#she was such a hopeful child who simply loved to draw

[maya-tl]

uhg god my old art was SO- *remembers that child was so full of wonder and loved drawing so much, and that she would be so happy & proud to see the way we draw now* *holding back tears* foundational to the development of my current style and skill level

uhg god my old art was SO- *remembers there's no point in being dismissive of my old art bc i was still learning and it's not fair to disregard the efforts of a young artist, even if it's my own work* *through gritted teeth* foundational to the development of my current style and skill level

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤATELOPHOBIA * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N has suffered with an eating disorder for years, but lately, - because of some "fans" and social media - her insecurities have been taking her to a more than dangerous path, which she couldn't get out without help.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　no.

WARNINGS　::　anorex!a, eating disorder, comparison, self sabotage, self hatred, panic attack, pure angst... PLEASE read with caution!

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

Atelophobia; the fear of not being good enough.

This was one of the millions of fears and problems that haunted Y/N's mind. Her head convinced her a long time ago that she simply wasn't enough; for her school teachers, for her classmates, for her friends, for her parents, past boyfriends... not even for herself.

This led her to listen to what others said and thought about herself since she was very young, the desire to be perfect and within society's standards in all aspects of a human being consumed her; personality, thoughts, knowledge... body.

She was told all the time how she should behave, act, and be. She was just a child, but that didn't seem to matter to those who did it, clogging her up with responsibilities and comparisons.

One thing led to another. Her desperation to be the best at everything started to include her own body. "Fat" was the first word people used to describe her. She had no control over the situations around her, but she had control over her weight.

Y/N was always the biggest girl in her class, and her classmates seemed to love reminding her of that; often being excluded from work groups, forgotten in groups of friends, or not chosen in any team during Physical Education classes.

Until the year when everything changed. During the school vacation, she decided to change, intending to return to school as a new girl. The new cycle started well, Y/N saw a nutritionist, cutting out all fatty foods from her routine and consuming only healthy ones. She started going to the gym daily, doing the recommended training time. All of this led her to lose a significant amount of weight.

Soon, the vacation was over, and with that, the negative comments from her classmates were replaced by positive comments. Girls asking what she had done to lose weight like that, searching for advice and seeing her as a miracle. Boys saying how changed and prettier she looked.

How could she not fall in love with her own illness?

So, that made her feel good. Too good... her mind began to yearn to become thinner, more beautiful, just to hear more from others. And then the healthy diet and the one hour training at the gym were no longer enough for her. She needed more if she wanted to be better.

Y/N then intensified her training, staying at the gym for 2 hours per day, doing more reps with more weight. She crossed out several foods from the list of permitted that her nutritionist had made, choosing for herself the ones she thought were ideal, until it had almost nothing left.

Her brain self-sabotaged so that she wouldn't go out with her friends, because they would definitely want to eat somewhere and she wouldn't be able to.

She no longer participated in family dinners, creating excuses so as not to be forced to sit at the table and eat.

Her mind convinced her that she wasn't thin enough to satisfy her boyfriends' sexual and non-sexual desires, which made her pull away during or at the beginning of any relationship she had until the guy got tired, or she simply ended it.

She spent hours on the internet, searching for sensational diets that reduced daily calories to 500 or less, promising extraordinary weight loss. In addition to getting on the scale at least 4 times a day, hoping for a miracle every time she looked at the numbers.

Y/N replaced her eating schedules with random hobbies like drawing, learning a new instrument, or picking flowers from her garden to make flower crowns, occupying her time and mind.

Some things scared her, her period hadn't come in months, clumps of hair fell out every time she ran her hands through it. Her vision went dark at least 3 times a day. Her body shivered from the complete cold of her insides, and her stomach hurt more than usual.

But she had to suffer them alone since she had no one to talk to about, always alone.

Until Y/N met Matt.

Matt was the boy who made her want to get better. He encouraged her to look for a hospital that fit her preferences, where Y/N finally began to receive psychiatric and psychological care.

Her diet changed for the better, into foods that Y/N saw as safe. She did not abandon the gym but reduced the weight and time, maintaining her training just for the health of her muscles, as she had lost a lot of lean mass during her worst moment.

The calculator in her head finally stopped. Her eyes started seeing food as just food and not as the enemy. Her stomach craved for all the snacks she loved, and she finally ate them, without feeling guilty.

Matt was so thoughtful about her entire situation, having suffered himself with extreme anxiety from a young age. He could tell he understood in parts what it was like to live with a mental illness.

So he helped her maintain her healthy diet and eat all her daily meals within her limit - often opting to eat together in their room, since he knew the trepidation Y/N still felt about doing it in front of other people.

Matt praised her in every possible situation, trying not to be extreme but to show his intense love and support for the girl. All of that was helping her a lot.

Until it wasn't.

Y/N and Matt never hid their relationship from the public, the girl knew how famous her boyfriend was and how difficult it could be to keep their relationship hidden, they would be seen together at one time or another.

So it wasn't surprising that the girl appeared in some of the triplets' pictures sometimes, and that's what happened that Friday.

As usual, Nick posted a photo dump on the triplets Instagram to promote the publication of their new car video, and one of the photos was of Matt and Y/N, specifically one in which the two were sitting on the couch in their living room, the girl had her legs draped over Matt's thighs, while his tattooed arm wrapped tightly around her waist, huge smiles decorating their faces.

It was a cute photo, but apparently, that wasn't what fans thought.

While Matt and his brothers were in the kitchen, preparing healthy snacks - a habit they built through the girl, but which in the end helped everyone -, Y/N was lying on her bed in the room she shared with Matt, wrapped in too-warm covers, holding her phone with her right hand while her left hand wrapped around her stomach in an almost painful grip.

Her thumb scrolled through the comments screen beneath the post. Almost everyone there talking about her picture with Matt.

"Matt can do so much better than her"

"I really don't know what he saw in her"

"She's going to end up crushing him like that"

"I'll pay for the gym for her if that's the price for Matt to have a worthy girlfriend"

And so on, it was as if they knew all of Y/N's weaknesses.

Some fans of them could be cruel when they wanted to, and Y/N knew this by heart since seeing Nick crying several times because he was body shamed, or when she noticed Chris being quieter than usual after reading comments saying how loud he was and how that was unbearable.

Her heart was crushed every time she saw Matt suffer in silence until he couldn't hold it in any longer and finally cried in her lap for hours after reading people saying how insignificant and quiet he was in the videos.

Even though a huge mass of the fandom loved them with all their hearts and took care of them as much as the distance of a phone screen allowed, it still wasn't enough to swallow the hate comments.

But when it came to Y/N, more than half of the fandom turned against her. Maybe out of envy, but it was obvious that the girl didn't see it that way. She was convinced that they were right.

Her heart tightened as if someone was crushing it with their bare hands. The air seemed to escape her lungs, and the lunch she ate hours before seemed to want to go up her throat. Her fingers trembled as she held her stomach, feeling everything she had and didn't have there. Her eyes began to water, her lips quivering from the tears that wanted to escape.

Y/N quickly moved her finger to the back button, hoping to break out of the horrible cycle she was about to enter. A loud sob escaped her lips when, upon finally leaving the post, her feed reloaded, and a picture of a model that Y/N followed and admired appeared.

Comparison was her biggest enemy.

Negative thoughts about herself began to pollute her mind, everything around her becoming a fog. The sounds coming from the kitchen became muffled to her ears. Y/N's right hand - which was holding her phone - was gripping the device in such a way that her fingers turned white. Painful sobs escaped her mouth as her eyes remained fixed on the woman's perfect figure.

Why can't I be like her?

The longing for the sensations she felt when she starved hit her chest hard. The desire to want to be as thin as before - or more - filled her.

It didn't take long, and soon, the bedroom door was slowly opened, Matt's silhouette appearing behind it. His face was lit up with a smile - probably because of some joke his brothers made - while his right hand held a plate with two sandwiches.

His cheerful expression was replaced by a frown of concern. Matt quickly closed the door with his feet, walking towards the bed, haphazardly placing the plate on the nearest bedside table before sitting down on the mattress.

His hands flew to Y/N's waist, stopping over her own hand that was squeezing her skin with a force that was sure to leave it bruised.

The girl seemed to wake up from her trance, lifting her head and meeting Matt's calming - but worried - gaze. She cried harder as she imagined what her boyfriend would be thinking of her now.

Automatically, her mind started to play her current state, messy hair, swollen and red face, skin wet with tears, eyes half closed and mouth open, allowing sobs to escape from there.

"M-Matt-" Her sentence was cut off by a sob, her eyes closing tightly.

Matt took a deep breath, trying to process what to do next. His left hand - the one that didn't cover hers - slowly took the phone, taking it out of his girl's death grip. He glanced briefly at the screen, automatically understanding what was happening before locking it and putting the device aside.

He moved his body so that it was closer to hers, resting his hand on her spine and guiding her until she laid her head on his chest, caressing the area below his fingers.

Matt felt his heart break with every tremble that rocked the body beneath his caused by the sobs. If he could take that pain away from his girlfriend, he would.

"It's okay, baby, let it out. I'm right here." He cooed, his fingers caressed the tangled strands of her hair lightly, stroking the area while moving his upper body back and forth, slowly calming his girlfriend.

"Ma-Matty-" Y/N's voice was weak, wobbly from the pain in her heart.

Matt removed his hand from hers for a few seconds, stretching it to the bedside table - where the plate was -, taking the bottle of water that Y/N always filled before going to sleep. He opened the lid in one quick movement, bringing it close to his girl's face.

"Come on, my love. Sit down for a moment and take a sip of water. Please." The boy asked in a soft voice, helping Y/N straighten her posture before bringing the bottle closer to her lips, helping her take a few small sips of the contents.

He closed the bottle after making sure she was satisfied, placing it on the mattress before turning his attention to Y/N again. He brushed away the strands of hair from her face, tucking them behind her ear.

"What if they're right?" She asked in a whisper, catching her bottom lip between her teeth in an attempt to keep from crying.

"No, they aren't." Matt's tone was convincing, as if he was absolutely sure of what he was saying. "You are not worse than others because of your weight. You look great as you are. Your body is perfect, do you know why? Because he's healthy enough to carry you around and take care of you." The boy held her hands lightly, stroking the back of her fingers gently as he looked into her eyes. "The recovery journey is not easy, I remember the words your psychologist said to me when we had that session together. I imagine your head when you see clothes getting tighter, and these comments certainly make you want to give up, I know you, baby."

He paused momentarily, watching her reactions carefully.

Y/N knew that, recovery was hard work. Not wanting to die was hard work.

"Recovery is not a race. You don't have to feel guilty about taking less or more time than you originally thought or having relapses from time to time. This is part of the process, and I want you to understand this. You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my entire life. When I look at the most beautiful things, I remember you. In the pink tulips of the flower shop across the street, in the Cassiopeia constellation, in the bees that fly in our garden and in the greenest tree I have ever seen." Y/N let out a tearful laugh when she heard him mention the tree, knowing his immense love for nature. "Because you're pretty like them."

"I-I'm sorry." The girl whispered, sniffling then lowering her gaze in shame. "I... I saw the photos that Nick posted, and there were comments..." She shook her head, closing her eyes tightly.

"Oh baby." He leaned slightly over Y/N, sealing his lips over her warm forehead. "If you want to apologize, let me do it. If you went through this now, it was because of me."

"No, Matt. It was never and will never be your fault." Y/N shook her head, wiping her eyes momentarily with the sleeve of her - his - hoodie, sniffling slightly before taking one of Matt's hands, intertwining their fingers. "You don't control people, much less through the internet. They will always talk a lot because they are behind a screen that protects them, but that will never be your fault. I would rather go through this a thousand times and have you with me than never have you again."

"I understand." He paused momentarily. "Please, don't let it get to that point again while you're alone. If you see something that upsets you or makes you feel bad, turn it off instantly and call me. I want to be there to help you. I want to be there for you." The brunette asked, staring at her eyes.

Y/N sighed, nodding her head and leaning slightly closer to him, resting her forehead on Matt's shoulder, exhaling the softening scent and perfume that exuded from the fabric of the hoddie on his body.

Her eyes burned from the tears she shed, closing them tightly to prevent more from falling, her heart still feeling sore from everything.

"If you want, we can contact that psychologist again, the one who helped you throughout the process at the hospital." Matt lowered his head, bringing his face closer to the back of Y/N's head, pressing his lips against his girl's hair, closing his eyes as he felt the warmth of her body close to his. "I want to attend some sessions just like we did last time, so I understand how I can help you this time."

Y/N felt her heart warm instantly, her free hand snaking to Matt's thigh closest to her, stroking the covered skin lightly.

"Okay."

Matt loved Y/N more than he loved himself, and he would make sure that she understood that she wasn't alone anymore.

© vanteguccir

[penkura]

Plz do a Husband corazon + child Law for mother's day 💐💛

Y E S omg I love Corazon, he'd be such a great husband and father. 🥺 On par or even better than Sanji imo.

I hope you don't mind that Corazon and the Reader have a biological daughter as well, I just thought it would be cute!! I also made this a modern AU one, because damn it, Corazon deserved to be happy. :'(

(Note: This is out of order from all requests simply due to the theme. I have made progress on the others!)

Corazon would have a whole plan, partly put together by thirteen-year-old Law and your toddler, Evangeline. Your daughter would draw you a card, while Corazon and Law focused on making you breakfast and of course, it would go all kinds of wrong.

You wake up to hushed shouting between your husband and adoptive son, Law telling Corazon he's going to burn the bacon and to stop smoking while he cooks. Your husband retorts that it's fine, nothing bad is going to happen. He's not going to set anything on fire, unlike at Christmas. For a few minutes you lay there on your phone, listening to your family down the hall. Evangeline eventually comes into your bedroom, pulling on your blanket and calling for you to pay attention to her.

“Mommy, mommy!”

You roll over and lift her up into your bed, giving her a tight hug while she laughs and returns it. What a joy she is, that last nearly three years have been a blessing with her and Law around, you wouldn’t change it for the world. Yes, some people have given your small family odd looks—what are two twenty-six-year-olds doing with a toddler and a teenager?—but you’ve learned to tune them out and ignore them. It didn’t matter what others thought, they could assume you’d had a teen pregnancy all they wanted. It wasn’t the truth, but some wouldn’t even listen or believe you. After all, you’d tried to explain it to your coworkers when you and Corazon adopted Law just before Evangeline was born, but even those close to you didn’t understand it.

“What’ve you got there, Evie?”

“Your gift!” She beams at you and holds the card she’d made out, the biggest grin on her little face. Just as planned, it’s a card she scribbled together, you can recognize your husband’s handwriting to make the words legible, but it’s still adorable that she tried so hard to make you something. There’s a cute little drawing of your family in the card, making you smile and hug her again,

“Thank you, Evie! I—” you’re stopped by the smell of smoke before the smoke detector goes off and kick off your blanket, running down the hall with your daughter in your arms and hearing Law yell that everything is fine, though you’re at the kitchen doorway before he finishes speaking. “What is happening?!”

Law turns to you and points at Corazon, who is waving a towel over the completely burnt bacon to try and get the smoke and smell out the window. “He burned breakfast again!”

“Not like you were helping, little shi—” Corazon stops himself when you send him a glare and cover Evangeline’s ears, shaking your head at him. After the one time she said ‘bastard’, you’d been very watchful of what words were said in your house, “Look, it’s fine! We can salvage it!”

“No, we can’t! It’s burnt black!”

Corazon ignores Law’s complaints for the moment, coming over to kiss your forehead and smile at Evangeline. “Did you give mommy her card?”

“I did!”

“That’s my girl!” Evangeline giggles while Corazon turns back to kiss you as a proper good morning. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Thank you, beloved.”

You’re briefly interrupted by a fancy bouquet of flowers being shoved between the two of you, Law looking away shyly as he holds them there for you, his own gift for you for the day that makes you almost cry and heart ache. He’d been with you as your son for the last three years, but this was the first time he’d given you anything on this day. You’ll never truly take the place of his mother, like Corazon won’t really take his father’s place and Evangeline his sister’s, but you’re glad for the smallest bit of progress that has him viewing you all as his family, and you hope for him to continuing viewing you all in that light, even as he grows up and out of your home one day.

“…Happy Mother’s Day.”

Crouching down enough to be eye level with him, you give Law a kiss on the forehead and a smile.

“Thank you so much, Law. I love them.”

[koenigami]

'cause my love, is mine all mine. tags : fluff, fem!reader, child!reader, reader accidentally turned into child, a little angst and brief mention of his past wc : 2k synopsis : a failed commission leads to wriothesley having to take care of a mini-version of the love of his life masterlist - Laughter and squeals echo through the large hall as Sigewinne leisurely skips her way up to the Duke’s office, the sight that awaits her at the top of the staircase planting a soft smile on her face. 

A slightly out-of-breath Wriothesley chasing a little girl around his desk, her h/c hair bouncing and flying back and forth as she tries to evade the man’s arms all while giggling and grinning as if there were no tomorrow. 

To anyone else, this would seem like any other normal afternoon on which the Duke spends time with his daughter, a carbon copy of you, and entertains every single wish of hers because he’s physically unable to tell her no. 

However, many things that occur in the Fortress of Meropide should not necessarily be considered normal. Because in fact, you and Wriothesley don’t have a child that looks exactly like you. Because said child is, as a matter of fact, actually you yet simply a younger version of yourself. How is that possible, anyone would ask? 

Well, let’s just say that your last commission with the adventurer’s guild didn’t exactly go the way you had hoped it to. While on expedition, your team had found a yet unexplored cave and stumbled upon a variety of ancient artifacts. 

By your colleagues’ reports, it seems like a look into a small hand mirror was all it took for your body to shrink, and your features to turn younger by two decades.

It has been almost 48 hours since Monsieur Neuvillette had visited him in his office, the young girl that had been tightly holding onto his hand immediately running up to Wriothesley as soon as her eyes fell on him. All it took was one single look at the Iudex’ apologetic expression, as well as one look at the child’s too familiar face to know that something must have gravely gone wrong during your mission. 

“Sigewinne!” You smile when you notice the Melusine quietly standing across the room. With an equally kind face, she waves at you before motioning Wriothesley to have a word with her for a brief moment. So, dejectedly, you watch as the huge man with messy black and greyish hair leaves you to your own devices. 

With a little pout, you settle down on his big fancy chair, fish out the markers that he had let someone bring for you, and continue the drawing that you started earlier while he was busy with some paperwork. 

You aren’t entirely sure what it is about him, or the other man with beautiful long hair who had brought you to Wriothesley in the first place but- Amidst the chaos in your head, and the fact that you can’t remember a single thing that happened before the past two days, something about them was comforting and provided you with a sense of safety. Especially the wolf-like man. He was nice. 

There’s a sudden warmth that settles on top of your head. With big, sparkling eyes, you peer up at Wriothesley who’s analysing the lines of your colourful drawing while his hand nearly engulfs the entirety of your head. “Is it okay if I leave you alone for a few minutes? There’s some stuff I have to check with Sigewinne. I won’t be too long, I promise.” 

He notices your eyes widen briefly before you start gnawing on the inside of your cheek and contemplate over his words. Ever since you’ve come back like this, Wriothesley has not been able to leave you alone for even a second, which you’re more than happy about because spending time with him is fun! Of course he doesn’t let on that the reason behind it is his worry about something happening to you, or you getting yourself in trouble, or someone else using your current state as an opportunity to hurt you. 

That’s why it pains him even more when he sees the brief look of reluctance in your eyes before you nod silently and go back to your drawing.

With a sad smile on his face, he sighs once he realises that even your younger self seems not to be any better at voicing her true feelings, instead opting to just swallow every negative emotion like a bitter pill. 

With a caress over your soft hair, Wriothesley leaves, and the sound of his thick boots as he descends the staircase echo through his office before the door falls shut behind him. 

-

True to his word, Wriothesley returns a quarter of an hour later, a small flacon in his hand which is supposed work as an antidote for whatever kind of higher power has cursed you. As much as he has gotten to enjoy your younger self’s presence, there is no denying that he misses the actual you. And the longer you’re staying in your current form, the more he frets about the possible consequences it could have for your body and health if you’re not turned back into an adult as soon as possible. 

Climbing his way up to his office, he can already tell by your panicked little murmurs that you must be up to something. If anyone else so much as tried to snoop around in Wriothesley’s sanctuary, the consequences would be grave. Yet the simple thought of little you stomping around, your eyes sparkling with curiosity as your small chubby hands open and close drawers, and pry open insignificant boxes and chests- He can’t help but smile with a little headshake. 

However, his smile immediately falls when he sees your slumped figure kneeling on the floor, surrounded by books and other objects that must have fallen out of the shelf and crashed down on the floor. 

You startle when he softly calls out your name, the picture in your hand shaking the slightest before you clutch it to your chest and turn your head to face him. 

Oh, you’re going to be in so much trouble. All you wanted was to have a look at the framed picture on the shelf, yet in your attempt to jump up to reach it, you accidentally knocked it over with other books and a little vase. And now everything’s broken. The vase, the frame. He’ll be mad. 

“Hey, what happened here?” 

“I-I’m sorry. I wanted to see the picture b-but-” Your lips wobble, tears fill your eyes, some of them already spilling over your cheeks, as your little body starts to quake with each sniffle and sob. 

Comforting words are already on his tongue, but when his eyes catch the broken pieces of porcelain and the glass shards, he immediately feels his blood pressure rocket before he gathers you in his arms. The cushions of the leather couch creak as he sets you down on it before his hands trail over your arms and legs, making sure that there aren’t any cuts or shards lodged into your delicate skin. “You didn’t hurt yourself right?”

Confusion etches itself clearly on your face, because why is he not yelling at you? 

At the light shake of your head, Wriothesley’s shoulder visibly sag as he sighs in relief. “That’s good. You have to be more careful, sweetheart.”

Your nose wrinkles as you sniff and wipe the snot off your face with the sleeve of the overly large shirt that you’ve got on. He seems anything but upset. He smiles gently at you, large and warm hands brushing over your cheeks to wipe the remaining tears away before he throws himself on the couch beside you. 

“You’re not mad at me?” You sound like a little mouse, and shyly look up at him through your wet and clumpy lashes. Instead of a scowl and disappointed expression, you’re met with gentle blue eyes and an expression that radiates so much reassurance and comfort that it only confuses you even further. Though, at his next words, you think you understand his reaction a little bit better. 

“Of course not. I mean it’s not like you knocked those things over on purpose, right?” 

The quick shake of your head earns you a thorough ruffle through your hair, paired with a content See? No biggy then, which finally loosens some of the tension and fear in your body. And as the thick paper in your hand crinkles the slightest bit, you realise that you have completely forgotten about the initial reason for this entire ordeal. You hold up the picture in front of your face, and decide to show it to him. 

“She… she’s really pretty.”

“Yeah?”

You shoot him an earnest expression, lips pressed tightly as you nod eagerly and hum. Wriothesley cocks a brow at you and a wide grin stretches his mouth, his hand again resting on your head. You like when he does that. 

“You know, sometimes she doesn’t believe me when I tell her how beautiful I think she is. Unbelievable, huh?” 

The way you gasp incredulously and look up at him with utter disbelief in your eyes almost makes him bite into your soft apple cheeks. “T-Then you have ta’ make sure you tell her more often. Until she believes it!”

Wriothesley seals his promise by hooking his pinky finger around yours, the difference in size making his heart melt into a puddle. And as you hum satisfiedly and return your attention back to the picture of you and him that has been taken a few months ago, he has to admit that as much as he misses the real you- He won’t miss this version of you any less. 

But the presence of the little flacon burns in his pocket, and as Sigewinne’s words echo through his mind, he comes to the realisation that bed time is slowly but surely approaching. 

-

As the sun rises, and the fortress automatically comes to life again, Wriothesley is more than relieved to notice your long legs entangled with his, your arm fully able to reach around his waist and pull yourself closer to him. Giving you the potion before falling asleep just as he has been instructed to do must have done the work. However, as his fingertips brush over your cheek, he’s alarmed at the sudden moisture coating them. 

“Love? What’s-”

You’re awake. He notices when you bury your face further into his neck and refuse to look at him while tightening your hold on him. Speechless and with a still sleepy and hazy mind, Wriothesley instinctively buries his hand in your hair on the back of your head, the light massaging motions of his fingers seeming to calm you. 

With a wet sniff, you eventually pull back and allow him to have a look at you. The same pretty eyes, the same gorgeous smile, the same cute nose that he loves to brush his own against, but this time with slightly less chubbier cheeks and a more mature expression.

“Are you alright?” His body follows yours as you sit up without uttering a word, and instead proceed to wipe your tear stained cheeks. “How are you feeling?” 

The longer the silence between you lingers, the more Wriothesley becomes agitated. Could it be that the potion has any side effects? Physically, at least, you seem to be fine yet-

“I’m sorry. I’m fine, I promise. It’s just-” With a last sniff and brush of your finger along your waterline, you turn towards him with a wobbly smile and throw yourself back into his arms. Yeah, wiping all those tears away was for naught. “Gosh, Wriothesley, I just love you so much, you have no idea.” 

Wide eyed, he accepts your embrace and snorts at your sudden outburst of love. Naturally, he would never dare to complain about it. Instead, his nose buries in your neck, inhaling your scent, his arms tighten around your waist, hands roam over your back and take in each and every part of your body. 

He's truly missed you.

You don’t remember much of the past few days, yet what you do remember perfectly well is the warmth, love and care with which you had been handled. It’s overflowing and filling you with even more adoration for this man because you’re fully aware that it has been him who has taken care of you. Wriothesley, who never truly got to experience the same kind of affection in his early life, who has seen too many atrocities at such a young age. Your heart breaks over the things that he has missed, yet it mends again at the realisation of how proud you are of him. How proud and lucky you are for him to be yours, and you to be his. 

And of course, it goes without saying that after this little incident it doesn’t take long until you and him happily announce that if all goes well, in a few months there will be a mini-version of you and him running around the fortress of Meropide. They will fill the place with joy and laughter, and yours and Wriothesley's life with even more happiness and love.

[novaursa]

Fire and Heart

- Summary: You accept your life with Aegon, finding happiness in him and your growing family.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Note: This is one of possible futures of The Broken Crown series. If these events happen, the reader doesn't go to Dorne.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

You stand in the nursery, the sound of laughter and playful giggles filling the warm air. Your son, Aerion, chases his sisters, Aelora and Vaella, around the room, their silver hair flying like a cascade of moonlight. You smile softly, watching them, your heart swelling with a love so fierce it almost frightens you.

"Mother, look!" Aerion shouts, his eyes shining with pride as he catches Vaella, pulling her into a tight hug. She squeals, pretending to struggle, her face a picture of pure mischief. Aelora claps her hands, her laughter ringing out like bells.

"Well done, my brave little dragon," you praise, brushing a stray lock of hair from Aerion’s face. He beams up at you, his expression so much like Aegon's that it makes your heart ache. You reach out, smoothing Aelora’s dress and patting Vaella’s hair. Your children, your precious gems.

A soft knock draws your attention to the door. Aegon stands there, his gaze intense and thoughtful, as it always is when he looks at you. He steps into the room, his presence commanding and undeniable, even here, among his own blood. The children rush to him, their small arms wrapping around his legs, and for a moment, he is not the conqueror but simply a father, smiling down at his brood.

“Aegon,” you greet, your voice soft but steady. There is no resentment anymore, no lingering bitterness over the betrothal he shattered, the future he stole and replaced with his own desires. It took time, but you forgave him. You learned to love him, to see beyond his ambition and pride, to the man who is as much yours as you are his.

“Sister,” he replies, though there’s a warmth in his tone that belies the formality of the word. He bends down, lifting Aerion into his arms. The boy laughs, a bright, carefree sound, and Aegon’s face softens. He looks at you over your son’s shoulder, his violet eyes dark and deep, like the sky before a storm.

“How do you fare today?” he asks, his voice quieter now, meant only for you.

You smile, a small, genuine curve of your lips. “The children keep me busy, but they are good. They bring me joy.”

Aegon nods, his gaze lingering on you, something unspoken in his eyes. You step closer, reaching out to smooth a crease in his tunic, your fingers brushing against his chest. His hand covers yours, warm and strong.

“You’ve given me a family, Aegon,” you say, your voice steady, though there’s a strange, fluttering sensation in your chest. “Three beautiful children.”

He inclines his head, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “And you’ve given me more than I ever deserved.”

You take a deep breath, gathering your courage. You’ve thought about this for a while, weighed your fears against your desires. You look up at him, holding his gaze.

“I want another.”

For a moment, there is only silence, the children’s laughter a distant sound. Aegon blinks, his expression shifting from surprise to something else, something deeper, warmer. His grip on your hand tightens, and there’s a flicker of something almost like hope in his eyes.

“Another child?” he asks, his voice low, as if afraid to break the spell.

You nod, your heart racing. “Yes. I want to give you another child.”

Aegon’s lips part, but no words come out. He looks at you as if he’s seeing you for the first time, or perhaps seeing something he’s always hoped to see. Slowly, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, his breath warm against your skin.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, his voice rough. “After everything…?”

“I’m sure,” you whisper, looking up into his eyes. “I want this, Aegon. I want to give you another child, to have another piece of us in this world.”

He closes his eyes, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. When he opens them again, there’s a light in his gaze, a kind of fierce joy that you’ve rarely seen.

“Then I will give you what you want,” he says, his voice a promise, a vow.

You smile, something tight and warm loosening in your chest. You rise on your toes, pressing your lips to his, a soft, lingering kiss. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin with a tenderness that still surprises you, even after all these years.

“Tonight,” he whispers against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. “Will you send the children to bed early?”

A soft laugh escapes you, the sound light and free. You nod, your forehead resting against his. “Yes. Tonight.”

Aegon pulls you closer, his hand cradling the back of your neck. “I love you, sister,” he says, the words quiet but fervent, like a prayer. “More than you’ll ever know.”

“I love you too, Aegon,” you reply, your voice steady, true. “And I always will.”

In that moment, with your children’s laughter surrounding you, Aegon’s arms around you, and the promise of another life between you, you feel whole. Complete.

And you know, without a doubt, that you have made the right choice.

The candles flicker softly in your chambers as you wait, nerves fluttering in your stomach. The children are asleep in the nursery, nestled together with their cousins, Aenys and Maegor. The quiet stillness of the castle feels almost heavy, as if it’s holding its breath along with you.

You stand by the window, looking out at the darkened skies, when you hear the door open behind you. You turn, your heart skipping a beat. Aegon stands there, the door closed behind him, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

Before you can speak, he crosses the room in long strides, his hands finding your waist, pulling you against him. His mouth crashes down on yours, hot and insistent, swallowing whatever words you were about to say. You melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, the kiss consuming, overwhelming.

“Aegon—” you gasp against his lips, but he doesn’t let you finish. His hands are everywhere, rough and urgent, tugging at the laces of your dress. You can feel the raw need in him, the desire that has been simmering between you all day now boiling over.

His lips trail down your neck, and you arch into him, your pulse racing. “I need you,” he breathes against your skin, his voice rough and desperate. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with hunger. “I need you now.”

There’s no hesitation in you as you nod, your hands fumbling with the fastenings of his tunic. Your fingers brush over his skin, feeling the heat and strength beneath, and a shiver runs through you. He shrugs out of his clothing, his hands never leaving you, stripping away the barriers between you with a swift, practiced ease.

Your dress falls to the floor, forgotten, and then his hands are on you, his body pressing you back toward the bed. You don’t break the kiss, your mouths locked together, tasting, claiming. The world narrows to just the two of you, the heat of his skin against yours, the scent of him filling your senses.

He lifts you, and you cling to him, your legs wrapping around his waist. You can feel him, hard and ready, pressing against you, and the anticipation coils tighter in your belly. He lowers you to the bed, his body covering yours, his weight a welcome, familiar pressure.

“Please, Aegon,” you whisper, your voice breathless, pleading. He groans, his lips capturing yours again, his hand sliding between your thighs. He finds you wet and wanting, and he curses softly against your mouth.

“Hold on,” he murmurs, his voice a strained growl. And then, with one powerful thrust, he’s inside you, filling you, stretching you. You cry out, your back arching, the sensation both achingly familiar and exquisitely new.

He pauses, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged. “You feel… gods, you feel perfect.”

You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as you adjust to the fullness of him, the heat spreading through you like wildfire. “Move,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He begins to move, his hips snapping against yours in a hard, relentless rhythm. Each thrust sends a shockwave of pleasure through you, your body rising to meet his, your breath mingling with his in gasps and broken moans.

There’s no gentleness in him tonight, no restraint. His hands are rough on your skin, his mouth devouring yours, his need a wild, untamed thing. You respond in kind, matching him stroke for stroke, your bodies a tangle of sweat and heat and desperate longing.

“Aegon,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips, your fingers clutching at his back. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he drives into you, deeper, harder.

“I want to fill you,” he growls, his voice low and fierce, each word punctuated by a thrust. “I want to give you another child. I want everyone to know you are mine.”

“Yes,” you breathe, your voice breaking, your body trembling beneath him. “Yes, Aegon. I’m yours.”

His hand slides between your bodies, his fingers finding the sensitive spot that has you crying out, your body clenching around him. He thrusts harder, deeper, his movements becoming erratic, his control slipping.

The pressure builds inside you, winding tighter and tighter until it finally snaps, a wave of pleasure crashing over you, stealing your breath, your voice. You shatter around him, your body tightening, convulsing, and he follows you over the edge with a hoarse shout, his body going taut, his release pulsing deep inside you.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, harsh and uneven, your bodies still joined, still trembling with the aftershocks. He collapses against you, his weight warm and solid, his arms wrapping around you as if he can’t bear to let you go.

You hold him close, your fingers trailing through his hair, your heart still racing. He shifts, lifting his head to look at you, his eyes soft, the fierceness replaced by something gentler, something almost tender.

“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice a rough whisper, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

You smile, a slow, languid curve of your lips. “More than all right.”

Aegon’s lips find yours again, softer this time, lingering, as if savoring the taste of you. “I love you,” he murmurs against your mouth, the words quiet, but there’s a depth to them that makes your heart ache.

“I love you too, Aegon,” you whisper, your hands cradling his face.

He smiles, a rare, unguarded smile that lights up his eyes. “We’ll have another child,” he says, his voice filled with a quiet certainty. “A strong, healthy one, just like the others.”

You nod, your heart swelling with a fierce, protective love. “Yes, we will.”

And in that moment, with his arms around you, his body still warm and close against yours, you believe it. You believe in him, in the life you’ve built together, in the family you’ll continue to grow.

Tonight, the future seems as bright and boundless as the stars outside your window. And for the first time in a long while, you feel truly at peace.

