’ve named ‘em – it’s fun.”

“Oh!, You do? I am so glad! You are the one who has to be calling their names most often after all.” Imogen may be in early days (hours) of learning the Lady’s tells, but the smile that creases the skin around her nose and mouth and deepens the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes feels genuine.

“It does often make me chuckle, I assume you’re fond of raw meats?”

“I suppose you would think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Are y’not?”

The Lady takes pause, her look introspective.

“Have you ever eaten horse?”

“w-what? Of course not – do people actually do that?”

“Mmhmm, across the waters – in all directions. It is certainly a common custom. What makes horse any different from beef?”

“I could never – we share a bond, they let us- they give us-” Imogen's tongue is too thick and heavy again, blubbering with words that do not come easily to it as they do her head. She allows herself a deep breath, collects what little face she has, remembers the presence she is in (a Lady regardless of murder or witchcraft) “-in all honesty I rarely eat any meat, the more time ya spend with animals the more guilty ya feel about doing so.”

“How peculiar…maybe you need to spend more time around carnivores.” The Lady laughs at her own joke this time, hand patting at the side of Ceviche’s neck, the horse unaware of what words have been said. Imogen is thankful, in this instance, though she will admit she has tried more than once to see if her mind reading extended to her four-legged friends.

“But they’ve got no choice, that’s how they were made.”

She mimics the Lady’s movements, lovingly patting Foie Gras at the same spot on her neck.

“Made…yes…You have incisors don’t you? Canines?”

“I do, but I don’t have a mouth full of ‘em. Most of our teeth are as flat as these fellas over here…” she ruffles the mare’s mane “-though I won’t deny that gettin’ bitten still hurts something fierce.”

“Makes you wonder what sort of damage you could do if you so chose to, after all, your eyes are not on the sides of your head.”

~

The lake is beautiful.

Of course it is. It displays itself naturally basined, wrapped in the embrace of the mountains surrounding draped in forest cloak, walls both man-made and much older obfuscating its view from the ground floor of the estate.

The lilac and blue hues of the pebbles are familiar, lining the vegetable patch borders in the garden, larger stones used for holding stable doors open.

It is quiet over the lake. The terrain raised around it shutting out the winds, only the quiet breeze that drifts through the canopies on the mountain crests giving a gentle whistle to the waters below, an enjoyable confusement between what is wind and what is the crashing of the tender tides.

The waters are clear blue with a hint of turquoise, green given by either the surrounding plant life’s reflection or by the ones that live underwater.

It reminds Imogen of the lakes in the mountains from her childhood. It is something else new.

Their horses slow to a stop, on the Lady’s cue.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

“It really is - no wonder why the horses come back so happy.”

“And will you be as such on your return?”

“Certainly m’lady, thank you for allowing me such a privilege”

“It is not mine to give, though I will make it explicit that you may come down here whenever you wish – providing the horses are happy, of course. That is what I ask of you.”

Imogen thinks she is blushing again, but the feeling is further inside her than her veins, a warmth radiating.

“You take good care of the servants at the estate, don’t you?”

For the first time, the Lady seems thrown by what Imogen offers, a step behind instead of two larger-horsed paces ahead.

“They take better care of me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone wish to leave their home to the help.”

“It would be the very least I could do.”

“You give ‘em food and a roof over their heads-”

“They sow the seeds, they tend to the animals, they butcher their meat and harvest the wheat to bake the bread. I have been so lucky that they have yet to poison me.”

“I can only say from ma short experience that I’d find that hard t’understand.”

Her face softens again. It feels both comforting like a blanket but then uneasing like having the lights blown out.

“Funny thing, perspective…”

Lady Bradbury slides off of her horse, heels of her fine boots falling into the gaps between the pebbles, though her footing remains certain, experienced.

On the surface of the lake the trees grow downwards, the birds fly with their bellies exposed to what lies in the waters.

The Lady halts, dropping to one knee as she makes short work of the laces on her shoes.

Imogen isn’t sure if she should be offering to remove them for her, jumps down from Foie Gras and jogs clumsily on uneven surface towards the Lady regardless. 

“There are old stories of this lake, you know-”

Lady Bradbury confesses a little breathlessly, lung capacity limited by the press of her thigh into her stomach. She swaps her knee for the other on the ground, starting on the other lace.

“I won’t tell of them just yet, I would hate for them to be off-putting.”

She stands straight again, the sieved remnants of harsher winds that have made it over the mountains’ embrace wishing to make field mouse nests of her hair, spiderwebs of the lace collar around her neck, footprints of birds’ feet fossilised in the marble cornering her eyes.

She looks at home at the lake, certainly a natural thing - flesh and blood and bones cocoons to silk cotton to yarn to lace – Imogen wonders what a marvel the Lady could paint and chisel into the mouth of an open cave.

Balancing, she pulls each shoe free, grin knowing, slightly manic, intensely catching Imogen before she gathers the length of layers of skirts into one hand and steps into the clear waters.

Imogen swears she sees something conjure beneath its surface to greet her.

Laudna Bradbury had (maybe) murdered her husband – (maybe) with witchcraft, most importantly - but Imogen has bigger questions that require her answers, and so she follows the Lady into the lake.

[syndrossi]

Regnal AU, Chapter 2 (Pt 1)

I wouldn't call 2.8K a full chapter, but it's the first two scenes of chapter two anyway! For those who need a refresher, Regnal AU is where Daemon and Rhea conceive the twins on their consummation night, aka teen-dad!Daemon + overly-involved!Baelon + dealing-with-it!Rhea. The first chapter can be found in Resonant Side Stories and Ficlets.

x~x~x

The three days of travel to and then back from King’s Landing were a singular torment. Ordinarily, riding Vhagar was one of the few pleasures Baelon still found in the world, everything else mired in grey and duty. But this flight had been fraught with nerves, the first mission he had undertaken in a long time that had kept his heart racing throughout: fetching dragon eggs for the twins’ cradle.

He had barely greeted his father and mother, pausing on his return from the Dragonpit only to accept the blanket that Gael had shyly offered, one she had embroidered herself for the new babe. He made his apologies to Viserys, who had wandered over to the yard to bid him welcome and ask after Daemon’s twins, hastening to secure the dragon egg cradles he had brought from the Pit in Vhagar’s saddlebags.

A servant ran to him, braving his dragon’s half-lidded gaze, to deliver a basket of bread and cured meats for his return journey, and then Baelon was off, not one hour after arriving.

They were healthy enough when I left, he reminded himself for perhaps the hundredth time. Aemon’s wails were powerful enough to wake the castle, and Jon—it felt too strange to call his grandson by his own name—was constantly wriggling, trying to take in the world around him. But they were yet so fragile. For all his assurances to Daemon, he knew that babes born small and early faced far crueller odds than those born closer to their time.

A pair of dragon eggs will protect them. It was no mere superstition. Accounts as far back as Aenar himself detailed the benefits of an early bond with a dragon, or even just proximity to a dragon egg. For both hatchling and infant, in fact. It had not saved little Aegon, but he had been sicklier after the difficult birth.

Alyssa, my love. Baelon gripped his saddle, steadying himself against the lurch of his heart that could still upend him when he thought of her. In his dreams, she held Jon in her arms, laughing with abandon at his surly expression and comparing it to Daemon’s as a babe. And Aemon was beside her, conversing quietly with his namesake, the intensity of his focus undiminished, even when turned upon an infant.

Baelon’s grip tightened, and he was grateful for the unrelenting roar of wind in his face that carried off tears as fast as they could fall. Such dreams were hard to wake from. And when he did, it was even harder to rise to greet another day without them.

The farms and orchards of the Crownlands beneath them gave way to the mist-shrouded hills that formed Crackclaw Point. He had pushed Vhagar to exhaustion over the past two days, covering ground that ordinarily would have been done in three, so he set her down as they approached Rook’s Rest, where Lord Staunton readily gathered the plumpest sheep from his farmers to sate Vhagar’s hunger.

Baelon kept the rest short, allowing them both six hours of sleep before setting out before dawn. They had another twelve hard hours ahead of them—or so he thought. Vhagar, aware of his urgency, shaved several hours from that. It was just nearing noon when Runestone came into view at the edge of the horizon, and when they had landed at last, he laid both hands on Vhagar’s snout, her heavy breaths stirring his hair.

“Thank you,” he said, staring into her bright green eyes. “I do not yet have enough hatchlings born of my hatchlings to spare.”

The enclosure that had been built for Caraxes was too small for Vhagar, but its keeper assured him that a hearty meal of sheep would be secured for his dragon. That was enough reassurance for him to grab the dragon egg cradle from her saddlebags and take off up the hill toward the castle. The fear he had barely held at bay for the ride wormed its way into his heart at last.

What if the babes had sickened since he had gone? Little Jon—or Baelon, as his father had negotiated in exchange for the dragon eggs—was the larger of the twins, his lungs hale. Aemon was smaller and quieter, save for the occasional wail in Daemon’s arms.

The gods cannot be so cruel to take him from me twice. But he had thought the same after losing Alyssa and their babe, that the gods would not visit such sorrow on him again.

Daemon came to greet him in the yard, and Baelon’s tension eased at his untroubled expression. “I did not think Vhagar had such speed in her,” his son said, sounding impressed. He shook his head then. “Did you not sleep at all?”

“I can sleep easily once the eggs are in their cradle,” Baelon said, surrendering the heavy chest to him with relief. It was difficult to say which had borne the greater strain throughout the three days’ ride: his thighs or his arms. “Where are they?”

“They are in the nursery now. Come.”

x~x~x

Baelon all but collapsed into the chair that Daemon had dragged beside the twins’ cradle, feet giving out midway through seating himself. Lady Rhea had joined the small convoy to the nursery, and promptly ordered a meal be brought for him from the kitchens, but his dizziness steadied as he gazed upon his sleeping grandsons. Jon’s hand was curled around the cloth of his brother’s sleeve, his frown intense even in sleep, while Aemon was the very image of serenity.

In his relief, everything else that he had battled back surged to the surface, and he found himself doubled over in his chair, a half choked sob giving way to a trembling laugh while Daemon looked on with widened eyes.

“I am fine,” he said after a moment, once he had ridden out the wave of emotion. He brushed at his cheeks, then held his hands out. “The eggs.”

Daemon undid the latches on the dragon cradle, flipping the lid open to reveal the two eggs nestled within its cushioned interior. One was a deep burgundy with bands of black and gold streaking across it, and the other was charcoal black with large swathes of smoky grey and silver. Baleon had chosen them himself: one from an old clutch of Vhagar’s, and one from Silverwing’s.

“They are beautiful,” Daemon said, holding each up in the light in wonder.

His good-daughter, ordinarily stoic and composed, looked no less awed, and Baelon beckoned her closer. She reached out hesitantly, feeling the surface of each egg. “Whose is whose?”

“That is for the hatchlings to decide,” Baelon said.

