#obsidian from distant lands. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

novaursa · 18 days

Text

Hour of the Wolf

- Summary: Cregan keeps his promise to you, and delivers Northern justice to the South.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: These events happen right after The Wolf's Flame. To read all parts of this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This is the last part (conclusion) for this series.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

The cold wind that blows down from the North seems to follow him even here, into the heart of the South, where the air is usually filled with the warmth of the sun. Yet today, the skies over King’s Landing are heavy with a gray pallor, as if the gods themselves know that justice is at hand. You are not here to witness this, but you are the reason for it. Every step Cregan Stark takes is one of duty, but also of love—love for you, his Y/N, his beloved wife, and the mother of his children.

The streets of King’s Landing tremble under the march of Northern boots, the sight of direwolf banners casting long shadows against the red stone walls. Cregan’s expression is as hard and unyielding as the land he comes from, his gray eyes focused on the path ahead. He is the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf in the South, and today, the Hour of the Wolf has come.

Outside the Red Keep, the air is tense, the men around him anxious. They know what he is capable of; they know the purpose behind his presence. Justice. It is the promise he made to you, and the promise he will fulfill. Waiting at the gates, he finds two figures—one is the boy king, Aegon, the youngest of your mother’s children, and the other is Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, your grandfather.

Aegon stands tall, but there is a shadow in his violet eyes, a weight that he has carried since he took his place as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Corlys, too, has the look of a man who has seen too much, but still, there is a fire in him, one that refuses to die despite the years of war and loss.

As Cregan approaches, it is Aegon who speaks first, his voice steady despite the turmoil that surrounds him. “Lord Stark, we have been expecting you.”

Cregan nods, his gaze unwavering. “And I have come as promised. The South will know the meaning of Northern justice.”

Corlys steps forward, his eyes sharp as they search Cregan’s face. “The traitor Aegon II is dead, found poisoned in his chambers,” he announces, his tone devoid of satisfaction, yet also lacking in sorrow. “The throne is now secure, but the realm is not yet at peace.”

For a moment, the air is still, as if even the city itself is holding its breath. Cregan’s expression does not change, but there is a flicker in his eyes—a glimmer of something darker. “The death of Aegon II was too swift,” he says, his voice low and filled with the cold of the North. “He deserved more for what he did to your family, for what he did to my wife.”

Aegon shifts uncomfortably, but Corlys holds Cregan’s gaze, understanding the weight behind those words. “Justice has been served, in one way or another,” the Sea Snake says, his voice carrying the wisdom of his years. “But what of your children, my grandchildren? How are they?”

The question brings a softness to Cregan’s hard exterior, a flicker of warmth that only thoughts of you and your children can invoke. “They are well,” he answers, a hint of pride in his tone. “Safe in their mother’s embrace, in the heart of Winterfell. And Killian, our eldest, has had a dragon hatch from Thraxata’s clutch. A fine beast, worthy of a Stark and a Velaryon.”

Corlys’s eyes widen at the news, and even Aegon’s lips twitch in something that almost resembles a smile. The thought of a new dragon, born of your bonded dragon, Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, a creature of polished obsidian and violet fire, is enough to stir the blood of even the most hardened man. It is a symbol of your strength, your legacy, and the legacy of the children you have borne with Cregan.

The Sea Snake nods, his gaze distant as he considers the future. “A new dragon, a new beginning,” he murmurs. “Perhaps there is hope yet for this broken realm.”

Cregan does not reply immediately. Instead, he turns his gaze toward the towering walls of the Red Keep, a place that has seen too much bloodshed, too many betrayals. He thinks of you, of the letters you exchanged before he rode South, the promises made between you. He is here to fulfill those promises, to ensure that your family, your children, will inherit a world where they can grow without the shadow of war looming over them.

Finally, he speaks, his voice as unyielding as the North. “Hope is something that must be earned,” he says. “And I will see to it that this realm is worthy of the children it will one day belong to.”

With that, Cregan Stark, the Wolf in the South, turns his back on the Red Keep, his mind already turning to the tasks ahead. There is still much to be done, and he will not rest until justice, true justice, has been delivered. For you, Y/N, for your children, and for the memory of your family.

As he walks away, the wind picks up, carrying with it the chill of the North—a reminder that Winterfell, and all that it holds dear, is never far from his thoughts.

The throne room of the Red Keep is a place of power, but also of shadows—of secrets whispered in the dark and blood spilled on the cold stone floor. Today, however, it is a place of judgment. Cregan Stark, the Wolf of the North, stands before the Iron Throne, his presence imposing, his expression as cold as the winter winds that sweep across his homeland. The crown has been secured, the usurper dead by poison, but the realm still bleeds, and it falls to him to stitch its wounds.

He takes his position as Hand of the King with a heavy heart, but with unshakable resolve. Justice must be done, and he is here to see it through, not for his own glory, but for you, his beloved Y/N, and for the future you share. He remembers the words he once whispered to you in the quiet of your chambers, promises made in the stillness of Winterfell: to protect, to avenge, to make the world safer for your children. Today, he begins to fulfill those promises.

Before him stand nineteen men, the accused, each bearing the weight of their sins. Traitors, conspirators, men who played their parts in the bloodshed that tore the realm apart. They are the remnants of a conflict that has claimed too many lives, the final vestiges of a regime that crumbled beneath the weight of its own ambition.

Cregan’s voice rings out in the hall, deep and unwavering, as he addresses them. “You stand accused of treason, of betrayal to the crown, and of crimes that have brought the realm to the brink of ruin. Justice is what I seek, and justice is what you will receive.”

The room is silent, the tension thick as his words hang in the air. There is no mercy in his tone, no room for doubt or leniency. The eyes of those before him are filled with a mixture of fear and resignation. They know what is coming, and they know there is no escape.

Cregan’s gaze moves across them, his expression unreadable as he delivers the sentence. “Those of you who have been found guilty, you will take the black. You will live out the remainder of your days on the Wall, defending the realm you have betrayed. Your lives are forfeit, but the Watch will have your service.”

There is a murmur among the accused, some relief, some despair. The Wall is a harsh fate, but it is life, of a sort. But not all will receive such a sentence, and they know it.

Cregan turns his gaze to the two men who stand apart from the others, Lord Larys Strong and Ser Gyles. They do not flinch under his scrutiny, though they know what fate awaits them. They are men who have accepted their end, men who understand that the blood they have spilled cannot be washed away by mere words.

“For you,” Cregan continues, his voice colder now, “there will be no such mercy. Lord Larys Strong, Ser Gyles Belgrave, you have been judged, and your sentence is death.”

The room is silent again, the weight of his words settling over all who are present. Cregan steps forward, the greatsword Ice in his hand, the Valyrian steel gleaming in the dim light of the throne room. It is a blade that has seen many executions, a blade that carries the history of House Stark in every inch of its steel.

Without hesitation, Cregan raises Ice, his muscles rippling beneath his furs as he prepares to deliver the final justice. The men before him kneel, heads bowed, accepting their fate. It is a grim task, but one that must be done. For you, for your children, for the future of the realm.

The blade comes down, swift and sure, and in a single stroke, both men fall. Their heads roll across the cold stone floor, the blood pooling at Cregan’s feet. The sound echoes in the chamber, a final, resounding note of justice delivered.

Cregan stands over the fallen men, Ice still in his hand, his breath steady. He feels the weight of his duty, the coldness of the act, but also the warmth of satisfaction. It is done. The traitors have paid for their crimes, and the realm can begin to heal.

As he steps back, wiping the blood from Ice with a cloth handed to him by one of his bannermen, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the open windows of the throne room, a small scroll tied to its leg, the wax seal of Winterfell visible even from a distance.

Cregan’s heart skips a beat as he takes the scroll, recognizing the seal immediately. It is from Maester Kennet, and he knows what news it carries. He breaks the seal with a steady hand, though inside, his emotions swirl. The paper crinkles as he unrolls it, and he reads the words written in the familiar script.

"Lord Cregan,

It is with great joy that I inform you that Lady Y/N has given birth to a healthy son. Both mother and child are well. The boy has been named Rickon, after your noble father. Winterfell rejoices at the birth of its heir, and we await your return.

Maester Kennet"

Cregan’s heart swells with a warmth that almost overcomes him. Rickon. Another son, another piece of the future you will build together. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to picture you in the great hall of Winterfell, holding your newborn son in your arms, surrounded by Killian and Alysane. He can see their smiles, hear the laughter that will fill the halls once more.

He tucks the letter away, the coldness of the throne room fading as he turns to leave. His duty here is nearly done, and soon, he will return to you, to your children, to Winterfell. He will hold his son, he will see your face, and he will feel the warmth of home once more.

But for now, he is still the Wolf in the South, the Hand of the King, and there are still tasks that must be completed before he can return to you. He steels himself, knowing that with every step he takes, he is one step closer to home, one step closer to you and the life you have built together.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, its warmth chasing away the chill of the Northern winds that rattle the ancient stones of Winterfell. The room is quiet, filled with a peaceful stillness that you savor, holding your newborn son close to your chest. Little Rickon, barely a few days old, sleeps soundly in your arms, his tiny breaths warm against your skin. His dark lashes rest against his pale cheeks, so much like his father’s, and you can already see the strength in his small features, a promise of the man he will one day become.