[bellesdreamyprofile]

“Wanna go play?” - Austin Butler

summary: story of dad austin, you and your shy babygirl

You couldn’t exactly remember your kindergarten years, except for the fact that you mostly hung out with your teacher, Miss Paula. She played the guitar and taught you and other children different songs every week. You were her right hand, always clinging onto her, not because you were particularly shy, but simply because the other kids didn’t quite get you like she did.

Austin was a mama’s boy his entire school years, always begging the teachers to call his mama to pick him up earlier. The memories of him eating his beloved peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his car with his mama, were still fresh in his mind. Those were his favorite moments with her - having lunch together and sharing silly stories, while waiting for his next audition.

Your babygirl was a mix of that. Matilda was clingy, just like you were, yet she felt a very emotional connection to both her parents. You were very affectionate parents, there was no denying that, but the way she would grip your sweater or Austin’s arm was cute yet a little sad too. You were happy she was aware of her parents´ love, but this constant fear of being “abandoned” concerned you a little.

The first week of kindergarten consisted of parents and their children hanging there for a couple of hours, helping their child get accustomed to their surroundings. Matilda didn’t really care about cubbies, small chairs or the lego set in the corner. She was happily snuggling her daddy in his lap.

You extended your legs in front of you and sat up, catching a dog plushie in the distance. Immediately turning to Matilda, you pointed at the toy. “Look, baby, there’s a puppy!”

Austin brushed his finger on her cheek, wanting her to turn your way, but she just seemed to disappear into your husband’s grey sweater. He turned your way and gave you a small smile. “You tried everything, baby.”, you huffed at his answer and moved to sit closer to them.

You leaned behind Austin and brought your bag closer, setting it in your lap. “This shouldn’t fail me.”, you murmured to yourself and pulled out Tilly’s favorite toy. Another dog, one in worse shape, but nonetheless her favorite one. “Hey, bee… Look there’s Millie.”, at the sound of her pet’s name, Matilda turned around swiftly.

“Millie!”, she said with grabby hands and you happily handed it to her. She snuggled it close to her chest and kissed its little head. You hoped this would help her gain courage and go play with the other kids.

“Look Tilly, that girl also has a puppy just like you.”, Austin pointed at a little girl drawing by the tables. Matilda looked at her pet and then back at her daddy.

“Daddy, that’s kitty.”, she pointed out, and glancing at the little girl’s toy, it was surely a kitten. You teasingly shook your head at Austin.

“Yeah, daddy, that’s a kitten not a puppy.”, you murmured and bumped your shoulder into his, making your little girl laugh with glee. Austin shook his head and moved his eyes from Matilda to you.

“Mama’s a little crazy.”, he muttered and went on to bump his shoulder into yours. The two of you rocking back and forth, bumping shoulders in a teasing manner - a little comedy for your daughter, which you were used to do on a daily basis.

The little girl sitting by the coloring table looked up and locked eyes with Tilly, who seemed to immediately tense up in Austin’s arms. He looked up and smiled softly at the little wave meant for your baby.

“Wanna go play?”, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. You smiled at the exchange and looked for the girl’s parents, who weren’t sitting too far away either. Matilda looked up to her daddy, the material of his soft sweater fisted in her tiny hand.

“Daddy go with me?”, she murmured and you swore your heart burst right then and there. The emotions hidden behind those few little words made your eyes glisten with tears. Austin wordlessly nodded, his hand sneaking to hold yours, giving it a soft squeeze.

Tilly stood up on wobbly legs, her trusted toy in her hold as she waited for her daddy to stand up as well. Your heart melted at the way she was already looking up, waiting for him with her little hand extended out. Austin took it with a little smile and walked with her, Millie the plushie clutched to her chest.

Once they reached the little girl, Matilda stopped and immediately looked up for her daddy’s reassurance. “Say hello, honey.”, he encouraged her.

“Hi.”, she said quietly. The little girl smiled and waved at her again.

“I’m Jenna.”, she said with a big smile. “And this is Anna, my kitty.”, she presented her little toy to Tilly, who immediately looked up at Austin.

“Daddy, that’s a kitty.”, Matilda pointed out again and Austin simply nodded, the embarrassment from earlier staining his cheeks again. She took you by surprise as she let go of Austin’s hand and turned to fully face Jenna. “This is my daddy.”, she patted his leg and then she turned to point at you. “That’s mommy.”, and if you weren’t crying by then, you were now.

Jenna also pointed at her parents, who happily waved at their little girl. Austin crouched down beside Tilly. “Wanna sit and color with her?”, he murmured in her ear. Matilda felt freer - no longer blocked like she was before. So she nodded, setting Millie on the table and pulled out the tiny chair - all by herself.

Austin was all smiles once she started communicating with Jenna, occasionally pointed at him. “I draw you daddy. And mommy.”, he obediently nodded and smiled, answering random questions and laughing at silly jokes.

“Tilly?”, his baby turned his way. “I gotta go keep mama company, okay? We don’t want her sad all by herself right?”, Matilda’s eyes shot to you and then back to her daddy.

“No mama sad.”, she murmured and then looked back at her new friend. Her mind was made up. She patted Austin’s arm and shooed him away. “Daddy go, thank you.”

Austin kept the light chuckle for himself and briefly watched her independently chat with the little girl.  He stood up and breathed out, his long legs taking him to right where he belonged: beside you.

You smiled at him and almost wished the room was empty so you could kiss him with freedom. He crouched down and sat down beside you, his hands behind him and his legs in front of him.

“You’re back.”, you said quietly, your accent a poor tribute to the Terminator. Austin let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head.

“I am back.”, he said to you, his accent being quite impressive. You briefly tore his eyes from him and motioned at Matilda, who was still happily chatting and drawing with Jenna.

“Who would’ve thought?”, you said, unable to keep your eyes from your baby.

Austin smiled, following your gaze. “Another good day of parenting, I’d say.”, at his words, you couldn’t help but look at him, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I agree.”, you curled your fingers into a fist and moved it in his direction. He laughed and bumped his own fist with yours.

“A good day of parenting indeed.”

A/N: imagined Austin holding Matilda like in the third pic 😩🎀 also in the kitty interview he did ask the kitten if it wanted to go play with the others cats 🥺 I’m in love with the man

MASTERLIST austin masterlist

austin 2025 digital calendar 🎀 austin phone case💋

[genderfluid-insomniac]

Can you do Harbinger Headcannons for a reader who has a hard time with being social and recharges by being held? For example: they get overwhelmed after being out and about all day but have a very hard time asking to be held because they don't have the energy to communicate it. (Oddly specific but it's what I deal with)

A/N: I chose these by generating random numbers 1 through 11 and then choosing said harbinger by their rank. It’s purely by luck and I’m happy that Scaramouche and Arlecchino randomly got picked.

Also I had a very hard time finding anything about Pulcinella’s personality or what he’s like since we only saw him in the winter's interlude so if you’re reading this from the future and I’m wrong then I’m sorry. I tried my best.

Harbinger headcanons for a reader who has a hard time with being social and recharges by being held

Scaramouche

- Isn’t thrilled with physical affection but he does understand having your social battery being drained so you both compromised so no one would be uncomfortable and you got to lay your head on his lap while he ran his hands through your hair until you were ready to interact with others. Sometimes he also used your want to escape and get away from social gatherings because he doesn’t like them on a good day.

- Eventually he does come around and grow more relaxed about the whole thing, going as far as to hold you in more ways that you’re both comfortable in and have tea brought for the both of you. You will have to specify if you want a sweeter tea because he’s having his bitter as usual.

Sandrone

- Sandrone completely understands and often has her mechanical puppet use it’s hands to shield her from others so she’s “alone” in a sense. She is debating on making a hollow chamber in it’s chest so a person can rest in there comfortably and safely. You’re treated no different and if you aren’t sitting with her or on some part of the puppet (which almost never happens unless she’s in a harbinger meeting or called to see the Tsaritsa).

- You’ll never hear complaints or declines from her and you quickly taken somewhere else to recharge in her arms like how her mechanical puppet shields her with her arms or simply moving to another room. She’ll take you in her arms and let you rest against her chest, running a hand through your hair and cuddling with you in the hollow warm chamber if you ask.

Childe

- If it were any other person then he’d say pushing your limits is how you should live however this is someone he deeply cares about and knows that when you speak up about needing to be alone and recharge you mean it. You’re always a priority to him and fighting is a second but if he has harbinger work then he’ll do his best to cuddle with you till you’re alright. Childe will bring you along if he has easy missions that he thinks won’t injure you and make sure that you can be comfy but also safe while he balances you and his work.

- He is the best at cuddling and sis very attentive however once he’s has you in his arms you’re staying there for at least an hour or too. So I hope you don’t have anything important soon because even when your social battery is charged he’s going to be very happy with snuggling with his lover and being able to not think about work for once.

Arlecchino

- At first you’re scared to ask her at all since she’s very intimidating but since she’s very observant and perceptive it’s only a matter of time before she’ll talk to you about it. Arlecchino is very loving and soft when it involves you and she’d do anything for you. Pretty much anything that doesn’t break her rules. When you tug on her sleeve and discreetly glance at her with a tired shy expression the knave will excuse herself from the public conversation she’s having. You’ll be lead to an empty room hand in hand and placed on her lap as she runs her fingers through your hair or drawing circles on the top of your hand while you recharge.

- You both made a sign for when you feel like this and she respects it without any question and when she put the pieces together she cupped your face with no judgement at all in her expression. Kissing you softly and resting her forehead on yours. “Try to not be scared of telling me your worries or wishes because I love you no matter what, darling. Now do you want a signal to let me know or would you rather be held now and think about it later?”

Pulcinella

- You don’t need to ask him because he’s going to insist that you never need to ask for permission about anything that’s bothering you or making you uncomfortable and simply guiding you to a small empty room so you can recharge with him. He can also almost know when you’re running low on your social battery if he’s with you and ask you, normally he’s right 99% of the time. If he needs to do harbinger work then he will work on some of it but you’ll be sitting next to him in a hug or leaning your head on his shoulder.

- He’s rarely called for on missions and so you don’t interact much with anyone but him but when you do it’s usually for galas and formal events that makes it hard to sneak away to get away from socializing. He makes it work though, easily slipping out of the conversation he’s in and making an excuse of an agent calling for an urgent message while guiding you to a small isolated part of the room where almost no one can see the both of you. You cozy up to him and he’ll talk you quietly about meaningly topic if you want to be distracted or remain silent if you want it to be quiet.

[elysianightsss]

Regency Price thot🌹🤍

I am working on Limerence and Part two of both mountain man and the pen pal au by popular demand. But while you wait for me to write those please enjoy this lovely Viscount John Price and his Viscountess.

Price sat waiting patiently, newspaper in hands reading the latest gossip of the ton. “Aristocrats.” He scoffed low under his breath. Being one of the wealthiest, best-connected members of the middle class came with privileges but too much gossip as far a Price was concerned. Unless it directly affected him he couldn’t care less.

The doors to the dining room opened and in walked a butler, white curly wig on top of his head, his hands wringing together in nervousness as he looked at his master. “Well?” Price asked without looking away from his newspaper, an interesting snippet about a whistle or a lady down or something or other caught his eye.

“My Lord she..” the lack of answer was beginning to agitate him, he rolled up the paper and slammed it on the table, finally making eye contact with the butler.

“What?” Price snapped.

“She doesn’t seem to be here My Lord.” He said, gulping with unease clear in his voice.

“One of the horses is gone too.” A maid had said a little too loudly as she rushed into the room with the important information. Everyone in the room cringed, each and every servent, perhaps at this point even the entire ton, knows if the Viscountess and one of the horses are missing, someone will either be fired or end up in the hospital.

A wave a darkness crashed through the room as John growled out “Find me who by the time I’m back from retrieving my wife.” His orders were clear as crystal as he rushed from the room, Simon, his number two following swiftly after him.

“My horse Simon.” John grunted pulling out his pocket watch from his jacket. After years of being married to you, he always knew exactly where to find you based on the time of day it was or day of the week.

You thrived in order and schedules, one of the many things that he loved about you. Loved knowing he didn’t have to worry where you’d be at eleven in the morning. Always the drawing room catching up the on stitching you’ve been putting off, frustrated when the cross stitch didn’t form the absolute way you wanted it to.

Simon, ever the loyal to a fault number two replied quickly and lowly, “Yes Viscount.” He began to rush ahead of John making it to the stables before him and barking orders at the stable boys to fetch the masters horse and saddle. Price didn’t bother with riding clothes or shoes, simply latching his everyday boot into the stirrup and hoisting himself up into his horse.

“Shall I follow My Lord?” Simon asked head bowed as usual.

“If you wish.” John didn’t stick around after that, whipping his reigns and taking off on the beautiful brown stallion. “Come on boy, we’ve not got long before it rains!” John shouted to his horse as if the creature actually understood him, though in his fear he did not care.

The looks of the sky had him worried, the last time you went riding in the rain you caught pneumonia. He remembers how you shivered, how you were covered in sweat yet cold and how you burned to the touch. He never wishes to see you that way again. These thoughts had him pushing his horse harder to get to you faster. By the cherry tree you should be, and oh does he hope you are.

You however had just become done with your rage fit and were about to leave. Stupid Miss Carmichael, one of the bitchiest women in the ton. Not even married and yet she had the gall to mock you about not getting around to giving John a child yet. Joking about possible infertility, the words made you sick as did her audacity.

You had been married to your husband two years now and yes you were yet to bore him a child. Though the first year of your marriage, due to it being a simple arrangement, you spent it away from him. Always avoiding him, even on your wedding night you locked yourself in your room.

Though finally he managed to get you to open up to him, taught you many things, you began to love him. He had loved you however since the first moment he saw you. More so when you had advertently put him in his place after he was rude to a servant.

You had spent the second year, still getting to know each other and becoming one as husband and wife didn’t happen until three months ago. It had been essentially two years of little innocent hand touches here and there, longing looks and John standing too close to you at balls and events just so he could feel your warmth and smell your scent for longer. You were both still making up for lost time, having children was not at the forefront of your minds. Well not yours anyway.

You sighed glancing at the horse you’d rode here on, you’d best get back to join John for breakfast was your first thought. Even though it would take barely a minute for him to see you were upset and demand who had made you that way. You didn’t need to put your burden on him as much as he always insisted that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do as his wife.

Blinking up at the sky, you saw rain clouds rolling in and started to feel the drizzle of water falling down from above. Then a clap of thunder and you instantly regretted your decision to ride out here after your awful interaction with Miss Carmichael earlier. “Wonderful.” You sighed annoyed as you pulled your cloak hood over your head and made your way back to the black horse waiting patiently for you. One last look at the cherry tree and you set off into the eye of the storm.

“That’s it girl yah!” You whipped your reigns, both feet tight in the stirrups. You never rode side saddle like most women do, preferring to ride properly. Just as the cherry tree was almost out of a view, the most spectacular sight came bounding toward you. Your husband Viscount John Price gallantly riding his brown steed toward you.

“Darling!” His yell was so quiet in the midst of the rain and thunder, though it was enough to have you stopping your horse and remaining stationary as he began to slow down the closer to you he got.

Pulling on the reigns John came to a halt, horses next to one another legs touching. “Before you say anything,” you began blinking up at your handsome husband who was staring down at you heatedly, he nods encouraging you to go on. “It wasn’t raining when I started riding.”

You give him a smile, and despite the fact that you’re wet through, chilled to the bone, and as far as John is concerned in desperate need of a hot bath, he thinks you’re the most beautiful sight to behold. He smiles back leaning in close to you until his nose brushes against yours, his strong hand coming up to cup your jaw as he whispers into your mouth, looking you dead in the eyes.

“I’m not mad my love, but make no mistake, once you’re warm and dry I plan to bend you over my desk and fuck you from behind. Keep you stuffed with my cum all day, then you can tell me the reason for your riding today and who I need to talk to.”

[nightlyrequiem]

Hi hi hi, requiem! 💗💗💗 I hope you're having a great day!

This is actually my first time sending a request, so I'm feeling a little shy, hahaha (⁠๑⁠•⁠﹏⁠•⁠)

I've been reading your fanfics lately, and honestly, you're my favorite Valeria writer ever! 💕💕 I was wondering if I could request a one-shot of Gorgon Valeria x (Blind) Fem Reader? Preferably smut, with a bit of angst if that's something you'd like to include! I've been so obsessed with Medusa Valeria lately, but there are barely any fanfics about her, and I'd love to see your take! I was thinking of a historical AU where the reader is sacrificed by her village because of her disability. They shove her into the cave where Valeria lives, and she has to fend for herself until Valeria eventually finds her. You can take it in whatever direction you feel like!

Of course, take your time if you're busy, and it's totally okay if this isn't something you want to write. I'm just happy I tried!

Thank you so much, and I can't wait to read more of your amazing writing! (灬º‿º灬)♡

Hello Hello! I am having a dandy day (As of writing this) I hope you are too!

You're so sweet! I'm not sure why a gorgon has been unanimously decided to be what Valeria would be but I'm not complaining. I think it's a cool concept.

Love me some angst, love me some smut. Fun fact, snakes breed by wrapping around each other, they don't have regular gentelia but cloacas. I learned this from an educational parody of Niki Manaj's Anaconda song. That being said, Valeria does not have a cloaca here, so that information isn't very relevent.

Tags/Warning: WLW, Minor Ableism by the Village, Emotional Angst, Violence, Non-Bloody Gore, Smut, Gorgon!Valeria, Probably Some Historical and Geographical Inaccuracies

Apple of Her Eye

'Stay away from the woods, Mija.' The sweet voice who first murmured those words to you fades from your memory each day that passes but the warning remains. You were born different. Your eyes didn't develop properly in the womb. Small and underdeveloped.

Your 'otherness' led to your exclusion by the village. It didn't help that you were a bastard child born out of wedlock. You grew up isolated. Your mother your only companion. You were content enough to live out your days with your mother. It was better this way. The less attention you draw to yourself, the less likely you'll be thought of for the annual sacrifice made to the Snake Woman of Addermouth.

Every year of the night during the Harvest Moon, an undesirable is selected and taken through the woods. A full day's journey to be left at the mouth of the cave. Ankles shattered to stop them from running. Barbaric in nature but deemed necessary after a bound sacrifice had managed to free herself of her binds and found her way back to the village. Thus, not making a sacrifice that year. It snowed that November. Something unheard of for the warm region. The homes were not built to retain heat and neither were the barns. Half the village died of starvation and cold.

Your mother used to tell you that story. Before you got too old for bedside tales, before she was lost to the Consumption. Now you're alone. Taken in by the church because no one else wants a blind girl. The Harvest moon is coming up. They're making their selections. While you're out in the garden, running your hands over the heads of flowers to count them, Father Luis pulls you aside.

"Come, walk with me, my dear." He says gently. He guides your hand to his arm and the two of you walk. "The sky is clear today." He tells you. 

"I know." You reply simply. "It's warmer when the sky is clear."

Father Luis pats your arm. "... The Harvest Moon approaches, I'm sure you've heard."

You don't respond. 

"... Well, we've had a hard time making the selection. Afterall, it's not easy to pick which of our own we're going to send to Addermouth. We all have our uses here and all absences are felt equally." He rambles. 

"You already know who it is." You murmur. 

"... Yes." Father Luis admits. "... With your... affliction, there isn't much you can do for Las Almas," He starts, shattering your heart. "But you can have a purpose, my dear, if we give you up to Addermouth you will ensure that we have another bountiful year for crops and fertility. You will keep us safe."

You stop walking. Turning your sightless gaze on Father Luis.

"Because I'm more useful dead than alive, you mean." You reply. The air thickens with tension as Father Luis struggles for a reply.

"Not at all." He says weakly. Your shoulders slump as you hear just how much he doesn't believe his own words. "You aren't useless here, you'd just be making so much more use out of yourself if you were chosen, your blindness isn't a curse, it's a blessing."

You scowl. "A blessing?" You repeat. "It's a blessing because you can throw me to the beast without losing anything! It means you don't have to sacrifice anyone capable of labor!"

Father Luis doesn't respond. Because he knows it's true.

"You've already been chosen." He says quietly. "I've talked to the men picked to bring you to Addermouth, I told them I could get you to agree so they wouldn't have to break your ankles. I'm sparing you pain."

"How kind of you, Father, for sparing me the pain of broken ankles. I'll be sure to remember your benevolence while I'm being torn apart." 

"I'm trying to help you-" He begins.

"No, you're trying to clear your conscious." You growl. "You're the one who gets the final say on the sacrifice. You feel guilty for choosing me. Well, I don't forgive you." You say coldly.

You tried fighting. When the collectors came for you. It was no use. They grabbed you and forced you into the white ceremonial robes. You refused to eat, a small act of defiance on your end. It means little to them, but it means a lot to you. You can feel the warmth from the torches that the men carry as they walk you to Addermouth. Your bare feet, unused to the unfamiliar terrain catch on stones and loose Earth.

The air turns cold, signaling the beginning of nightfall. You shiver from the chill and wrap your arms around yourself, hoping to retain a little body heat. The thorns from the crown they placed upon your head digs uncomfortably into your scalp. You tried adjusting it but had your hand slapped away with a barking command to not touch it.

A rough hand grabs you by the back of the neck and halts you. 

"We're here." He mutters. "Lay down in the dirt on your back."

Your heart flutters. "... No." You say. Turning your face towards where you think the man is. You expect him to get mad, or argue, instead your abruptly shoved to the ground. You grunt in pain as your back slams into stone and soil.

Before you can sit up or speak, something heavy and metal crashes down onto your legs. You arch your back as a scream tears itself free from your throat. The object comes down again and you jerk away, trying to crawl away. Your fragile leg bones snap and dislocate. The pain is hot and heavy. Not limiting itself to your legs it crawls up your thighs and into your spine. You screech your hurt into the night and vomit the contents of your stomach. 

𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

Valeria is familiar with the sound an animal makes when it knows it's going to die. Deep within the dark walls of her cave, a screech echos from outside. The snakes on her head stir with curiosity. Small tongues flicking out to taste the air. Valeria drags herself from her nest and stalks down the cave towards the exit. Climbing upwards. She smells the air and tastes blood and fear. A person, an injured one. Nothing she hasn't seen before.

The sky has grown dark with the night. The stars up above far away and infinite in numbers offer very little light. At the mouth of the cave is a woman. Draped in those robes that the villagers seem to favour. Like the others, her legs have been broken. Valeria lays a hand upon her, feeling her stillness and warmth. The woman stirs and flinches, rising up to a sit. Valeria's snakes fan out around her head, staring right at her. The woman looks up and... Valeria stares curiously.

The woman breathes heavily and stares straight at her, not petrifying.

"Hello?" You call out weakly. "Is someone there?"

You're blind. She realizes. Your eyes are small and cloudy. Marbled with white. They remind her of the full moon. You're covered in dirt and sweat and reek of fear. One of the longer of her snakes ventures closer. Tasting your scent.

"Hello." Valeria murmurs. Gazing at you with interest. Normally she petrifies her victims. She glances at the many statues littering the clearing. In various positions. A few men but mostly women, their once fluid robes now still forever.

Your eyelids flutter.

"Hello?" You reply. "I need.. I need help." You say.

"I can see that." She hums, inspecting you. 

"Are we safe?" You ask, surprising her.

"Whatever from?" She inquires with amusement.

"The Creature of Addermouth?" You say, furrowing your brows.

Creature of Addermouth. The Snake Woman, Medusa, Valeria has earned herself many names over her long life.

"We're safe." She says. Then doesn't speak for a while, unused to having company. She looks at you for a little longer. Indulging herself before finally reaching out for you. "Let me get you out of the open like this." She says, slowly dragging you into the cave. Your questions inquiring about your destination remain unanswered as she drags you in deep. Valeria slowly lowers you to her nest and looks over your wounds.

She gently ghosts her hand over your mangled legs. Feeling the unnatural angles your bones are in.

"Why do they do this?" She ponders aloud quietly. 

You rub a hand over you shoulder. "What?"

"Break the legs." She murmurs.  

"... You know about the sacrifices?" You ask.

"It's hard not to notice." Valeria replies. Moving away to grab old clothes to wrap up your legs. She can't do much else to help.

"It's to kill any chance of survival for the chosen." You murmur grimly.

Valeria stayed away from you while you healed. Watched you from the shadows and brought you food while you were asleep. Sometimes you called out to her, voice harsh and scared. Other times you sang. Mournful and lonely. Valeria likes it when you sing. She'd lay against the stone walls and listen.

You lay still in her nest while she brings you stolen bread. She sets it down beside you and you stir, sitting up and opening your eyes.

"... Valeria?" You speak.

She hesitates. Pondering if she should let you know she's there. "Yes." She responds. 

You relax at her voice. "Can you please stay?" You ask. "It's cold, and very lonely here."

Valeria finds herself wanting to stay in your company. You're the only person she hasn't turned to stone, the only one invulnerable to her curse. She sits down and folds her legs under her.

"I can stay for awhile." She says.

Then you smile at her.

Valeria makes it a habit to stay with you often. Bringing your food while you're awake and talking to you. Once your legs have healed enough, she begins helping you walk around. Learning the way you talk, the way you laugh, learning the way you've come to understand the world, which is far different to her. Valeria, who was previously a solitary creature, has come to enjoy your company. She enjoys you. Though there's that fear at the back of her mind eating at her. One that tells her you wouldn't stick around if you knew what she was, what she looked like.

You tell each other stories. Legends and myths exchanged for entertainment. You even told her the reason your village sacrifices people. There was something... sinister in the woods. People went in and never came out again, stolen and dragged to the dark pits of Addermouth. The large, supposedly endless cave system in the middle of the forest. Wicked and hungry. It's said that the Creature of Addermouth is what caused the disappearance of everyone in the neighboring village. Once bustling with life left full of stone statues that look suspiciously like the villagers.

Valeria is the monster that has haunted your dreams and you don't even know it.

"But... you came and found me." You say after a few silent moments filled only by the faint echoes of dripping water. "Tell me, Valeria," You murmur. "Is there really a monster or has my village been ruling itself with it's own man-made superstition? Was my sacrifice in vain? Were all those lives given up to the 'monster' for naught?"

Valeria works out her response. "... I have never encountered anything of the like out here." She says carefully. As far as she's aware, she's the only one of her kind roaming about in these woods, and one can hardly encounter themselves.

Over the months you grow restless. Walking further and further within the cave. You talk more and more about the outside, and to Valeria's growing annoyance, the very village that casted you out to die. A topic that has brewed many an argument between you two. She doesn't understand your attachment to the place that betrayed you, why you wish to live among people who will never see you as anything more than the blind girl. She doesn't understand why you want to leave her.

Your nest is empty when she comes by with food. She looks around for you, finding you standing at the cave entrance, facing the outside wistfully. She stays back in the shadows but you've adjusted to living in a cave where all noise is accentuated.

"Is it sunny today?" You ask her. Valeria peers out.

"It is." She murmurs. Walking up beside you, your arms brushing. "The sky is clear, the sun is shining down warmly and dappling the forest floor with light."

"Are the flowers getting any sun?" You ask.

"What flowers?" Valeria asks with surprise.

"Those ones." You point to the left vaguely. There is a patch of wild daffodils there.

"They are." She says. "How did you know about them?"

You smile, it's a sad little thing not expressing joy so much as sardonic amusement.

"I found them when I was walking around outside." You say. "If I focus enough, I can smell them from here."

Valeria stares at them contemplatively. As yellow as the sun, heads facing towards the sky.

"I want to go home." You say suddenly. Valeria looks at you with indignation.

"What home?" She asks mutinously. You turn your face to her.

"My village, Valeria." You say tiredly. You reach out and take ahold of her cold hands. "You could come with me, you don't have to live here, in this cave, you could come back with me."

Valeria pulls away. Appalled, hurt, angry.

"Why would I ever want to be surrounded by the very people who sent you to die? Why would I want to be around them when they'd treat me even worse?" She snaps. Thinking of you as foolish. You face drops.

"They're frightened and misinformed. I know what they do is bad but if you came back with me - tell them that you've been living here and not a sight of the monster, they might stop sacrificing people!" You plead, only adding to Valeria's growing annoyances and pushing her over the edge.

"I am the monster." She growls. Her snakes, sensing her agitation, flare.

"What do you mean?" You ask.

"How stupid you must be to not have realized!" She snaps at you. "I live in the very cave your people tell stories about. Think about it for more than ten seconds, I beg you!"

Inklings of regret wriggle in her heart but she stays strong. Your expression morphs into confusion and fear. You look at her the same way as everyone else, only difference being is she can't make you stop by turning you to stone. She looks at the statues, with their faces clawed off.

"... But you helped." you say. "You're lying."

Fed up with you, Valeria swiftly approaches you and grabs your hands. "Feel my scales. Feel my snakes. You can't look upon my monstrosity, but you can touch it." She wretches your hands over her face, making you feel the scales on her cheeks and the writhing snakes in her hair. You recoil and try to pull away but Valeria doesn't let you.

Finally, she lets you pull away. You cradle your hands to your chest as though she's burned you. Your mouth hangs agape but no sounds escape you.

"Go." She says angrily. "Try to find your way back to the very people that hate you. Return to those animals and never speak of me, never think of me, and never seek me out." 

You hesitate then turn and stumble away, into the woods where you are sure to die. Guilt and pain tugs at her heart but she ignores it and turns away as well. Slinking back down into her cave.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

You stumble through the foliage. Nettles sting your legs and mouse holes trip you. Your skin crawls when you think about how close you were to the Creature of Addermouth. Then sorrow overwhelms you when you think about her. Your friend. 

You're not sure where you're going. Your sense of direction skewed by spending so much time below ground. You use the trees to help you walk. The trees thin out and you're left to wander a clearing. A familiar voice calls out to you, saying your name with astonishment. A group surrounds you, voices drowning each other out with questions.

There was great debate about your return. Many wanting to send you back into the woods in fear that your return will cause great suffering. Father Luis declares you spared, much to the unpopular opinion of the public. Unwilling to argue with a messenger of God, the people allow you to live. Once again pushing you to the outskirts of town where if they try hard enough, they can forget you.

During your moments with Valeria, you forgot how lonely existence is. Going by unwanted and ignored by your own. This is what you were so desperate to return to. But... you miss her. Each day that pull inside you tugs harder and harder, drawing you back to Addermouth and the Snake Woman that lives there. You pack any belongings that you can carry, and under the cover of night, set off into the woods. Letting that feeling guide you through the trees and bushes.

 You walk and walk. Journeying further into the forest with only your faith in your friend to guide you. You grow tired and less careful with your steps. You begin to fear that you are lost. It's also at this point that you become aware of something stalking you from the side. Footsteps apart from your own and the sense that you're being watched.

You stop in a clearing. Not certain as to where you are. The cold winds bite through the cloak you're wearing. Heavy with exhaustion, you unshoulder your burdens and kneel in the soft grass. You tilt your head up. Unable to see the stars, but the stars see you.

You don't turn at the sound of footsteps behind you.

"You came back." The owner of them speaks. You straighten up.

"... I did." You say. They come no closer. "I had assumed that home was where I was born. Among people who are the most like me. I was wrong." You whisper. Valeria slowly approaches you and kneels own behind you, gently laying her hands over your shoulders. You can feel her snakes brush up against your head and neck.

"Coming out here on your own wasn't safe." she says. "There are many caves and ravines you could've fallen into. Packs of wolves and coyotes roam at night. You could've gotten lost and succumbed to nature."

You lean against her. Touched by her concern.

"But you found me." You say.

Valeria rests her head on your shoulder. "Yes, I found you." 

You bask in the moment. Warmed by your friend's presence. Her breath ghosts over your neck, sending goosebumps over the skin.

Your hearts beat together. Slowly, Valeria pulls you down and crawls on top of you, her nose brushing against yours. You cup the back of her head and pull her down, pressing your lips to hers. Valeria sighs out all her lonely yearning. Pressing close to you. Her lips are cold but being so close to her makes you feel warm.

The Creature of Addermouth handles you with utmost care and gentleness as he removes your clothing. Helping you shed the last tethers to your village. Valeria pulls you on top of her, your back to her chest with her legs tangling with yours. Her hand palms your breast, rolling the fat under her hand.

You can feel her skin and scales under your back. Smooth and cool. Her hand moves up from your breast to hold you by the throat gently, her other hand running down your body and pushing her fingers through the course hair on your pubic mound. They find your clit and you tilt your head back, eyes closed in pleasure. Her fingers drift down to collect your arousal. Her breasts press into your back and the snakes on her head brush against your cheek.

Valeria's fingers enter you. Sliding into the wet warmth of your core. You writhe together in a tangle of lust and limbs. Unsure of where her leg ends and yours begins. While she pumps her fingers into you, she also grinds you down onto her. Rubbing herself against you, accumulating a wetness on your lower back. She groans into your ear, sending blood to your clit.

The pressure builds, becoming too much for you. You let go of the rope and allow yourself to dive into the pleasure. You cum around her fingers, tightening and tensing with a high whine. Valeria, with her fingers still inside of you, continues to hold you against her. She's not far behind. Panting and losing all sense of rhythm. She shudders and presses her face into your neck. Legs trembling as she does so.

You and Valeria fall asleep together. Laid up in the grass under the moon and stars. Cuddled up like animals in your most natural forms. Valeria never thought she'd experience something so wonderful. Her greatest treasure, she'll keep you until it's time for your body to return to the Earth it came from.

[child0feden]

OH MY DARLING

peter steele x reader x ( platonic! ) oc daughter

♡ general headcanons for peter as a girl dad!

୨୧ the most adorable request ever, love it and i hope you love this anon! i gave the daughter a name but it isn’t a major thing at all so you could imagine to be something else and the walking dead game brainrot is kind of heavy lol, sweetpea is just such a cute nickname so i ripped it <3

♡ requested by anon | view my metal masterlist here

reading music recommendations: ecstasy by crooked still - apple by cibo matto

♡ i feel like your daughter would be a carbon copy of peter!

୨୧ she has his deep green eye colour, his raven black hair and so on! she probably only inherited very small features from you but peter says he sees them very clearly in her

♡ the only thing she didn’t get from him is his height and build… i mean obviously, because she’s just a baby and all but even still, she’s super small, even for a child

୨୧ she’s the shortest in her daycare and just has the most adorable little features on her face!

♡ her tiny little button nose is your and peters favourite, both of you always place kisses on her nose, ever since she was a newborn

୨୧ maybe it’s just because i’ve been replaying the walking dead and just adore clementine so much but i can see you guys naming your daughter clementine! it’s just such a cute name

♡ peter would sing “ oh my darling clementine ” to her all the time when she woke up crying as a newborn and it just kind of stuck as she grew up

୨୧ whenever she has a bad dream as a toddler and needs help getting back to sleep, he’ll kneel next to her bed and stroke her hair whilst quietly singing the song in his deep voice as you watch lovingly from the doorway

♡ when he’s not singing her to sleep, he’s telling her a custom fairytale!

