#just like her mother in every way ( lily musing )

[strawberrytoki]

Wedding season

(Spencer Reid x reader)

Summary: You and Spencer get invited to a friend's wedding who happens to have a secret agenda: getting Spencer to confess his love for you.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Warnings: none!

Word count: 1,990

a/n: I love this song so much y'all, highly recommend listening while reading.

Perfectly assembled bouquets of carnations, baby's breath, and most notably, white tulips, elegantly wrapped with dainty threads of sage green ribbons adorned the carefully set tables, on which sat calligraphed name cards placed on lace table runners.

It went without saying that your friend Lily, the bride, gave the best wedding planner money could buy a run for their money. She was nothing short of a visionary, and the picturesque venue she orchestrated proved just that. It was nestled in the heart of a serene garden and every avid pinterest enthusiast mom within a 5 mile radius would drool at the sight.

The two of you always talked down on white-themed weddings because of how overdone they were, but as the years went by, you both started to incrementally understand the appeal, they were flexible, and easily customizable. She was able to add her own personal flair by adding in a little splash of sage green. That splash, excluding the ribbons, was your attire. All the bridesmaids were dressed in sage dresses, and the groomsmen with ties to match.

Everybody and their mother was rushing to get married, considering wedding season was about the wrap up. It made sense, the weather wasn't as hot and there was a wider variety of vendors to choose from, so you should be surprised Lily was able to pull this off with the traffic but she was a very plan-oriented person and she expected you to mirror that. Hence, you knew exactly what to expect out of this day, down to the seating chart. What you weren't expecting, though, was seeing Spencer Reid there. The two of you had been coworkers for a while now, and found yourselves becoming close friends over time. You enjoyed his company, and loved how the eccentric ramblings he'd go on seemed to have no end.

The gears in your head started turning, trying to find an explanation as to why he was here, you didn't mind of course, you just found it odd how you weren't aware he was coming, especially considering how the guest list was practically printed on the back of your eyelids. Spencer was also more your friend than he was Lily's, they were acquainted, but not to the extent where he would show up to her wedding unannounced. Besides, it wasn't something he would do anyway. The most logical explanation was that he was a last minute addition so he wasn't accounted for, it still didn't make sense considering Lily's nature, but that's what you decided to chalk it up to for the time being.

He was clad in a well-fitted suit and had his hair styled in groomed chocolate waves that complimented his features. You noticed that he didn't forgo his staple converse shoes and mismatched socks, which amplified his endearing, awkward appeal. You weren't blind, Spencer was undeniably charming, and there was just something about him in a suit that had you weak in the knees. You developed a small, benign crush on him over the period of time you'd known each other, but you didn't want to jeopardize the friendship the two of you had.

"Hey, Spence." You walked up to him from behind, nudging him on the shoulder. He swiftly turned around, greeting you with a wide smile, a smile you didn't see yourself getting tired of in the foreseeable future. "Y/N!" Spencer embraced you in a warm hug, you never got over how healing his hugs were. "You look beautiful, by the way." You smoothed out your dress and smiled at him, "Thanks Spence, you clean up well yourself." A downward smile took over his face, indicating that he appreciated the compliment. "Lily really knows what she's doing, this place looks like it was cut out of a Pierre-Auguste Renoir painting." Spencer mused.

"Uh huh" you slowly nodded, pretending you had the slightest clue what he was talking about. You appreciated the obscure references he always made, and found yourself learning a thing or two every time he opened his mouth. You also loved how he was never condescending whenever he shared what he knew with others.

The two of you started taking a stroll around the garden, watching the guests slowly pour in, and stare in awe at the venue. Although it wasn't your wedding, you felt a sense of warmth inside, knowing the blood, sweat, and tears your friend poured into making it all happen and witnessing her efforts finally come to fruition.

The ceremony was about to commence, and you took your place near Lily, and gazed at your friend, who made the most radiant bride. Tear-provoking vows along with promises of unconditional love and commitment were made. Despite the immersive exchange of love and feelings, your mind couldn't help but selfishly drift to your own. You caught yourself staring longingly at Spencer. You were always realistic when it came to your feelings and never allowed your mind to wander, but this wedding seemed to put things into perspective, and for a fleeting moment, you cut yourself some slack and allowed yourself the luxury. It felt like a juvenile playground crush and you liked the giddy, fuzzy feeling it gave you, so you let it diffuse.

Telling yourself you didn't want to confess your feelings for Spencer because your friendship was at stake seemed to be the pseudo-truth you liked to tell yourself to sleep better at night, but you had more self-awareness than that. Deep down, in a cold chamber was the unvarnished reality, uninviting and chill, that you resisted accepting. You were worried Spencer didn't feel the same way you did about him. The idea of laying out all your cards on the table and coming clean was horrifying, and getting rejected by someone you deeply cared for was sure to leave a gash you knew would never heal.

Ironically, the often anxiety-inducing uncertainty offered you a warm embrace you didn't want to leave. Every now and then, though, you had the slightest temptation to leave that embrace, and wondered what it would be like to take the chance. High risk, high reward right?

The crowd of guests started making their way to the reception venue to get seated, and you followed suit. While making your way to your table, you noticed Spencer sitting next right next to your seat, which, again, caused you to raise an eyebrow. If you remembered correctly, you were supposed to be seated next to Elle, who was all the way in the back.

Not thinking much of it, you decided to take your seat next to him anyway, and the two of you began chatting away. Shortly after, your conversation was cut short by the newlyweds' toast announcement, and Lily was going first.

"Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, I'd like to thank all of you for celebrating this incredibly intimate, special day with Tony and I." She looked down at her now-husband with a vibrant glint of adoration in her eyes, and he looked up, mirroring the same glint.

"To all our loved ones who have made an, I'm sure, arduous commute to get here, I cannot put into words how grateful I am to you. I'd also like to express my love and appreciation to my ever so dependable A team, my lovely bridesmaids." Lily then shifted her eyes to your direction, and she didn't need to verbally announce her gratitude, as her glistening and smiling eyes did the work for her. Spencer looked at you and smiled as well.

"-so I can only pray that everyone here gets to experience the overwhelming love and devotion I'm feeling right now." She looked over at you again, this time with a mischievous grin on her face, and spared Spencer a glance as well. "-and in that spirit, I'd like to make a toast." She raised her glass, and continued. " Here's to hoping the celebration of our union can lead to the conception of new ones- maybe even between some of our own guests here tonight." She made sure to look directly at you and Spencer for what felt like an hour to really cement her message, and several of the guests turned their attention to the two of you. Spencer was no idiot, he probably caught on to what she was implying. He didn't seem as flustered as you were, though.

Subtle.

You felt like your skin was too hot to contain your insides, like there were a million fire ants crawling all over your body. To add fuel to fire, you also felt Spencer's gaze on you, you weren't directly looking at him, but through your peripheral view, you noticed that he looked worried, like you were going to detonate at any second.

Abruptly, you got off of your seat and sprinted without a destination. After any sense of motor control you had was yielded, your legs were in autopilot mode and you allowed them to take you anywhere that wasn't here. Lily was going to cut her announcement short and chase after you, realizing that maybe her method was too overstimulating for you. She then noticed Spencer scrambling off his seat to go after you, so she let the two of you be.

Your feet finally halted at the secluded but well-kept greenhouse overlooking the venue from faraway. You still felt like a fool but your skin did start cooling down a little bit after isolating yourself. You just needed to sort your thoughts out because they were going at about a thousand miles a minute. You realized you weren't going to be doing much of that though, since a part of the reason for this debacle followed you here, and was out of breath.

"Y/N." He choked out, in multiple syllables between pants of short breath.

You slowly brought yourself to face him, but still couldn't look him in the eye. "I don't know what that was that Lily just pulled but-"

"No, Y/N wait." Spencer cut you off, he then inched closer and tilted your chin to face him. "I'm sorry you were put on the spot like that- I wasn't aware that was how this was going to go down."

"This?" You questioned, and he looked hesitant to come clean. He then looked down in what resembled defeat. "Lily invited me here but didn't tell you, I guess she wanted this to be a surprise. The plan was for this to be...seamless, but I suppose we took a little detour?"

You still looked very confused, as the spiel he just went on didn't answer any of your questions.

"Y/N, I'm deeply and agonizingly in love with you, and I suppose Lily discerned that, and offered me an opportunity to tell you how I feel. Of course, I jumped at the chance without realizing that I wasn't aware of the mechanics or how we were going to go about it and for that I am so sorr-"

You were in immense shock, to the point where you almost felt like he was going to change his mind so in an attempt to preserve this moment, you quickly wrapped your hands around his neck and pressed a kiss to his lips. It took him a moment, but he gently held your waist and kissed you back with just as much fervor.

The two of you finally separated, each of you holding on to the other as if they were going to slip away.

"I'm in love with you too, Spencer." The adorable flustered flush that painted his face made this entire shitshow worth it. You figured you eventually had to make your way back to the reception, since you felt like you owed Lily an apology (and an expression of your gratitude). A part of you felt bad for fleeing the scene back at her toast, yet a part of you was grateful for her often blunt approach to things.

[sorendeimos]

✮ Things Severus will never say ✮

↳ a look through his diary

The pain I feel is wholly insignificant in the face of your betrayal. Oh sure, we have fought and hurt before but this time the pain I feel at your hand is so raw, so visceral, that the only way to soothe it is understanding that you are smiling. Your happiness trumps the pain I feel… I just wish you hated him like we used to so that it didn’t hurt so much when that smile was directed at him.

—after the rejected apologies

They scream and yell today. And yesterday. And every day since. Father doesn’t like when I do magic, Mother says it’s normal for My age and to just not show Father what I can do.

—age 8, 7 months after his first accidental magic

I HATE HIM I HATE HIM I HATE HIM I HATE HIM

— after his father hit him for the first time, age 8

ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM ILL KILL HIM

—after his father hits his mother the first time, age 8

I met a girl today that’s just like me. She had hair like fire and eyes like spring. I want to be Her friend.

—after meeting Lily, age 9

I told Her she’s like me. She seemed relieved. I hope She isn’t like me entirely.

—after telling Lily she’s a witch, age 9

Lily and I spend almost every day together, but never at my house. She’s too good for that place.

—on spending time with Lily, age 9, almost 10.

Petunia is the worst. I hope She gets a bee caught up that horrid upturned nose of hers.

—on Petunia, age 10

Mother has told me about Hogwarts today. She says I will be sorted Ravenclaw for my mind and thirst for knowledge. I want to be in Slytherin, to follow Her footsteps.

—on going to Hogwarts, age 10

I’m unsure what hurts more. My pride or losing my first friend. The person on whom I could depend. Who I was changing for. Who looked at me and still believed I had some semblance of good inside, even when I’d proven time and again I don’t. And now I don’t have Her so what, pray tell, is the fucking point. I’ll write to Lucius in the morning.

—after the Assault

The Malfoys, while newly-wed, are gracious hosts. I find comfort in Their home unlike anywhere I’ve ever been before. The future seems promising, and Lucius intends to speak with a benefactor on my potions skill. I shall have word back before Easter on career prospects under the sponsorship of this benefactor. If all goes well, my mastery funding will be secured, a job for after lined up, and I will no longer worry about feeding myself in the off season. Things are looking up for once.

—after Christmas, age 16

Joseph Aston - 25–34 Emily Aston - 24 -35 Joseph Aston Jr - 8–36 ••• Marie LeBlanc - 12–57 Damien LeBlanc - 45–56 ••• Charity Burbage - 37–158

I wish that the love he feels for me didn’t exist some days. He smiles at me and it feels like the sun on my skin after months of winter. He touches my hand and my skin feel alight and ablaze. It will hurt when he leaves me.

—Severus on Remus, age 15

The wolf has some fucking nerve attempting to lecture me on how to teach my class. As if he isn’t a beast in a man’s clothing. As if he isn’t a predator waiting to strike me dead.

—Severus on Remus, age 35

Potter and Black hate me, and I don’t know why. They just do… just like Father then. I suppose it's par for the course.

—musing about the marauders, age 11

I miss you. God, how I miss you. It’s been several months and it still hurts so much. So very much. Harry is safe, Dumbledore will not tell me where he is, but he is safe. Cared for. I hope he is loved. I wish I had not chosen this path. The one that took you away. But I am here now and I will work harder now to fix my mistakes. There’s clean-up to be done, people to put away. Wounds to heal, I only hope that if you look down on me, it is not with scorn with which you do it. Albus thinks this war is not over. If it isn’t… I’ll protect him. I’ll protect him with my life, I swear this. I will do for him what I should have from the beginning with you. I will change. I will be better. I will keep him safe.

—6 months after the Potters’ deaths.

He is more like his father than I expected. This will be tying. I will keep my promise but it will… be a trial.

—after Harry comes to Hogwarts

Give me patience, Lily, your son is every bit your husband and I regret to say I rise to his taunts every time. Patience, for strength, will send me to Azkaban and him to an early grave.

—sometime in Harry’s third year

This is my last entry. It has been years since the war began, longer than expected, and I will likely not make it out. I only pray the souls I doomed forgive me, but I don’t blame Them if not.

—the final page, day before the Battle.

[wildweavewriting]

✫ The Pond ✫

My fic for the @ssoblrbigbang 2024, organised by @froggistain! I was partnered with the talented @natduskfall, who made this beautiful piece of art!

6k+, art by @natduskfall

 Your parents used to warn you not to go down to the pond. It made sense, even though you might not have felt so at the time. To you the water didn't seem deep at all, and one could easily keep an eye out from the house.

 But then you were very little. And perhaps a bit accident-prone. And you didn't know it yet, but father was having difficulty moving down slopes; and mother didn't like water very much, no matter how shallow.

 It was funny in hindsight, how you'd sit at the chicken coop all moon-eyed, straining to catch a glimpse of creatures in the water. A sheltered child, projecting all this yearning for the outside world onto a tiny pond.