You sit in a chair by the fire, wrapped in furs that keep you warm and comfortable. The weight of your son is a soothing comfort, grounding you in this moment, despite the swirling thoughts that sometimes pull your mind southward, toward King’s Landing, where your husband, Cregan, now walks paths that you wished you could have shared with him.

It was a hard decision, staying behind. You wanted to be there at Cregan’s side, to see justice served for what was done to your family. But the weight of your pregnancy had kept you here, in the North, far from the seat of power and the vengeance that now unfolds. You had argued, begged even, but Cregan, in his stern but loving way, had insisted. His duty was there, and yours, he said with a gentle hand on your belly, was here, with the child you were carrying and the children who needed their mother.

You sigh softly, glancing across the room where your other children play. Killian, your eldest, is sprawled on the floor, his dark hair a wild tangle as he wrestles with a small dragon, a hatchling from Thraxata’s clutch. Vexion, as Killian named him, is a striking creature, barely larger than a hunting hound, with scales of deep midnight blue that shimmer like sapphires in the firelight. His wings, though small, are strong and powerful, the membranes tinted in the same shades of violet as Thraxata’s, and his eyes, bright and alert, match the deep purple of her own.

Killian laughs as Vexion snaps playfully at his fingers, his little teeth harmless for now, though you know that one day, they will grow sharp enough to rend flesh and bone. But for now, the dragon is just a playful companion, a symbol of your legacy and the bond your family shares with these magnificent beasts.

Alysane, your daughter, sits beside her brother, her pale hair cascading over her shoulders as she carefully arranges a set of wooden figures. She’s creating a scene, you realize, a miniature version of Winterfell with figures of wolves and dragons placed carefully around the perimeter. Her little brow is furrowed in concentration, but she smiles when she hears Killian’s laughter, her violet eyes sparkling with the same mischievous light that often shines in Cregan’s when he is teasing you.

Watching them, your heart swells with love and pride. These are your children, your future. They are the reason you stayed behind, the reason you now feel a deep sense of contentment despite the ache of being apart from your husband. Here, in this room, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the presence of your children, you find peace.

Rickon stirs in your arms, making a soft, contented noise, and you gently rock him, brushing a kiss against his tiny forehead. “Hush now, little one,” you murmur softly, your voice filled with a tenderness that surprises even you. “Your father will be home soon, and then we’ll all be together again.”

The thought of Cregan’s return brings a soft smile to your lips. You imagine him walking through the doors of the great hall, his face breaking into a rare, warm smile as he sees you and the children waiting for him. You imagine the feel of his arms around you, the strength and warmth that have always been your greatest comfort. You imagine introducing him to Rickon, watching as he takes his newborn son in his arms for the first time, the pride and love shining in his gray eyes.

But for now, you are content. Content to be here, with your children, safe in the heart of Winterfell. You have known loss, grief, and the cold touch of betrayal, but you have also known love, fierce and unyielding, and that love has given you these three beautiful children, each one a piece of your heart walking around outside your body.

“Look, Mother!” Killian’s excited voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to see him holding Vexion aloft, the little dragon’s wings flapping furiously as he tries to stay airborne. “Vexion’s learning to fly!”

You laugh softly, a sound full of warmth and joy. “He’s doing wonderfully, my love. Just like you.”

Killian beams at your praise, setting Vexion down gently on the floor. The dragon immediately scampers over to Alysane’s miniature Winterfell, sniffing curiously at the wooden figures. Alysane giggles, gently guiding him away from her carefully arranged scene.

You watch them with a full heart, feeling the warmth of the fire, the weight of your newborn son, and the love that fills this room. Yes, you wish you could be with Cregan, standing beside him as he delivers justice, but you also know that this—being here, with your children, holding Rickon close—is where you are meant to be.

You lean back in your chair, closing your eyes for just a moment, allowing the peacefulness of the moment to wash over you. Soon, Cregan will return, and your family will be whole again. Until then, you have this—this quiet, this warmth, this love. And that is more than enough.

The air in Winterfell is crisp with the first touch of spring as you stand at the gates, your heart pounding with anticipation. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard where you wait with your children. The news of Cregan’s return reached you only this morning, and ever since, you’ve been unable to keep the smile from your face. You’ve missed him with a deep, aching intensity, and the thought of having him home again fills you with a joy that’s almost overwhelming.

Killian and Alysane stand beside you, both of them practically bouncing with excitement. Killian’s hand is clutching Vexion’s leash, the little dragon sitting obediently at his feet, though his violet eyes are alert, as if he too can sense the importance of this moment. Alysane’s hand is in yours, her small fingers squeezing tightly as she peers down the road, searching for the first sign of her father.

The minutes feel like hours, but then, finally, you see them: the first of the riders cresting the hill, the Stark banners flapping in the wind, and your heart skips a beat. Cregan is home.

As the riders draw closer, you spot him at the front of the group, his dark hair falling loose around his shoulders, his broad frame unmistakable even from a distance. The sight of him stirs something deep inside you, a rush of warmth and love that makes your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Father!” Killian’s voice breaks through your reverie, and before you can stop him, he’s running across the courtyard, Vexion darting after him with a playful roar. Alysane releases your hand and follows suit, her laughter ringing out as she races to meet her father.

Cregan dismounts with ease, dropping to one knee just in time to catch Killian in his arms. Alysane is close behind, and he sweeps her up as well, holding both of them tightly against his chest. His deep laugh rumbles through the air, the sound of it filling your heart with a warmth that melts away the last remnants of the cold that had settled there in his absence.

You watch them, your vision blurring slightly with tears. This is what you’ve been waiting for, what you’ve dreamed of during the long nights alone—this moment, when your family is together again.

Finally, Cregan looks up, his gray eyes meeting yours across the distance. For a moment, the world seems to stop, and it’s just the two of you, connected by the unspoken love that has always been the foundation of your bond. He rises to his feet, one arm still wrapped around each of your children, and as he walks toward you, you feel your breath catch in your throat.

When he’s close enough, you close the distance between you, your hands reaching up to cup his face. His skin is cool from the journey, but beneath it, you can feel the warmth that has always drawn you to him, the steady, reassuring presence that you’ve missed so much.

“Cregan,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

He smiles, that rare, genuine smile that’s reserved only for you and your children. “Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”

And then his lips are on yours, gentle at first, but quickly deepening as the months of longing and separation melt away. His kiss is everything you’ve needed, everything you’ve craved—warmth, love, passion, and the undeniable connection that has always bound you together. You lose yourself in him, in the taste of him, the feel of him, the way his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer as if he can’t bear to let you go.

For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you, lost in each other. You can feel the beat of his heart against your chest, strong and steady, a reminder that he’s here, he’s home, and you’re safe in his arms.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, and you take a moment to just breathe him in, to savor the feel of him against you. “I’m so glad you’re home,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

Cregan’s hand comes up to brush a strand of silver hair away from your face, his touch tender and filled with love. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he replies, his eyes soft as they gaze into yours.

Killian and Alysane, sensing that they’re witnessing something special, are unusually quiet as they cling to their father’s legs. But you can see the joy in their eyes, the way they look up at him with adoration and love.

Cregan glances down at them, and then back at you, his smile widening as he takes in the sight of his family. “I’ve missed so much,” he says, his voice tinged with regret.

You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “You did what you had to do. And now, you’re home. That’s all that matters.”

He nods, his eyes shining with the same love and pride that you feel swelling in your chest. “I’m home,” he repeats, as if savoring the words. Then, he looks at you, his expression turning more serious. “How is Rickon?”

Your heart swells at the mention of your youngest, and you can’t help but smile. “He’s perfect, Cregan. Just like his father.”

Cregan’s smile softens, and there’s a tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. “I can’t wait to meet him,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, taking his hand and leading him toward the keep. “He’s waiting for you,” you say softly. “We all were.”

The walk to the great hall is short, but it feels like a journey, each step bringing you closer to the home you’ve longed for, the completeness you’ve missed. When you enter the hall, the warmth of the fire greets you, along with the familiar scents of Winterfell. But it’s the sight of the small cradle by the hearth that draws your eyes.

Cregan steps forward, his movements careful and reverent as he approaches the cradle. Rickon is awake, his tiny fists waving in the air, and when Cregan leans down to look at him, you see the wonder and awe in his eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” Cregan whispers, reaching out to gently touch his son’s cheek. Rickon’s eyes, a soft gray like his father’s, blink up at him, and a small, contented smile spreads across his tiny face.

“He looks just like you,” you say softly, stepping beside Cregan and slipping your hand into his.

Cregan shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Rickon’s. “No,” he says quietly, “he looks like us.”

The words bring a lump to your throat, and you lean into Cregan’s side, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. This is your family—whole, safe, and together.

You stay like that for a long moment, just watching Cregan with Rickon, feeling the love and contentment that fills the room. Then, slowly, Cregan straightens, his eyes still filled with that soft, tender light as he looks at you.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice full of meaning.

