#solar talks with herself again

[dearmantis]

why are half of my links broken..?

[frankcastleonlyfans]

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐈 𝐌𝐄𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑

pairing: dad!daemon targaryen x mom!reader au

summary: your son maegon visits his sick old uncle, viserys, and end up learning the story of how you met your husband.

author's note: look who's back... this story was based off two asks, this one, and another one asking how daemon and mom!reader met. and now mom!reader is officially dornish!!!! i will not be making descriptions of her features in the future, but just know that mom!reader is poc. i hope you guys enjoy this story. it feels good to write again.

warnings: none ig

reblogs, feedbacks and likes are appreciated. support your content creators 💓 please leave a comment if you like my work, and enjoy your reading.

dad!daemon x mom!reader au masterlist

gif by @gameofthronesdaily

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It is sad when a family member gets sick and you know there's nothing you can do about it. So when your brother-in-law fell ill, it came the time you had to explain to your children that King Viserys wouldn't be the same he once was. The hard part was trying not to scare them with the thought of losing their uncle.

The news brought sadness to Alyssa's and Rhaegon's hearts, but Maegon was the most affected one. He felt the necessity of doing something for his beloved uncle so that even though the King now lay indisposed, he could still feel loved. Your son was old enough to realize that besides Helaena, Viserys' kids did not care for him. That made him sad. Rhaenyra lived in Dragonstone, and for so she couldn't give the attention her father deserved.

The boy had the idea of asking Queen Alicent to let him pay some company for King, during the evenings where he would like someone to talk to. As she needed a break from the sick man herself, she would let Maegon take over her place wherever she felt like it. Which was, almost every evening.

During one of those evenings, Prince Daemon thought it would be nice to see what his brother and son talked about. Mostly, he just wanted to see his brother interacting with anyone, to have the certainty that Viserys would still be alive for a while. The King had little to no hair on his scalp. His body couldn't stand up without the supported of a cane. Daemon didn't know how much time his older brother had left.

When Daemon made entrance to the monarch's solar, he found his son and his brother giggling softly. It felt good to hear the laughing. It meant Viserys was in fact, still alive.

"May I know what is so funny?" The Rogue Prince asked, making his presence known.

Maegon was startled by his father's voice. He has been visiting his uncle for weeks now, but not once his father wanted to come with him.

"Oh, hello Daemon" Viserys grinned at the sight of his sibling, "what a coincidence to see you right now. I was just telling Maegon about that time when we were kids... Do you remember when we tried to find The Cannibal?"

Daemon chuckled, "I do. We searched around all Dragonstone until Father found us before we got inside a Volcano's cave."

"And we never found him!" Viserys laughed.

"Well, thank Gods! You two would probably be eaten or burned alive and I wouldn't be here today to hear the story if you did find him." Maegon reasoned, watching his father pacing around the King's solar.

Daemon's fingers danced around the huge model of Valyria that his brother had exposed in the middle of his room.

"I miss the good old days when I was brave. Once I was sword fighting, I was riding Balerion, I took my little brother to look for a cannibal wild dragon..." Viserys sighed softly.

"You are brave still, uncle" Maegon assures, "It takes bravery to rule. And it takes bravery to be kind. You are a good King."

Viserys nodded to his nephew's words, taking his hands across the table. Daemon felt warmth in his heart. He couldn't quite understand that sensation, but he sees that part of him feels glad that his son expressed words and emotions he could never say or show, because he didn't know how to.

"Did you know that I was the one who introduced your mother to Daemon?" Viserys asked, with fun in his tone, "Have I ever told you the story?"

"Oh, you haven't!" Maegon engaged, grinning excitedly, "Do tell me, uncle, please."

We were all at Driftmark to prestige Corlys and Rhaenys' wedding. Nobles from all across the Seven Kingdoms were there, and your mother was one of them. I remember she was wearing her house colors in her dress. She was a bit older than your sister is now, I think.

My late wife, Aemma, introduced me to her, I didn't know they were friends. I discovered that the lady whom I had just met, was not only a Princess but also played part as a knight at her father's guard. She wore that dress with such grace, that I thought my ears deceived me when I imagined her wearing armor and ringmail.

My thoughts were disturbed by Caraxes' whistling noises, when Daemon, who was very late for the ceremony, came flying upon our heads, rounding Corlys' castle. Everyone was watching the little show your father was giving, mouth-opened, shocked, scared. Y/N wasn't any of those things. She wasn't impressed at all. I remember asking her;

"Have you ever seen a dragon?"

and smirking, she replied, "Where I come from, we have scarier animals."

"Scarier?" Aemma questioned.

"More dangerous." Y/N reasoned.

"I suppose you're right, Princess Y/N," I said, "There are beings more lethal than a dragon, like the very man who rides it can be far more dangerous for his ideals, than the dragon under his command."

It felt like I summoned my brother once I said those words.

"Prince Daemon" Y/N made a short reverence to greet his presence.

"Brother, let me introduce you to Princess Y/N of Sunspear, she is a good friend of Aemma's."

Daemon kept his smugly signature grin on his lips, and took Y/N's hand in his, kissing the soft skin of her knuckles.

"I am deeply sorry for being late for the ceremony. I hope dear cousin Rhaenys can forgive my missing presence." Daemon changed the subject without paying any interest to the lady who made us company.

His rudeness made me uncomfortable, but it was so like my brother to behave like that.

"Y/N, you should come visit us. Viserys and I would love to welcome your family to Dragonstone." Aemma smiled and looked at me for reassurance.

I nodded, "Feel free to visit whenever you want. It is a very lonely place, and unfortunately, the only family we have there is my brother, as Aemma and I are still trying for a child."

Before Y/N could give us an answer, Daemon retorted, "My apologies if living with your younger brother is not what you expected of marriage."

"It certainly is not what I was expecting." Aemma playfully hit Daemon with her elbow.

Y/N giggled softly and the noise took Daemon's attention. He was quite curious why she was still there, in his presence. Most people who didn't know him are likely to feel uncomfortable with his intimidating presence, but not that girl.

"Are you here with your family?" He questioned. That was the first time he spoke directly to her.

Y/N shook her head, "My father sent me here in his name to prestige Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys, and give them our wedding gift."

"Oh. I see Dorne's economy must be great if its ruler has enough gold to spend on such superficial events." Like always, Daemon felt the need to say something directly rude.

Y/N frowned, "I thank the Gods our economy is doing well. It certainly is not because of your King." she replied. Her head remained raised, and her eyes stared at Daemon's on the same height.

Daemon felt strange. That woman wasn't offended by what he said, and even tried to get under his skin. One had to have such courage to talk to him like that.

"Uhm... Viserys, why don't you take Daemon to get that wine Corlys was talking to you about?" Aemma spoke trying to break the tension.

"When I took him away, he couldn't shut his mouth about Y/N. He was amazed a woman had the guts to talk to him like that, and even so about the King." Viserys finished the story, as Maegon quietly listened to every word he said.

"She never really had much filter, your mother." Daemon said, "Still doesn't."

Maegon frowned, "But... that's it? That's how you met mother? But, when did you start courting her, father?"

"She came to Viserys' coronation ceremony. Aemma was pregnant and couldn't make her company, so I offered myself for my sister-in-law to be the one hosting her friend in King's Landing." Daemon shrugged, "The rest... well, maybe you should ask your mother how it happened. I don't remember very well, but I know she quickly fell in love with me."

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x fem!oc (bonus iii)

a/n: MDNI, rated 18+ (bottom king Cregan) :=> ding, ding, ding! another bonus feature! a special episode of the Stark-fluff, Cregan and Claere are craving some *ahem* "privacy" after the kids, they just cannot seem to get the fuck away from all this.

The halls of Winterfell were cloaked in shadow, the occasional torchlight flickering against the stone. Snow whispered against the windows, and the chill seeped into the air, though the ancient keep held strong against the heart of winter. Cregan Stark moved through the corridors with a hunter’s step, his cloak swaying behind him. It had been a day without incident—a rare blessing—but the quiet only reminded him of what had been missing.

Claere.

She was always busy—lost in her own mind or the needs of their people. If not with their children, she could be found in the godswood, among the crypts, or tending the glass gardens. She had a way of drifting, even when she was right in front of him. Chasing the solace of her own thoughts. It was part of her charm and the source of his greatest frustrations. He could never truly pin her down. Not her spirit. Not her thoughts. She was both his home and his mystery.

Cregan understood it—had always admired her depth—but tonight, he wanted her with him. No duties. No distractions. Just them.

A faint sound drew him to the solar: the unmistakable lilt of a harp. He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and watched her unnoticed. Claere sat by the fire, her harp resting against her lap, fingers dancing over the strings. She wasn’t playing for anyone—only herself, violet eyes closed for the world, her lips barely parted as if the melody had carried her away. The amber of flames kissed her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek, and the line of her jaw.

After nearly sixteen years of marriage, she was still a force of nature. Her beauty had not faded; it had deepened, tempered by years and laughter, her soft edges sharpened by motherhood and the onus that was Winterfell. Yet in moments like these, she seemed untouched by time, still the ethereal girl who had walked into his life with starlight in her eyes. She belonged to Winterfell as much as the snow, the woods, the wolves.

“Have the spirits called for you again, Lady Stark?” His voice broke the silence, teasing.

Her fingers stilled on the harp. She opened her eyes and turned, a smile lighting her face. “No spirits,” she replied, setting the harp aside. “Only the cold. And my lord, it seems.”

He stepped closer, his boots heavy on the stone. “The cold I understand, but why me?”

“Why not?” She rose gracefully, her skirts brushing the floor as she crossed to him. “What brings you out tonight, Cregan? Shouldn’t you be upstairs, dreaming?”

“Dreams are quieter than my wife,” he quipped, his eyes gleaming with humour. “And far less interesting.”

She tilted her head, her gaze sweeping over him in that way of hers—sharp and thoughtful, as though she could see the bones beneath his skin. He raised an eyebrow, half amused and half wary. It'd been long since she'd looked at him like that. He almost felt like he was nineteen again, wishing this quiet, strange dragon princess would grant him the honour of sleeping by her side.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

Claere tapped a finger to her lips. “You.”

“Have you found something worth your study?”

“Perhaps,” she mused, her eyes lingering on his chest. “You’ve grown... broad.”

He snorted. “Broad?”

“Big,” she clarified, her voice lilting with mischief.

“Big,” he repeated flatly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

She shrugged, her expression maddeningly serene. “Wide, then. Broader than when I first met you.”

“Are you calling me fat? Is that how you talk to your lord?” His brows knit together in mock offence.

“I dare not,” she said, her lips twitching with barely concealed laughter.

Cregan took a step back, spreading his arms as if to display himself. Indeed, time had taken its toll on him—his shoulders ranging more like mountains now, his jaw sharper, his gait heavier, and the scars on his hands and knees aching in the frost. His hair, once the dark shade of wolf fur, began to slightly streak with silver, and though he still carried himself with strength, he bore up his longsword, Ice, yet the years of war and rule weighed on him.

“Big, is it? A lord of Winterfell should be big. Winter demands it.”

“Winter demands many things, my lord,” she said, her tone far too serious for her words. She stepped closer, circling him now like a wolf sizing up prey. Her eyes sparkled as she added, “I’ve no complaints. None at all.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. “You’ve a strange way of flattering your husband.”

“Flattery?” she echoed, feigning innocence. “I do not flatter. I speak facts.”

He shrugged off his cloak, tossing it carelessly onto a chair, and placed his hands on his hips. “Hmm. Maybe I have grown plump,” he admitted, rubbing at the scruff on his jaw. “Too much love. It’s fattening.”

She laughed then, her shoulders shaking as she covered her mouth. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“Well, you said it yourself—I’m broad.”

She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. “Strong,” she corrected softly, her humor fading into something gentler. “You’re strong, Cregan. You always have been.”

“Strong... and fat.”

Her laughter softened into a hum against his chest, her breath seeping through the leather of his coat, warming him in ways no fire ever could. For a fleeting moment, the room belonged to just them—the crackle of the flames and the rhythmic drumming of his heartbeat the only sounds. He held her as though anchoring himself, one hand at the small of her back, the other brushing up to the curve of her neck, fingers threading through the silver strands of her hair.

“You’ve made me mad, Claere,” he murmured, his voice gravelly, the words laced with frustration that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His thumb ghosted over her jaw, pausing just at the corner of her mouth. “Since the day you walked into these halls.”

Her hands splayed against his chest, firm yet tender, her gaze lifting to meet his, stormy grey to rich violet. Her smile widened, her teasing spirit undimmed.

“Perhaps I should try harder.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head, though his hand didn’t stray from her face. “You would. Just to see what happens.”

Her gaze dropped, lingering over the broad expanse of his chest. Her fingers traced lazy patterns across the leather, the calluses on her fingertips catching faintly. “And what would happen if you did snap?” she murmured, her voice dropping to something softer, almost daring.

His lips twitched into a smile, but his eyes burned. “You wouldn’t have to wonder long.”

The teasing faded from her face, replaced by something quieter, deeper, as though the air between them grew heavier, richer, in an instant. And without another word, he bent his head, capturing her lips in a kiss that was both fierce and tender, a reclamation of something neither of them had quite lost. Her lips parted for him, and her body softened, melting into him as though it had always been meant to.

The leather of his coat creaked beneath her grip, her hands tightening against him as his own slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her sigh mingled with his, the sound filling the space between them as the firelight flickered against the stone walls.

When he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his breathing was uneven. His voice was thick, heavy with need. “You’ve no idea how maddening you are.”

“Good,” she replied, her words carrying an edge of heat.

He growled softly in response, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he lifted her with ease, her weight nothing in his arms. Her laughter spilled out, light and musical, her legs kicking playfully as they swung over his arm.

“Cregan!” she gasped, half-giddy, half-protesting, her hands clinging to his shoulders for balance.

“Hush, love,” he teased, his voice a husky murmur near her ear as he strode toward their chambers. “Unless you’d like the whole castle to know what I intend to do to you.”

Her lips curved, a wicked gleam lighting her eyes. “What do you intend?” she challenged, though her voice was breathless, the question hanging between them like smoke.

His answer was a heated glance, dark and smouldering, as he nudged open the door with his boot. The wooden slab creaked on its hinges, revealing their private sanctum bathed in the sweet light of nighttime. He stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind him with deliberate finality.

He carried her forward, setting her on her feet with a gentleness that belied the storm in his veins. For a moment, he simply looked at her, his hands lingering on her waist as though unwilling to let go. The moonlight softened her features, glowing her flushed cheeks and tousled hair. She was breathtaking—his Claere, unchanged in some ways, yet more of herself in others. Her hips were fuller now, her body strengthened and shaped by the years and the children she had borne, but to him, she was no less the quiet, strange Targaryen princess who had first stepped into his life.

“You're a torment.” His hands smoothed over her sides, tracing the curves that he knew better than his own heartbeat. “One I wouldn't wish away for anything.”

Her hand rose, brushing his jaw where silver threaded his beard. Her touch was learned, tender. “I have missed this.”

He swore softly under his breath, his hand sliding to her jaw, tilting her face up to his. His mouth found hers, and she sighed into the kiss, her hands fisting gently in his tunic. Her coyness lingered, even now, even after all these years. He felt it in the way her movements hesitated, her touch tentative, as though she were still learning to give herself fully. And he loved her all the more for this delicate, unspoken offering of herself, not because she must, but because she chose to.

“You’ve shared my hearth and bed for nigh on half your life, what is left to hide from me?” he murmured against her lips, his tone laced with a fond teasing.

She laughed softly, a breathless sound, her head ducking against his chest as though to hide. “I can not help it.”

“And I wouldn’t want you to,” he said, his voice gentler now, his hands tracing the curve of her back as he pulled her closer. “I’ve come to love all of it.”

Her blush deepened, but she didn’t pull away, her arms slipping around his neck as he bent to kiss her again. This time, she gave a little more, her hands tangling in his hair, her lips parting beneath his with a shy eagerness that made his chest tighten. He eased her back toward the dresser, their movements slow, unhurried, as though savouring every moment.

Claere gave a quiet gasp, her fingers tightening against his shoulders, but she let him guide her. His hands slid to the laces of her gown, deftly working them loose as his kisses moved along the side of her neck, the rasp of his stubble drawing a soft, shivering sigh from her lips.