 Your horizons did broaden over the years, of course, as they do for all. Clinging to your mothers hand you found the lake behind the pond, and then the village and its people beyond the lake.

 Over time you started to recognise those who came to visit, traced people to their nooks within a larger world. And inevitably, memories from young childhood clicked into place.

 There was the pretty girl who had come to help out on the farm each summer. Her strong build had fascinated you, as had her way with animals. She would always indulge you for the season, answer your incessant questions.

 With every late autumn you'd forget of her existence, and you hadn't even realised she wasn't coming over anymore - until you found her again, settled down with a woman at the edge of town. It answered some questions and brought up new ones you hastily shoved aside.

 There was the young man from far away. He'd come every winter, and he too had your questions to endure. He was a bit less patient perhaps, something you easily forgave. After all he and your mother had serious things to discuss.

 What you found harder to forgive was when he asked your mother to join him for his months away. Your clear discontent led to perhaps the first proper talk you ever had with your mother.

 She told you of suddenly being ripped from all she knew, of her time on a rickety ship, of desperately staying afloat. Of the home and the people she missed.

 She said that no one else in these parts would know many of the words you had taken for granted. Told you for the first time which nicknames had their roots in dialect; seemed surprised you didn't intuitively know these things, but how could you?

 You cried silently as she left, gripped all you could until she really did have to go. Her warm hand stroked your head one last time and your chest squeezed painfully; a small frame struggled with feelings too big for it to contain.

 Then there was the old lady with trembling hands. She had always been around, came over for tea far more often than anyone else. Before long she started handing over the medicine for father in plain sight, told you how to get to her shop.

 She walked the path with you a few times that summer, just for good measure, and after a while it turned into something more aptly called meandering. You had a chaperone to keep you company, she had a stronger arm to hold her up if needed.

 With her you rediscovered the pond.

 The sun had set and left you in a dim twilight, and you had to squint to make out what the apothecary was pointing at. It took you a while to see it for what it was. Its banks were overgrown, what little you could see through the yellowed reeds covered in lily pads.

 You moved on. Father would be worried if you arrived much later. Still, you spent the way back quietly musing on old times, exchanging stories of childhood and waters and longing for a wider world.

 That night in bed you decided to return there soon. The stone walls around your farm had been erratically added onto over the years so there was hardly a view to pretty up, but maybe the pond could do with some clearing.

 A few days later you informed father of your plan as you packed up your late lunch. He happily sent you on your way with his leather gloves, a worn book on plants and a stern reminder to slowly and thoroughly announce yourself as to not startle the wildlife.

 The hill was steeper than you’d thought, your boots not particularly secure on the slippery grass. You ended up carefully winding your way down, eyes on your feet and hands clutched on your basket to keep it steady. At the bottom you heaved a sigh of relief and finally assessed what work you had ahead of you.

 The day was overcast and grey, the pond still and rather dreary looking. You were pleasantly surprised to spot a path through the reeds though, opposite of the side you’d arrived at.

 You made your way over as you leafed through your thin book, basket awkwardly hooked on your arm. Right as you made it to the gap, you found some pages with illustrations that seemed to be water plants and their flowering periods. There was even a little schematic with indications of how common they were and which parts were edible.

 It didn’t seem wise to clamber over the trampled reeds with the basket swinging around, so you set it down and tightly grasped the book. You were glad to have the free hand when the litterfall shifted underfoot at your cautious first step, it gripped a fistful of reeds before you’d even fully processed what had happened.

 You made it over slowly but safely, stepped in a damp spot somewhere along the line and scratched your palm open, but your ankles remained intact and untwisted. When you crouched at the water’s edge you were pleased to find the lily pads had a wide triangular notch in them, which matched the somewhat crude drawing you were looking at.

 It was marked to be in abundance, and though this information was clearly old you figured not much would have changed, not with how these were growing. They were only just beginning to flower though, so you didn’t want to indiscriminately rip out anything that seemed unimportant. Only out with the visibly dead, then.

 You carefully pulled a larger patch towards you and got to work plucking all decomposed flowers and stems out of the thicket. Once or twice you accidentally ripped a pad loose, one even coming out of the water with soil at the bottom, but you managed to not damage any of the flowers themselves.

 Some of them already were damaged though, you couldn’t help but notice. It seemed an animal had nibbled on them, a few leaves were just bitten straight through with broad teeth. When you looked more carefully you also found that several of the larger plants were oddly tangled, their stems weaved into knots as though they’d been sloshed around in the water. You left them as they were.

 Working your way through just the part in front of you took ages and you resolved to come again on a sunnier day, maybe wade through the pond as you cleaned up the waterlilies. The water was surprisingly clear after all, your hands only really dirty from the rotten leaves themselves.

 Once you were done for the day the pile next to you had grown so big, you would have difficulty carrying it with two fatigued arms. Your poor knees creaked loudly as you straightened up and you laughed to yourself at the state your body was in.

 You were glad not to have taken your fathers’ gloves with you for this particular cleanup, they would only have been ruined. But as you slowly teetered back to your basket you thought your future self might thank you if you cleared the path a little, and your hands were still a bit scratched up from your earlier panicked grab.

 So you dumped your pile on the ground, thoroughly wiped your hands, put the gloves on, noted and admired the darkening sky for a while, and turned back to the pond.

 There was a horse in the water.

 It was a lovely white, lounging among the lily pads as though it had always lain there. There was an odd shine to its face that suggested it had just dunked its head underwater, you could even see some algae stuck in its mane. It gave off a strange sense of familiarity – this horse was undoubtedly a friend.

 Its soft blue eyes just barely peeked up above the water’s surface, facing you head-on, and though you shouldn’t be you felt unsettled. There was an unease that came with the certainty of its good intentions. It had you rooted to the spot, unsure of most everything, so you just stared at it in bewilderment.

 This horse did not belong to anyone in the area, you were sure of it.

 Then it stood up and broke your impasse. It moved slowly and heavily, bespeaking a familiar strength you were used to from lumbering draught horses. The water around it barely even rippled, just seemed to part for it in advance.

 It was headed straight for you. The first snap of fallen reeds was what finally broke you out of your stupor and you quickly stepped back. You hadn’t encountered many wild animals in your life, but mother had made sure to impress on you the importance of never crowding any one, regardless of size.

 Unfortunately the horse seemed to not have been taught this lesson. You were moving away slowly, unwilling to turn your back, and its long legs meant it was catching up to you fast. You decided to accept your fate.

 It was even larger up close. You made sure to look just to the side of it and anxiously twisted your fingers in your clothing. Aside from a slight tremble you were stock-still when you felt the first hot breath hit your face.

 Its muzzle was velvety. It was nudging you, those puffs of hot air tickling you and displacing small hairs. You absent-mindedly admired the gradient of grey on the snout and its softly tapered ears, though you still dodged eye contact in your apprehension.

 At a particularly harsh huff you chuckled lowly, out of genuine amusement and a desire to test its limits. The horse remained calm, it mostly seemed curious, and so you took a deep breath and lowered your shoulders.

 You wanted so badly to move up a hand and pet it, but your gut told you to just wait this out. So you did. You waited and let the horse investigate, watched its ears and flank and feathering that still glistened with water, and grew increasingly fond of the creature as you stood there.

 The warmth it radiated was more than welcome in the quickly chilling evening air, but it was also a reminder of the passage of time. It was late, and climbing up the hill would be no easy task in the dark. So even though you didn’t want this moment to end, you stepped away once again.

 The horse looked at you, head slanted to the side and eyes oddly intelligent, and didn’t follow this time. You felt almost compelled to step back to its side, warm and comforting, but your eyes snagged on the gloves on your hands and thoughts of a worried father brought you back to reality.

 You moved around it in an arc, giving it space to move away, but looked back when you reached its hind end and found it looking back at you, ears pricked forward in interest. Careful not to startle it and wary of its legs, you fully extended your arm and stroked its sloped croup in farewell.

 A strange and childlike delight filled your chest when it snorted and lowered its head with a little shake. It seemed to have understood the gesture for what it was as it trudged away, flicking its wavy tail.

 You gathered your stuff with a stupid grin on your face, it only fading with a pang of regret when you realised you wouldn’t have the time to clear the path. That would be first on the list next time, then.

 This had been fun. Getting your hands dirty somewhere other than the farm was invigorating in a way you hadn’t expected. And with a bit of luck your companion might show itself again.

 You came home sweaty and excited, munching on the lunch you had completely forgotten about during the day. Your father indulged your tales with a gentle smile and questions at just the right time, and your sleep was content and filled with dreams of waterlilies.

 To no one’s surprise you went again the next week, earlier in the day this time. Your previous cleanup had wiped you out completely, body tired and aching, and you’d only just managed your daily tasks. But now you were raring to go, energy levels back to normal.

 You started with the path of felled reeds, methodically ripping out any that were still rooted. Your previous pile of mush was gone, which was a shame. Your father had indicated he might find a use for detritus, and though you’d been a bit sceptical you were happy to indulge.

 When you felt a presence at your back you smiled happily, and even at the risk of looking foolish you started talking to the assumed horse. You kept your voice low and soothing, discussed nothing of importance and enthusiastically agreed whenever it made a noise.

 After a little while of patiently standing behind you it evidently decided enough was enough and levelled some more of the reeds, carefully shouldering past you as it made its way into the pond. There it splashed around a bit as you worked up a sweat.

 It was nice to have the company. The horse was lovely to look at whenever you got out of breath, its coat shimmering in the sun and the mystery of its strange eyes fun to ponder. It even seemed to understand what you were doing, moseying over and yanking on some reeds with its teeth.

 It didn’t do much, they were so slippery even you had difficulty getting a good grip, but it got a startled laugh out of you and this was apparently reason enough for it to keep trying. You took pity on it after a short while and moved on to the next task, chucking off your shoes to join it in the pond.

 As you made your way into the water you considered the nagging unease you felt whenever the horse moved away.

 You’d wanted to dip your toes from the start, it had even been the plan before your fateful meeting last week. You were in no danger, and so you continued on your chosen path.

 It was interesting though. The horse was strange, that much was obvious. It moved just that bit too silently, and you had never seen such glassy blue eyes in an animal that could still see. And there was a tugging in your soul, telling you things you already felt but slightly to the left.

 You weren’t usually this moved by gut instinct, which was the main oddity really. Surely nothing you couldn’t handle.

 All of that was forgotten in the pond. You and the horse played around, splashing and nudging and clearing up. It was remarkably effective at weeding, though it also had a penchant for eating healthy plants.

 You even dared touch it without gloves, very casually stroked its neck and shoulder when you got the chance. It was softer than you’d imagined, coat silky and strong muscles rippling under your hand. You wondered how long it had been without human contact when it leaned into you, seemingly unaware of its own size.

 It was difficult to tear yourself away from its side.

 Time got away from you very quickly after that, as you alternated between weeding, petting and generally splashing about. When the soil and your toes grew icy cold you looked up to find the sun was already down, so focused had you been on your patch of pads.

 Your companion had left some time ago, as it had done for short periods throughout the day, so it seemed you wouldn’t get to say a proper farewell. You only hoped it had simply decided to leave on its own terms, and wouldn’t come back to find you gone.

 You stood up and stretched your arms up high, taking a moment to admire the evening sky. The sickle moon had already been visible during the day, now the thin silver crescent was due to set any moment.

 As you waded out of the water you found your feet were far too dirty to put your boots on, so with barely contained glee you decided to walk back barefoot. Father was always strict about wearing footwear, but you had a good excuse.

 You softly hummed under your breath as you gathered your things and looked around one last time, hoping to catch a glimpse of the horse. You were rather curious where it went off to – if it spent its nights outside, under the stars, or had a home to get back to.

 It took you a while but you thought you spotted a familiar blurred shape over by the lake, so you decided to make a slight detour. As you moved closer you found your suspicion had been right, and you felt some pride at being able to recognise it from a considerable distance.

 Your pride promptly shifted to terror when the horse walked straight into the water.

 You knew this shore – there was a steep drop down only a few meters in, part of the reason you’d been warned never to swim there. You let out a strangled shout in your bewilderment and stumbled into a panicked run, not thinking past the need to get to it.

Luckily it heard you. It stopped moving and looked back at you, eyes patient and ears relaxed – seemingly just waiting for you to join. You cursed it in your mind’s eye as you desperately splashed into the water, only hoping you were strong enough to get it to move back to shore.

When you reached it you put your hand on its croup once more, the spot you always used to steer the working horses, and tried to soothingly pat it. Your hands were shaking horribly from a combination of adrenaline and cold, but –

 Your hand was stuck.

 You stared in shock at this incomprehensible turn of events, dread violently taking hold of you. Your hand was glued to its coat, you weren’t imagining things. No matter how you tried to pull it seemed to only sink further into the suddenly adhesive hairs; had its coat always been this thick?

 The horse snorted softly and your head snapped up, eyes wide in panic, fear only increasing when it looked ahead at the dark water. It stepped forward and you stumbled along, completely mute and embarrassingly pliant.

 You sagged in relief when the horse stopped just before the drop-off, turning back and nuzzling at you. You half expected it to lift its lip and reveal razor-sharp teeth, but instead you had to tear your eyes away when you noticed the weird angle of its neck. With your heart in your throat you murmured nonsensical reassurances.

 Then it nudged your hand, and just like that you found you were released.

 All you could do was stand there, stunned, as the horse slipped down into the deep.

 You came home tired and shivering, unwilling to tell your father what had happened. He might have had his suspicions and worries, but he only made sure you ate a hot meal and slept soundly. When you checked on the animals the next morning you found them well taken care of and promptly went back to bed.

 Despite what had happened you needed to go back. You dodged more of your fathers questions and didn’t dare ask the apothecary what and if she knew, decided you were unable to gather information without causing unrest. There was no surefire way to predict consequences, but you felt strongly that discretion was in order.