You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. “For what?”

“For giving me this,” he replies, his hand gently squeezing yours. “For our children, our home… for everything.”

You reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against the rough stubble that you’ve missed so much. “We built this together,” you say softly. “And now, we’ll enjoy it together.”

Cregan’s eyes darken with emotion, and he leans down to capture your lips in another kiss, this one slow and full of promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his breath mingling with yours.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispers, the words a vow, a promise, and a declaration all at once.

“I love you too, Cregan,” you reply, your voice filled with all the love and devotion you feel for him.

The world outside may be cold and harsh, but here, in this moment, in this place, you are warm, safe, and complete. Cregan is home, your children are safe, and your family is whole. And that is all you need.

Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Glyndwyr, Chapter: "The Hour of the Wolf and the Dawn of the Dragon"

The Dragon That Followed the Wolf

In the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons, the realm lay in ruin, its people exhausted from years of bloodshed and treachery. The Iron Throne, once a symbol of absolute power, had become a seat of sorrow and conflict. Aegon III, the Dragonbane, who had ascended to the throne at a young age after the fall of his mother, Rhaenyra, found himself ill-suited to the demands of kingship. His reign, though marked by attempts at restoration, was overshadowed by the lingering shadow of the civil war and his own deep-seated melancholy.

It was in this time of uncertainty and discontent that voices began to rise among the lords of Westeros, calling for a new ruler—one who could unite the fractured realm and bring about a new era of prosperity. These voices soon coalesced around a single name: Killian Stark, son of Cregan Stark and Y/N Velaryon, a boy of strong bloodlines and even stronger will, who had already shown promise as a dragonrider, bonded to Vexion, a dragon of Thraxata’s clutch.

Killian's lineage was beyond question. As the great-grandson of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, his claim combined the noble blood of House Targaryen and House Velaryon with the unyielding strength of House Stark. With his mother Y/N, the only daughter of Rhaenyra, and his father, Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, Killian embodied the unity of the North and the Targaryen bloodline.

It was Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, who first championed Killian’s cause. The aged and wise Lord of the Tides, having outlived nearly all of his contemporaries, saw in his great-grandson the potential to restore what had been lost. The Sea Snake's influence and respect among the lords of Westeros were unmatched, and his advocacy for Killian as the rightful heir to the throne was taken with the utmost seriousness.

Corlys's argument was simple yet compelling: the realm needed a king who was not only of noble blood but also one who could command the loyalty of the dragonlords and the great houses alike. Killian, with his Stark resolve and Targaryen fire, was that king. He was a boy with the blood of the dragon in his veins, and unlike his predecessors, he had a dragon at his side—a symbol of the power that once ruled the skies of Westeros. Vexion, though young, was already growing into a fearsome beast, his deep midnight blue scales and violet eyes a reminder of the might of House Targaryen.

The Great Council of 138 AC was convened at Harrenhal, a place chosen for its neutrality, to decide the fate of the realm. The lords of Westeros, weary of war and eager for stability, gathered to debate the future. Among those who spoke for Killian was not only Corlys Velaryon but also his father, Cregan Stark, who had already proven his dedication to justice during the Hour of the Wolf when he served as Hand of the King and dispensed justice to those who had betrayed the realm.

Cregan Stark was a man of honor and few words, but his presence at the council carried weight. It was said that when Cregan rose to speak, the hall fell silent, and every lord in attendance felt the weight of his words. He did not advocate for his son out of ambition but out of duty—to his family, to the realm, and to the memory of those who had suffered and died during the Dance of the Dragons. He spoke of the need for a ruler who could command both respect and fear, a king who could rebuild what had been broken, and a dragonlord who could ensure that the skies of Westeros would never again be darkened by treachery and betrayal.

The lords of Westeros, many of whom had fought in the Dance or had seen their lands ravaged by it, were moved by the arguments presented. They saw in Killian Stark the hope of a new beginning, a ruler who could bridge the divides that had torn the realm apart. The fact that he was a dragonrider only strengthened his claim, for the memory of dragonfire was still fresh in the minds of many, and the power of the dragon was seen as essential to maintaining order in a realm as vast and diverse as the Seven Kingdoms.

Thus, it was decided by the Great Council that Aegon III, whose reign had been marred by personal tragedy and political strife, would abdicate the throne in favor of Killian Stark. Aegon, who had always been more comfortable away from the throne than upon it, accepted the decision with grace, retiring to Dragonstone, where he would live out the remainder of his days in relative peace.

On the first day of the new year, in 139 AC, Killian Stark was crowned as King Killian I of House Stark and Targaryen, the Dragon-Wolf, first of his name. His coronation was a grand affair, attended by lords and ladies from across the realm, each of whom pledged their loyalty to the new king. As the crown of Aegon the Conqueror was placed upon his brow, Vexion let out a mighty roar, his wings unfurling as he took to the skies above the Red Keep, a symbol of the new age that had dawned in Westeros.

The reign of King Killian I was marked by a period of reconstruction and renewal. With his parents by his side—Cregan Stark as his most trusted advisor, and Y/N Velaryon as the queen mother—he worked to restore the realm to its former glory. The North and South were united as never before, and under his rule, the great houses of Westeros found a new sense of purpose and loyalty to the crown.

During their marriage, Cregan and Y/N had more children, each of whom played a role in the continued stability of the realm. Their eldest daughter, Alysane Stark, was married to the heir of the Vale, further strengthening the bonds between the North and the South. Their younger sons, Rickon and Jory, were given lordships and served as key figures in the court, ensuring that the realm remained united and strong.

King Killian I’s reign saw the rebuilding of many of the great castles and cities that had been destroyed during the Dance. The Targaryen bloodline was secured through alliances with the other dragonlord houses, and the power of the Iron Throne was restored. The scars of the past were not forgotten, but they were healed, and the realm once again prospered under the rule of a strong, just, and wise king.

In the end, the Dragon-Wolf proved to be the ruler that Westeros needed—a king who could command both the loyalty of his subjects and the respect of his enemies. His reign ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity, and his legacy would be remembered for generations to come as the king who brought the broken realm back to life.

Thus ends the account of King Killian I, the Dragon-Wolf, and the legacy of House Stark and Targaryen.

#house of the dragon #hotd x female reader #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you #cregan x y/n #hotd cregan #cregan x you #cregan x reader #cregan stark

453 notes · View notes

b00kdiary · 6 months

Note

Can we please please please get a part 3 for stay with me where they actually fuck? Love your stuff btw absolutely amazing ❤️

Stay With Me | Rhysand (III)

Rhysand x Plus size reader

It's been a week. Rhysand's patience has worn thin. So has Y/N's.

Warnings: Mature themes (18+), swearing, and smut.

MASTERLIST - 1 and 2

PART ONE PART TWO

Are you awake, darling?

I stared at the note that appeared on my nightstand fifteen seconds ago, the luxurious, broad sprawl telling of who had sent it. The word darling made my stomach coil – like I could hear Rhys purring it in my ear.

I fought my smile as I turned, dropping my bare legs off the side of the bed, and grabbing the quill that had appeared with the note. It was slightly warm, and I envisioned Rhys holding it, smirking like the fiend he was.

I am awake.

Missing me already?

I could feel my anticipation thrumming in me as I sprawled the words before neatly dropping the pen beside it. It vanished the moment I released it, wisped away to wherever Rhys lounged and for some reason, I could practically hear the rumbling laugh that would escape him the moment he read my teasing response.

My smile grew when the note reappeared not even thirty seconds later. I grabbed it with shaking hands, and I could feel the heat blazing through my blood and bones and veins at his words.

I always miss you; you know that.

And while I usually am the most patient male, that patience is starting to wear very thin.

I want you, darling.

He had been patient. So had I. One week since the Hybern attack, one week since I had sustained that injury and Rhysand had taken care of me – in more ways than just my leg. One week of stolen touches and yearning glances and pleasuring myself to quell the urge to seek him out.

I didn't want to be patient anymore. The ache between my legs wouldn't let me be.

Then why aren't you here?

I'm waiting, High Lord.

The note vanished and not even a second later, I heard the distant sound of wings thundering. I felt Rhysand's dark, obsidian power misting over Velaris stretching from the Town house to the House of Wind.

Call it impatience, call it confidence, call it whatever you want but my body was alight at the power of him, the need of him. And as Rhys thundered closer and closer, I took off piece after piece of clothing. My socks, my nightshirt, my underwear, my bra, everything, until I was bare sat upon my bed desperately needing to be touched.

My thighs clenched when Rhys landed on my balcony, the ground and walls shaking with the impact of his arrival. I could see his silhouette outlined by the moonlight and sheet of stars above as he stalked on silent feet toward my door, looking like a God that shouldn't exist.

The curtain parted with a phantom wind, and I felt my nipples pebble and my core soak as it danced into my room, brushing my skin like a lover's touch. Rhys ducked under my door, powerful wings tucked close to his back and violet eyes gleaming like midnight constellations.