Daemon handed him the burgundy first, and then Baelon was faced with the dilemma of finding space in a cradle built for a single babe but tasked with holding two. He ended up gently shifting the infants higher up so that the eggs could be placed at their feet, and both woke at his touch, foreheads furrowing as they squinted at him.

He gave their faces a stroke, one and then the other. They were so small that even the knuckle of his forefinger seemed to dwarf their soft cheeks. “I have brought a gift for you from your great-grandsire.” Alertness seemed to enter their eyes after a few blinks, and he smiled. “Dragon eggs, to keep you safe.”

Baelon took the second egg from Daemon and parted the twins enough so that it could be placed between them. Their pudgy hands patted at its scaled surface, with happy little grunts emerging from Aemon’s side of the dragon egg. Jon’s flailing study was quieter, his intense brow furrow back as his lilac-grey eyes stared at the egg, before his head turned back toward Baelon, almost in question.

Baelon leaned in close, kissing his forehead and cheeks, and resigning himself to a single cheek kiss for Aemon, who was still entranced by the egg.

“How are they?” he asked.

There was good color in their cheeks. Jon’s breathing sounded slightly congested, but that was not entirely unusual for newborn babes. Daemon’s nostrils had whistled fiercely for a period of four weeks, which Alyssa had found hilarious, calling him her little tea kettle.

“They remain healthy,” Rhea said. “Maester Therbold examined them just this morning. They have gained nearly half a pound over the week.”

They looked just as tiny to Baelon as when he had first held them, fresh from the womb, weighing barely five pounds each. He picked Jon up, cradling him in his arms as he tried to gauge whether he was truly larger. Once they have reached ten pounds, Baelon decided, then the worst of the threat is past.

Weight gain was far more important than weight itself, he knew. He had seen his little brothers succumb within their first year, as had his Aegon. Healthy lungs and healthy suckling were the mark of a babe who would live to see his first name day.

“You must drink heartily of your nurse’s breast,” he murmured to Jon, whose gaze turned cross-eyed as it tried to focus on the finger Baelon brought to trace the line of his tiny nose. “And see that your brother does the same.”

Aemon was more reluctant to be parted from the dragon eggs, expressing his affront with wailing that he usually reserved for Daemon first thing in the morning, but Baelon rocked him until it subsided, promising he would not be parted from their eggs for long.

“It is my father’s command that the eggs be under guard at all hours,” he said, glancing up at Rhea. “He requested that only your most trusted knights be tasked with the duty.”

She frowned. “There are none more honorable than knights of the Vale, my lord.”

“It is not their honor that the king would question,” Baelon said, well-accustomed to creatively interpreting his father’s sentiments. “Only their seasoning. Some will be more experienced than others, and those are who he seeks.”

“Very well,” Rhea said, her ruffled feathers soothed, “I know who I would appoint to the task.”

They are both of them so prideful, Baelon thought, not for the first time. It was partly why they had clashed early on, he suspected, though Daemon’s simmering resentment of the match had not helped matters. He glanced at his son, who still looked a bit lost on how to occupy himself in the nursery.

Daemon’s youth did not help matters either. He had grown up on tales of Aegon’s Conquest, of his grandfather’s heroic struggles against Maegor, of their family’s bloody quarrels with the Faith. He saw Baelon as a hero, as he had Aemon, and longed for the glory they had achieved on dragonback against the foes of the Crown. As proud as he was, he desired more to be worthy of such pride.

He is too young to understand that often such opportunities arise all on their own, and can bring sorrow as easily as accolades.

Baelon focused his gaze back on the twins, until the clench in his jaw had relaxed. They were watching him intently, Aemon with that concern so like his brother’s. He had always known when Baelon was upset, often before he did. They are such bright little flames, my son’s babes.

He let himself sink deeper into his chair, lulled by its comfort and their warmth, fatigue settling in until the door opened, at which point he straightened to alertness, but it was merely a servant bearing hot bread and cold cuts of meat, alongside a vegetable-laden soup. Baelon reluctantly surrendered the twins to their parents, one apiece, and took his meal.

“They are sweet babes,” Rhea said, smiling down at Aemon who smiled back at her.

“That must be your doing,” Baelon said, casting an amused look at his son. “Daemon was the loudest babe the Red Keep has heard. ‘Riotously upset with the world,’ is how my father described him.”

“I cannot imagine,” Rhea murmured, with a sly glance of her own toward Daemon.

Rather than bristle at the slight, Daemon merely shook his head at Jon. “Rest assured, I shall never tell such unkind tales of your infancy.”

Such was a great relief to Jon, judging by the smell that rose afterward, and Daemon quickly raised him up out of his lap, holding him up by the armpits to stern admonitions from both Baelon and Rhea until he adjusted his grip to support his head.

The nurse was summoned to change his linens, and then Aemon’s shortly after, and Baelon shared what little conversation he had managed in his short time at the Red Keep. Rhea seemed less than pleased at the king’s interference with Jon’s name, mollified only slightly by Baelon’s suggestion that they call him by “Jon” to reduce confusion, whatever his recorded name might be.

“I shall call him both,” Daemon said stubbornly. “Baelon is his name.”

Rhea’s expression turned to alarm upon learning that he had invited his mother and sister to visit as they liked, since the babes were too young themselves to travel. “I shall need notice of their arrival,” she insisted. “So that Runestone may extend a proper welcome to our queen.”

Her feelings on the king considering a tourney for their first name day, should their health continue to prove hearty, seemed mixed. Baelon did not blame her. He doubted she had realized how extensive the Crown’s interference would be once she bore sons. After Aemon’s death without a male heir, their father was eager to demonstrate the stability of Baelon’s succession to the realm: two sons, and two grandsons.

His father would be content to let the twins spend their first year in Runestone. But as for the second—he doubtless would insist that they be brought to King’s Landing along with the dragon eggs, if they had not yet hatched. For a proud lady of a proud house, to have control wrested away of her own heirs would likely rankle.

That is a matter for my mother to address, as this match was her own doing. Even the outcome was the intended one: a scion of House Targaryen eventually in control of a powerful holding in the Vale.

But that was a trouble for another day, and far less of an issue if Viserys and Aemma had a son of their own. Baelon rubbed at his heavy eyes. If that is even possible. His father’s pressure for more heirs had meant that Aemma had been made a mother too young. The Grand Maester himself had admitted that such could complicate future births, even setting aside the miscarriages since.

Childbirth has not been kind to our house.

“You look awful,” Daemon informed him, ever the diplomat. “You should take some rest.”

Baelon nodded, too tired to argue. “I shall sleep here, in the nursery.”

His son and good-daughter exchanged a look, but did not protest. Rhea merely sent for the blankets to be replaced, and his pillow brought from his guest chamber. By then, his grandsons had been cleaned and changed and given yet another meal that had left them just as sleepy.

“They were as hungry as ever, my prince,” the wetnurse assured him when he asked about the feeding.

A troubling thought occurred to him. “Is there enough milk for two? Is another nurse needed?”

“There is plenty of milk to nurse them until full, my prince.”

The twins seemed content enough, Jon letting out a soft burp before being transferred back to his cradle. The egg between them was moved to the bottom of the cradle, beside the other, and the babes nestled against one another as their faces went soft with sleep.

The dragon eggs will protect them. Baelon gave them each another kiss, then grabbed his grown son to kiss his own cheek. “Go, take a ride on Caraxes.”

His son’s expression turned furtive. “I did not—”

“I know you have not ridden him since my departure.” His son’s dragon had fixed him with the baleful look he had worn whenever Aemon had neglected him for a few days. “Go. Vhagar and I are here to protect them in your absence.” He nodded toward Rhea. “As are your wife and her knights.”

Daemon brightened, the serious expression he had worn too often since the twins’ birth lifting. “I shall see you after your nap with the babes, then.” It was Baelon’s turn for a kiss to the cheek, and then, after a moment of hesitation, Rhea’s.

Baelon settled gratefully into the softness of the bed, satisfied with the quality of the feather mattress. Their nurse should be in comfort, after all, to provide them the best care. Hopefully she did not begrudge him a few hours’ use of her bed.

He closed his eyes, and let Jon’s snuffling snores carry him away to oblivion.

[spideyhexx]

im gonna need u to stay with me on this one. academy!reader inviting academy!sej over to her place to help her study. one thing leads to another and then suddenly sej has reader's legs spread wide open as he pounds her into her pretty bedsheets. BUT GASP. reader's mother knocks on her bedroom door telling the two lovebirds that dinner is ready. and fhjdshf sej just whispers in her ear "better act like everything is normal" as he CONTINUES TO THRUST HIS COCK INTO HER OH MY GOD OH MY GOD. AND READER HAS TO BE LIKE "we'll be down in a second mother! we just need — fuck — a few more minutes to finish this chapter!"

i need water

dally can you get me a glass of water too thank you

mdni

am thinking he's got your legs pushed up, you holding one of yours while he holds the back of your other thigh as he's pounding into you. He's on his knees too, fucking into you deep, his hands starting to yearn for your hips instead so he can just fuck you on his cock himself, his own muscles starting to tire from how hard he went so quick into this.

And Sej would love the image of doing this on your pristine silk sheets in your lavish bed, all of the cutesy embroidered pillows behind you, and your magnificent headboard screaming its wealth at him. You were already biting your cheek to keep the noises to a minimum but it was torturous. Sej was much better at keeping his noises at bay, too focused on making both of you feel good.

The knock on the door makes him instantly still, his hands finally moving to your hips as you stare up at him wide-eyed. "y-yes?"

"My dear, dinner is ready if you and Sejanus would like to join us?" Your mother's voice is muffled and cheery through the wooden door of your bedroom and Sej is looking only at you the entire time.

Through the haze of his kisses and his dick, you had completely forgotten about being in your own home, about your parents wanting to have Sej stay for dinner. Sej leans down as soon as your mother finishes speaking, "you better act like everythin' is normal, okay?" And he gives your ear a small kiss before he starts up his thrusts again, smiling into your neck at the way your mouth parts.

"Sej," you whisper to him, but he doesn't reply, getting to the same speed he was at before, pressing his head down into your neck to suppress his laugh as you grasp at his shoulders.

"U-uh, we're just finishin' something up," you yell out, but your voice is strained. Sej turns his head to see you and he snaps his hips hard against you, quickly reaching his hand up to cover your mouth as you whine. "Be quick! Your food will get cold," your mother yells back.

"Y-Yeah, it'll be just a second, j-just a second-"

You cut off yourself as your orgasm washes over you, Sej biting his own lip to keep his moans inside at the sight and you feel him pull out, stroking his cock till he spills onto your cunt. He pushes his tip against your clit, rubbing it in and you let out a chuckle, breathless.

"I never knew you'd be so bold," you tell him, a smile finding its way to your lips as he helps you rest your legs more comfortably, "Neither did I."

Sej would not be able to look your mother in the eye the rest of the night.

let's chat about sej, here :)

[justpoliteconversations]

Small Problems [Chain + Reader]

The Chain have a small problem on their hands. Not that you mind.

Working on making small posts for the trash heap. Just to fill the spaces.