Her breath hitched as the loosened fabric slipped over her shoulders, pooling around her waist. He turned her gently, her back pressing against his chest, his rough hands sliding down to rest at her hips. His lips hovered near her ear, tongue tasting the hot skin there, his breath sending gooseflesh across her skin.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, a reverence in the words that made her shiver. His hands slipped along her sides, firm yet measured, as though he meant to memorize her at this moment. “Every time I think I’ve seen all of you, love, you undo me again.”

Her blush deepened, but she didn’t shy away, her hands lifting to brace against the dresser's edge as he pressed closer. His mouth skimmed along the curve of her neck, her shoulder, his teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, her violet eyes fluttering closed as he nudged her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck.

Cregan’s hands roamed lower, roughened palms against soft skin, tugging the fabric of her gown further down her hips. He lifted one of her legs, guiding her knee up onto the edge of the dresser, and his hand slid between her thighs, his hardness digging into the small of her back. Claere’s breath stuttered, her fingers gripping the wood, but she let him draw her body into his as though they were one.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he growled softly, his lips brushing her ear as he spoke. “Do you feel it?”

She could only nod, her voice lost to the way his hand claimed her. The wood bit faintly into her palms as her body arched instinctively against him, dragging against his hardness, his name slipping from her lips like a prayer.

And then—just as the world narrowed to only them, the sharp, insistent knock at the door shattered the moment.

“Ma! Da!”

The sound shattered the air between them like an icy gale, and Claere stiffened. She turned her head, her breathing uneven, her cheeks flushed.

“By the gods, not again,” Cregan muttered, his head dropping to her shoulder as he fought to steady himself, his hands resting possessively at her hips.

Claere’s body shook with silent laughter, her hands resting on his shoulders. “Our little wolves are nothing if not determined.”

“Determined,” he echoed, lifting his head with a resigned sigh. “They’re fucking relentless.”

“They’re your children,” she reminded him, her smile soft as she adjusted her gown, the fabric slipping back over her shoulders.

Cregan rose, running a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the door as though he might burn it to ash with sheer will. The insistent pounding continued unabated, accompanied now by muffled sobs. His jaw tightened.

“One day,” he said, low and grumbling, “I’ll bar this door with iron. No, steel. Or maybe Valyrian locks.”

Claere chuckled softly as she secured her laces. “Until then, duty calls.”

He sighed, stepping toward the door with all the grace of a man facing execution. Claere followed, her hand brushing his arm as though to soften his scowl before it frightened the children.

When the heavy door swung open, the scene outside was a tableau of chaos. Eddric, the youngest of their brood, stood sobbing into his hands, his tiny shoulders shaking with every gasp. Beside him, Rickon stood in staunch defiance, his arms crossed over his chest, his lips pressed into a tight pout as though daring anyone to question his role in the debacle. And peering from behind them was Brandon, his elder brother, his head poking out from the shadow of the hallway, eyes wide with curiosity but no intention of stepping into the fray.

“Ma…” Eddric choked out between sobs, his tear-streaked face lifting to hers, every inch of him trembling with the desperate misery only a child could feel. His small arms reached for her, a silent, aching plea that melted through Claere’s resolve like frost under sunlight.

“My poor lamb,” she murmured, kneeling swiftly to gather him up. He clung to her as though the world itself had turned against him, his fists twisting in her gown. His tiny, hiccuping cries buried themselves into her shoulder, and she stroked his back with soothing circles, her brow furrowing in sympathy.

Behind her, Cregan crossed his arms, his grey eyes narrowing on Rickon, who stood stiff and unrepentant, though the flicker of guilt in his glare betrayed him.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite troublemaker,” Cregan drawled, his tone dry but weighted. “What mischief have you stirred this time?”

Rickon’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch, his gaze meeting his father’s with the stormy defiance of a young wolf testing the boundaries of the pack.

“He kicked me off the bed!” Eddric wailed, lifting his blotchy face just long enough to level a trembling finger at his brother. “It hurts, Ma. Look, it’s everywhere!” He twisted to display his bruises, as though bearing the marks of a battlefield defeat.

Claere gasped, her hand flying to cup his cheek. “Oh, no,” she cooed, her lips brushing the scrape on his elbow with all the care of a healer attending to a grievous wound. “There, mummy's kiss will make it better.”

Rickon groaned, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “He stole my pillow, Da!” he snapped, his frustration spilling in sharp, indignant tones. “It’s mine! He always takes it because it's bigger!”

Cregan exhaled, long and slow, dragging a hand down his face. “Rickon,” he said, his voice tempered with the deep patience of a father stretched thin, “you’re old enough to know that is no cause to toss your brother off the bed.”

“But Da—”

“Enough,” Cregan cut in, his tone firmer now. Without ceremony, he stooped and swept Rickon into his arms, the boy letting out a startled grunt. “Come on. There’s no glory in warring over bedding. Let’s see you to sleep before you declare another rebellion.”

Rickon squirmed briefly before resigning himself to his father’s grip, his head drooping against Cregan’s shoulder as his earlier indignation began to ebb. “It wasn’t fair,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its earlier bite.

“Life seldom is,” Cregan replied, his tone carrying the consequence of hard-earned wisdom. “The sooner you learn that, the better.”

In the warm glow of the hearth, Claere settled herself into a chair, cradling Eddric close. His cries had quieted to soft sniffles, his little fingers clutching her gown like a lifeline. She kissed his bruises, convincing Ed of their healing power, her lips lingering as she murmured something low and soothing, the words meant for him alone. Slowly, his breathing evened, his eyes growing heavier in her arms as sleep claimed him.

Cregan paused in the doorway, Rickon still perched on his arm, and watched her. She looked radiant there, bathed in firelight, the lines of her face softened with love and care. There was a strength to her, a steadiness that seemed to anchor the chaos around her, and he felt the familiar ache of adoration stir in his chest.

Rickon shifted, breaking the spell. “Will you tuck me in, Da?” he asked, his earlier bravado dissolving into the plaintive vulnerability of a child seeking comfort in the safety of his father’s arms.

“Aye,” Cregan said softly, his voice a promise. He gathered the boy close, his small body warm and limp with sleep. “But mind me, lad—no more skirmishes with your baby brother. You’re nearly of age to hold a blade, yet here you are, waging wars over feathers.”

Rickon’s sleepy protest was little more than a grumble, his head drooping against Cregan’s chest. Cregan smiled despite himself, the boy’s weight a familiar and comforting reminder of how fleeting these years would be.

When both boys were finally settled—Rickon snuggled under the heavy quilt with his arms wrapped around a stuffed pillow, shaped like a direwolf, heartfully stitched by his mother, and his younger brother already deep in the dreamscape—the halls of Winterfell grew quiet. Rarely did the great stone keep know such peace, and even then, it felt borrowed, as though it would be whisked away at any moment.

Cregan closed the door to the boys’ room with care, letting the latch click softly into place. The warmth of the fire from their chamber pulled him forward, a beacon after the weariness of the day.

Claere sat curled in the chair by the hearth, her head tilted back against the cushion, her eyes closed. The firelight painted her features in hues of gold and amber, dancing across her skin and catching the loose strands of her silvery braid. The faintest smile curved her lips, a soft and private peace resting there, as though she had tucked it away just for herself.

Cregan leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. For a moment, he said nothing, content to watch her. She was beautiful in a way that wasn’t just about her face, though gods knew that alone could set him spinning. It was the way she carried herself, even in the quiet moments. The love for their children, the unspoken strength she wielded without ever showing it. The way she simply existed in his life was steady and grounding, yet she could still surprise him.

“They’ll drive us off the edge before winter’s through,” he said, his voice breaking the silence but low enough not to startle her.

Her eyes fluttered open, those familiar violet irises finding him across the room. Her smile deepened when she saw him, softening the lines of her face. “And still, we love them.”

“Aye,” he admitted, pushing off the frame and striding toward her. “But tomorrow, I’m hammering iron bars across that bloody door.”

She laughed, soft and warm, and it lit something in him that not even the fire could match. “And what good will that do? They’ll only find another way in.”

He bent low, brushing a kiss to her temple, his hand finding her cheek. Her skin was warm from the fire, and she tilted her face into his touch like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Then perhaps we’ll run off,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rumble. “Let Winterfell fend for itself.”

Her laugh softened into a smile, her eyes glimmering with both affection and exhaustion. “You’d miss them before the sun rose.”

“Not before I had one night alone with my wife,” he countered, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. The delicate flush that bloomed there made his chest tighten with something that felt far too big to name.

She averted her gaze, a shy smile tugging at her lips as her hands fidgeted with the folds of her gown. Even now, after everything—after children, battles, and endless winters—she could still make him feel like a boy with his first love. And gods, he loved her for it—loved the way that quiet modesty clung to her, no matter the hard times they had weathered together.

“On that one night, Claere,” he murmured, leaning closer, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “You will not escape me.”

Her breath hitched, and when her eyes met his again, they were softer, violet raging darker. The smile she gave him then was small but certain, a silent promise that mirrored his own.

“Oh,” she whispered, her voice trembling with just a hint of laughter, “you’d better start planning your escape now, Lord Stark. Because I don’t intend to make it easy for you.”

His laughter rumbled low in his chest as he leaned down to kiss her properly, the warmth of her lips stealing the cold from his bones. In her arms, the long night ahead felt like the shortest one yet.

X

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with warmth and mirth, the heavy timber beams echoing with laughter and the soft strains of a fiddle accompanied by a drum. Outside, winter’s chill pressed against the stone walls, but within, the roaring fire and the camaraderie of the evening held it at bay. Soldiers and bannermen of the Stark household, gathered at the long trestle tables and shared hearty portions of bread, cheese, and venison. Tankards clinked, and stories were exchanged in the low hum of good company.

At the high table, the Stark family gathered under the warm glow of the hearth. The fire crackled softly, adding a golden hue to the rustic stone walls of the great hall. Bran, ever the mischief-maker, had turned his fork into a trident, wielding it with dramatic flair as he jabbed at invisible foes across the table. His shoulders hunched with exaggerated ferocity, his face twisted in mock seriousness.

“Yield, foul beast!” Bran declared, his voice echoing theatrically. “You’ll not escape the mighty trident of House Stark!”

Rickon nearly fell off his bench with laughter, clutching his sides. “You’re poking the air, Bran! What are you even fighting—ghosts?”

“Ghosts of the past, brother,” Bran shot back, waving the fork like a sword. “Or perhaps the ghosts of your dignity after I trounce you at the training yard tomorrow.”

“Ha, you wish!” Rickon retorted, puffing up his chest. “I’ll be the last one standing!”

Edd, the youngest of the boys, let out a delighted giggle as he mimicked Bran’s movements, his tiny fork barely lifting a piece of bread. “I fight ghosts, too, Bran!” he announced, swinging wildly, nearly toppling his goblet.

Cregan, seated at the head of the table, watched the exchange with quiet pride. His sharp features softened as he carved another slice of cheese pie, the aroma filling the air. His lips tugged into a wry smile as he set the pie onto Edd’s plate.

“You’ve a fine sword arm there, Edd,” he said, his voice warm, steady. “But mind the goblet. No knight worth his salt spills his drink before the feast is done.”

Edd straightened in his seat, nodding gravely as if his father’s words held the weight of a king’s decree. “Yes, Da,” he said, before immediately returning to his chaotic fork-wielding.

Luce, ever the bold one, stood on her bench with a flourish, her dark ringlets shimmering in the firelight. “That's nothing!” she declared, pointing dramatically at Bran. “You might be a knight, but I’m a dragon! Watch me!”

Bran rolled his eyes but stepped back with a half-grin. “Go on then, baby dragon. Let’s see you impress.”

Luce didn’t need more encouragement. Lifting the hem of her little gown, she twirled in place, her feet tapping in rhythm to the faint music that drifted from the corner of the hall. Her arms stretched out gracefully as she spun, her movements surprisingly fluid for one so young.

Cregan leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. “Now there’s a sight,” he mused aloud in equal parts admiration and amusement. “A dragon taking flight in Winterfell’s halls.”

Luce beamed, soaking in the attention. “See, Rickon? That’s how it’s done!”

Rickon made a face. “You’re just spinning in circles.”

“It’s a dance, you numpty,” Luce fired back, stomping her foot for emphasis. “You wouldn’t know a proper dance if it bit you on your big nose.”

“I don’t need to,” Rickon shot back, smirking. “Dancing’s for—”

“Careful now, lad,” Cregan interjected, his tone mild but his gaze sharp. “I’d choose your next words wisely. Your brother and sister both dance far better than any warrior I’ve seen wield a blade.”

Rickon muttered something under his breath, but the redness creeping up his neck gave away his embarrassment.

Before Rickon could fully retreat, Bran stepped up beside Luce. “Don’t mind him,” Bran said with a wink. “Let’s show them how dragons really dance.”

He took her hand, and together they moved into the Targaryen dance of dragons as taught by their mother, a series of sweeping, elegant steps punctuated by dramatic turns. For all their playful rivalry, the siblings moved together in harmony, drawing cheers and applause from their small audience.

Cregan leaned back in his chair, his smile broadening as he turned his gaze to Claere. She was seated beside him, her violet eyes distant as she stared into the hearth, lost in her thoughts. Her fingers absently traced the edge of her goblet, and for a moment, she seemed untouched by the revelry around her.

Cregan noticed, as he always did. Reaching out, Cregan placed a hand over hers, stilling her movements. “Claere, love,” he said softly, drawing her attention. She blinked, her eyes meeting his, and he gave her a small, knowing smile. Picking up a piece of cheese pie, he set it gently on her plate.

“Shall we dance?” he asked, his voice low and inviting, his hand lingering over hers.

“Dance?” she echoed, her tone faintly incredulous, as though the idea was something foreign at that moment.

Luce’s voice rang out, breaking the moment. “Come dance, Mummy!” she pleaded, spinning in place with her skirts fanning out.

Claere’s gaze swept over the scene—Bran and Luce moving in harmony, Rickon and Edd clapping along, the soldiers cheering—and something in her softened. Slowly, she stood, smoothing her gown as she turned to Rickon with an inviting smile.

Claere’s gaze swept over the scene—Bran and Luce moving in harmony, Rickon and Edd clapping along, the soldiers cheering—and something in her softened. Slowly, she stood, smoothing her gown as she turned to Rickon with an inviting smile.

“Come, my wolf,” she said, holding out her hand. “Would you like to dance with mummy?”

Rickon’s face lit up as he scrambled to take her hand, his earlier teasing forgotten. Together, they stepped into the centre, laughter and music enveloping them. Luce and Bran laughed, twirling around her, and even little Edd toddled after them, his hands grasping at the air.

Cregan watched from the table, his chest tightening with a feeling too vast to name. Love, pride, gratitude—it was all there, woven into the laughter of his family. Edd tugged at his sleeve, his small voice piping up. “Da, come!”

With a laugh, Cregan stood, scooping Edd into his arms and spinning him in a wide circle. The boy’s delighted giggles rang out as they joined the dance. Cregan moved easily, his large frame surprisingly agile as he passed Edd to Luce and took her tiny hands in her twin's. Around and around they went, trading partners in a joyous whirl of movement.

At last, Claere found herself in Cregan’s arms, the warmth of his hand at her waist anchoring her to him as the music swelled. He pulled her closer, just enough that she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her own. His palm splayed over the fabric of her gown in a way that felt far too intimate for the setting. His fingers traced idle patterns, teasing at her side, each stroke sent shivers rippling across her skin, though she worked hard to keep her composure.

“Cregan,” she murmured, a quiet warning, though it lacked the conviction to be truly stern. Her voice was low enough to stay between them, a secret shared under the cover of music and candlelight. “You are playing a dangerous game.”

His lips quirked into that roguish, wolfish grin she knew far too well. “Am I?” His thumb brushed slow, maddening circles against her spine, just above the curve of her hip, each movement making her skin prickle with heat. He dipped his head slightly, his words a gravelly whisper meant only for her. “Or am I simply enjoying a dance with my wife?”

She shot him a pointed glance, though the edges of her irritation softened with amusement. “The children…”

“Are perfectly distracted.” He nodded toward the far side of the hall, where Rickon and Edd were spinning each other in clumsy circles, their laughter rising above the lively tune. Bran had taken to mimicking Luce’s dance steps with exaggerated precision, his little feet shuffling as he bowed dramatically to his giggling sister. Even the bannermen were caught up in the children’s antics, clapping along with indulgent smiles.