"You beautiful, wicked thing," Rhys groaned as he slid into my room, eyes latching onto my naked figure sitting patiently atop my sheets. I felt his magic thrum at the sight of me, eyes razing across my bare flesh. "You couldn't wait two minutes?"

"I waited one week, Rhys," I lifted my chin defiantly, feigning arrogance. Even as every long step he took toward me made me tremble. "I'm a patient female but not that patient."

"Tsk tsk tsk," He clucked his tongue tauntingly at me, his thick brow raised in a challenge. I traced his long, lean angles, the broad muscles of his shoulders, and that infuriating smirk as he came to a stop before me. "As much as I love your eagerness, darling, I didn't say you could undress."

I moaned when his ringed hand came forward, cupping my aching breasts and squeezing it in his palm. His chest rumbled appreciatively as it spilt from his hand, another moan slipping from me when his thumb brushed over my taut, sensitive nipple.

"Perhaps I should punish you?" Rhys mused softly, eyes transfixed on my breasts, his forefinger and thumb clamped around my bud, abusing it, and watching me gasp. I craned my neck up to meet his towering form, cruel amusement in his eyes. "Unlace my breeches."

A firm, powerful command – his High Lord's voice. Gods, it made me wet. Rhys smirked at the spike in my pulse, the pleasure that coiled through me at his authority.

I was more than eager to follow his command, my hands moving to his slacks, tugging furiously at the laces. I could feel his hard length under my fingers, twitching and straining against the material, begging to be let free.

Rhysand released my breast, and I would have whined in protest had he not begun tugging the ties at the back of his shirt, striping the material from his wings and chest, revealing acres and acres of beautiful tan, tattooed skin as he discarded it.

I whimpered as I tugged the last lace, my pussy clenching around nothing as Rhys's thick, hard length slipped free from his pants, slapping back against his stomach, nearly hitting my face in the process. My mouth watered, actually watered at the sight of him.

"This is meant to be a punishment, darling," Rhys chuckled darkly, fingers gently folding into my hair and tilting my head to meet his eyes. He grinned at the heady intent on my face. "You shouldn't look so happy about it."

"You’re about to let me suck your cock, Rhys," I breathed, my voice rasping and hoarse. His hand tightened in my hair, fisting the root as I purred the word cock. I eyed his length, the red angry tip, the small pearly beads of pre-cum, the strong veins that danced on the sides. "How is that a punishment?"

"You're not sucking my cock, my love," Rhys smiled – it was not a comforting sight. No, it was dark and terrifying. I gasped when the tip of his cock traced my lip, his eyes glinting as he pushed it slowly into my warm mouth. "I'm going to fuck your throat."

He slammed the rest of his length into my mouth until he hit the back of my throat, and I was gagging and moaning and choking for air.

"Good girl," Rhys moaned, his cock stretching my mouth until my jaw ached and he seated so far down my throat I could feel every twitch. He pulled out after several seconds, beads of spit and cum lacing my lips and down my chest as I gasped for air. "Such a good girl."

I hummed at the praise, even as I felt my lungs burning from the lack of oxygen. But Rhys tasted so good, and he was moaning so loud as I slipped him back into my mouth, my throat going lax as he shoved his length in until he maxed out.

I gagged, desperately breathing through my nose as his hips rolled, every stroke dragging his pulsing cock in and out, hitting the back of my throat again and again. Rhys growled, a pure sound of pleasure, one of no control as he truly fucked my mouth raw.

Tears streaked down my face, drool dripped down my chin and onto my breasts and Rhys's hand fisted my hair brutally, keeping me in place while he drove his hips into my mouth. I moaned at the feel of him, every ragged breath he took making me that much more eager.

"That feels incredible, darling," Rhys hissed, his voice shaking as his climax neared. His cock twitched in my mouth, and I let my tongue graze along his shaft in a way that had him cursing. "This mouth is better than I had imagined."

I could feel my arousal leaking down my thighs at his words, and my eyes rolled when Rhys bucked his hips forward, burying himself so far, that my nose brushed the trail of hair at his navel. I could smell his sweet scent, addictive enough that it distracted me from the burning in my lungs, the full feeling of him shoved down my throat.

"Fuck," Rhys swore, and I whined as he tore my head back, his wet, angry cock slipping out. Air rushed into my lungs, spit dribbled down my chin and then Rhys was upon me, his head ducking down and crashing his lips to mine.

I could taste the wine in his mouth, could taste the possession on his tongue as he shoved it past my swollen lips and into me, battling and furious and needy. My fingers clawed and scratched along his marble skin, tracing the hard muscles and rippling abs, memorising the perfect feel of him.

"Rhys," I whined against his lips, breathless as his large, ringed hands kneaded along my body, grumbling in approval as he palmed the flesh at my hips and back and thighs, his eyes stark with lust as he pushed me to lie on my back.

"I know, I know," He crooned, a tint of arrogance and appreciation in his voice as he settled onto the bed, his arms bracing his towering figure over me, his hands guiding my thighs around his lean hips. "I'm impatient too, darling. I know you need it; I've got you."

My back arched as he grazed his nose along the side of my neck, his magnificent wings erecting high behind him as he inhaled the sweet, sweaty scent of me. I was breathless as he touched my skin, touched my flesh like I was a dream come to fruition.

"Cauldron, I wish I had time to get my head between these soft thighs," His teeth scraped my nipple, his hands parting my thighs as he rubbed his tip through my soaking wet folds. "I'd have my tongue fucking your sweet hole until you came all over my face. Until you were begging me to stop."

For a second, I nearly begged him to do exactly that, nearly begged for the feel of his tongue and teeth, for the burn of his skilled fingers slipping inside me. But then he rubbed his hard length against me again, smearing my wetness and I couldn't wait another moment.

"Stop talking Rhys,” I snarled, my fingers curling around his short raven hair, dragging his face up to mine. He chuckled at the ire and frustration behind my words, behind my touch as I pressed desperate kisses to his lips, "I want you to fuck me. Now."

“Such dirty words for such a pretty mouth,” Rhysand laughed against my lips, a hint of violence tinging his tone, his touch, as he toyed his tip against my swollen clit. “I’ll have to think of a better punishment to remedy that. But right now – “

I screamed as he drove his hips forward, shoving his hard, pulsing length into me in one forceful thrust.

“Rhys!”

An explosion of pain and pleasure, like stars erupting through my core as Rhysand forced his way into me, stretching my sore walls, languishing in the wetness of my arousal until he maxed out. Pain and pleasure – it was all I knew.

“Cauldron, you’re fucking incredible,” Rhys growled into my ear, his hands bruising against my waist as he forced my flailing body against the bed. He pulled out to the tip, the sound filthy as he pushed back in, moaning as he did so. “So fucking incredible.”

“Rhys, oh Gods –“

I was crying out for him as his pace picked up, my walls moulding around him perfectly as he fucked me, that pain fading into pure, unfiltered pleasure. He grunted with every roll of his hips, his lips suckling my pulse point and reverberating his noises against me, through me.

Rhys scraped his canines against the junction of my throat possessively, marking me as he fucked his hips against me again and again, tits and body jolting with every stroke. I keened when he threw my leg over his shoulder, kissing my knee before he sunk so deep, I thought he’d tear me in two.

“Right there,” He panted, sweat coating his forehead as he grinned down at me. I gasped, breathless as he pressed a hand down on the stomach – pressed down on the imprint of his cock shaped there. “You feel how deep I am, darling? Feel how far my cock is inside you?”

“S-so deep,” I blubbered, my words half caught between a sob and a moan as my walls fisted tighter and tighter, that familiar pool filling within me, filling more and more as Rhys whispered those dirty words and fucked me raw. “It’s so deep, Rhys.”

‘Look at you’ Rhys’s rumbling, arrogant voice filled my mind, mixed in with his stark arousal and overwhelming praise, ‘Crying for me, all fucked out and ready to come around my cock.’

His lips slammed against mine, all biting teeth and furious, exploring tongue and I could feel my orgasm ripping down my spine, feel it building at the apex of my thighs as he hit a spot within me, again and again and again. Something that felt so fucking good.

‘Come for me, darling,’ Rhys commanded through my mind, a bolt of obsidian power sparking along my nerves and through my whole body. I yelped, crying out at that feeling.

He sent another bolt, in tandem with the sweet, brutal roll of his hips and suddenly I was coming.

“Rhys, Rhys –“

White hot power splitting my core in two, strong enough that all I could do was arch my back and curl my toes, letting my body turn stiff and hard as Rhysand rocked into me, longing out the pleasure for what felt like hours.

I was coming and coming and coming. I couldn’t fucking breathe as Rhys ruined me.

“That’s my girl,” He gritted out, kissing my cheek, my jaw, my neck, teeth and spit and tongue as he fucked erratically into me. His climax was close, I was fluttering around him so furiously, that I knew he was close.

“Fill me up, Rhys,” I begged him, my orgasm dwindling and all my nerves endings on fire as he stroked and stroked and stroked. Rhys whimpered – actually whimpered, as I dragged my hand through the inner part of his wing, trembling behind him from the contact. “Want you to fill me up so bad.”