Masterlist

TW: None.

Disclaimer: Don't own The Legend of Zelda franchise. Linked Universe is the fan creation of jojo56830.

---

You stared down at the nine piles of familiar looking clothes with no small amount of confusion, because you were pretty damned sure those were the boys'. And those piles were very obviously missing the men that should be wearing them. Thus, your confusion. And suspicion.

"You guys better not be running around the woods naked. I expect this behavior from Wild and Hyrule. Wind even." You said, narrowing your eyes and glancing around the clearing intently. Masking your sudden alertness with taunting words. "But you, Warriors? And here I thought you were a gentleman. And Time? For shame."

You shook your head slowly, using the motion to widen your line of vision, searching for any sign of foul play. For signs of a struggle, discarded weapons, unusual imprints in the grass or dirt around the camp. Anything to explain this oddity.

Then you found it sitting inconspicuously near the fire pit next to a still simmering pot of broth. An open jar that should have been sealed, containing the special 'Honey' you'd warned the boys not to touch. For this very reason.

Its actual name was Minish Honey, and it was made exclusively by the northern Minish folk of your country. By itself, perfectly harmless. But add salt, and...

The most shit eating grin stole across your face, eyes gleaming with delight as realization kicked in. "Oh~! Did someone get a sweet tooth?" You sing-songed, skin tingling in anticipation as you got to your knees and started to crawl towards the first pile of clothes. Twilight's.

"Come out, come out, Twi~. I know you couldn't have gotten far~."

You found the pile of Twilight's furs and rumpled cloths empty. But no matter. There were plenty of places to check for sneaky little stowaways.

You peeked impishly into the next pile. "Rulie~." Empty as well, but you weren't deterred. Your smile only grew as you prowled further into the campsite.

"Oh dear!" You giggled, still crawling slowly across the camp like a stalking predator, glancing into piles of clothes and inside of nearby boots as you went.

You heard the slightest shuffling of movement near the packs, and your heart filled with butterflies. You slowly crawled over to the boy's bags, eyes intent on the space between Legend's and Warrior's.

"How will I be able to help you all if I can't find you~!" You sing-songed again, before lowering your face to peek between the bags with one, giant, sparkling eye. "Why, hello there~"

"Please." Wars pleaded in a tiny voice, cute little face cherry red and clutching an embroidered handkerchief around his equally tiny form. Behind him, Twilight was hiding himself in Hyrule's left sock, and you knew this because it had a rip at the toe he was using as a neck hole. "Don't make this any harder than it already is."

Wild peeked out from behind Twilight wearing Hyrule's other sock (which had a large hole in the sole that hung off his shoulders), and waved excitedly at you. Wind's head poking out the hole as well to wave just as excitedly, nearly tipping them both over in the process.

Then the top of Four's head and ears peeked out from below Wind's chin and you lost it, slumping over entirely into the dirt with peals of laughter. And when you caught sight of Legend, scowling, flustered and covered waist down by a thick ring hung snugly around his hips, your soul may or may not have left your body for a time.

It took some time for you to get yourself under control. Enough for Hyrule to finally show up, butt ass naked and munching on a blackberry the size of his head. Covered in berry juice and small brown burrs from head to toe.

It took longer still for Time, adorned in an especially impressive leaf and a leather strap belt, to negotiate their return to normal. And even longer for Four, Wild and Wind (still trapped in the god-damned one holed sock) to coax Sky (naked as the day he was born) out of the boot he'd taken refuge in so he could be turned back to normal.

Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, Hyrule elected to stay as he was for the night. Somehow managing to put away a full bowl of sweet (you side-eyed the chain with a mischievious grin) broth and half a slice of bread. How, you don't know, but it was fascinating to watch nonetheless.

All in all, it was a good night and it ended with only a few red faces and plenty of laughs. Even if you had to scrub the dirt from your pant legs the next morning.

Now you just had to keep Hyrule out of your stash.

The gluttonous little bastard.

---

Short and sweet. Now back to the shadows to rest.

[zippidi-dooda]

You shuffled nervously at the doorstep.

It was quiet outside, clear blue skies, birds chirping in the trees, sun dotting through the branches.

You could have had a nice day out all things considered.

If only that's what you were here for.

Your gaze was drawn up to the door, eyes tracing over the nicks and grooves littering the wood.

The knob was a minimally engraved piece of brass, waiting patiently for you to turn it.

A plain jute rug sat underfoot, clean despite its intention to gather loose mud from your shoes. In fact, the whole of the small porch was spotless and the few potted plants blooming against the mini windowsills were lush and vibrant, so clearly taken care of.

Maybe you'd receive a snippet of that care and attention after announcing your reason for coming.

Speaking of, you need to get to it. His neighbors may begin to worry if they saw you just standing at his steps for so long.

You took a breath and raised your hand to the door.

One knock.

Then two.

The wait couldn't have been more than ten seconds, but it felt like an eternity, your mind oddly blank but heart beating a million miles a minute.

You had no way of telling what would happen next, no idea of what you really wanted to happen next.

All you could hope for was that he'd be polite and truthful about his opinions on the situation.

The door clicked.

And then it was open.

"Hello. What do you ... Y/N?"

You looked up at the silver haired man, noting his tired eyes and quirked brow. He wore a simple outfit, black button down and slacks freshly pressed, red ring shining on his finger.

"I wasn't expecting you here," he said smiling politely. "What do you need?"

You took a moment, then smiled back, clasping your hands together, thumbs flicking at your knuckles.

"Hey, Rollo. Um ... there's something I think you'd like to know."

He frowned, concerned, and gestured back.

"I see. Would you like to come in and talk about it?"

"No, no, it's fine! It ... it shouldn't take long. Um ...."

"Y/N, is everything alright?" He asked, brushing your hair back, hand lingering on your cheek.

You gaped for a moment before swallowing thickly.

"I ... would like your honest feelings about this. I don't mind if you want nothing to do with it, but I just ... I wanted to tell you."

His brow furrowed deeper, trying to guess what was going on. Were you in danger? Did it have something to do with mages surrounding you? Of course he'd want to do something about that, you were special to him afterall. There couldn't be any reason he wouldn't want to help you out.

"Tell me what's going on."

You fumbled for a moment, wondering how to word it. But there was no different way to say it when the message would be the same.

You leaned forward, cupping a hand to his ear and whispered softly.

You pulled back, looking up at him expectantly.

His eyes were wide, cadet grey irises swimming with repudiation. The soft purple and gold embroidered handkerchief was quickly pressed against lips, the light blush of pink on his skin peeking beneath the cloth.

His eyes flitted around, from the steps leading to the door to the cobbled streets then finally to you.

You could only imagine that the same overflowing thoughts you had when you first found out were flooding his mind too.

You pursed your lips, giving him a moment to collect himself.

He uttered quietly, slightly lowering the kerchief, "And you're certain I'm the one that ...?"

You affirmed definitively, "Well, yeah. You're the only one that I ...," face now flushing you looked down to the side, "I haven't ... you know ...."

His ears burned red, the purple cloth quickly pressed back up again to hide his face.

A small part of him way back in the darkest depths of his brain, he felt a sense of pride and satisfaction from knowing what you had just admitted to him.

But, at the same time, he felt faint and a bit queasy, terrified of the most common outcome that would occur in the next nine months.

He knew you'd taken the risk all those nights ago down by the seine, lamented over the possibility while tangling himself in the scarf you'd left with him.

He knew he was already willing to remedy this if it did happen.

But how?

The days up till this point had been so blissful, you both moving on as if nothing happened, chatting cordially over some tea and baked treats.

The thought of your labor bearing fruit much later than a handful of days afterwards hadn't even crossed you minds then.

What would you do now?

What was he to do?

He bit his lip. Other than knowing that it was just to take responsibility, he had no real plan in case this had happened. He tapped his foot on the ground. All he knew about this situation came from books. He twisted the ruby decorating his finger. And many of them exemplified the idea that the only right thing for a man to do was ...

"You um ... you okay, Rollo?" You asked softly, shifting your weight to one foot.

He took a breath then tucked his handkerchief into his front pocket. He nodded to himself. He took another deep breath before locking eyes with you, expression devoid of any obvious emotion.

Then, took your hand in his, "We'll be okay," and lowered himself so one knee was on the ground.

You raised a brow. "Rollo, get up up. What are you-"

"I'm doing what's right. I promise to take care of you, okay, trust me," he slipped the diamond shaped ring off his finger, "it may take some getting used to, but it shouldn't be too difficult between the two of us," then slid it onto yours, "we can worry about getting a different ring later, but for now it'll do," your jaw dropped, "Y/N M/N L/N, to make amends for throwing this wrench into your path, I promise to take care of you, to help you and whatever, whoever, comes our way till the end of our days. So you long as you're willing to become mine and mine alone. Any need or want you could possibly have moving forward, I'll do my best to arrange for. I promise to make up for my transgression if you so wish it. I am offering my hand to you. And now, all I have left to ask is, Miss L/N, will you marry me?"

.

.

.

"MARRY?!"

| Next >>

** (I do not have my scrunkly yet and Ortho's B-Day keys are all I have left, so this is my peace offering to have Rollo come home soon) **

[luveline]

hi sweetheart , ur amazing , was wondering if you could write an eddie & roan fic , where whereas eddie was in the hospital that one time , its r’s turn , not to serious but definitely something youd fine yourself worrying about ! and ed and roanie r so worried , sorta like the scene from the work trip 🥹

PLS i love u angel

thank you for your request, ilove u! eddie and roan —dad!eddie juggles his daughter roan, nearly step mom!you, and his own rollercoaster emotions when you end up in hospital for a few days. 4k

cw hospital stay, seizure recovery, temporary paralysis

Eddie's never been this tired in his entire life, and he can't sleep. 

He looks up at his bedroom ceiling (your ceiling, your house), hands under his back in the same clothes he wore yesterday. She'll worry if I show up looking like a slob, he thinks eventually, getting up to shower. The last thing he wants to do when he can't take care of you is take care of himself, but he has to, because that's what you'd want if you were home. 

Roan is stirring by the time he's dressed again. He tugs his socks on and walks across the landing, residual steam from the bathroom warming the air, his hair dripping a cool path down his back. 

He creeps over a mess of things that hasn't been touched in two days. Roan's eyes fly open at the sound, but she sees him and they squint to a more sluggish expression, little hands rubbing sleep from her eyelashes. 

Eddie thinks maybe she thought he was you. 

"Hey, bubby," he says, as loving and bubbly as he can manage, "did you have a nice sleep?" 

"Can we go see Y/N now?" she asks hoarsely. 

Eddie sits on the side of her bed and pulls her effortlessly into his lap. She's boiling from the sheets, her hair curled tight at her neck from the heat. 

"Remember what I said yesterday about visiting hours?" He strokes hair from her face gently, an arm wrapped around her waist to say I'm here. "They won't let us in until nine, and it's not eight yet." 

He drops his nose into her hair. 