୨୧ he used to read ones from books for her but she never liked them too much, she’s super creative and original like her father, so she always thought they were just kind of boring and always the same

♡ so now, peter makes his own up as he goes! usually fairytales about vampires and other gothic things but she loves them

୨୧ she’s a total daddy’s girl! the second she was placed in his arms after being born, you could see they would share something special

♡ as a newborn, she’d cry for so long until peter took her into his arms! she would calm down a little with you but she would only fully stop crying when you handed her over to her papa and he rocked her tiny body in his big arms whilst he softly shushed her and leaned his head down to give her eskimo kisses

“ you’re okay, sweetpea… nothings wrong, see? papa’s got you, you’re okay… it’s okay ” ( her crying draws to a stop almost immediately as your mouth drops open in shock, peter simply throwing you a cheeky wink before cooing down at his little girl and giving her his finger to hold )

୨୧ whenever peter holds her in his arms, she almost doesn’t look real! ever since she was a baby, she looks more like a little porcelain doll rather than a real child due to their major difference in size and build

♡ but it’s so so so cute! he loves holding her because she’s just lighter than a feather to him

୨୧ she especially loves being placed on his shoulders because she says it makes her feel like a princess riding a big horse or tamed dragon

♡ taking her to type o negative concerts is always a trip! people backstage will immediately know who she’s related to the second they lay eyes on her, connecting her to the frontman within a split second due to how much she resembles peter

୨୧ you’ll often stand to the side of the stage, backstage and protected, your daughter held on your hip with soundproof headphones placed over her small and sensitive ears and yet she’ll still softly bob her head to the extremely muffled music making it through

♡ peter will usually dedicate a song to her, often her favourite one or one he wrote for her, and blow a kiss to the both of you as she catches it in her small hand and excitedly waves to him with a cheeky smile on her face

୨୧ speaking of a song he wrote for her, he absolutely has at least one song wrote about and for her!

♡ he probably wrote it when she was a newborn, during one of the many early nights where he had been awoken by her high pitched cries and went to comfort her whilst making sure you got your well deserved rest

୨୧ he wrote it on a notepad whilst sitting in a chair in her nursery after putting her back to sleep, looking up from the notepad every couple of minutes to admire his baby girl as she slept peacefully in her crib

♡ yeah, his perfect little girl was the most deserving of a song in her name

୨୧ he’ll always make sure that the backstage staff have juice boxes and snacks for her too! it’s the thing at the very top of the list for essentials that the band will need for a show

♡ peter will absolutely let your daughter colour in his tattoos if she wanted to!

୨୧ you’ll probably be cuddled up on the couch watching a movie or something and she’ll come running up to you two with a box of coloured markers, speaking in a rushed and excited tone whilst climbing up onto the couch, with a lot of help from her papa

♡ both you and peter give a laugh at how excited she is before peter gently ruffles her hair, letting her take his arm onto her lap and start colouring, admiring her with a loving look in his eyes

“ hm? oh! ‘s looking good, sweetpea! wow, look at that, you’ve stayed in the lines so well! ” ( she really hasn’t but it’s his baby girl, she can do no wrong )

୨୧ to be honest, he’d probably get a tattoo of one of her drawings!

♡ he’d give her a piece of paper and tell her to draw something cool and pretty before giving a piece to you too, asking you to write your name and get her to write her own when she’s done with her drawing

୨୧ within the week, peter has a messy dragon doodle and your and her name tattooed on his body, her name being a mere cute little chicken scrawl

♡ your daughter loves trying to scare her papa, always creeping up behind him whilst he writes some lyrics on a notepad or jumping out from behind a curtain as he walks by

୨୧ but of course, it never actually scares peter… he heard her tiny shoes tapping against the floor as she crept up behind him and her muffled giggles as she tried to hide them behind her hand

♡ and of course, he saw her outline behind the curtain and her fluffy socked feet were completely uncovered

୨୧ but he makes sure she doesn’t know that, he always puts on a spooked face and an over exaggerated gasp before kneeling down slightly and taking her into his arms as she giggles up a storm, proclaiming how she got him

“ you sure did get me, sweetpea! how didn’t i hear you, huh? you must’ve been floating like a ghost! my little ghost, hm? ” ( is lying really all that bad if it makes his baby girl show him that bright, beautiful little smile? )

♡ peter will always let her play with his hair!

୨୧ she wants to decorate it with an assortment of “ girly ” clips? go for it! he has no problem with it at all, he’ll sit on the floor in front of the couch whilst she sits on it behind him, so that there isn’t a major difference in height

♡ you and your daughter both love making his hair “ pretty ” and peter just loves seeing a smile on both of your faces, you’ll help her pick the prettiest clips and share beaming smiles with peter <3

[birdie123au]

The Green Light

pairing: leon s. kennedy x reader, leon s. kennedy x ada wong

Great Gatsby AU (unrequited love, not actually requited love, angst w/ happy ending)

Amid the glamour and tension of university life, you finds yourself falling deeply for Leon Kennedy, a friend whose heart seems forever entangled with the alluring but unreachable Ada Wong. As Leon's obsession leads him down a path of self-destruction, you struggle to hide your feelings, hoping he'll finally notice the love and loyalty you've always had for him. In the wake of a life-changing accident, Leon is forced to confront who or what truly matters.

When you were younger, your father had sat you down on his lap and told you that wealth is an unimaginably powerful thing. When you’re offered chances in life, you best believe you should take them . What to a child was the concept of “wealth”? You used to imagine it was a giant room in the back of some new-money mansion filled with enormous piles of gold stacking higher than the eye could see. You came from humble origins. Your father, a midwestern farmer, had taken pride in what he referred to as “honest work”. Some of your fondest memories of your youth had been sitting on the wooden porch swing in your backyard watching your father drive his tractor through the fields. Your mother, the daughter of a banker from Georgia, would come through the creaky screen door and remind you to come inside before you overheated. Her southern draw on the word “burn” would stick in your mind many years after you left that old farm of yours.

Telling your parents you wanted to move to Racoon City to pursue your degree came as a shock. You had spent your entire life in your small, rural town. Your mother opposed the idea of moving to such a large city, stating that there was no way you would survive such a large change. Your father simply shook his head before placing his hand on your mother’s thighs. With that she conceded. 

The drive into Rockefeller College, one of the most prestigious universities in the midwest, felt like driving into an alternate universe. Sitting in the back of your father’s pick up truck, your mother verbally recounted her disgust with seeing the number of Teslas or Range Rovers that were lined up by the curb. You were immediately reminded of your status: a country bumpkin with a full ride scholarship. The move into your dorm was no better. Your roommate, a girl named Mikayla, was the daughter of a wealthy family from the northeast. Her half of the room had already been set up by the time you set your foot in the door. Her minimalist, sad-beige aesthetic would certainly look dull compared to what your mother referred to as the ‘90s bedroom’ look you were going for. Mikayla was a sweet girl, but the moment she suggested you should all grab lunch at Machiavelli’s Steak and Winery you were immediately made aware of a key difference between the two of you.

Saying goodbye to your parents was the hardest part of all. Your mother sobbed, holding you tightly as though she would never see you again. Your father simply patted you on the head before grabbing hold of your mother’s hand, leading the two of them out of your new home. After coming to a consensus on a more affordable place to eat lunch, you and Mikayla stepped into the hallway of your dorm, waving hello to your new neighbors. As you entered the elevator, you noticed you had the company of two young men, most likely new students from the floor above. 

“Hey,” said the taller of the two men, “My name is Chris.”

“Hi!” Mikayla said happily, “I’m Mikayla and this is Y/N, we're roommates.”

Chris nodded his head politely. “I’m Piers, we’re roommates too,” he said with a smile as he pointed at Chris.

“You both headed to lunch?” you asked. 

“Yeah, we were thinking about checking out the dining hall, but there's a good deli down the street that looks pretty good,” said Chris.

“No way!” Mikayla shouted, “McEvan’s? We’re headed there too.”

Chris laughed, “Awesome.”

———————————————————————————————————————

The conversation amongst the four of you at McEvan’s had been polite small talk. Lots of What’s your major? Where are you from? and What classes are you taking this semester?

By the time your meal was served, a patty melt with no tomato, you had moved onto slightly less general topics such as extracurriculars and hobbies. It was then that you and Chris discovered a shared love of horror games, psychological ones in particular. 

“Did you bring a console here?” Chris asked, taking a bite of his chicken wing. 

You laughed. “Fuck no, Mikayla and I have such a small room. We’re next to the RA. We can barely fit two beds and a desk in there.”

“That sucks,” he said, “You should totally swing by our place at some point. I brought my PS5.”

“I brought my Wii,” Piers chimed in, “We could play Mario Kart together or something.”

You noticed how Mikayla’s eyes lit up as soon as Piers seemed to be on board. “We’ll definitely be there,” she said, “If there's nothing else going on tonight we could definitely stop by.”

“What else would be going on?” Piers asked, seeming genuinely confused.

“Functions, bro,” Chris nudged his roommate, “And you’re right, there's not going to be any going on during orientation. Once the upperclassmen get here though, that's another story.”

“Are the parties here good then?” you asked.

“You have no idea,” Chris responded with a smile, “A family friend of mine goes here– she says that's the reason she loves it so much.”

Later that night you and Mikayla did exactly as you– well she said. The four of you crowded around Chris’s surprisingly large TV, dressed in pajamas and eating greasy popcorn, watching intently as he played the Silent Hill Two remake. Each time there would be a scary scene, Mikayla would cling to your arm with a scream. You had spent a total of four hours in the boys’ room that night. 

Your group of friends established a routine during orientation week. You would wake up, go to the dining hall for breakfast, go to whatever orientation lecture was required for the morning, eat lunch under the giant fruit tree, attend the afternoon lectures, eat dinner as a group, and then go to Chris and Piers’s room to play video or watch shows until midnight. You were lucky, you thought, to have found such a good group of friends so early on into school. 

When you told your mom on the phone about your friends, she was very proud of you, saying how lucky you were to have a great friendship with your roommate. The summer leading up to school, she would often tell you about her nightmare roommate freshman year, and how she nearly transferred from the University of Alabama. However, as a traditional southern lady, she was slightly alarmed by the fact that two of your closest friends were men. You assured her you had zero interest in either of them, but Mikayla? You weren’t so sure. 

“Well I’m not worried,” your mother said, sounding worried, “Just make sure you pick a good one, okay?”

“Yes ma,” you rolled your eyes.

“I love you, hunny,” she said.

“I love you too.”

———————————————————————————————————————

Just as Chris said, by the time orientation week ended and the upperclassmen arrived, campus life went from dull and boring to bustling and bright. However, instead of going to a function, you found yourself in the backseat of an uber driving thirty minutes off campus across the river and into the suburbs of Raccoon City. 

Chris had talked all week about taking your friend group to meet his family friend, Ada Wong. She was a junior meaning she was allowed to live off campus with her fiance, Albert Wesker. You spent a majority of the car ride trying to recall where you had heard the name “Wesker” before. By the time you arrived at the lavish, Greco-Roman style mansion, you remembered. Umbrella Pharmaceuticals, the largest pharmaceutical company in America, was owned by the prosperous, old-money Wesker family. You were shocked Chris had such a strong connection, but when you remembered how his last name was Redfield, as in Redfield Properties, you understood. 

“This place is huge!” Mikayla said as you pulled into the circular driveway with a large water fountain in the middle, “I can’t believe you can live in this area as a college student.”

She then turned to the three of you, “Hey, if there's any housing available, we should rent one as a group for our junior and senior years!”

Chris and Piers laughed, nodding their heads. You laughed too, but for different reasons.

When you arrived at the front door, there was no one to greet you. Instead, Chris simply opened the door, motioning you all to follow. The interior was grand and luxurious, straight out of a bourgeoisie home owners magazine your mom used to have lying around the house when you were little. You tried to hide your astonishment but your mouth was agape. Mikayla laughed, closing your jaw with her hand. 

“Come on!” she whispered to you, “We’re having roast goose, apparently. I want to sit next to Piers!”

The two of you ran through the house while holding hands before finally catching up to Chris and Piers. If you thought the inside of the house was luxurious, you were sorely unprepared to see the backyard. Flower, trees, and marble statues created one of the most beautiful gardens you had ever seen. Chris led you all to the pool, larger than your bedroom, that had floating lilies and flowers. Next to the pool was a dining area underneath a series of marble columns. Behind it all was what looked to be a greenhouse with someone standing inside.

“Chris?” you heard a distinctly feminine voice call out, “Is that you?”

“Yup, it's us,” he responded, “Here, follow me guys.”

The greenhouse was filled with beautiful, tall plants. The floors were a light birch tile with a floral design scattered throughout. Each of the walls was made entirely from a slightly tinted green glass. When you finally got to the center of the room, you saw her.

Ada Wong was absolutely gorgeous. Although she was sat, you could tell she was a tall, slender beauty. Her black hair was cut and styled into a perfect face-framing bob. Her porcelain skin was flawless and her makeup was light and airy. The justs of wind from the open windows caused her red dress to swirl and flutter through the air. It reminded you of that one Marilyn Monroe photo. When you made eye contact, she smiled.

“Chris,” she stood up, the sound of her red-bottom heels hitting the tile floor echoed in the room, “It’s been a while.”

“It has,” he said, pulling her into a hug, “Mrs. Wesker.”

She laughed, you couldn’t miss how her voice was slightly strained. “And you must be Chris’s little friend group. Let me guess… Piers, Mikayla, and Y/N.”

Ada pointed to each of you as she spoke, correctly guessing the order of your names. 

“Yup, that's me,” Piers joked, “It's nice to finally meet you.”

Ada hugged Piers before turning to you and Mikayla.

“Aren’t the two of you beautiful,” she said, “It always warms my heart to see such smart young women.”

Mikayla didn’t miss a beat and went in for a hug. Eventually Ada turned to you, pulling you into a soft embrace. She smelled like expensive perfume. She smelled expensive.  

“Now, you four, come with me,” Ada said, “The duck should be served soon. It would be a crime to eat it cold.”

When the sun set and the meal was served, the backyard was lit with beautiful, warm lighting. Albert Wesker had finally made his appearance. Your first impression of him was that he was… odd. Smart, rich, and successful, no doubt, but something about him rubbed you the wrong way. Firstly, he wore sunglasses at night. Secondly, he was dressed as if he was about to go on a spy mission. And finally, he was harsh with his words.

“So,” said Albert, “What do you kids plan on majoring in? I know you mentioned pre-med, Chris, how about the rest of you?”

“Public Health,” said Piers, giving a polite smile to Albert. He then turned to Mikayla, who got her wish and was sitting right next to Piers.

“I’m thinking Art History,” she said, “Maybe Literature, I’m not too sure.”

All eyes then turned to you. “Economics,” you said.

Albert smirked, “How ambitious.”

The conversation continued but you couldn’t help but feel Albert Wesker’s condescension in his reply. It felt the same as when you told your counselor you would be applying for Rockefeller University. Amused but insulting. Other than that, you thought that dinner had been going relatively well. 

That is, until Albert’s phone suddenly began to ring. Miranda Psych Class was the name of the contact that appeared on the phone. Chris’s smile dropped and Ada’s face went from jovial to disappointed.

“Excuse me while I take this,” Albert said.

“You should really stay,” Ada pleaded, standing up to grasp her fiance’s arm, “It would be rude to leave our company. If it's about class you can tell her to text you about it later.”

Albert yanked his shoulder, effectively escaping Ada’s grasp. “I said excuse me while I take this fucking call, Ada.”

Your eyebrows shot up at his words. Mikayla dropped her spoon in shock. Piers choked on his bite of food. Chris then stood up from his seat, stepping a mere couple of inches away from Albert.

Just like that Albert declined the call and sat down. Not without intentionally scoffing at Ada and Chris. 

“I don’t have time for your antics, Redfield,” he said, “Now sit down and enjoy your dessert.”

Chris rolled his eyes, his face a mix of anger and disgust, but he nevertheless obliged. Ada said nothing. She sat down, taking a large sip of her red wine.

The six of you attempted to enjoy the rest of your meal in peace. Still, it was hard to ignore the invisible seventh attendee, as Albert’s phone would not stop ringing for the rest of dinner.

———————————————————————————————————————

“Should I wear the white top or the pink one?” Mikayla asked you, holding both options out for you to see.

“I like the pink one,” you said, “The crop is cuter.”

“Piers?” Mikayla turned around to where the boys were sitting on her bed, “What do you think?”

Piers looked up from his phone, slightly flustered as he looked at Mikayla who was in nothing but her underwear and bra. “Umm, I agree with Y/N, the pink is good.”

“Awesome!” Mikayla cheered, “I’m assuming you think the same, Chris?”

Chris threw her a thumbs up without ever looking up from his phone. The four of you were getting ready for your first college party. The dinner party the night before had been awkward. The four of you hadn’t spoken much about it. You, Chris, and Piers had already been dressed for the past twenty minutes, and had spent the rest of the time attempting to help Mikayla choose her outfit. Piers had used his fake to buy you all some liquor and pomegranate juice. You were sipping on it now.

“I still can’t believe you bought Smirnoff,” said Chris, “I mean really man? Do you want us to be hung over tomorrow?”

“How was I supposed to know it was shitty vodka!” Piers threw his arms up in defense.

Mikayla laughed. “Just buy Tito's next time or something.”

“So where exactly are we going again?” you asked, taking another sip from your drink.

���We’re going to Rutherford Hall,” he replied, “Kennedy’s hosting.”

“This better be as good as you’re saying it's gonna be,” Piers said, making a disgusted face after he drank another sip of his drink, “Or I’m gonna be disappointed.”

“Trust me,” Chris said, “Kennedy hosts the best parties. Like actual parties too, there's gonna be dancers and a whole bar and shit. He’s got a pool table too!”

“Bro, we better play tonight,” Piers said.

“Obviously,” said Chris, “Once we get there, we’re going shot for shot.”

“Count me in!” Mikayla said.

“So is this Kennedy guy famous or something?” you asked.

“Pretty much,” Chris replied, “He owns basically all of Rutherford Hall. Dude’s loaded. He’s one of Ada’s friends from high school I think.”

“Guys!” Mikayla cried, “The Uber’s almost here, we should start heading down stairs.”

With that the guys got off the bed, Piers helped you to your feet.

“Cool,” you said, “I wanna meet him. Think you can point him out to me?”

Chris laughed as he opened your dorm door. “Hell no. I’ve never even met the dude. He’s like a mystery.”

“I like mysteries,” you said softly.

———————————————————————————————————————

Rutherford Hall was one of the off campus housing options still in the city. From your understanding, it was owned by a small group of frat boys who had enough money to afford such expensive housing. The dorm looked more like a classic New England style home. White painted wood, large shutters, and large white columns, it was beautiful and ginormous. The lawn was filled with college kids dressed in short skirts, crop tops, shorts, and polo shirts. 

Stepping inside to the home transported you into a stereotypical movie about the 1920s. Dancers dressed in tiny little outfits were scattered across the main foyer. In the kitchen was a makeshift bar being manned by an actual bar tender. Judging by the amount of good quality alcohol that was being offered for free, this Kennedy guy had money to throw away. The four of you each grabbed a shot of quality vodka, downing it on three. 

“Yo, Redfield!” cried a voice from behind your group, “The rest of the teams out back.”

Chris was on the rugby team, no surprise there, but you haven't seen him spend much time with them outside of practice. Chris gave you all an apologetic look.

“I’ll be back, guys,” he said, “I’m just gonna go say hi.”

“No worries, man,” said Piers, “Do you guys wanna go explore?”

“Um, obviously!” Mikayla said, clearly starting to get drunk, “First let's take another shot.”

“Say less,” you laughed.

As the shots continued to pour, the three of you grew more and more wasted. You swayed to the beat, feeling warm and drowsy. In your intoxicated state, you had hardly noticed Chris hadn’t come back in over forty five minutes. Mikayla and Piers became more touchy as time went on. They were your friends and you loved them, but God did they have to do that in front of you?

“I’m-uh gonna go pee…” you said, “Don’t miss me too much!”

“I love you!” Mikayla shouted.

“Love you too,” you smiled, “You too Piers. You’re m-my homeboy for real.”

Piers laughed, his hands still tangled in Mikayla’s hair. You stumbled across the first floor, searching intensely for a bathroom. When you finally found a single stall one, it had a line longer than a Disney ride. You rolled your eyes, dramatically pivoting the other direction. 

“Um– excuse me,” you shouted over the music, tugging at the end of a frat boy’s Alpha Sigma Tau tank top, “Where is the bathroom? With no long line?”

The frat boy pointed up the stairs. “Third floor on the left!”

“Thank you!” you said, swaying back and forth as you climbed your way up the stairs.

By the time you made it back down to where you had left Piers and Mikayla, they were gone.

“Well fucking damn it,” you cursed aloud.

In your dismay of being abandoned at your first frat party, you overhear some people talking about how the fireworks were about to start.

“Fireworks?” you drunkenly whispered to yourself, “What kind of frat party is this?”

You walked outside onto the quartz terrace. It was filled with people shouting, socializing, and staring up at the sky. You tried your best to push to the front of the terrace that overlooked the rest of the giant backyard. Leaning the front of your body against the pole, you sighed.

“You doing alright there, old sport?” you heard a low, smooth voice say.

“Huh?” you turned, finding yourself face-to-face with a young man, “Oh, sorry. Yeah, I’m good.”

“Well that wasn’t too convincing,” he laughed, “Your face looks familiar, you don’t happen to have any connection to the Midwestern Farming Association, do you?”

Your eyes widened as a mix of surprise and recognition hit. “Yes, I do. My father’s been a member for years.”

“I thought so,” he replied with a gentle smile, “My father was too, before he passed. I used to go to the yearly showcases as a kid. We must have run into each other, huh?”

“I guess so,” you said, smiling back “That’s so crazy– you must have an amazing memory.”

As you took him in, you realized just how striking he was: his sandy blond hair, the way his blue eyes held yours with an intensity that felt deliberate. He was watching you with a kind of careful attentiveness, his smile perfectly polite yet warm enough to make your cheeks feel a little too warm.

“I’m Leon, by the way. Leon Kennedy,” he said suddenly, catching you off guard.

“What!” you exclaimed, “I’m sorry– wow. You’re the ‘Kennedy’ everyones been talking about all night.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I thought you had known. Guess I’m not a very good host after all.”

“Well, Leon ,” you said, placing special emphasis onto his name, “This is some place you’ve got. It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, umm?” he responded, unsure of how to address you, “How did you find out about it? Assuming you didn’t just overhear someone else talk about it.”

“Y/N,” you said with a laugh, “And no, I actually heard about it from one of my friends. His name is Chris Redfield, apparently he has some upperclassman friend who goes here. She might be here tonight, who knows.”

“Chris Redfield?” Leon asked, shock evident in his voice, “You wouldn’t happen to be talking about Ada Wong, would you?”

“Yes, oh my gosh!” you said, “Wow, this is so crazy! I can’t believe you know her too.”

“Did you see her tonight?” he continued.

“No, not tonight,” you said, “But we had dinner with her and Albert Wesker yesterday.”

Any ounce of excitement in his face fell. “I see.”

“Y/N! Y/N!” you heard Mikayla’s unmistakable voice holler at you, “We’ve been looking for you everywhere! We’re headed home– Chris was playing beer pong and broke the table! We gotta go!”

“I’m sorry,” you turned to Leon, who began to laugh again, “I should get going.”

“Wait a second,” he said, grabbing your arm as you turned to leave, “Y/N, can I have your phone number?”

“Huh? Oh, sure.”

And so you scribbled your phone number in your sloppy, drunken state onto his arm with a sharpie from his back pocket.

———————————————————————————————————————

The next weekend, you were back at Rutherford Hall. Another party hosted by the infamous Kennedy.

The atmosphere of the party was buzzing: people laughing, music blasting, cheers from the crowds gathered around the various pool tables and countertops. You were already a few drinks deep, feeling an increased amount of courage and confidence. Leon was sitting at the bar. You had no doubt that half of the people sitting around him had no clue they were that close to the host of such a lavish college party.

“Wow, Mr. Kennedy sitting by himself at the bar,” you said, tapping him on the shoulder, “I didn’t take you for the quiet type.” 

Leon chuckled, motioning you to sit beside him. His eyes had a gleam of mischief. “I can do loud,” he said, “I just don’t want to make too much of a scene.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re afraid to embarrass yourself,” you said with amusement, “I’ll have a vodka cran please.”

Leon raised his hand, signaling the bartender to hold off on making the drink. “I’ve never been embarrassed a day in my life.”

“Oh really?” you leaned in, lowering your voice, “Then why are you standing here all by yourself trying to look mysterious?”

“I’m not mysterious,” he said, “I’m just trying to enjoy the view at my own house, so watch it, freshman.”

“I was talking about the party, not me,” you placed your hands on your hips and gave them an obviously exaggerated shake. Leon laughed, though it was hard to tell if it was out of genuine amusement or pity in your heavily drunken state.

“Fair enough,” he said. 

“I don’t get it,” you said with a sudden shift in tone, “For a person who's always throwing large parties, you seem like you don’t like large parties. Like at all.”

“Would you want to go somewhere more private to continue this conversation?” he asked, “It’s getting a little loud in here.”

“Okay, but no more bullshit, Leon,” you said, “I want to know your truth.”

“Deal.”

The two of you walked through the crowd, a fair amount of distance between you. As you weasled your way through the tight spaces you prayed that you wouldn’t run into your group of friends. This conversation was about to get a whole lot more interesting and you wanted to hear every last bit of it. Leon ended up bringing you through the entire backyard to the dock. It overlooked the river that surrounded Racoon City. 

“So, what’s your deal?” you said.

“My what?” he responded.

“Your deal,” you affirmed.

“I know, I’m just kidding,” he laughed at his own joke, “I think it's because of people like you.”

You raised your brows in confusion. “What?”

“Why I host these things,” he said, “You’re the type of person that makes things more interesting without even trying.”

“Anyone ever told you that you’re quite the charmer, Kennedy?” you said, “Can I ask you something a bit more personal?”

He nodded his head. “Why do you always ask so much about Ada Wong?”

“I figured you’d ask that sooner or later,” he said, “Ada– well, she’s complicated.”

“Hey!” you playfully punched his arm, “I said no bullshit. That answer is total bullshit.”

He chuckled, his eyes meeting yours with a hint of resignation. “Okay, maybe you’re right. Ada and I go way back—she’s... she was important to me.” He looked away, his expression unreadable. “Do you see that light? The green one across the bay?”

You squinted your eyes. “Yeah, yeah I do.”

“That’s her house right there,” he said, “She’s over there. So close but… always out of reach.”

“So that’s what all of this is for, huh?” you asked softly. “These parties, the constant crowd, the noise. It’s all just... a way to reach her?”

He gave a slight nod, then looked back at you, his gaze steady. “I thought maybe she’d show up one day, or maybe that someone in her orbit would walk in and give me some kind of sign.” His tone softened, and he chuckled, though it sounded almost bitter. “But maybe all of this– maybe I'm just trying to find someone who actually sees me, who’s here because they want to be.”

“Damn that’s… sadder than I thought it would be,” you said, staring at the green light, “But it makes sense, I think. It’s caring and Ada deserves someone like that.”

The two of you remained silent, gazing at the mansion across the bay. Ada was Leon’s green light. So where did that leave you?

———————————————————————————————————————

The library was quiet. You, Chris, Piers, and Mikayla were sitting at a table for four, each working on your own independent work. You were attempting to finish writing a paper for your Introduction to Early European History, but the constant sound of your phone buzzing was distracting you.

*Buzz

“Is he still texting you?” Mikayla asked, clearly annoyed.

“Yeah,” you said, trying not to smile as you picked up your phone again .

“Block him,” she said.

“Why?” you asked.

“Because all he does is ask about Ada,” she said, before moving closer to you and lowering her voice, “And you clearly like him. It’s not healthy.”

“I do not,” you said, “Besides, I’m trying to play matchmaker. Wesker is a dick and Ada deserves better.”

“You heard what Chris said,” she responded, “It’s not your choice to make. Besides, Ada is your friend too. Don’t be sneaky.”

“I’m not!” you whisper-shouted.

“Can you two shut up,” Chris said sarcastically, “We’re trying to study here.”

The four of you feel silent again, returning to your work.

* Buzz

“Oh my God!” Mikayla threw her hands up in defeat.

Chris sighed, slamming his books shut. “I’m seriously going to beat him up the next time he throws.”

Piers laughed awkwardly, rapidly looking between Chris and Mikayla. 

“Shut the fuck up,” you said, “Start studying before I beat you up.”

You picked up your phone, sending a final text to Leon.

———————————————————————————————————————

Leon S. Kennedy

…so I guess what I’m trying to say is, I want to see her again. Properly, this time.

Wow. Just like that?

I don’t think “just like that” sums it up. It’s been years, after all. A whole lot of time to wonder if she even remembers me.

Trust me, she does. A meeting would be… well, poetic, you know?

Exactly. Something simple but meaningful. Think she’d go for it?

Hard to say, but you’re a host, aren’t you? You do things in style. Maybe just start with a familiar setting, like a quiet café or even somewhere… scenic?

Like the gazebo out back? Or maybe somewhere with just the right flowers… that sounds almost too much like a book, doesn’t it?

It’s perfect, though. A little mystery, a little drama—it’s exactly how you’d want to see her again.

I knew you’d get it. So… would you help me set it up? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’d owe you big time.

You don’t owe me anything. But yeah, I’ll help. If this is what you want, I’m in.

You’re a real friend, you know that? 

Glad to be of service. When are we doing this?

Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at 7. Just… be ready.

Consider it done. And Leon?

Yeah?

I'm excited to see you again. For what it’s worth, I think she’ll be thrilled to see you again.

Thanks. Here’s to hoping.

———————————————————————————————————————

“You done?” Chris asked.

“Yes, Chris,” you sighed.

He cracked his knuckles. “Good, let's go to dinner soon.”

After the typical chicken dinner at the dining hall, the four of you split up to go back to your rooms to shower and finish some last minute homework. You and Mikayla were wearing your matching Christmas pajamas, even though it was September, that she had bought for the two of you last weekend. The elevator ride up to Chris and Piers' room was familiar. It took less than three minutes for the four of you to be reunited again. When you entered the room, Chris was on the phone with Ada. 

The four of you, minus Mikayla who has swim practice on Sundays, were supposed to meet for dinner this weekend. You prayed it wouldn’t be awkward after what you and Leon planned for tomorrow. Once Chris got off the phone, he flashed you a thumbs up. No words had to be exchanged, you and Mikayla had already taken your place on the carpet near the TV. Piers sat next to Mikayla. He seemed to get closer and closer to her with each passing day. When Chris finally joined the group on the floor, he turned on the console.

“Until Dawn?” he asked.

“Noooo that's too scary,” Mikayla said, cuddling up between you and Piers. 

You smiled, pushing her off of you playfully. “Yes, Mikayla, we need to finish the game sooner or later.”

* Buzz

“Or, we can play more Mario Kart,” she continued.

* Buzz

“Sorry, the controllers are still dead,” Piers frowned.

* Buzz

“You two still haven’t charged them?” I asked.

* Buzz

“Why don’t you go charge them, Y/N?” Chris suggested sarcastically.

* Buzz

“Turn that off!” Chris and Mikayla shouted over each other.

You winced. “Sorry.”

You put your phone on Do Not Disturbed, but not before noticing the twenty-seven missed texts from Leon. What the fuck?

Opening the text conversation, you were greeted with a wall full of pictures of flowers and Leon desperately asking which ones you liked most. This was going to be a long night …

———————————————————————————————————————

“Why do you look so nervous?” Chris asked, throwing a pillow at your face. You and Mikayla had created a small pillow fort in the one available corner of your tiny room. Piers and your roommate were out doing God knows what, so that left you and Chris together one on one. This wasn’t entirely unusual– you had gotten used to Chris’s presence outside of a group setting.

“Leon’s almost here,” you said, “It’s freaking me out.”

“What are the two of you doing?” he questioned, eyebrows raised.

You sat up in your bed, unable to hide your emotions. “Chris, can I tell you something? You can’t tell anyone.”

Chris put his phone down, suddenly looking equally as serious. “Yes. Is everything okay?”

“I’msettingupLeonandAdaonadatebutI’mtotallyfreakingoutbecauseI’mscaredofWeskerandAda’sreactions,” you spilled, unable to catch your breathe. 

“Woah woah, slow down, Y/N,” Chris got up from his pillow fort, sitting beside you on your bed, “Wait, why are you setting up Leon and Ada.”

“Well, in all honesty, I don’t like Albert. The way he was acting… rubbed me the wrong way. Ada is a friend and I want what's best for her, and– um.”

“And?” 

“I’ve been talking with Leon a lot,” you admitted, “He’s dorky and funny and he's a great friend. He cares about Ada a lot and I want him to be happy.”

Chris sighed, placing his face into the palms of his hands. “When I was in high school, my sister asked me to drop off one of her CDs to the Wong’s house. I was too young to drive, I was fourteen. I was always scared of Mr. and Mrs. Wong, the Wong Credit Enterprise is a huge cooperation, you know? Turns out, I didn’t even need to go inside. Ada was in the driveway, sitting in her white mustang. There was a blonde guy in the front seat who I had never seen before. The two of them were clearly talking about something important. I left pretty quickly, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

After a moment he continued. “I found out later from Claire that the guy in the front seat, Leon, was her boyfriend. They met at the country club: Ada was the member and Leon was the busboy. After his dad died he apparently moved back east. I don’t think the two of them wanted to break up, but they never got back together. When Ada got engaged to Albert the Wesker and Wong families threw a huge party. Long story short, Ada got a letter from Leon, got super drunk and flipped out– she said she didn’t want to marry Albert afterall. Her dad pulled her aside and the last thing I heard was that Ada kept the engagement but tore up the letter.”

You took several moments to process the absolute information dump Chris had placed on you. Leon had told you he and Ada had a past, but you never knew how serious it was.

“Why are you telling me this?” you said softly.

“Because I don’t think it's a good idea,” he said, “Ada is marrying Albert. Leon needs to move on.”

* Beep

You didn’t even need to read the text message to know: Leon was here. You and Chris stared at each other silently, words did not need to be exchanged. As you stood up to leave, Chris gave you a sad smile before sitting back down in the pillow fort. Walking to Leon’s car felt like walking to your own doom. Leon drove a Range Rover– the newest model. Rolling down his window, you were immediately met with an expensive, mahogany smell.

“Hi,” he smiled warmly.

“Hi,” you returned the gesture.

Stepping into the car, you put your seatbelt on. Leon was silent, his grip on the steering while tightening with each passing moment. His knuckles were turning white. The moon was barely visible due to the dark, thick clouds in the sky.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Leon’s voice cracked slightly. You turned towards him, seeing the stress in his furrowed brow. His eyes were focused on the road ahead, but you're not so sure he was paying attention.