I touched his wing with a whisper of a caress again and again, until Rhys was cursing, until his beautiful body was trembling against me, and he was making noises I would kill, actually kill, to hear again.

“You beautiful – “ Thrust. “Cruel – “ Thrust. “Wicked –“ Thrust. “Thing –“ Thrust.

His hand brushed my clit as he rocked his twitching cock into me, harder and faster now. I felt the dwindling tendrils of my first orgasm before they began erupting like flames as a second barrelled into me.

“Rhys – “ I sobbed his name, scratching my nails along the talon atop his right wing. And as my core exploded with another all-consuming climax, Rhys reached his peak too.

He reached that peak roaring.

“Fuck –“ He curses as his climax hit him, obsidian mist erupting from him and blanketing the room as he halted inside me. I moaned, my walls clenching and unclenching as I felt him spill endlessly inside me, his wings and body tensed and shaking under my hands.

Our moans and releases were furious and strong enough that I felt the posters of my bed shaking, Rhysand’s face buried in the crook of my neck, moaning, and panting for breath as his hips came to a total stop. My walls pulsed, and his cock twitched in response as if our orgasms had become one.

Rhys laughs roughly against my throat, his canines grazing my sensitive skin as he collapses against me, both our chests rising and falling in shattered waves. It reminded me of that first day in the cabin, how he had been so euphoric as I ground against him until he came.

“That was a good day for me,” Rhys sighed, head lifting so his violet eyes met mine. So bright, so happy. “Almost as good as last week when you came all over my hand.”

I blushed, his grin broadening at the sheepish smile I gave him. He dipped his head, kissing my lips sweetly, a satisfied groan rumbling through him as his tongue gently explored mine.

“I hope you’re aware that this means you’re stuck with me, darling,” Rhys smirked, forehead resting against mine. He was still inside me, and it felt more than right. His eyes glinted, daring me to challenge him. “No male will ever touch you again.”

“Is that a decree, High Lord?” I gnawed on my lip, giggling at the way his eyes narrowed. My giggle erupted into a laugh as Rhys began peppering kisses against my cheek and jaw.

“Yes,” He growled, nipping my skin with his teeth, “That’s an order. With the penalty of death for any male who does otherwise.”

“Good,” I grinned, my heart skipping at his dark, tempting words. I cupped his jaw, bringing his eyes back to mine. “Because if another female so much as looks at you, Rhys – I will pluck her eyes out.”

“Fuck, I love it when you get violent,” He groaned, fingers digging into my waist possessively. “It makes me want to do very filthy things to you.”

“I’m all yours, Rhys,” I smiled, a hint of sincerity mixed with lewd intent in my eyes. “Do with me what you will. Unless you plan to be somewhere else tonight?”

His eyes flashed, stars exploding, shadows coiling, and I felt him harden in me again, my walls stretching inch by inch until I was soaked around him.

“I’ll be here, with you,” He whispered, his nose brushing mine and I whimpered when he rolled his hips, stroking his cock inside me slowly. “I’ll always stay with you.”

----------------------------

Comment to be added to the tag list!

Taking requests for all SJM men x plus size reader!

@mis-lil-red @hyemishii @assaultsofthought @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @infinityfandoms @sarawritestories @eerievixen @nyotamalfoy @lewsnumerounofan @dreaming-about-fanfictions @nottyourlover @bbycowboi @morganwdarius @marvelsmylife @justasillylittlegoofyguy @allyjoe755 @just-a-social-casualty-1 @eleventhboi @sfhsgrad-blog @glam-targaryen @firebreathingbishqueen @sindulgence666 @impossibelle @azrielsmate3 @superspideyparker @joshysloshy @charlotteintumbleland @imaginativepersons @harrystylesfan2686 @girl-of-multi-fandoms @loveareum

396 notes · View notes

sorrowsofsilence · 6 days

Text

the crow oneshot - noah!draven x fem!reader

words: 6.7k

warnings: 18+ (implied smut, death, graphic violence, mentions of murder, implied suicide, angst, heartbreak and grief)

summary: "People Once Believed That When Someone Dies, A Crow Carries Their Soul To The Land Of The Dead. But sometimes something so terrible happens, the crow can bring that soul back to put the wrong things right."

note: ok i know its late but i somehow got the writing worm to complete this at 4am and i am so happy with it, i hope you enjoy. this is my take on a mash of the comic and the new movie but with noah playing eric draven. enjoy lovelies. also yes i edited the photo above and gave him a nose piercing hehe oops.

"People Once Believed That When Someone Dies, A Crow Carries Their Soul To The Land Of The Dead."

"But sometimes, something so terrible happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can't rest. And sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back to put the wrong things right.”

Noah had never known a love that burned as fiercely as his love for you.

Every beat of his heart was consumed by thoughts of your image, pounding deeper with every inhale. His body was sworn in devotion to your being; your name was a prayer on his lips.

Even in his final moments, as he struggled for breath while the wound in his stomach stole his time from this earth, Noah’s eyes never left yours; his love for you transcended even death.

When his last breath escaped him, he watched your fingers fall limp, still reaching for him in desperate agony; a silent scream etched upon your graying lips.

Your eyes had glazed over, forever mourning the love for him that could never be replaced- and your bodies grew cold against the pavement, your murderers staining the concrete with the memories of your story.

A crow was there, its evanescent body cloaked in the darkness of twilight, with gleaming eyes reflecting your love's memories as it watched. It knew that it was time.

With a narrow gaze, it eyed Noah carefully as life drained from his body, his once vibrant soul that entwined with yours, diminishing to nothing.

His spirit was a current of emotions - pain, regret, sorrow - but above all, love. A love that clung onto him as he faded away. A love that refused to let go.

As he passed, Noah's being mingled in the air, leaving his lifeless form behind, unknown to him.

With a disheartening caw, the crow took flight and reached for his soul, grasping it with its talons before navigating the obsidian sky toward the Land of the Dead.

When it arrived, the barrier between life and death halted the crow’s arrival, its being unable to cross to the other side with his next life.

The heartache of Noah’s agony penetrated the crow’s body, causing its feathers to hesitate.

The crow knew of his pain. It was common amongst mortals, something it saw many times over in countless souls.

Yet, something about Noah’s struck a chord deep within its being; for on his dying breath his wish was not for himself - but for you.

“A twisted soul, a mortar…despair the bricks…to build a temple to sadness.”

The brunette had wished, in desperate yearning, for nothing but you to live. To be in a world that cherished you. To be loved by him forever.

At that moment, in defiance of countless centuries of duty, the crow turned back with Noah’s soul still clutched within its talons. Its purpose had changed- to bring Noah back from the precipice of finality and reunite him with you.

His spirit soared, lifted by the mournful song of the crow as it carried him through a veil of mist, vessel awaiting.

As Noah's body jolted awake when his soul clung to his skin once again, he grasped for air and clutched his chest, unaware that this nightmare was far from over.

The crow knew that in the land of the dead, Noah would have found no peace. He would have wandered, lost to the abyss of reflection and torment, your tears reaching him like distant echoes within the realm of sorrow.

When he came to and sat up against the damp ground, his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit street as rain fell from the sky. His heart raced in anguish as pain spread across his body, his hands reaching for his stomach to cradle his wounds.

But despite the blood that stained his fingers, your name raced in his mind, his world-shattering once he turned.

Perhaps it was all a dream he thought, perhaps he couldn’t wake up.

But there you were, void of this earth- your lifeless body lying against the cement as he screamed, your soul unaware as the wails of agony ripped from his throat. He screamed and screamed, unable to control the pure terror of your limp body lying beside him, gone.

His hands, raw and tainted with crimson, crawled toward you as he dragged himself across the wet pavement. Each moment felt like a century until his fingers grazed your cold skin, every thunderous pound of his heart growing louder within his ears.

“Don’t look don’t look” the shadows breathe Whispering me away from you “Don’t wake at night to watch her sleep You know that you will always lose This trembling, Adored, Tousled bird mad girl… ”

Noah’s chest ached and mourned, the pain within his heart transcending to his limbs in newfound desolation. The pain from the bullet sinking into his flesh couldn’t be compared to the anguish he felt as he pulled your limp body onto his lap; his tears mingled with the rain, falling onto your still face.

The crow watched silently from a distance as Noah cradled your body against his chest. He held you close, clinging to the memory of you as his sobs filled the empty street, echoing off the brick walls of the buildings that surrounded him. His cries went unanswered as the cold rain continued to fall, washing away any bit of warmth left within his shattered heart.

“All he wants is pain. Pain and hate. Yes, hate. But never fear. Fear is for the enemy. Fear and bullets.”

Noah’s breath quickened, chest heaving in grief and misery as he turned to look above, watching the crow stand motionless, letting out a mimicked cry.

A strange understanding glimmered in its soulful black eyes as it released an eerie melody that danced through the air in a ballad.

With furrowed brows, Noah watched the bird, rocking back and forth with your body as his mind raced with despair. He leaned forward, placing a reverent kiss against your frigid forehead, and with trembling hands, swept strands of damp hair from your face, whispering words of longing into your skin.