"Maybe we can go get a really yummy breakfast," he suggests, thinking about you. You're probably awake, and if he's lucky you've eaten your own breakfast, but it's more likely you've refused it if you're as lethargic as you were yesterday.  

"I don't want diner burgers anymore," Roan says. 

Eddie gives her a kiss and her back a rub. "No, I bet you don't. Sorry, sweetheart, it's not nice having the same foods for two days in a row, is it? That's my fault." 

"It's okay. Let's make waffles." 

He kisses her forehead, taking a contemplative breather, just the two of them in their quiet house, her body a familiar weight in his lap. The sun is up and shining through her window, sunlight across the floor and her spilled toybox. It doesn't quite reach them on the bed, and Eddie snorts at it. Of course it doesn't. Home without you isn't sunny.  

"Waffles," he agrees. 

They make waffles with leftover strawberries and squirty cream. Roan is perky enough to want to have some straight from the can, giggling a storm when he plops a dollop of it onto her nose. He gets her ready as she eats, brushing her knotty hair and changing her pyjamas for a striped long sleeve shirt, wool leggings, and a dungaree dress you'd begged him to buy for her. The front pocket sports a small embroidered Russian doll. 

She should've had a bath, but it's getting on, and Eddie wants to get to Hawkins General dead on visiting time. She's not dirty, just her hair isn't as nice as it could be. He figures the universe will forgive him. 

He really has to see you. 

Getting Roan into the car rehashes a fresh memory. The day before yesterday… things should've been normal. Eddie was walking out of the shop, keys swinging around his finger ready to see his girls for your usual Friday plans: movies on the couch until one or all of you falls asleep. He's thinking kettle corn, a sheet of a dozen donuts, a gallon of Roan's favourite grapefruit juice and maybe another punnet of strawberries so she can dip them in chocolate and sugar. 

But Wayne jogged out after him calling his name. There was a phone call from your work, your coworker frantic. 

Eddie blinks and shoves his keys into the car, listening to the engine sputter, trying to focus. A tonic-clonic seizure, seven minutes counted before it stopped. You were already in the ambulance when they called. 

"What do I do?" Eddie'd asked, frozen to the spot. His heart pounding unsteadily in his chest, the image of you in convulsions behind his eyes. "What do I–"

"You go to the hospital," Wayne said, because of course that's what he had to do. 

Wayne vowed to pick up Roan and Eddie got in the car. His hands shook so bad he couldn't turn the key at first, but he managed it, and he got to Hawkins General in one piece, and he didn't panic at the reception desk asking if you'd been checked in yet. 

Eddie doesn't think he'd described you as looking small before, but you looked small. They laid you out in a snug bed with square orange stickers on your head, chest, and arms, unconscious. You didn't wake up for hours. 

And that was normal, Eddie reminds himself now, the car huffing and puffing its way down roads he's been driving on for almost a decade now on autopilot. You had a standard generalised tonic-clonic seizure. It started from nowhere, though they later found your blood sugar had been very low. That was deemed the cause. Eddie blames himself for it in a hundred different ways, remembering that morning, how he'd made you late for work cuddling you when you should've been getting ready. 

You skipped breakfast. He thought you'd have something on the way, but you never did. 

It's my fault, he thinks, then and now, the same thought that's plagued him for three days. 

"Do we wanna talk about how we feel today?" Eddie asks, tearing himself away from the aching remembered fear and back into the present. Five minutes until he gets to see you again, until he knows for sure you're alright.

"I feel okay. I want to see mom." 

"We're almost there. You have your flowers from the back yard?" 

Roan waves her picked daisies at him assuredly. Eddie hadn't thought to buy you flowers. He could barely manage the essentials; pyjamas, toothpaste and lip balm. He forgot to get you a toothbrush. He forgot underwear —he had to go back to the store. It was a disaster. 

"What about scary feelings?" Eddie asks softly, reaching back to make a grab for her knee. 

"You said she's okay now." Roan sits forward. "What if her arms stop working again?" 

It was only one arm. You could've come home yesterday if you hadn't been experiencing a weakness called 'Todd's Paresis', a paralysis of the limbs. You slowly regained functionality of it throughout the day, but your headache and confusion remained. 

Eddie thinks that was the worst part. You, in bed, crying because you didn't understand. His eyes burn and well with tears every time he thinks about it. Eddie, I feel sick, you'd mumbled tearfully, reaching for his arm, smudging his tattoos between your careless fingers, I don't know what's– why are we here?

But you were genuinely going to be fine, even if you were scared. In the same way Eddie's going to be okay, and Roan will be, too, as long as he makes sure this isn't hurting her as it's happening. 

"Baby, I promise you her arms won't stop working again. When she had the seizure," —he doesn't like using a big word like that with her, only there's no alternative and she needs to know— "her brain was confused. It was confused for a couple of hours, 'n' when she woke up her body needed time to catch up." He doesn't know how true it is, but it's for Roan to understand her feelings, not to help her medicinal education. "When we said goodnight she could wave bye to us, yeah? So don't worry about mommy's arm." 

"I'm worried about mommy's everything." 

"Yeah?" Eddie feels a mixture of stress at her admission and relief as the hospital parking lot creeps into view. "You want to tell me?" 

"What if she gets another one?" 

"Another seizure?" Eddie asks, turning the wheel. All he has to do is drive into the lot and find a space without crashing. 

"Will she have to come back to hospital?" Roan asks. 

"Yeah, she would have to come back. But… okay, sometimes, people have lots of seizures all the time, and they aren't dangerous. Sometimes they are dangerous," he amends. "But lots of the time they're not. So if she did have more, I would make sure she didn't get hurt and we would have to be brave all over again. We can do that, can't we?" 

He parks the car. 

Roan doesn't look as though his explanation helped. Eddie's running on an empty tank, scrubbing his hands through half dried hair and wishing he was better at this. He gets out of the front seat and opens her door, unclicking her straps, helping her down onto her feet. 

"Babe, I forgot your jacket," he says, surprised at himself as he realises she only has two layers. "Are you cold?" 

She holds out her arms and assesses for herself. "I think so." 

"You'll have to come inside my hoodie. Shall we do that?" he asks with a grin.

Eddie picks Roan up, has her cling to his neck, and zips his hoodie up over her body, their head sticking out of the hole all squished together. She's a laughing mess as they cross the lot and head into the main building of the hospital, infectiously happy as she calls him, "so silly, daddy." 

They do look silly, but Eddie's glad he forgot her jacket. It's nice to hear her laughing like that after such a tough weekend, far from the one he'd pictured. 

He tries to set her down after they've entered the elevator, but she won't go. He holds her tighter instead. 

"We're going to be nice and quiet on the ward 'cos there are other grown ups here, and some of them are in a lot of pain," he reminds her.

"We should've brought flowers for everybody." 

"How many do you have, sweetheart?" he asks, watching the floor number tick upward. 

"I have, um." She pulls her hand back from his neck, four rumpled daisies choked in her fingers. "No, I can't give them to everyone else, I only have enough for mommy." 

Eddie's noticed a very high ratio of 'mommy' when compared to Roan's usual mix these last few days. If anyone asks who her mom is she says it's you enthusiastically, but if she's talking to you face to face she'll call you whatever she feels like. Mom tends to come out more when she's tired, when she's feeling adored, or when she's upset, but that isn't to say she won't call you mom at random moments. Why is the window glass all blurry, mom? I didn't 'member to feed Lucky, mommy, you have to get the fish food. Mom, I need more soda. 

Roan was too old when you met to mistake you for her mother. You're growing into the title. Roan's growing into using it. 

"That's okay. You keep them all for mom," he whispers. 

"We won't show anyone so they don't feel left out," she whispers back. 

"Good plan." 

When Wayne brought Roan by the first night, she was just happy to see you both. Unlike when Eddie burned his arm, you weren't alert enough to be in any pain, and so she didn't have to be scared of that. Wayne kept his cool when he picked her up, mitigating most of the panic she probably would've felt had Eddie been there. She wasn't happy to see you unwell, but she wasn't scared. She hasn't cried. 

Eddie knows from experience that a lack of tears now doesn't mean they aren't coming. 

You're sitting up in bed, showered, in a fresh pair of pyjamas with a cup of coffee held between two strong hands. You have a magazine on your knee. Even your hair looks nice. It's a goddamn miracle in Eddie's eyes —he nearly drops Roan. 

"My Munsons!" you say happily, putting your coffee on the tray table wheeled over your bed. "What the heck, you told me you'd be here at nine and it's nine oh seven. I thought we loved each other?" 

Oh thank fucking God, Eddie thinks. You're okay. You sound yourself again, no pain, no hazy confusion. 

"You're conjoined," you say, smiling. 

Eddie scrambles to unzip his jacket. Roan throws herself out of his arms and on to the end of your bed. You push your tray table and coffee sloshes everywhere in your rush to make room for her. 

"Good morning," she says, slamming into you. Eddie winces at her force, and Roan must recognise her brutality, saying, "Sorry, I hugged you hard." 

"That's okay, I like hard hugs," you say, wrapping your arms around her. 

Eddie gets his knee on the mattress to grab you both in his own hug. Tears burn in his eyes. He doesn't have the wherewithal to blink them back, dropping his lips to your forehead. "I was so worried," he says, unable to hide how high and fraught his voice is. 

"Eddie," you murmur softly. "My love, it's okay. I'm just fine, you didn't have to worry about me." 

"But I did, you were–" He clears his throat. "I love you." 

"I love you too," you say, your hand crawling up his front. You curve your palm around his neck. "Baby, I'm so sorry." 

Eddie laughs and sniffs, sitting back on your bed to wipe his eyes with his wrist. His hands are shaking. "It's okay, it's alright. I don't want you sorry for nothing. We just wanted you to get better. Isn't that right, Ro?" 

Roan picks her head up from your neck, tears pumping down her face. 

Eddie's heart hurts seeing it, even if he was expecting it. You, on the other hand, hadn't had that foresight. You look at her like she's split you clean in two. 

"Princess, what's the matter?" you implore, cuddling her back into your chest. "I know it's really scary being here, lovely girl, I know. It's okay." 

Roan doesn't explain herself, just sobs little sobs into your shirt, clutching you as though she's worried you'll push her away. 

Eddie puts his hand on her back. 

"I'm sorry," you say softly, sounding weak yourself.

"Don't be sorry, are you kidding? It was my fault," Eddie says. 

"What?" 

"I made you late, you didn't eat breakfast–" 

"Eddie–" 

"Don't fucking say sorry–" 

"Eddie," you say again, rubbing Roan's back. You give him a soft look. 

"Sorry," he says. He takes a big breath, victim of an overflow of emotion. 

Eddie slides further up the bed to get a better hold on Roan where she's being hugged. "I'm very sorry for cussing, baby. How are you feeling, huh? Happy to see mommy with both arms, is that it?" 

"So happy," she sobs, pushing her lips closer to your ear and her flowers into your neck. "I brought you flowers to help you get better but you're better already." 