You smiled softly, reaching out to place your hand over his own. “You’re going to be fine, Leon. Just be yourself.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I can. I’ve waited years for this. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this… exposed.”

This time it was your turn to laugh. “Exposed? You’re the Leon Kennedy– you’re somebody worth being with. She doesn’t get to change that.”

“You’re not nervous?” he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“A little. Maybe more than a little. But I’m here for you above all else. If you need me, I’m here.”

He swallowed hard. “I don’t know what I’ll do if she—” He stopped himself, the name stuck in his throat. Ada. You could feel the jealousy stirring in your stomach, trying your best to mask it.

You put a smile on your face, gripping his hand even tighter. “We’ll cross that bridge when it comes to it.”

“We’re in this together, right?” he asked.

“Hell yeah,” you responded, “I’m like the best wingman ever.”

His laugh was genuine, hearty. “What would I do without you?”

———————————————————————————————————————

When you arrive at Leon’s gazebo, it was already filled to the brim with flowers. Each of the flowers in the photos he had sent you that you had hearted were in the room. When you recommended them, you didn’t expect him to buy the entire stock. You were amused, though a little scared. Who on earth has this much money to blow on flowers for just one afternoon?

“So, Ada’s coming here at 8:30 for tea, right?” Leon asked, anxiously rubbing his hands together.

“Yup,” you responded, preoccupied by the flowers, “Jesus, Leon, you look like you robbed a flower garden.”

“Do you think it’s going to rain?” he said, “Because if it’s going to rain we– we should just call this whole thing off.”

You snapped out of your flower drive daze. Stepping towards Leon, you placed your hands firmly on his shoulders. “Leon, a little bit of rain won’t be a problem. You should really sit down, you look like you’re going to pass out. I’ll… umm work on finishing up the food for the tea.”

Leon let out a breath of relief, his blue eyes looking entirely exhausted. “Thank you, Y/N. I really mean it.”

———————————————————————————————————————

When the clock struck 8:45 Leon looked as though he was about to throw himself into the river and never return.

“She’s not coming,” he said, pacing around the room, “Of course she’s not! Why would she be–”

You heard the unmistakable beep of Ada Wong’s black Porsche Panamera. She was here– late probably because of the rain and traffic. Leon’s face went blank. In a moment, he had left out the back entrance of the gazebo.

“Leon? Leon! Where are you–” you sighed, “God damn it.”

You met Ada outside the gazebo, ushering her inside under your cheap umbrella you had bought from the dollar store.

“Just give me one second,” you smiled, concealing your panic at Leon’s sudden disappearing act. And– nope! He was nowhere to be found. You were internally kicking yourself. You rested your head onto the front of the refrigerator, groaning internally.

Ada, who you imagined was as confused as ever, had likely taken a seat amidst all the flowers suffocating the room. “Oh goodness,” you overhead, “Maybe she really is in love with me.”

You laughed, feeling an ounce of relief knowing that at the very least you would have a nice evening tea with a dear friend. So you grabbed the tray of finger sandwiches, scones, and small desserts and set it on the table next to the kettle.

“Here, allow me,” Ada offered, pouring you both a warm cup of tea, “Now tell me, Y/N. Why did you ask me for tea all by yourself?”

You mentally prepared a bullshit response to give her, but just then the back entrance of the gazebo slammed upon. Leon walked through, completely drenched. When Ada and Leon made eye contact, you could practically see the fireworks. It was like a scene out of a movie. You felt sick to your stomach.

“I’m… gonna give the two of you some space,” you said before taking your cheap umbrella and leaving out the front door.

———————————————————————————————————————

When you returned to the gazebo after the rain had stopped– maybe an hour after you left– Ada and Leon were holding hands. Ada had clearly been crying, evident by her red, puffy face and crumpled tissue in her other hand. Leon was absolutely beaming.

When Ada’s chauffeur came to pick her up, you saw the two of them share a brief, yet passionate kiss. As you watched from inside the gazebo, you couldn’t help but wonder if you had made some sort of mistake. No– Leon and Ada were both happy. That’s all that mattered to you.

Over the next couple of months, Leon and Ada’s secret meetings became a full blown affair. You watched Leon drift further away, his attention drawn to the woman who always seemed to remain just out of reach, wrapped in mystery and promises. Each party and late-night conversation left you feeling more hollow, though you tried to hide it beneath smiles and reassurances to your friends. Chris, Piers, and Mikayla could see through you. No matter how many times they would try to convince you to take a step back, you just couldn’t do it. Besides, Leon had already done that part for you.

One Tuesday afternoon while walking back from your Intro to Philosophy class, you finally ran into him. As the two of you moved to speak, his excitement was palpable. “Ada’s leaving Wesker. She told me she’s finally ready to move on.”

Your heart ached. This time not out of pure jealousy, but also concern. “Leon… are you sure?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well… I talked with Chris a while ago and he told me it's a bit more complicated than that,” you tried to explain gently, “Leon, I don’t think Ada’s going to leave Wesker. It’s not just about her.”

His smile faltered. “Why can’t you just be happy for me?” he asked, a flicker of irritation in his tone. “Ada isn’t like everyone else. She means this.”

You didn’t have it in your heart to argue with him. “Okay, okay, I trust you.”

“You’re a good friend, Y/N,” he said softly, “Thank you for always looking out for me. Um, this weekend I’m having lunch at the Wesker house. You and Chris should join, make it less awkward.”

You nodded your head, giving him a hug goodbye without saying another word.

———————————————————————————————————————

The uber ride with Chris was certainly awkward to say the least. He wasn’t happy when you told him who the guests at this lunch would be, but Chris was a good friend, so he went with you anyways. It was supposed to be a formal event. Chris was wearing a Tom Ford suit that was likely worth more than your entire wardrobe and furniture combined. You, on the other hand, were wearing a simple sundress that your mom had sowed you. It was light and airy and always managed to make you feel like a princess. You wore it almost every time your mother dragged you to church senior year. Still, you couldn’t help but notice how underdressed you looked sitting next to your best friend. You looked like a poor country girl.

Lunch was served in the backyard in the garden. Ada was already sitting out there when you arrived. She wore a red, silk Versace dress with a slit down the side. She looked as expensive as ever. When Leon arrived, he too was wearing an expensive suit. His hair was slicked back. He looked so handsome, so rich . He and Ada looked perfect together.

“Welcome to my garden,” Ada greeted you all, “Care for some wine?”

“Sure,” said Chris, his arms folded. He had a hard time hiding when he was upset.

“I’ll take a glass,” you said, fiddling with the silver ring your father had forged for you for your eighteenth birthday.

Ada got up from her seat, pouring both you and Chris a glass of expensive red wine. When she walked closer to hand it to you, you caught a whiff of her floral perfume. When Ada turned back to the table, she poured a third drink: whiskey. Without Leon having to speak a word she handed it to him.

“Some whiskey for you,” she smiled, “Just how you like it.”

You downed your cup of wine quickly, pouring yourself another. This was going to be a long lunch. By the time Wesker had arrived for the meal, you were already three glasses deep. Chris was concerned, to say the least. Leon told you to slow down, but it was clear where he was focussing the majority of his attention. When you all took a seat, you were in between Leon and Chris. Ada sat next to her fiance on the opposite side of the table.

You could practically feel the nervousness radiating off of Leon. He was gripping the arms of the chair, his knuckles turning white. This was a telltale sign he was freaking out even if he otherwise appeared calm and composed. You silently placed a hand on top of his, giving it a light squeeze. Leon turned to you with a soft smile. Tea sandwiches were served. Leon and Ada were not breaking eye contact. Way to be subtle guys , you thought, rolling your eyes.

Wesker finally broke the silence, looking directly at Leon. “You look tense, Kennedy,” he said smoothly, his voice like ice. “Something on your mind?”

Leon cleared his throat, letting go of your hand. “I wanted to talk to you about Ada, Wesker.”

Chris tensed in his chair, seemingly knowing what was to come. You turned to Chris, unable to stand the sudden tension that filled the garden.

Wesker laughed, leaning back in his chair with a mocking smile. “Oh really? Tell me, Leon, what is it about my fiance that concerns you?”

Leon’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away. “Ada and I have a connection—something that goes beyond whatever arrangement you two have.”

“Oh Leon,” Wesker said, “You are so young, naive. Do you really think a little connection is enough to change her mind? Ada and I understand each other in a way you never will. In a way someone from your background never will.”

Leon let out a frustrated sigh, his face growing angrier by the minute. “She's leaving you, Wesker.”

Ada’s expression faltered, her eyes darting between Leon and Wesker’s. When she opened her mouth to speak, Wesker shot her a glare.

“Is that so,” Wesker said, “Well then, Ada. Care to share your plans?”

Ada remained silent, her gaze shifting to the table. He leaned forward, his voice barely a whisper. “Ada… tell him. Tell him you want out.”

Leon got no answer. Instead, Wesker smirked. “Well then, I suppose Ada will be staying here with me afterall. Why don’t you take your leave, country boy?”

Without another word, he stormed off toward the driveway, his expression a mixture of hurt and anger. Ada jumped up, hesitating before following him out. You shared a look with Chris, heart pounding. Wesker watched them go, his smile returning as he took a sip from his wine, unaffected.

“We should probably go after them,” Chris whispered to you, “Think you can walk?”

“Oh please, I’m not a blackout drunk,” you said, attempting to crack a joke. Rather than sounding humorous, you sounded terrified.

You and Chris raced off from the gardens, running through the massive Wesker residence like there was no tomorrow. When you made it to the front door, you could see Leon and Ada having an argument. Leon got in his car, clearly ready to drive away. Ada opened the driver's door and effectively pulled Leon out of the car. A few moments later, it was a sobbing Ada who got into the driver's seat while a devastated, tipsy Leon sat in the passengers. When the car drove away, you could tell something was wrong. 

“She shouldn’t be driving that car,” you said, “Did you see how fast she was going?”

“We should go after them,” said Chris, “I’m going to call her, tell her to pull over.”

You started to panic. “I’ll call Leon. Wait, we don’t have a car! How are we gonna go after them?”

“Allow me,” a familiar, cold voice came from behind the two of you. Turning around you saw Wesker with the keys of a BMW in his hand. Without any other choice, you and Chris followed him to where his car was parked. Leon and Ada weren’t picking up their phones.

The drive was eerily silent. The only noise was the sound of phones ringing, desperately trying to reach Ada or Leon. It wasn’t too difficult to follow their path. Leon had made you give him your location at a party once, worried you would be too drunk to get home safe. In turn, he gave you his location and so the three of you used that to track them down.

As Wesker’s BMW sped through the winding roads, you stared out the window, hands clenched together so tightly they hurt. Chris sat beside you, his phone still ringing as he tried Ada again and again, his expression darkening with each unanswered call. Wesker remained silent, seemingly unbothered despite the wild chase for his possibly endangered fiance.

Finally, your phone buzzed. It wasn’t a text message or call from Leon, but rather an update on his location. The pin hadn’t moved for several minutes. Your heart skipped a beat.

“They stopped,” you said, your voice hardly above a whisper. Chris glanced at your screen, his eyes widening. Wesker gave you a nod before speeding up the car.

Another few sharp turns later and you arrived on a long, windy road next to a gas station. There was a sleek, dark car that had crashed up against the guardrail. You screamed. Before Wesker had even had the time to fully park the car, you had gotten out, Chris following closely behind you. 

“Oh my god,” you cried. Chris cursed under his breath. He had already pulled out his phone, dialing 911. 

Through the shattered windshield, you could see Leon. He was slumped over, unconscious with blood dripping down his face. Ada lay in the driver’s seat, her face pressed up against the airbag. Her eyes were barely opened, you could tell she was in a lot of pain.

“Leon!” you screamed, desperately grabbing the passenger door handle. You tried to pull it open but it wouldn’t budge. You pounded on the window. “Leon, please, wake up!”

“Stay back,” Wesker ordered, his voice as calm as ever. He pulled you away from the car to where Chris was standing, still on the phone with the 911 operator. Wesker took out his phone and called Ada’s father, colding relaying the details of his only daughter’s crash.

“Leon…” you said, your head starting to spin. You grabbed onto Chris’s shoulder for support, feeling a sudden weight in your legs. When your vision began to blur, you fell to the floor, completely unaware of what was happening.

“Hey–hey!” Chris shouted, his voice sounding distant, “Stay with me, Y/N!” It was already too late. His words faded, replaced by a rushing sound in your ears, and the last thing you saw was the flash of blue and red lights approaching before everything went dark.

———————————————————————————————————————

You sat in the lobby of the hospital, your hands clutched around a small, hot vanilla latte. Chris had stayed beside you the entire time, buying you some food and something sugary to drink after your fainting spell. Hours passed before you were allowed into Leon’s room. Chris went to Ada’s alongside Wesker, her family, and some other school friends. 

When you entered the infamous, popular Mr. Kennedy’s hospital room, you were the only one in there. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There was a middle aged man sitting in the corner of the room. He had dark skin and wore overalls. He reminded you a lot of how your father dressed when working on the farm. His expression was stern and his arms were folded tightly across his chest. Leon laid in his bed, bruised, pale, and asleep.

You made contact with the mysterious man in the room. He stood up from his seat, walking towards you. “Hello, miss,” he said, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, um,” you stammered, “Leon is a really good friend of mine. I’m just coming here to check up on him…”

“You wouldn’t happen to be Y/N, would you?” he asked with a small smile. You nodded your head in confirmation, “My son has told me a lot about you. My name is Marvin Branagh.”

“Your…son?” you asked, confused. Leon had told you on multiple occasions that both of his parents were dead. Especially his father.

“Adopted son, yes,” Marvin smiled, “Raised him ever since he was a little boy.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, eyes darting back and forth between Leon and Marvin, “Leon told me you were, well, um–”

“Dead?” Marvin asked, still smiling, “He just loves to tell that to his new little rich friends. I haven’t a clue why. I’m very much alive and well.”

“Oh, that’s um…confusing?” you said, your eyebrows raised. Why on earth would Leon lie about that?

“I’m going to head to the cafeteria,” said Marvin, “Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, a snack?”

You sighed, taking a seat next to Leon. “Maybe a fruit cup, if they have any. Thank you, Mr. Branagh.”

“Marvin is fine, and don’t mention it,” he responded, “I’m just glad my boy has at least one good friend around.”

As Marvin left the room, you fixed your gaze on Leon. You watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath he took. He looked peaceful.

A few moments later, Leon stirred, his eyes fluttering as he woke from his nap. He squinted, disoriented, before his gaze settled on you. His expression softened, and he managed a small, weary smile.

“Hey…” he said.

“Hey yourself,” you leaned in, giving him the softest hug you could manage, “I thought you were dead. I’m so glad you’re safe.”

“Ok,” he said with a small laugh, placing an arm onto your back, “Um, is she…”

“Ada is fine,” you said, pulling away from him yet still staying close, “Chris, Wesker, and her parents are with her now. Marvin stepped out of the room to go get a snack.”

“Marvin?” Leon asked, turning his face to the side with shame.

“Yeah,” you said gently, brushing a piece of his hair back behind his ears, “Leon, why did you lie to me about him?”

He sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “Because he’s a reminder of where I come from. The small-town boy with nothing special about him, raised by a guy in overalls on a farm. I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought that part of me was something I needed to leave behind.”

“For her?” you asked, “I don’t get it. Why would you pretend to be someone you’re not?”

He looked at you, an intensity in his blue eyes that caught you off guard. “I thought if I became someone different, maybe someone like Ada would see me as enough. But the harder I chased after that the further away it seemed to get.”

You bit your lip, tears beginning to prick the corner of your eyes. “Maybe that's why we shouldn’t be friends anymore.”

Shocked, Leon attempted to sit up. He winced in pain, slowly lowering himself back down after his outburst. “I don't…why would you say that?”

You summoned every ounce of courage in your body to tell him the truth. “It’s because I like you Leon. Not as a friend. And watching you blindly chase after this girl who doesn’t see you for who you are– who won’t appreciate who you really are, it just hurts. I can’t do it anymore.”

Leon was silent. He studied your face, a mix of surprise and something else you couldn’t quite place on his face. Then, he slowly reached over, placing his hand over your own.

“Thank you,” he said, “Thank you for being here for me. For helping me realize that I don’t need to be ashamed of who I am. You’re a good person, Y/N.”

You squeezed his hand, a bittersweet feeling falling over you. “The past is who you are, Leon. You don’t have to let it define you, but running away from it is just as dangerous.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on your joined hands. “Maybe it’s time I finally learn to live with that.”

———————————————————————————————————————

“It’s beautiful,” Leon said, holding one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, “I forgot how much I missed drives like this.”

For winter break your sophomore year, your parents invited you and Leon to spend a few nights at their farm. It took a lot of begging, particularly towards your mother, for your parents to allow you to bring your boyfriend. You were nervous for them to finally meet, sure, but you knew Leon was the type of guy that you could bring home to your parents and have them love. You weren’t worried.

“Yeah, it reminds me of when I was little and my dad used to take me on night drives in his truck,” you said, “It seems like farm, but I kinda love it, you know?”

“For sure,” Leon responded, yawning after the long day of driving, “Marvin used to take me out on his tractor to my neighbors farm. Me and some other kids used to catch fireflies together.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “That’s so sweet. Oh, here you can pull up into that grass patch over there.”

Leon opened your car door, offering you a hand as you stepped onto the snowy, grassy land. “Fuck, it’s cold,” you said with a shiver, “Don’t talk that way in front of my parents, okay?”

“Noted,” he laughed, taking in his surroundings, “Damn, I’ve missed places like these.”

“Well, yeah,” you responded, “I still don’t understand how you got rich enough as a teenager that you could just move to whatever city you wanted.”

Leon winced, gripping your hand tighter as the two of you approached the front door. “Don’t mention. Seriously, do not mention it.”

You laughed, pounding on your parents door. “Ma! Pop! We're here!”

The door swung open almost immediately. Your mother was wearing one of her hand sewed dresses with a cooking apron in front. She was absolutely beaming. “Hi my loves!”

She pulled you into a warm hug immediately, rocking the two of you back and forth. She then turned her attention to Leon, pulling him into an even tighter embrace before they exchanged hellos. “You must be Leon! Oh my goodness, aren’t you a handsome one! Come in, come in, you must be freezing! Y/N, go fetch your boyfriend one of pop’s sweaters. He’s going to catch his death.”

“Okay ma,” you laughed, giving Leon a sympathetic smile as your mother dragged him into the small dining room to meet your father. “Good Lord.”

After fetching Leon a coat, you walked into the dining room to see both of your parents sitting next to him, completely enthralled with him. Your mother was smiling wider than you’ve seen her smile in a while. Even for you! Your father, on the other hand, contained his excitement a bit better, but you could still tell he was over the moon.

“You kids must be starving,” your mother said, standing up from her chair, placing her hands on Leon’s shoulders, “Let me go get the food. I made brisket and potatoes!”

“Lemme go grab some drinks,” your father said, “You like Bud Light, Leon?”

“Yessir,” your boyfriend responded, “I’m good with just about anything.”

“Attaboy. You like the sound of that, Y/N?”

“Yes, pop,” you greeted your father with a kiss on the cheek. You took a seat at the table, the one farthest from Leon, funny enough. The smell of your mother’s brisket made your mouth water. When both your parents returned, you immediately dug in. Everything was as delicious as you remembered. 

“This is fantastic,” Leon said, “I haven’t had this good of a brisket in such a long time.”

Your mother dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin. “I’m flattered. I always try to make my best brisket whenever Y/N brings someone over.”

“That little friend of yours, Piers?” your father said, “That kid nearly ate the entire damn animal.”

“That was Chris, pop,” you responded, “Piers is a vegetarian, remember?”

“I thought that was Lydia?” he said.

“Mikayla?” you corrected.

“Oh hush,” your mother interrupted, “You’re always causing drama, Todd.”

“Me?!” your father answered. And thus started a playful bicker between your parents at the dinner table. Leon was smiling the entire time, especially when one of your parents would call upon him for input.

After dinner, your parents set up a small fireplace outside to watch the stars. It didn’t take long for your mother to go inside and sleep, complaining about the cold. Your father followed shortly after, mumbling about having to get up and work tomorrow. When it was just the two of you, Leon moved to your seat, holding you in his arms. 

“The sky is so clear tonight,” he said, his blue eyes illuminated in the fire. He pulled you in for a kiss, his lips cold, “I’m so glad we’re here.”

When you were a child, you imagined wealth to be a safe full of gold higher than the peak of Mount Everest. You desperately chased after it, believing it would give you all the happiness in the world. However, now wealth meant something completely different.

Being wealthy meant having game nights with Chris. Being wealthy meant going on morning walks with Piers. Being wealthy meant going to the mall with Mikayla, even if that meant watching her shop while you snacked on a cheap pretzel. Being wealthy meant having Sunday brunch with Ada and Wekser. Being wealthy meant spending time with your aging parents.

Being wealthy meant having Leon by your side no matter what.

“Me too,” you said, “I’m so happy right now– I feel like I’m richer than you.”

With that, Leon held onto you a bit tighter. You smiled, staring up at the glittering sky. "I love you," you said.

"I love you too."

[personastrologyhub]

Healing Your Inner Child with the Moon Persona Chart

Much effort has been made to conceptualize planets as symbolic figures or human personalities.

In astrology, the Moon Persona Chart introduces us to the Moon as the eternal child, an archetype of emotions, instinctual needs, and the purest form of our vulnerabilities. Yet a compelling question arises: can the Moon ever truly mature? Is it fated to remain forever in the realm of emotional cycles, trapped in perpetual immaturity or can it grow, evolve, and integrate into our adult selves?

Traditionally, the Moon is viewed as a caretaker, protective in form. It corresponds to the mother figure, and that direct connection with our emotional instincts. But this nurturing nature can trap it in an endless cycle of emotional dependency, preventing it from transcending the patterns of immaturity and fear it has inherited.

It is this tension—between care and growth, between past and potential—that the Moon Persona Chart helps us navigate. Just as tools like therapy and somatic healing play a valuable role in spiritual practices, I think this chart provides a fresh perspective.

This chart is not merely a snapshot of emotional patterns; it is a doorway into our inner child—those parts that form our temper tantrums, and what floods our chest with warmth. That recoils at a hostile and harsh tone, presents playful enthusiasm when we're doing something that lights up our soul.

That tender, raw part of ourselves that still longs for unconditional love and safety. It's also that innocent, curious and imaginative part of ourselves that often gets buried beneath the weight of the world. It illuminates the shape of our heart and how we seek comfort, nurturance and acceptance. Your inner child is either in the present with you or you are frozen in the past with them and so the Moon Persona chart is about understanding the emotional patterns we carry, how we respond to our needs, and how we can find healing by reconnecting with the forgotten parts of ourselves while integrating it into a more stable and evolved self.

The Moon as the Inner Child

In astrology, the Moon governs our emotions, instincts, and unconscious responses. It symbolises our earliest experiences of care and nurturing, shaping how we perceive and seek security, and how we express our feelings. However, these emotional imprints are often tied to the past, rooted in childhood memories—both tender and painful—and these patterns govern our emotional responses. The Moon Persona Chart is not simply an extension of your natal Moon placement; it is an independent chart that embodies just your inner child/ inner emotional world.

A Moon in Cancer, deeply soulful, sensitive, and emotional, might represent an inner child who longs for emotional closeness or/and thrives on nurturing their connections.

A hurt Cancer Moon may retreat into its shell and never fully emerge again, enjoy the comforts of their own space.

On the other hand, a Moon in Aquarius may be more detached, finding it difficult to express emotions freely and building barriers around their heart. This placement could reflect a child who feels detached or struggled to connect emotionally, deep down was yearning for acceptance in their uniqueness but never got it.

A real life example is Kim Kardashian, who, has her Moon in Virgo in her MPC, which reflects feelings of safety related to order and organisation. It's safe to say she is very organised and takes pride in that.

The Moon’s Sign: The Emotional Tone

The first thing we do when we cast our Moon persona chart is look to where our moon placement is.

The moon in the MPC is the ultimate reflection of the inner world/inner child. it's that part of you that never stops yearning for safety, comfort , connection and validation. It's that 6 year old holding up a drawing to every passerby hoping for a smile of acknowledgement. It's tied deeply to our emotional imprint and early life and embodies the raw and reactive parts of ourselves that seek TLC. It carries the undercurrent's unresolved childhood patterns that actively resist exposure and create shadow areas in the unconscious that can influence conscious behavior, sometimes destructively. The moon can show you how you instinctively react to emotional needs, stress, and relationships. The moon in this chart can also be a repository of emotional memories and patterns - and it carries the weight of our first connections which creates a blueprint of our inner emotional blueprint we carry into adulthood.

For example if your Moon is in the 4th House in this chart, it might indicate an emotional connection to home and family but also a burden of unsolved familial expectations

A moon square saturn may reveal emotional suppression, stemming from early experiences of invalidation or excessive responsibility.

A moon conjunction Uranus may reveal sudden unpredictable emotional shifts while Moon trine Jupitar reflects optimism and resilience in difficult times.

The sign offers clues about emotional strengths and vulnerabilities. For example, an Aries Moon might need to learn patience and self-soothing, while a Virgo Moon may need to release the pressure to always "getting it right.

A Pisces moon must learn to anchor its dreams in reality, turning imagination into creation and transcendence into presence and that compassion does not mean losing one self.

The Moon’s House: Where the Inner Child Dwells

The house placement of the Moon in the persona chart reveals the area of life where emotional needs are most pronounced.

I have a Pisces Moon in 11th House, and this reflects a feeling of fulfilment though connections with likeminded individuals. I love to feel part of a community, and this is the primary reason I started this blog. I like to feel connected to social ideals and the collective, all of which the 11th house represents. I’m looking to fulfill my moon by creating a community on here. I feel safe in the embrace of kindred likeminded souls.

Moon in the 4th House: The inner child feels deeply tied to home, family, and roots. Healing might involve addressing unresolved family dynamics.

Moon in the 10th House: The child seeks recognition and emotional fulfillment through achievements or public roles, often feeling pressure to perform.

Understanding the house placement helps pinpoint where emotional nurturing is needed most.

Aspects to the Moon in the persona chart highlight the dynamics that shape emotional responses and needs.

Moon conjunct Venus: A natural ability to find comfort in love and beauty, but with a possible tendency to seek validation through relationships.

Moon square Saturn: Emotional needs may feel restricted or invalidated, there's tension between emotional needs and conscious identity. A child who feels misunderstood or disconnected from their external self leading to feelings of inadequacy or fear of vulnerability.

The ultimate goal of the Moon Persona Chart is to guide the inner child toward emotional maturity. This does not mean losing the innocence or creativity of the childlike self but rather integrating its needs with the wisdom of the adult self.

Acknowledging Vulnerabilities

Healing begins with recognizing where the inner child feels wounded or unseen. I’ve created a FREE journaling prompt to explore the roots of emotional patterns particularly those tied to childhood experience and trauma.

The Moon is also a source of creativity, playfulness, and intuition. By reconnecting with its lighter side, we can rediscover the joys of spontaneity and emotional connection. Channel intense emotions into creative outlets, such as writing, music to give constructive release.

Emotional maturity involves learning to meet our own needs for safety and comfort, rather than relying solely on external sources. The Moon Persona Chart shows us how to nurture ourselves effectively. Allow yourself to express your emotions freely, cry when you need to cry, Acknowledge when you feel overwhelmed and take a break.

The Moon Persona Chart is a powerful tool for emotional healing and self-discovery. It allows us to see our inner child not as a fragile or incomplete part of ourselves but as a vibrant, essential source of creativity and emotional wisdom. By understanding the Moon in this chart, we can embrace our vulnerabilities, heal our wounds, and guide our inner child toward emotional wholeness.

Much like the Moon itself, we go through cycles—sometimes full and bright, sometimes shadowed and hidden. The Moon Persona Chart teaches us that every phase has value and that true healing comes from honoring the journey of becoming whole. If you would like the free worksheet that I made then comment below and I’ll send it to you.

Thanks for reading

Like comment share as it really helps/encourages me

[anarchiii]

Worlds apart-13 —ACOTAR x TOG AU

Part Thirteen | warnings: angst, blood, violence, | Azriel x Celaena Sardothien

Summary; pain and sorrow one after the other, Azriel decides that maybe he isn’t meant for this world, but maybe for another…

Note: this is an AU it’s not in the books.

Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Azriel’s POV

“What’s wrong with you, boy?” Amren snapped, clearly having enough of his tensed body and impatience, everything, he almost wanted to say, everything was wrong, it had started an hour ago when he woke up to a nightmare where he watched as Celaena choked to death on her own blood right infront of a door, a human man simply watching her die, he stood there and could no nothing. It had felt so real. So real in fact that his love seemed to watch him as she lay there, tears falling from her beautiful eyes.

“She’s in danger,” he finally said, whispering more like it, what if she was dying right now, dead even? “Who?” He could barely think straight, she could be suffering right now and he wasn’t doing anything, “Celaena, I can feel it, I need to help her.” She looked up at him. Her eyes a blazing silver, she nodded once, eyes landing back on the book she was reading, after a few more minutes she said, startling him, “I’ve got it,” he immediately got up. A small spark of hope filling his chest but he ignored it.

“Let’s do it,” he said, before she could say anything, “right now, this very moment,” this was the first time he had seen the Firedrake look concerned but she didn’t disagree, besides, if it didn’t work, Rhysand and the inner circle would never know, they didn’t have much time if what he suspected was true, his family would understand, they had to.

She nodded again, running out of the Day Court library and down a long winding staircase, he didn’t ask where she was going, just followed, by the time they were reaching the bottom, he was out of breath, the exhaustion of running and barely sleeping for weeks could come later, love first.

“Grab Truth-teller and make a semi-deep cut along your forearm, don’t ask questions just do,” Amren snapped, dropping to the cold stone floor and flipping through the book violently, he indeed didn’t ask questions, just did, he made the cut, his blood flowing quickly. The ruby liquid like a river. Amren grabbed his harm harshly before dipping her child-sized fingers into the liquid and drawing marks on the ground, the same marks Celaena had drawn, though there was a difference between then and now, he was not afraid, he would not be afraid.

-

He forgot how terrifying it was, standing infront of the sickly green portal that would lead him—hopefully—to his darling, if he could even call her that, perhaps he would come all this way and show himself fully to her just for her to send him back home, when she didn’t realise that she was his love, was this all for nothing? Was he so pathetic that the first person that had shown him a love that wasn’t platonic made him think and act like this? No, this couldn’t all be for nothing.

He shook his head, trying to disperse those thoughts, Amren was eyeing him but said nothing, she had been incredibly patient, it was almost like she knew something he didn’t, there was no other reason for her to act in such a manner, she started tapping her foot on the floor impatiently, but still stayed silent, everything was so odd— right. He had to go now. If it was anything like last time then the portal would not be here much longer.

Breathing in deeply and exhaling, he went through it, picturing nothing but her lovely face, that pure smile that made her look goddess-like, the strawberry blush that covered her cheeks when he said something about her, the way she put her hands on her hips to prove a point not realising that she was like a beautiful siren to his sailor, the beautiful maiden seducing the unprepared guard, she was his temptress without even trying. Lovely.

-

He landed face-first on a marble checkered floor, the first thing he noticed was the haughty laughter and clinking of glasses all around him, he got up, groaning as the pain retested in his nose, he ignored it, everyone around him was in dresses and suits, except him. People around him were eyeing him and some blushing as they took in his body but relatively ignored him, Azriel bestowed the same upon them.

He also noticed a mousy-brown haired man watching him from a wall, in the same moment, another plain looking man appeared and instead walked up to him and offered a glass of champagne, he refused a couple of times but the man didn’t stop insisting so he grabbed the glass but didn’t drink it, he keep surveying his surroundings but there was no sign of Celaena anywhere, but if his dream was right, then she was near a wooden door. And she looked like she was in a hallway. The servants quarters, kitchens, or even power-rooms were his guesses.

He didn’t think to hard on it as he started running down halls and rooms, his surroundings seemed to become more familiar from the dream so he kept going, he was nearly there to where I knew Celaena was when something hard hit his head, he slammed into a wall but got up instantly and drew Truth-teller—the blade mercifully staying with him this time—he turned and faced the wait from before. He drew a simple long dagger and threw it—aiming for his head. Thankfully, he missed, moving to the side before welding his blade and slicing along his neck, the man bled out instantly and fell to the floor, not even a worthy opponent.

He didn’t linger long, wiping the blood off of his blade quickly and breaking out into a run as he raced to find his love, small puddles of blood lay on the floor, the further he went the larger they became, what the Hell? Bodies started appearing, the inflicted wounds janky and uneven, their eyes still open. Gazing to the covered sky. No matter what they had done—he still sent a silent prayer for them to whatever Gods inhabited this world, the Mother was not here to save him, she never had. Anyway.

He slowed down as to not slip and stopped, listening for anything, anything that could help, he heard gurgling, choking even, he turned another corner and beheld the sight in front of him, there she was, her sweat-covered forehead leaning against the doorframe of that oak door. Blood spilling out from her wicked mouth. Her lovely skin covered in old—and new—blood, blood, there was so much of it.

He slammed to his knees and came before his lovely Fire, her eyes flicked to his but held no emotion, the golden ring in them gone dull, she was dying, the woman he had dreamed about every second he had been away from, dying—suffering, he didn’t know what to do. Azriel had planned everything he was going to do and say to her when he was here but now. . . Now he was here. He was completely lost.

Her expression grew pained as time went on and he got enough sense to act, he took off his shirt and ripped it up into strips, wiping away all the blood to see what he was working with, she bore many wounds but he knew those were not the main cause, it was invisible, poison. He looked to the oak door and, before he could think straight, put his whole body weight into it and started shoving into it, it didn’t take long for the door to snap off its hinges and bang open, he rushed to the sink and started collecting water. Washing Celaena’s wounds and making her drink the liquid. He didn’t know what to do, he wasn’t very familiar with poison, only using it a handful of times, and the Cauldron knew what poisons people used in this world, Azriel had no antidote. He was useless.

He started crying then, utterly useless, perhaps this was his punishment for all the horrible things he’d done in his lifetime, forced to watch his heart stop in front of him, he didn’t stop the tears, didn’t stop them as they fell onto her pretty face, she was crying as well, neither could tell which tears were their own. He rested his brow on hers, closing his eyes and wishing to anyone that would listen to save her.

He heard the panting of breath first, he turned his head slightly to see Dorian rushing their way, covered head to toe in blood, a dagger hanging from his grip, his face laced with anguish as he took in his friend—friends, Celaena made a small whimpering sound as she spotted him, the Prince got on his knees as grabbed her hand, rubbing his thumb across the scarred-skin, “I’m sorry,” he breathed, “I’m so damn sorry. Cel. I left you for five minutes and they attacked me, I fought them off the best I could—I see you did aswell,” a soft laugh accompanied by a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “it was my Father that sent the men, he tried to take us both out, I should’ve known this would happen, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . .” The Crown-prince was shaking with barely contained tears.