“They’re always watching,” Claere countered, though her tone was soft, her violet eyes flicking to his with equal parts exasperation and delight.

“Not closely enough.” His lips grazed the shell of her ear as he spoke, his voice low and teasing. “And certainly not closely enough to see what I’m thinking right now.”

Her breath caught as his hand slid just a touch lower, the heat of his palm searing through the fabric of her gown. She could feel the strength in his fingers, the deliberate way they lingered near the dip of her hip. He was maddening—utterly, delightfully maddening.

“You frustrate me,” she whispered, the faintest curve tugging at her lips despite her best efforts.

“I do?” He tilted his head, feigning offence, though the mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed him. His thumb brushed dangerously close to her ribs, just beneath the curve of her breast. “That’s a bold accusation, my love.”

Before she could respond, the hall doors groaned open, and a familiar figure entered, cutting through the haze of their quiet intimacy. The maester stepped in, his long grey robes swishing against the stone floor as he carried a scroll marked with the familiar dark imprint.

Cregan’s hand stilled against her, his attention reluctantly pulled away. He sighed, his brow furrowing as duty called to him once more.

“I'll be right back,” he murmured, his voice laced with quiet regret as he stepped back, releasing her from his hold.

Claere watched him go, the absence of his touch leaving her feeling unmoored for a fleeting moment. She turned to the children instead, scooping a squealing Edd into her arms before spinning him around in time with the lively tune. Laughter bubbled up around her, infectious and unrestrained, as the children danced circles around her.

From the corner of the hall, Cregan stood with the maester, the scroll unrolled in his hands. His jaw tightened as he scanned its contents.

Another summons to the Wall. Another month away from home, from her, from all of them.

Once, the call of duty had been a point of pride, a badge of honour he bore without question. But now… now, it felt like a curse. The thought of leaving his family—of enduring endless days without their laughter, their warmth, their very presence—made his chest ache with something akin to grief.

He glanced up from the parchment, his gaze drifting back to the scene before him. The hall was alive with light and music, the children’s laughter echoing off the stone walls. Bran twirled Luce, who curtsied dramatically before breaking into giggles. Rickon and Edd were caught in a mock swordfight, using wooden spoons as weapons, while Claere spun around with them, her hair coming loose from its braid, her smile brighter than the flames in the hearth.

It was a vision of home, of everything he cherished, and yet it was incomplete without him in it. He hated this—the thought of being an outsider to his own life, of missing the moments that made it worth living.

For a moment, he considered crumpling the scroll in his fist, tossing it into the fire, and letting the Wall fend for itself. But duty was duty, and the North would not wait for his whims.

Still, as he folded the parchment and handed it back to the maester, his gaze lingered on Claere. She glanced over at him, her eyes softening when they met his, as if she could sense his misdoubts.

“I’ll come back,” he murmured under his breath, though he wasn’t sure if he was saying it for her benefit or his own.

And gods help him, he hoped it was true.

X

The Glass Gardens stood on the edge of winter, its warmth still holding against the cold creeping in from the North. Frost laced the edges of the glass panels, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the last of the season’s growth. Claere knelt among the pepper stalks, her fingers working deftly as she plucked the ripe ones for the larder. Nearby, Bran huffed, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his silver curls damp with sweat as he fumbled with a stubborn stem.

He grunted as the stalk gave way, nearly tumbling back onto the stone path.

“Careful,” Claere chided, her tone warm with amusement. “You’ll crush the good ones.”

Bran frowned at the small basket at his feet, woefully emptier than hers. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, determined to work faster, but his hands weren’t as practised as his mother’s. Precision was something he’d yet to master, though he tried, keen to impress her.

“Ma?”

She glanced at him from behind a few stalks, pausing in her work.

He hesitated before speaking, his voice careful. “Is Da traveling to the Wall soon?”

Claere stilled for a fraction of a moment, but she nodded, the gladness in her face giving way to something quieter, something closer to grief. She knew this was his duty, the burden that came with his name, but it didn’t make parting from him any easier.

Bran watched her closely, saw the way her fingers tightened around the pepper in her hand. He'd heard the stories—of her voyages beyond the Wall, of the White Dread soaring through the sky where no dragon had ever flown, of how she kept silent about what she had seen. It made him wonder.

“What’s it like out there?” he asked, curiosity bright in his young eyes. “Past the Wall?”

She exhaled slowly, rolling the pepper between her fingers as if weighing the memory. “Cold,” she said at last. “Empty.”

His brows furrowed. “That’s it?”

She hummed, amused. “What were you expecting?”

Bran’s voice picked up with excitement. “Did you see those huge spiders Lord Manderly talked about? And the dead people? And—”

“Bran,” Claere cut him off gently, managing a shaky smile. “What’s all this about?”

His ears pinked slightly, but he lifted his chin, emboldened. “I want to see the Wall, Ma. And the rest of the North.”

Claere tilted her head, watching him. He had always been this way—restless, seeking. They had called him the White Wolf of the North before he had even learned to wield a blade, a name heralded upon him too young, but he had embraced it all the same. He wanted to prove himself to his people, to see the lands he would one day rule. When Ice would come into his hands and the Stark brand across his chest, he wanted to feel as though he had earned it.

There was fire in his voice, the same fire his father carried when he spoke of duty, of oaths, of the weight of the Stark name. Claere tilted her head, watching him closely.

He was growing. He was only eleven, but she already saw the man he would become. The boyhood roundness had begun to fade from his face, his features sharpening into something more severe, more Stark. He was no longer a babe at her breast, no longer the child who would curl into her side on the coldest nights. And yet, when he spoke, she heard the ache of a boy who felt caged.

"They never let me come with them," he muttered, stripping a leaf between his fingers. "Not to the hunts in the Wolfswood. Not even to sit with them in the Great Hall when Da holds judgment. He—" Bran stopped himself, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Claere understood in an instant.

Cregan loved his son—loved him fiercely, protectively. But he was the heir to the North, and his father, in his worry, kept him wrapped in furs, tucked away from the bitter winds of the world, shielding him from the lessons that should have been his to learn.

She sighed, brushing her fingers through his sweat-damp curls, a feature he had stolen from her. “What is it, Bran?”

His nose scrunched, but he didn’t pull away. "I want to know it all," he said earnestly. "The mountains, the rivers, the villages that call our name their shield. I want to know the land before I’m meant to rule it."

There was steel in his words, a quiet stubbornness she knew all too well. It was a little something he'd picked up from his father dearest.

Her fingers stilled against his hair, and something deeper stirred in her gaze. “The North is vast,” she murmured, smoothing a curl from his face. “And cruel, sometimes.”

“I can be strong,” he insisted. “Like you. Like Da.”

Claere sighed, her palm coming to rest against his cheek. She had given him life, but Cregan had given him a duty, and between the two of them, he would never be anything less than honourable. Still, honour alone could not shape him. He needed more than rules, more than lessons spoken from the mouths of men who had already lived their lives. He needed to step into his own.

He needed to be allowed to try.

"Ma?" His voice was softer now, uncertain.

"Hm?"

"Will you talk to Da?"

She tilted her head. "About?"

Bran hesitated, then squared his shoulders. "I don't need to be coddled. I'm not weak. I want to be out there—I need to be. Da's always telling me what I must be, what I should become. How can I, if I'm never given the chance?"

Claere saw it now—how this had been weighing on him, how the bitterness sat heavy on his tongue.

He wasn’t wrong. And Cregan, she knew, would never let their son feel weak, not if he understood what he was doing to him.

"I'll speak to your father," she said gently. "I am truly sorry you feel this way, Bran. I'll make it up to you."

Bran looked away, guilty. "Not your fault, Ma."

“No, love.” She cupped his face, tilting him back toward her. “Your father loves you very much, but he can't see past his own fears. I swear to you, I will fix this.”

He nodded, lips pressing together, but she could see the hope rekindling in his eyes.

"Thank you," he said, and then—without hesitation—he wrapped his arms around her, dirt-streaked sleeves and all.

Claere smiled, holding him close, her hand stroking the back of his silver head.

"Oh, my sweet boy."

And though she knew the world would try to shape him, to harden him, she prayed that some part of him—the warmth, the earnestness, the light—would never fade.

X

The water was still warm, steam curling lazily into the cold morning air of the chambers. Cregan sat back against the edge of the wooden tub, the heat licking away at the tension coiled in his shoulders, though it did little to soothe the storm brewing in his mind. He rested his arms on either side, droplets cascading off his skin and into the bath with quiet plinks.

The room smelled faintly of pine and ash from the hearth, the scent mingling with the lingering lavender oil she’d left behind on the table by their bed. Her touch was everywhere—on the neatly folded throw draped over the chair, on the intricate carvings of dragons and wolves in the wooden headboard she had commissioned from the artisans of White Harbor. Even the small porcelain vase near the window, filled with wildflowers, was hers.

It was infuriating, how much he already missed a place he hadn’t yet left.

The Wall, the raven, the Wildlings—his duty, gnawing at him like a wolf to bone. For the first time in years, the honour he once carried so proudly felt more like a chain than a badge. He could feel its significance, cold and unrelenting, pressing against his chest.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his brow, his gaze settling on the door as it creaked open. His wife stepped in like a shadow carried on the wind, her figure cutting through the flickering light of the chamber. Claere’s riding leathers hugged her frame, dark and worn from years of use, the supple material creaking faintly as she moved. The sight was arresting—always had been.

Cregan let himself look, unashamed in his admiration. It was too early for their little rascals to storm in with their endless energy, and for once, he could simply take her in. Her hair, still loosely plaited, caught the faint light filtering through the frost-glazed windows, glinting like spun silver. Her steps were unhurried, carrying herself with that same quiet intensity that made even the most seasoned men hesitate in her presence. That had not changed one bit.

“You’re up early,” she murmured, low but clear as if the morning itself bent to her tone.

He tilted his head slightly, watching her as droplets from his arm traced rivulets down the tub’s edge.

“The same could be said of you. You reek of dragon,” he rumbled.

“Mine is expected. Yours isn't.”

Claere paused by the table, her fingers brushing over the small vase of wildflowers she’d placed there days ago. She glanced at him, her violet eyes unreadable.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” she said simply, her gaze not accusing, merely observant as if she’d caught him in the act of something far less honourable than stewing in his thoughts.

His brow furrowed, his grey eyes narrowing in faint surprise. Claere rarely commented on him—let alone noticed him enough to remark on his habits. It stirred something unexpected in his chest, though he’d sooner die than admit it.

A brazen smirk tugged at his lips as he shifted, leaning back and letting the water lap lazily at his chest. “No, I didn’t,” he admitted, his tone softer now. “Too much on my mind.”

She didn’t reply, not immediately. Instead, she began to unhook the clasps of her riding leathers softly. His gaze followed the motion of her hands, deft and practised, until she slipped the jacket free, revealing the loose linen shirt beneath. There was a calm precision to her movements, the same as when she drew a fork and knife, or mounted her dragon. Everything Claere did seemed deliberate, as though she gave thought even to the air she breathed.

“You could join me, you know. I'd appreciate the pleasure of your company,” he drawled, the hint of a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. His voice was teasing, but there was a warmth in his gaze that betrayed something deeper, something softer.

She cast him a glance, one eyebrow arching, though her expression remained otherwise unreadable. “It’s barely sunrise,” she replied, setting the jacket neatly on the chair. “And I doubt the water’s warm enough for two.”

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Oh, it’s warm enough. I've kept it warm for you,” he countered, his gaze dropping to her hands as she rolled up her sleeves. “You’re always complaining I keep this place too cold.”

Claere moved to the edge of the tub, folding herself onto the wooden step beside it with that same fluid grace he’d come to know so well. The firelight cast shadows along her cheekbones, softening the sharpness of her features, though her eyes never lost their edge. She rested her hands on her knees, her fingers tracing faint patterns against the fabric.

Cregan studied her, the curve of her mouth, the way her hair framed her face. He reached out, his hand dripping and warm, and cupped her cheek. She didn’t flinch, didn’t move away, even as his palm left a faint, damp imprint against her skin.

Her gaze was unyielding, quiet and searching. She knew him too well.

“The raven?”

He nodded to her, letting his hand drop back into the water with a soft splash. “I am not ready,” he said, as though it had been sitting on his chest since the letter arrived.

She said nothing, only shifted closer, her fingers beginning to trace idle circles on his forearm where it rested against the rim of the tub. Her silence was infuriating, as it always was, but it also steadied him in a way he’d never admit.

“They want me to see to the Free Folk,” he said, his voice carrying the bitterness of old grudges and honour-bound duty. “The ones you opened our gates for. They need assurances that the North hasn’t turned on them. They say there’s unrest. Whispers in the winds beyond the Wall.”

“It’s been a long while since you’ve been up there,” she murmured, her tone calm, almost detached.

“Aye.”

Claere’s fingers moved absently, tracing small geometric shapes against his arm. “Take me with you.”

Cregan huffed out a sharp breath, his frown deepening. “Pains me to refuse, but Luce and Edd need you here.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, but her lips thinned. “Then take Bran along.”

He barked a short, mirthless laugh, rubbing at his temple. He exhaled heavily, leaning back against the tub. “Bran's a boy, love.”

“One and ten,” she countered, her tone sharp enough to bite his resistance. “He’s nearly a man grown.”

Cregan stared at her, her words lingering in the heavy air like the echo of a distant horn. Claere’s violet eyes burned with an intensity that could have melted the frost clinging to Winterfell’s walls, and for a moment, he forgot the bath’s warmth as her words settled over him.

“You think I don’t know what he’s capable of?” Cregan’s voice was low, a growl beneath his breath. “He’s strong with the sword, quick on his feet, and gods know he can shoot better than I could at his age. But out there”—he gestured vaguely, his wet hand scattering droplets across the room—“it’s not just about skill. It’s about surviving, about looking into the eyes of a man who would gut you just to see how deep the blood runs, and still standing tall. You think I don’t see the boy still in him?”

Claere’s jaw tightened, her arms crossing as she leaned against the edge of the tub. Her hair glimmered in the dim firelight, a halo of silver against the shadows, but there was nothing soft in her stance. She looked like she belonged atop a dragon, unyielding and fierce.

“He won’t learn survival from sparring swords and the yards,” she said, her voice quieter now, though no less pointed. “You’re his father, the Lord of Winterfell. You’ve shown him how to swing a blade, how to aim a bow. But have you shown him the North? The real North? The Wall, the rivers, the Wolfswood? He needs more than stories and practice, Cregan. He needs to see what it is to be a Stark.”

Cregan’s fingers flexed against the rim of the tub, his calloused knuckles whitening. “You’d send him to the Wall? To see wildlings and brothers who've taken the black and a land that doesn’t care if you live or die?”

“I’d send him with you,” Claere insisted, leaning closer. Her voice softened, though the steel in it remained. “With his father. The man who survived it all, who brought the North back stronger than it was before. Show him what that strength looks like. Show him that carrying the North isn’t just his duty—it’s his legacy.”

Cregan stared at her, the firelight casting shadows over the planes of his face. His chest rose and fell with slow, measured breaths, the lines of worry etched into his brow deepening.

“And if it breaks him?” he asked quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Claere’s expression softened, her fingers reaching out to trace the line of his damp jaw. Her touch was warm, a lifeline in the sea of doubt swirling inside him. “Then we'll be there to put him back together. That’s what parents do, isn’t it? You’re not sending him alone, Cregan. You’re leading him. Let him follow.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. The room was silent but for the faint crackle of the fire and the quiet ripple of water as he shifted. Finally, he exhaled, a sound heavy with resignation and something else—acceptance, perhaps.

“You’d make a fine wolf, Claere,” he muttered, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Sharper teeth than mine, I think.”

“I've got fire, I have no need for teeth.”

Her lips curved, faint but real, and her hand lingered at his jaw for a moment longer before she stepped back, her expression turning devilish in that understated way she often employed. Her fingers moved deftly to the fastenings of the final layer of leathers, undoing the ribbons one by one, her movements intended as though she meant for him to watch. And watch he did.

Cregan’s arms tensed at the edge of the tub, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her, each piece of leather peeled away and set aside, revealing inch after inch of smooth, pale skin kissed by the faint glow of firelight, softened by time. She didn’t rush, letting his gaze settle over her. Basking in it.

When at last she stood bare before him, becoming winter itself, he tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk on her lips as though to say, What are you waiting for?