Eddie doesn't know what to do besides pat her back and cling to you.

After a big healthy cry fest, you lay back in your pillows with Roan propped against your front, speaking at a much more acceptable volume considering your three neighbours in the room. You rub her back with one hand and feed her hard pretzels with the other, passing your pinky finger over her cheeks as a makeshift handkerchief to collect the last of her tears. Her daisies wilt in a cup of fruitless water on the nightstand. 

"Is that what all the fuss was about? You worried daddy wasn't gonna enable your snack addiction?" you ask fondly, 

"Dad gives me lots of snacks. We had Benny's two times yesterday and then we had ice cream with every topping for after dinner." 

"I'm glad he's been spoiling you," you say. 

"Too much Benny's, wasn't it?" Eddie prompts, meeting your eyes with a bemused grin, his head twitching with a headache that doesn't fit the mood. "She said to me before breakfast she didn't want any today. We had waffles in the waffle maker and blueberries and strawberries." 

"With squirty cream," Roan says, opening her mouth wide for another pretzel. 

You indulge her and feed her. 

"You didn't enjoy burgers for lunch and dinner?" you ask. 

"We had Reuben sandwiches and loaded fries for dinner, it wasn't as torturous as it sounds." 

"It sounds delicious," you say, kissing Roan's pale forehead. "I wish I'd been there to steal all the bacon bits off of your fries. Now I'm better, maybe we can go and have them again, give me a fighting chance."  

"No!" Roan says with a laugh.

"No? So selfish, Ro, you know I want whatever you're eating." You kiss her crown and adjust your arms around her.

"Now you're better, I think we should have the, um, the special curry dad makes with rice and peas." 

"Oh, yeah?" Eddie asks. "Mom's better so dad can go back to his life of serfdom. That's awesome." 

In actuality, Eddie would make you complicated, exhausting meals multiple times a day for the rest of your life if it meant you didn't end up here again. He has a strict breakfast plan forming in his mind as you speak.

"They said they were gonna check me one last time and if I'm okay I get to go home. Soon as the doctor can come and see me and make sure I look okay," you say, planing a pretzel past her mouth and into your own with a self satisfied smile.  

"You look beautiful," Eddie says, squeezing your knee. 

"Dad! I was going to say that!" Roan stands up from your lap and pushes him. "You steal everything!" 

"I do not! 

"You do! You stole my strawberry at breakfast and you took my soda straw last night!" 

"I did do both of those things but that doesn't mean I steal everything," Eddie says, looking up into her face happily. 

She has fire behind her eyes, even though her lashes are still wet and clumped together from her earlier tears. Roan harrumphs at him. "You do. You stole one of my gingersnap cookies–" 

"Baby, those were mine. Uncle Wayne got them for me 'cos they're my favourites and I was upset," he says, laughing. 

"Well. Why did you let me have them?" 

Eddie finds her hand to roll her fingers. "Because I'm good at sharing, something you never learned how to do." 

"Don't listen, bubby," you say, tipping pretzels into your mouth. "You're a good sharer." 

In the end, the doctor comes by and tells you to stay until the shift changes for a last set of observations. Eddie and Roan stay just past visiting hours to wait with you, Roan now firmly wedged in his lap, you with his hoodie over your shoulders. In all the chaos, he didn't remember to bring your jacket either. 

"This is why we're getting married," you say. 

"Why, so someone remembers to put jackets on you both?" he asks ruefully, Roan in his lap, your bag packed and ready to go at your feet. 

"No…" You tip your head toward your shoulder a touch. "Because you've done such a good job looking after me, sweetheart. You really have. Thank you for taking care of me." 

"I think the hospital did all the looking after," he says. 

He tries uselessly to shove down that awful feeling again. The memory of you prone in bed with your IV and your heart monitor beeping. It felt like it was beating behind his eyes. 

It's easier to forget now you're feeling almost one hundred percent again. Your hand at his elbow, in your nice white and blue pyjamas, content to be going home again. 

"That's not true… I can't imagine how tired you are right now. If it were you in here, for three days…"  

"Only two," he says. "Today doesn't count." 

"It absolutely counts." 

You pout for a kiss that Eddie eagerly gives you. He kisses you, your cheek, your ear, a line of gratitude because he doesn't care how tired he is or how hard this was. You're better. You can rest at home. 

"I'd be a mess. Don't feel bad about the jackets or start thinking you did a bad job," you say, combing your fingers through his hair. You scoot back to look him in the eye, a ridiculous amount of fondness lining your own, your pinched brows. "You did awesome. A-plus for everything."

"It's not over," he says, stroking Roan's arm where she squirms in his lap, bored. "You're on bed rest, I don't care what the doctor says. And you're taking time off work. Promise me." 

"Promise," you say, holding your hands up. 

"Can I have the time off too from school?" Roan asks. 

Her big doe eyes and her tiny frown would convince him if he hadn't already thought about it. 

He squeezes her chubby cheeks in his palms. "You need a few days to feel better," he agrees. 

"Really?" she asks with a gasp. 

"Yeah, really. You've been really, really brave." He kneads her cheeks gently. "You're such a good girl. You're my brave girl." 

"Super brave," you agree, cheek on Eddie's shoulder. 

Roan sits back with a proud shrug, arms wrapping around her stomach. "I was a bit brave." 

Eddie chucks her under the chin with his knuckle. You get discharged a little while later, Roan and Eddie like a small parade pushing your wheelchair. You hate the attention, complaining to the nurse lightly that you can walk to the car without falling. No one wants to hear it. 

"You're legally required to take it easy for a few days," Eddie says. "You promised me." 

You slump back in the chair. "Fine. Ro, come and sit in my lap, at least? This hospital is a maze, I need company while they find our way out." 

Roan loves that idea. She sits on your knees, back to your chest, your hands around her waist like a seatbelt. 

"Can I push her the rest of the way? I'm sure you're busy," Eddie says to the nurse. He says it so nicely, so politely, that despite his tattoos and his long hair, she doesn't put him in the 'hooligan' box as people tend to do. She hands you over.  

Eddie waits for her to round the corner before ducking down, your backpack in the crook of his elbow, hands tightening around the wheelchair handles. 

"Girls. You better hold on tight. I'm sick of this place and we're leaving right now." 

"Don't you dare." 

"All arms in the ride?" he asks, charging up his push. He takes a preparatory step back. "On three. One, two–" 

"Three!" Roan shouts. 

Eddie races you down the hallway, your nervous laughter so loud it bounces off of every wall on the way out.

[cateyesinlove]

Dreams of Fire and Blood

Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

The royal wedding all of kings landing has been waiting!

AO3 link

Helaena waited at the entrance of the Grand Sept for her father, he would be walking and giving her away to Jacaerys, she fidgeted with her dress, the golden beats and details provided an outlet to her nerves. Finally, her father arrived being helped by her sister, who looked radiant.

“Sister!” Rhaenyra exclaimed, hurrying to give her a quick hug, helaena eagerly returned it.

“You look radiant,” Rhaenyre complemented, she cradled her face and stoke her cheek, “I hope you are very happy, today and forever,”

“Thank you, sister,” she whispers. Viserys places himself and offers her an arm, “ Are you ready dear?” he asks smiling.

They began walking towards the center of the Grand Sept where Jacaerys alongside the High Septon waited for her, she held tighter onto her father who was walking her down the aisle of people there to observe her wedding as she looked around nervous she felt her father place his hand on top of hers. “It will be fine my dear,” he whispered, “ I won't let you fall,” he chuckled softly, and as they approached the steps, a coughing fit overtook him, quickly he called for Daemon before Alicent or Otto could call one of Helaenas brothers.

Jace quickly tried to make his way towards his betrothed but was stopped by the High Septon telling him, “It would be too improper for you to take your bride without anyone giving her away.” Jace nearly rolled his eyes but stayed there, frustrated at being unable to do anything as he observed Helaena spiral in dread not knowing what to do, looking lost without him.

Daemon quickly approaches Viserys helping him move away from Helaena towards their family place“Please brother,” he asks as Alicent takes his arms and helps guide him, in Daemon and Rhaenyras eyes dragging him over to where Alicents family is station observing.

Daemon nods to him before walking towards Helaena, who in his eyes is so small-looking as a fawn frozen in fear before a predator. He offers her his arm and the gentlest smile he can conjure on his face, “Ready niece?” He asks her and looks towards Jace who looks impatient and ready to run towards them.

She nods and takes his arm, looking directly at Jace, and gives him a bright smile and him to her, both young things full of love and eager to bind themselves, Daemon mocks in his head but turning to look at her beautiful wife he understands them well.

They continue the path towards Jace. Daemon could feel her trembling with what he imagined was anticipation, it was sweet for once to see Helaena with a different expression that wasn’t blank, when they arrived he placed Helaenas hand in Jace’s. “Take good care of her,” he tells him and helps Helaena off her Black cloak with a huge Targaryen dragon embroidered in it. “ I promise,” Jace answers looking towards Alicent and Viserys. Alicent looked ready to rip his head off, simply bowing her head in acknowledgment while Viserys who was holding on to her daughter Rhaenyras's hand looked proud and moved to tears.

Rhaenyra on the other hand was a mess, crying openly and with a huge smile. Seeing both Daemon and Jace acting like son and father did something to her, she missed Laenor heavily but the burden eased at seeing Daemon stepping up.

Jace turned to Luke who was holding a folded Cloak, as Jace grabbed and revealed it to the crowd everyone was awwed at the beautiful design of Targaryen and Velaryon symbols. One half of the cloak was a rich blue-green Velaryon, it had its recognizable sea horse and the other was black with a bright red Targaryen dragon. Jace wrapped Helaena in it and kissed her hands after he was finished. Jacaerys thanked Luke and dismissed him.

The septon wrapped both their hands with a silky white and gold ribbon asking them, “Repeat after me- Father, Mother, Smith, Warrior, Maiden, Crone, Stranger- “

“I am his and he is mine from this day until the end of my days.” Helena repeated alongside Jace's version, “ I am hers and she is mine from this day until the end of my days.”

They both turn facing each other "With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband." Helaena pledged, eyes full of tears and her heart full of love, a promise not only to the gods but to themselves.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," Jace replied hoarsely, tears threatening to fall but never letting them "and take you for my lady and wife." and grabbed her face delicately with his free hand and brought her closer to him, joining their lips in a sweet kiss.

The Septon raised his crystal high, so the rainbow fell down upon them as they kissed "Here in sight of gods and men," he said," I solemnly proclaim Crown Prince Jacaerys of the House Velaryon and Targaryen and crown Princess Helaena of the House Targaryen to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”

The Grand Sept erupted in cheers as Jaec and Helaena separated and then turned to face their subjects, raising their hands and making the cheers grow louder.

Flower petals flew in the air as the spectators of the wedding threw them at the couple as they made their way out of the Sept, they were greeted with cheers and applause after exiting the Sept, and the common people were gathered around wanting to catch a glimpse of their crown Prince and Princess.

“Bless your union Princess Helaena!”