This was all his fault, it was his fault Celaena Sardothien and Dorian Havillard were suffering, being punished for being good, being fare, these humans were infinitely better than him and yet they were suffering, it was cruel, it was torture. It was injustice.

He distantly heard panicked yelling—for the Champion and her friend, not him,—the stomping of feet and clashing of swords against swords, yet no one moved, there was no point, not when time was running out, her heart would only beat so long. A person could only be so strong for so long.

He heard a shocked gasp as those loud footsteps stopped, he didn’t turn around this time, though, he did react when a strong hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back, he just kept staring at those lovely eyes, the dulled blue that had once been brighter than the sky, she was the light he had been searching for-for centuries. And now that light was going out. The fire in her was getting smothered.

“Azriel!” He heard someone yell in his ear, he came to, realising it was Chaol, he turned his head, looking into the man’s eyes, he didn’t move, just met eyes with her again, watching as her breathing turned slower, how she closed her eyes and didn’t open them for longer periods of time, he heard the Captain swear—a colourful combination—he pushed him aside and ran to his friend, holding her face in his hands. Azriel just watched. He watched as Chaol yelled for the antidote, watched as Dorian was dragged away by struggling guards, their expressions apologetic.

He watched, just as he had done his whole life, the only thing he had ever been good at—apart from killing and torturing, but that was and never would be something he was proud of,—he watched as one of Chaol’s men shoved a strange liquid down Celaena’s throat. Blood kept flowing from out her mouth but she swallowed. Nothing happened, it was too late, it would never work, he saw the truth in her eyes, she knew this was the end.

He crawled over the blood to her, putting his scarred hands that were so beautiful to her on her face, the marks looked so strange on her un-marred skin, beauty and the beast, he kissed her lightly, his lips staining with the scarlet liquid, he looked deep into her eyes. Hazel orbs meeting those of cerulean. Water and earth. The perfect clash.

In that moment, he used all the power he had to beg to the Gods, to anything, that he would do anything to let her live, even if that meant the end of him, he used everything he had to ask for mercy, he felt a strange thing flow through him, like a curious cat rubbing against his legs. Though its voice was older than the obsidian blade that lay discarded mere-meters away, “and what would you give me in return?” It purred. “Anything” he whispered, anything.

“Your soul, even?” Curious, to see what he would do for love, “my soul, yes,” it made a humming noise, like it was contemplating its options, if it could even do that, “your love will live, but you will not be standing by her side while she does, that is your price, if you visit this world again I will see to it that your Fae girl will perish.” It said. It’s voice cold and cruel, and—Fae girl? Celaena was fae, well, that wasn’t much of a shock but. . . Why didn’t she tell him? It made so much sense now, that un-earthly grace she held, the beauty she possessed that no human should have. Fae. He would’ve laughed in any other circumstances. But not this one.

“Okay, yes, i agree, but give me at least ten minutes with her,” he said at last, Chaol and Dorian were giving eachother wary glances as they watched Azriel talk to himself, he didn’t care, though, not when he felt the thing nod its head and watched in wonder as Celaena’s face brightened ever so slightly, her breathe evening out, it had worked, it had damn worked!

He kissed her again and again, he knew his time was running out now but he had enough time to kiss her, everyone else excused themselves, their faces full of shock and amazement at Celaena Sardothien’s recovery, but he didn’t care. He looked at the assassin again. Fearful for their time to end.

He tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, brushing his fingers down her cheek, his beautiful, wicked thing, the woman with a heart of fire, his Fireheart, he had to leave her and yet he had never loved her more, the lady who walked with death by her side, the girl that smiled at the sun that rose and frowned at the sun that set, the female that kissed the scars on his hands and called them beautiful, she would make a great queen. And an even better lover.

He kissed her once more, the last time before grabbing a folded up piece of paper from his pocket and placing it in her hands gently, she didn’t move to pick it up or read it but that was fine, she didn’t have to, he didn’t cry this time, no, he smiled. Smiled as he looked deep into her eyes and said, no pain in his voice, “I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you, you were—and are, incredible. Never in my five hundred years of existence have I met someone like you. And I damn well hope the person that steals your heart realises that, you and I both knew this wouldn’t last, no matter how hard we wished it otherwise, there is a female in my world who is just as amazing, and I think you would love her, she’s not you—and never will be. But I think it would be easy for me to love her. As easy as it was to love you.” She nodded her head slowly, still dazed but seemed to understand what he was getting at.

“What is her name?” She got out, her eyes held no agony or jealousy, just pure, unfiltered love, he smiled, showing all his teeth, “her name is Gwyneth Berdara,” she smiled at that, copying his, she hit his shoulder in a playful way before saying, “very well, send me a solstice card,” he laughed, it wasn’t loud but it was full. Gods he adored this woman.

“You can count on it,” he said, she laughed softly at that, he kissed her head in goodbye before getting up, Azriel Shadowsinger was still smiling as he grabbed Truth-teller and made a return portal, and he was still smiling when he arrived back in the Day Court library, he was moving instantly, hugging Amren quickly before flying back home to Velaris.

-

He landed hard on the main balcony of the House of Wind but shook it off and made his way to the library, Clotho letting him in with a wink and a smirk, he ran through stacks and stacks of books and papers, the Priestesses curious but didn’t stop him, he kept running. And then he saw her—

He pulled to a stop right in front of her, her copper hair shining in the light of the candles, she didn’t reject him when he put his hands on her face, warm skin meeting that of cold, nor did she pull away when he put his lips against hers, no, Gwyn just kissed him back.

Yes, both Azriel and Celaena had a lot of healing to do but that would come with time, he knew the assassin was strong and would survive and not only that but flourish, but him on the other hand? He wanted this incredible Valkyrie by his side as he did, he wanted to wake up to her teal eyes sparkling and know she wasn’t going anywhere, to know she saw all of him and embraced it.

Celaena Sardothien and Gwyneth Berdara were similar in a lot of ways, but also so, so different, and he loved that, Azriel would never stop loving the haughty female that shone like the sun but he also had a lot more love to give, love that was reserved for the sassy red head and her only. His Oristian.

-

Celaena’s POV (bonus)

Everything hurt, and not just physically, not as Azriel said what he had said and handed her a piece of paper and simply left, she knew things would end badly but like this? Celaena had no idea what or who he had been whispering to before—because she’d slipped in and out consciousness many times—but all she did know was that whatever he had done, had worked. And she was so, so grateful, but. . . Now he was gone, she was alone again. Well, not really.

Dorian sat next to her, his eyes vacant as a few Royal healers patched him up, said Healers did the same to her, working quickly and quietly, no more than ghosts, she had stopped crying some time ago but her eyes still burned, her body still shook. She had nearly died. That wasn’t something someone got over instantly, Celaena had a feeling it would be a while of healing. Especially with the news.

It had gotten out that the King had attempted to assassinate his Champion and Son and the public had been outraged, revolting against him and seemingly snapping, it seemed all the citizens had gotten sick of the Rules he’d in-forced, and, rightfully so. Many people had-had enough of their family members being sent to Endovier or its sister camp, Caculla, the Assassin couldn’t help but agree with them.

But what had shocked her the most was that one of the King of Ardalan’s court members had gone rouge and killed the man, stabbing him right through the heart with his Rapier, she had been incredibly amused to hear that, apparently the old bastard was right, there were a lot of traitors working for him. Though, Dorian hadn’t found it amusing, simply nodding and staring at nothing, like he had been doing for two hours now.

She couldn’t find it in her cold heart to feel sorry for him. No, not as she remembered how much the man had made her and her family suffer for so many years, he deserved it, everyone in Erelia could breathe.

Sighing, she finally decided to open the folded paper the Shadowsinger had given her, it was relatively new but still had a few ink stains on it and lots of folded marks, as if he had opened and closed it many times before giving it to her. She breathed in—this was the only thing she could ever remember him by, faintly, she could smell the night-chilled mist and leather of his sent, and if she tried hard enough. She could almost imagine that lovely smile of his that she adored so well, her Azriel—closing her eyes for a second, she exhaled and began reading. . .

‘Celaena Sardothien-

I write you this to tell you all the things I could not voice out loud, if you are reading this then we did indeed not last, it pains me that we did not get to see how far our love went for one another but I think, even with the short amount of time we had together, that it was one of the happiest few weeks of my life, I have lived a long life but experiencing such a short amount with you has made me realise how unfulfilling it was without you in it, you made me feel alive.

I hope this letter finds you well and I hope that you are happier now or are getting there, you deserve all the joyous moments that you will have, I have never meant anything more than that—except for when I told you I loved you, perhaps I love another person when you’re reading this but you will always hold a special place in my heart, I hope the man that steals your fiery heart is worthy of it. And I hope he knows how damn lucky he is. A piece of my heart will forever belong to you, even when we both are nothing more than dust, I am yours and you are mine, just in a different world. Star-crossed lovers, remember?

—Azriel Shadowsinger’

The End. (Actually)

Note: this series is finished, I know it might not seem like much to some but this series kept me going when I was having a rough time and that is why I want to say a special thank you to these people;

-A big thank you to @cynthiesjmxazrielslover for supporting me through this all, I know we are only mutuals but you are a great friend to me and I couldn’t have done this without you, you’re my motivator and my inspiration, I love you girl, stay amazing. 🫶

-A big thank you to @azrielslittleslut for liking and believing In this series from the start, your stories are a huge inspiration and I aspire to one day write as beautifully as you do, Mwah. ❤️

-A big thank you to @shadowsingercassia for loving all of the chapters and making me want to keep going, you appeared halfway through the series but you might as well have been here since I started writing, your love for what I do has helped me more than you could’ve imagined, I know I am not a very big or popular writer but the one little like you give me amounts to hundreds others could give. I love you so, so much. Keep being the person you are. 🫶

-some thank you’s to @aelincaddel, @yashiw, and @snoopyspace for loving this series so much that you asked to be on the taglist, that little thing has meant so much to me. Thank you, lovelies. ❤️

Thank you once again everyone, even if you just liked one of the chapters from this series and no other, or rebloged one or even commented, thank you, that small gesture of appreciation made my day. The epilogue for this series is already written and I hope you all like it. I know some people wanted Celaena and Azriel to end up together but—sadly—that didn’t happen, but I hope the ending was still good. If anyone has any questions about something in the series. Please do ask.

I love you all so much and I hope to make more stories that are just as entertaining. ❤️❤️

-

[cieloclercs]

Okay so abt that Carlitos request maybe she’s in the crowd next to his mum and after a win at Wimbledon (maybe he’s the final winner 🤭) her and his family go down on the pitch to celebrate (kind of in the way footballers do it) and he just kisses her instantly and that’s the moment everyone finds out abt their relationship but the fans love it and maybe then they go on a vacation in Spain or smth like that 🫶🏻 thanks again for being open to write for him and have a good day!!

PS: if you find good fics with him please do tell where 😅

-🪷

hello! hope you enjoy this <3

p.s i found two really awesome carlitos fics you should check out! wimbledon shenanigans by @yungbludz and this blurb by @2manytabsopen

word count. 2.3k

read under the cut!

𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐨́𝐧 | carlos alcaraz

THE DAY HAS finally arrived: one you’ve had circled in your calendar for weeks, almost as a manifestation that you’ll get to watch it not just as a neutral spectator, but as someone with a true stake in the outcome. The Wimbledon Final. A certain classic, the commentators all say. They’re sure, that no matter who wins, it’s going to be a match for the history books. The current world number one versus arguably the greatest tennis player of all time. Carlos Alcaraz versus Novak Djokovic.

You’re on the edge of your seat from the moment the first serve is taken. It almost feels as if you’re down there on the court, playing the match yourself. The nerves thrumming inside your very veins are enough for it to seem that way. Carlos’ mother is seated to your right, just as tense as you are, gripping the edge of her chair with white knuckles. You reach down to pat her hand reassuringly, partly for her, but mostly for you. Appearing so calm, so certain Carlos is going to do what he does best and win this match helps to quell your own nerves. Even if it’s a façade.

He's worked so hard to get here, you can’t even imagine the agony if he falls short now. So many have put their expectations on him, as this new, rising talent, pegging him to become the next Nadal; it’s a lot for anyone to deal with, but it amazes you how Carlos simply takes it into his stride. He’s inexperienced on grass compared to his competitor (or rather, inexperienced on every surface – this is Novak Djokovic we’re talking about, after all), yet even against those with years and years of tournament experience haven’t been able to beat him. No matter whether it seems the odds are stacked against him or not, Carlos always believes in himself. So you believe in him too. You know in your heart, this may seem like a mountain to climb, but if anyone can reach the summit, it’s him.

There’s a second story running alongside this one, however, and it involves you. Though you’ve been able to call the world number one your boyfriend for almost six months now, the world is yet to know about your relationship. As someone who hasn’t exactly been shielded from the public eye yourself, you both decided it would be healthier to keep everything private while you navigated the early stages of your relationship. Now, you’re both happier than you ever have been, and it feels as though you’re drawing nearer to the big announcement.

Attending Carlos’ match with his family is the first big step. From the moment you sat down with them in their box, you could feel the eyes on you; sense the whispers rippling around the court like shockwaves. Everyone knows who you are, of course – Spain’s golden girl, the child acting star turned Oscar winner at only twenty years of age. You’re a household name not only in your country, but across the whole world. To see you here, spending time with the family of your equivalent in the tennis world, is huge news. This isn’t just a case of some celebrity outing for the day, making an appearance in a private box; this is you sitting with Carlos’ family, laughing with his mother and doting on his little brother. You’re clearly more involved than the average celebrity – the big question on everyone’s lips is how involved?

For the moment, you ignore the masses of eyes on you. You’re here to see Carlos play first and foremost, not answer the newly emerged dating rumours which seem to be spreading like wildfire across social media (it’s barely even been half an hour – the fans sure do catch on quick). All you care about is cheering him on until he emerges victorious, lifting that coveted Wimbledon trophy high into the air. And with each point won that puts him just ahead of his opponent, you feel everything drawing closer to the inevitable end: Game, set, match – Carlos Alcaraz. It takes an excruciating four and three quarter hours of back and forth, but eventually, the dream becomes reality. Championship point won. He drops to the floor with a gasp just as you shoot up from your seat, arms flailing in the air, screaming until your throat is raw. Carlos Alcaraz is the winner of the 2023 Wimbledon Championship.

You’re not even sure it’s allowed when you and his family rush down onto the court, but in that moment, you honestly couldn’t care less. He’s shaken hands with Djokovic, who for once, doesn’t look ashamed to have been beaten – he recognises a worthy champion when he sees one. Then, after doing the same with the umpire, he turns to face his approaching family. The grin you love so much breaks out across his face. You know how important they all are to him. Having them here to witness this no doubt makes it even sweeter.

For a moment you hang back, watching as his father pats him proudly on the back, and his mother holds nothing in reserve by pulling him down to press a loving kiss to his cheek. He spins his little brother around in the air excitedly, and you hear Jaime’s giggles from where you’re standing a few feet away. You’re happy to just watch them for a while, a fond smile playing on your lips. They truly are the most idyllic family. You count yourself lucky to know them as well as you do, and perhaps even one day to be accepted as one of them by Carlos’ side. But you push those thought away, wanting to remain in the present. Right now, you couldn’t be more proud of your boyfriend. Your heart sings with joy for him and his incredible achievement. You’ve always known he is special, but now the rest of the world knows it just as certainly as you do.

It isn’t long before Carlos turns his attention away from his family, searching for you amongst the crowd. You aren’t far away, grinning back at him shyly. You’re aware of the crowd around you, conscious that they are no doubt watching his every move, but when you lock eyes, that doesn’t seem to matter anymore. He closes the distance between you in four short strides, and before you know it, his arms are wrapped around you, lifting you high up into the air as he spins around. You’re laughing gleefully, arms looped securely around his neck as if they belong there. When he sets you down again everything is quiet, despite the crowd still cheering his name.

"Estoy muy orgullosa de ti.” I’m so proud of you. You murmur, hands placed on either side of his face. You eyes are filled with nothing but love and admiration as you gaze up at him. You can see it mirrored back at you in his own.

"No podría haberlo hecho sin ti, mi amor.” I couldn’t have done it without you, mi amor. He replies tenderly. Though you know it’s not strictly the truth. Everyone needs love and support from those they care for the most to get them through the difficult times, but Carlos Alcaraz was born to be a star. He was always going to make it this far – it’s just something you can’t argue with, a little like fate. Still, it’s nice to feel like you had a part to play in that. You are important enough to him to matter in a time like this. That’s the special thing.

"Te quiero, campeón.” I love you, champion. You tell him with a teasing giggle. He seems to light up at the nickname, chest puffing out with pride.

"Yo también te quiero.” I love you too. He murmurs. His hands cradle either side of your face, and when he glances down at your lips, you know exactly what he’s asking. The crowd’s focus is still very much on the two of you, but despite all the efforts you’ve gone to hide your relationship, right now, you don’t care. The subtlest of nods tells him all he needs to know. Carlos dips his head down, capturing your lips in the sweetest kiss you’ve ever known. You think the crowd are cheering; you can hear some whistles, muffled into the background. None of it matters. All you care about is when he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you impossible close – so close you can feel his heartbeat against your own chest.

Even when he pulls away, the spell isn’t broken. There’s something about sharing in the joy of the man you love that simply makes everything else fade away. Carlos looks down at you, his eyes so soft, shining so brightly they could have held the entire universe for all you knew. In a way, he’s thanking you. You’re not sure what for at first, because he’s made it here of his own merit. But then it hits you. Carlos is a simple man. He’s simply thanking you for being here, to celebrate the greatest moment of his life alongside him and his family. At the end of the day, it’s what he cares about most – his family. The look he gives you now is as much confirmation as you’ll ever need. He considers you to be a part of it. Maybe not in name (not yet, anyway), but in heart, in spirit, you mean just as much to him.

Finally, when you’re both returned to reality, he relaxes his grip around your waist, turning to wave at the crowd, shooting them a cheeky wink (which you just know will be all over social media within the next few hours). You can’t help but laugh. Someone calls his name: it’s time to prepare for the presentation, they tell him. He turns back to look at you with a dazed grin. You can’t resist pressing one final kiss to his lips before he’s dragged away – your champion, ready to lift that legendary trophy high in the air. No one deserves it more than him, you think. This is what he was born to do.

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tennisupdates Carlos Alcaraz and newly confirmed girlfriend Y/N Y/L/N, who attended the match with his family, celebrating his Wimbledon victory on centre court ❤️

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username so cute 😍

username THE it couple

Two weeks later Majorca, Spain

After the chaos and exposure of Wimbledon, a private beach getaway is exactly what both you and Carlos needed. Days stretch away on the sand, swallowed up by the rolling blue tides, and you think this place must be paradise on earth – or maybe it’s the company that makes everything so perfect. You’ve barely moved from your residence along the private stretch of beach Carlos had splashed out on to make your time together as romantic (and paparazzi-free) as possible. You don’t need to. This is your time to relax, to unwind after Wimbledon; and if you don’t deserve that, Carlos certainly does. You’re simply reaping the rewards.

Both your phones lay face down on the kitchen table inside. You haven’t looked at social media once since the final, and you don’t plan to as long as you’re here. No doubt, all your accounts will be blown up with messages about yours and Carlos’ surprise hard launch, both good and bad. You don’t want to ruin this little paradise you’ve created by getting sucked into the media. So, aside from texting or calling your families in the evenings, both yours and Carlos’ phones remain unused throughout your days together. It’s beyond peaceful. He pledges to do this more often – just be together, without the pressure of social media or the press breathing down your necks.

Sprawled out across the sand, you lay on his tanned chest, running your fingers softly up and down the side of his ribs. He hums contentedly at the sensation. You’re both sleepy, the sun lulling you into a daze. Carlos’ lips find your hair occasionally, kissing away your tiredness. His arms pull you in close, so you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin as much as you can feel it from the sun, or the sand beneath you. This feeling, that blooms in your chest and lights up every part of you, is nothing short of belonging. Even if you both had nothing, if you were talentless, penniless, with no place to call your own, you could claim it with each other. Carlos is the man whose arms you want to lie in every day for the rest of your life. You’re only young, but you know it to be true. He’s the one for you.

"El sol se está poniendo.” The sun’s going down. He soon whispers into the dusk, which has crept up on you in the last few hours. You hum some kind of acknowledgement, but keep your face buried deep into the crook of his neck. He chuckles.

"Vamos, cariño." Come on, baby. Carlos murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to the side of your face, "Vamos a la cama." Let’s go to bed.

You don’t argue with him when he scoops you up into his arms, lifting you up off the still warm sand as you giggle at the way he spins you around. When your feet touch the ground again, you can’t resist kissing him. It’s short and sweet, but he chases you with his lips when you pull away. You feel your heart soar.

Hand in hand, you make your way inside, to the place which has become your own perfect, little solitude. No one can touch you here, so far away from the rest of the world. You both know you’ll have to go back to reality fairly soon, but for that night, it’s the farthest thing from your minds. For now you’re just young and in love, wrapped up in each other, never wanting to leave. It’s the best place you can be, you think. The only place you ever want to be.

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tagged: carlitosalcarazz

yourusername sí, sigo vivo! han sido un par de semanas caóticas en wimbledon, así que hemos decidido tomarnos un tiempo para nosotros mismos antes de que las cosas empiecen a volverse locas otra vez 🫣

a mi campeón - estoy muy orgullosa de ti y de todo lo que has conseguido. nadie se merece esto mas que tu. he visto el trabajo que haces dia y noche para ser la mejor. no ha sido facil, pero que sepas que he creido en ti en cada paso del camino, y seguire creyendo en ti mientras viva. te quiero, carlitos ❤️

yes, i'm still alive! it's been a chaotic couple of weeks at wimbledon, so we've decided to take some time to ourselves before things start to get crazy again 🫣

to my champion - i am so proud of you and all that you have accomplished. no one deserves this more than you. i have seen the work you do day and night to be the best. it has not been easy, but know that i have believed in you every step of the way, and i will continue to believe in you as long as i live. i love you, carlitos ❤️

carlitosalcarazz te quiero siempre / i love you always

yourusername 💕

comments on this post have been limited.

tags: @christianpulisic10

requests are open! send something in if you’d like!

[novaursa]

I've been LOVING your cregan work and wanted to see if you were doing requests. I was thinking something like the reader (velaryon) was previously married to aemond had a kid with him and something happened to the kid, reader escapes aemond and is with cregan but is still morning the life she previously had and feels bad about it. Maybe she's just given up on everything and cregan just wants to help. I'm so sorry if this makes zero sense 😭

Winter's Solace

Requests are closed!

- Summary: Specters of the past came back today once more to hunt you, but Cregan holds them back.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: The reader is bonded with a dragon Grey Ghost.

- Rating: Mature 16+

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

The cold wind howls through the ancient halls of Winterfell, but inside your chambers, the fire crackles softly. The warmth from the hearth does little to pierce the chill that’s wrapped around your heart. The North was supposed to be your sanctuary, the place where you could forget. But the past clings to you like a cloak you cannot shed.

For days now, you’ve sought solitude, slipping from the bed you share with Cregan before the dawn, curling yourself into the furs by the window, watching the sky but not really seeing it. You barely eat. Every mouthful seems to turn to ash on your tongue. The memories—the life you had before, the life taken from you—haunt your every waking moment.

The son you lost, taken by blood and treachery.

Your breath trembles as you draw it in, eyes falling to the grey stones below. You told yourself you would never cry again after that night, but the tears threaten to spill all the same.

A quiet knock at the door stirs you, though you do not answer. You know who it is, and part of you wants to tell him to leave. To let you sit here in silence, to let the grief eat at you until there is nothing left. But he’s stubborn, like the North itself. He enters without waiting for your permission, the familiar sound of his heavy boots crossing the threshold.

"Cregan…" Your voice is barely a whisper, hoarse from lack of use. But you don’t turn to face him.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He knows better than to rush you. Instead, he stands in the doorway for a moment, his presence filling the room with a quiet strength. Then, slowly, he crosses to where you sit, his broad figure casting a shadow over you.

"You haven’t eaten," he says gently, kneeling beside you, his eyes dark with concern. His hand finds yours, rough and warm against your cold skin. He squeezes it, hoping to ground you, to pull you back from the abyss you’re teetering over.

You pull your hand away, though it’s not from any anger toward him. It’s because you’re ashamed. Ashamed of the broken thing you’ve become, ashamed that even now, after all this time, the past still holds you so tightly in its grip. You think of Aemond, of the life you once shared with him—however brief and painful—and the child you lost. You think of the vengeance that Daemon and Rhaenyra sought in your name, a vengeance that tore at what little remained of your soul.

"I can’t…" Your voice breaks, and for a moment, you press your lips together to stop the flood of words that want to spill out. "I can’t pretend anymore, Cregan."

Cregan’s eyes, soft yet strong, search your face. He understands. He’s always understood, more than anyone else ever could. When you fled to the North on the back of Grey Ghost, seeking an end to the torment, it was Cregan who saved you. He didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t demand that you be strong. He simply gave you space, gave you time. But now, the time has come to face the wounds that refuse to heal.

He moves closer, sitting beside you, pulling you gently into his arms. At first, you resist, stiff in his embrace, but the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, begins to melt the ice that’s hardened around your soul.

"I don’t need you to pretend, Y/N," he says, his voice a low rumble in your ear. "Not with me."

You close your eyes, leaning into him, allowing yourself the comfort he offers. His hand strokes your hair, gentle and slow, as though he’s trying to calm a wild animal.

"I left them to die," you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "Aemond… our son. I should have stayed, should have fought harder—"

"You were never meant to stay with him," Cregan interrupts, his tone firmer now, as though he’s reminding you of something you’ve long forgotten. "The life you had with him was built on lies and violence. It wasn’t your fault, Y/N. None of it."

"But it was my mother…" Your voice breaks again, the bitterness of it burning your throat. "It was Rhaenyra. She sent them—Daemon sent them—to kill him. To take my son."

Cregan holds you tighter, his breath warm against your hair. "You’ve carried that guilt too long, my love. What your mother did… that’s on her. Not on you. You didn’t ask for their blood to be spilled."

The tears come then, hot and heavy, spilling down your cheeks as you sob into Cregan’s chest. You hate yourself for it—hate how weak you feel. But he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t pull away or flinch from your pain.

"I loved him once," you confess, voice barely audible. "Aemond… I loved him before all the bitterness and rage. Before the war tore us apart."

"I know," Cregan says softly. "And you loved your son. That’s why you grieve. But you can’t let it destroy you. You can’t let the ghosts of the past steal the life you have now."

You’re silent for a moment, listening to the crackling of the fire and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His words are true, but they don’t erase the pain. Nothing ever will.

"I don’t know how to move forward," you admit.

"One step at a time," Cregan says, pulling back slightly so he can look into your eyes. His gaze is steady, filled with a determination that gives you something to hold onto. "I can’t take the pain away, Y/N. But I’ll be here, every step, until you find your way."

You look into his face, seeing the man who saved you when you thought there was nothing left to save. The man who offers you not just comfort, but a future, if only you can let yourself reach for it.

"I don’t deserve you," you whisper, guilt still gnawing at the edges of your heart.

"Deserve me?" He smiles, a soft, crooked smile that warms you in a way the fire never could. "I think it’s the other way around. You’re a Targaryen, a Velaryon, bonded with a dragon. And yet, here you are in the North, sharing your life with me. If anyone is undeserving, it’s me."

You shake your head, tears still glistening in your eyes. "No… you saved me."

"And I’ll keep saving you," Cregan says, his thumb brushing away the tear on your cheek. "For as long as you need me to."

For the first time in days, something like hope flickers in your chest. It’s faint, fragile, but it’s there. You lean into him again, closing your eyes, letting his warmth and strength anchor you. The grief will always be there, lurking in the shadows. But with Cregan by your side, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can face it.

Tomorrow, you’ll eat. Tomorrow, you’ll take another step forward. But for now, in this moment, you allow yourself to simply be held. And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 1

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 1: Children and the Innocent

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

Children and the innocent–they were always the first casualty of war. 

The tendrils of war crept into every corner of life, a rot that left nothing unscathed. It was never content to simply take; it marked, marred, and tainted all it touched. Even the righteous bore its stain, their hands sullied no matter how fiercely they had once clung to ideals of compassion or justice. War eroded those virtues, grinding them into something unrecognizable. 

For the innocent, there was no refuge. Innocence was always the first sacrifice, offered up willingly or otherwise upon the altar of war. 

Daenera Velaryon had made her offering–her innocence, or what little remained of it, laid bare upon the altar of necessity. It was not stolen from her; no blade had come in the night to strip her clean of it. She had given it willingly, if reluctantly, surrendering it in the desperate hope that mercy might bloom where there had only been cold inevitability.

The weight of that choice sat heavily upon her now. Its sting was sharp and unrelenting, like the bite of a thorn embedded deep beneath her skin. Every breath she drew seemed to tug at it, the pain subtle yet constant, a cruel reminder of the price she had paid. Mercy had been what she sought, but she wondered now if she had traded too much for too little.

Children and the innocent. 

The thought circled her mind like a crow circling the ravages of a battlefield. She sat motionless, a heavy book balanced on her lap, its pages as neglected as the daylight slipping past her unnoticed. A golden coin danced between her fingers, its edges worn smooth. It glinted faintly in the soft light of her chamber, its metallic sheen mocking her in its simplicity. The eye etched on one side seemed to watch her with cold indifference, its stare unwavering, piercing. She turned the coin over, her thumb brushing against the spiral carved on the opposite face, its design both intricate and maddening in its endless loops. 

Her gaze rested on the page before her, though her eyes did not see the drawings painted upon the parchment. Dread coiled in her stomach, a searing, molten guilt that pooled low and heavy within her. The hours dragged on with a torturous slowness, the sun climbing high in the sky before beginning its descent. She had been absent all day, her mind consumed by the creeping inevitability of what was to come. She had done the deed. Now all that remained was the waiting. 

Waiting. How she loathed it.

The slip of a blade was quick, precise, and brutal–a crude finality that left no room for hesitation or doubt. It was an intimate act, one that forced the wielder of the blade to face their victim in the raw, unyielding truth of the moment. Blood spilled and life fled in a heartbeat, swift and irreversible. 

There was clarity in its violence, a grim certainty that the deed was done.

But poison… Poison was an act of patience, a virtue Daenera found herself woefully short of in this moment. Unlike the blade, poison was a quiet, lingering death. It crept through the veins unseen, stealing life slowly, leaving nothing but stillness in its wake. 

It was, in its way, a silent mercy, blessedly free of the screams and struggle that came with steel. Yet for the one who wielded it, the waiting was its own kind of torment. 

Soon, she thought. Soon, there would be no need for waiting. 

The guilt would remain, of course–it always did. But she would carry it, as she carried everything else. What choice did she have?

Daenera flipped the coin over in her hand, her thumb absently tracing its curve. She neither heard nor acknowledged the sharp voice cutting through the room, its commands ringing out like the squawking of an angry gull. It wasn’t until the sound of snapping fingers broke through the haze that her focus shifted, and the shill voice rose to an indignant pitch. 

“Are you even listening to me?” Mertha demanded, standing above her with the poise of a long-suffering septa whose voice had gone unheard for far too long. Her dull gray eyes, the color of murky dishwater, bore down on her with a scowl so deeply etched it might have been carved into stone. 

“No,” Daenera replied flatly, her tone devoid of apology. Her eyes drifted past Mertha, landing on the two servants precariously balanced atop stepladders. They struggled to hang a heavy tapestry, its intricate weave depicting a serene forest scene, with woodland creatures peeking from behind the shadows. It was a beautiful piece, though she could muster no great care for it. 

“Must I shout to make you hear my words, or have you simply no care to listen?” Mertha’s sharp voice rang out again, her frustration etched into every syllable. She planted her hands firmly on her hips, her flushed cheeks and tightly drawn mouth making her look like an overripe plum on the verge of bursting. 

“I do not care,” Daenera replied, her voice calm, almost bored, as she flipped the coin in her hand once more. It spun briefly in the air before landing neatly against her palm. 

“Well, you should care!” Mertha snapped, her tone rising with righteous indignation. She stepped closer, her shadow falling across Daenera. “Here I am, toiling away in service to you, after spending the entire day organizing your wedding gifts–seeing them put away properly or displayed where they belong–and all you’ve done is lounge here like some lazy child!”

Mertha’s voice came fast and sharp, her voice lashing like a whip, and her cheeks burned brighter with each accusation. She gestured towards the servants still working to hang the heavy tapestry on the far wall, their faces red with effort. “Do you think this is all for our amusement? For my amusement?” Her head shook in indignation. “Do you think all of this is for me? That I enjoy running around like a servant while you–” she gestured pointedly at Daenera’s languid sprawl–“sit here and do nothing? It is your household, it is your duty! It is your responsibility as a wife to serve as a pillar of strength for your husband and for those under his roof. A wife does not shirk her duties or waste her hours idling away like a spoiled child!” She paused, her eyes narrowing as she fixed Daenera with a glare meant to cut deep. “A house falls into chaos without a steady hand at its helm.”

Daenera finally lifted her gaze, fixing Mertha with a glower that could have chilled the summer sea. She let the silence stretch for a moment, then answered tersely, “It seems you’ve missed your calling, Lady Mertha. You sound more like a septa than a lady-in-waiting.”

The coin spun between her fingers, its repetitive motion a fragile tether to hold her irritation at bay. Tension thrummed beneath her skin, stretched so taut as a bowstring, fraying at the edges and threatening to snap under the slightest strain. She tilted her head slightly, her dark hair catching the light as she continued pointedly. “I didn’t ask you to do any of it. In fact, I can’t recall asking for your assistance at all. What I do recall is you waving me away at every turn, assuring me you have everything well in hand.”

Her gaze shifted past Mertha to the two servants precariously perched on the stepladders, their faces red with strain as they struggled to hoist the heavy tapestry into place. One of them wobbled slightly, the ladder creaking under the weight, and for a moment, it seemed as though the entire endeavor might collapse.”

“If you’re so certain that chaos will consume this household without my steady hand,” Daenera added, her voice smooth and deliberate, “then I suggest you turn your attention to the task at hand. That tapestry looks dangerously close to coming down.”

Mertha’s face flushed deeper, her lips pressing into a tight line. She spun on her heel with a flurry of skirts, her sharp voice rising as she barked at the struggling servants. “Hold it up! Do not dare to drop it, or I will see you both scrubbing the kitchen floors for a fortnight!”

The servants strained as they hoisted the tapestry higher, their faces flushed with excretion. Sweat glistened on their brows as they fumbled to secure the heavy fabric to its designated place on the wall. With a final heave, they managed–barely–to fasten it in place, the rings clinging against their hooks. They released a collective sigh, their breaths coming in labored puffs, relief plain on their reddened faces. 