The water rippled as she stepped into the tub, testing, graceful and slow. Steam curled in languid tendrils around her legs as she sank in, the warmth pulling a soft sigh from her lips. Cregan reached for her, his large hands steady as they found her waist, drawing her fully onto his lap. The water surged over the edges, cascading down the wooden sides and pooling onto the stone floor, but he didn’t care. His laughter rumbled low in his chest as he pulled her close, her bare skin pressing against his. He'd found heaven for a brief moment.

“There you are,” he murmured. “Much better.”

Claere’s fingers ghosted over a scar on his collar bone, the faint line of it cutting pale against the weathered bronze of his skin. Her touch lingered, as though her fingertips could feel the memory etched there, as though it might speak its story aloud.

“This one,” she said, “I remember.” Her fingers traced the ridge again, reverently, unflinching. “A missed arrow?”

“Missed by half,” Cregan replied, his grin sharp and laced with that wolfish pride she knew so well.

He let his hand glide up her spine, warm from the water, catching at the loose braid that framed her face. With a deliberate tug, he undid it, her silver-streaked hair spilling like moonlight over her bare shoulders, the strands dampening where they kissed the surface of the bathwater.

She hummed faintly, her lips twitching at the corner. “Your pride, your stories—they weigh on you like old armour,” she said, her tone teasing but threaded with something heavier. Her hand pressed flat against his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath beneath her palm. “What happens when the wolf grows too weary to wear them?”

“A wolf never does,” he countered, but there was no edge to it, no sharpness. Only affection as his thumb brushed against her cheek, tracing the faint flush of warmth brought on by the steam. “And what of you, dragon-rider? Does your fire burn low, or will you fly until your wings fail?”

Her brow arched, her lips curving faintly upward. “I would burn the sky if it meant keeping this family safe,” she said softly, but the fire within it was unmistakable.

She let her fingers trail down his chest, tracing old scars, each mark a story only she was privy to.

Cregan’s hand lingered between them, tracing absent patterns along the damp skin of her shoulder. As he worked water through her hair with slow, deliberate motions, he drew in a steadying breath and tried his tongue at the language that still sat awkwardly on it, the words as foreign to him as the heat of Dorne in winter.

“Skorī dōron ēza... ao gevive iā.... drīvo, nyke... brōzi hen... gevivys,” he said slowly, his Northern accent thick, the flow of the words more like the creak of a winter tree than the silk of fire. If a man is shaped by stories, I burn with them.

Claere paused, her fingers lightly brushing his forearm as her lips twitched at the corners. “Brōzi? Truly?” she murmured, her voice laced with restrained amusement. She tilted her head back, looking at him with those violet eyes that always seemed to see through him, to the marrow of the man beneath. “You meant to say sīragon, didn’t you?” From.

Cregan grunted, his jaw tightening in mock frustration. “Let a man try, Claere,” he muttered, rolling his eyes skyward, though a wry grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s like twisting my tongue into a knot. And here you are, ready to skin me for it.”

She chuckled and leaned closer, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “It’s good to see you stumble now and again,” she teased lightly, her lips brushing his ear as she added in her mother tongue, “Ziry kesir iksis gevivys hen gevivys syt īlva tolvio.” That is what stories are for—for our struggles.

“I caught that,” Cregan shot back, his grin widening despite himself. He reached for her waist, pulling her flush against him in the water, which sloshed dangerously close to the edge of the tub. “And I’ll tell you what I’m good at regarding stories, love. Living them.”

“Oh?” she arched a brow, her tone a mockery of scepticism even as her fingers skimmed down his chest. “What tale do you think you’re writing now, my lord?”

“One where the winter's queen joins the king in the North for a bath,” he growled playfully, his voice low as he pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat. “And he doesn't misspeak.”

“Not often, anyway,” she quipped.

Her laughter faded, but the warmth of it lingered between them. She leaned into him, her forehead coming to rest against his shoulder. He felt her sigh, her body melting into his like snow against the sunlit stone. His hand moved rhythmically, pouring water, untangling her hair, each stroke of his fingers careful. But there was something about her quietness now that unnerved him. The silence between them wasn’t hollow—it was heavy, as though the air itself waited for something to break.

“Cregan,” she said finally, her voice quiet but heavy, like a snowstorm building on the horizon. “I want to fly past the Wall again.”

The words didn’t land immediately. For a moment, the fire crackled, the faint scent of woodsmoke filling the air, and her voice hung there, unacknowledged, like a raven circling a battlefield. But then, like an axe cleaving through frozen bark, the meaning struck. His hands stilled against her back, and the silence between them became brittle.

Slowly, he moved, setting the water aside. His fingers lingered on her shoulder, reluctant to let go, as if even that small gesture might allow her words to take root. She turned just enough for him to see her face, her profile illuminated by firelight. The high cheekbones he’d traced with his thumb a hundred times, the proud line of her nose, the haunting violet of her eyes—all of it was familiar. And yet, what burned behind her gaze now was something foreign. Something he didn’t want to know.

“The Wall?” His voice was calm, but the sharp undertone betrayed him. “Why?”

“I need something,” she murmured, the words nearly swallowed by the crackle of the fire. Her eyes softened, but her jaw tightened, her resolve solidifying even as her voice quavered.

Cregan stiffened. The memory of her last flight past the Wall came rushing back, vivid and unforgiving. The days of waiting, the weeks of sleepless nights after her return, when she woke gasping for air, her hands clutching at her throat as if warding off unseen terrors. The Wall hadn’t just taken from her—it had nearly swallowed her whole.

“You needed something the last time, too,” he said, his voice low and cold as iron. “And it nearly destroyed you. I will not allow this.”

“Cregan—”

“No.” His hand caught her chin, tilting her face toward him, his gray eyes meeting hers with unflinching force. “Don’t ask me this again, Claere.”

“But—”

“Please.” His voice cracked, his plea pulling it down to little more than a whisper. “Don’t.”

For a moment, she looked like she might argue, her lips parting, her breath hitching. But then, something inside her faltered. Instead, she pressed her face into his chest, her trembling fingers clutching at his sides. He wrapped his arms around her instinctively, as if by holding her tightly enough, he could keep her anchored, stop her from drifting toward whatever shadowed place she sought.

“I just…” she began, her voice muffled against his skin. “Have you ever wondered, after I’m gone, what I’ll leave behind?”

Her words were a blow, swift and unexpected. Cregan stiffened, his arms tightening around her as though she might slip through them.

“Gone?” he echoed, his voice faint, disbelieving. He tried to summon a chuckle, something to lighten the moment, but it came out jagged and hollow. “You’ll leave Luna, of course. That terror of a beast. It'll live another ten centuries. And our children—wolves with their mother’s fire, gods help us.”

She didn’t laugh. Instead, she pulled back, her hands resting on his chest, her face shadowed with an intensity he couldn’t meet without flinching. “I do not jest,” she said softly, each word carving into him like frostbite.

His smile faded entirely, replaced by a deep furrow in his brow as he searched her face for answers. “What is this about?” he asked, his voice soft, coaxing. His hand came up to brush through her damp hair, a gesture as soothing for him as it was for her. “Does something trouble you, love?”

Her gaze dropped, her teeth catching at her bottom lip—a small, vulnerable tell that cut deeper than any words could. “Cregan, we don’t have long in this realm,” she said, her voice steady but low. “None of us do. And we must do what is needed for the future.”

“And the Wall offers you a future?” His voice hardened, anger creeping in now. It wasn’t the wild, hot anger of a battlefield, but a cold, slow-burning fury. “It’s taken enough from you already.”

“I’ve seen the aftermath,” she said, her tone calm but unrelenting. She lifted her gaze to meet his, and there was something in it that chilled him to his core. “After me.”

Her words cut deeper than the sharpest blade. He understood now. She wasn’t speaking of leaving—at least, not in the sense he wanted to believe. She was speaking of her absence. Her death.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his arms pulling her closer as though he could tether her to him, to the present, to life itself. His chest felt tight, and his breath became shallow.

“You won’t leave me behind,” he said again, the faintest crack betraying his fear. “You can’t.”

Her gaze held his, unwavering, but he saw the glint of severity there, refracting the firelight like shards of ice. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising tide of dread that threatened to overwhelm him. She’d seen something—he knew it. And it gnawed at him like a wolf at a bone.

The thoughts came unbidden, tumbling over each other in his mind. Had she seen it? How had it come for her? Was it a blade, sharp and sudden, cutting her life away in an instant? Was it poison, insidious and slow, stealing her breath while he was too far to help? Or a fall, her body broken on the frozen ground before he could catch her? His hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening as he struggled to contain the frantic thoughts spinning wildly out of control.

He didn’t want to know, not truly, but the thought of not knowing was worse. He searched her face, his heart hammering against his ribs like a storm battering at a gate.

“Death is not something we must fear,” she said softly. Her hand came up to his face, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that belied the weight of her words. “Not for Northerners. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

“And what am I without you?” he asked, his voice a mere breath. He grasped her hand where it rested against his cheek, holding it as though it might anchor him. “If you leave me, I have nothing. I am nothing. No dreams. No fight. No life. If you manage to leave me somehow, you will not go alone. I will follow.”

Her expression softened, a sorrowful smile curving her lips. She reached up to brush her thumb along his cheekbone, catching the tear he didn’t realize had fallen. “I know,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

He swallowed hard, the words clawing their way up his throat. “How... does it happen?”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Her gaze dropped to the space between them, her fingers still lightly tracing his cheek. When she spoke, her voice was soft but resolute.

“Not for a long time,” she said.

The words struck him deeply, unraveling the tension that had gripped him like a vice. Not for a long time. He exhaled, his breath shuddering as though he had been holding it for years, his shoulders loosening from the weight of dread. It wasn’t a dismissal of the future, but a promise that there was more to come—more moments, more life, more everything.

His thoughts slowed, anchoring on the here and now. The curve of her lips, the heat of her body pressed against his, the faint lavender scent that clung to her hair—this was what mattered. This was the life they had yet to live, the future she spoke of, not just a far-off end but the fullness of days between now and then.

He tilted his head, studying her with a crooked grin that didn't quite hide the lingering edge of his earlier unease. “You’ve got a real talent for ruining a perfectly good bath,” he muttered, his voice low.

Her lips quirked, amusement flickering in her violet eyes. “Do I?”

“Aye,” he said, his hand sliding to her hip beneath the water, his touch firm but playful. “But I’m not letting you turn this into some talk of doom and death.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he added, “You’ve got better things to focus on.”

She arched a brow, her lips curving into that sly smile that always managed to disarm him. “Better things?”

“You, in my arms, all beautiful lips and legs,” he murmured, his other hand slipping up to cradle her jaw. “I’d say that’s better than any talk of what’s to come.”

Her blush deepened, but her smile didn’t waver. “Is this your way of distracting me?”

“It’s my way of reminding you,” he said, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, his lips brushing against her skin with deliberate slowness, “that we’ve still got tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after that.” He kissed her fully then, a slow, lingering press of his mouth that carried everything he didn’t want to put into words.

When he pulled back, his grin had turned roguish, his grey eyes gleaming with mischief. “Besides,” he added, his hand slipping lower under the water, “I’m not done with you yet.”

She let out a soft gasp, her hands pressing against his chest as she gave him a mock glare. “Lord Stark, you are incorrigible.”

“Incorrigible, aye,” he murmured, tilting his head as if in thought. His fingers teased along her waist, drawing her closer until their bodies pressed together. “But you’ve yet to complain about it.”

“I could start now,” she quipped, her voice light despite the way her breath hitched when his hand slid lower, brushing against the bare curve of her hip.

He smirked, unrepentant, leaning back against the tub's edge as he pulled her onto his lap, water sloshing around them. “Could you, though?” His voice was a low rumble, filled with a teasing warmth. “Or would you rather stay like this, letting me remind you how much you love a Stark who doesn’t know when to quit?”

Her laughter bubbled up, soft and unguarded, and she settled against him, her legs folding to either side of his hips. “You have an awfully high opinion of yourself.”

“It’s hard not to, with you looking at me like that,” he said, his hands splaying against the small of her back. His thumbs drew slow, deliberate circles against her skin as he tilted his head to catch her gaze. “Like you’d fight the gods themselves to keep me.”

Her teasing smile faltered, something softer blooming in its place. “Don’t make me admit to such things,” she whispered, her fingers trailing over the scars on his chest. “Your ego’s insufferable enough.”

“I’ll admit it for you,” he said, lowering his voice as his fingers danced up her spine. “You’d have my heart torn from my chest if it meant keeping it beating for you. Don’t deny it.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t—not with the way her silence spoke louder than words, her hands trembling slightly as they cupped his face. She held him there, staring into the storm-grey of his eyes as though she could lose herself in them.

“Don’t think this means I’ll forget what we were talking about,” she said at last, her tone soft but resolute.

“Not tonight,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion as he cupped her face in return, his thumbs brushing over the high planes of her cheekbones. “Tonight, it’s just you and me. No ravens, no Wall, no ghosts of what’s to come. Just us.”

Her gaze softened, her lips parting as though to argue—but the words didn’t come. Instead, she leaned into him, her forehead pressing gently to his, her breath mingling with his in the quiet intimacy of the moment. “I'd like that very much,” she murmured, her voice a whisper of surrender.

For a moment, he let the world slip away. Let himself drown in the feel of her—the press of her body against his, the scent of her hair, damp and clinging to her shoulders, the contrast of her warmth against the chill curling through the room. He would not let himself dwell on the shadows of the future—not tonight. Not when she was here, flesh and fire, burning bright enough to chase away every dark thought.

His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up until her violet eyes met his, wide and searching. He kissed her slow, deep, savouring the shape of her mouth, the softness that yielded to him even as he felt the quiet strength beneath it. When he pulled back, his smile had returned—soft, but still edged with mischief.

“Enough of death and despair,” he murmured, tracing the seam of her lips with his thumb. “I’m more interested in seeing if you’ll laugh again.”

Her brow arched, though the corner of her mouth lifted in something close to amusement. “Laugh?”

“Aye.” His hand slipped beneath the water, slow, sliding up the length of her thigh. Finally, he cupped the warm space between her legs. “That sound that could warm even these stones.”

Her breath hitched—a sharp, stuttered thing as if caught between surprise and surrender. Cregan felt the way she tensed beneath his fingers, her thighs clenching around his hand, for a moment before they eased, parting wider beneath the water. The heat of her, the slickness, the way she yielded to him even after all these years—it sent fire curling through his veins, made something primal in him stir.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, slow and lingering, his lips trailing down to her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her throat. She smelled of the oils in the bath, the faintest hint of spiceflowers and winter roses, but beneath that, she was still just Claere—his Claere, the woman who had given him everything.

His fingers moved again, curling inside her, stroking, pressing in deep. She made a sound then, quiet but breathless, her nails digging into his shoulders, her head tilting back against his chest. He could feel her heartbeat against his lips, a wild, fluttering thing, the way it always was when he touched her like this—like she wasn’t a mother of his children, wasn’t the Lady of Winterfell, but just the woman who had always been his.

Her thighs shifted, parting wider beneath the water, as if trying to push his fingers deeper within her, a silent plea. He chuckled, low and dark against her ear, dragging his teeth gently over the delicate skin there.

“I wish you could see yourself now,” he murmured, nipping at her lobe before soothing the spot with his tongue. “Undoing yourself against my hand.”

A whimper slipped past her lips, her fingers tightening where they gripped his arms. He felt her shift against him, pressing back, as if seeking more from his palm, that spot beneath her belly, as if she couldn’t stand the slow, torturous rhythm of his hand.

“Cregan,” she whispered, his name a plea, a demand, a prayer.

He groaned softly, his free hand smoothing over her hips, lingering over the faint scars left behind by the life she had carried for him. Evidence of the children she had borne, of the pain she had endured, of everything she had given him—and yet, still, she was here. Still, she was his.

She turned slightly in his arms, enough for him to see the flush rising high on her cheeks. “The scars won't go. No matter how much I scrub.”

Cregan chuckled, low and deep. “Let them be,” he echoed her earlier words, dragging his nose down the slope of her neck, breathing her in, “it's like a map. To my favourite place in this realm.”

His fingers slid from between her thighs, and she whimpered softly at the loss. He didn’t tease her for it, not this time. He only gripped her hips, turning her in the water until her back was flat against his chest, straddling his lap.