 You almost missed your fathers growing apprehension, but when you next asked to go to the pond it was unmistakably there. He didn’t deny you, perhaps more aware of the rift it would have caused than you were at the time.

 So you went, sure to show your father the red twine around your wrist before you left, and whenever the horse showed you wore your gloves. It hadn’t changed its demeanour and, as luck would have it, didn’t seem particularly keen on dragging you under, so you slowly unwound again.

 You had wondered just how intelligent the presumed water spirit was, considering how purposeful the reveal of its nature had been. Over the next weeks it behaved like a normal horse however, if a bit more careful with touch, so you chalked it up to the intellect you often saw in animals.

 Summer changed to autumn and your cleanup was done, but you regularly went down to sit at the pond’s edge on your way back from town and admired the bright yellow waterlilies. The horse kept you company, always a welcome warmth at your side.

The gloves came back off. It was inevitable really, fear over what could happen had never been strong enough of a deterrent for you. You obediently took them with you still, to give your father some peace of mind.

The red twine stayed, for whose sake you weren't sure.

 When your hands started trembling it didn't come as much of a surprise, though you were far too young. It was odd not to have your mother there for what like such a fundamental change in yourself. Any version of you she pictured would be steadyhanded.

 You tried to imagine how her hands would have changed and found you couldn’t.

 Your world shrank again, slowly but surely. You couldn’t walk the same distances you once had, energy zapped in a way that was frighteningly familiar in hindsight, and you were lucky to make it to the settlement once a week. Before long father was the healthy one in the household.

 A child from a sizable family came to live with you, to aid on the farm whenever needed, and after a few months of miserable existence you begrudgingly accepted that things would only get worse from here. So you officially excused yourself from obligatory housework and tried your best not to get snippy with what in your most cynical moments felt like the spare heir.

 You fled whenever you could, anything to avoid the hushed whispers during the apothecary’s visits and the melancholy look on your father’s face. Soon the pond was the only place you could reach, the horse your main companion.

 Father asked you not to stay out too long during winter, but more often than not you’d sneak out well into the night. The moonlight would guide your slow journey down the hill, and as you walked down you’d see your friend move the now well-trodden path to the pond.

 There you’d meet, and with a content snort it would lay down next to you, and you would press yourself into its side where you stuck like glue, finally rid of your full body tremor.

 One moonless midwinter night the horse nudged you further onto its back, ever so gently, as it made to stand up.

 You moved to lay with your arms around its neck in a warm hug, desperate to ward off the cold creeping into your very being.

 And so, with full trust, you melded into one.

-

 There was a song in the air.

 It was sweet and sorrowful and heavy, and it couldn’t be, because he was in a crow’s nest and the wind should have whipped away any sound before it reached him.

 Being up there hadn’t been the punishment it was meant to be so far, seasickness yet to reach him, but now there was a sudden lurching in his gut. He swallowed down a horrid mixture of bile and cold air and clutched the railing, the splintered wood grounding in its familiarity.

 His frozen fingers fumbled for his spyglass and he hastily scanned their surroundings, but there was nothing so see – the shoreline was still dark and far and tranquil, no movement there. No other seafarers around either.

 The moon was low on the horizon, its reflection a thin strip on the wide ocean. The night was bright, easy to navigate, and he once again cursed his lot. One of the younger ones should’ve been up there.

 His head whipped around when he thought he saw something – there, a shape in the water, near the ragged rocks closer to shore. He squinted, forgoing the spyglass in favour of keeping an eye on it – if it was a spirit it could disappear any moment.

 There was a shuffling and low shouting down below, his fellow sailors undoubtedly roused by the siren song. Though he’d been at sea most of his life he’d never had an encounter himself, only heard the tall tales – he was suddenly grateful to be up here, to not be in the midst of the dogged determination to get away.

 He whistled low under his breath in hopes of a good air current, but to his horror the tune shifted and melded into the one on the wind.

 At his wits ends he sank down, unable to stop whistling and unable to do much else. His palms burned from where he’d scratched them on the futtock shrouds on his way up and it was a peculiar thing to focus on, but that’d hurt like hell if he ended up in the briny water.

 The song had turned harrowing in its grief, and when he heard a horrible shrieking underneath him he knew they were doomed.

-

 The village is the same as it has always been.

 You marvel at the way time seems to stand still here as you move down the cobblestone road. Even the shop is offering the exact same saddle pad you bought a few months ago, though the windmill seems a bit more quaint now that you see it with fresh eyes.

 The beehives are abuzz, the sun is warming your skin and you don’t think you’ve ever been so happy to be somewhere. You knock on the green door in your usual pattern, and you’re greeted with a bright smile pretty much immediately.

 “Well well, look who’s finally back!” Pamela says as she ushers you in, apron covered in flour.

 “Just in time, apparently. Apple pie?” You neatly place your shoes by the door and shuffle past her into the kitchen, where you’re welcomed by the delicious smell of cinnamon and sugar.

 “Hmm, had to make good use of my first batch. I had the craving of a lifetime yesterday. Stick around for 15 minutes and you’ll get a slice.”

 “I could do with some comfort food,” you say as you sit down with a heavy sigh, “and in the meantime I’ll get right to the important stuff, if you don’t mind.”

 “Yes, we probably should,” Pamela says, tone subtly shifting. “I was worried you’d have difficulty finding your way back, G.E.D. have been spreading out across the entire mountainside.”

 “Yeah,” you say with a wry smile.

 “Ah,” she hums, “of course. Couldn’t go through Stormgarden, huh? Jian locked the gates a few months ago to keep them out, kind of forgot that happened after you left.”

 You look at her imploringly, and though she rolls her eyes there’s a kindness to accompany the teasing edge in her voice when she continues.

 “I’ve only spoken to Ming Yue a few times, she spends most of her time over in the fields or at the old house. I just bring them supplies when needed and make sure they’re really all right. It’s a bit awkward talking through the fence, and I’m not acrobatic enough to attempt a break-in.”

 “Fair enough,” you huff. The walls are higher than they look, and some of the stones deceptively loose. “Anything exciting happen, other than that?”

“Not really. I just held the fort down as usual, while you were off doing whatever it is you do,” she says with a sly look. Pamela knows not to pry, but she never turns down a riddle or allusion either.

 “Things went surprisingly smoothly,” you concede with a tired but satisfied grin, a bit shy to be the sole messenger of a group’s effort.

 “Oh!” her eyebrows shoot up, “well that’s news worth celebrating!”

 Pamela bustles around the house for a bit, getting you a drink and an assortment of gifts she’s made you in the time you were away; candles, honey balm and your favourite hand soap, which she gathers up in a picnic hamper.

 You sit and bask in it for a moment, the safety of lounging in your friend’s cozy kitchen, and let it sink in that you really did succeed, and now you’re home. A home beset by G.E.D., yes, but that’s a problem you’ll solve another day.

 Pamela gives you a plate with the best apple pie you’ve had in months and you exercise the restraint of a lifetime by not just wolfing it down.

 “Anyway,” you say through a mouthful, “how’s good old Diogenes?”

 “Being his usual grumpy self. He disappears into the swamp daily, gets back covered in insect bites and mucus. He’s not camping out though, so if you’d like you can just crash in my guest room.”

 You consider her offer, despite your first instinct to politely decline. Hayden’s place is nice enough, but also really just one big room. There’s not a lot of privacy, which is fine when he’s away, but gets bothersome for both of you when he’s constantly in and out.

 Your mind is made up. “That might be nice actually, your place is probably the homeliest option I’ve got.”

 “I try,” Pamela laughs.

 “And succeed gloriously,” you nod sagely.

 With that you get yourself settled, putting your meagre belongings away and quickly washing off the dust from your travels. When you get back to the kitchen Pamela has gotten started on a vegetable stew to last the next few days, so you help her cut some and chat a bit more.

 Frederik’s campaign against swamp water is still going as strong as it did when you left, which is to say not very, and there’s been a bit of hubbub around a new vet that moved in, a refugee from old Hillcrest apparently. Pamela has slowly been getting to know her and thinks she’s a good candidate for CHILL, what with the obvious grudge over what happened to her home.

 Pamela’s clearly excited for you to meet her, but also tactful enough to realise you’ve got plenty on your mind.

 You excuse yourself early in the evening, only to restlessly sit in your dark and silent room. After you’ve spent entirely too long zoned out you reach for your bag and blindly grab your red string, twining it around your fingers and untwisting it again in a calming little ritual.

 On a short trip to the bathroom you catch a glimpse of the waning moon, and the sight lures you out into the cold night. You want to burn some energy – besides, no one other than Hayden tends to be out at this time, which means there’s no one to scold you for unwise decision making.

 You set a brisk pace and keep fiddling with your string, unwilling to part with it if you don’t have to. Without thinking you walk up the hill to Stormgarden and are faced with a closed gate, as expected.

 For a few minutes you just stand there pathetically, staring into the dark, then turn around and stomp back the way you came, eyes burning with something you can’t put in words just yet. You need to move.

 And you do. You wander, not caring where your feet take you, so of course you end up in the forsaken swamp without even the excuse of a wisp having lured you.

 You’re miles from town now, and there’s a noticeable shift in the air. It’s humid and stale, a heavy fog curling around the weeping willows as if trapped underneath them.

 It’s comforting though. It’s like a blanket around you, pressing in, accompanied by a wall of noise – random splashes, croaking frogs and a low buzz from flying insects. The night doesn’t feel so lonely like this.

 You heave a sigh and with sore arms dab at the sweat gathered on your face, settling against the trunk of a tree that’s leaning dangerously over the river. The entire bank is covered in reeds but there’s a bit of a gap here, and you blankly stare out into the wetland.

 It gets harder to keep your eyes open after a while – you’re honestly not sure whether you’ve nodded off or not. Your string almost slips out of you hand, so you make sure to tie it around your wrist and triple-check the knot with bleary eyes. You wonder if she still has hers.

 You dazedly jerk up when there’s a hollow snap just on the other side of the river. You just glance over, ready to dismiss it as a figment of your overtaxed brain’s imagination, but do an incredulous double take when you see a fucking horse.

 It’s got a long shaggy coat, a pure shimmering white heavy and dripping with water. You’re hit with a wave of worry when you realise it’s way too thick for this time of year, the poor thing must be overheating. No wonder it dipped into the relatively cold waters, an array of aquatic plants comically draped over its back the definitive proof.

 You’re shaken out of that specific worry when you take a closer look though; there’s a sickly green tint to either its undercoat or skin, you can’t really tell, but it looks wrong – and then it turns its head, and moonlight glints off empty blue eyes.

 You freeze, breath caught in your lungs and heart hammering in your chest. You’d counted on a mere wisp at most, this is something far worse. Your eyes meet.

 Its sclera turn inky black and it fluidly lunges back, thundering into the river without making so much as a splash – the water simply opens up to swallow it into its depths.

 “What the fuck,” you whisper, so softly the volume barely rises above the sound of your own uneven breathing. Then for good measure you whisper it once more, with feeling.

 And then, of course, your reckless spirit overtakes you and you sidle down the river bank. You blame your fried brain and the undoubtedly dangerous swamp fumes, but really you just have to know, have to touch the water in the hopes it’ll somehow ground you in reality.

 You crouch with a flinch at your loudly creaking knees, and blink in awe when you look up and find the change in angle has suddenly shifted the moon into view once more. It peeks through the clouds and bathes the water in light, so bright compared to the surroundings it has you squinting to adjust.

 You still can’t reach. So you scooch forward, hands slipping on the warm mud behind you, and try again. Your fingers lightly brush the moon’s reflected light, make it ripple. The water is cool and soft to the touch, and you put your flat palm on the surface as if to stroke it, loose end of the makeshift bracelet around your wrist dipping below the surface.

 Then the moon disappears behind a cloud and you flinch, bodily jerk back from the glassy water because there’s pale round eyes staring back at you.

 It’s just there, silently floating right where you had your hand, a dark shape with its lip pulled back over glinting needle-teeth.

 You scramble back up the riverbank, foot slipping and water rushing into you shoe, and you don’t look back once you’re on the road. You clutch the wrist with your damp red string tied around it and dig your thumb into the pulse point, match your breath to the stupid squelching of your boot.

 You stare at the moon as you march back home.

 The next morning you’re notably absent-minded, Pamela has to bump you out of the way several times as she prepares for a visitor. The vet, you think, the name went in one ear and out the other when she told you during breakfast.

 Camilla, apparently. Pamela insists on having lunch outside, so the three of you settle down on a big plaid picnic blanket underneath her apple tree. You force yourself to snap out of your dazed mood, because the spread is absolutely lovely; a lot of effort has gone into this.

 You chit-chat for a while, stick to safer subjects. Pamela masterfully redirects any questions about your whereabouts for the past months, for which you’re grateful. The main distraction is goat’s cheese, surprisingly – you spend maybe half an hour discussing grazing options for hypothetical goats.

 You only slip up once.

 “The weather’s finally reached a point where I might risk a dip in the lake later,” Camilla says, theatrically fanning herself, “I’ve never been one to swim, but at this point I’m desperate to cool off, if even just a bit.”

 You balk in a horribly obvious manner and Pamela shoots you a baffled look, but luckily picks up the slack immediately.

 “Not a good idea, we don’t swim in these waters,” she cautions, voice stern in that way only Pamela can be.

 “Why not? It looks just fine to me,” Camilla says worriedly, side eyeing you – which, yeah, fair. You’re mentally reconciling what happened last night with what you know of the area, so quite frankly you’re miles away.

 “There’s a dumping ground for G.E.D.’s toxicity just past the lake,” Pamela says, unable to resist the snide pun. “Their, ah, actual toxic waste, I’m afraid. Likely leaks into the lake as well, best not risk it.”