“ Gods bless you Prince Jacaerys!”

“ The realms delight son and the lovely princess!”

This and more compliments followed them as they made their way to their carriage, followed by the twin brothers Erryk and Arryk. Once in the carriage sitting down they sighed in relief as it made its way towards the Red Keep, they looked at each other and laughed loudly.

“Was it all you dreamed of, wife?” Jace asked her, holding her hand and kissing it.

“Better,” she whispered sliding closer to him resting her body on his, and hiding her face in his neck, “This is better than anything I ever dreamed of.”

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

His Longhorn Jersey - Jake "Hangman" Seresin x f!reader

Summary: 1.4k words. At a Texas Longhorns football game, y/n bumps into a stranger and spills beer all over both of them. Good thing the handsome stranger is forgiving and willing to lend y/n his jersey.

Warnings: alcohol, fluff!!!!, she/her reader pronouns

a/n: this was supposed to be like. a couple short paragraphs as an intro for another jake fic i'm writing but then it turned into ✨this✨ and it is now its own independent thing. which is a great thing for everyone bc the other fic is very angsty. enjoy!

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Jake and y/n met at a Longhorns football game. She was in her senior year at the University of Texas when she quite literally bumped into the cocky blonde. He was about to bite out a harsh “watch it” but the words died on his tongue when he caught a glimpse of y/n’s face. He nearly got lost in her kind eyes before she started profusely apologizing.

“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going and-ah hell, I spilled beer on your jeans,” y/n’s mind was running a mile a minute. Her eyes frantically darted around the crowded vendor and food lot outside the stadium, searching for the nearest napkins she could offer the incredibly handsome stranger. She might’ve been more composed and level-headed if she hadn’t walked into a wall of pure muscle.

Jake chuckled, the small stains on his jeans long forgotten before he reached for y/n’s shoulders to steady her frame and racing thoughts. She stopped short at the feel of his calloused hands on her exposed skin, wide eyes peeking up at the stranger through her eyelashes.

“It’s alright, darlin’. I was in your way. How ‘bout we get you out of that shirt?” Jake suggested with a flirty grin. y/n blinked a few times. What the fuck did he just say to her? She was sorry, but not sorry enough to strip on command. Jake saw the confusion turning to disgust on y/n’s face and he quickly backtracked. “Because of the beer! You’ve got beer all over your shirt, sweetheart. You can wear my jersey if you’d like,” he finished, hoping the damage wasn’t already done.

Oh. In her haste, y/n hadn’t even realized she’d spilled beer on herself. A lot of it, actually. The plastic cup still grasped in her hand was almost empty from how much had sloshed on her white shirt. The shirt was quickly becoming see-through from the sticky liquid, garnering side eyes from some nearby fans. Shit. There weren’t enough napkins at the nearby food trucks to soak up the mess she’d made of herself. She really didn’t feel like dropping $50 on an overpriced Longhorns t-shirt either, but she couldn’t possibly accept the man’s jersey.

“I can’t ask you to do that-” y/n trailed off, realizing she didn’t even know his name. Before she could finish, Jake had smoothly pulled his jersey off with one hand. Looking respectfully was becoming increasingly difficult when his white tank top left little to the imagination.

“You’re not asking, darlin’. I’m offering,” Jake’s dimples popped out with his gentle smile. y/n opened and closed her mouth a few times. Was this even real? The determined look in his eyes had her giving in far too quickly.

Jake led her toward a less crowded area of the tailgate lot. In between the cover of several pickup trucks, y/n quickly swapped her ruined game day shirt for Jake’s jersey. The name ‘Seresin’ was embroidered on the back of the jersey. She practically had the Longhorns team roster memorized, so she knew damn well that there was no player named Sersin on the team. Mystery Man Seresin. The man before her must’ve been a serious fan to have a custom jersey made.

“So, Seresin, you got a first name?” y/n asked the taller man with a raised eyebrow.

“Jake Seresin, at your service,” he introduced himself with a wink, holding out his hand to shake. y/n told him her name and his grin grew. 

The pair ditched the respective friends they came with and headed toward the stadium. Jake bought them new beers, refused to let y/n pay, but insisted on carrying both drinks back to their seats, teasing y/n’s clumsiness. Jake was impressed to find y/n knew more about the game and players than he did, often calling out before the refs. By the end of the night, both of their throats were raw from cheering and yelling. While the rest of the fans headed out of the stadium to celebrate Texas’s win, Jake and y/n stayed seated for a while. Conversation between the two flowed easily and endlessly, despite the fact that they’d both lost their voices. It wasn’t until lights started shutting off around them that they realized how late it had gotten.

Jake wasn’t exactly the gentleman his mama raised him to be some days, but for y/n he was ready to pull out all the stops. He walked her to her car and reached to open the driver's door for her before y/n stopped in front of him, turning to rest her hip against the vehicle. Jake mirrored her actions and placed a hand on the hood, leaning over her shorter frame. y/n studied his face for a moment, memorizing his moonlit features. Jake did the same, his eyes gravitating toward y/n’s lips. When they broke out of their shared trance y/n broke eye contact and cleared her throat. With a gentle tug to the hem of Jake’s jersey, y/n looked up to grin at him cheekily.

“You know, I normally make guys buy me dinner first before I start undressing for ‘em,” y/n joked, moving to shed the jersey and return it to Jake. Jake’s free hand planted itself on y/n’s waist, holding the jersey in place and making her eyes snap toward him.

“Keep it, darlin’. You can give it back next time,” he replied with a smirk. y/n wondered how many girls he had charmed before her. She couldn’t even be mad–it was working on her too. She rolled her eyes, but the butterflies in her stomach gave rise to a blush spreading across her face. Even with the minimal light, Jake could see the way her face shifted.

“Next time? That’s a little presumptuous, cowboy,” y/n said pointedly, though she was mostly teasing. Jake nodded. Fair enough.

“Next time,” Jake said definitively. He wordlessly gestured for y/n’s phone and she gave it to him. She had a questionable amount of trust and faith in a man she’d met less than five hours ago. He typed his phone number into her contacts, saving it as “Jake 🍺🍺”. y/n threw her head back in laughter at the clever addition of the beer pints, earning a chuckle from Jake as well. After the laughter faded, she was still left with a lingering smile. When she stepped away from the car, she was careful not to kick her boots against Jake’s. He tutted when y/n tried to reach for the door handle herself; instead, he reached across and held the door open for her.

With the car door serving as a barrier between their seemingly synced bodies now, they were caught in another quiet moment. y/n had half a mind to get in her car and drive off, leaving the man who was five hours short of a stranger in her wake. The other half of her mind had a far better idea though. Before she could think twice, she grabbed Jake by the strap of his tank top, pulling his lips down to meet hers. The kiss was gentle for a split second before Jake’s brain caught up with his body and he leaned in deeper. His fingers ached to pull y/n in by her waist, but he settled for cupping her cheek and the back of her neck in either hand. A breathless minute later they pulled away. y/n took pride in the way Jake’s chest rapidly fell and rose; he took the same pride in her slightly mussed hair and flushed cheeks.

“Next time,” y/n stated in agreement as she got in her car. She rolled the window down and Jake immediately leaned in through it, his face inches from y/n’s once again.

“Next time, darlin’.” He left her with a final peck to her lips that was far too short for y/n’s liking before he patted the roof of y/n’s car and walked away. Right before y/n pulled out of the parking lot, y/n caught a glimpse of her new favorite Longhorn fan pumping his fist in the air with a wide grin as he saddled up into his lifted truck.

a/n: pls lmk what y'all think! this is the first fic i've written in one sitting in a long time and it was v fun :)

get notified when i post new fics!

[hutahuta]

Subtle things he do when he in love with you with pavia?

P.AGE OO.3— 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐔𝐌 & NOBILITY : 交 ✦ ⏱

GN!Reader — // wjajqksjwjs ilysm anon you're such a sweetheart !!! (*´▽`*)ﾉｼ

request more !! they're so fun.

i hope this is okay,, i'm not sure if I did good with this jwkskwkskk

Subtle? Ha. What's subtle about this man? ( *ᴗˬᴗ)⁾

But maybe. — it is possible.

Midnight Intimacy — Hear me out, I don't think Pavia would really sing in front of you. ( Or he might, it depends really. It might be really exaggerated since he does really want to hear your laughs. ) But he definitely hums a quiet melody, maybe even sings the words a little then and there under his thick accent as he holds your tender body close to him, rocking back and forth as if the both of you are sitting on one of those rocking chairs. Familiar songs that were popular dated back to the 1990's.

An era where music hit its prime with vinyl records and static radios with its rocking music blasting away at the seams, what's not to love about such things? I'd imagine it's something he finds quite joyous about life, given the only music he'd ever hear was the taps of water draining on the ground and the mice squeaking in quiet unison with one another. Silence was all he'd ever hear so hearing something so uplifting with words that strung out together so perfectly in mesh with the instrumentals; must've made him feel like music is the reason life has any meaning at all. And he wants to share that with you. Even if it's something so small as singing and dancing in that moment.

Spoiling you. — Wallets and leftover items that he'd pick up from his prey definitely meant that he'd get a chance of spoiling you with jewellery as a advantage to trap your attention. Even if you aren't keen on receiving lavish gifts, it doesn't matter. Because you're definitely given the necklace of a man's wife that he took it upon himself to grace you with. Maybe even a new watch plucked out of someone's wrist, which Pavia's ever so refined fingers had strangled the last, paled words out of his prey's throat before he had stolen the goods inside.

I'd imagine that as much of a passionate man he is, Pavia isn't keen on sharing much of his collections with strangers. But he is quite big on exhibiting his beautiful cabinet if it's with you, full of his draped stolen jewellery that can be given and devoted to you. New rings and chains to adorn your perfect clothes. Bby wants to impress you. Maybe a pair of earrings that would suit you quite nicely. His way of showing his love to you may vary from physical touch or spoiling you with his gifts.

Which does bring another factor into play.

Physical Touch. — Nearby, he may trail a hand down your thigh whenever you two chatter amongst each other. His hands graze your arms softly, trying to pay attention to your words as he can't help but linger his fingertips through your back. His hand stays a little too long on your waist. Eyes dance back and forth from your nose to your hands. Your clothes, your facial expressions and movements.. everything. His eyes may linger on you for longer periods of time,,

Don't take this as 'psychopath' behaviour. He just wants to get a feel of his beloved. What's not to love about you anyways? You're perfect in his eyes. All for him to keep too? Feels like the universe finally rewarded him with something so great in his life after his entire childhood was spent being greased and rotted away in a basement under the neglectful back of his Aunt.

Scent. — I suppose you can somewhat see it, right?

He enjoys the thought you wearing his clothes. His perfumes, his scents, he wants to make it rubbed entirely upon your body. He may get too close, nudging your shoulder with his chest. Maybe leaning into your ear for too long as you can feel his hands gripping and kneading the soft material of your clothing. He undoubtedly has the mindset that having you embroider his aroma may make others think that you are somewhat affiliated with Pavia. In more ways than one.