“I love thee with thee breath, smiles tears and all my life. And if god chose I shall but love thee better after death.”

The crow cawed again, startling Noah from his mourning- and as he looked up at it with tear-streaked eyes, the bird spread its wings, rocketing into the sky before soaring downwards.

The crow crashed into Noah’s chest, its body disintegrating on impact as a crack of lightning ripped through the twilight sky.

Noah felt his body grow stiff, convulsing as he screamed again in pain before the crow began to pulsate inside, rhythmically timing with Noah's heartbeat as they became one.

His chest filled with a burning sting, the essence of the crow sinking into his skin, coursing through his veins. He gasped for breath, his lungs straining against the sudden intrusion within him.

And then- it was over. Only his ears filled with the heavy drumming of the rain against the desolate street.

But every night I burn But every night I call your name Every night I burn Every night I fall again

Noah’s limbs strengthened, the weariness and sorrow washing away in the torrent of newfound power surging through his veins. Anger replaced his anguish as he staggered to his feet, clutching at his chest where the crow had infiltrated him.

The thunder echoed once again through the empty streets as the rain slowly eased into a drizzle. His eyes were no longer clouded with tears but instead held a fierce determination that reflected the waning storm.

Slowly, he lowered your lifeless body onto the wet pavement, kissing your forehead one last time.

His heart raced inside his chest, this newfound rage taking over as he screamed once again.

He was ready to exact revenge on those bastards. He would chase them down, tearing apart their bodies until they knew the same agony that he did. The same agony that you felt.

And so, with every tick of the clock that rang ominously through the deserted streets, Noah converted his sorrow into an insatiable thirst for revenge.

He looked down at your face one last time, still peaceful in demise, your lashes glistened with the remnants of fearful tears, oblivious to the storm that raged within Noah's heart.

His boots echoed through the narrow alleys, a grim soundtrack to the night's unfolding tale. With every step, he felt a surge of power coursing through him.

His senses had heightened; he could hear whispers from houses away, taste the fear in the air, smell the blood yet to be spilled. An unholy resilience now lined his muscles, protecting him from harm with supernatural armour.

His rage burned within him. He was no longer Noah; he had become something more – an avenging force, filled with wrath.

As he made his way home, he couldn’t help but laugh; the pain and fucked up humor of it all etched within him.

He was supposed to marry you.

He was supposed to start a family with you.

He was supposed to grow old with you, decades of lust and love combined into a story of pure devotion.

But that was stolen from him. Your life was stolen.

He stepped inside your shared apartment, the scent of your perfume still lingering there, a cruel reminder of your absence.

Closing the door with his foot, he noticed the untouched dinner for two on the table, candles having burned down to their wicks.

The apartment was just as you left it, your essence imprinted in every corner, every object. The book you were reading lay open on the coffee table, the sweater you always wore draped carelessly over the couch.

Noah sank into your armchair, your favourite spot, letting himself drown in the memory of you.

He glanced at the wedding invitations stacked neatly on the desk, their beautifully intricate designs mocking him now with their untouched optimism. With a swift movement, he swept them off the table, and they fluttered in the air like a flock of terrified birds before scattering on the floor.

He closed his eyes, sucking in a breath.

“Marry me,” He said, breathing into your skin with every kiss as he held your arms above your head.

His tongue slid up your neck, teeth grazing the lobe of your ear as he whispered the plea again.

“Marry me, Y/N.”

You moaned into his mouth as he attached his lips to yours, breathing live into your body as his hips rutted against your own.

Hands gripped each other’s hair as he held you close, your fingers entangled in his brown strands as you devoured him.

“Are you sure?” You whispered, pulling away as Noah pulled your underwear down your thighs, nails grazing the skin.

“I’ve never been more sure in my life,” He laughed, resting his forehead against yours, his brown eyes dancing with elation.

“How many have you loved? Really loved,” You said, raking your fingers down his back as Noah’s fingers slid along your core, pressing into your desire.

As you gasped in awe he smiled, peppering kisses on the sides of your cheeks.

“No one,” He breathed, kissing toward your lips, “I have never loved anybody as much as I love you.”

A bitter laugh escaped his lips.

It was too cruel, too ironic. An idyllic future replaced by this terrible nightmare.

His eyes moved to the framed photograph on the mantelpiece - to a time when happiness was not just a distant memory, but a reality.

In it, you both were laughing at some joke, unabashed joy illuminating your faces. He could still hear your laughter, resonating in his ears like the sweetest melody, and he could still feel the warmth of your touch on his skin.

The ache was sharp, cutting deep into his chest. He picked up the picture frame delicately as if handling a sacred relic, his fingers tracing the curves of your face.

Those days were gone – swept away by the cruel hands of fate.

Now, there was only vengeance left.

Darkness unfurled around him like an ominous shroud as he stormed into the bathroom, clenching his fists. His eyes grew dark as he stared at his reflection, unrecognizable to him.

Another wave of savage rage swept through him, obliterating his thoughts.

He clenched his fists tighter, knuckles turning pale under the pressure.

With an animalistic roar, he drove his fist into the mirror, glass shattering around him in an explosion of reflective fragments.

Among the shards littering the floor was his distorted reflection. The sight of it consumed him completely and he sank to his knees amid the debris of once flawless reality.

He cried again, clenching his fist in pain, the cuts deep within his skin. But then he watched as his knuckles closed the wounds, absorbing them back within his skin- healing themselves.

For a moment, he stared at his hand in disbelief.

He was momentarily stunned as he spread his fingers, turning his hand over to inspect the palm and back. Not a single cut, not a droplet of blood. An eerie calm settled over him as he looked at his flawless hand.

A bitter smile crawled across his face. It seemed life had one more irony to offer - even in the throes of his profound grief and rage, he couldn't even carry the physical scars of it.

A sound bellowed from the hall, and when he rose from the bathroom floor, leaving behind the shattered mirror as it was - he noticed a shadow dance across the window.

A crow was perched on the window ledge, its loud caw disturbing. It watched Noah with beady black eyes, then took flight to land on a nearby building. From there, it turned back to face the window where Noah stood, and let out another scream.

As if heeding some silent call, Noah opened the glass and stepped out onto the ledge. The cold wind buffeted against him, ruffling his unkempt hair and stinging his brown eyes. But he didn’t flinch, didn’t step back.

Instead, he cast a glance downwards, at the yawning abyss below – then turned his gaze towards the crow.

The crow just stared back at him, its beady eyes reflecting a strange understanding.

Quirking its head to one side as if studying him anew, it leapt into flight again. This time, it went further, before turning back again.

With a furrowed brow, Noah followed, racing down the fire escape.

‘The crow leads us back,’ a whisper rang between his ears, causing Noah to pause against the cement.

Unsure of where the voice came from, Noah shook his head, walking again.

‘They’re over here.’

The voice echoed in his mind again, causing him to whip his head around.

“Who are you?” Noah called out into the emptiness, his voice resurgent against the quietude of the late night.

There was no response, just the haunting sound of his voice reverberating through the narrow alleys. Feeling an odd sensation prickle his skin, he turned around to see the crow had returned. It rested on a signpost ahead, its black feathers shimmering under the weak light of the lamp overhead.

‘Follow.’

This time he was sure. The voice came from within, yet without - a paradox that gnawed at his sanity.

With a deep breath, Noah moved forward, following the crow once more as it took flight again. The streets began to widen as Noah reached the town square, where laughter and music echoed forth from a bar overfilled with revelers.

The crow perched atop it, cawing loudly as if beckoning him closer.

‘Enter.’

A gory stage was set, unbeknownst to them all. He kicked open the door, causing an abrupt silence to descend upon the room as he walked in. The blaring music had faltered, replaced with the sound of his heavy footsteps on the old wooden floor.

All eyes turned in unison, sizing up the newcomer. His trench coat billowed around his ankles as he stood, bathed in the light from a flickering neon sign that read 'Joe's Joint'.

The voice within Noah whispered again. 'Speak.'

Noah cleared his throat, for it had suddenly become dry.

“I am looking for them," he announced, his voice carrying across the room. He was met with puzzled glances and raised eyebrows.

"Who might 'them' be?" asked a man with a gruff voice and dishevelled beard.

"I'm not sure," replied Noah honestly, feeling the crow’s gaze bore into him from outside.

A bout of laughter echoed through the bar followed by murmurs of ridicule. But Noah didn't flinch.

“Then how will you know when you find them?” A woman from the back of the room quipped, her voice laced with sarcasm, yet her eyes held a glint of curiosity.

“I’ll feel it,” he replied, his gaze steady on her. His hands were clenched at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain.

Laughter filled the room again, but this time there was a hint of unease too. People exchanged glances, whispering amongst themselves.

The crow outside cawed once more – a single, sharp note that echoed like a gunshot in the night.

Noah eyed the strangers, and his gaze narrowed before ascending further into the bar, sliding into a stool at the counter.