Water sloshed against the edges of the bath, spilling onto the stones again, but neither of them paid it any mind. He caged her there, wrapped in the warmth of his body, his mouth ghosting along the curve of her neck. A slow, heated drag of lips and teeth, a quiet claim.

His hands wandered, splaying across her stomach before gliding lower, fingers tracing the soft curve beneath her belly button. “Do you remember the first time?” he murmured against her ear, his voice rough, teasing.

She shivered, her fingers tightening where they rested on his thighs beneath the water. “Of course I do.”

His teeth grazed her earlobe, playful, before he pressed a kiss just below it. “Do you remember how you trembled for me?”

She huffed a breath, both exasperated and breathless. “Cregan—”

He chuckled, low and deep. “Still do, I think.”

His fingers dipped lower, finding her again, teasing, stroking with lazy intent. Her head tipped back against his shoulder, a quiet moan slipping from her lips as he dragged his knuckles along her most sensitive place, slow and deliberate.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Let me have you.”

Claere’s breath stuttered, her fingers digging into his forearm, bracing herself against him as he eased her into it, as he coaxed her open with unhurried patience. His other hand smoothed over her stomach, pressing her back more firmly into him, grounding her as she trembled, adjusting to the steady, claiming stretch of his fingers.

She burned for him. Even after all these years, after all the nights spent tangled in each other, he still made her feel this way—like he was the only thing that existed, like her body was made to welcome him and only him.

Cregan exhaled sharply against her neck when she rocked into his touch, a breathless, greedy motion, chasing more, chasing him. He let her, let her take what she needed, let her move with him until she was slick and wanting, until her body was soft and eager against his own.

Then, with a quiet groan, he withdrew his fingers, shifting beneath her. As he tasted his fingers on his tongue, he realized how he would've preferred dryer ground than this tub, to let himself simply savour the taste of her for as long as he pleased.

She gasped when he aligned them, a sharp "ah!", a shudder running through her as he pushed inside, slow, stretching her inch by inch. She clenched around him instinctively, her hands flying to his thighs beneath the water, nails pressing into his skin as she sucked in a breath, caught between pleasure and the sheer, unbearable ache of taking him entirely into her.

Cregan groaned, his own body taut with restraint, his grip on her hips firm but gentle as he gave her time.

“It's alright, love,” he soothed against her ear, his lips brushing the shell of it. “I’m here. Slow.”

She exhaled shakily, letting herself sink back against him, letting herself adjust, letting herself feel every inch of him as he seated himself fully inside her. He swore he could feel her heartbeat right there.

He stayed still for a long moment, his breath hot against her damp skin, his hands smoothing over her stomach, her hips, her thighs, feeling her, waiting.

“Cregan,” she whispered, desperate now, the stretch melting into something unbearable in a wholly different way.

His arms manacled around her. “Move for me,” he murmured, coaxing, his hands guiding her hips, helping her find the rhythm that was theirs alone.

And when she did—gods. The heavens itself. Thunder crashing. Rain falling. A fucking avalanche. None of those phenomena came close. Every time, it was as if she had never known him at all.

And then—

A sharp, unsteady breath left her as she rocked against him, slow at first, a careful slide of bodies beneath the water, the movement languid and fluid like the tide. Cregan groaned low in his throat, his grip tightening on her hips, his fingers pressing into the curve of her neck, as if to keep himself from losing all restraint. It almost slipped past him.

“Just like that, Claere, yes,” he murmured against her temple, the praise breathy and rough, setting off a shiver down her spine.

Claere inhaled sharply as she pushed down again, the stretch of him sending pleasure curling deep in her belly, sharp and intoxicating. Her hands found his arms, clutching at the thick muscle beneath damp skin, seeking something to hold onto as he guided her into the rhythm, his body meeting hers in slow, wet thrusts. Every inch of him burned to go harder, faster, make her fall apart for him, But he wouldn't rush this—not when he had her, not when he could savour every second.

She arched into him, her head falling back against his shoulder, exposing her throat. He took advantage of it immediately, his lips dragging along the delicate column of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin, nipping, soothing, marking her as his own.

“I've missed this, missed you, missing being inside you,” he whispered, voice hoarse, strained, a kiss on her shoulder for each punctuation. His hands slid up, tracing the swell of her breasts beneath the water, rolling a peaked nipple between his fingers until she gasped, her body clenching around him.

She whimpered, pressing her hands over his, guiding them lower, needing more, needing everything. He gave it to her, rolled his fingers at that very spot, his touch rough and knowing, his pace quickening just enough to make her moan, to make her toes curl against the marble beneath them.

Her name fell from his lips like a prayer, reverent, desperate. He had touched her like this a thousand times, had kissed every inch of her body, had watched her unravel in his arms more times than he could count—and yet, every time felt like the first.

And every time, he was wrecked for her. Ravaged. Devastated. Left lost in her.

She was close now, he could feel it in the way her muscles tightened around him, the way her breath grew uneven, in the way her hands trembled against his own. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to let go, to chase his own pleasure, determined to take her there first. It was his taste of paradise, to see her explode onto him.

“There's my girl,” he rasped, his fingers slipping lower, finding the place that made her break. “Give it to me, love. All of it.”

She did.

Her body tensed, her back arching as pleasure crashed over her in a sharp, shuddering wave. She clenched around him so tight he swore he saw stars, her moan breathless, mouth falling open into a silent scream, her nails digging into his skin.

Cregan groaned, his control snapping, his grip on her tightening as he thrust into her once, twice, before he was spilling into her with a ragged sound, his entire being wrenching inside out, his head dropping against her shoulder.

For a moment, as colour flooded back into his sight, there was only the soft lap of water against their skin, the slow rise and fall of their breaths. Home, home, home, was all he could think about. She was his home.

He let out a long, satisfied sigh, his grip on her loose but lingering, hands still smoothing over the curve of her waist, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Claere slumped against his chest, her body boneless, skin flushed, hair damp against his shoulder.

“Well, Claere,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, “you’ve officially fucked me out.”

Claere hummed, half-lidded and pleased, her fingers idly tracing the ridges of his forearm. “Mmm.”

He huffed a laugh, nosing into her damp hair. “Mmm?”

She grinned, stretching out in his lap like a cat, unabashed, utterly content. “I like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Spent,” she purred, tipping her head back to meet his gaze, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Sweet. A little ruined.”

Cregan groaned, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub, but he was smiling. “Give me a moment to recover, woman, before you start making me hard again.”

Claere hummed, trailing a slow finger down his chest, tracing the scars and muscles that she knew as well as her own skin. “Recover already?” she mused, tilting her head, feigning innocence. “What a shame. I thought the mighty Lord Stark had more verve than this.”

Cregan cracked an eye open, giving her a look—half amusement, half warning. “Watch yourself.”

“Oh, I am,” she whispered, shifting in his lap just enough to feel the lazy thrum of heat still there beneath the surface. She smirked. “But are you?”

Cregan exhaled sharply, hands tightening at her waist as she rolled her hips against his thigh, slow and teasing. He was already hardening again, the ache not quite gone before she threatened to stoke it back to life.

Claere leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to his jaw, then lower, trailing heat down the column of his throat. “No need to rush,” she murmured against his skin, voice silken, taunting. “We have all morning.”

Cregan growled, deep in his chest, tipping his head back, eyes fluttering shut as she moved against him. “Gods help me,” he muttered, but his hands slid lower, gripping her, guiding her.

Claere laughed, warm and wicked. Unlike anything he'd seen, once or twice.

“I think you’ll survive.”

And just like that, the hunger stirred anew.

X

The courtyard of Winterfell had become a storm of movement—horses stamping against the frost-bitten ground, men checking their saddles, the clink of steel and murmurs of last-minute preparations. The banners of House Stark stirred in the biting wind, a reminder of the legacy they carried Northward.

But in the midst of it all, Cregan Stark found himself shackled—not by duty, not by the weight of his furs or the steel at his hip, but by the small, determined hands of his children.

Rickon clung to his left arm, Edd had his fingers curled into the fabric of his cloak, and Luce—his wild little pup—had scaled his back like a mountain cat, arms looped around his neck in a stubborn vice. The three of them, strong and sharp, but still young enough to make their sorrow known in the way they gripped onto him, as if holding him would stop him from leaving. Their sighs and sniffles echoed in his ears, though none of them would dare cry—not properly. A Stark did not wail, but they knew how to make their sorrow known.

“You best come back fast, Da,” Edd grumbled into his father’s shoulder.

“I’ll be counting the days,” Rickon muttered, arms tightening.

Luce, face buried against his shoulder, huffed, "Then bring me redcurrants from White Harbour this time. The big, fat ones. You forgot last time, and I still haven’t forgiven you."

Cregan chuckled, shifting her weight easily, bearing all three of them as if they were nothing. "I’ll bring you all the redcurrants in the North, my love," he promised.

He crouched, easing her to the ground alongside her brothers, taking each of their faces in his hands. His thumbs brushed over their cheeks, memorizing the weight of them, the warmth. He wouldn't feel this for a long time.

"I'll come back quick as the wind," he said, pressing kisses to their brows, and their hair, one by one. "And when I do, I'll have stories for you. The kind you’ve never heard before."

"Will they be true stories?" Rickon asked, eyes narrowing.

Cregan grinned. "Aye. And the best kind of true stories—the ones that sound like lies."

The boys exchanged glances, considering, before they nodded solemnly.

Meanwhile, Bran had not let go of his mother.

He was pressed into her embrace, face tucked against her shoulder, silver curls gleaming beneath the pale light. Unlike his siblings, he was quiet in his sorrow, but Claere knew. She rubbed slow, soothing circles over his back, whispered to him in a voice only for him to hear.

"Listen and stay close to your father," she murmured, her lips against his temple. "Mind the men. Never stray too far past your people. Write to me often."

His arms tightened around her waist. "I know, Ma."

Cregan reached out, and rested a hand on his son's shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. "Say your goodbyes to your brothers and sister, lad," he said. "They'll be missing you, too."

Bran nodded, swallowing hard.

Cregan's gaze lifted to Claere's, and the sight of her nearly undid him. She was holding herself still, the grief of parting written in the tight set of her mouth, the sheen in her violet eyes. Gods, he hated leaving her. Especially her.

But before she could speak, he grinned, and in one swift motion, he pulled her into his arms, his grip firm around her waist. The strength of it startled a soft laugh from her lips, though her hands instantly found his chest, holding on.

“You’ll not let me go without a proper farewell, will you?” he murmured against her mouth.

She huffed, exhaling sharply as his lips found hers—soft at first, then lingering, warm and slow. He kissed her once, twice, savouring the taste of her, the press of her body against his. She made a quiet noise against his lips, and he swallowed it down, trying to burn the memory of her into his bones.

And then, between kisses, his voice dipped into something smug, something playful.

“We may have made a babe last night.”

She let out a startled little laugh against his mouth, her fingers tightening in his cloak. “And how would you know that?”

He tilted his head, brushing his lips along the shell of her ear, letting his teeth graze just enough to make her shiver.

“Because I’m sore all over,” he murmured, amused. “And the last time I felt this way was when we had Luce. And I vaguely remember a warm bath, too.”

A sharp breath left her, and she buried her face into his neck, laughing despite herself. Her hands clutched at him as if she could hold onto him for just a moment longer.

"Seven hells, Cregan," she whispered, voice unsteady.

His arms tightened, and for a breath, for a single moment, he allowed himself the weakness of wishing he didn’t have to go at all.

A sniffle interrupted them.

Both of them turned just in time to see Luce dramatically rubbing at her nose with the edge of her sleeve, her expression twisted into one of exaggerated disgust. "Ew."

Rickon made a retching sound. "Could you not, Da? Please?"

"Spare us," Edd groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Bran only flushed, shifting awkwardly. He was still young enough to find it embarrassing but not young enough to pretend he didn’t understand.

Cregan threw his head back, laughing deep and loud, the sound echoing through the courtyard. "Little shits, the lot of you," he rumbled, pulling away from Claere just enough to face them. "You'll understand one day when you have husbands and wives of your own."

Luce wrinkled her nose. "Not if I can help it."

Rickon nudged her. "You’d be the worst wife, Lucy."

"And you'd be the worst husband, cretin," she shot back.

Bran cleared his throat, mounting his horse with a smirk. “You’re both the worst.”

Cregan clenched the reins in his hands, the leather biting into his palm. It was a hard thing, being a father, harder than war, harder than ruling. He had spent years keeping his children safe, but now, as he watched his children watch him, he wondered if he had been holding him back instead.

"Goodbye, Da!"

"Bye, Bran! Tell me if you catch any white-walkers!"

"We'll miss you, Bran!"

The North called. Duty answered.

But love… love hesitated.

With a final breath, he turned his horse, Bran following suit. The moment he did, something inside him clenched—an ache deep in his ribs, in his very bones. He felt the pull of them all, the invisible tether tying him to this place, to these people, and it took everything in him not to turn back, not to look one last time.

Because he knew himself.

If he looked, if he caught another glimpse of his wife’s sorrow, of his children standing there, waiting for him to return—

He would not go at all.

So he rode forward, his men falling in beside him, their horses’ hooves muffled against the frost-covered earth. The great gates of Winterfell groaned as they shut behind them, sealing him away from the warmth of home, from the touch of his wife, from the laughter of his children.

The road stretched long and endless before him. The Wall loomed in the distance, a cold and unfeeling thing. And though he did not turn back, though he did not let himself break—Gods help him, he had never longed for home more than he did now.

X

Bran had always known his father was a great man. Lord Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, the Warden of the North, the man who held the cold in his hands and never let it break him. He had grown up listening to the stories, the songs, the whispered words of men who spoke his name like a legend, like something larger than life.

But it was different to see it.

Riding south, he had always known the reach of their name, but now, as they travelled north to the Wall, he saw the weight his father carried.

At every holdfast they passed, at every village, people stood straighter when Cregan rode through, their voices full of deference, their eyes filled with something between admiration and fear.

At the inns where they stopped for the night, men lifted their cups in salute. They asked after Winterfell, after the family, after the North itself as if his father carried the realm itself on his back.

But none of them asked about Bran. They called him the White Wolf, they spoke of the name that had been given to him since birth, but it was just that—a name. A heavy, hopeless name.

Cregan Stark was not just a name. He was a man. A man that people followed, a man that people obeyed, a man that Bran had to become. To live up to that man felt impossible.

That night, he could not sleep.

The inn was warm, the furs thick, but rest did not come. His body ached from the ride, from the stiffness in his limbs, but his mind whirled too fast. His father’s shadow loomed over him, over everything he was meant to be, and pressed down like a mountain.

He rose quietly, careful not to wake the others, and slipped outside.

The night air was crisp, the scent of pine and smoke lingering as he stepped into the clearing beyond the inn’s outer walls. His fingers itched, restless, so he grabbed his sword from where it rested by his belt and gave it a few testing swings.

The blade felt foreign in his hands, unfamiliar despite the years of training. He tried to remember what the master-at-arms had told him—balance, precision, patience. He went through the motions, cutting at the air, but it all felt wrong.

“You’re holding your wrist too stiff,” came a voice behind him.

Bran was startled, turning to find his father standing there, leaning lazily against one of the wooden posts, watching him with something close to amusement, head tilted.

“You should be asleep,” Bran muttered, lowering his blade.

Cregan smirked, stepping forward. “Sleep comes slow without your mother by my side.”

Bran huffed a quiet laugh. “Ma barely sleeps at all.”

His father chuckled, shaking his head. “Aye, that she doesn’t. It’s a wonder I’ve ever had a peaceful night’s rest.”

Bran knew that was true. His mother’s sleepwalks, her quiet steps in the hallways, the distant sound of her harp intoning at odd hours—she was never still. Sometimes, when he was younger, he would wake and hear her voice in the dark, murmuring songs under her breath, half-lost to sleep. He had never found himself unsettled, it felt wrong only when she did not do such things.

And his father had never seemed to mind. Cregan never seemed to mind anything about her. How she didn't speak unless it was her family around her. How she spoke in riddles, sometimes communing far beyond this realm.

They stood there a moment, father and son, the night quiet around them, the stars distant and bright. Then Cregan reached for his own blade from his side. Not Ice, but a smaller sword he must’ve borrowed from the men.

“Come,” he said, gesturing. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

Bran hesitated. “You’ll only beat me.”

“Probably,” Cregan agreed, grinning.

Bran narrowed his eyes, then lunged.