Historians may tell others that you two were only the bestest of friends.

[opal-apparition]

Chapter 6 - A Garden Party - Is Up!

A Matter of Pride - OpalApparition - Dragon Age: Inquisition [Archive of Our Own]

Story Summary:

In the glittering halls of Arlathan, Viscount Fen'Harel's calculated campaign against Dalish houses has brought the once-proud Lavellan family to its knees—until an ancient marriage contract forces him to wed the very woman whose life he's systematically destroyed. Sharp-tongued and fiercely intelligent, Ellana Lavellan has no intention of making this easy for the cold, aristocratic man who nearly ruined her family. But as assassination attempts and political intrigue draw them closer, their passionate battle of wits may lead to an even more dangerous game: falling in love.

Excerpt from Chapter 6:

The Viscount, Ellana noted with no small amount of irritation, was blindingly handsome today. He stood by the window, fitted in a dark blue frock coat fitted perfectly to his shoulders, tall and proud, with his hair spilling over one shoulder and down the expanse of his back. Worse, his ivory waistcoat was embroidered with subtle silver threading and a single flash of pale pink, that complemented her own gown's details, in the form of his necktie. All Dorian's work, no doubt.

"Your memory serves you well," he replied dryly, angling himself to face her fully. "Though I wonder if it extends to remembering the importance of today's performance."

Of course she hadn’t forgotten the Countess’s threats—ones she suspected that her nephew would be more than happy to carry out at her first command like an obedient dog. No, she hadn't forgotten—couldn't forget—exactly what was at stake today. Every carefully practiced smile, every measured step would determine not just her future, but the lives of everyone who depended on her family's precarious position. She would behave and play the part in front of the Ton.

But it didn’t mean that she had to be kind to him in private.

"Did you expect me to forget?" She moved further into the room, and her skirts whispered against the marble. "Or were you hoping I might conveniently develop amnesia before the guests arrive?"

The muscle in his jaw ticked—a familiar tell that she'd come to watch for over the past week. "Shall we review the requirements for today's charade, or would you prefer to continue demonstrating your wit until our guests arrive?"

"By all means," Ellana said, moving to take a seat near the window. "Let's review how we're to convince the cream of society that we're a love match rather than a contract signed in spite. It has been some time since you have enthralled me with a lecture, my lord, though the consequences of failure have already been made quite clear to me."

Something shifted in Solas's expression—a flicker of curiosity, perhaps, or suspicion—but it vanished quickly. "Lord Pavus has prepared a schedule," he said instead of addressing her implication, pulling a folded paper from his coat. "We are to greet guests together at the garden entrance, then separate briefly for the initial refreshments. After which—"

"We reconvene for a perfectly choreographed stroll through the rose garden," Ellana finished, having memorized Dorian's instructions. "Where we'll demonstrate appropriate affection through meaningful glances and the occasional brush of hands, or even the occasional coquettish whisper, in regular intervals. How terribly romantic."

"If you find the prospect so distasteful—"

"Oh, I find many prospects distasteful, my lord, but I would prefer you not pretend to have a care for my tastes. Let us just be done with this as expediently as possible.”

Solas's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. "On that, at least, we are in agreement." He consulted the paper again, though she suspected he'd memorized it as thoroughly as she had. "The musicians will begin at precisely two o'clock—"

"Assuming they haven't all quit after your morning critiques of their positioning," she couldn't help but interject.

His eyes narrowed slightly. "As I was saying, the musicians will begin at two, signaling the start of the garden tours. We are to lead the first group, demonstrating what Lord Pavus calls 'comfortable familiarity without impropriety.'"

"Yes, he was quite specific about that part. No heated arguments about philosophy or accusations of barbarism today. I dare not hope you are capable of such a thing, but we shall see." She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her skirts. "Though I'm curious—exactly how does one demonstrate 'comfortable familiarity' with someone who can barely stand to be in the same room?"

"I imagine we'll manage the same way we've managed everything else," he replied, his voice carrying an edge of ice. "Through gritted teeth and mutual necessity."

“Really, my lord,” Ellana drawled, “it is a wonder how the ladies of the Ton do not simply swoon in your presence, you have such a lurid way with words.”

"If you're quite finished—"

"Oh, but I haven't even started. Shall I practice my adoring gazes at you now? I've been told that I still look more like I'm plotting murder than contemplating matrimonial bliss."

Read the Rest on AO3 :)

[armandisdaddy]

I Will Break You (Chp 2.)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen (Pirate) x Fem OC (Mermaid/Siren)

Word Count: 2,116

Content/Warning(s): !!18 PLUS!!, Non-Con/ Dub-Con, Violence, Masturbation, p in v penetration, taking virginity, Choking, Descriptions of Blood/Violence, Abduction, Obsession, Toxic.

Author’s Notes: This is set within The Golden Age of Piracy (1650 to 1726). I don’t know why I thought of this, but I think the best stories are the ones that just pop into your head. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 2.

After such a gruesome transformation she had become “human” her webbed fingers were now separated. Her sharp talons were now dull and thin. Her skin was pale and flawless and the gills on the side of her ribs were gone. She was now completely exposed to Aemond and seeing her this way only made him want her more. He held her tight while she shook uncontrollably in his arms. He could tell this was traumatic for her but he also knew that the small comfort he provided would make her more subservient to him. The crew call “LAND HO!!” and he knew he was back home.

He wrapped her in linens and when they were fully docked he quickly whisked her away and placed her in a room with a small window. So she could see the ocean, but it wasn’t big enough for her to try and make an escape. He place her on the bed and chained her wrist to a the bedpost. She was exhausted and had passed out on the way there. He looked at her face so pure and unknowing. She had no idea what kind of man he was. How cruel and cold he could be but she would soon find out. His calloused fingers grazed her soft cheeks and those supple lips. He felt himself growing hard in his breeches and he groaned softly.

He removed the linens from her naked form and he inhaled sharply while his hand grabbed at his crotch hoping for some relief. He couldn’t hold back anymore. His hand reached into his pants and pulled his throbbing cock from its prison. His hand tugging roughly at his cock he groaned watching her sleep her precious skin and supple breasts pushing him further. He was tempted to touch her but did not want to risk waking her. He imagined how her beautiful voice would sound once he was inside her. The way her voice would rise and fall with every sigh of pleasure.

He shiver softly feeling himself coming closer to his climax. He tugged harder and faster his teeth digging into the flesh of his bottom lip as he released into the same linen he wrapped her in falling into the bed slightly. She tossed a bit and he stood quickly removing the linen from her bed and getting himself together before he left her to get some rest. She tossed and turned throughout the day her dreams being filled with the dreaded night she was captured. She could feel his hands wrapped around her throat squeezing every bit of life she .

She was awakened by a maid coming in to leave clothes for her. “Hello, milady’ I’m Lydia your handmaiden. Master Aemond told me to bring you some clothes to wear and breakfast is almost ready.” She looked confused trying to make out what she was saying, but it was no use. But she did manage to mutter her name. “L…L-Ly-Dee-A.” Lydia looked to her in surprise and giggled in excitement. “Well, that’s a start, miss. I guess I have to teach to ya English.” She saw the chain holding her to the bed and her eyes softened and filled with sadness. She knew the Lord of this home was a ruthless man but he had never brought a lady here against her will. She didn’t think he was capable of such a thing.

Lydia helped her put on a beautiful midnight blue dress with crystals embroidered into the bodice of the dress. She brushed her hair letting her dark tresses flow within their dry natural state. Her hair was wavy and touched the small of her back. She looked over her and was taken aback by her beauty. “You look beautiful, miss.” She looked to Lydia and remembered that look all too well. She smiled and thought maybe she could get her to free her from these chains. The ocean surrounded this place and if she could escape these walls she could swim to freedom.

But just as she was ready to sing her song he barged in. She backed away from the maid and sat on the bed. She shook in fear, her breathing became erratic and the memories of the night before came back in waves. She climbed onto the bed finding a space against the headboard where she pulled her knees to her chest. Aemond’s gaze was cold and unfeeling, but within him was a fire raging. He saw her and his heart pounded against his chest and his stomach felt like it was doing flips. He looked at her as if she was his salvation. Even as she cowered he couldn’t help what he felt for her.

He was filled with complete and utter desire. He couldn’t help himself if Lydia wasn’t standing there he’d take her now, hell he would take her with his whole staff watching her. He burned for her. “Leave us..wait until I call for you to bring up breakfast.” He commanded and Lydia lowered her head as she exited her room. He walked around the large room watching her closely. It killed him to not feel her soft skin in his hands. To smell the scent of salt on her skin. He held his composure and sat at the foot of her bed. His head turned slightly to look at her from the corner of his eye.

“I do not wish for you to be afraid of me…but you must understand that you belong to me now. This is your home now.” She actually understood him very well and could even speak a little, but she would’ve rather these humans think she was incapable of speaking, but in this very moment she was angry. “Home…is water….” How dare he try to keep her in this place like a song bird in a cage. She was made to be free. Being subjected to these stone walls would only kill her slowly. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips and he turned completely to face her.

“You’ve been holding out on me my little sea demon. What else do you know?” He spoke to her so condescendingly. He didn’t even care what this would do to her. He only cared for his own desires. It was just like a human to only care about what he wanted and not what the consequences of his action would be and in a quick fit of rage she sprang forward digging her fangs into his neck. He screamed in agony and she wrapped her arms and legs around him pulling him in close. Her eyes were dark and filled with malice and the flesh of his neck began to tear. She reveled in the sound and the coppery taste of his blood.

Unfortunately, he managed to stand and elbowed her in the ribs over and over until she relented. She smiled at what she had done holding her side and she scurried away into a corner of the room. He held his hand to his neck and one of the male staff came running to his aid. “You fucking wench…you are going to regret that.” He could barely stay on his feet as he stumbled out of her chambers. It served him right the cunt, she thought to herself. She laughed maniacally to herself with crimson staining her chin and face, trickling down her chest and staining her dress. He had forbade any of the staff to come to her room ever again and she stayed isolated for the remainder of the day.

Night had fallen and he decided he’d pay her another visit. The dull brown shade of dried blood was still on your face and he entered with a warm bowl of water and something else in hand that she could not quite make out. He pulled up a chair and beckons her to come to him. She was hesitant for obvious reasons and placed and a clothe into the bowl. “Here you do it, I won’t touch you.” She pulled the bowl away and wiped her face and chest clean.

He watched her closely and noticed her back was turned. Without warning he came from behind pulling something up to her mouth and fastening it around her head. A muzzle…she fought to pull it off but he was too strong for her. “That will teach you to bite the hand that feeds you.” He whispered in her ear and inhaled her scent as his hands began to wander. The slipped into the bodice of her dress feeling those supple mounds of flesh. She fought to pull away from him but he pulled her back against his chest and wrapped his calloused hand around her throat. “You aren’t getting away this time, Demon.”