“Well hun, as much as I want to help ya, I don’t know who you’re looking for,” The bartender shared a sullen smile, her greying hair tied back in a thin braid, “But I can get you a drink. On the house.”

Noah tried to smile, but all he could muster was an unperturbed gaze.

“Jack Daniels. Straight.”

The bartender nodded and put her back to him, fetching the bottle from the top shelf. As she poured it into a glass, the liquid made a soft sound.

Noah looked at the amber drink with sombre eyes before wrapping his fingers around the glass and tossing it back. The whiskey burned down his throat but he didn’t flinch.

“Another,” he commanded, pushing the empty glass towards her.

Before long, a tall man sauntered over from the shadowy corner of the bar, his leather boots thudding against the wooden floorboards. He was burly and had an air of menace about him. His eyes were icy blue, gleaming under the dim bar lights.

“You seem to be looking for trouble,” he said, leaning on the counter across Noah.

“No,” Noah replied simply, receiving his refill. “Just answers.”

The man let out a hearty laugh that echoed around the room. “You’re in the wrong place for answers, friend," he said, his icy eyes twinkling under the dim bar lights.

"No," Noah retorted, sliding a bill onto the counter, his gaze never straying from the stranger's face, "I'm exactly where I need to be.”

The room fell silent once more, save for the crackle of the fire in the corner and the intermittent caw of the crow outside. The burly man's laughter died down, replaced by a considering glance as he took another look at Noah.

"Who are you?" the burly man asked, breaking the petrifying silence. His voice was gravelly and commanding, but Noah remained unimpressed.

"Just a man out of time," Noah replied, his gaze meeting the burly man's without faltering.

"No one's out of time until they're six feet under," he said, leaning closer to Noah, lowering his voice. His breath smelled heavily of whiskey and cigars,

“Something tells me you ain't about to be buried just yet."

The scoff that left Noah’s lips made the man raise a brow. If only he knew.

"Something like that," Noah said, taking another sip of his whiskey.

The sound of the bar door opening caused the conversation to die down again, and as the gust of wind hit Noah’s back, the world around him began to spin.

‘There he is. Your first target.’

Noah’s eyes narrowed as the glass faltered at his lips, before he slowly placed it down onto the wooden counter.

Noah's body bristled with anger as he heard footsteps approaching. When the person stood next to him, his fists tightened even more.

“Rye,” The man’s voice rang in Noah’s ears. He was one of them.

"Rye," Noah repeated, his voice level.

He turned to face the newcomer; a slender man with sharp features, his dark hair slicked back against his scalp. His eyes held a sheen of arrogance that Noah found all too familiar.

The man nodded and slid onto the stool next to Noah, leaning in close so that their shoulders nearly touched. "Good choice," he said, nodding towards Noah's glass of whiskey.

Noah didn't reply, keeping his gaze steady on the newcomer. He reached for his own cup slowly, gripped it tightly and brought it to his lips.

The newcomer watched him with interest, an eyebrow raised, "You don't seem like you're from around here," he said causally, but the underlying threat wasn't lost on Noah.

"Then it seems we have something in common," Noah replied just as calmly. But his teeth began to grind together, the tightening in his chest growing.

‘He helped them. He killed her.’

The voice was quick, ringing in Noah’s head.

Noah's eyes snapped towards the newcomer, a harsh glint in them.

The man blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sudden intensity.

"Is that so?" he asked, still maintaining the casual tone but his eyes now held a hint of wariness.

"Indeed," Noah affirmed, not breaking eye contact. "We both don't belong here."

The newcomer laughed, a short, humourless sound, "Well, isn't that a peculiar coincidence?" he mused, picking up his glass and knocking back a swallow.

Noah watched him, muscles taut and ready for any sudden move.

‘Now' the voice urged him, 'Do it now.'

With a swift move, Noah drew back his fist, turning to ram it into the face of the perpetrator.

The shocked look on the man's face was quickly replaced with pain before anger sunk in. Everyone else in the bar gasped, standing up in defence as the stranger went for a reciprocated punch.

Noah was quick to react, reaching out and grabbing the man by the collar, drawing him back towards him.

"There's something else we have in common," Noah said, his voice devoid of any emotion but wrath, "We both have blood on our hands."

The man gasped again, this time more from shock than pain. He stared up at Noah with wide eyes, his arrogance replaced by fear. "What the hell are you doing?" he gasped out.

"Repaying a debt," Noah replied. His heart pounded in his chest but his grip didn't waver. Noah’s fist smashed into the man’s face again, and again, and again; causing the man to wobble momentarily, before sending a punch to Noah’s jaw.

Noah pushed him to the ground, straddling the man’s waist as his nose dripped with blood.

“Who helped you,” Noah screamed in rage, crimson knuckles pounding into the man’s skull once again.

The perpetrator on the ground huffed, his breath ragged and broken.

"I...I don't know what you're talking about," the man whimpered, a pitiful attempt at defiance. But it was a lie.

Noah could see it in his watery eyes. It wasn’t until they opened wide with shock, and recognized the brunette above him.

“Wait- you-,” He sputtered, liquid running from his mouth, “You were dead.”

A wicked smile slithered onto Noah's face, a sick glint in his eyes that echoed the cruel chuckle springing from his lips, "Guess you were wrong," he said, spitting saliva mixed with blood on the man's terrified face.

He grabbed the man by his collar again, shaking him violently, "Tell me who did it!”, he demanded, "Who helped you kill her."

The man swallowed audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in fear. His gaze darted around at the onlookers then settled back on Noah.

"I... I can't..." he stammered.

"You'd rather die?" Noah asked, his voice dangerously soft now.

The man whimpered, his eyes darting back and forth as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. But fear had tied it up so tight that he could no longer respond.

Noah tightened his grip on the collar, bringing his adversary's face even closer to his own. The stench of sweat and fear was foul, but it was drowned out by the sweetness of impending triumph.

As Noah stared daggers into the stranger, the man had wiggled a hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around a gun.

His hand trembled as he pulled it out, the polished silver gleaming in the neon glow of the bar.

The crowd gasped, those standing taking a collective step back.

"Go ahead," Noah taunted, "You think a gun scares me?"

The man lifted the firearm, his grip unsteady, fingers twitching around the trigger.

Noah's gaze drifted from the terrified face of the man below him to his gun pointed right at his chest.

A slow, mocking grin crept up his face as his hands released their grip on the man's collar, and they moved up into the air, showing his open palms.

The crowd was silent, holding their collective breaths as they watched this game of life and death unfold.

And then he pulled the trigger.

The bullet split through Noah’s chest, causing him to ricochet back in pain as a black liquid oozed from his wound.

The screams of the crowd had Noah gasping for air, a hand clenching his chest.

However, the wound began to close, healing itself with the power of revenge.

As Noah stood, the stranger and patrons of the bar watched in horror, before five more bullets penetrated Noah’s skin.

Each one sunk into his body, but he sprung forward, reaching for the weapon.

He grabbed the man’s wrist with an iron grip, wrenching the gun from his unsteady hand and sending it clattering to the floor.

Noah's chest was a gruesome canvas of black-oozing puncture wounds that closed as swiftly as they were made. The man had almost emptied his gun into Noah, but it seemed to make no difference. With every bullet that pierced Noah's skin, there was a momentary grimace of pain on his face, but then it would fade into something akin to annoyance.

The stranger's terrified gaze was fixed upon the spectacle of Noah’s impossible healing.

He sat up, stumbling backward, "What are you?" he stuttered out in raw fear.

Noah only sneered down at him, silent for a moment while he held the man's gaze.

"'What am I?'" Noah replied, amusement dancing in his eyes as he laughed, reaching for the gun before kneeling before him, "I'm your worst fucking nightmare."

Noah’s hands wrapped around the jaw of the man who helped murder his beloved, fingers clenching so tight that the stranger screamed in agony.

"I'm what happens," he began, his voice gravelly and resonating throughout the room, slowly placing the gun in the man’s mouth, "when you cross a line you shouldn't have."

Everyone watched in silent horror as clicked the gun into place.

Noah's cold eyes didn't waver from the stranger's terrified gaze as he pressed the barrel deeper into the man’s mouth.

"You had a choice," Noah said gently as if offering comfort. The words were a chilling contrast to the violent act being committed, "You chose... poorly."

Noah pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot filled the bar, bouncing off the walls and ceiling before eventually fading into a deafening silence; and the man's body slumped to the floor, his life extinguished in an instant.

Noah rose to his feet, dropping the gun beside the fresh corpse. He turned to face the patrons of the bar, their faces ghostly pale in fear.

His wounds had all but healed now, only small traces of black remained where the bullets had once been.

“When someone you love dies, you know emptiness, you will know what it’s like to be completely, and utterly alone. you will never forget- and you will never, ever, forgive.”

He glanced at the bartender, her face of horror leaving him unphased.

“Thanks for the drink.”

As Noah walked toward the door of the bar, he noticed a silver gleam reflecting off the wall.

The sword glistened in temptation, and he reached over, ripping it from its clasps.