His swing was quick, sharp, aimed for his father’s side, but Cregan merely shifted, barely moving before steel met steel. The impact jarred up Bran’s arm, and his strike knocked him aside as if it were nothing at all.

Bran clenched his teeth, adjusting his footing, and struck again. Faster. Harder. His father met him just the same, fluid, smooth as if he were dancing.

Bran was breathing hard, his muscles tightening with every deflection, every parry that sent him stumbling back. Cregan wasn’t even trying. He could tell.

“Again,” his father said, voice low, patient.

Bran’s frustration snapped like a bowstring. He stepped in, aiming high, but his father pivoted easily, meeting him before he could complete the strike, catching Bran’s wrist in a swift motion that sent his sword spinning from his fingers.

The blade clattered onto the dirt.

Bran stared at it, chest heaving, fists curling at his sides.

Cregan rested the flat of his sword against Bran’s shoulder, light, teasing. “Dead.”

Bran swatted it away, scowling.

His father only laughed, ruffling his curls like he was still a boy in the training yard. “You’re not bad, boy,” he admitted. “But you’re forcing it. You need to stop thinking so much.”

Bran let out a breath, his jaw tight. “I am feeling it.”

Cregan’s grin widened. “Then why do you keep losing?”

Bran released a sharp, frustrated noise, stepping away to retrieve his fallen weapon. The truth was, it wasn’t just the fight weighing on him tonight. The unease had been growing inside him since they’d left Winterfell, a slow, creeping thing that settled deep in his bones.

He bent down, fingers brushing the hilt.

“It will be hard,” he muttered, half to himself.

Cregan cocked his head. “What will?”

Bran swallowed, fingers tightening around the sword. Then, quietly, he said, “Living up to you.”

He exhaled, standing straight. “Taking care of the keep. My brothers, Luce. You, Ma. Holding Winterfell. Fighting battles. The Wall. The Iron Throne. Protecting the North.” His voice was quiet, but steady. “It all seems… larger than me.”

A silence stretched between them.

Then, instead of speaking, Cregan raised his sword.

“Pick it up,” he said again.

Bran hesitated only a moment before stepping back into position, blade in hand.

Cregan took a stance. “Come at me again.”

Bran exhaled, adjusted his grip, and lunged.

Their blades met with a sharp clang, but this time, Cregan let the fight last longer. He let Bran push forward, let him move, let him feel the rhythm of it. Not just swinging wildly, but measuring his steps, learning the weight of steel in his hands.

“Hard?” Cregan said between swings. “Aye. It is.”

Bran pivoted, stepping quickly, but his father was already there, blocking him before he could complete the strike. His father fought like the wind, fast and untouchable. But this time, Bran did not let himself falter.

“You will learn,” Cregan said.

Another strike, another deflection, but Bran kept moving.

“You will grow.”

He was sweating, his arms ached, but he wasn’t stopping.

“You will be strong.”

Bran gritted his teeth, his next swing sharper, and more measured, and his father grinning.

“And gods help the poor fucker who stands against you.”

Bran’s breathing steadied. He wasn’t there yet. He wasn’t his father yet. But maybe, one day, he could be.

He grinned, lifting his sword again. “Again?”

Cregan barked a laugh, stepping forward to meet him. “Again.”

X

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurll , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[scarlet-star-witch]

yay... can you write one where you've heard all the nasty rumours about the Targaryens, especially how cruel they can be sometimes, but Aemond proves you wrong. He is sweet, kind, and compassionate towards you. You know he's not like that around other people, so you ask him why he acts different towards you.

Hope you like the request.

This took way too long for me write, but I hope this is what you were looking for!

Warnings: implied smut and a whole lotta fluff

WC: 3.2 K

~~

They say the Gods flip a coin when a Targaryen is born. Greatness or madness were the destinies that followed the otherworldly family. 

Closer to Gods than men, they would say. Quick to anger, that burned hotly, destroying those in its ruthless path.

That was all she knew of the Targaryen family. 

It was the only warning she had before she was shipped off to King’s Landing to marry the one-eyed prince. 

She knew nothing of her betrothed except for his reputation that gleamed nothing but anger and a fiercely cold nature. She didn’t want to listen to rumors, but she couldn’t help but feel apprehensive to meet the man of mystery that was Prince Aemond.

The night they first met, she had approached the table of royals, curtseying politely, her heart racing as she met the gaze of her betrothed for the first time. 

She smiled, hoping to start off on the right foot, but his expression never changed, beholding her as if bored, as if unmoved by the knowledge that she would soon be his wife. His disinterest seemed to confirm every fear she had. It left her shaken, the picture of a terrified woman at the altar who could barely meet the gaze of her new husband. 

The night of their wedding, she was terrified, practically trembling as he took her to bed. 

She had shut her eyes and prayed for the seconds to pass quickly. 

It had been awkward, stifling and uncomfortable, but it wasn’t awful. The pain was momentary and he didn’t take her like a mindless beast who only sought his own pleasure as she had been warned some men were known to act by her kind maids. 

Aemond only ever had gentle touches to give her. 

It was by no means the passionate love she had read about in books she hid from her mother, but she was at least grateful she bore no marks from a husband who only had anger to bestow upon her. 

Over the months together, they didn’t spare many words for each other. 

The Prince was polite and cordial, but their conversations never went any deeper than small talk that amounted to nothing important. 

She often found herself wondering if he even tolerated her, let alone liked her, but as the weeks passed and he stayed by her side, lingering in their chambers together, joining her for walks in the garden, did she begin to soften her opinion of him, no longer fearing his presence as she had in the beginning. 

Almost daily, she would spot him, his face impassive, almost hardened, but the moment he saw her his expression would lighten, a small smile growing as he approached her. 

He would always greet her politely and offer her his arm.

“Tell me about your home.” He asked her out of the blue one afternoon as they lounged under the shade of the Weirwood tree. 

She looked to her husband nervously, feeling exposed under his gaze that portrayed an undeniable curiosity. 

“What would you like to know?” 

“Anything you would like to tell me.” He answered with a smile that brought one to her own lips. “I will gladly take anything you are willing to give me.”

Her breath caught in her throat, surprised by his words, so brazen, so unlike the man she had thought him to be. 

Before she could speak again, Ser Criston approached the pair and she watched as Aemond’s easy expression shifted so suddenly, his face now drawn tightly into a scowl. 

“My Prince, your mother is expecting your presence in her solar.” Ser Criston reminded him.

Aemond barely spared a moment of attention to the Knight, his hand squeezing hers as if in apology for the interruption of their time together.

“She will have to wait, Ser Crsiton. I am with my wife.” 

She knew that was a moment she would not soon forget, for it was the first time she felt as though her husband cared for her, the first time she realized he didn’t loathe their arrangement. 

There were moments, too many to count now, when she couldn’t help but wonder if he longed to be closer as she would feel his gaze on her, seeking her out no matter where they were. 

At every festivity, in the midst of crowds and countless lords pushing their way to bestow well wishes onto the royal family, it never failed that she always found Aemond’s eye, his attention focused solely on her. 

Her favorite would be the moments of quiet connection in the solace of their chambers. Her eyes would wander from the book she read to land on him, barely catching a glimpse of his face before he would quickly look away from her, as if not wanting to get caught admiring his own wife. 

It always left her breathless in ways she couldn’t explain, in ways she couldn’t make sense of. 

Despite the slowly growing bond, she felt lonely in her new home without her family, without a great love to lean on. 

Music was her only escape from the isolation. She often found herself in the grand hall, hours before the festivities were to start, dodging the servants that readied the tables, just to hear the musicians practice. 

They always spotted her and, as the months dragged on, no longer looked at her in annoyance, but would smile politely and play, as if just for her, enjoying their one woman audience who seemed to hold onto every note as if it meant the world to her. 

They indulged her in the many questions she asked about their music and their instruments, letting her have her moment of reprieve. 

At every feast, as she sat by her husband’s side, her gaze would remain on the band, admiring their work others in the room steadfastly ignored

One night, as she took in the music with tranquility, a gentle hand lay over her own, startling her out of her daze. She looked over at her husband with wide eyes, confused yet surprised by the gesture. 

“Would you like to dance?” 

She froze for a moment, taken aback by his question, but finally nodded, too surprised to answer with words. 

He took her hand in his, his touch soft, as if she were made of glass, as he guided her to the floor with the other dancing couples. 

They faced each other and Aemond wasted no time in laying his hand on her waist, bringing her in closer to him. 

She felt nerves creep through her as they danced. She could feel his eye on her as they twirled, as he brought her back into his arms, as he held her close. 

Finally gaining the courage to meet his gaze, she found his eye held nothing but light, a look of contentment watching her carefully. 

A flutter unfurled in her chest, a feeling she had never felt before. The way he looked at her made her cheeks heat and she could’ve sworn she saw him smile, as if he knew what he was doing to her. 

She couldn’t help but wonder if his touch was supposed to make her feel so cared for, if he knew it was making her melt. 

A part of her desperately hoped he did. 

~~

Aemond had been ready to write her off completely, to resign himself to the fact that he was to marry a spoiled girl who would cower at the sight of him. 

He’d had enough of meeting Ladies who flinched or outright winced at the sight of him and his scar, that whispered they could never lay with, let alone marry, a man with such a deformity. 

But the moment he met her, as she met his gaze with little hesitation, as she smiled his way, a gleam of hope in her eyes, did he feel as though his entire world tilted on its axis. 

It wasn’t until her smile faltered, her eyes averting from his shyly that he realized he hadn’t returned her smile, had only stared back at her as if disinterested. 

He had cursed to himself, close to letting Aegon smack him for being so hopeless. 

He could plainly see her fear on the day of the wedding, had whispered apologies he didn’t think she heard as he took her to bed for the first time, had tried his best to assuage her nerves, yet he knew it was because of him, because of that first damned look that he ruined everything before it even began.

 He longed to reach out to her, to apologize for his abysmal first impression, but he found he couldn’t muster the words, or the courage. 

So he settled for admiring her from afar, entirely discontented by the distance but unsure of how to bridge it. 

He spent his days with her, his mind torturously blank, no words coming to him to at least try to begin a bond with her, his sweet wife that never looked at him as though he was a deformed monster as the other ladies in the Keep had. 

He had no idea how, or that he was even capable of such a connection, but he couldn’t help but feel lighter in her presence. Knowing such a sweet woman who never had a harsh word to say about anyone, especially him, left him longing to bestow every praise and sweet nothing upon her. 

He never considered himself to be swayed by such romantic ideals, but whenever he was face to face with his wife, he found himself wishing he had spent more time perusing through the books of poetry in the library rather than the history tomes. 

He wished he had the words to tell her how absolutely magical he found her, how her smile lit any room she was in, how he wished he could bathe in her warmth, how much he appreciated that she looked at him so differently than any other lady in the court had. 

He found himself seeking her out any time he was not with her. 

“Have you seen my wife?” He asked a member of the White Cloaks, becoming desperate after having no luck finding her in the gardens or with Helaena or his mother. 

“There is a feast tonight. Your Lady wife is known to spend time watching the musicians practice. My best guess would be to look for her there.”

Aemond’s brows furrowed at the answer. 

“The musicians?”

“Yes, my Prince. She seems quite fond of them.” 

His stomach twisted at the realization there was something his wife was so obviously delighted by that he had no idea of and he quickly made his way towards the great hall, spotting, not his wife, but a group of musicians assembling their instruments. 

“My Prince.” The lead conductor bowed to him politely when he noticed his presence. “I am glad to see you, we were just discussing your Lady wife and we would appreciate if you would speak to her about her presence here as we prac-”

“You will allow her to watch.” Aemond interrupted the man, looking at him sternly, as if daring the man to defy him. “You will indulge her with your practice. You will answer any question she poses and if she deems it a want, you will let her play your damn instruments.”

After his warning, he began to watch his wife, smiling to himself as he noticed the look of delight in her gaze as she watched the musicians perform. 

It took weeks to build the courage, but one night as the band played and she watched with eagerness, he asked her to dance for the first time since their wedding. 

That night, he had never felt so nervous as he danced with her, but he felt closer to her than ever before. 

That night, she seemed to feel it too as she looked at him with a desire he had never seen from her before as they retreated to their chambers for the night. 

That night, he made love to her. He touched her so softly, reveling in her beautiful moans and cries of his name. He felt as though he was a God as she felt her touch on him, as he felt the sting of her nails in his back as he thrusted into her with a desperation so unknown to him. 

It was the first time they felt so connected to each other. 

As they lay with each other, their hearts slowing their rhythm from their peaks, he held her in his arms, not yet ready to lose the feel of her touch just yet. 

“Tell me about the music.” He asked softly. 

She laughed softly, the sound like heavenly bells to his ears. The knowledge that he had even noticed her infatuation with music was enough to have butterflies unleashed within her. 

“My mother used to play the harp. Apparently, when I was a babe, the sound of her harp was the only thing that could calm me down, the only thing that would stop my crying. She would always make up songs to sing me to sleep.” She explained wistfully and he listened to every word. 

“Sometimes I feel as though my mind gets too loud. There are too many thoughts that are entirely unhelpful and… I don’t know, it sounds silly, but I think music is the only thing that quiets it, that brings me back down to myself when those thoughts take over.”

“It’s not silly.” He told her earnestly. “I think it’s beautiful to admire something so passionately.” 

“I wish I could learn to play myself, but I don’t think I have the patience for it.”

Aemond scoffed, the sound holding nothing but disbelief. 

“My sweet wife, you are the most patient person I have ever met in my life. If you can conquer me, you can conquer anything.”

“Have I conquered you?” She asked, looking up at him with a playful challenge, to which he smiled. 

“You certainly have.”

She smiled and leaned in closer to his touch, finally feeling as though they were on the same wavelength. 

By the next morning, Aemond was gone before she woke. 

Her maids helped her get dressed for the morning and they couldn’t help but notice the lovesick smile that adorned her lips. 

“You seem quite happy this morning, my Lady.”

She blushed and bowed her head bashfully. 

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the Prince, would it?” Her maid teased, the group of them laughing as their Lady swatted their hands playfully. 

“I have never seen Prince Aemond so smitten before.” One of the younger maids commented. “You seem to have him under a spell, my Lady. I don’t think I had ever seen him smile until you came around.”

“Oh yes, he was always so surly. I was terrified to even pass him in the halls.” They continued as if she were no longer there, not noticing the surprise on her face as they spoke of her husband. “He seems like a different person. He is nothing but a lovesick fool now.” 

She felt as though her heart would burst as she listened to their words. 

Only a few minutes later, as she was dressed, did her husband return. His smile faltered at the sight of her maids and he seemed to retreat into himself, his cool demeanor shifting into one of discomfort, his body rigid, his nod of acknowledgement stiff. 

Her maids giggled to themselves and bid her goodbye before leaving. 

Only then did Aemond relax once again, his expression now nothing but one of love as he approached her. 

“I have something for you.”

She raised a brow in question as he took a seat next to her. 

He then handed her a stack of papers. She didn’t recognize what they were at first, her eyes flitting over the markings over the page, before it suddenly dawned on her. 

It was sheet music. 

“You said you wished to learn.” 

Her lips parted, but no words came. She was stunned to silence, his gesture, so thoughtful, had her floored. 

“This is… I don’t know what to say.” She spoke quietly. She looked to her husband and felt so unprepared for the love she would feel for him, in disbelief that the man she had been terrified to marry could make her feel this way.

“What is it?” Aemond asked worriedly, watching as her expression became one of thoughtful contemplation, suddenly fearing he had overstepped in some way. 

“Why me?” 

The question caught him off guard and his frown deepened, his heart beginning to race as doubt crept through him.

“What do you mean?”

“You do not act this way with anyone else. The maids were practically terrified of you before. You never smile with anyone but me. I don’t understand what is so special about me to have a place in your heart.” 

The insecurities came spilling out before she could stop them, leaving her feeling more exposed than she intended and suddenly wishing the ground would swallow her whole. 

Aemond’s face shifted, his eye looking at her with a mix of disbelief and sadness. He leaned in close to her, his hand reaching out to cradle her jaw. 

“You cannot truly mean that.” He whispered, as if his words had physically hurt him. “Do you really not see how easily you have carved yourself into my heart?”

She didn’t have an answer and merely looked stunned by his words. 

He let out a long breath and hesitated, his teeth worrying his bottom lip for a moment before his hand reached out and slowly took his eyepatch off. 