 “Oh,” Camilla says, “but don’t you have your animals graze nearby?”

 And just like that you’re back to animal husbandry and grass quality. As the picnic winds down you only barely manage to conceal just how badly you want to be alone for a while.

 You help clean up and affirm Pamela in her decision to induct Camilla, managing to sound convincingly enthused about her vast knowledge when it comes to both human and animal health. And you do mean it; you’re just really not in the right headspace to be social.

 You find an out by telling Pamela you’d like to visit Hayden today. She’s always glad to, in her words, let you drag him out of his shell a bit, so she send you on your way with a pot of honey to butter him up.

 To your surprise you actually encounter him – he’s on his way back home, packed like a beast of burden, and you manage to corner him on a bridge to lend some credence to your excuse.

 “Hmpf, you’re back,” he says, and it’s more of a welcome than you were counting on.

 “Since yesterday,” you answer his unasked question. It’s always best to be brief, spare him the socialization neither of you are very keen on. “How is the marsh today? Calm waters?”

He hums and eyes you shrewdly, gaze drifting down to your one muddy boot, and you’re suddenly hit with the suspicion that he knows.

“Calm, yes,” he mumbles. “But the waters here have never been safe, not even back in my day.”

 With that he shoulders past you, clearly done with the conversation, and mutters a last little “youth”, just loud enough for you to hear and fondly huff a laugh.

 You continue on your set path, not even all that surprised when you see a white shape over by the moon spring, half submerged in the water. Its feathering is idly flowing around its legs, its ears twitching restlessly.

 Water doesn’t part for you the way it does for the creature, so there’s some unceremonious sloshing when you wade in to stand beside it. You twiddle with your string, twine it around your fingers.

 The horse looks back at you, something wild and imploring in its gaze, and though everything in you screams that you really shouldn’t –

 You slowly reach out.

[dreamfyre03]

A Dragon's Love

Warnings: violence, threats of violence, mentions of kidnapping

Dividers by: @zaldritzosrose

Header by: @zaldritzosrose

Chapter 14: The Wrath of Aemond Targaryen

After returning to King’s Landing, and informing the council of Lucerys’s death, he wanted nothing more than to be in Daenys’s arms. He longed to inhale her scent of jasmine and lilies, to hear her soft voice comfort him, after being screamed at by his mother, and yelled at by his grandfather. Thanks to him, the first strike of war had been landed. The greens made the first move. 

He took the tunnels to her rooms, and when he entered, he stood there briefly, stunned. Her dresses, her books, her parchments and perfumes, all gone. Nothing of hers was left, except the lingering scent of her in the sheets. With a rage he was becoming more familiar with every passing second, he stormed the council room for the second time that day, jolting them all in surprise, and asked darkly, “Where is she?”

Aegon looked at him confused, while his mother and grandfather exchanged a look. “Where is she?” He yelled, slamming his fists onto the table, as his eye darkened with anger. 

“Where is who?” Aegon asked, genuinely puzzled. “Our sister.” He spat, and Aegon sat up in concern. “She isn’t here?” Aegon paled as he said the words, no doubt thinking the worse.

His grandsire rose, and said, “She is safe. She is off acting on behalf of the crown.” Aegon stood, his face serious. “How can she be acting on behalf of the crown? I certainly haven’t sent her anywhere.” He said to the Hand. “Where is my sister, Lord Hand?” Aegon asked again. 

“Clear the room.” Aemond addressed the council. They hesitated, glancing back at Otto, then Aemond. “You heard my brother. Clear the fucking room.” Aegon said harshly, his gaze never leaving their grandfather.  The men of the council scrambled out of the room, leaving the brothers alone with their mother and grandsire. 

“Tell me where she is. Now.” Aemond drew his sword, much to the horror of his mother. “Aemond, please!” She cried out, looking to Aegon desperately, but he ignored her. “She’s on her way North. To wed Cregan Stark.” His grandsire finally said. 

Aemond felt his blood run like fire. No, no, he wouldn’t let this happen. She was his, no one else’s 

“You grant yourself the power to decide my sister’s marriage without so much as my input? She is sister to the King, and you do not even deem it necessary to inform me of my sister’s departure?”  Aegon shouted angrily. 

Aemond stood there, in silent rage, his mother watching him fearfully, no doubt praying for her father’s life. Good. She should be. “Your sister knew what she had to do. We need the north’s support, she will do her part to get it for us. I made her understand this, and she is willing to do her duty. As we all must.” His grandsire said stiffly. “Your forget which of us sits the throne, and wears the conqueror’s crown. Get out.” Aegon said lowly. His mother and grandfather looked at him, no doubt in shock to see him actually act like a King for the first time since he was crowned. “Both of you. Get out!” He yelled. 

They both walked out briskly, and when the brothers were alone, Aemond said, “I won’t let her marry Cregan Stark.” “I know.” 

“Someone else must have known she was leaving.” Aemond mused. They both seemingly thought the same thing, and quickly made their way to Helaena’s rooms. 

As they burst through the doors, they saw Daeron, who just arrived, sitting with her, as they talked and played with the children. “Did you know?” Aemond cut them off. Helaena shook her head. “My maid gave me this letter the moment you were spotted returning on Vhagar. It is for me, Aegon and Daeron. This one is for you.” She handed him a letter, where he recognised his sister’s familiar cursive scrawl. 

His heart pounded as he opened it, and Aegon sat with their sister to read the other letter. My love,

By the time you read this, I will be on the roads to Winterfell. I want to apologise, for leaving without saying goodbye. I was ordered by your grandsire to not tell any of you, I sense he knew our closeness would prompt unwanted resistance, and he wanted me to leave and secure the North’s support through a marriage alliance as soon as possible. As much as it pains me to admit, he is right. Aegon needs as much support as he can get from the noble houses. I have spent the days since his coronation flooded with nothing but worry and fear for all our lives, helpless to do anything. Do not for a moment think that my leaving has to do with the feelings in my heart changing. This couldn’t be further from the truth. You spoke the truth, brother, when you said the gods made us to burn for each other, together. I realise that now. But I cannot bear the thought that me forsaking my duty means a greater chance of losing our family. Although I am to be Lord Stark’s wife, my heart, my soul, my desires, are forever yours. I pray that the passage of time allows you to forgive me, so that when we meet again, you hold no ill will against me for leaving. I would rather us be apart, but know you are alive, than watch you die knowing I could have prevented it. My darling brother, my love, my dragon. We will meet again soon. 

-Your beloved sister, 

Daenys. 

Aemond let out an angry shout as he punched the wall, making his niece and nephews jump in fear. He didn’t even hear Helaena instruct her maid Diana to take them out to the gardens. Aegon sat across from Daeron and Helaena, the conqueror’s crown off his head, and on the table between them. “What did yours say?” He asked them. “That she’s sorry she left without goodbye, that she loves us all, and is doing her duty to make sure Aegon’s claim is stronger against Rhaenyra. To keep us safe.” Daeron answered quietly, as Aegon seemed to be staring into space. 

“She’s always been looking out for all of us. Our whole lives.” Aegon said suddenly, breaking the silence that had descended upon them. 

None of them responded. The truth hung over them all as they realised that she was gone, off to marry to try and keep them safe, something she had tried to do all her life. While their grandsire used them as pawns, and their mother often followed his stead, she was there, since they were children, at for every injury in the training yard, every argument, every flight atop their dragons, always with her kind smile and loving heart, even when some of them didn’t deserve it. He remembered when Daeron was first sent to Oldtown, how his little brother cried, and Daenys soothed him, promising to write to him as often as they both could, for just because he would be somewhere else didn’t mean she would forget him. And she never did, writing to him all the time.

Helaena sniffled, crying silently at the reality of their sister being gone all the way North, not knowing when they would see her again, knowing they wouldn’t see her smile everyday, or hear her laugh, watch her fly Meraxa, or play with the children. 

Daeron wrapped his arm around their sister, quietly soothing her, and Aemond heard Aegon say, “I couldn’t give a shit about the North’s support. She doesn’t want to marry Stark. Her place is here, and that is where she must stay.” “I’m going to get her back. I won’t entertain this for another moment.” Aemond said, and as he was about to leave and go to mount Vhagar, their mother entered, with a seemingly battered and bruised Ser Arryk. 

“Something’s happened.” She said quietly, unable to look at them. Aemond felt his heart clench. 

Ser Arryk looked between Aegon and Aemond nervously, as Aegon instructed the man, “Speak.” “My King, I was with the guards escorting the Princess Daenys to Winterfell. We were ambushed, and I was knocked unconscious. When I came to, the Princess was gone.” He revealed. 

Aemond drew his dagger, and had the man backed into the wall, his dagger pressing against his throat in a flash. “You mean to tell me, the Princess was kidnapped? Under your watch?” Aemond growled, pressing the knife in deeper, feelings great satisfaction when he saw blood begin to seep through. “Aemond!” His mother shouted, pulling him off the knight. 

“This is all your fault!” Aegon shouted angrily at her. “You sent her away, without even telling your King, and now, my sister might be dead, or gods know what else!” He continued.

“Leave, mother. Aegon and I will decide what to do from this point on. If our grandsire so much as lifts a finger, I will cut it off myself.” Aemond warned her. She nodded, and quickly left the room with Ser Arryk behind her. 

The siblings were left alone again, nothing but the sound of Helaena’s sobs muffled as she wept on Daeron’s chest filled the room. “I will find her.” Aemond vowed. 

As he spoke, the siblings heard Meraxa screeching and roaring out painfully into the sky. “I will rain down Fire and Blood on every man, woman and child in this Kingdom, but I will find her. And whoever took her from me will know my wrath.” 

Daenys awoke with a pounding sensation in her head, and she groaned as she sat up in the bed. As her eyes opened, she took in her new unfamiliar surroundings, the walls grey and carved of stone, with rich tapestries adorning the wall. She could hear the waves crashing into rocks outside, so she knew she couldn’t be in Winterfell. Her dress was slightly torn, and she looked in the mirror, and saw bruises on her chest and a cut on her forehead. Where was she? She went to the door, and tried to open it, but it was locked, and she banged on it with her fists, shouting at her unknown captor to let her out. There was no response, and after shouting and screaming for what felt like hours, she gave up, with nothing to show for her efforts but a hoarse throat. She ran over to the window, and saw the ocean stretching out into the distance, and black, sharp, jagged rocks on the ground below her. The door opened, and she turned around to face her captor. “Rhaenyra?” She gasped. “Sister.” Was her cold response. Her sister seemed to have aged rapidly in the days since she last saw her. Her eyes bore dark circles, her eyes red, her skin dull and tired. She wore their father’s crown. “What am I doing here? Where am I?” She asked. “You are on Dragonstone. You are here, because you are a traitor to the crown.” She answered. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out about your plot to wed Cregan Stark on behalf of our traitorous brother, and win the North’s alliance?” “Sister, please understand-“ “No!” Rhaenyra shouted, angry tears brimming her eyes. “Any kindness and understanding I might have extended to you for our father’s sake died when you stood by our half brother’s side when he stole my crown. They killed my baby, then they took my son!” She yelled, and Daenys just realised the bump of Rhaenyra’s belly had disappeared, and tears filled her own eyes as well. “I’m so sorry, Rhaenyra-“ She began but her sister wouldn’t hear it. “I don’t want your apologises. They took my daughter, then my son. Aegon will pay for this, they all will.” “Your son?” Her mind immediately went to Jace. 

Her sister laughed almost manically. “Oh have you not heard? The brother you love so, who dotes upon your every word for all to see, he and his dragon killed my son in the skies above Storm’s End. My son, my Luke,” Her sister wiped away her tears, willing herself not to cry. Daenys approached her carefully, and said as she too wept, “I am sorry for your loss, sister.” 

Rhaenyra looked at her with angry eyes, as if stunned at her words, then raised her hand and slapped her, and Daenys felt the stinging sensation as she heard the sound echo throughout the room. “You do not get to mourn him. Or cry for him. You love our traitorous brothers so much, perhaps I’ll send your head back to them. Either way, get comfortable, sister. You aren’t going anywhere.” Rhaenyra said cruelly as she got up and shut the door behind her. 

Leaving Daenys alone, with nothing but the pain in her heart and the bruises on her body. 

[the-bar-sinister]

Matcha and Blue Moon for the selfship ask game!

Thank you so much for the prompt! :D

ask game link

matcha: what kind of gifts does your F/O give you? Are they always buying you little presents or do they invest only in larger items for birthdays or holidays? blue moon: is your F/O very routine-oriented or do they like to go with the flow? How routine-oriented are you?

Jewels from the Sea (909 words) by thesavagesabretooth

Hancock couldn't seem to predict what Luffy was going to do from hour to hour, let alone day to day. Despite the fact that this was supposed to be one of his 'rest' days during his training instead of lounging around the palace, today he'd had her pack a lunch and dragged her off to a rather lonesome but beautiful beach at the edge of the island.

The scant remnants of the rather handsome boxed lunches she’d packed now sat in their lacquered wooden boxes in a pile on the edge of the woven blanket she now sat in the center of. Warm kisses and stories about his training were shared aplenty between them, and now Luffy had taken to running here and there through the sand and just on the edge of the shallows while she watched with a fond smile.

He was an enigma, at least to a woman so used to firm routine and a certain expectation for her days as queen of Amazon Lily. But an enigma held her attention…it drew her eye.

She wasn't sure what he'd been doing as he ran to and fro in the sand, but now she noticed that he had stopped and sat down a little way away from the surf, and seemed to be intently occupied with something in his lap.

She stood in a long-legged and elegant motion, dusting sand from her lap as she sauntered over towards him on quiet footfalls to sneak up behind him with a curious half smile. 

There was a spool of hemp sitting next to him and he had an oversized needle in one hand. He noticed her coming despite her quiet approach and craned his head. He gave her an enormous grin.

"Don't look yet, give me one more minute!"