Daenera’s gaze lingered on the tapestry, its intricate design drawing her deeper into its woven depths. Dappled greens and browns seemed almost alive in the shifting afternoon light, the shadows among the trees darkening as though seeking to hide something from view–a dozen pairs of eyes seemed to peer back at her from amongst the waved wood, unblinking and unnerving. The sensation was subtle at first, a faint itch at the edge of her awareness, but it grew steadily–a creeping sense of being watched. It prickled against her skin, cold and insistent, as if the fabric itself harbored some malicious intent. 

“Is that the tapestry the Lord Confessor gifted us?” She asked, her voice unassuming. 

Mertha turned, her expression softening as she admired the tapestry. There was a note of pride in her voice, even satisfaction, as she replied, “It is. A fine piece, wouldn’t you say?”

The servants began their descent from the stepladders, the room quieting as the laborious task came to an end. Daenera’s gaze remained fixed on the tapestry, her teeth clenched as the tightness in her chest coiled tighter, an unyielding knot of discomfort. The sensation that had begun as a faint unease now swelled into something far more oppressive–an icy prickle spreading across her skin, like needles pressed against her flesh. It was a feeling she knew too well, the same creeping chill that always accompanied Lord Larys and his piercing gray eyes.

Her breath hitched slightly, her fingers instinctively tightening around the coin in her hand as her thoughts darkened. Even when he was absent, the man seemed to find a way to linger, his presence clinging like an unseen shadow. She could almost feel his gaze now, sharp and calculating, stripping away her defenses to lay bare whatever secrets he thought he might find.

The tapestry felt no different. Those painted eyes among the trees bore down on her, heavy and oppressive, an extension of Larys himself. She could not abide it–not here, not in her own chambers, where she sought refuge from the suffocating webs of court intrigue. This was her space, her sanctuary, and she would not suffer his influence hanging on her walls, a constant reminder of his unnerving watchfulness.

Daenera already endured enough intrusions. Mertha’s ever-watchful presence hovered over her like a stormcloud, the woman’s sharp eyes scrutinizing her every movement, keeping her under guard as though she were a wayward child in need of constant correction. Beyond her chamber doors, the guards stood vigil, a reminder that her life was no longer her own, that even her privacy was a privilege rather than a right.

And then there was Aemond.

His presence loomed larger than any other, even when he wasn’t in the room. The mere thought of him pressed against her, heavy and inescapable, like a shadow that moved when she did, always just a step behind. She couldn’t decide which unsettled her more—the weight of his gaze, sharp and intense, or the flutter in her chest that his nearness always seemed to evoke, unbidden and unwelcome. That feeling—that traitorous, treacherous flutter—was what she dreaded most. It made her feel as though she were caught between wanting to run and wanting to stay.

She didn’t need another intrusion, not here in the one place where she could try to pretend she was still her own. The tapestry, with its eyes and the suffocating aura of its giver, was a trespass she could not abide. It was a reminder of everything she was already forced to endure, and she would not allow it to take root in her chambers.

“Take it down.”

The room stilled. Mertha’s head snapped towards her, disbelief flickering in her features. “Take it… down” She repeated, as though she hadn’t heard correctly 

“Yes. Take it down.”

The servants froze mid-motion, their expressions caught between confusion and exhaustion. Their eyes darted between Daenera and Mertha, clearly unsure whether to proceed or await for further instruction. The tension in the room thickened as Mertha’s carefully constructed composure began to crack. Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line as she seemed to struggle with maintaining her air of control.

“Princess,” Mertha began, her tone tight with barely restrained exasperation, “this was a gift from the Lord Confessor, one of great value and–”

“I know who it came from,” Daenera interrupted, her voice sharper now, slicing through Mertha’s objections like a blade. Her gaze shifted to meet the older woman’s cold and unwavering. “And I said take it down. I do not want it up. I much preferred the tapestry depicting the gardens of Highgarden.”

Mertha bristled, her cheeks flushing, “But the Lord Confessor will surely be offended to hear what you’ve done with his gift–”

“I said take it down,” Daenera repeated, her tone pointed, each word deliberate. “I didn’t say throw it out.” She leaned back slightly in her chair, the coin in her hand flipping once more between her fingers. “Send it to storage–or better yet, to my husband’s chambers. I do not care which, but it will not hang here.”

The older woman opened her mouth to protest again, but Daenera cut her off before she could speak. “Will you please see to it that it is done, Lady Mertha. After all, my husband entrusted me with full authority over the decorations of our chambers, and I doubt he will be pleased to hear that my instructions were ignored.”

Mertha’s mouth snapped shut, and after a tense moment, she turned on her heel, her skirts swishing as she barked at the servants. “You heard her! Take it down. Carefully, now. Do not damage it.”

The servant’s hesitated only briefly before moving to obey, their steps quick but cautious as they began removing the tapestry. It was a small victory–one that rang hollow beneath the weight in her chest. 

“Hold it up!” Mertha chided as she continued to instruct the servants, her voice sharp as it cut through the air, correcting their every movement. “Do not let it drop!” She barked. “And mind the fabric–if you tear it, the cost will come from your wages!” The servants obeyed with visible tension, their hands trembling slightly as they worked to dislodge the tapestry. 

It was only as the tapestry was finally freed from its hinges, slowly descending into the waiting hands of the servants, that Mertha’s attention swung sharply back to Daenera. Her exasperation spilled forth in a clipped huff, her eyes narrowing as she took in her posture.

“Must you sit like that?” Mertha snapped, her tone brimming with disapproval. “For the gods’ sake, compose yourself! It’s unbecoming!”

In silent rebellion, Daenera slouched even further into the cushioned chair. One leg dangled lazily over the armrest, the other draped carelessly off the seat. Her back curved into an exaggerated slump, the book resting against her lower abdomen, propped up by her bent knee. The skirts of her gown cascaded modestly over her legs, ensuring she remained decent, though her posture was anything but. 

“It’s comfortable,” Daenera said with a shrug, her tone casual, as if the older woman weren’t glaring daggers at her. 

Mertha’s jaw tightened, her lips thinning into a line so severe it looked as though it might disappear altogether. “Comfortable?” she repeated, incredulity dripping from the word. Her sharp gaze darted toward the servants still struggling with the tapestry before snapping back to Daenera, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper, as though the insult would lose its sting if overheard. “You look like a tavern wench sprawled out like that!”

The words hung in the air for a moment, sharp as a slap, before her voice rose again, full of righteous indignation. “What if someone were to walk in? Have you no pride, no sense of decorum?”

Daenera’s fingers continued to toy with the coin in her hand, her movements unhurried and steady, in stark contrast to Mertha’s rising fury. She let out a soft breath through her nose, not quite a sigh, but weighted with the quiet annoyance that stirred beneath her calm exterior. Her gaze flicked up to meet Mertha’s, cool and steady.

“If someone walks in,” she said, her tone light but edged with quiet defiance, “they’ll see me reading. How scandalous.”

Her lips twitched, not quite forming a smile but hinting at one, as though she found the older woman’s outrage faintly amusing. Daenera’s deliberate nonchalance only seemed to stoke Mertha’s frustration further, but Daenera didn’t care. Let her scold. Let her fume. It made no difference. She wasn’t about to let propriety—or Mertha–dictate her every move.

“And what is it you’re–what are you reading?” Mertha’s voice faltered before landing firmly in a tone of horrified disgust, her gaze locking onto the open pages sprawled across Daenera’s lap. Her face twisted as though she’d bitten into something sour, her eyes widening at the explicit illustration before her–two men entwined with a woman, limbs tangled in unabashed passion.

“Would you put that away?” she snapped, her voice rising in indignation. “That isn’t proper–”

Daenera didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, she lazily turned the page, revealing an equally provocative scene. This time, a man and woman lay intertwined on their sides, the woman’s lips wrapped around his cock while his face was buried between her thighs. The stark intimacy of the image sent a creeping heat crawling up Daenera’s throat and into her cheeks, but her expression remained neutral, betraying nothing but cool detachment. “‘Proper’ is a word forged by men who seek to enslave us with it.”

“Proper and propriety are virtues we should all seek to aspire to!” Mertha retorted, her voice rising with indignant fervor. Her posture stiffened, her hands clasped tightly in her skirts as though the very act of standing straighter might lend her argument more weight.

“The king would be loathed to hear I’m not enjoying his gift,” Daenera hummed, her voice calm but laced with a hint of mischief. Her silver-blue eyes flicked back up to meet Mertha’s, holding her gaze as she added, “Perhaps you should borrow it, Lady Mertha. You might find some inspiration to warm up your marriage.”

The flush in Mertha’s cheeks deepened from shock to fury, her jaw tightening as though she were physically restraining herself from reacting. For a moment, it seemed she might snatch the book straight from Daenera’s lap, smack it shut, and then strike her over the head with it for good measure. Her hands twitched at her sides, trembling with the effort of restraint, but Daenera only tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady and unapologetic.

Mertha spluttered, her outrage too great for coherent words, before finally spinning away with a sharp huff, muttering something about propriety and ungrateful girls under her breath. Daenera watched her retreat, her fingers toying with the edge of the page as the corner of her mouth twitched upward, just barely. 

At that moment, Edelin returned, a small bowl of glistening pomegranate seeds balanced carefully in her hands. Daenera had sent her away earlier, asking for something to occupy her time–something to distract from the oppressive weight of waiting. The girl moved swiftly, her steps light but faltering, her demeanor betraying her unease. 

Her pale complexion seemed even paler in the muted light, her brow knit in a worried crease. The corners of her mouth tugged downward, as though she was trying and failing to conceal the sadness lurking just beneath her expression. She flitted across the floor like a bird unsure of its perch, her gaze flickering briefly from Mertha to Daenera. 

Daenera’s stomach tightened. The weight she had carried all day seemed to shift, sinking heavily into the pit of her stomach, cold and unyielding. It was no longer the dread of waiting that gnawed at her–it was the creeping certainty of knowing. The pomegranate seeds, bright and unassuming, were no longer an indulgence or distraction. They were simply there, meaningless in the shadow of what had happened. 

Without a word, Daenera carefully closed the book resting in her lap, her fingers deliberate and steady despite the turmoil roiling within her. The soft thud of the cover closing felt louder than it should yet it was lost in the scuffle of the servants–it only seemed to reverberate within her own ears. She placed it aside with care, as though the motion itself might starve off what was coming. 

Straightening slowly, she adjusted her posture in the chair, her languid defiance giving way to something far more measured. The act felt like donning armor, each movement calculated to mask the dread rising in her chest. Her eyes flickered toward Eelin, but she did not speak, waiting instead for the girl to confirm what Daenera already knew in her bones.

The girl made an uneasy step behind Mertha, her hands clutching the bowl of pomegranate seeds tightly as though the small offering could ground her. Her gaze flicked towards Daenera again, uncertain and fretful. She lingered there, seemingly torn between the need to speak and the fear of what her words might bring.

Mertha, noticing the girl’s restless movements, turned sharply to face her. Her muddled gray eyes, narrowed in irritation, roamed over Edelin’s pale face. The snide edge in her expression faltered when her brows lifted slightly, catching the unease etched into the girl’s features.

“What is it?” Mertha demanded harshly, her tone clipped and impatient. 

“It’s the boy,” Edelin replied, her words soft yet heavy. “Patrick… He’s gone.”

Daenera’s stomach clenched, the confirmation slicing through her as sharply as she had anticipated. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, feeling her heart twist painfully around the weight of the truth. 

Daenera swallowed hard, the knot at the back of her throat feeling like a jagged rock, scraping painfully as it forced its way down. It settled heavily in the pit of her stomach, an unbearable weight she had braced herself to carry. The confirmation struck with all the force she had expected, yet instead of breaking her, she felt herself settle into its cold certainty. It was a burden she had anticipated, one she had already steeled herself to bear–because she had no other choice.

There was a strange, chilling ease in the finality of it. Her heart felt encased in ice, a numbing coldness that horrified her even as she clung to it. It was a shield, a bitter solace that allowed her to stand firm against the storm inside her. She had known this moment would come. She had orchestrated it, after all. It had been her hand, her choice.

And in that certainty, she found the resolve she needed. The weight, as crushing as it was, grounded her, providing a grim foundation to steel herself against the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Regret, guilt, anger–they simmered beneath the surface, but the coldness of her heart kept them at bay, at least for now.

Mertha turned back to the servants as they carefully descended the stepladders, the tapestry still a cumbersome weight in their hands. Her focus narrowed in their movements like a hawk watching for the slightest misstep. “Don’t you dare drop it!” She snapped shrilly when one of the servants stumbled, before redirecting part of her attention back to the startled Edelin. “Gone? Gone where? How could he have escaped?”

Edelin hesitated, her lips trembling as she tried to keep her voice steady. “He’s dead,” she clarified, the quiet finality of her words lingering in the air like a noose. 

Mertha’s head whipped around, her eyes wide with shock. “Dead?” She repeated, her tone almost incredulous. 

“I saw them remove him from the dungeons,” Edelin continued, her voice barely above a whisper,” and take him to the Sept.”

“How–” Mertha began, her voice faltering as her eyes darted erratically, seemingly searching for clarity amid the swirling storm of her thoughts. Then the realization dawned on her, her eyes snapping back to Daenera, wide with incredulousness before narrowing into scorn. Her lips curled into a sneer as she took a step forward, her posture stiff with indignation. 

“You,” She hissed, the single word brimming with accusation.

Daenera rose from her chair, her movements measured and composed. She stood tall, her expression carefully neutral, offering no acknowledgement of Mertha’s venomous tone. 

Mertha’s hand twitched at her side, as though she fought the urge to lash out, but her gaze flickered briefly towards the servants still lingering nearby. The hesitation seemed to temper her fury, redirecting it into something colder, sharper. She straightened, her tone hardening into ice as she barked out her command. 

“Leave us!” She snapped, her voice carrying an authority that brooked no argument–and there was none to be found. 

The servants carefully lowered the tapestry to the ground, the heavy metal bar clanking softly against the stone floor as it settled with a dull thud. They straightened quickly, gathering their tools with hurried movements. Though their faces remained carefully neutral, a flicker of curiosity danced in their eyes, betraying their instincts to linger and observe. Yet they knew better than to dawdle, and without so much as a glance at Daenera or Mertha, they shuffled out of the room, the door closing firmly behind them.

“Edelin, would you please fetch—” Daenera began, but her words were abruptly cut off as a sharp slap cracked across her face, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a whip.

Her head snapped to the side, her cheek instantly aflame, a searing heat radiating across her skin. Her ear rang with the force of the blow, and her balance faltered as she stumbled backward. She barely had time to draw breath, to register the shock, before another slap followed in quick succession, landing on the same cheek with brutal precision.

The second strike sent a sharp sting through her nose, making it itch and her eyes water involuntarily. Tears blurred her vision as the back of her legs caught on the edge of the chair, forcing her to collapse into it with a harsh thud. The book she had so carefully set aside fell to the floor, its pages splaying out in a chaotic fan, forgotten in the storm of violence.

The silence that followed was deafening. Her cheek throbbed, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as she clutched the arms of the chair, trying to steady herself. The sting of the slaps lingered, not just in her skin but deep within her chest, humiliation and fury twisting together in a knot that burned hotter than the pain.

“Lady Mertha!” Edelin cried out, stepping forward and seizing Mertha’s wrist just as her hand arched through the air, poised to deliver a third slap. “You mustn’t!” Her voice trembled with urgency, her expression wrought with horror. 

Mertha wrenched her hand free with a sharp, violent tug, her fury unabated. She whirled on Daenera, her lips curled into a sneer so deep it seemed to etch itself into her bone. “You did this!” she spat, her voice trembling with rage. “You wretched, evil child! You murdered that poor boy!”

Her bony finger jabbed the air, pointed directly at Daenera like a blade aiming for her heart. “Do you take me for a fool? I know you poisoned him! I don’t know how you managed it, or where you got the poison, but I know you’re behind it.”

Daenera stared up at her, her chest tightening as a storm of emotions churned within her. Her throat ached as she swallowed back the bitter anger clawing its way to the surface, fighting to keep it contained. The burning in her eyes betrayed the fury and grief roiling beneath her carefully neutral expression. She bit her tongue until she felt her teeth dig into the tender flesh, the pain grounding her as Mertha’s accusations rained down like blows.

Mertha let out a disdainful huff, her head shaking with unbridled indignation, her face flushed deep red with the force of her anger. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she hissed, her voice rising. “How it will reflect on me–on everyone around you? I’ve been kind to you, more than you deserved! I allowed you to see him, to be near him. I gave you freedoms, and this is how you repay me?”

Her head shook more fervently now, her movements fueled by a righteous fury. “You vile, ungrateful creature! A witch! That’s what you are–a demon in the guise of a princess, cursing all who come near you with your poison and lies. The gods themselves will judge you for this! They will see you burn for what you’ve done. You mark my words, Princess.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as though the room itself strained under the weight of her fury. Each accusation reverberated like the echo of a whip’s crack, cutting through the tense silence that surrounded them.

Daenera remained still, her fingers curling tightly around the arms of her chair as she fought to keep her composure. The sharp point of her incisor dug into her tongue, piercing the tender flesh, and she tasted the metallic bitterness of blood as it seeped forth. The sting anchored her, keeping her rooted in place while the storm of Mertha’s wrath raged around her.

She did not rise, nor did she speak. She let the older woman’s words lash against her, each one landing like the crack of leather across her back. Daenera’s face remained a carefully neutral mask, though her chest tightened with the effort of holding her silence. The fire within her burned hot, but she refused to let it show.

The gods would indeed judge her. Of that, she was certain. 

“That is enough!” Edelin cried, stepping forward, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and determination. “If you do not get a hold of yourself, I will fetch the prince–I will tell him that you’ve laid hands on the princess!”

Mertha’s scornful gaze snapped toward the girl, her gray eyes narrowing dangerously. “You will do no such thing!” 

“I will!” Edelin shot back, though her voice quivered, betraying her nerves. “You struck her, and I have to–I will–”

“No,” Daenera interjected, her voice cutting through the exchange like a blade. It was cold and controlled, each syllable sharp with finality. There was no tremor, no outward sign of the ache burning in her throat, her chest. The weight of the moment pressed against her, but she bore it without faltering.

She rose slowly from her seat, her movements deliberate and measured. Her cheek still burned with the sting of the slap, the pain radiating across her skin like a brand, but she stood tall, her composure that of steel. Her gaze settled on Mertha, cool and steady.

“I will afford you this, Lady Mertha,” Daenera said, her tone ice-cold but edged with quiet authority. “This once.”

She let the sting linger, let the pain root itself deeply within her. She accepted it–welcomed it–as a small measure of penance for what she had done. It was not forgiveness, nor absolution, but retribution, a reminder of the blood on her hands.

“Let it be the last time,” she continued, her voice firm, her gaze unwavering, “that you raise your hand to me.”

Mertha’s jaw tightened, her teeth grinding audibly as her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Her knuckles whitened, trembling with the force of her suppressed rage. Daenera, however, turned her attention away from the seething woman, dismissing her entirely as she shifted her focus to Edelin.

“You won’t tell him about this,” Daenera said, her voice firm and unwavering. The words carried more than just authority–they held a quiet plea, veiled behind her composed exterior. She didn’t want Aemond to know. She couldn’t bear the thought of giving him the satisfaction of stepping in, of needing him, of revealing the extent of her own powerlessness.

Perhaps it was pride, the stubborn refusal to show weakness before him. Or perhaps it was uncertainty, the thought that he’d abide by it. No, not uncertainty. Deep down, she knew exactly what he would do if he found out, and it was that knowledge–the certainty of knowing to the bone what he’d do–that chilled her more than any other possibility. 

“But, Princess–” Edelin began, her voice small, the words laced with hesitant defiance.

“No,” Daenera interrupted, the sharp edge of her tone cutting through the girl’s protests. Any further objections died in Edelin’s throat, her defiance faltering under her gaze. The girl looked uncertain, her hands wringing together as she lowered her eyes.

Daenera’s lips curved into a faint, sad smile, the expression an attempt at reassurance, though it felt forced, unnatural. The weight of the moment pressed too heavily upon her, and the smile faded as quickly as it had come, leaving her face somber. “Would you bring me my shawl, Lady Edelin?” 

Before Edelin could move, Mertha stepped forward sharply, her hand latching onto Daenera’s arm with an iron grip. Her pointed fingers dug into her flesh with bruising force, the pain deliberate and punishing. “And where do you think you’re going?” Mertha demanded, her voice low and menacing. “Do you think I’d let you leave after this?”

“I wish to see him,” Daenera said simply, her voice steady and resolute, though her chest felt tight with the weight of her words.

Mertha froze for a moment, her gray, muddled eyes locking onto Daenera’s face. Fury burned within them, sharp and unrelenting, her cheeks still flushed red from her earlier outburst. Her lips trembled, stretched thin over her teeth as if she were holding back the force of her rage. But she couldn’t contain it; her mouth twisted into a scornful sneer, her contempt palpable.

“You wish to see the boy?” Mertha’s tone was mocking, dripping with venom. Her grip on Daenera’s arm tightened further, her bony fingers digging cruelly into her flesh. “Hmm? You wish to witness what you’ve done? Let us go then,” she sneered, her words a sharp lash. “Let us stand before the boy, and we’ll see if you're strong enough to face him!”

Mertha yanked her toward the doors, her bony fingers biting into her flesh with a bruising grip. She dragged her forward with the force of someone hauling a reluctant child, though Daenera offered no resistance. She moved willingly, her steps steady, intent on facing the weight of what she had done. Yet Mertha acted as if her compliance was a mockery, as though her lack of struggle only deepened her rage.

The older woman’s sneer twisted her face with disdain, her lips curling as her anger fed upon itself. With each step, her venomous words spilled forth, sharp and unrelenting, cutting through the air like shards of broken glass.

“It seems you have not yet learned the weight of death” she muttered, her voice a mix of fury and derision. “Let this  serve as a lesson. Watch as the Silent Sisters cleanse him and remove his innards. Perhaps then you will grasp the weight of your actions and carry it with you for the rest of your days, as heavy as the grave you’ve filled.”

Daenera needed no lesson in the weight of what she’d done. It pressed against her chest ever since the moment she had made her choice. It was lodged like a stone deep in her stomach, heavy and immovable. She bore it silently, carried it as she carried all else. 

She offered no opposition to Mertha. She didn’t flinch at the sharpness of the older woman’s words or the bruising grip of her bony fingers. Her nails bit into her arm with deliberate force, yet she made no effort to pull away. Instead, she stood as though carved from the same gray stone as the cliffs beneath the castle, enduring as the waves lashed against it. Each scornful word was another blow of saltwater against rock, each accusation a cresting wave that broke and retreated, leaving nothing but the cold, stinging spray in its wake. Her silence wasn’t defiance but acceptance–just as the rock accepted the punishing crash of the waves. 

As they neared the threshold, the sound of hurried footsteps announced Edelin’s return. She emerged from the archway to the bedchamber, the shawl Daenera had requested draped neatly over her forearm. Her features betrayed her unease, her lips pressed tightly together as her gaze darted between Daenera and Mertha. The tension in the air seemed to thicken as Mertha abruptly released her arm, ehr fingers prying away with a reluctant jerk. 

Edelin hesitated, her steps faltering for a heartbeat, before she stepped closer to Daenera, gently draping the soft fabric around her shoulders, her hands lingering just long enough to smooth it into place. “There…” She hummed, straightening before she pulled her own shawl tightly across her shoulders. 

Mertha snatched her own shawl with quick, impatient tugs. She wrapped it around her shoulders with an air of brusque efficiency, her scowl deepening as her sharp eyes caught Edelin’s. The corners of her mouth curled downward further, as if such tenderness was an affront. 

The silence stretched, taut and heavy, as Mertha stepped forward, breaking the moment with the scrape of her heels against stone. She didn’t bother to wait for acknowledgement, she simply went ahead, her hands pressing against the heavy oak doors, shoving them open. The hinges creaked lightly as it swung open, revealing the hall beyond and the guard–Finan–standing right outside.

A gust of chilled air rushed through the open doors, carrying with it the faint tang of damp stone and the earthy scent of rain yet to fall. Mertha stepped through the threshold first, her movements brisk and purposeful, the hem of her shawl flaring briefly. She cast a sharp glance back over her shoulder, a deep scowl on her face. 

“Come,” she barked, her voice clipped, “We’ve not got all day.”

Daenera drew a slow breath, the chilled air sharp in her lungs, and she clutched the shawl a little tighter as she stepped forward without hesitation, following Mertha into the hall. 

As soon as she crossed the threshold, Mertha closed the distance between them and unceremoniously locked her arm with Daenera’s, keeping her at her side. It was not a gesture of guidance or friendliness but of control, as though she feared she might slip away, might flee before facing the consequences of her actions. 

Mertha’s eyes flicked sideways, her gaze sharp as a blade. “Do you think your silence absolves you? It does not. The truth will out, Princess, and when it does, you will stand bare before it. You will not escape this. I won’t allow you to.”

They moved in measured steps through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, the sounds of their footsteps lost among the usual shuffle through the corridors. The air inside the old walls was stagnant, laced with the faint scent of stone and old fires. As they descended the sweeping steps of the Great Hall of the Holdfast, the flickering torchlight gave way to the pale light filtering between the columns of the inner courtyard. 

The inner courtyard lay still under the waning sun. They passed beneath the high stone columns were her men and Lord Caswell had hung, their bodies once swaying lifelessly from the second-story bannisters, a grim testament to the price of her disobedience. Though the bodies were gone, the memory lingered, etched into her mind as clearly as the etchings of the stone columns. 

Beyond the inner courtyard, through the heavy doors of Maegor’s Holdfast, the afternoon air greeted them with a sharp chill, stinging against her skin like tiny needles. The sun hung low in the sky, inching toward the horizon as if eager to end the day. Thick clouds gathered in its wake, heavy and dark, slowly knitting themselves into a gray shroud that would soon cover the sky all around, swallowing any last remnants of light. The air was dense with the scent of imminent rain, more prominent that it had been within the stone confines of the Holdfast. 

A shiver traced down Daenera’s spine, and she flexed her fingers against the cold, though she wasn’t certain if the chill was born from the weather or something deeper–seeping into her from the stone she seemed to carry within the pit of her stomach. 

The Red Keep thrummed with the muted bustle of its endless activity. Servants scurried about, stripping the remnants of the wedding festivities from the throne room. Tables and chairs were hauled away, their legs scraping against the gravel and cobblestones, while garlands of flowers were unceremoniously bundled into carts. The festive energy that had briefly gripped the castle was gone, replaced by the hum of routine–a machine grinding ever onward, indifferent to tragedy or triumph. 

Daenera walked on, her steps steady but unhurried, as though the very act of moving forward was a quiet defiance. The shadow of Mertha loomed beside her, unrelenting, her hand still clutching her arm as though she might vanish into the air like mist. 

Daenera’s eyes drifted upward for a fleeting moment, drawn to the sky where a flock of birds wheeled and darted through the air, their chirping a faint melody against the growing quiet of the late afternoon. Their movements were effortless, their wings slicing through the encroaching gray clouds as if the gathering storm was of no concern to them. For a heartbeat, her gaze lingered, her thoughts following their ascent into the heavens.

If only she could join them–shed the weight of the world and take to the skies, far from this place and all it held. Her longing was sharp and sudden, like the ache of an old wound. But the moment passed as quickly as it had come, and she tore her eyes away, forcing them back to the path ahead. The ground beneath her feet was solid and unyielding, and no amount of wishing could change that. For now, she could only move forward, step by step, tethered to the earth and the choices that bound her.

The air inside the Royal Sept was thick and oppressive, laden with the mingling scents of incense and melting wax. The cloying heaviness seemed to seep into every crevice, saturating the grand chamber with its pungency. It clawed at the back of Daenera’s throat, the acrid tang almost unbearable as it coiled in her lungs. Her stomach churned in protest, the uneasy weight of nausea rising with every breath she took. Her mouth grew parched, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth as though the very air sought to steal what little moisture remained.

She swallowed hard, forcing down the discomfort as her eyes flickered across the room. Despite the cool touch of the marble floor beneath their feet, a damp heat lingered in the air, radiating from the thousands of candles that adorned the altars to the gods. Their flames flickered and danced, casting shifting shadows along the high walls and the length of the aisle, their light pooling in golden swathes across the polished stone. The grandeur of the Sept felt suffocating, its sanctity warped by the oppressive solemnity.

Each step she took sent echoes bouncing through the vast chamber, their sound amplified in the stillness, as though the Sept itself was listening. The grandeur of the space, with its towering columns and vaulted ceilings, felt oppressive rather than reverent. The gods’ presence here was not one of comfort but of quiet judgment.

Ahead of her, Mertha walked with purpose, her heels clicking against the floor in sharp opposition to Daenera’s softer tread. She held her arm firmly, steering her down the central aise towards the small stairway tucked into the shadows of a column. A Septa stood there, her plain robes illuminated by the soft glow of the candles she lit along the stone steps. She moved with practiced precision, her hands steady as they guided the flames into life. 

Mertha’s voice shattered the quiet, sharp and commanding as it rang out across the space. “We’re here to see the boy.”

The Septa straightened at the sound, her candle still in her hand. Her expression shifted, the faint serenity of her task giving way to wary frown. “You will have to wait,” she said, her voice calm but laced with a subtle edge. “The Silent Sisters have not yet finished their work–”

“The Princess wishes to oversee the preparations herself.”

The Septa’s gaze flickered to Daenera, lingering for a moment, searching her face for some sign of emotion–grief, anger, or perhaps something else. Daenera met the look with a quiet stillness, her expression unreadable, as she gave a small nod of agreement. The Septa’s eyes returned to Mertha as she continued, her voice unwavering.

“The boy was her ward,” Mertha said, her words clipped and precise, each syllable spoken as if it carried the force of law. “She will bear witness, as is her right.”

A flicker of something–perhaps disapproval, perhaps resignation–crossed the Septa’s face, but she bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment. “Very well,” she said softly, turning toward the steps. “Follow me, then.”

Daenera’s gaze lingered on the steps, descending into the unseen depths of the Sept. A chill traced along her spine, though whether it came from the air of the knowledge of what waited her below, she could not tell. As Mertha guided her forward, the echoes of their footsteps seemed lounder, echoing against the cold stone. 

They descended into the depths of the Sept, where the air grew colder, heavier, and damp with the weight of stone and time. The hallway stretched before them, a narrow corridor cloaked in shadow, illuminated only by the flickering torches mounted along the walls. Their flames sputtered faintly, casting wavering light that did little to dispel the oppressive darkness. The stone underfoot was worn smooth, its chill seeping up through Daenera’s thin soles with each step.

Occasionally, a thin blade of light pierced the gloom, spilling from the open doorways of nearby chambers. These brief glimpses of illumination revealed the small, narrow windows set high in the outer walls, their glass clouded with grime. The light that filtered through them was pale and distant, more an echo of the world above than a connection to it. 

The hall was eerily silent, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric and the rhythmic echo of their footsteps against the worn stone. Each sound seemed to swell in the stillness, as if the very walls were listening. 

The Septa finally came to a halt before a heavy wooden door, its surface darkened with age and use. She turned to face them briefly, her expression unreadable in the dim light. Her voice, when it came, was soft and subdued, as though the very air down here demanded quiet reverence. “Wait here.”

Without waiting for a response, she pushed the door open, the creak of its hinges breaking the fragile silence like a whispered warning. A faint glow spilled from the room beyond as she slipped inside, the door closing behind her with a muted thud. 

Left in the hallway, Daenera stood still, her gaze lingering on the door as the silence closed in around her once more. The flickering torchlight cast long, shifting shadows along the walls, shapes that seemed to stretch and writhe like specters. The faint, distant sound of water dripping somewhere in the depths reached her ears, the rhythm steady and unchanging, as though marking the passage of something far older and colder than time itself.

The Septa returned shortly after disappearing into the chamber, the door creaking open just enough for a sliver of light to spill into the dim corridor. She paused on the threshold, her shadow stretching long against the floor as she met Daenera’s gaze. Her expression was solemn, her voice low but clear, imbued with the weight of reitual. 

“Take this and cover your face,” she said, holding out a folded piece of fabric. “It is ill-luck to gaze upon the face of death. The wise turn their eyes from the dead, lest the Stranger see them and think they too are his to take”

Daenera’s eyes drifted down to the offering in the Septa’s hand. The fabric was unassuming, thin as a whisper, yet the solemnity of the words imbued it with a heaviness. The Stranger knew her face, she thought bitterly. He had known it for as long as she could remember. He had followed her since she was a child. But she kept these thoughts to herself, her expression calm as she reached out to take the fabric. 

It was lighter than she expected, soft and delicate, a simple square with two strings tied at opposing corners. She unfolded it slowly, the faint scent of incense clinging to the cloth, and held it up before her face. The thin material obscured little, but its presence felt suffocating nonetheless. She tied it in place, the strings pulling tight behind her head. The mask rested just above the bridge of her nose, draping lightly over the lower half of her face.

Beside her, both Mertha and Edelin followed suit, each securing their own masks with somber efficiency. Mertha’s movements were brisk, as though impatient with the necessity, while Edelin’s hands trembled slightly, her fingers fumbling with the strings.

Once all three of them had covered themselves, the Septa stepped aside, her silent approval marked by the soft creak of the door as she pushed it fully open. The room beyond stretched out before them, the air heavy with stillness. The Septa inclined her head, her gesture both an invitation and an urging. 

Daenera’s heart felt like a weight within her chest, pressing heavily against her ribs, each beat reverberating through her like the toll of a distant bell. Her feet felt laden, rooted to the cold stone floor beneath her, and for a moment, she remained there, her body unwilling to move, before she forced herself forward, crossing the threshold. She could feel the weight of the space pressing in on her, as though it were alive, as though it knew what was to come.

The air within the room was colder, sharper, and seemed to carry with it an almost tangible edge. The faint metallic tang of death mingled with the thick, sweet-smoky scent of incense, a cloying presence that clung to the back of her throat and filled her lungs with every breath. It was nauseating. 

The shadows here seemed deeper, more oppressive, the flickering light of the candles barely holding them at bay. They clung to the corners like something alive, shifting and flickering as though reluctant to release their hold. The only true light came from the hundreds of candles scattered throughout the chamber, their soft, wavering glow casting halos against the oppressive darkness. Shelves lining the walls behind the imposing columns were filled with rows of these tiny flames, their uneven heights lending an almost chaotic beauty to the otherwise somber space. Tall candlesticks stood scattered around the room, their steady light doing little to dispel the solemn heaviness of the room. 