She felt as though her breath was stolen from her as she saw the sparkling sapphire in place of his eye. 

He watched her carefully and as he saw only awe in her gaze, did he feel as though he could melt into nothing. 

He smiled and took her hand, guiding her to the scarred side of his face, laying her palm against his skin. 

“I was ridiculed my entire life, looked at as if I were a monster because of what was taken from me the night I claimed Vhagar.” He told her, almost shuddering under her touch as her thumb grazed the edge of his scar. 

“You have never once looked at me as though I was less, or that my scar made me someone unlovable.” 

Her gaze met his and she was floored by the genuine reverence with which he looked at her. 

“That night, I was kicking myself for not returning your smile, but I…” He paused, letting out a small, bashful laugh. “I was too in awe of you to do anything but stare like a fool.” 

“You don’t understand what is so special about yourself?” He repeated, a tone of derision in his voice as if it disgusted him to even speak the words aloud. “Darling, you had me bewitched from the very first moment I saw you.”

She let out a laugh, her eyes beginning to brim with tears, his words wrapping around her like the warm embrace of a lover. 

He leaned in, his nose brushing against hers.

“I am truly sorry I made you feel as though there was any doubt. I’ll have to try harder to make you realize you are the most special being in this entire castle.”

Her laugh was cut off as he crashed his lips to hers, kissing her with the ferocity of a dragon in love. 

[fischlich]

my epic and awesome ocs stupid and stupider who get along so well (any words are in alt per usual my handwriting is terrible). takes place in the same au of sorts this post is from. little more background info/explanation as to whats going on under the cut bc i love rambling

ramble time. basically the current setting is 3 or so years after ariane's signal decimated essentially all civilization in the entire solar system, with Heimat's survivors living on a tiny fleet known as the Reclamation Fleet (as they are trying to reclaim and rebuild the Nation. Their logo is a phoenix for this reason... rise from the ashes better and stronger and all that). Biene was one of the last storches activated before the evacuation order went out, and there just wasn't enough personnel alive to train her, so command just had her handle cargo with the mynahs since they knew she couldn't hurt them if she tried. The mynahs taught her relative patience and to talk out problems rather than fight them, but Biene is incapable of understanding that not everyone wants to talk and gets frustrated about this.

Which leads to Wolfsbann! She was a Rotfront protektor and was close with a lot of the replikas there, before higher up orders had her transferred to Heimat when the signal really started up. Wolfsbann feels like she abandoned her friends to a fate worse than death and the guilt is slowly eating her alive, and she doesn't want to get close to anyone else out of fear of abandoning them again as well as to punish herself for abandoning her friends in the first place. So as such she purposefully isolates herself and pushes others away.

Biene has always wanted to do more than lift cargo and is obsessed with being a Real STCR, a proper protektor unit. Finally her wish is granted when command decides to assign Wolfsbann as her mentor in hopes theyll sort eachother out. instead they get into stupid fights constantly because Biene knows something is wrong with Wolfsbann and wants to help and Wolfsbann is pissed this storch won't respect her boundaries and leave her be. Eventually they do grow to rely on eachother though and work things out, but it takes a little while

[seattlesellie]

hi angel i saw u say you wanted more fluffy ellie requests and i thought about maybe something along the lines of the cute pics she has of you two in her phone idk it’s just something i thought of u don’t have to write it if u don’t want to i just love ur blog and everything u write 💗💗💗💗🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

not about love ♡

pre-dating slightly loser college!ellie 🦕 incoming !! basically u go through ellies phone and find… something. part 1 of… maybe?

warnings: slightly mean ellie for a second, sexual tension, mentions of weed and alcohol.

part 2

Tic-Toc, the gentle sounds of the ancient clock in Ellie’s room filled the thick air. a gift from Joel. It was a warm, lazy afternoon. You almost fell asleep, almost. Her bed smelled like her, so did the ruffled, Nirvana t-shirt you were laying on. Everything in this room practically screamed Ellie. The scent, the sketches on the wall — of Dina, and Jesse, and you. Why did she have more sketches of you than anyone else? A dinosaur lego, a miniature solar system, obscure band posters, Oh! here’s the pin you gifted her once!, two pairs of mismatched socks, a random rock (“It’s from like, the moon” she said. It was from the local science museum.)

“El” you whined, receiving a gentle hum in response.

“I’m bored” you exclaimed with a heavy sigh. It's not as if she owed you any attention, she told you she had to study. For some reason, some odd reason nor you or her could put your finger on, you had to be there with her. “Well” you excused. “It’s not like I have anything better to do, right?” A lie. What about your project due Monday? Nevermind.

“Catch this” she exclaimed, tossing a serene light blue stress ball directly at your face.

“Ow!” you whined, yet again. If only you knew what those whines did to her.

“Sorry bro, gotta finish this fucking question. She said, flexing her sore hand. “Fuck this fucking Prof, seriously” She mumbled, clearly annoyed, clearly frustrated. Ellie had this thing, well, if you could even call something that she only had specifically with you a “Thing” — where she had to call you by those stupid names. “Dude” “Bro” “Jeez man!” just to see you squirm. Youd flinch ever so slightly, a fleeting reaction that betrayed a hint of offense flickering in your eyes. Every time you couldn’t help but pout, couldn’t help but look a little bit hurt, it did something to her. It wasn’t because she liked hurting you, God knows she didn’t. It would give her a glimmer of hope, of light. Shed journal about it, too;

“I called her Bro again. She looked really sad. Why does she get sad? I’m so fucking stupid. It’s probably because no one else calls her fucking bro, I’m literally delusional. Also had expired fucking Pizza. Worst day ever. Shit. Not that bad because she smiled at batted her eyelashes. God Ellie you need therapy.” YOURE A DUMBASS!!!!”

Half an hour had elapsed, brimming with Ellie muttering to herself under her breath. lighting a blunt, burning the blunt, passing it to you, begging you to give it back after 3 seconds.

You were pretty sure you had gone through every single app on your phone five times already. Stalking rando’s on Instagram, watching ASMR tiktoks, talking shit with Dina in the groupchat. How much more of this boredom could you take? My god, you were humming a stupid melody to yourself.

“Griiiind boy you know I grind when I pull-“

“Shh”

Did Ellie just shush you?!

“Excuse me?” You said.

“I’m trying to concentrate. Also what the fuck is a Fartulum?” Ellie retorted, withdrawing slightly and punctuating her frustration with stomps on the floor. God, she was too fucking cute.

“Can I play on your phone?” You questioned innocently. One more opening and closing the same App and you’d have lost your damn mind. You could practically see the Candy Crush candies popping inside of your brain every time you closed your eyes.

“No” she answered bluntly.

“Why? you scared I’ll find your nudes? Not gonna look- Swear on my li-“

You could hear her eye rolling, somehow.

“I dont have fucking nudes” she affirmed with a touch of exasperation.

“Someone else’s?” you said quietly. Your tone almost exposed you. Almost.

“Psh… no” Ellie said in return, just as quiet. Her tone almost exposed her, too.

Wish I had yours. Shut it, Ellie.

“Then let me go on your phone” You whined, got off the bed and almost slipped on one of her belts that laid on the floor. So messy, so, so Ellie.

She cast a sidelong glance at you, her eyes darting from the corner of her vision. Her grip on the pen was incredibly tight. It happened every time you got near, got too close to her. Whether it was clutching the strings of her hoodie, her knuckles turning white with tension, or her toes curling in a clenched stance. Shed never ever admit it to herself, cool, calm & collected, but fuck did you make her nervous.

You settled yourself on the chair beside her, causing her to divert every ounce of her attention back to her assignment, shifting it solely onto you. You. You. You.

She gazed directly into your eyes, and a peculiar warmth flooded your face. Its funny how even after being friends for all this time, making eye contact with her managed to stir something within you. She asked you about it once, mid fight. “You never even look at me when we talk!” she huffed. “Yes I do!” no you dont. “No you don’t!” and when your lips quivered, turning you in, she left it at that.

Ellie scratched the back of her neck, her arms flexing subtly with the motion. You gave her that look, the look that made her cheeks go bright pink, her hands clam up. She bit her lip. “Fine”. You won, flashing her a toothy smile she couldn’t help but grin at.

And there you were, with Ellie’s iPhone 5C (Yeah, she never got that buying a new iPhone every 2 years phenomenon) laying on Ellie’s bed, in Ellie’s room.

“Ew - Ellie what the fuck? why is your screen greasy?!” You squirmed, fingertips grazing over her slightly sticky screen. Is that fucking chicken nuggets residue?

“Shut up, dude. You asked me for my phone so deal with the consequences”

Dude.

You rolled your eyes, proceeded to wipe the screen of her phone with the corner of her cozy flannel bedsheet. Her phone was really warm. One more month and it would probably set on fire.

“Password?” You questioned, and shifted to lay on your stomach, your cheek caressing the pillow. It had a little auburn colored hair laying on top of it.

Ellie huffed and waited a second before she responded, contemplating again. It’s harmless, fuck it.

“2222”

“Okay, seriously - you could get hacked with that dumbass password”

“Pffft” Ellie huffed. “I’d fucking beat them up if they tried robbing me” she said, ever the brave.

“I’m not… talking about robbers, Ellie. Like, hackers?”

“Same thing”

“You cant beat up hackers they’re- Nevermind” you sighed.

2222.

If the room was classic Ellie, god, so was her phone. Default Apple background, because she truly couldn’t be bothered. iMessage, Instagram with four pictures on her feed; One of her arm slightly flexing her tat (who the fuck was the bitch who commented “damn” under there?), one of a stray cat wearing her grey beanie, a meme that says “Fuck sex. Let’s do something romantic like play Fireboy and Watergirl on CoolMathGames.Com” (God, she thought she was so funny for that one. 6 Likes, one from you, one from Jesse, the fake Instagram account you and Dina created for Joel, her ex Cat, and one from Dina and a spam bot). Next to the Instagram laid the NASA app (of course), Call Of Duty for iPhone (Made her sleep for only fifteen minutes one night), calculator, 9GAG (People still use that?!), and… her gallery.

You pursed your lips, contemplating the situation. Should you?after all, Ellie said; No nudes. So what could possibly be on there?

Of course.

You couldn't contain a soft giggle that escaped your lips, earning an inquisitive whine from Ellie. "What's so funny?" she grumbled, unable to resist her curiosity.

“Said you were studying, so study” You said, while scrolling through her gallery.

As you readjusted your position on the bed, you unintentionally swiped to the left, revealing her albums. Just harmless browsing, right?

“Screenshots”

“Funny memes”

“Pics to send Jesse when he’s being stupid”

“Dhhdjsjsou”

“Stink ❤️”

A picture of you, laying on the grass, a bright, toothy smile spread across your face. It was from your Instagram, the one you deleted because you thought you looked dumb. The one Ellie commented a for once unsarcastic “Woah” on.

The album was locked.

You felt your throat go dry, heartbeat speeding up. Your leg started shaking, and God, you hoped she would come and snatch the phone off of your hand.

But she didn’t. She just shifted in her sit, cleared her throat and resumed her studies.

You shouldn’t have. But you did.

2222

Unlocked. Success!

You felt like screaming at the top of your lungs. Was it even hotter in here now? Extra humid today? you bit your lip, it almost hurt.

A picture of you and Dina. A selfie you sent to the groupchat two weeks ago. Ellie doodled a green heart on it. You were sweating. A picture of you on Christmas last year. That same day you had your stupid fight on. You were wearing a Santa hat, mug of hot Coco and tiny white marshmallows in your hand.

Your stomach felt as if it were infested by a swarm of Ellie looking butterfly’s.

A picture of you sound asleep, in Ellie’s bed. She was mid-moving a hair strand away from your face. It was blurry. You recognized that top.

You were wasted that day. Blabbering uncontrollably about how you had to crash on her bed, because you were scared your new roommate would think you’re stupid, and dumb, and an idiot, for getting drunk at a frat party.

You couldn’t understand why Ellie didn’t want to help you. You almost kicked her when she said she couldn’t, that you’d be better off in your bed. “I snore. And I kick in my sleep - Seriously” You almost cried. You called her a bad friend, a fake one, because — isn’t that what friends are for? Shouldn’t they have your back when you’re a babbling mess? Hold your hair for you, put you to sleep, take care of you?

Ellie couldn’t sleep that night.

When you laid there, right on her bed, her face went so red and hot you could fry something on it. She almost hit herself in the face when her chest grazed your back. When your leg caressed her’s, and ended up on top of her thigh, she almost screamed. When you shifted to face her, an angelic, sound asleep expression on your face, she swore she almost died. The string of your top came off, revealing more of your shoulder, and the strap of your bra, Ellie turned around so fast she almost woke you up.

She slept for 20 minutes.

When she woke up, she had to make herself remember it. Remember you, laying with her.

So she took a picture. An innocent one.

You almost jumped when the pen fell slipped from her hand and she turned around to face you.

“What are you doing?”

Whats in her notes app?

♡

part two

[ganondoodle]

so, inspired by the warm welcome the captain received with that rough doodle i posted, i made an updated design for Ki'ita as well (basic and with clothes)

i removed the piercings she had bc considering that they spend the majority of their time in arctic waters i think having metal directly in your skin is a bad idea, no matter how thick your blubber is; i also gave her typical white markings a green hue bc ... i liked how it looked and makes them stand out a little more

(i will not repeat what i wrote on the post about the captain but wanted to add a bit of more info about Ki'ita herself)

(i dont have ALL of their backstory done yet but) the captain and Ki'ita worked together in another organization, one in which the father of the captains child also worked at, before being betrayed and barely managing to escape, after which the both of them founded their pirate crew (possible name is the Solar Pirates bc of their solar powered boat stuff); since the captain had her daughter shortly afterwards Ki'ita managed most of the organisational matters at first, including the construction of their base on an abandoned island they had initially fled to

over the years they invented the solar powered ships that allowed them to gain control over a large part of an important trade route, leaving normal ships (mostly) alone but attacking those of hunters and similar, rescuing demons and mutants, even some humans from them, most of which also join the crew and it quickly lead to them becoming their own little community

Ki'ita does not like to spend alot of time among large groups of people, no matter how much she cares about them, and her originally being from norther lands gave her the idea to explore, and if viable, do underground missions in those norther areas to disrupt the infrastructure the hunters had built in recent years and overall keep the crew informed about things that may otherwise stay hidden; with each of their travels her time absent from the base increased but the patience of the captain is wearing thin so its likely a serious talk is underway on Ki'itas third solo mission she nearly died due to entanglement in abandoned nets made by hunters from an unknown material that she could not break, the massive scars on her tail especially come from that, only surviving bc the date they were supposed to return to the crew had passed and the captain grew to worried about her and made the entire crew rush into an emergency search, including the captain herself and her toddler, who were not suited for the cold climate just like the rest of crew, taking a huge risk that Ki'ita still feels ashamed of for causing; they stayed within the base for a whole year afterwards, not just to recover but also as a silent apology, taking time preparing herself to ensure theyd not get into a situation like that again

(before departing on their next mission the captain gifted her a sword with the blade made from the material of the net, a wooden handle, bc of the cold, and a blue wrap around it reminiscent of the captains striking blue teeth; a reminder of what had happened, a means to defend herself when their strength and teeth are not enough, and also a promise to always return again)

the oldest members of the crew know Ki'ita well and treat her like an old friend, among the newer members she has more of a .. cryptic status, the mysteriously absent vice-captain who only appears every few months or so out of thin air, throws a big party, sleeps for a few days and then vanishes again, the only hint to when they will return soon again being the captain getting noticably grumpier

(OC art, Ki'ita, she/they)

[olenvasynyt]

Parallels between Gwyn and Az

People don’t often realize this, but Gwyn and Az have a lot of things in common.  And imo, it points to Gwynriel.  So let’s talk about it!

Dynamics with Nesta

They have similar dynamic with Nesta.  It’s not identical but neither of them shy away from her bluntness like others do.  They both seem to admire it and at some points, it gets Gwyn and Az to open up.

Page 251 of ACOSF: “Nesta watched the shadowsinger with a frankness that most people shied from. Azriel returned the look with the stillness that most people ran from.”