Hancock held her hands up with a low chuckle and a smile. 

“Of course, darling.” 

Even so, her curiosity welled within her as she paced her way instead to the ocean, letting the water lap against her feet with the strange tingle of powerlessness as it sought to sap the demon power from her with every wave.

“The ocean is beautiful isn’t it?” She mused as she resisted the urge to look over her shoulder and see just what he was up to. 

"It is," Luffy said, his voice partially covered by the sound of the surf. "When I was little I used to love swimming. I still love looking at it."

She heard a little clinking noise coming from his lap.

He was making something…jewelry perhaps? Or perhaps some sort of trinket…

She laughed. “I absolutely agree with that. I love watching the waves stretching out to the horizon. When I was a child, I too loved to swim…to bathe in mother ocean. Now I’m content simply to look at it and appreciate its power.” 

"It's hard to look at something and not be able to have it, huh?" Luffy huffed and shaked himself off almost doggishly before he jumped to his feet. "Alright, you can look now!"

She'd been right in her guess– when Hancock turned to see, Luffy was holding a necklace made of bright blue and white shells, all carefully strung and knotted together.

“It certainly i–” She stared at the necklace with a gasp, her fingers against her lips as she watched the pearlescent shells catch the waning sunlight.

When she was a girl, she’d appreciated the beauty of the sea’s gifts— shells, polished rocks, and driftwood. It struck that place, deep inside her, to see the lovingly created necklace of simple shells dangling from his fingers.

“It’s beautiful, Luffy.” 

"Come here." He grinned at her, his large, dark eyes bright and playful as he stood with it in his hands.

Hancock, the Pirate Empress, hurried over with an almost girlish excitement. She bent low, her hair framing her face as she smiled widely at him in return.

He lowered the necklace carefully over her head and adjusted it around her neck. His warm, rough fingers brushed on her bare skin as he carefully settled it in place.

"There!"

Hancock shivered with a joyous grin before her fingers rose to brush the shells where they rested just under her throat. They were smooth against her fingers, and carried the scent of the bountiful ocean with them…

She felt her face heat up as she looped an arm around Luffy to draw him close. “It's lovely, darling Luffy,” she murmured fondly. “I haven’t gotten a gift like this in a good long while.” 

He scooped his arms around her, and rested his head on her chest, just under the dangling shells. "I know you already have a lot of pretty jewelry, but I wanted to make it for you."

Hancock’s fingers toyed with the ends of his hair as her chin rested atop his head, the pitter patter of love’s hurricane swirling inside her. She had all the jewels in the world— a trove of gold, silver, jewelry and priceless artifacts all taken in conquest of her enemies…

But there was something so priceless, so heart warming about a gift created for her by someone she loved.

“It’s all the more special to me for that, Luffy. I’ll wear it proudly, as a memory of the one I love.” 

Luffy looked up at her with his warm, dark eyes, and smiled happily, swaying back and forth with her on the beach.

"I'm glad."

[scottysketches]

wip wednesday on a thursday

Still working on chapter 4 (nearly done), so here's an excerpt to tide y'all over until it's published :)

—

“Do you know where we’re going?” Korkie asks him later that evening as he brushes his hair back from his face, looking at his father in the mirror. He’s dressed in a smart-yet-casual short sleeved shirt — white with vertical navy and beige stripes — and light blue twill jeans in a tapered fit, with casual sneakers in a blue-grey colour to match.

Obi-Wan glances up at him. “No, I don’t. All your mother told me is that Amis has organised a meal out for your birthday with us, Soniee, Lagos, Anakin and Padmé.” Obi-Wan himself doesn’t keep much in the way of smart clothing, but he does thankfully have a black shirt to match with the dark brown slacks he had worn for the housewarming dinner just a month previous, and a smart-ish chronometer on his wrist. He wears boots similar to the ones that make up the footwear for his regular Jedi attire, but they’re cut off at the ankles. His former padawan had taken Huyang back to the temple some time after lunch, and Obi-Wan had spent the next two hours with Korkie, beginning to teach him the basics of wielding his lightsaber in both its full cross-guard form and its dual wielding stance. He had been pleasantly surprised, and impressed, with how quickly Korkie had adjusted to the lighter weight of the lightsaber, compared to the beskad he had trained with on Mandalore.

Just then, Satine comes out of her bedroom, wearing a light blue floor-length dress that appears to float around her, with a darker blue jacket draped over her shoulders and a black leather purse in her hand. Her heels click on the wooden floor as she approaches them. “Are you ready?”

The men both look at each other, and Korkie shrugs. “I guess so. Where’s Amis? Is he meeting us there?”

Satine nods. “He asked me to drop him off at Lagos and Soniee’s apartment. But he’ll be coming back here tonight.”

They all step out onto the landing platform, the bi-fold doors automatically sliding shut behind them. Korkie whistles appreciatively as a smart black speeder lands at the end of the platform, its doors opening and revealing a plush interior, not visible from the outside due to the tinted windows. “This is a bit swank.”

Satine laughs. “Well, it’s not every day your young man turns twenty.” Korkie grins that familiar lopsided Kryze grin, wrapping his arms around his mother’s slim frame and hugging her tight. She presses a kiss to his cheek, and as they pull away from each other she muses aloud, “You’re all grown up, now. I’d like to think I did a good job.”

“Well, considering the circumstances, I’d have to agree,” Obi-Wan says, one hand rubbing Satine’s shoulders and the other resting on the back of Korkie’s neck.

His son thinks for a moment, and then says quietly, “My first birthday with my dad. That’s something special, in and of itself, I think.” They climb into the speeder, and take their seats as the doors close, the tint on the windows deepening.

Satine opens her purse and pulls out a small ring box. “Here. This is your gift from myself and Bo.”

Korkie takes the small box and flicks it open. Inside is a beskar ring, inlaid with haysian smelt, with a thin band and a wider, round top. (If Obi-Wan recalls correctly, Satine had once told him that such a ring was known as a sovereign ring.) The haysian smelt is embossed in the motif of a lily, the flower that represents Clan Kryze. His son’s eyes widen. “Is this—?”

“Your grandfather’s sovereign ring? Yes,” Satine answers. She looks slightly wistful; Adonai Kryze had been a hard man to please, though Obi-Wan knew that prior to his death he had eventually warmed to the idea of embracing a pacifist stance, to stop Mandalorians from wiping each other out. “After he and your grandmother died, a lot of their possessions at Castle Kryze were sent to me in Sundari. Most I put up for auction — such as my mother’s dresses and jewellery — but I kept my father’s ring, his armour and his beskad.”

“I don’t really remember them,” Korkie says. “They died when I was little, didn’t they?”

Satine nods. “You were only a baby when my mother passed, and you’d just turned one when my father followed her into the manda. We reconciled not long before that day — maybe a month — but he wanted you to have his ring when you turned twenty.”

Korkie removes the ring from its cushioned box and slides it onto his right index finger, testing its weight and the way it conforms to the shape of his finger. Looking up at Satine, he leans in and gives her another hug. “Vor’e, buir.” Satine smiles, smoothing their son’s hair back from his face when they separate.

“So, what did you two get up to, today?” she asks once Korkie has leaned back into his seat once more.

Obi-Wan and Korkie glance at each other. “Oh,” Korkie says awkwardly, “just… this and that.”

His mother’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Kohav Kryze, you are a terrible liar.”

Korkie winces. “Well, I think the major revelation from a few weeks ago would prove that statement wrong.” But he sighs, folding his arms over his chest. “We, uh, built a lightsaber together with the crystal in my toy tooka. Thanks for not telling me about that, by the way.”

Satine’s eyebrow arches, but she’s unable to hold back a laugh at Korkie’s snarky comment about his kyber crystal. “And where is this lightsaber now, then?”

“It’s in Korkie’s room at the moment,” Obi-Wan says, “but I’ll take it with me to the temple tomorrow and store it in my rooms for safe keeping.”

“What? Why?” Korkie sounds insulted.

Obi-Wan pins him in place with a look. “You need training. I don’t fancy being on the end of your mother’s wrath if you accidentally cut off a limb trying to parry a basic attack.” Korkie pouts, and Obi-Wan is reminded of when Anakin was just a young boy, childishly sulking over not being chosen to travel to the Jedi temple on Ilum for the Gathering as soon as he wanted.

—

Mando'a translations:

Beskad - slightly curved sabre of Mandalorian iron Beskar - Mandalorian iron Manda - the collective soul or heaven; the state of being Mandalorian in mind, body and spirit (also supreme, overarching, guardian-like) Vor'e, buir - Thanks, mum

[poemstoimmortalisehim]

Garden and her lover

Before you met me , I was a barren land, neglected and ruined. My trees were stripped bare of their luscious green leaves,picked apart and trampled on by the ghosts of past lovers. Not a single flower was in sight, every last one had wilted in misery crushed by the venomous wrath of hatred and agony trapped within my soil.

Even when some semblance of a seedling formed, she cowered her head in melancholy afraid to trust the warmth of love for fear of being burned again. The once flourishing myriad of fauna that thrived my grounds were now reduced to prickly thorn bushes stinging with painful memories of betrayals and broken hearts.

It was then you came into my garden like a drizzle of hope after a starving drought of despair. Like a mother's delicate touch you tended to my dirt with patience and planted the seeds of your love.

Even during the days when I was plagued with self-doubt and would conspire with the wind to scream at you that I may not bear the fruits of your painstaking labour,you would sit with me in silence and run your hand healingly through every insignificant shrub and weed that grew.

The once blush pale beating heart of my garden was turning crimson red with a newfound purpose just like the roses you planted.Soon arrived the morning glories always in awe of your beguiling smile ready to whisper sweet nothings and extend their vines with gratitude to feel your soft enduring palms.

Then came the lavenders with their saccharine fragrance that would send me into a childlike whimsy and entrance my head with thoughts of you. The lavenders were my favorite because it reminded me of your face that glistened with purple hue and purple meant passion,the sheer unwavering passion of yours that turned my disfigured soil into the Eden the gods blessed your kind with.

The edges of your temple wrinkled like the swirls of an old tree stump but unlike the sophisticated spirals of your exterior your heart remained guarded like a shy tulip worried if the world would mock the way the petals of your mind unfolded.

Yet, during the winter nights when you would rest your weary head on my grass patch saying your musings to the moon, I would listen clandestinely to the wisdom you gained from travelling treacherous rocky paths, how they scarred your feet but disciplined your mind.

You taught me humility so I won't gloat over my vibrant carnations but appreciate their impermanence as with the ever-changing unforgiving seasons and immerse in their exquisite beauty even if, just for a moment.

And just like the notion of love even if the cherry blossoms I cherished so dearly in spring were to wither I would console myself knowing that camellias in the winter would await me.

Like a sunflower that lifts up her glowing yellow petals with cheerful exuberance your perseverance taught me to look adversity in its monstrous pouncing eyes such that even if the sky in her envy were to send ravenous thunderstorms or the sun were to scorn upon us with his scorching glances I would not falter but continue to bloom in rebellion.

Yet I knew, when the vicious hearsays from ravens turned my spirits down you would let me revel in the shade of your strength like a tall and mighty banyan tree.

The butterflies who would travel from lands far away would be swayed by your lustful charm. And while my most eye-catching petunias and freesias would seduce them with sweet nectar and striking petals the fluttery beings would insist on sitting upon the throne of your nose and staring into the alluring blooming irises within your eyes.

My poppies would dance devotedly to the melodious cacophony of your voice and my lilies would wish for a trickle of your sweat to fall upon them so that they may taste salvation and shimmer with pollen of adoration in your presence.

The flowers in my garden shall forever be a testament to the unrelenting love and kindness you showed me and every last seed shall be born praising your name. Alas, my dear remember that when the nights get too lonely and the days filled with drudgery lean your tired frame against my branches so that I may caress your face with dandelion kisses and help you find the courage to sprout again just as you did with me.

-A.N

[enbysiriusblack]

Dorcas Meadowes hated Marlene Mckinnon.

They hated her eyes, a light greenish-blue that changed all the time. Swirling from an ocean blue, to an emerald green, to a light brown-ish hazel. But the black eyeliner that encirled her ever-changing eyes stayed a constant. Her eyes would crease with every smile, an infuriating glee shining from them.

They hated her stupid mouth, the dimples working as a mask to make Marlene seem cute. The red lipstick she always wore, and left marks everywhere, on mirrors, papers, skin. She had a small scar on her lip from her first quidditch game, but she wore it with pride, a cocky confidence only Marlene could achieve.

They hated her stupid hands. Ungroomed nails, bitten an uneven short length and half painted in black nail varnish that was half peeling off every finger. Her hands covered in doodles and old rings.

They hated her stupid hair, dyed blonde and smelling of bleach almost every couple weeks. The short length that stopped on her neck, making her hair twirl round her cheek. The cropped fringe always messed and out of place, as if begging Dorcas to fix it.

They hated her stupid voice. The upper class voice, showing of her wealth with every irritating word she spoke. That light Scottish accent that hung on every word, getting heavier with stronger emotion as if revealing Marlene's feelings.

They hated the stupid way Marlene sat and walked. She sat lazily, half off the seat when bored, and half standing up when excited. Emotions leaked from Marlene's every move, so open and freeing. She walked sloppily, as if her mother had told her to walk 'like a lady' and in defiance she chose the opposite in every step she took. So messy in every way, as if she couldn't care less what anyone thought. How idiotic, was she? Dorcas mused.

They hated those stupid freckles more than anything else. Scattered across her face, a few on her arms and hands. Freckles like tiny constellations, a sea of stars awash Marlene's body. They practically begged to be stared at, to be counted, to be kissed. Dorcas had seen someone kiss the freckle on Marlene's cheek. Lily Evans. The girl has kissed directly onto the freckle on Marlene's left cheek, and ever since it shone brightly to Dorcas. Something bubbled up in them every time they looked at it, and they wanted the memory if it being kissed gone. They were just stupid freckles.