Daenera moved slowly, her steps measured as she walked around the table at the center of the room and came to a stop, positioning herself with her back to the hundreds of candles that lined the shelves. She drew in a breath and turned to face the heart of the room, her gaze settling upon the large stone table that loomed at its center. Upon it rested the small, still body of a boy, shrouded in an unbearable quiet that seemed to echo louder than any sound. 

She scarcely registered Mertha and Edelin as they stood beside her. Her attention remained on the boy, her eyes tracing the stillness of his form as though the world beyond the table had ceased to exist.

Her breath caught as a wave of nausea threatened to rise. She forced it down, swallowing hard against the bile clawing at the back of her threat. Her fingers curled tightly at her sides, the slight tremble in her hands the only betrayal of the storm roiling within her.

The Silent Sisters, robed in gray and shrouded by veils, glanced briefly in their direction. Their movements, like their presence, were silent, their expressions obscured by layers of cloth. Without a word, they returned to their task, their hands steady and precise as they prepared the boy’s body. One wrung a sponge into a basin of water, the droplets falling into soft, rhythmic plinks that seemed deafening in the stillness. The sponge was then dragged gently across Patrick’s pale skin, washing away the filth of the dungeons that had clung to him in life. 

Their care was meticulous, their movements measured, guided by silent prayer. One sister raised his small arm, her touch careful as she washed his side. Another dapped at his face, the strokes of the sponge revealing clean, unmarred skin beneath. 

Daenera’s chest tightened as she watched them, her eyes lingering on the boy’s face. His face seemed almost serene in the flickering candlelight. The streaks of tears that had marred his cheeks the last time she had seen him were gone now, wiped away by the Sisters’ careful touch. The sight made her throat tighten, and she forced herself to breathe evenly, though the ache in her chest felt insurmountable.

For a fleeting moment, she felt a strange sort of gratitude for the Silent Sisters, for the tenderness they shoved in their ritual. Their hands moved with reverence, their silence a balm to the oppressive grief that surrounded her. 

But even as she watched their work, her gaze inevitably returned to him, tracing the delicate planes of his face. He looked younger than she remembered, the grime and filth now wiped away to reveal pale, lifeless skin. His face was unnervingly serene, his long lashes brushing against his cheeks as though caught in a gentle slumber. In this stillness, he seemed untouched by the violence of the world, as if he had simply drifted off into quiet, untroubled sleep. 

And he had, she reminded herself. He had merely fallen asleep, his small heart slowing until it ceased entirely. It had been easy–peaceful, even. No pain, no struggle, just a quiet slipping away. It was a death most wished for. 

The thought was meant to comfort her, but it hung hollow in her chest, an echo of something that should have brought solace but didn’t. 

Few deaths were ever clean, a soft surrender without anguish or strife. Such serene ends were a rare grace that seemed reserved for a fortunate few. For most, death came harshly–heralded by blood, torment, or the slow decay of time and illness. 

There was a certain violence to death. 

It so often came with stab wounds, shattered bones, torn flesh–a brutal punctuation to life’s end. How many had laid upon this cold stone table, their bodies broken and ravaged by life's cruelty? How many wounds had the Silent Sisters stitched together with steady hands, how many rivers of blood had they washed away with water and reverence? Even death by illness or poison bore its scars. Burst blood vessels beneath sallow skin, lungs drowning in pink froth, bellies distended with blood, organs decayed and blackened–weach left its mark, a final betrayal of the body. 

And some deaths, Daenera thought grimly, left no body at all to prepare. 

Her throat tightened, and she swallowed thickly, the motion doing little to ease the knot lodged at the back of it. Her heart felt as though it were sinking, dragged down into the roiling pit of her stomach by its immeasurable weight. A chill crept along her fingers, numbing them, and the cold seemed to seep deeper into her bones with each passing moment. For one terrible heartbeat, the still figure upon the table was no longer little Patrick Piper. 

The boy she saw now was older by a few years, his hair dark and curling like her own. His features–soft yet achingly familiar–echoed hers in every line and angle. The vision struck her like a blow, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her body shifted, her mind recoiling from the image even as it lingered, burned into her sight. She blinked hard, once, and he was gone. 

It was Patrick again, his pale blond hair hanging matted from his head, his small frame unnaturally still beneath the flickering candlelight. Daenera’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, her trembling fingers curling into fists at her sides as she tried to banish the ghost. Yet the moment lingered, the echo of another boy haunting the quiet room. 

The Stranger follows you, she recalled, the words whispered in the back of her mind like an echo from a dream. He will claim those dear to you–some offered by your own hand, others taken by fate’s cruel turn. 

The room seemed to darken at the thought, the shadows in the corners deepening until they felt alive, shifting and writhing like silent wraiths. It was as though the dim light of the candles could no longer reach them, the darkness swallowing them whole. The scene reminded Daenera of another time, of the eerie shadows that had danced and twisted within the witch’s wagon, their shapes unnatural and unyielding. A chill traced down her spine, sharp as the edge of a blade, and the memory of those words settled deep in her chest, pressing against her ribs like a weight she couldn’t shake.

Her hands folded tightly before her, her fingers brushing against the cold skin of her palms. The chill that clung to her seemed to intensify, and she pressed her nails against her skin, dragging them in slow, deliberate motions. The faint sting offered a small distraction, a fleeting escape from the storm of unease roiling within her.

Still, the cold seeped into her, relentless and unyielding. It crawled through the soles of her feet, stealing warmth as it climbed, creeping upward with an unnatural insistence. Even with the flames of the candles flickering behind her, their faint heat licking at her back, she felt frozen, as though the cold came not from the room but from within her very soul. She clenched her hands tighter, grounding herself against the sensation, though the creeping chill showed no signs of retreating.

The Silent Sisters moved with quiet precision, their actions measured and deliberate as they set aside the sponges. One Sister lifted the basin of murky water and carried it away, returning moments later with another filled with fresh, clear water. The faint ripples in the basin’s surface caught the light of the flickering candles, adding an almost ethereal quality to the otherwise somber scene.

They worked as silently as those upon their table, their reverence palpable, an unspoken language that seemed to fill the room. There was a strange comfort in their ritual, a solemn order that pushed back against the turmoil churning within Daenera’s mind. 

Her attention flicked to the blade as one of the Sisters reached for it. It caught the light, glinting faintly in the dim room like a sliver of starlight. She heard Mertha’s breath hitch–or was it Edelin’s?–as the blade met Patrick’s skin. Pressing lightly but firmly, the sister dragged it with precision along the boy’s breastbone, the incision extending down in a single, fluid motion toward his navel. The cut was deliberate, practiced–an act devoid of hesitation, as clean and sharp as the blade itself. 

Though Daenera remained still, she felt the sharp intake of breath from either side of her. Both Mertha and Edelin gasped softly again, their reactions betraying the shock they felt, even though they should have known what the preparation of the body entailed. 

“Mother of mercy, give–” Mertha murmured from Daenera’s side, her voice breaking the quiet, though it was barely louder than a whisper. Her words faltered, and she swallowed thickly, the sound audible in the stillness. “Give me the strength…” she finished, her tone laced with a trembling resolve.

The Silent Sisters worked with calm precision, their blades slicing cleanly through the pale flesh of the boy. Another incision joined the first, stretching from one collarbone to the other, forming a line that mirrored the curve of his shoulders. A third cut followed, arcing across the hips from one side to the other. As they began to peel back the skin, their hands steady and sure, the room seemed to shrink.

A strangled sound broke the silence–a choked gasp from Mertha. Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling the noise as her body curled inward, trembling as though she were fighting to keep the contents of her stomach down. Her pale knuckles clutched her shawl tightly, her frame swaying under the weight of her revulsion.

As the Sisters peeled back the other side, the sight was too much for Mertha. She stumbled forward, her steps uneven as she brushed past Daenera, her shoulder colliding against hers with enough force to jolt her. She turned her head, catching the look of pale fury on Mertha’s face. Her expression, as colorless as Patrick’s still form, was filled with a mixture of horror and scorn, her reddened eyes brimming with tears.

“You–stay here,” Mertha commanded hoarsely, her voice shaking but firm as she pointed a trembling finger at Daenera. Her tone carried the sharp edge of desperation, as though the act of leaving the room required her to impose some semblance of control. Without waiting for a response, she turned abruptly, her footsteps uneven and hurried as she fled the room.

The sound of her gagging echoed faintly down the corridor, growing softer with each passing second until it disappeared entirely. The silence that followed felt heavier than before, settling over the chamber. Daenera’s gaze returned to the Silent Sisters, their quiet diligence undisturbed, their focus unwavering.

Daenera stood rooted to the spot, blessedly numb as the Silent Sisters worked with steady hands, their blade cutting carefully through the thin membrane protecting the boy’s organs. All she truly felt was the cold that seemed to seep into her very bones, the weight pressing heavily against her chest, and the sharp sting of her own nails as they bit into the flesh of her wrist, leaving crescent-shaped marks behind.

The quiet was broken by the wet, grotesque sound of movement–a squelch as one of the Sisters carefully lifted the organs free, placing them into shallow bowls prepared for the task. The noise was visceral, intimate, and it clawed at the silence with brutal honesty. It seemed too much for Edelin, who stood trembling at her side. Without a word, Edelin turned sharply and fled, her hurried footsteps echoing briefly before the heavy door muffled her retreat.

 Daenera didn’t flinch, didn’t follow. She remained where she was, unmoving, the only sound now the steady rhythm of the Sisters’ labors.

Her gaze drifted to the lifeless form on the table, the body laid bare in its quiet surrender. She wondered, not for the first time, what her own death might look like. Would it be as calm, as methodical as his? No festering wounds, no rotting organs, no spilled blood–just stillness. A stillness that seemed almost merciful. But deep down, she knew better. She imagined a far crueler end for herself.

It would not be a clean death, she thought. There would be no soft acceptance, no sacred rites performed by the Silent Sisters. Her death would be a violent thing, raw and ruthless. The tightening bite of a noose, the cold kiss of a blade, or the searing agony of fire and blood–that was what awaited her. The thought did not scare her, not exactly. Instead, it lingered in her mind like a shadow.

The air in the room seemed heavier now, the scent of blood mingling with the faint bitterness of herbs. Her hand loosened from her wrist, leaving pale indentations behind. She breathed in slowly, the chill settling deeper into her frame. The Sisters worked on, their movements precise, almost reverent. Daenera envied them, their detachment, their purpose. They didn’t look to the past or the future–only to the body before them. Perhaps that was their gift, their burden: to see death and yet feel nothing. To make sense of it in a way no one else could.

Daenera remained, unmoving, and let the silence press down on her, its weight strangely comforting.

Watching his body being prepared by the Silent Sisters was a weight Daenera could neither name nor shake. It lodged itself deeper within her, tightening like an unseen noose around her throat, twisting between her ribs, and settling heavily into the pit of her stomach. Every careful motion of the Sisters seemed to etch the finality of his death into her, their silent reverence only making the ache sharper–and not only his death, but all of them. Yet, beneath the grief and unease, there was a flicker of relief–fragile and awful. 

She was relieved that his end had come gently, rather than at the end of a rope, his life snuffed out in cruelty. No witnesses, no drawn-out suffering, no agonizing moments filled with fear and the bitter ache of longing for home. His death had come smooth, quick–a mercy in a world that so often denied such kindness. For that she was grateful, even as her stomach churned with guilt and her heart twisted with shame. 

She was relieved, too, that his body would not be turned into a spectacle–a grim ornament left to rot in the unforgiving sun, hanging from the bannisters of the inner courtyard of the Holdfast as a warning to others. Nor would his head be severed, mounted upon a spike, and displayed upon the infamous Traitor’s Walk, his identity stripped away, reduced to a traitor.

But that was not his fate. His body was treated with care, not contempt. There would be no mockery, no public display of his remains, no desecration of what was once him. The Silent Sisters ensured that he would be laid to rest in quiet dignity. It was a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless. 

Daenera’s eyes remained fixed on his form, pale and still, as the Sisters continued their work, removing the organs. She swallowed hard, trying to loosen the knot that had formed in her throat, but it lingered, unyielding. She hoped he had thought of home when he had slipped into the stillness. 

The Silent Sisters worked with the quiet efficiency of those who had done this countless times before. They removed his organs one by one, their hands steady and unfeeling. The liver, the belly, the lungs, the heart–all were carefully lifted from his body and placed into plain, unadorned jars lined up on the table. Once emptied, the cavity was scrubbed meticulously with salt and a blend of spices and herbs, the sharp tang of the mixture mingling with the metallic scent of blood. 

Fragrant bundles of herbs were tucked within him, tightly bound and pressed into every space until his form was filled completely. The herbs–lavender, thyme, perhaps a sprig of mint–seemed incongruous against the natural order of decay. Only when this task was complete did they begin to close him, stitching the incisions with beeswax-coated thread that gleamed faintly in the flickering light. The process was methodical, each pull of the threat smooth and deliberate, sealing the marks of death with quiet dignity. 

Daenera watched in silence, her thoughts dark and intrusive. In the end, she mused bitterly, we’re all just stuffed like ducks. How absurd it was. The thought struck her with a grim humor she did not voice, one that almost made her want to laugh, or perhaps cry. It was a crude, awful truth.

The room smelled of salt and herbs now, an almost soothing scent that did little to ease the ache in her chest. She felt as though a part of herself had been carved away, chipped off like stone from a weathered statue, and tucked within him along with the fragrant bundles of herbs. Her innocence–or what little had remained of it–lay buried there now, entombed with him

When the stitching was finished, the Silent Sisters began the final step of their work. They brought forth strips of cloth, thick and white, steeped in a mixture of salt and herbs to starve off the decay. Carefully, they stilted and shifted his little body, wrapping him up. Each tug of the cloth seemed to echo in the still room, a soft rasp against skin. Inch by inch, they worked, winding the fabric tightly around him until only his face remained uncovered.

“Wait,” Daenera’s voice cut through the heavy silence, startling even herself with how loud it seemed, though it was barely more than a whisper. The word hung in the air, pulled from her lips as though drawn out by some unseen force. She repeated it, softer this time. “Wait…”

Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, the rough clack of her shoes against the stone floor echoing in the quiet chamber. Every step sent a jolt through her stiff, aching body, the hours of standing vigil catching up to her all at once. She hadn’t noticed the ache in her joints until now, until her feet carried her forward, each step drawing her closer to him. 

The silent Sisters paused, their veiled faces turning briefly in her direction before one of them silently stepped aside, allowing her to approach the head of the table. Daenera hesitated, her heart hammering painfully against her ribs as she looked down at the boy. He lay so still, his features softened by death’s quiet embrace, as if he were only sleeping. 

Her eyes lingered on the small strands of dark blond hair that peeked out from beneath the burial cloth already tied neatly around his head. The sight struck her like a blade to the chest. He looked so impossibly young, his face still round with the softness of childhood. It was a cruel truth that someone so small had ended up here. And yet, this table had seen countless others before him–smaller bodies, younger faces, children who should have been spared this grim fate. 

She reached out without thinking, her trembling fingers brushing against the edge of the cloth, but she stopped herself, unsure of what she meant to do. Her fingers hovered for a moment before they fell to the rough, cold surface of the table. Her eyes remained on him, her gaze taking in his face. Slowly, almost hesitantly, her hand moved towards him again, brushing against the small strands of dark blond hair that had slipped free from beneath the cloth. The strands were soft beneath her tough, tickling against her skin.

Her movements were deliberate, reverent, as she leaned down and pressed her lips gently to this forehead, the icy touch of his skin sending a shiver through her. Her eyes closed, and for a moment, the world fell silent around her. Forgive me. The words resounded in her mind, silent but searing, a plea that seemed to sink into the stillness of the room. 

When she straightened, the air felt sharper, colder. Her breath caught in her lungs, laced with the bitter tang of herbs and the lingering, metallic scent of death. It burned, a cold fire that settled deep within her chest. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to move, to step back. 

The Silent Sister stepped forward to reclaim her place at the table. Daenera stood in silence, watching as the woman resumed her task. She wrapped the cloth around the boy's face, layer by layer, until he was fully concealed, sealed away from the world he would never return to. 

Daenera’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms. The finality of it struck her like a blow, the weight of what she could not change settling heavily in her chest. She did not look away, even as the last piece of him disappeared beneath the shroud. It was all she could give him now–her presence, her witness, her silent, aching farewell.

With one last fleeting glance at his shrouded form, Daenera turned away. There was nothing more to see, nothing more to feel but the hollow ache that had settled deep within her. The chamber behind her seemed to breathe with its own stillness, but she left it behind, stepping into the shadowed hall beyond.

The corridor was cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by the flickering torches mounted on the walls. Their light wavered against the stone, casting shifting shadows that danced like restless spirits. There were no slivers of daylight spilling in through open doorways this time, no respite from the gloom. The hall was a corridor of darkness, oppressive and unyielding, as though the very air refused to let her forget the room she had just left.

Outside the chamber, Finan stood waiting, his posture as still and steady as the walls around them. Their eyes met briefly, a silent exchange passing between them–acknowledgement, sympathy, questions. He said nothing as she moved past him, his footsteps quick to follow her own as she made her way back through the winding corridors. 

The journey felt strange, as if she were retracting her steps out of a place that wasn’t quite this word but something far colder, death. The space between heaven and hell, she thought–a space where the living were trespassers, unwelcome and out of place. Each step felt like a struggle to pull herself back from that void, back into the world of the living. 

The narrow stairway spiraled upward, its cold stone steps slick beneath her feet. Her fingers briefly brushed the wall for balance, its chill grounding her as she climbed. As she stepped into the Sept, the sound of rain filled the air. It lashed against the stained glass windows, the patter echoing in the vast, hollow space. The rain’s lamentation felt almost alive, as though the heavens themselves had been moved. The droplets raced down the panes in chaotic rivers and rivulets. 

Was it mourning with her, she wondered, or raging against her? 

Daenera’s steps faltered, her breath catching as her eyes found him–just as they always did. 

Aemond stood at the altar at the heart of the Sept, a solitary figure amidst the flickering glow of firelight. His tall, narrow frame was outlined sharply against the golden light, his pale silver hair shimmering like spun moonlight, catching hints of gold in the dance of flames. There was a stillness about him, a pensiveness in the way he stood, his lone figure commanding the vast, hollow space. His head was slightly bowed as he stared into the fire, one hand hovering above the flames, fingers splayed as though testing their heat. 

For a moment, his presence started her, the sight of him sending her heart leaping into her throat. But that initial shock gave away almost immediately to a surge of emotion that churned hot and fierce in her chest. It felt as though his presence seeped into her, inescapable as it always was, stirring emotions too tangled to name. 

Without realizing, her steps quickened, the sharp tap of her shoes against the stone floor echoing loudly in the empty Sept as she closed the distance between them. Her scowl deepened as her gaze darted around the chamber, searching for others–for any Septa, any Septon, anyone to explain why he was here, alone. But there was no one. The vast Sept was deserted save for the two of them.

Behind her, Finan had followed at a distance, his footsteps halting just far enough away to grant them a semblance of privacy.

When she reached his side, she stopped abruptly, the momentum of her steps halting so sharply that her breath caught. The scornful flare she wore remained, and she tore her gaze from him to fix it on the flames instead. The heat of the candles brushed against her cheeks, though it did nothing to thaw the ice in her chest.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and fraught, as though the Sept itself held its breath, awaiting what would follow. Aemond remained still, his expression unreadable, his hand still poised above the fire. Daenera’s heart pounded in her ears, each beat urging her to speak, to confront him, yet she hesitated. 

“Come to confess your sins?” Her voice cut through the stillness, sharp and biting, the edge in her tone unmistakable. The words fell from her lips like an accusation, yet there was something strained behind them, something forced–as if they carried the weight of emotions she couldn’t quite control. “Or have you come to beg the gods for forgiveness?”

Aemond didn’t respond immediately. Instead, a low, resonant hum escaped him, a sound that rumbled from deep within his chest and seemed to settle in the air between them. His hand remained poised over the flames, hovering just close enough to feel their heat. 

“I do not seek forgiveness,” Aemond murmured, his voice low and steady as his hand hovered above the flames, the heat distorting the air around his fingers, yet he did not flinch. “Nor do I believe the gods care to hear my sins.”

Daenera’s jaw tightened, her anger flaring hot and sharp, twisting between her ribs like a dagger. The burn of it licked at her insides, relentless and consuming. Her hands remained curled into tight fists at her sides, nails digging mercilessly into the soft flesh of her palms. She wondered absently how many red crescents would mark her skin by the time she lay in her bed that night, reminders etched into her, soon to fade. 

She felt his gaze then, a palpable weight that slid over her face like the edge of a blade. There was a deliberate intensity in the way his eye lingered, a sharp curiosity, as if he were searching for something–as though he sought to carve beneath her skin and read through the rivulets of blood inside her. She resisted the urge to look at him, her focus remaining fixed on the flames. They danced and flickered before her, offering no comfort, only a reflection of the fire roiling within her.

The sensation of his attention was maddening, a prickling heat that brushed over her skin, sending shivers racing down her spine. It was as though his presence itself sought to unnerve her, to burrow beneath her composure and drag something raw to the surface. She willed herself to stay still, to give him nothing.

“If I sought forgiveness,” he said softly, his voice like the smooth pull of silk over steel, “it would not be theirs to give.”

Her teeth clenched at his arrogance–to think that she’d ever forgive him. The air between them thickened, laden with unspoken truths and words that could cut as deeply as steel.

“If you sought forgiveness,” Daenera snapped, her voice taut as a bowstring, “you’d be on your knees begging for it, and you’d still find yourself wanting.”

The air in the chamber was thick, weighted with the warmth of the fire and the unspoken tension that hung between them. Daenera kept her posture rigid, her hands clasped tightly before her as if the act alone could keep her emotions at bay.

Aemond stood at a measured distance, the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth–she could feel it, the faint amusement radiating off of him. “You’ve had me on my knees,” he hummed, his voice smooth, laced with a dark humor that seemed to echo in the stillness.

The words struck her like a spark to dry tinder, igniting a cascade of memories she fought to suppress. The image rose unbidden in her mind: him kneeling before her, his pride stripped away under the weight of her will. She remembered the desperation in his gaze, the way his breath had hitched as he peered up at her, his lips parted, his touch searing against her skin. The memory was a ghost, a phantom that burned against her even now, and she hated that it still had power over her.

Heat bloomed unbidden in her cheeks, a flush she couldn’t quite hide, though she turned her head slightly to keep her face out of his line of sight. Her nails bit into her palms, a futile attempt to anchor herself.

“You weren’t there in search of forgiveness,” Daenera replied, her voice taut, strained, as though she could steady it by sheer force of will. She fought to keep her tone even, suppressing the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to surface. “You didn’t beg for it.”

Her words were a shield, a deflection meant to push away the thing she refused to name, the thing that clawed at the edges of her composure. Yet, even as she spoke, she felt the weight of his presence, his words, his gaze, pressing against her resolve. The air between them felt charged, crackling with unspoken truths and emotions too tangled to unravel.

Aemond’s hum lingered in the space between them, a sound that seemed to mock her efforts to maintain control. “You wouldn’t have granted it, even if I had. It isn’t in your nature.”

“And it's not in yours to seek it.” She refused to give him the satisfaction of looking at him, refused to meet his eye and see whatever storm brewed there. Instead, she focused on the fire, letting its heat bite at her skin, grounding her in the moment even as the past threatened to overwhelm her.

“What of your sins?” he hummed, the question curling through the air like smoke. He took a step closer, his boots barely making a sound against the stone floor, and when he spoke again, his tone shifted. It wasn’t quite an accusation, more a statement of fact, stripped of doubt.

“You killed him.”

The words hung between them, as undeniable as the heat from the fire. Aemond’s voice carried a peculiar intimacy, a quiet knowing that made her skin prickle. There was no malice in his tone–no anger or condemnation–but rather an unsettling understanding. The way he said it, as though peeling back a layer of her soul, left no room for denial.

Daenera didn’t answer; she didn’t need to. 

“The Council knows–”

“The Council suspects,” She interjected swiftly, her voice cutting through his as sharp as a blade. She turned her head slightly, the heart of the flames curling around her face. “They suspect, but they’ll find no evidence of wrongdoing.” Her words were precise, delivered with a calm clarity that betrayed none of the storm brewing within her. “The Silent Sisters will report nothing out of the ordinary when they saw to his body–no lungs filled with foam, no blackened organs, nothing to suggest poisoning.” 

She finally turned her eyes to him, her gaze as piercing as his own, her brow arched slightly. “They could raise the matter, but it would only expose their own… failings. How could I have obtained the means of poisoning? I have not been allowed near the gardens, nor have I been alone long enough to procure it.” A scoff left her. “The kitchens take it upon themselves to spare me the trouble of seeds in my apples. So tell me, how was I able to do it?” 

She paused, inhaling deeply, her focus drifting back to the flames though she no longer seemed to see them. “At best, the Council will look cruel for letting him die of illness in the dungeons. At worst, they’ll look incompetent for failing to stop me.”

The Council, Daenera knew, would much rather let the boy’s death be seen as the result of illness born from their negligence than risk the appearance of their inability to control her. To admit they had failed to prevent such an act under their own roof would expose their own weaknesses far more than it would condemn her. They might suspect the truth–might even know it in the depths of their hearts–but to accuse her outright of murder while she remained under their watchful eyes was a step they would not dare take. The risk to their authority, their reputation, was far too great.

Aemond remained silent, his expression unreadable save for the faint flicker of amusement in his eye. His hum broke the quiet, low and appreciative, a sound that sent a shiver of skittering down her spine. “And what shall you do now, with your newfound freedom?” 

“Freedom…” Daenera echoed, the word bitter on her tongue. She let the word hang in the air, tasting its lie, for she knew the truth: the cage that held her remained. The noose around her neck might have shifted, but it still remained around her neck. She stared into the flames before her, their restless dance reflecting the indignation burning in her chest. 

“That’s why you killed him, is it not?” Aemond pressed, his voice soft, almost gentle–but laced with something darker. His words curled around her like smoke, taunting, suffocating, making her choke on them. 

He always had a way of wielding words like weapons–he wielded them as deftly as he did a blade. There was a cruel precision to it now, the way he probed at the raw edges of her conscience. His tone, so maddingly composed, peeled back the layers of her actions with deliberate care, stripping away her skin to expose the truth beneath–be it guilt festering there, or the weeping of necessity. 

“What I did was mercy,” Daenera forced out, her voice steady but brittle, like ice stretched too thin over deep waters. Her gaze remained fixed on the flames before her, though she hardly saw them as their tongues lapped at the air. Yet, even as she stared into the nothing of the flames, she felt his attention sharpen, a tangible thing pressing against her, daring her to reveal the truth, to justify herself against the unbearable weight of his words. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the subtle shift in him. His head tilted ever so slightly, the faintest quirk of his brow betraying his intrigue. It was a gesture she knew all too well, a familiar, almost maddening tic that always surfaced when something piqued his interest. It reminded her of a predator catching the scent of its prey–patient, calculating, and entirely unyielding.

She turned her face slightly to meet his gaze. There was something behind his expression now, a shadow that flickered in the depths of his lone eye. It was unreadable, twisting like smoke, elusive yet undeniable. His gaze unnerved her, the way it sought to strip her bare, searching for weaknesses, for the most vulnerable parts of her. 

But she refused to give him the satisfaction of cowering before him. 

“Mercy,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue with quiet amusement. His lips curved upward ever so slightly, the corners sharp enough to cut her with. 

“Yes, mercy,” Daenera bit out, her tone laced with scorn. She held his gaze unflinchingly, though her throat tightened against the tide of guilt and shame that threatened to rise. It pressed against her ribs, a weight she couldn’t remove. Still, she clung to the notion that what she had done was rooted in kindness, in something nobel. 

Her eyes hardened as she stared him down, her voice growing colder, more deliberate. “I didn’t want him to rot in the dungeons for gods know how long–days, weeks, months.” She shook her head, the movement stiff, her breath catching as she forced the words out. “He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to be trapped among rapers and murders as though he were one of them–as though he had done anything wrong.”

Her chest heaved, and she swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat. Her voice thickened with the weight of her choice. “He’d be alone. Alone and afraid, listening to every echo of footsteps in the darkness, every jingle of keys. Fearing–always fearing–that they’d come for him next. That they’d drag him from his cell to meet the same fate as his friends.”

If she hadn’t balled her hands into firsts so tight that her bones ached, she was sure they’d tremble. “Or worse,” she added bitterly, the corners of her lips arching downward. “To be tortured before they executed him–to suffer in ways no boy should ever suffer.”

Aemond’s gaze darkened, his piercing eye narrowing as the weight of Daenera’s words settled heavily upon him. The muscles in his jaw flexed, the tension rippling beneath his skin as his teeth ground together in barely contained frustration.

Daenera met his gaze without hesitation, her expression unyielding, her chin tilted ever so slightly upward, a subtle act of defiance that spoke louder than words. “He was already dead. The noose was around his neck…he just hadn’t fallen yet.”

The ease with which the justification had slipped from her lips sent a bitter pang through her chest. The tone of her words, sharp and pragmatic, echoed hollowly in the Sept. The gods might judge her for it–she knew that well enough–but surely, she thought, surely they would see the mercy in what she had done. Then again, the gods were not merciful, that was why they were gods after all.

The guilt rose unbidden, clawing at the back of her throat like bile. It was a silent, insidious thing, creeping into her mind as she fought to shove it back down.

Aemond hummed, the sound low and deliberate, a vibration that seemed to crawl beneath her skin and prick at her resolve. It was maddening, how effortlessly he plucked at her threads, how effortlessly it was for him to unravel her. She didn’t need to look at him to know his eye was fixed on her, searching her face with a cold, unrelenting precision. She could feel it, like the edge of a blade grazing over her skin–not slicing, not yet, but testing her, caressing her. 

“Mercy may be part of it,” he said, his voice smooth and silken, soft but carrying a weight that pressed against her chest. It held the intimacy of a dagger’s whisper before slipping between the ribs. “But you also did it to free yourself.”

The words struck her harder than she expected, as though they had been spoken from a place deeper than observation. Before she could summon a response, he took a single step toward her, the movement measured–testing. That single step seemed to change the air around them, and Daenera felt the shift like the tightening of a noose. His presence grew heavier, more tangible, wrapping around her like a shadow creeping closer in the dim light. 

The faint scent of sandalwood, warm and earthy, mingled with something sweeter, something she couldn’t name at that moment. It seeped into her lungs, a brief reprieve from the cloying smell of burning candles and incense that hung heavily in the great chamber of the Sept. But even that familiar scent felt intrusive, like he was taking up more space than he should, both in the air and in her mind. 

Daenera willed herself not to move, not to flinch, not to show the unease pooling in her stomach. She stood rooted, though her instincts screamed at her to retreat, to put space between herself and the monster closing in on her. 

And yet she stood firm, her heart pounding against her ribs, meeting his gaze. 

“You could have waited,” he continued, his voice soft, unhurried, as he flayed her with his words. It was a masterful dissection, peeling away the armor of her composure to expose the bloody truth as he saw it, raw and vulnerable beneath the surface. “You could have bided your time and found a way to see him free of the dungeons.”

His fingers twitched ever so slightly at his sides. There was a restlessness to him, a restrained impulse, as if he wanted to reach for her. His hand might have skimmed the curve of her cheek, brushing aside the dark strands of her hair, before cupping her face in cruel intimacy–only to drive the dagger of his words deeper into her soul. 

Daenera’s gaze flickered, caught briefly by the subtle movement before returning to his, a fraction too late to mask her awareness. She knew he had noticed–he always did.

Her eyes narrowed sharply, a warning as clear as if she had spoken aloud. His hand stayed where it was, restrained, though the tension in him was palpable. Instead, he pressed forward with his words, relentless as ever.  

“You could have found another way,” he said confidently–unforgivingly. “You could have negotiated his release, as you’ve done before. You’ve proven yourself capable of that.”

He tilted his head slightly, his lone eye fixed on her with penetrating intensity. “But you didn’t,” he continued, his voice so mercilessly soft as he twisted the blade of his words. “You wished for the burden of his life to be lifted from your shoulders. Without him caught in the cold grasp of the dungeons, without the sword of the headsman poised above him, you are free of the fear that your choices might condemn him. His fate no longer clings to yours like a shadow.”

Daenera’s teeth clenched, the muscles in her jaw tightening as she fought to keep her emotions down, shame churning in her stomach. But her eyes betrayed her, burning with anger and anguish. 

“You sacrificed him,” Aemond said, delivering the final blow with cruel certainty. The gentleness in his tone only made the accusations sting sharper. “Mercy may have played a part, yes. But you don’t have to pretend with me. I know you, ñuha byka sȳndor hen bantis rūklon.”

My little nightshade. The High Valyrian rolled off his tongue like a caress, yet there was nothing tender about the way it landed. It twisted within her chest, sharp as a dagger. 

The firelight flickered between them, its warm glow throwing their shadows onto the worn and ancient stones of the Sept. The sacred space, with its towering arches and the watchful eyes of the Seven carved into every corner, seemed to close in around Daenera as she forced herself to stand tall. Her chest heaved with the weight of her emotions, her heart pounding against her ribs like a war drum.

She would not falter–not here, not before him.

Her gaze hardened, locking on Aemond’s face. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, hot and unwelcome, clawing at her throat as though trying to choke her. But even as the emotions threatened to undo her, she summoned her voice. Low, strained, yet laced with a biting coolness, she spoke.

“Don’t presume to know my heart, One-eye,” she said, the insult deliberate, each syllable like the edge of a blade. “Not fully. Not anymore.”

Her words echoed in the vast hollow of the Sept, reverberating off the stone walls and carrying her defiance to the ears of the silent gods. Yet even as her voice rang out, she felt the weight of Aemond’s gaze pressing against her. It was unrelenting, searching, as though he sought to peel back her defenses and lay bare vulnerabilities she so desperately tried to hide.

It was maddening–the way he looked at her. His single eye, sharp and piercing, seemed to see through her façade, past the armor she had built, straight to the darkest corners of her soul. She would have preferred the judgment of the gods, their cold, indifferent stares from their carved effigies high above. Their condemnation, distant and immutable, was far easier to endure than the knowing look in his eye.

Aemond’s expression shifted, the faintest tightening of his jaw betraying his reaction to her barb.His lips drew into a thin line, his jaw tensing, the faintest flicker of emotion crossing his otherwise steely mask. She noted it all–the sharpness of his mouth, the slight narrowing of his gaze, the way his control slipped just enough to show the edges of his irritation.

His lips pressed together before parting slightly, and a low hum rumbled from deep within his chest. It was a sound that carried exasperation and something darker, something heavier.

“You may deny it as much as you like,” Aemond said, his voice soft but cutting, each word deliberate, a hammer striking an anvil. “But deep down, you know my words are true.”

He stepped closer, his shadow looming larger against the stone wall, the firelight painting him in shades of gold and shadow. “You killed him,” he continued, his tone smooth, unyielding, “to free him… and to free yourself.”