His breath was hot against her skin and she was in a panic as he tore away her dress exposing her body underneath the sheer chemise that cling to her now sweaty frame. She dug her nails into him trying to pull away from his clutch with all her might. He enjoyed the fight in her as sick as it may sound. The more she fought the more he wanted her. “Please….” She muttered her eyes softened and filled with fear as he stood between her legs ready to take what was rightfully his. That made his cock throb harder within his breeches. "I'm sorry little dove...I can't stop."

He let his breeches fall to his ankles and his cock sprang free. Her eyes widened from the sheer size and she shook her head no over and over. He admired her body while he pressed his cockhead against her puffy clitoris. The sensation sent a shock through her body. The feeling was unfamiliar and a bit pleasant. She shook herself from the hazy feeling and moaned in protest. He stroked himself slowly while he bucked forward letting his head press against her entrance with every push. She gasped with every thrust anticipating the unwanted intrusion. Your sisters often talked about the use of man. To help us procreate and to eat. The process was never this close or intimate.

Lost in her thoughts she was rudely pulled from them when the sharp pain of him pushing inside her caught her attention. She hissed at him instinctively and grabbed onto the sheets of her bed. He groaned involuntarily and the snug feeling of her walls. He pulled back and saw the blood smearing against his shaft and he smiled at the sight. He pushed her legs up against her chest and leaned his head back at the sounds of her soft whimpers and sighs. She despised him, she even wanted to kill him. The thoughts of taking him under the water and watching the light leave his eye always played in her mind, but at this very moment the pain began to subside and the sheer feeling of pleasure filled her belly.

Her legs trembled and her breathing was heavy. He smiled noticing how aroused she had become and he let his right hand grab at her breast pinching her soft pink nipple causing it to harden between his fingers. If looks could kill he would've been decapitated in the act. How dare he muzzle her like some wild animal, violate her, and make her feel good all at the same time. Aemond grew tired of that evil look in her eyes and wrapped his hand around her throat giving just the right amount of pressure to make her lightheaded but still letting her breathe. She didn't know why, but that sent her over the edge. She felt that unsettling feeling in her stomach building as he pounded into her and fell forward on top of her biting into the flesh of her shoulder causing her to scream. "That's it..." He mused into her ear.

That stupid voice of his made her lose her train of thought. He was ready to come undone himself, but he didn't want to stop. His pace quickened and she could no longer hold herself together. Her legs trembled and her blood and slick smeared his cock. He could feel her walls convulsing around him and without another thrust, he poured his seed into her. They lay there in silence. The only thing that could be heard was them catching their breath. He stood to his feet and let his hand graze her thigh. She still lay in the high of her orgasm but when he touched her again she flinched and hissed. "That wasn't enough, huh? Alright... I'll try something else." With that, he put on his clothes and left her to clean herself up.

To be continued...

Tag list (if you're in bold I couldn't tag you): @bouncehousedemons @dahlias-and-marigolds @iiamthehybrid @sirenangelroyal @ashtheshyonee @elegantsplendour

[numerousbees1106]

Crown of Lazarus Teaser #2 - Tumblr exclusive!

No-One Knows Just Who To Believe

(This is the follow-up teaser to the one posted yesterday, which can be read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55069789#main). Edited on 4/12/24 to fix some formatting issues.

It began slowly, as it always did. His mind, wrapped in infinite nothingness, thought only in the subconscious, all greater thought replaced with the gentle soundless static of the hindbrain. His body existed somewhere far away, his worries and fears farther yet still. For an endless moment, he simply existed within the threads of reality, interwoven with its fabrics, cradled and protected like a dragon in its egg.

But slowly, the harsher edges of existence began to creep in as they always did, like a camera slowly zooming in, and he became aware of his own wakefulness bit-by-aching-bit.

In his mind’s eye, he saw himself, but the proportions were all wrong, with some parts far too large and exaggerated, and other parts far too small, shrunk down like some sort of twisted caricature. He was rotating in an endless void, but simultaneously he was far too still, like an image pasted hastily into a video.

He became aware of his heart thumping, a sensation painful in its sudden stimulation. His breathing echoed loudly in his ears, his blood crawling through his veins like tunneling insects, bringing with them the numbing agony of his nerves regaining sensation.

Anakin slowly peeled open his eyes, eyelids sticky with disuse, nausea boiling in his gut. He felt too hot and too cold, sweaty and shaking, as his organs and various internal systems began to reboot and reawaken.

Even as his sluggish mind slipped in and out of what Anakin called his Reawakening daze, he clung desperately to lucid thought, knowing that he had to think up a damn good excuse for why he was mysteriously back from the dead.

The morgue, he figured. I’m probably in a body locker in the morgue.

Briefly, he wondered why he wasn’t freezing, but as he clumsily felt along his body, he recognized the scratchy textures of the blankets considered damn-near sacred by the clones. The blankets - thick and one of the more expensive pieces of gear - were limited to one per bunk, and it was a pain in the ass to get a replacement. As such, they were considered special by the clones - the blankets were always neatly folded, even in the messiest of chambers, even if the various other sheets were strewn all over the place. The blankets were always kept clean, and to steal a brother’s blanket was considered to be a serious crime. A handful of the 501st had even customized their blankets with dyes or sewn-on patches, despite it technically not being allowed.

And Anakin could feel some familiar patches on some of the blankets he was wrapped in.

Tears began to sting his eyes as he gingerly ran his fingers over one of the patches, shaping it out in his mind until he was certain - this was Rex’s blanket, that was laid out underneath him, cushioning what to them was Anakin’s eternal slumber. And the blanket draped over his torso, that bound his right arm to his side but left his left arm loose, Anakin recognized as Kix’s. And the one that gently wrapped around his legs and feet, Anakin could feel Jesse’s name embroidered on. A few other blankets embraced him, and more still cushioned the body locker around him, and Anakin’s heart clenched painfully with both immense love and grief. Damn his trust issues - he should have told them long ago.

With a shuddering breath, Anakin carefully unlocked the locker with the Force, gingerly sliding it out until a dim and flickering light greeted him.

Oh-so-gently, he moved the blankets out of the way so that he could sit up - they had really tucked him in tight, and it took all of Anakin’s willpower to not break into ugly sobs right then and there. He needed to find them, now. Just the mere thought of his beloved troops mourning for him another needless minute longer… it coiled something in his chest, curdled his heart like spoiled milk, radiating bitter guilt from his soul. He needed to go to them, to explain, to apologize to them, to beg for their forgiveness. He needed to reassure them that it was alright, that everything would be okay, that he was fine, that they would be fine. But, as he clambered out of his not-so-final resting place, he encountered a bit of an unexpected issue.

His wings were back. And they were a lot bigger than he remembered.

Shavit. Kriff. E chu ta. Karabast. Damn.

How in the Sith Hells was he supposed to hide this?

A thousand horrid scenarios raced through his mind. The Jedi, furious at him for lying to them for years. The Republic, desperate for a victory, throwing him into suicide missions again and again until there was nothing human left of him. Obi-Wan’s crestfallen face as he realized the betrayal.

Experiments. Slavery. Torture. His death.

Scenarios, infinitely numerous and infinitely grotesque, raced through his mind.

Except, as he panicked, he saw as the golden feathers became awash with a sickly pale green color, the same color he had come to associate with fear and panic and terror. And, as he noticed this, the pale green was replaced with the blue-violet of confusion.

Okay, he thought. Okay, maybe there is a way to hide this.

As he thought this, a light pink-yellow shade crept into his wings - hope.

He breathed deeply, tenderly stepping around the candles that had been left in front of his body locker, drawing his wings in tight to prevent them from knocking over the lit flames - or worse, catching fire.

All around the room, tiny trinkets and objects his men had held dear were carefully laid or propped up, tiny offerings to help him in his final march towards a battle far away. That was the idea, anyway.

Anakin only realized he had paused when his drooping wingtips knocked over a small wooden carving of a bantha, the grief-gray and guilt-gray-green feathers flinching in surprise and knocking over a few other nearby trinkets. The subsequent racket, though not terribly loud, was enough to make him freeze, that pale green color returning.

“What was that?” A voice sounded from right outside the door.

The Final Guard, Anakin realized. It was a tradition the clones had inherited from the Mandalorians, wherein the Final Guard - a select group of the deceased’s closest friends and allies - would stand watch over the body until it arrived at its final resting grounds.

“What was what?” A louder voice, one Anakin recognized as Hardcase’s voice, responded.

“Didn’t you hear that? That racket?” The first voice - Appo’s voice - hissed.

“I haven’t been able to hear much of anything since… well.”

A solemn pause, a heavy sigh.

“Get that checked out, vod,” Appo muttered.

“Once the Final Guard is done,” Hardcase agreed. “Oh, and the noise was probably just some of the offerings falling over.”

“Probably,” Appo concurred, voice thick with grief.

Breathing out a soft sigh of relief, Anakin tucked his wings tight against his sides as he eyed the vents. Those would be his best best out of the morgue, unless he wanted to knock out Hardcase and Appo with the Force, which he very much did not want to do.

It would be a tight squeeze, but maybe…

Unscrewing the vent and removing the cover was the easy part. Much harder to do was actually maneuvering his body into the small space that was a few feet above his head, all without making too much of a racket. He, however, had a secret weapon on his side: sheer Skywalker stubbornness.

Alas, he mused forlornly as he kicked uselessly at the air, finding himself stuck within the vent, I am also cursed with Skywalker stupidity.

His wings prevented him from moving forwards, the feathered limbs simply being too wide to fit, but also prevented him from reversing out of the vent, as any backwards motion bent the feathers the wrong way, sending sharp pin-pricks of pain through his newfound appendages.

“Stupid… kriff… damn these wings!” Anakin hissed under his breath, wiggling and wriggling each way in a fruitless attempt to free himself. With a sigh, he went limp, resigning himself to his fate. Still, as he reminisced on the events that had led him to this point - sulking, really, though he’d never admit it - he imagined his wings simply… disappearing.

And they did.

Painfully.

Very painfully.

Feathers fused back into flesh, hollow bones breaking up into thousands of fragments before merging into his muscles, tendons dissolving into goo and sticking to his sides until the wings were gone completely, with only his bleeding gums from where he had cracked a tooth on his metal hand, biting down on it to muffle his agony, to show for it.

Gasping and panting, tears streaming down his face, Anakin forced himself to move forwards with shaking hands. He had to keep moving. He had to keep going. Somehow he knew that his wings would come back, but he didn’t quite know what would bring them back. It could happen at any moment, for all he knew, trapping him in the vents until he reabsorbed them - something he very much was not keen on.

Well. At least he didn’t have to worry about having to hide them, though it wasn’t quite what he was hoping for.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the vent collapsing beneath him, sending him plummeting very ungracefully to the floor below…

Right in front of Rex.

The aura around the petrified clone Captain was a horrid shade of pale green and shock-silver, the man’s face draining of color as he stared down at Anakin’s frozen form, their eyes meeting.

Captain Rex collapsed in front of him, unconscious.

Well, shit.