Dorcas Meadowes hated Marlene Mckinnon.

[twoidiotwriters1]

Until The Very End -(WITS Sequel)

A/N: There is something so perfect about Merry in my head, I haven't been able to write another couple as utopian as them -Danny

Words: 2,310

Masterlist

Previous chapter // Next chapter

2010—2011

"That's not how dragons throw fires!" Emmeline squealed.

Harry looked up at the tree branch where his daughter was hanging and scowled. "Lin, I can't spit out fire, unless you want me to not talk ever again."

The toddler scrunched up her nose in the same way her mother used to when she was little. "Not that, daddy! I mean your head!"

Harry's confusion increased. "What do you mean?"

"Dragons don't raise their heads when they throw fire," Regulus walked out into the garden carrying James on one arm, the toddler was stuffing his face with biscuits. "They press to the ground, 'cause their targets are smaller than them."

It was the summer prior to Reg's fourth year at Hogwarts, and he was spending most of his free time at the Potter's house. He helped Mel and Harry with the kids when they were at work. Today, however, is Harry's thirtieth birthday.

Everyone had promised to pay a visit and celebrate together, but Mel was on the verge of getting her obscurial treatment project greenlit, so she was working even more than when she was researching for the werewolf cure, which leaves Reg and Harry to interact in a way they hadn't been able to in a long time.

"So I take your lessons with Hagrid are going well?" Harry grinned.

"They're my favourite! Apart from Charms, of course," Reg admitted, sneakily handing a biscuit to Emmeline as he approached her tree.

"Heard you're on your way to become the Captain of the duelling club," Harry raised a brow. "That's amazing, Mel is really proud of you."

"Yeah, mum is too. Says my dad was a good dueller."

"He was the best, he and my dad," Harry confirmed, then added quietly so Emmeline couldn't hear him. "Took advantage of it when they were younger, you know, in case that McLaggen kid tries to get the best of you."

Reg laughed. Whenever he did this, it kind of sounded like a bark. He had no way of knowing he inherited it from Sirius, but those who knew his father picked up on it as soon as they heard it.

"Dad!" Jamie swung his wooden sword around. "Matty and Lily woke up!"

They stayed silent for a second, the cries of Harry's younger children coming to them right away.

"Thank you, Jamie—Don't know how he does it, he's got super hearing," Harry chuckled, getting up from under the tree. "I'll go."

"No, no," Reg stopped him, putting James down and going back to the kitchen's entrance. "It's your birthday, let me do it."

"Looking after my kids isn't something I enjoy avoiding, you know?" Harry mused. 

"I know," the boy smirked. "But I rather deal with those two than the twins."

"Daddy, I'm stuck," Emmeline groaned in perfect timing, hanging upside down above her father's head. 

Mel fell on her bed groaning, absently rubbing her backside. "I'm starting to understand Fred a little, you know? Every family reunion we attend nowadays is packed with children..."

She rolled over and groaned again, so tired she couldn't bring herself to start changing into her night clothes.

"Am I allowed to ask how was work, or will you kill me if I bring it up tonight?" Harry teased her.

Mel glanced at him with the shadow of a smile. "You're a lost cause, Harry James Potter."

"Full name treatment?" He raised his brow. "What did I do?"

Mel pushed herself up to a sitting position. "Three whole decades and not a single one has been enjoyed at a proper pace, you just don't know how to relax, do you?"

"That's rich coming from you," he retorted, kicking off his shoes and crawling to her side.

"I'm a hard worker, that's different," Mel responded, kicking off her own shoes while he got closer. "I'd argue that I at least respect my birthdays."

"Mel, it's time you accept that my way of enjoying life is different from yours, that's all."

The woman eyed him sceptically. "Please, do elaborate."

"I don't enjoy my job, not exactly. I find it gratifying, that I catch dark wizards before they can do real damage, before they can ruin the world we built for our kids. Which brings me..." he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in. "To you."

"Me?"

"I know I ask you about work a lot," he continued happily. "But if I'm honest, I don't care about your job. You could be a stay-at-home parent and I would still ask about your day, 'cause it's my favourite part of our life together."

Mel frowned. "Really?"

"When we were twelve," he explained, casually helping Mel out of her robes. "I realized that life didn't feel right without your squeaky ramblings buzzing over my ear every day."

"Hey," Mel hit his chest, laughing. "Rude!"

"I'm going somewhere with this, let me finish!" He pressed, catching her wrist before she could push him away.

"Get on with it, then!"

"Well, then we started to spend more time apart, and when the bad times came... part of my comfort was knowing that I'd be the one who would die and not you, a life without your ramblings was a life not worth living."

Mel stared at him, her throat tightening against her will. "Harry..." she whispered. "Don't say that."

He kissed her palm. "I've always admired you for the way you handled everything. I saw it in your eyes that night, Mel, you had come to terms with it," he sighed. "I could never. I would've kept my promise 'til the last moments of the war, but not a moment after."

She spoke quietly, lovingly brushing his hair back. "You say that now 'cause you know you'll never have to do that, but just like you told me, you would've found someone else too."

Harry shook his head, pushing himself up and reaching for one of his shirts so Mel could change into it. "Like I'd be capable of forgetting that easily..."

"I wouldn't be forgetting..."

"My point is..." the man tossed the discarded clothes out of the bed and dressed his wife with gentle hands. "Hearing about your work it's a daily reminder that I'm living my dreams."

"Having a dull life was your dream?" Mel teased him.

"A life with you is never dull," Harry shrugged, then smirked. "Though I wouldn't hate it if you buy me a Quidditch team for Christmas."

"I'm sorry, sir, can you repeat that?"

"Mel, I never repeat myself, let alone when I know I've been heard," Mr Greengrass stated.

"If you wish to retire, I understand," she continued, still not able to breathe right. "But risking to sound rude, Mr Greengrass... Have you lost your mind?"

The man showed a big smile—the first one since she'd met him—and spoke in a bemused tone. "Miss Dumbledore, you are quite rude," he looked at her pointedly. "But only with yourself."

Mel sputtered out a reply and stopped, looking at him wide-eyed. "You just offered me your position in the Department of Mysteries, what am I supposed to do?"

The man looked away as if pondering her question. "Well, I'd start by moving the stuff from your desk to mine."

Mel laughed—with incredulity—and shook her head. "With all due respect, sir, there are Unspeakables here with more years of experience—"

"Other Unspeakables," he interrupted her, "lack your integrity, your intelligence, and your commitment to our cause. I've known, for twelve years now, that your heart is stronger than your magic, which is a good thing in our line of work. What we do here isn't just tinkering with ancient powers, and you..."

Mr Greengrass stood up and placed both hands on his desk, eyes shining.

"You care about making existence a beautiful experience for all kinds. You're the change the department so desperately needs."

Before Mel could argue, the old man raised a hand to stop her and brushed it off.

"Save it. I'm an old man, holding to my position any longer would rot the whole place. Better step out before I lose my good streak," he chuckled. "Do you know, out of all the good work I've done during my entire career, the one thing people bring out the most is your hiring?"

Mel laughed, feeling lots of gratitude. "I don't know what to say..."

"Say yes," he sighed, going back to his seat. "Some people might not like this, but no one with a good head on their shoulders would question your promotion, not after all you've done in the last decade."

"What about Erick Flint?" Mel questioned. "He's my equal in all the ways that matter. He ought to be considered for the spot too."

"Oh, he was," the man raised a brow. "Unfortunately for you, Mrs Dumbledore, he threatened to quit if I didn't choose you as my successor. But between you and I," he lowered his voice. "I know he's quitting anyway."

Mel smiled. Erick was planning to open a shop with Anne in Diagon Alley, but she thought that maybe he would reconsider if Mr Greengrass offered him his position. However, not even the chance to boss Mel around was enough to distract him from his own projects. 

Worse yet, now he'd be able to say he heroically rejected a job so Mel could get it, and he would definitely be insufferable about it for the rest of their lives.

Mel sat on her desk quietly, she could feel Erick's eyes on her, but she ignored him the whole time until their lunch hour.

"You're coming?" She asked, getting up from her chair.

Erick jumped out of his seat and hastily grabbed his stuff. "Yeah."

Mel conversed with him about everything except Mr Greengrass, and she was having a great time torturing him, seeing his expression get tenser the more she stalled. 

They found Ron, Hermione and Harry eating in the corner of their favourite cafeteria. Mel approached them and Erick followed, almost vibrating with expectation.

"Did you know Reggie won the duelling match last Tuesday?" She asked the whole group.

A stream of compliments and cheers came after that, from all except Erick, who loudly dragged his chair back and pushed his plate away. "Come on, Mel, spit it out!"

The group of friends stared at him in shock, but Mel started cackling.

"What's up with you two?" Ron frowned.

"Nothing, just Erick being his usual nosy self," Mel mused.

"I'm your best friend!" He argued.

"Oh, so that's what you want me to say?" Mel raised a brow, still laughing. "You want me to tell the others how generous you are, Prince? Like I don't know you weren't going to take the job in the first place!"

"Did you take it?" Erick asked eagerly.

"Two things," Ron intervened, lifting his fork and pointing it at Erick. "I'm Mel's best friend, you git. Second," he pointed his fork at Mel. "If you don't explain what's going on before the hour ends, I'll force-feed you veritaserum."

"Ron don't go around saying that!" Hermione scolded him. "What would people think if they heard an Auror threatening to misuse their resources?"

"They would think he's an idiot, trying to force-feed Mel Dumbledore anything," Harry responded with a grin. Then he turned his attention back to Mel and Erick. "So what's going on, then?"

"Mel got offered the position of Head of our department."

"What!"

"Are you joking?"

"What?" Harry looked at his wife in surprise. "And what did you say?"

Mel kicked Erick's leg under the table. "He's getting ahead of things! Mr Greengrass is retiring, yes, and he said he would like me to take his spot, but—"

Ron lifted his fork again, now with a carrot in it, to shut her up. "No buts! You're taking it!"

Mel was aghast. "I can't be the Head of the department!"

"So you could be Head Auror at nineteen but you can't be Head Unspeakable at thirty?" Erick taunted her. "I thought you'd grown out of being exasperating..."

"She takes breaks more often than before, but she hasn't quit it," Hermione joined his teasing. "Mel, this is silly, you deserve the position."

Mel fidgeted with her wand, sinking into her chair. "Being Head Auror was easy 'cause it wasn't so different from what I'd been doing back then... this is not the same."

"You'll get to review all projects, of each room in the Department of Mysteries," Erick counted. "Mel, this has been your dream since you were fifteen."

"But you're quitting this year," she frowns. "What if I discover that I hate the position? What if it turns out to be restraining, or I lose my mind a little like my uncle and—"

"You can change the rules, if they don't work there's no reason to keep them," Harry argued. "You told me that when I took your place. But after all you've been through, I doubt you'll be like Dumbledore, mostly 'cause you've learned from past mistakes, his and yours."

Mel heaved a sigh, running a hand through her hair. "A higher rank means less free time, less chances to go out and enjoy the kids..."

"I'll keep an eye on you, we all will," Harry assured her. "If you overdo it, we'll let you know. As Head Auror I'll be in the same meetings as you, I'll see you more often this way, like old times, don't you miss that?"

"I see you every day at home, so not really."

Erick and Ron snorted and laughed. Harry pouted a little. "Sometimes I wonder if you married me out of pity."

"Give it a try, Mel," Hermione patted her hand encouragingly. "We'll be right here if it doesn't work."

"I can always employ you as my secretary if you get fired," Erick joked.

Mel glared at him in annoyance and flicked his nose. "You should quit already."

"Ouch!" He turned back to Harry while rubbing his nose. "You know, sometimes I wonder if she's my friend out of obligation, too."

"Well, anyway, I hope you take the job," Hermione concluded. "You deserve it, and we're all supportive—it's great news."

Harry looked at her trying to convey all the sincerity and love he was feeling. "Whatever comes out of it, we'll manage."

Mel only smiled in response, stealing a piece of chicken from Ron's plate.

"Oh, and just to clarify," Hermione added, looking at Erick and Ron. "I'm Mel's best friend."

Next Chapter ->

Taglist.

@dee123ksha @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @reverse-hxlland @hamiltonwc @omiwashere @t-rexs-world @21bruhs @dielgonacoffee @thelastpyle @cedricisnotdead @greengarsstuff @aconfusedslytherin @talksoprettyjjx @avengersz-biotch @23victoria @moonhoonie @raajali3 @peachyaeger @espressopatronum454 @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual  @na1ven3vy @kai-wifey

[halfyearsqueen]

lily : how does your muse view their mother ?