His words hung in the air between them, thick and oppressive, as though the fire itself had paused to listen. The knowing in his tone, unforgiving in its certainty, wrapped around her like a chain. It was unbearable.

Daenera felt her chest tighten, the understanding in his accusation cutting far deeper than she wanted to admit. Yet she held his gaze, her own defiance unbroken, though the tears still threatened to spill, though the gods above seemed to watch her with silent reproach.

The flames crackled softly in the silence that followed, their dance mocking the stillness between them. In this moment, it wasn’t the judgment of the gods that mattered–it was his. And she hated him for it.

Daenera’s breath caught, a sharp hitch that betrayed the storm roiling beneath her composed exterior. Her fingers twitched at her sides, the urge to lash out–strike him, shove him, anything to silence the words he wielded with such maddening ease–tearing at her restraint. Yet she remained still, her nails biting into the soft flesh of her palms until the pain steadied her trembling resolve. Her gaze dropped back to the flames, their restless dance offering a momentary distraction, though no comfort.

His words struck her, sharp and relentless, slicing through the armor of her resolve and lodging deep in her chest. They weren’t wholly true–yet they weren’t wholly false, either. Her heart twisted on that knife-edge of contradiction, torn between justifications and the inescapable truth of what she had done.

She had made her decision.

All those days ago, she had sat amidst the ruins of her room, the shattered remnants of her world scattered around her like the jagged shards of a broken mirror. The rubble had surrounded her, but it was the ruins within her chest that weighed heavier–a hollowed space where her heart should have been, replaced by the aching emptiness of loss. Her brother was dead, and they had celebrated. They had donned their smiles, raised their goblets, and filled the halls with laughter as if his life had been nothing more than a pawn swept from the board. That night, she had faced them. She had stood among those who had left her world in ruins, their merriment ringing in her ears like a dirge.

Something had changed in her then. Innocence, fragile and fleeting, had been stripped away like the petals of a wilting flower. Her girlhood, once a thing of dreams and soft naivety, had been torn from her grasp. What remained was steel–hardened, unforgiving, ruthless. She had been reforged in the fires of her loss, and the girl she had been was gone.

It was in that moment she had chosen to act, her resolve born of the wreckage around her. She had understood the cost, had weighed the consequences and accepted them. The sacrifice had been inevitable.

Patrick’s life, innocent and undeserving of its place on the scales, had been set against her own. She could still see his face in her mind’s eye, his youthful features etched with fear, his bright eyes searching hers for answers she could not give. She had weighed their lives, hers and his, and with deliberate finality, she had tipped the balance.

If she could have spared him, she thought bitterly, she would have. She would have saved him, sent him home to whatever family waited for him, his wide eyes filled with hope instead of terror. She would have seen him live, alive and unbroken, free of the shadow she had cast over him.

If she could have done it, she would have. She could have.

But she hadn’t. And the truth of that would stay with her, a shadow clinging to her soul, for all her days.

That was the truth that twisted like a dagger in her chest. She had wielded her power to end his suffering, but also to end her own. Patrick had been an anchor dragging her into the abyss, his life a weight tied to hers, threatening to drown her beneath the crushing tide of her enemies’ machinations. She had severed that weight, made her sacrifice, and ensured she would not be as helpless again. She had chosen survival–not his, but hers.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move–each movement languid, precise, like  a shadow come alive. His long fingers curled around a taper, the warm light of the candles casting faint shadows along his knuckles. He lifted it with a quiet grace, his movements purposeful as if the weight of the act was significant–and that, in itself, sent a faint ripple of unease through her. 

Daenera’s breath caught, her throat tightening as she watched him lower the taper, passing the fire to an unlit candle. It flared, brighter now, burning with life. He paused, holding the small, wavering light for a moment, his expression carefully unreadable, as though he alone knew the weight of the act. The warm glow of the candles bathed his face, softening its impossibly sharp angles, muting the cold precision of his features. In that fleeting light, he seemed almost human–almost gentle. The warmth of it caught her off guard, and her heart tightened, the ache unexpected and unwelcome. It was a reminder of a softness she doubted existed, a shadow of what might have been but never was.

She shifted her gaze to him fully now, her chest tightening as her heartbeat grew heavy and uneven. A dreadful weight settled over her, the slow, creeping realization of what he was doing. She forced herself to speak, her voice quiet but trembling with an edge she could not hide. 

“Your father?” She asked, the question barely above a whisper. It was hope spoken aloud–futile, desperate hope she didn’t truly believe in. She already knew the truth, already knew that the flame wasn’t for his father. Aemond Targaryen would never light a candle for his father. The bitterness between them ran too deep, the wounds of neglect and scorn too raw. Aemond despised him; there was no love to mourn, no remorse to soothe the edges of his passing. His father’s death was a thing of indifference, even satisfaction–not grief.

“No.”

Daenera’s jaw tightened, her teeth clenched against the surge of anger and despair welling inside her as her gaze bore into the flame he had just lit. It flickered almost mockingly, alive and unyielding, its small light dancing as though in jest of her turmoil. She felt the heat of it, a faint warmth doing nothing to combat the chill in her fingers–in her bones. 

Her gaze followed his hand, the taper moving with unhurried purpose to the wick of another unlit candle. She knew then, without him needing to say it.

Patrick.

And Lucerys. 

Their flames burned side by side now, equal in their shared fate, and yet to her, the sight was a bitter jest. It mocked her grief, her guilt, her.

“It is not the same,” she said, her voice tense, barely above a whisper. 

Aemond turned his head slightly, his eye catching the light. “Isn’t it?”

He brought the taper to his lips, extinguishing the flame with a sharp, deliberate puff of air. Smoke coiled around his face, the faint scent of it lingering in the air, mingling with the scent of burning wax. Then he placed the stub on the altar. “You and I are the same–two sides of the same blade.”

Daenera felt the rage ignite within her, searing and wild, as though a beast of fire clawed its way through her chest, tearing and burning as it rose. It consumed her, flooding her veins with molten fury–with guilt and shame and outrage. How dare he? How could he compare their actions? How could he claim that it was the same?

“No,” she sneered, her voice low and trembling. The word tore from her lips like the crack of a whip, sharp and stinging. At last, she turned to face him, her eyes burning. 

“What you did,” she began, her voice climbing with intensity, each word a dagger hurled at him, “you did for vengeance.” Her hands balled into tight fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms so deeply she could feel the sting. “You hunted him.” The urge to lash out at him surged within her, wild and unrelenting. It prickled at her fingertips, demanding release–the temptation to reach out and swipe at him, to snatch one of the candles from the altar and hurl it at his chest, to rake her nails across his impossibly sharp features until they bore the mark of her fury. The restraint it took to hold herself back burned just as fiercely as the anger roiling inside her, threatening to spill over at any moment. 

“You chased him through the sky!” She spat at him. “You wanted him afraid–you wanted him to fear for his life. And then,” her voice broke, but she pressed on, the words spilling out like a torrent, “you struck him down. Not in justice, not in necessity, but in rage.”

“We are not the same!” she spat, her voice ringing through the Sept, her sneer cutting as sharply as any blade. Her lip curled, baring her teeth for a moment, and she caught herself thinking how satisfying it would be to sink them into his throat. For a fleeting instant, she felt more beast than girl. Her voice rose again, trembling with unbridled rage. “We are as different as fire and ice.”

He was the desolation of ice–a creeping cold that smothered life. Ice killed with no remorse, no guilt, it was the frozen soil where nothing could grow, nothing could thrive. His presence was a merciless finality, a quiet inevitability that arrived with neither fanfare nor warning but left destruction in its wake. 

And she–she was fire. 

Fire wasn’t like ice that crept in unnoticed and stole the warmth of life in silence. Fire shouted its presence, fierce and unrelenting, a force that demanded recognition even as it destroyed. To burn was to live with purpose, to bring light even as the world turned to ash. 

And fire, in the end, would burn itself out–it did not linger the same way ice did. 

Aemond’s gaze never wavered. He regarded her with that same inscrutable expression, though the faintest flicker of something–curiosity, amusement–crossed his face. His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eye.

“Fire and ice,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, a blade sheathed in velvet. “And yet, they both destroy in the end.”

Daenera’s chest rose and fell with the force of her indignation, each breath stoking the fire that burned within her. Her gaze locked onto Aemond, blazing with fury, defiance, and something deeper–something raw and painful that threatened to consume her. He met her wrath without flinching, his expression cold and impenetrable, his single eye gleaming like tempered steel in the flickering firelight. The quiet intensity in his gaze was infuriating, a silent challenge that only fed the storm raging within her.

"You don’t get to compare your actions to mine," Daenera spat, her voice low but trembling with barely restrained rage. "It is not the same."

Her words reverberated in the vast chamber, echoing back to her like the judgment of the gods. Her chest rose and fell, her breath coming fast, as if she could expel the weight crushing her ribs with sheer force. She stepped closer, the soft tap of her boots against the stone floor breaking the oppressive silence.

"The gods know it isn’t the same," she continued, her voice climbing with every word. “I feel guilty for the blood on my hands. I feel remorse.”Her hands trembled at her sides, the nails digging into her palms with such ferocity that the crescent-shaped marks would surely linger.

She fixed him with a glare so fierce it might have turned lesser men to ash, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, Aemond’s expression remained impassive, the faintest tilt of his head betraying only mild curiosity. That maddening composure stoked the fire within her.

"You," Daenera hissed, her voice breaking under the strain of her emotions. She shook her head, her dark hair spilling around her shoulders, trembling with exasperation and anguish. “You don’t even feel guilty,” she spat, her words cutting and sharp. “You don’t even feel remorseful. You don’t regret it.” Her words faltered for the briefest moment before they surged back, the pain behind them sharpening their edge.

"You take pride in the blood on your hands," she accused, her voice a blend of fury and despair, louder now, echoing off the Sept’s stone walls.

Her words hung in the charged air between them, the silence that followed pressing against her like a weight. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, trembling with the effort of holding back the overwhelming urge to lash out at him. She longed to tear that mask of detachment from his face, to make him feel even a fraction of what she felt.

Daenera couldn’t decide if it would be easier or harder if he did feel regret–if guilt or remorse weighed upon him the way it did upon her. Part of her thought it might soften the jagged edges of her grief, make it easier to see him as something other than the monster she had built him up to be. But another part of her–the part ruled by anger and pain–knew it was easier to hate him this way.

It was easier to hate him as he was now: cold, unrepentant, a creature forged from vengeance and pride. A monster, she told herself, a beast who had hunted her brother through the skies and slain him without hesitation. She clung to that image of him, sharp and terrible, because the alternative was too agonizing to bear.

If there was regret within him, if he grieved in some secret, hidden part of himself, then he would no longer be the monster she needed him to be. He would be a man—flawed, fallible, human. And that would mean confronting the tangled knot of emotions within her, emotions she could not afford to unravel.

The memory of her brother’s death loomed like a shadow over her heart, a wound that refused to heal. She had imagined the scene countless times: Lucerys fleeing through the storm, the clouds roiling and dark, the sea raging below. She saw Aemond in pursuit, his pale hair whipping in the wind, his eye alight with something savage and consuming. He had struck like a tempest, bringing his fury down upon a boy who could not hope to fight back.

No, it was easier this way. Easier to see him as a cold-blooded killer, a soulless executioner who had torn her world apart without a second thought. Anything else–any sign of remorse, of regret–would threaten to shatter the fragile armor she had built around her grief. It would demand that she see him not as a monster, but as a man.

And she could not bear that.

Aemond met her gaze, his eye gleaming with that maddening intensity that always seemed to cut her down to the bone. He held her in that stare for what felt like an eternity before finally speaking, his voice low, deliberate, and edged with something that made her stomach churn. “Do you think his parents would call it mercy?” he asked, his words as precise and cutting as a Valyrian steel blade. “Do you believe they’d see the difference between what you did and what I did?”

Daenera’s gaze fixed on the two flickering flames as she spoke, her voice measured but cold, each word deliberate and precise. “No,” she admitted, “they won’t see the difference. Because they’ll never know.” 

She straightened, her shoulders stiff and her lower back aching from the strain of standing so long. The cold of the Sept had seeped through the thin soles of her shoes, creeping up her legs like an unwelcome tide, leaving her joints stiff and protesting with every subtle shift of movement. The faint creak of her body reminded her of her own mortality, the weariness pressing down like a weight she couldn’t shake.

Her dark eyes remained fixed on the two flickering candles, their golden light dancing across her features, but her focus drifted far beyond the altar. She stared at the flames as though they held the answers she sought–or perhaps the condemnation she feared.

When she spoke again, her voice was quieter but no less cutting, each word delivered with the precision of a needle stitching together a wound. “They’ll think their son died in the dungeons. They will believe he succumbed to illness, a quiet death in the shadows of those cold stone walls, surrounded by rapers and murderers.”

Her throat tightened, but she pushed the emotion down, her expression hardening as she pressed on. “And perhaps they’ll think it a mercy,” she added, her voice softening, though the tremor in it was impossible to hide. “That he wasn’t left to rot alone and afraid. That he wasn’t to be hanged like a traitor, or worse, have his head mounted on the Traitor’s Walk for all to see–like the rest of my men.”

For a moment, the silence of the Sept pressed in on her, heavy and suffocating, the faint liker of the flames the only movement in the vast, empty space. “They’ll have their son home,” she said finally, the words bitter on her tongue. Her voice dropped, quieter now, as though the admission had drained her of life. “They’ll see his body and they will have a funeral–they will get to bury him. They will grieve. And yes, they may blame me.”

They would get to bury their child–that was a kindness in itself, she thought. It was more than was afforded her mother. “I don’t expect forgiveness. Not from them, not from the gods.” Her jaw tightened as she steeled herself. “I made a choice. He didn’t deserve to die–no child ever does–but it was a kindness… I will bear the guilt and mourn him.”

Her eyes lifted from the candles to Aemond, narrowing. “Can you say the same for my brother?”

Aemond stood still as a statue carved from marble and obsidian. His jaw clenched tight, the muscles tensing beneath his skin. His face was a mask, cold as steel–she wondered if that was all there was. It was this inscrutable facade that drove her to madness, the implacable, unfeeling calm he wore as effortlessly as the blade at his hip. And yet, she couldn’t help but throw herself against it, again and again, cutting herself on its unyielding edges.

“No,” she said, the single word trembling on her lips, almost swallowed by the emptiness of the Sept. She drew a sharp breath, her gaze leaving his, daring him to respond–to let her beneath his mask so she could rake her nails over his tender, vulnerable insides as he had hers. 

“His parents might not call it mercy,” she continued, her voice measured. “But they wouldn’t call what you did justice either.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the faint crackle of the flames. Daenera held her ground, the tremble in her limbs belying the strength of her stare. The gods above seemed to watch, unblinking and indifferent, their stone faces bathed in the light of a thousand candles. But it was not their judgment she feared.

No, it was not the gods’ dispassionate eyes that made her chest tighten or her throat constrict. It was his.

Aemond’s single eye, sharp and penetrating, seemed to see too much–more than she wanted, more than she could bear. His gaze held no condemnation, no fiery reproach or righteous fury. Instead, there was something far worse: understanding. That unbearable, maddening understanding that stripped her defenses bare and left her feeling exposed, raw, vulnerable.

It was not the gods’ cold indifference that terrified her, nor their justice that she sought to avoid. She could face that a thousand times over, endure their silent judgment and accept their scorn. But his understanding? His love? That was the weight she could not carry, the reckoning she could not endure.

The two flames flickered on the altar, their delicate tongues of fire dancing side by side amidst the sea of light that filled the Sept. Hundreds of candles burned in quiet reverence, their glow painting the chamber in shades of gold and amber. Yet, among them all, those two flames stood out, distinct and impossible to ignore. 

Their wavering light seemed almost alive, mocking her with their unrelenting brightness. The comparison he had drawn hung in the air between them like a blade, its edge pressing against her heart, a wound too deep to ignore. She couldn’t dislodge it, couldn’t push it away–it had rooted itself in her chest, a cruel thorn left to fester beneath her armor of composure.

It was not the same.

Her ruthlessness had been born of necessity, tempered by mercy, even if it also served to free her from the suffocating weight of his life hanging over her head. At least she felt the blood on her hands, cold and sticky, clinging to her soul like an unwanted phantom. At least she bore the weight of it, the nauseating shame that churned in her stomach every time she thought of Patrick’s face–the fear in his eyes, the tremor in his voice. Her choice had been calculated, yes, but it hadn’t been without cost.

She clung to that distinction with a ferocity that bordered on desperation. It was her only shield against the relentless tide of his words. She was not the same as him–not wholly, not yet.

He felt nothing.

Aemond stood across from her, the shadows curling around him as though they were under his control, his pale features bathed in the warm glow of the candles. The light kissed the sharp planes of his face, softened the line of his jaw, and turned his silver hair into a crown of molten gold–he almost seemed godlier than the gods themselves. He had no regret. No remorse. The blood on his hands didn’t revolt him–didn’t haunt him in the dead of night or claw at his heart in the quiet moments between breaths. But he was no god.

Daenera’s jaw clenched, the tension in her muscles so sharp it felt as though her teeth might crack under the pressure. Her hands curled into fists, the fabric of her skirts bunched tightly in her grip, the embroidered pattern digging into her palms like thorns. 

The air in the Sept felt heavier now, oppressive and stifling, as though the ancient walls themselves had closed in around her. The cloying scent of incense mingled with the faint tang of burning wax, saturating the air until it seemed to seep into her lungs. It was too much–thick, suffocating, pressing against her chest and making every breath feel like a laborious effort.

 The flames on the altar danced mockingly, their light twisting and shifting like small, writhing prayers of remembrance–futile, empty gestures, as though she could ever forget. They flickered with a life of their own, their restless movement seeming almost defiant, as if taunting her with the weight of what they meant.

“These candles aren’t yours to light,” Daenera said, her gaze tearing away from the flames, locking onto his with a fierce intensity that burned as brightly as the candles themselves. “Do not feign sorrow for lives you never cared for. You feel no regret, no guilt for their deaths. You do not mourn them.”

With a sharp inhale, Daenera stepped forward, her movements deliberate and measured. Her chest rose as she drew in the cold, heavy air of the Sept, and with a forceful exhale, she blew out the flames in one swift motion. The candles flickered violently before succumbing, their light vanishing one by one. Her breath did not discriminate, extinguishing not only the two of them but also those scattered in the surrounding cluster.

The embers in the wicks glowed faintly in the aftermath, their light waning into dull orange specks as smoke curled upward in ghostly tendrils.  The tendrils of smoke twisted and swayed, rising to fill the air between them, weaving a veil of faint, grey mist that seemed almost alive. The acrid scent of extinguished fire filled the space, mingling with the stale air of the chamber.

The silence was thick, broken only by the faint hiss of the dying wicks and the rustle of smoke dispersing into the stillness. Her chest rose and fell as she glowered at him, “Lighting their candles won’t absolve you,” she said, her voice trembling. “It won’t burn away the blood on your hands, and it won’t make you forgiven. Not by the gods, not by them, and certainly not by me.” Her eyes burned. “Lighting a candle won’t make you human again.”

Aemond didn’t flinch. His expression remained carved from stone, but there was something in his eye, a flicker of an emotion she couldn’t place–too fleeting to name, too restrained to understand. His voice, when he spoke, was soft but laced with a quiet intensity that cut through the heavy air between them. “If I am a monster,” he questioned, his words deliberate and steady, “what does that make of you?”

His challenge hung in the air like smoke, curling and twisting, pressing against her resolve. He didn’t rise to her anger, didn’t meet it with rage or denial. Instead, he accepted it, absorbed it, and turned it back on her with the quiet intimacy of knowing her.

Daenera’s lips tightened, the muscles in her jaw clenching as his words struck home. Her chest tightened, her fury a roiling storm barely contained. Yet, she refused to let him see her falter. She held his gaze for a heartbeat longer before turning sharply away, her dark hair sweeping over her shoulder like a curtain. Her eyes shifted to the altar, its flickering light reflected in her cold expression.

“I am what you’ve made of me,” she answered, her tone frigid and unyielding, each word dropping like a shard of ice. Her gaze lingered on the extinguished candles, her dismissal clear. Aemond might have held her in the moment, but she would not give him the satisfaction of holding her any longer.

The silence that followed was weighted, the tension between them almost tangible. Smoke still curled upward from the darkened wicks, weaving through the space between them. 

“Most monsters are made,” Aemond said softly, his voice barely more than a murmur as he stepped back. The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and Daenera felt their weight settle uneasily in her chest. She knew what he meant–knew he was speaking of himself. He thought his monstrousness had been forged all those years ago when the blade had taken his eye, when pain and loss had seared into him like a brand.

Perhaps he was right, but to her, that wasn’t the moment he had truly become a monster. The moment was etched in her memory like a scar—the storm-laden skies, her brother’s desperate flight, and the roar of Vhagar in pursuit. It was vengeance that had made him monstrous, the choice to hunt a boy who could never match his strength, to bring his fury down like a tempest that left nothing but ruin in its wake.

Aemond exhaled then, a slow, measured release of breath that sent a faint prickle down her spine. The sound was soft, almost contemplative, yet it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, simply watched him from the corner of her eye as he lingered, his gaze flickering between her and the extinguished candles.

“The council will restrict your movements further,” he informed her, his tone even, with a note of reproach. It was a statement, not an apology, delivered with the same detached authority that he wielded like a blade. “They’ve decided you’re not to leave our chambers, save to come to the Sept.”

Daenera hummed quietly, a sound neither agreement nor protest. It wasn’t much different from how things were now. The walls that surrounded her were already her prison; the only difference was that she’d lose even the pretense of freedom. She supposed she wouldn’t be able to charm or outwit her way around these new restrictions. Not anymore. Not after Patrick.

She remained silent, her gaze drifting back to the smoldering wicks, their faint glow fading into nothing. The shadows deepened around her as the last ember died, the cold stone of the Sept pressing in on her like the weight of the sky.

The tendrils of smoke still hung in the air, a ghostly reminder of what had been extinguished, and Daenera inhaled deeply, her chest tight with the weight of what was to come. The gods watched from their lofty perches, silent and unmoving, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that they, too, had judged her.

The tendrils of smoke still hung in the air, a ghostly reminder of what had been extinguished, and Daenera inhaled deeply, her chest tight with the weight of what was to come. The gods watched from their lofty perches, silent and unmoving, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that they, too, had judged her.

“I suppose they’re worried I might upset the delicate narrative they’ve been weaving with this farce of a wedding,” Daenera mused. A faint, bitter smile tugged at her lips.. “I have no cause to play their game anymore–and certainly no cause to act the part of your dutiful, adoring wife.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the subtle motion–a shift in the air, a ripple in the space between them. He moved like a shadow, silent and deliberate, his presence looming closer before she could react. His hand rose, his fingers brushing against her jawline with a touch that was soft, almost tender, yet felt like the kiss of a blade. The warmth of his palm followed, sliding beneath the thick curtain of her hair, his grip firm yet unyielding as he cupped the side of her face. The heat of his touch seared her skin, sending a jolt through her that she fought to suppress.

“Even so,” Aemond murmured, his voice low, the words a quiet claim that sent a shiver down her spine. “You remain my wife.”

His tone was calm, almost dispassionate, but there was something coiled beneath the surface–possessive, unrelenting. His single eye burned with an intensity that unsettled her, its focus locked onto her as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered in that moment. The words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning, as if daring her to deny the truth of them.

Her breath hitched, her body stiffening as her pulse quickened, a surge of conflicting emotions crashing over her–anger, unease, something deeper and far more dangerous.  Her hand shot up instinctively, fingers curling around his wrist, nails biting into the flesh as she had done before. The half-moon marks she had left the night before were still faintly visible, and now she added fresh ones, pressing harder as though she could sever the connection between them with sheer force.

“Don’t,” she hissed, her voice sharp and venomous, slicing through the tense silence of the Sept like a whip. The single word carried the weight of all the emotions she refused to name, each syllable dripping with barely contained rage and desperation. “Don’t touch me!”

Her voice rose, cracking with the sheer intensity of her anger. “You don’t get to touch me! The blood on your hands has stained me enough already.”

Daenera shoved him back, the movement swift and unrelenting, her palms striking his chest with a force that betrayed the storm roiling within her. Her skin burned and prickled where his had had been, as though his touch had left a mark there–had branded into her skin to claim her as his. Her breath came fast and shallow, her chest rising and falling in quick succession as she struggled to regain her composure.

“You can say the words as often as you like,” she sneered, her voice low but trembling, each word forced through her clenched teeth. “It doesn’t change anything. Any love I might have held for you… it died along with my brother.”

Aemond didn’t move to close the distance she had forced between them. He stood as still as a statue, his piercing gaze fixed on her with that same maddeningly inscrutable expression. His head tilted ever so slightly, a subtle gesture that betrayed nothing yet seemed to study everything. The silence between them grew heavier with every passing moment, suffocating in its weight, laden with all the words left unspoken, all the emotions neither dared to name.

For Daenera, it was too much–his presence, his gaze, the crushing weight of the tension that had built between them. The anger and grief she carried churned within her chest, clawing at her ribs, threatening to break free. She could feel his gaze on her, an unrelenting force that pressed against her resolve, daring her to break.

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

With a sharp exhale, she turned away from him, her movements abrupt and tense. Her arms wrapped around herself instinctively, a gesture that was equal parts defiance and self-preservation. Her fingers pressed into her arms, desperate for an anchor, for something solid to hold onto as the storm inside her threatened to spill over.

She felt his gaze linger, heavy and unyielding, like the weight of a blade poised over her neck. It burned into her back, a sensation as tangible as if he had reached out to touch her. But he said nothing. The air around her seemed to grow colder as the moments stretched on, until finally, she heard the soft shuffle of his boots against the stone.

Daenera’s eyes lingered on the spot where her breath had extinguished several of the candles. The bare patch amidst the scattered flames stood out, cold and hollow, a small void of darkness in a sea of light. Her chest felt unbearably heavy, her heart beating a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt almost like a betrayal, as though it refused to align with the stillness she craved. 

The faintest sound reached her ears–the soft scrape of boots against stone. She didn’t turn, but she felt the approach all the same. There was an undeniable awareness that prickled at her senses, a subtle shift in the air as someone drew near. It wasn’t the same as the way she felt Aemond’s presence. His movements were like ripples in the air, tethered to her in ways she couldn’t explain, each motion of his creating a reaction within her, a current she couldn’t ignore–as much as she wanted to. 

This presence was different, quieter, less intimate. Daenera felt it in the weight of his gaze pressed against her back, a familiar sensation that all eyes seemed to bring, a prickling sense of being observed. The sound of his footsteps echoed faintly in the cavernous sept, almost drowned out by the sound of rain beating against the windows. He stopped at her shoulder, close but not intrusive, his presence offering neither comfort nor threat. 

“Fenrick made it out of the city,” Finan said, his voice low, a quiet murmur meant only for her ears. 

Daenera nodded once, her expression solemn, her lips pressed into a line. She didn’t respond beyond that, letting the silence stretch between them. The faint flicker of candles reflected in her eyes, and for a moment, she was as still as the carved statues of the gods that loomed over the Sept.

The news should have brought some relief, some fleeting reprieve from the weight pressed against her chest. But it didn’t. It only offered her a small sense of vindication that she had made the right choice–a bitter hope that could crumble as easily as it was made. The darkness between the flames on the altar felt like it had seeped into her, growing and festering in the quiet spaces where her thoughts roamed. She exhaled slowly, her breath steady but laced with the tension she refused to let show.

“How much did you overhear?” Daenera asked, her voice steady, though the faintest edge betrayed her wariness. 

“Enough.” 

Daenera nodded, a subtle motion, as though acknowledging the inevitable. She drew in a deep breath, but it felt shallow, as if the air couldn’t fully reach her lungs. The cloying scent of incense clung to her senses, sharp and oppressive, and it curled at the back of her throat, threatening to unsettle her further–her stomach roiling. 

“You could have told me,” Finan said, breaking the silence again. His voice was low, quiet enough to avoid carrying through the cavernous space of the Sept, but there was a hint of reproach woven into his words. He shifted slightly on his feet, the faint sound of leather against stone punctuating the stillness.

“Had I told you, what would you have done?” Daenera asked quietly. Her tone was neither angry nor outraged–it was calm, almost detached, but her words carried a weight. It wasn’t just a question; it was a test, a subtle probe into the depths of his loyalty. Would his obedience to her have stretched far enough to carry out her will, even if it meant betraying his own sense of right and wrong? 

She turned her gaze toward him, studying him in the dim light of the Sept. Finan’s face looked more severe here, framed by the glow of the candles. His features bore the unmistakable solemnity of the North–the heavy brow, the strong lines of his jaw, the unyielding set of his mouth. His gray eyes, however, remained humanity. They were not cold but carried a notable sadness, a depth of understanding she did not think she deserved. 

“Perhaps there would have been another way,” Finan said at last, his voice quiet. 

“There was no other way,” Daenera replied, her voice steady and firm. Her gaze did not falter. “None that wouldn’t have condemned him to the dungeons far longer than he deserved. None that wouldn’t have exposed you.”

Her chest tightened further as the words left her, but she forced herself to press on. “The Greens wouldn’t have given him up for anything. He was already dead, Finan. All that remained was to choose how much he would suffer before the end.”

Finan’s jaw tightened, the faint movement betraying his inner turmoil. His hands clenched around his belt, but he did not argue. It was not reproach then, but reluctant acceptance. “I know.”

“Would you still have brought it to me?” Daenera asked softly, her voice laced with quiet curiosity. There was no accusation in her tone, no anger–only a question that carried a weight far greater than the words themselves. Her dark eyes remained fixed on the flickering flames of the altar, the light casting faint shadows across her face, as though she feared meeting his gaze might shatter the fragile stillness between them.

The silence that followed was thick, stretching across the empty space of the Sept like a taut bowstring. For a moment, it seemed as though Finan might not answer, his hesitation hanging in the air alongside the faint tendrils of smoke that drifted upward from the extinguished candles.

At last, he spoke. “Yes,” he said, the single word steady but heavy with meaning. His voice, low and solemn, echoed faintly in the cavernous chamber. “You got Fenrick out,” he continued, his gray eyes watching her intently. “I know it cost you dearly, and for that, I am grateful.”

His words were deliberate, each one spoken with care, as though he were choosing them from a place deep within himself. “I swore to you, Daenera,” he said, the faintest edge of emotion creeping into his tone. “And I am a man of my word. I am yours to command.”

Daenera exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the soft crackle of the remaining flames. Her fingers twitched slightly, curling into the fabric of her skirts as she absorbed his words. There was no triumph in his answer, no sense of victory—only a simple and unwavering truth.

She glanced at him then, her gaze catching on the somber lines of his face. In the flickering light, he looked as though he had been hewn from the same stone as the Sept itself–strong, steadfast, but not untouched by the weight of his choices. There was a sadness in his eyes, one that mirrored the ache in her chest, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to meet it, to acknowledge the cost they had both paid.

The silence stretched again, but this time it felt less oppressive, softened by the shared understanding between them. Daenera turned her gaze back to the altar, the shadows of the gods above seeming to shift in the wavering candlelight. The question had been answered, but the weight of their actions lingered, a quiet specter between them that neither dared to dismiss.

Daenera reached for the half-burned taper, her movements slow and deliberate. She picked it up, its weight slight but significant in her hand, and she leaned forward to touch it to one of the still-lit candles. The flame flickered to life, its yellow tongue lapping greedily at the air, hungry and alive. She held it for a moment, watching the fire dance, before guiding it to the center of the darkened space where her breath had wrought its devastation. 

She lit one candle, then another. The flames flared brightly, steady after a moment, their light filling the hollow void she had created. 

Patrick Piper. Lucerys Velaryon. 

The names echoed in her mind as her hand moved, the light glowing brighter. When she had lit the two candles, she brought the taper to her lips and blew it out, the flame vanishing in an instant, leaving behind a faint trail of smoke that curled upward and disappeared. She set the stub aside, her fingers lingering on the cold stone of the altar for a moment before she straightened. 

“I know it’s easy for you to feel guilty,” she said, her voice low. Her gaze remained fixed on the two candles she had relit, their presence a reminder of what had been lost. “To feel responsible. But the guilt isn’t yours to carry. It is mine. Do not take it from me.”

Her tone was sharp, almost harsh, but there was vulnerability beneath it, an unspoken plea she couldn’t quite hide. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and jagged, like shards of broken glass. 

Finan shifted beside her. “I provided it.”

“The smith is not to blame for the blood his sword spills,” Daenera muttered, her voice distant, as if the words were for the flames rather than Finan. Her gaze remained on the flickering light as exhaustion pressed against her bones. She extended her hand over the candles, her palm hovering above the wavering tongues of the fire. The warmth rose to meet her skin, chasing away the icy chill that had settled in her bones. 

“The blame lies solely in the one who wields it,” she continued, her tone thoughtful, almost detached. Her hand lingered over the flames, her fingers spread as though to feel the full measure of the heat. The warmth turned to something hotter, a sharp intensity that bit at her skin the closer she moved to the fire. It wasn’t pain, not at first, just a prickling sensation, almost unreal, as though the heat couldn’t truly reach her. 

The heat became sharper, searing, a faint sting growing steadily stronger. Yet she hardly felt it at all. Her mind was elsewhere, her focus lost in the light and the words she had spoken. It had been by her hand, and hers alone. She would not share the blame. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, until she felt the firm grip of a hand wrapping around her wrist. 

Finan yanked her hand back abruptly, the motion startling her out of her daze. Her palm stung sharply with heat now, the sensation flooding back as the cold air kissed her reddened skin. Her breath hitched, and she blinked, realizing how close she had brought herself to the flames. She was not immune–she never thought she was. 

His brow was furrowed, worry etched into the heavy lines of his face as he held her wrist, carefully turning her palm upward to inspect it. His calloused fingers brushed against her skin, steady but gentle. Daenera’s eyes followed his movements, her own gaze drifting to her palm. The skin was flushed, reddened from the heat, but there were no blisters, no lasting damage–only the faint pink line of an old scar, a memory etched deep into her flesh.

“You shouldn’t carry the guilt alone,” Finan said, his voice low but firm, as though he hoped the words might anchor her to something more solid than the turmoil within her.

Daenera’s jaw tightened at his words, her chest heaving with a slow, steady breath as she stared at her palm. The sting of the heat still lingered, a faint echo of the searing pain that hadn’t quite reached her. She pulled her hand from his grasp gently, letting her fingers curl into her skirts, her head tilting slightly as her gaze returned to the flames.

“It’s mine to bear,” she said softly, her voice raw and distant, like a confession whispered to the fire. “The sword was in my hand. The choice was mine.”

Children and the innocent, she thought, her gaze distant as the flickering flames seemed to blur before her eyes. Children, and innocence.

They were always the first sacrifices of war.