He held it up, admiring its beauty for a moment before he turned it in his hands, feeling the weight of it. The steel was cool against his skin, the grip worn from use but still comfortable. It was a tool of destruction, the quiet partner to the gun that lay beside the dead man.

Noah left the bar, looking up at the crow as it bellowed, taking flight once again.

He hadn’t got a name from the bar, but the crow began leading him to the perpetrator responsible for his sorrow.

As he stepped into the night, the chill of revenge pulsated through his veins, blending seamlessly with the bitter sting of loss. The darkened path ahead swallowed up his silhouette, but the reflection of moonlight off his new weapon traced a silver wake behind him.

He followed the crow as it led him through dark alleys and abandoned streets.

Soon, they arrived at an abandoned warehouse barely visible in the cloak of darkness.

The crow perched itself on a broken window ledge, its beady eyes reflecting Noah's grim resolve. He inspected the katana once more before gripping it tightly and pushing open the warehouse door.

The musty and grimy floor held nothing but wither and age.

‘Over there.’

The crow spoke, its voice a gnarled whisper. Its beady eyes darted towards a doorway shrouded in shadows as it hung above.

Noah moved cautiously, his grip tightening around the hilt of the weapon until he could hear the voices of the warehouse.

He came upon the doorway, somehow darker than the rest of the dimly lit room. Pushing through, the room opened up into a large open space, dotted with crates and discarded machinery—a skeleton of past industry.

At its center sat a man, his back to Noah, seemingly oblivious to his presence.

Noah clutched the sword tighter as he took one step forward, then another.

As he moved closer, he saw the man turn slightly—enough for Noah to see the cruel glint in his eye. This was him—the one who had wreaked havoc on his life.

‘Kill him. Avenge her.’

The man turned fully now - his face a mirror of malice under a sliver of dim light leaking from the creaky old window. His lips curled up into a sinister grin as he stood.

“You survived,” He sounded surprised shaking his head, “I was sure Jiggs had done one on ya.”

Noah’s snarl only grew as the stranger continued to speak.

“You were wrong,” Noah spat, emotion making his voice tremble slightly as he advanced.

The sword in his hand felt heavy, but not too much so, and he could feel the strength coursing through his veins.

The man laughed, a sharp, cruel sound that bounced off the warehouse wall, “Well,” he said with a smirk, “you’re little girlfriend must be dead, then.”

Noah’s breathing grew heavier as his chest screamed, anger seeping through his limbs.

“Why’d you do it!” He blared, taking a step forward.

The man chuckled, his eyes gleaming with a predatory satisfaction, “Why? Because it was fun."

Noah felt his heart hammer in his chest, a rage so potent it nearly choked him.

He forced the words out through gritted teeth. "She didn't deserve it."

"No one ever does." The man replied coolly, shrugging his shoulders with an air of detached indifference.

With a battle cry that rang throughout the abandoned warehouse, Noah charged, brandishing his katana and aiming for the man's chest. Time seemed to slow as he watched the man step aside with ease and swipe at Noah with a sharp, shiny object that came from nowhere.

Suddenly, Noah found himself tumbling to the ground, the pain spreading across his arm like wildfire. Gritting through the pain, he pushed off the ground with his good arm and spun around to face his opponent again.

Noah screamed again as he swung his katana around in a swift arc, and the crow watched from its perch—a final cheerleader in this fatal dance.

The man dodged, and with another swift, unexpected movement, he lunged forward, catching Noah's torso in his grasp. Wrenching him close, the man’s eyes gleamed with savage delight.

"So much fight for a dying boy!"

‘Noah!’ A voice echoed through the warehouse, a mimic that shocked him to the core.

It was your voice.

Ignoring the man's tightening grip on him, Noah turned his head towards the sound, but nobody was there.

‘Noah, my love.’

The music of your voice crawled through his mind as he screamed, heart racing with reprisal.

You were merely a mirage dancing through his memory as he swung the weapon, slicing the murderer’s arm.

The man’s grip loosened as Noah stumbled back, before running toward him again.

His vision blurred with the pain and anger, yet he could still see your face — those beautiful eyes, filled with life and love.

His body gave you everything as his fingers dug into your hips, holding you steadily against him. He pounded into you with so much passion, that he knew he would give up everything to spend eternity with you. Your mouth hung open in devotion as you held onto his arms, screaming his name in all the love he gave you.

“I love you,” you cried, nails clawing at his neck to pull him into a kiss, his tongue encircling your own.

“I love you most,” he moaned, face shoved into the crook of your collarbone as he relished in your body, claiming you as his forever.

The memory was so vivid, so potent.

Noah’s grip on the katana tightened and he lunged forward once more.

"There is nothing for you here," he spat at the man, words laced with venom.

He could see surprise flicker in his opponent's eyes.

Noah used this moment to attack, driving his katana straight for the man's heart.

But like a snake, the man twisted away at the last moment, Noah's blade tearing through his shirt and grazing his skin. Yet it did enough damage.

The man howled in pain, stumbling back with a hand clutching his bleeding side.

Noah pounced again, but this time he wasn't aiming for death.

He kicked out hard and fast, smashing into the man's knee with a crack that echoed through the warehouse. The man howled, collapsing onto the floor as his legs gave way beneath him.

Through a haze of pain and malice, Noah stared down at his fallen adversary. His chest heaved yet there was no room for mercy in his heart.

The memories of you lingered, fueling him, igniting the fire that had been dying since your demise. With every intake of breath, your scent filled his senses and your voice played like a broken symphony in his ears.

He moved over to the fallen man, pressing the katana's edge into his chest. The man squirmed, gasping for breath but Noah only pushed harder.

Your face flashed before him again, a beacon of pure love, forever lost to him.

"You took her from me," Noah continued, his voice shaking with unrestrained anger, “My everything.”

“My valentine has hollow eyes,” the brunette seethed, pushing the blade into the man’s flesh, "No mercy."

Noah twisted the katana as it pierced through his skin, and the man's eyes bulged in pain.

"No mercy," he echoed himself, his voice scarcely audible over the man's agonized screams.

The cold steel slid into his adversary's chest with sickening ease, each centimetre driving home the finality of what Noah was doing. He watched as the life drained from the murderer’s eyes, replaced with the fear of an impending death.

As the man's struggles grew weaker, Noah leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over his enemy's face.

"You will feel every bit of the pain you inflicted upon her," he whispered harshly, "You will know the agony of a soul being ripped apart, just as you did to mine."

The warehouse was filled with an eerie lull now, broken only by desperate whimpers and gasps for air.

Blood stained the concrete ground beneath them; a dark, macabre painting of their dance.

Slowly, Noah extracted his katana, watching as the vacant eyes of his prey stared back, lifeless and bleak as he slumped to the cement.

It was only then Noah let himself fall onto his knees, letting the katana fall onto the floor with a clang.

He let himself cry in anguish once again, a pain so visceral it threatened to swallow him whole.

"Forgive me," he choked out in between sobs, a desperate plea aimed at an unresponsive heaven. He didn't even know who he was asking forgiveness from, you or himself.

The remorse constricted his throat, a cruel mockery of the cathartic release he had envisioned. He'd set out to bring justice to your memory, a fiery knight blinded by grief and revenge.

Yet there he was, kneeling amongst scattered shards of his shattered soul.

The world hadn't changed its course; the stars above hadn't dimmed in acknowledgment of your absence.

"No mercy," he'd said, convinced that by extinguishing the life of your murderer, he'd somehow restore balance.

But now? Nothing felt balanced. Nothing felt right. The emptiness inside him gaped wider, mocking him with its silent echo.

A faint chill blew through the warehouse's broken window, carrying with it the scent of impending winter.

His face felt numb against the bitterness, a physical counterpart to his numbed soul.

The city beneath him remained indifferent to his grief. Cracks of neon lights pierced through the dingy windows, casting their fluorescent glow upon the cold concrete floor of the warehouse. The irony was not lost on him; even in death, the city sought to breathe life into everything it touched.

Noah looked up towards the night sky out one of the windows. Once he’d believed the stars whispered stories of love and heroism, of warriors dancing with celestial beings under their luminous watch.

Those tales now seemed like a cruel mockery, a jester’s tale spun to amuse the lords of fate.

Yet in his heart, he wished they could’ve come true.

His hands were still stained with the lifeblood that had drained away before him. He felt its striking warmth persistently, reminding him of the life force he had extinguished. The hands that held you tenderly, and stroked your hair with love and care, were now instruments of destruction.

For days, he wandered, unsure of where to go or what to become. The crow no longer spoke.

When the day came for your funeral, he sat next to your grave, leaning against the cold stone. Noah could no longer bring himself to cry. His eyes had been left dry and lifeless, lost in eternal drought.

‘It’s not death if you refuse it… it is if you accept it.’

The voice was so clear, for the first time in days.

Noah looked above, staring at the black bird once again.

“I want it to rain,” he spoke slowly, “please.”

The bird watched in understanding as Noah’s fingers held the rope between his fingers.

Giving his soul to the crows of the afterlife, he knew his spirit could finally rest, now that it avenged yours.

Hopefully, you were there, waiting for him on the other side.