BOTANICAL HEADCANONS / @wcrriorhearts

in rhaenyra's eyes, aemma was everything. she was perfect. she was this kind, gentle often weary presence who always had a nice word to say to everyone. she was a good queen, a good mother, and everything rhaenyra ever wanted to emulate with her own children. and she never seemed to hold it against her that her only surviving child was a daughter, and that in the eyes of some she ? didn't do her duty to her husband. that she failed him in not giving him a healthy son. and she was so ? grateful for that once she grew old enough for the societal importance of a son to really weigh on her. she was an eight year old child when aemma died. aemma's experiences and aemma's pain and losses colored much of how rhaenyra viewed her position, and how she viewed motherhood before and after she was one.

she thinks that her life was ? tragic. absolutely tragic. and the fact she was made heir only after aemma died is something so entirely frustrating to her those early years because if she had been worthy enough to be named heir then, why couldn't he have named her so before. aemma gave her entire life to the service of giving viserys an heir and a worthy successor and once she became that, she was going to make sure that she did, even if she wasn't a son. she was going to fight for it, and push herself consistently and constantly and go above and beyond what would've been expected of a male heir, so she would be worthy enough that it didn't matter that she wasn't a boy, that she'd earned her place. so it didn't matter she had three brothers who COULD take her place. that she'd made her mother's life and made her memory something that would be memorable in an altogether different way - that it wouldn't matter she didn't give the crown another king, that she would be the mother of the first ruling queen, that her memory would be more then just a footnote in westerosi history .

it solidifies a lot of her determination and why once she's given her position, she clings to it. because she's been around politics her entire life up to that point but she's never thought to want the throne because the assumption was always; she would have a brother to take it. and if she never had a brother, it was going to go to daemon. the memory of aemma and her kindness, her compassion, it gives her a lot of strength, and comfort as the years go on. and she modeled a lot of what she viewed as the idealized version of motherhood off of her own mother. she's the strongest woman that she's ever ? known. and she honors her memory even further by placing the arryn symbol on her banners once the dance breaks out. aemma was ? her motivation before she'd had children, a comfort when everything got to be too much to bear to pick herself up and keep going and keep fighting for her place at court.

her fear of pregnancy, and her fear of childbirth stems almost wholly from what she watched aemma experience. from what she'd heard of daella, and alyssa. and like during her pregnancy with jacaerys she ? her anxiety was mounting with the passing of every moon because she knew that ? even if he was born healthy, something could happen in the cradle. and she would be expected to try again, and that was a thing that was unbearable for her to think about. there was also the fear that he would be born a girl to contend with; that she would be placing her burdens on an innocent baby, and with the level of scrutiny and sexism she'd already faced from 111AC on, that alone was ? she personally ? would have very much been willing to leave her throne and titles to a daughter. but she also knew what she faced would become so much worse if it looked like absolute primogeniture was going to become precedent without any legal backing.

[sseditorialrunway]

The Supermodel

A Supermodel is a model who is, as we would put it in today's terms, 'booked and busy'. Famous supermodels include Naomi Campbell, Linda Evangelista, Carla Bruni, Gisele Bundchen and Tyra Banks, to name a few.

Frankie Raydar is a top model who reached supermodel status in the early 2000s. She was in such high demand that designers often paid her extra to cancel other bookings.

Often, a new group of supermodels emerge from the rest of the group. Supermodels walk in multiple highly publicised runway shows by notorious fashion houses and are the face of campaigns.

Here, Gisele walks the Dior 2003 runway show and stars in the Dior 2003 campaign.

Supermodels differ from standard models because they top runway shows, print covers, achieve double-page spreads and often wear the most expensive items in the collection. Celebrities will then wear these designs on the red carpets.

Models would historically become a designer's muse. Famous muses have been Amber Valetta for Versace, Adriana Lima & Tyra Banks for Victoria's Secret and Natasha Poly for Gucci. The rise of Victoria's Secret changed this.

Victoria's Secret was a popular runway show because they used supermodels in their runway shows and, of course, put bras and panties on display. They were one of the first brands to use technology to push the commercialism of the brand.

Being contracted to Victoria's Secret as an 'Angel' meant widespread attention for the models. This was a new pathway for models to reach supermodel status.

Models who could not book every show during fashion seasons could make it up during the 1-hour lingerie extravaganza.

The commercialisation of Victoria's Secret meant that angels who could not book fashion and beauty campaigns, they would still achieve circulation attention through the catalogue produced by the lingerie giant.

Models such as Heidi Klum, Alessandra Ambrosio, Selita Ebanks and Marisa Miller reached supermodel status this way. They didn't walk in many high fashion shows like the other girls but could command high salaries when they did.

That's another thing. Supermodels are paid far better than your average model. Supermodels command 5 figures for walking just one show. This ties into the point earlier about Frankie Raydar.

90s supermodels stood out with just their first names. Naomi. Tyra. Helena. Cindy. Tatiana. Linda. Claudia. Yasmeen. Kate. Shalom. Christy.

Early 2000s supermodels include Gisele. Frankie. Carmen. Karolina. Karen. Isabeli. Eva. Maggie. Amber. Caroline. Adriana. Alessandra. Selita. Fernanda. Michelle. Natalia. Note that most, if not all, of the models, have previously worked with Victoria's Secret.

The next generation of supermodels includes Daria. Natasha. Anja. Caroline. Snejana. Lily. Izabel. Racquel. Hana. Julia. Vlada. Jessica. Magdalena. Mariacarla. Gemma. Maryna. Eugenia. Doutzen. Andrea. Karmen. Abbey-Lee. Bianca.

After this, supermodels begin to fall off. Where there were supermodels, they were few are far between. Supermodels in this generation include Candice. Chanel. Jourdan. Cara. Karlie. Joan. Liu-Wen.

In recent times, it has become difficult for some to pinpoint a supermodel. Social media is the new pathway into superstardom, and girls no longer need to be scouted in the streets.

The early 90s supermodels are now mothers, and the new generation of top models is here. Top models include Gigi. Bella. Kendall. Kaia. Binx. Cara. Irina. Adut. Anok. Imaan. Sora. Rianne. Mica. Maty. Mona. Vittoria.

A supermodel must dominate both the runway and print side of the business. Star in many campaigns at once and command a high salary for a day's work.

There you have it. When someone mentions a 'supermodel', you understand what that means and a benchmark against which to measure.

Something can be said for Victoria's Secret angels being supermodels. However, their pulling power has dropped since the early days. They also don't walk in as many shows nor command high salaries from Victoria's Secret.

A key Victoria's Secret model who doesn't fit this stereotype is Grace Elizabeth. She books multiple campaigns and runway shows, including Versace and Chanel.

Celebrity doesn't traditionally equal supermodel status. However, if a model's celebrity causes them to land multiple covers and book multiple shows in one season, they may qualify for supermodel status.

[iamvercnika]

lilac + lily !!

lilac : what was your muse’s childhood like ? how has their upbringing affected them as they’ve aged ?

ㅤㅤ#𝒱 : "my...  childhood?"  veronika's  smiling  but  there's  fury  in  her  voice,  "i'm  not  sure  if  you  can  even  call  it  that  way."  her  fingers  flex  as  she  shuffles  in  her  seat,  "okay,  i  think  i'm  overreacting  a  little  bit,  but  it's  not  like  i'm  saying  a  lie.  my  childhood  was  bad,  and  i  don't  have  any  good  memories  of  it."  veronika  looks  away  as  she  hugs  herself  (  whether  it's  for  reassurance  or  fear  is  not  known  ).  "after  she  was...  admitted,  it's  like  i  finally  had  my  first  breath.  i  unfortunately  had  to  learn  the  hard  way  to  survive,  so  it's  only  me  that  takes  the  credit  for  it;  not  anyone  else.  just  me."

lily : how does your muse view their mother ?

ㅤㅤ#𝒱 : "a  piece  of  shit,"  she  simply  answers.  "oh⎯  i'm  sorry,  i  shouldn't  speak  like  that  about  the  elderly,"  her  tone  is  sarcastic  and  she  has  a  fake  smile  on  her  face.  "every  good  thing  that  i  thought  about  her  vaporized  the  moment  i  understood  my  home  situation⎯  which  didn't  take  long."  she  subconsciously  touches  her  right  knee,  "i  can’t  forget  the  pain  she  caused,  but  i  also  can’t  deny  that  she’s  a  part  of  me."

"that's a real bitch, isn't it?"

( prompt. )

[jackiesarch]

edelweiss, forget-me-not, lily, and peony for isabel and maura?

edelweiss: what was the bravest moment in your muse’s life? are they known to be courageous from then on?  

MAURA — Running away. Running away. I actually think about this a lot so forgive me if I wax a little poetic but the bravest thing she ever did was escape from the hunters that held her captive. She was stuck with them for fifteen years — you know that bit in TLOU in Pittsburgh where the hunters are laughing and joking about what they’ve done to random civilians? About hunting them down and killing them for fun? She had to listen to that every day for fifteen years, and the only reason they didn’t do it to her too is because she served a purpose. They took her shoes so she couldn’t run, they fed her to keep her alive, and she was so scared of leaving that for fifteen years she stayed there. Maura’s bravest moment was running away. It was making a plan with the one man in the group who was sympathetic to her, who didn’t know how he ended up with them in the first place and didn’t know how to get himself out now. And then, when she knew what she was going to do, it was leaving him behind while she escaped somewhere she hoped was better.

As for courageous from then on? I like to think she was always courageous in her own way, even before the outbreak, and I like to think that extends after Jackson as well. Is she terrified of everything that could happen to her? Of course. Would she face the fear head on and die fighting if she had to? Absolutely.

tw for suicidal ideation and human experimentation under the cut!

ISABEL — Not killing herself. That’s a silly thing to say in a lot of ways all things considered, but it’s true. The single act of not destroying herself after she figured out what she was, after what she’d done to people without even knowing she could, is the bravest thing she’s ever done. She could have given into the misery and the betrayal and the anger and the grief, but in the end, she didn’t. She taught herself how to control her powers, and then she used her skills for good. She used them to help people. And I think in her circumstances that’s the bravest thing she ever could have done.

forget-me-not: has your muse ever forgotten something that is or was important to them? are they afraid of forgetting things like that?  

MAURA — This ties in a bit to the question below, but her mother’s voice. Memory is fallible at the best of times, and with everything that happens post-outbreak, after twenty years Maura cannot remember the sound of her mother’s voice. She can picture her face perfectly, but trying to remember the last time Hazel said “I love you” or the way her laugh sounded is a shot in the dark at best. And yes — the thought of more memories disappearing like that terrifies her.

ISABEL — There’s nothing she’s forgotten yet, really, but she has a deeply ingrained fear that one day she won’t remember how she felt after she killed somebody. She tries not to linger on the fact that she did it, because it’s not going to change that it happened — but she’s scared that one day the horror will be just another memory and not the thing that fundamentally changed her. That feeling is what motivated her to turn the tragedy into a positive, and it would kill her to forget that motivation.

lily: how does your muse view their mother?  

MAURA — Maura loved her mom so much. Hazel was a single mother, and Maura never knew her dad, so Hazel was really all she had her whole life. They were attached at the hip. Leaving Kansas to go to college broke her heart, because it meant having to leave her mama.

One of her biggest regrets (not that she had much choice in the matter) is never getting to find out what happened to her mother after the outbreak. She’s thought about it from the moment she ended up in quarantine zone to the moment she stepped foot into Jackson. She’ll never stop wondering.

ISABEL — Sorry in advance for the info dump, but backstory is necessary for this one.

In her original MCU canon, Iz is a mutant with cryokinetic abilities. Her parents inadvertently discovered that she carried the mutant gene when she was a little girl, three or four years old, when Isabel underwent medical testing for an unrelated issue.

This was not a favorable outcome for Roman and Rosella Maretti. Roman is a highly regarded thoracic surgeon, and Rosella is a fashion adviser for Chanel — to them, an abnormal child was unacceptable.

So — after much discussion — Roman and Rosella decided it would be best to put their daughter through a high-risk, extremely experimental treatment designed to suppress mutant abilities in those carrying the gene. It worked. And then it didn’t. One minute, Isabel thought she was an average young woman slogging her way through life. The next, she was standing on a subway platform in New York City staring down in abject horror at the two people she’d just frozen to death without knowing how she’d managed to do such a thing.

So you can imagine how she feels about her parents after she finds out what happened and what they did to her.

All that is to say that there is no relationship between Isabel and her mother. It was always fraught and strained before The Incident, mostly because Iz never had any interest in following the plan her mother (and her father, to a lesser extent) envisioned for her life. They argue explosively, borderline violently, and Iz is still somehow never able to completely remove her from her life. The unspoken obligations of a relationship between a mother and her daughter, right?

She does manage to cut her off, though. After she learns what her parents did to her, she never speaks to them again. Ever.

Long story short: Iz views her mother in a very negative light. Deeply negative.

Sorry. So sorry.

peony: what would a ‘happy life’ look like in your muse’s eyes?

MAURA — A safe life. Something secure. She knows nothing is guaranteed in a post-apocalyptic world, but she has seen so much — good things and bad — and all she wants to have for the rest of her life is something safe she can rely on. Happy life for Maura is sitting on her front porch with her dog keeping her feet warm, listening to her idiot husband sing off-key in the kitchen. She just wants somewhere comfortable.

ISABEL — Something meaningful. I really struggle with what Isabel would want for the rest of her life; she’s one of those people who seems to just…float from thing to thing without ever settling on solid ground. I think she’s never really known what she wants, and I think a lot of that comes from her mother and father trying to decide for her. All that aside — happiness is probably finding her place. Finding a place she belongs with people who care about her, not about who or what she is. A happy life for Isabel Maretti would be getting away from a long line of homes that “almost” fit, and finding instead the one that does.

[dreamfyre03]

A Dragon's Love

Warnings: Minor Violence

Dividers by: @zaldritzosrose

Header by: @zaldritzosrose

Chapter 14: The Wrath of Aemond Targaryen

After returning to King’s Landing, and informing the council of Lucerys’s death, he wanted nothing more than to be in Daenys’s arms. He longed to inhale her scent of jasmine and lilies, to hear her soft voice comfort him, after being screamed at by his mother, and yelled at by his grandfather. Thanks to him, the first strike of war had been landed. The greens made the first move. 

He took the tunnels to her rooms, and when he entered, he stood there briefly, stunned. Her dresses, her books, her parchments and perfumes, all gone. Nothing of hers was left, except the lingering scent of her in the sheets. With a rage he was becoming more familiar with every passing second, he stormed the council room for the second time that day, jolting them all in surprise, and asked darkly, “Where is she?” Aegon looked at him confused, while his mother and grandfather exchanged a look. “Where is she?” He yelled, slamming his fists onto the table, as his eye darkened with anger. 

“Where is who?” Aegon asked, genuinely puzzled. “Our sister.” He spat, and Aegon sat up in concern. “She isn’t here?” Aegon paled as he said the words, no doubt thinking the worse.

His grandsire rose, and said, “She is safe. She is off acting on behalf of the crown.” Aegon stood, his face serious. “How can she be acting on behalf of the crown? I certainly haven’t sent her anywhere.” He said to the Hand. “Where is my sister, Lord Hand?” Aegon asked again. 

“Clear the room.” Aemond addressed the council. They hesitated, glancing back at Otto, then Aemond. “You heard my brother. Clear the room.” Aegon said harshly, his gaze never leaving their grandfather.  The men of the council scrambled out of the room, leaving the brothers alone with their mother and grandsire. 

“Tell me where she is. Now.” Aemond drew his sword, much to the horror of his mother. “Aemond, please!” She cried out, looking to Aegon desperately, but he ignored her. “She’s on her way North. To wed Cregan Stark.” His grandsire finally said. 

Aemond felt his blood run like fire. No, no, he wouldn’t let this happen. She was his, no one else’s 

“You grant yourself the power to decide my sister’s marriage without so much as my input? She is sister to the King, and you do not even deem it necessary to inform me of my sister’s departure?”  Aegon shouted angrily. 

Aemond stood there, in silent rage, his mother watching him fearfully, no doubt praying for her father’s life. Good. She should be. “Your sister knew what she had to do. We need the north’s support, she will do her part to get it for us. I made her understand this, and she is willing to do her duty. As we all must.” His grandsire said stiffly. “Your forget which of us sits the throne, and wears the conqueror’s crown. Get out.” Aegon said lowly. His mother and grandfather looked at him, no doubt in shock to see him actually act like a King for the first time since he was crowned. “Both of you. Get out!” He yelled. 

They both walked out briskly, and when the brothers were alone, Aemond said, “I won’t let her marry Cregan Stark.” “I know.” 

“Someone else must have known she was leaving.” Aemond mused. They both seemingly thought the same thing, and quickly made their way to Helaena’s rooms. 

As they burst through the doors, they saw Daeron, who just arrived, sitting with her, as they talked and played with the children. “Did you know?” Aemond cut them off. Helaena shook her head. “My maid gave me this letter the moment you were spotted returning on Vhagar. It is for me, Aegon and Daeron. This one is for you.” She handed him a letter, where he recognised his sister’s familiar cursive scrawl. 

His heart pounded as he opened it, and Aegon sat with their sister to read the other letter. My love,

By the time you read this, I will be on the roads to Winterfell. I want to apologise, for leaving without saying goodbye. I was ordered by your grandsire to not tell any of you, I sense he knew our closeness would prompt unwanted resistance, and he wanted me to leave and secure the North’s support through a marriage alliance as soon as possible. As much as it pains me to admit, he is right. Aegon needs as much support as he can get from the noble houses. I have spent the days since his coronation flooded with nothing but worry and fear for all our lives, helpless to do anything. Do not for a moment think that my leaving has to do with the feelings in my heart changing. This couldn’t be further from the truth. You spoke the truth, brother, when you said the gods made us to burn for each other, together. I realise that now. But I cannot bear the thought that me forsaking my duty means a greater chance of losing our family. Although I am to be Lord Stark’s wife, my heart, my soul, my desires, are forever yours. I pray that the passage of time allows you to forgive me, so that when we meet again, you hold no ill will against me for leaving. I would rather us be apart, but know you are alive, than watch you die knowing I could have prevented it. My darling brother, my love, my dragon. We will meet again soon. 

-Your beloved sister, 

Daenys. 

Aemond let out an angry shout as he punched the wall, making his niece and nephews jump in fear. He didn’t even hear Helaena instruct her maid Diana to take them out to the gardens. Aegon sat across from Daeron and Helaena, the conqueror’s crown off his head, and on the table between them. “What did yours say?” He asked them. “That she’s sorry she left without goodbye, that she loves us all, and is doing her duty to make sure Aegon’s claim is stronger against Rhaenyra. To keep us safe.” Daeron answered quietly, as Aegon seemed to be staring into space. 

“She’s always been looking out for all of us. Our whole lives.” Aegon said suddenly, breaking the silence that had descended upon them. 

None of them responded. The truth hung over them all as they realised that she was gone, off to marry to try and keep them safe, something she had tried to do all her life. While their grandsire used them as pawns, and their mother often followed his stead, she was there, since they were children, at for every injury in the training yard, every argument, every flight atop their dragons, always with her kind smile and loving heart, even when some of them didn’t deserve it. He remembered when Daeron was first sent to Oldtown, how his little brother cried, and Daenys soothed him, promising to write to him as often as they both could, for just because he would be somewhere else didn’t mean she would forget him. And she never did, writing to him all the time.

Helaena sniffled, crying silently at the reality of their sister being gone all the way North, not knowing when they would see her again, knowing they wouldn’t see her smile everyday, or hear her laugh, watch her fly Meraxa, or play with the children. 

Daeron wrapped his arm around their sister, quietly soothing her, and Aemond heard Aegon say, “I couldn’t give a shit about the North’s support. She doesn’t want to marry Stark. Her place is here, and that is where she must stay.” “I’m going to get her back. I won’t entertain this for another moment.” Aemond said, and as he was about to leave and go to mount Vhagar, their mother entered, with a seemingly battered and bruised Ser Arryk. 

“Something’s happened.” She said quietly, unable to look at them. Aemond felt his heart clench. 

Ser Arryk looked between Aegon and Aemond nervously, as Aegon instructed the man, “Speak.” “My King, I was with the guards escorting the Princess Daenys to Winterfell. We were ambushed, and I was knocked unconscious. When I came to, the Princess was gone.” He revealed. 

Aemond drew his dagger, and had the man backed into the wall, his dagger pressing against his throat in a flash. “You mean to tell me, the Princess was kidnapped? Under your watch?” Aemond growled, pressing the knife in deeper, feelings great satisfaction when he saw blood begin to seep through. “Aemond!” His mother shouted, pulling him off the knight. 

“This is all your fault!” Aegon shouted angrily at her. “You sent her away, without even telling your King, and now, my sister might be dead, or gods know what else!” He continued.

“Leave, mother. Aegon and I will decide what to do from this point on. If our grandsire so much as lifts a finger, I will cut it off myself.” Aemond warned her. She nodded, and quickly left the room with Ser Arryk behind her. 

The siblings were left alone again, nothing but the sound of Helaena’s sobs muffled as she wept on Daeron’s chest filled the room. “I will find her.” Aemond vowed. 

As he spoke, the siblings heard Meraxa screeching and roaring out painfully into the sky. “I will rain down Fire and Blood on every man, woman and child in this Kingdom, but I will find her. And whoever took her from me will know my wrath.” 

Daenys awoke with a pounding sensation in her head, and she groaned as she sat up in the bed. As her eyes opened, she took in her new unfamiliar surroundings, the walls grey and carved of stone, with rich tapestries adorning the wall. She could hear the waves crashing into rocks outside, so she knew she couldn’t be in Winterfell. Her dress was slightly torn, and she looked in the mirror, and saw bruises on her chest and a cut on her forehead. Where was she? She went to the door, and tried to open it, but it was locked, and she banged on it with her fists, shouting at her unknown captor to let her out. There was no response, and after shouting and screaming for what felt like hours, she gave up, with nothing to show for her efforts but a hoarse throat. She ran over to the window, and saw the ocean stretching out into the distance, and black, sharp, jagged rocks on the ground below her. The door opened, and she turned around to face her captor. “Rhaenyra?” She gasped. “Sister.” Was her cold response. Her sister seemed to have aged rapidly in the days since she last saw her. Her eyes bore dark circles, her eyes red, her skin dull and tired. She wore their father’s crown. “What am I doing here? Where am I?” She asked. “You are on Dragonstone. You are here, because you are a traitor to the crown.” She answered. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out about your plot to wed Cregan Stark on behalf of our traitorous brother, and win the North’s alliance?” “Sister, please understand-“ “No!” Rhaenyra shouted, angry tears brimming her eyes. “Any kindness and understanding I might have extended to you for our father’s sake died when you stood by our half brother’s side when he stole my crown. They killed my baby, then they took my son!” She yelled, and Daenys just realised the bump of Rhaenyra’s belly had disappeared, and tears filled her own eyes as well. “I’m so sorry, Rhaenyra-“ She began but her sister wouldn’t hear it. “I don’t want your apologises. They took my daughter, then my son. Aegon will pay for this, they all will.” “Your son?” Her mind immediately went to Jace. 

Her sister laughed almost manically. “Oh have you not heard? The brother you love so, who dotes upon your every word for all to see, he and his dragon killed my son in the skies above Storm’s End. My son, my Luke,” Her sister wiped away her tears, willing herself not to cry. Daenys approached her carefully, and said as she too wept, “I am sorry for your loss, sister.” 

Rhaenyra looked at her with angry eyes, as if stunned at her words, then raised her hand and slapped her, and Daenys felt the stinging sensation as she heard the sound echo throughout the room. “You do not get to mourn him. Or cry for him. You love our traitorous brothers so much, perhaps I’ll send your head back to them. Either way, get comfortable, sister. You aren’t going anywhere.” Rhaenyra said cruelly as she got up and shut the door behind her. 

Leaving Daenys alone, with nothing but the pain in her heart and the bruises on her body. 

[prxenuntius]

bluebell, iris and lily !!

bluebell :   does your muse learn from their past ,   or are they prone to repeating the same mistakes ?  

Keisuke is great at adapting, he is wise and he will learn from every experience he goes through, except for one thing... Asking for help. And is not because he thinks it is weak to do so or anything, he is just so convinced he can manage by himself he never does, he doesn't want to burden.

iris :   if your muse could convey one last message to someone they have lost or left behind ,   what would it be ?

"I am so so sorry, I am an idiot! I should have trusted my gut. Please don't leave, we need you, Mikey needs you."

&

"This isn't your fault, neither of you is responsible. These are the consequences of my own decisions and actions and I have to pay them. I need to atone for my past. I only wish I could stay more time with all of you."

lily :   how does your muse view their mother ?

Keisuke loves his mother! He will still act annoyed if in front of her

Their personalities are very similar and he knows and is okay with this (she raised me on her own, who else would I be like? He thinks), they show love for each other in a tough way but he knows he is fortunate for her, for how she loves him, especially after meeting Kazutora. They fight as a love language and even if they complain about each other they've got each other's backs.

He just wants to make her proud and happy. Give back some of what she has had to sacrifice for him.

[bccksmarts]

VERSE NOTES ➝ Sherlock

Just more verse notes as I've been rewatching the show and I might be a tad obsessed ♡

These notes are 100% up for change, especially if people feel like including their muses!! This is just how I see things going or could go if HP muses were to be involved in some way, shape or form ♡

This verse, even though it's clearly a crossover, can also be taken as a Muggle AU! Basically the world where magic doesn't / never existed.

And a little reminder that Hermione, in this verse, is not a Granger. She's a Holmes.

• The Malfoys, primarily Lucius Malfoy, are members of the Government.

•  Like Mycroft, Lucius Malfoy is a Government Official. He sits on the seats as most of the important Government members do, such as Mycroft Holmes. •  Lucius is one of the more snobby and shady members of the Government, who has strong distaste for the Holmes'—specifically Sherlock Holmes and especially Mycroft Holmes, and by extension, Sherlock's only child & daughter, Hermione. • Lucius has a strong dislike for Hermione due to her besting his son, Draco, in most ( if not every ) lesson they have together, always walking out of exams with perfect marks. He goes home and does nothing but complain about her.   ⤷ Molly tells Hermione it's just a school boy with a crush on her, which    at a young age, makes the little Holmes cringe and gag. •  Narcissa is the high class ❛do things behind the scenes❜ wife and mother. She goes out for tea and events with women of similar standing, making sure her son is well taught, tailored, prim and proper, whilst trying to keep her husband in line.

• The Weasleys

•  So similarly to how it would be at Hogwarts, all the Weasleys, ( Ginny, Ron, Fred, George, Percy, Bill & Charlie ) all attend the same school that Hermione attends. A mix class school, all the children in different year groups, but basically exactly as it was at Hogwarts. How Molly Weasley manages, we'll never know. •  Arthur Weasley is also a Government official, sat on the same row of tables as Lucius Malfoy and Mycroft Holmes, but digs more into the things that people of the Government deem as "little" / unimportant.

• The Potters are NOT infamous.

•  Harry is still born to James Potter and Lily Potter ( neé Evans ), but unlike the movies and books, James and Lily are still alive and thriving, raising their son Harry without a worry of murder in the world, just a normal family, really. •  That being said, Harry still grows up with the same, kind attitude as he usually does, but having a lot less trauma following behind him, still becoming best friends with Ronald Weasley and Hermione Holmes. •  James Potter is a member of the Government, but on a lower tier compared to Mycroft, Lucius and Arthur. He also coaches the "Gryffindor" football team on the afternoons when he isn't working, teaching Harry, Ron, Ginny, Fred, George and other kids / teens how to play.   ⤷ Football is where Harry & Draco kick off their rivalry, and where    Hermione goes to stick up for her friends, calling Draco a "spoilt little    brat" for his father buying his position and her a "filthy little trollop". •  Harry's got two non-blood related uncles, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, and a God-son, Teddy Lupin, who are all alive and well. Sirius has still been to jail for being framed for some sort of murder, and Remus has scars from a dog ( or wolf ) attack.

• The Teachers at school are the exactly same, just less magical

•  I don't think I need to make note, but I will. Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Albus Dumbledore, and lots of other professors are now just plain teachers. Albus Dumbledore is still the headmaster, but dies in their sixth year of old age, having Minerva McGonagall take over as Headmistress.   ⤷ The subjects that they will teach is totally open for people's muses of    them to interpret! •  This also means that if people make their muses teachers, like Hermione for example, they'd just be plain teachers, following on from their old mentors above them.