Page 114 of ACOSF: “ I don’t need to be coddled.  Only spoken to like a person.”  “I doubt you’ll enjoy the way I speak to most people.” Nesta said. “Gwyn snorted.  “Try me.”  Nesta looked at her from under lowered brows again.  “Get out of my sight.” Gwyn grinned, a broad, bright thing that showed up most of her teeth and made her eyes sparkle in a way Nesta knew her own never had. “Oh, you’re good.” Gwyn turned back to the stacks.  “Really good.”

Page 101 of ACOSF: “I hope you’re not giving my brother a hard time.”“Is that a threat, Shadowinger?” Azriel said coolly, “I don’t need to resort to threats.” Nesta gave him a smile, holding his stare.  “Neither do I.”

Page 348 of ACOSF: “Nesta scowled, and Az offered her a slight smile.  They could be allies, that smile seemed to say.  Against Cassian’s utter insanity.  She found herself answering Azriel with a slight smile of her own.”

Competitiveness

 They’re both competitive.  Cassian says that Az gets really competitive, and you can see the competitiveness in the bonus chapter where he has his plot to win the snowball fight.  

Page 254 of ACOSF: “Azriel had a vicious competitive streak.  Wasn’t boastful or arrogant… or possessive and terrifying…No, it was quiet and cruel and utterly lethal.”

Gwyn is super competitive with cutting the ribbon and when the Valkyries are doing the obstacle courses.  

Page 624 of ACOSF: “Roslin, Ananke, and Deirdre were close on their heels, propelling Gwyn to push her group harder.  She wanted to be the first.  Wanted Nesta and Emerie and her to be the ones who wiped the smirks from Azriel’s and Cassian’s faces.  Especially Azriel.”

Knowledge

They both get pretty fascinated by things, they both like to learn stuff. Cassian said that Az was really fascinated by the solar system and other-worldly stuff Rhys likes to research.  

Page 37 of ACOSF: “At the far end of the room, a little dias led into a broad raised alcove…and in its center, a massive, working model of their world, the stars and planets around it…Az, of course, had been fascinated.”

Trauma / light and darkness

Quote page 113 of ACOSF: “If marks of trauma lingered, any evidence was hidden by her robe.  But Nesta knew how invisible wounds could be how they could scars deeply and badly as any physical breaking.” 

This is a really big one: Gwyn��s healing seems like the kind of healing Az had.  Az was hidden in darkness and he was brought to the Illyrian camps which might have been the first time he saw true light in a while.  He found Cassian and Rhys who took him in and they trained together. And Gwyn hid herself in the library for years and saw true light for the first time in a while and trained with Nesta and Emerie and found true healing and confidence in herself.

This quote really got me:

Quote page 272 of ACOSF: “Gwyn’s hands were shaking as she took another step into the ring and peered into the open bowl of the sky.  The first time she’d been outside—truly outside—in years.  She met Nesta’s gaze and smiled.  "I forgot how it feels to have the full sun upon my head.  Forgive me if I spend some time gawking at the sky.”

I can just imagine Az having a similar reaction when he’s at the Illyrian camps for the first time.  A little 11 year old unsure of how to hold his wings up right just…looking up at the sky.  And he’s hiding his hands.

The main difference with this is Az was locked up in the darkness and Gwyn chose to be in the darkness, but I think the fact that light and darkness are key parts of their healing process is important to note.

Fear of making mistakes, and their loyalty to loved ones

Another super significant thing about them is their sense of loyalty to the people who took them in, and their fear of making mistakes and failing.

This quote from Gwyn really got me because it just screams Azriel to me.

Quote page 148 of ACOSF: “because I don’t like to fail I can’t…” Gwyn shook her head.  “I don’t want to make any more mistakes.” “These females took me in. Give me shelter and healing and family.” Again, her large eyes darkened.  “I cannot stand to fail them in anything.”

That just seems so much like Az.  Rhys and Cassian took him in, gave him shelter and healing and family, so he’s super loyal and he hates when he fails them.  Az seems to often feel guilty when one of the plans goes wrong; he thinks he didn’t do as much as he could have.

Page 346 of ACOWAR: ”Hybern had made its grand move at last.  And we had not anticipated it.  I knew Azriel would take the blame upon himself.  One look at the shadowsinger…told me he already did.”

Unworthiness 

Another thing is they feel unworthy.  You can see this with Gwyn and her invoking stone she says she doesn’t deserve to wear it, she is ashamed of her history and is afraid of people finding out things that she hates about herself.

Quote page 173 of ACOSF: “Why don’t you wear that stone on your head like the others?”  Gwyn pocketed the gem.  “Because I don’t deserve to.”

Page 521 of ACOSF: “I understand,” Gwyn repeated, “what it is to fail the people who mean the most.  To live in fear of people finding out.  I dread you and Emerie learning my history.  I know that once you do, you’ll never look at me the same again.”

Page 696 of ACOSF: “But even training these months hasn’t erased the fact that I let my sister die.  You asked me once why I don’t wear the hood of the Invoking Stone.  That stone is a sign of holiness.  How can someone like me wear it?”

That’s just so similar to Az I feel like, specifically this quote in the bonus chapter where he feels like his hands are tainted and that he’s unworthy of touching her.

ACOSF bonus chapter: “She looked up at him, her face so trusting and hopeful and open that he knew she had no idea that he had done unspeakable things that sullied his hands far beyond their scars.  Such terrible things that it was a sacrilege for his fingers to skin, tainting her with his presence. 

He also feels guilty for not doing enough, to fail the people around him.  You see this with Mor a lot.

Page 429 of ACOWAR:  ”As Azriel turned his face toward me—The frozen rage rooted me to the spot.  But beneath it, I could almost see the images that haunted him: the hand Mor had yanked away, her weeping, distraught face as she had screamed at Rhys.”

Now kind of diverting from the topic: I see people make debates about why Gwyn thinks she’s unworthy.  There are theories that she’s actually an inside spy for Koschei and maybe she feels guilty for that but there’s literally a quote that says she thinks she let her sister die and that she’s guilty that she lived and her sister didn’t.  I dislike the evil Gwyn theories, I think they’re gross.  I also kind of think her SA made her felt tainted, that’s a very common thing among SA survivors.  

Coping skills / being unbreakable 

And this is kind of a looser connection than the others I mentioned but we see moments from both where they tell themselves that they are unbreakable or hard to break.  When Gwyn cut the ribbon, she quoted the Valkyrie mindstilling technique:

Page 621 of ACOSF: “I am the rock against which the surf crashes.  Nothing can break me.”

"Nothing can break me" is something that Gwyn added, it was not part of the original Valkyrie passage.  And it reminded me of something that Az says to Feyre when they are doing their flying lessons in ACOWAR.  

Azriel tells Feyre Page 305 ACOWAR: “You’re immortal.  You’re very hard to break.  That’s what I told myself.”

The Blood Rite, friendships, and healing journey

And this similarty pertains to the Valkyries and the batboys in general, not solely Az and Gwyn, but the Valkyries during the blood rite is a reflection of the batboys during their blood rite.  It was the beginning of their journey when it came to healing and finding their strength and proving people wrong.  It was a pivotal point in their friendships, both groups fought like hell to reach each other.  

Page 693 of ACOSF: “I don’t want to take the safe road.  I want to take that road.  To prove to them, to everyone, that something new and different might triumph over their rules and regulations.”

And this is the start of Gwyn’s journey, this is the start of her friendship with Nesta and Emerie, who have become very important to her. She’s still struggling with her fears, she tells Nesta that she might come out of the library to go to her mating ceremony.  

And Az is kind of similar.  He has had centuries to heal and be with his brothers.  But he is absolutely still healing, he’s got tons of issues to sort out still.  You can say they’re aloof and they lock themselves up in a similar way: he doesn’t seem to want to go out to bars and parties unless his friends go.  

Page 377 of ACOMAF: “And when I pointed out that he did go to Rita’s with her whenever she asked, Mor simply informed me that it had taken her four centuries to get him to do that.”

He seems content to brood but he opens up because of his friends.

Differences

There are obviously tons of differences, I think the main ones being Gwyn is significantly more joyful than Az, she smiles and laughs a lot while it’s very rare to see Az smile or laugh.  He’s super broody and aloof.  Gwyn seems to open up a lot more easily.  She has a lot of hope.  She doesn’t seem to want to suppress herself.  Even though she struggles she is trying to break free.  

Page 524 of ACOSF: “ Nesta had never heard a voice like Gwyn’s—by turns trained and wild, as if there was so much sound fighting to break free of Gwyn, but she couldn’t quite contain it all. As if the sound needed to be loose in the world.”

And with Az: literally impossible to get him to confess anything.  There are a lot of things that Cassian doesn’t know about his brother.  He is content to brood.  He shuts his feelings down until they build up to a point where they almost explode sometimes.  There are some points where he suppresses his shadows on purpose, I feel like.  I don’t know how his shadows work but he can control them at some points.

I feel like whether or not you believe these parallels point to Gwynriel, you can’t deny that they are very similar and can be very good friends and heal together because of that. 

But also, Gwynriel is endgame 🤷‍♀️

[natashascumslut]

STARS - nat. romanoff x fem reader

Summary: Something changed between you and Natasha, and you don’t know what. (this is more from readers perspective, not really an interactive fic i guess.)

Warnings: Angst, mentions of death.

a/n- i’ve had this in my drafts for sooo long, i wasn’t going to post it because its not necessarily a fic, there’s no one taking and stuff but.. not proofread!! and it’s kinda short.

You stared at Natasha across the table, the way you did every-time you had a meeting. Usually, her eyes would meet yours, and she'd smile. Not anymore, now her eyes were glued to Tony, her jaw clenched and a sour expression in her eyes, she was forcing herself to not look at you.

You sighed, tearing your eyes away from her and meeting Tony's as he spoke of upcoming missions. Once it was over, you stood. Usually, you'd walk with Natasha back to her room, or whatever else you'd have planned. But today, she walked passed you, not even looking at you. You craved having her eyes on yours again, even if it was just a second. You dragged yourself to your room, you slowed down as you walked past her room, wanting to stop, to knock, to talk. But you didn't, you kept walking until you were at your own room. You sat down on the edge of your bed, staring at the darkening sky through the window. What had gone wrong?

Your eyes moved to the door, you imagined her walking in, sitting next to you and resting her head on your shoulder. You'd sit in silence for awhile, just being together. Then she'd apologise and explain herself and you'd forgive her and you'd be okay again. You continued to stare at the door with hope swirling your eyes for a few more seconds, before accepting she wasn't going to come in.

You moved your eyes back to the window, the sky now darker than before. You watched the stars slowly appear, you brought your knees up to your chest, resting your head atop them. You were reminded of the times you and Natasha would sneak up to the roof and lay there, watching the stars in each others presence. You'd break the silence as you pointed at the sky, telling the other woman the names of the constellations, and she'd nod along with a hum, and she'd remember them.

You didn't care for stars anymore, no one would listen to you talk about them the way she used to. In fact, your lifelong interest for the solar system had turned sour. Years of sitting at desks reading books, staring through microscopes and solar system themed bedrooms, all gone because no one could enjoy them with you the way she did. No one had ever let you talk about it without interrupting, but she did. No one had ever taken interest in it because you were interested in it, but she did. No one would compare to her. You stared at the sky, you remembered when you saw the Ophiuchus constellation with her, it's a very rare one, and you'd never seen it before. You remember being so excited, and she was so excited for you. She got you a star map of that exact night, and exact time. Your eyes moved over to the framed picture on your wall, you wanted you relive that moment. The way you crawled up to the roof with her, or the way she grabbed you and you both rolled around excited in each others arms when you noticed the constellation. You would've been fine with the world ending right then and there, because you were happy. You missed that.

You moved from your bed to the windowsill and looked back up at the sky, except the clouds fogged the stars, and you couldn't see them anymore. You sighed, resting your head against the cold window. She had hurt you, but you would let her hurt you over and over again if it meant being near her again. She was all you had, she was there when your mother died, she held you in her arms and let you cry every night until you couldn't cry any longer. She took care of you, made sure you ate, and drank. She would force you to get up and do stuff. You would've rotted in your bed without her. You would be dead as-well.

You let out a shaky sigh, you wanted to cry but you couldn't, so you simply took a deep breath and swallowed your thoughts, slowly lulling yourself to sleep against the window. Last time you fell asleep like this, she came in after a late night of working and still carried you to bed, tucked you in and made sure you were okay before she took care of herself. She always put you first, you cared about eachother more than you cared about yourselves. You still cared about her more than anything.

You just wanted her back.

[aneurins-barnard]

Paring - Richard III x Anne Neville Warnings - T Suggestive, No Actual Smut, Fluff, Edouard of Lancaster is a warning even if he's only mentioned, Richard also calls him a bastard but you can bet he's thinking of more.... colourful language Word Count - 1,516 A/N - I do not know what this is, I just needed to get it out. Anyway, a load of fluff. I think it's needed. This fic has not been beta read. It is fluff. Mild, as in the most mildest mild, smut. I cannot express enough how mild it is.

It had only been a day since Anne had finally married her Richard in a quiet, private ceremony at the church of Saint Martin le Grande. A day since he called her “wife” and kissed her softly but chastely in front of the priest.

A day since he had taken her to bed and shown her what pleasures could be found in the marital chambers. Pleasures that Edouard of Lancaster had taken a sick joy in denying her.

Anne had not realised Richard expected her in his chambers that evening. She had departed dinner early wishing to retire after a long day of having her belongings moved to the Palace and packed ready for their journey north. Richard had summoned a maid to escort her as his brother, Edward, called him over to talk.

Anne walked into these chambers, instantly seeing traces of Richard all over. Carved boars, his personal device, adorned the fireplace mantel and bed posts. On the bed spread was an embroidered white boar and the white rose of York. Briefly she wondered who had done such fine work. His desk was littered with scraps of paper and books. So many books and ledgers. 

“My lady?” So distracted as Anne was, she had quite forgotten the maid that had brought her here. “Shall I help you into your nightgown, my lady?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

She turned, allowing the maid to begin undoing the laces of her dress.

As the heavy green velvet fell to the floor, Anne spared a glance at the bed.

Richard’s bed.

It was neatly made, the covers smooth. A servant must have changed the sheets earlier in the day. Had Richard planned for this? For her to come to bed with him tonight?

Anne had not realised that Richard intended to claim his marital rights again. What other reason could he have to have her brought here. He had been so tender and caring the night before. Sweet and gentle. Sure he knew, though, that she may want a little time before they made love again? Did I not say something?

Made love . That’s what he called it. And it had certainly felt that way. His gentle tender touches. The way he had gazed up at her like she was an angel sent from heaven. His hand in hers, the other guiding her hips to move. She had brought herself down to kiss him, and he had tangled that hand in her loose hair. Kissed her neck and murmur soft praises in her ear.

He held her close to his body as she peaked, still whispering his sweet nothings in her ear, calling her “my love,” and “sweetheart.” He held her again in his arms, stroking her hair until she fell asleep, and then when she woke, she was still in his arms, head pillowed on his chest.

A knock at the door snapped Anne out of her reverie. Her maid had already finished helping into her nightgown, and went to open the door. The brief glimpse told Anne that it was not Richard, so she went over to the vanity to begin unbraiding her hair. 

“My lady,” the maid said, reappearing behind her. “A missive from your Lord husband, my lady.”

Anne took the small parchment. “Shall I unbraid your hair, my lady?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

The maid began unbraiding and brushing Anne’s hair and she opened the note and read:

My dear beloved Anne, my brother, the King, has decided to call me to his solar so we may drink and talk of the wonders and perils of marriage. I suppose he thinks as my older brother it is his duty to do so, although I can assure, I have been well introduced to marriage’s wonders, and well prepared for its perils, having watched him and the Queen, and others. I should be back soon ma belle . I love you, my most beloved consort, your Richard

Soon. He would be back soon.

Soon turned out to be a while indeed. The maid finished brushing her hair and left, and Anne climbed into the bed, drawing the curtains around herself. She tucked the sheets up to her chin and closed her eyes wishing for sleep to come.

But it would not, and the door opened, and she heard his deep voice murmuring orders before it shut again.

The sound of rustling and dropping of clothes seemed loud in her ears. Anne closed her eyes tight, hoping to at least appear asleep, even as her mind raced.

Richard approached the bed and parted the curtains. Anne tried to relax again, and he chuckled, at what, she did not know.

Was she perhaps on the wrong side of the bed? Did she have dirt on her face? Her hair, was it knotted, even with all the brushing?

He let the curtain fall again, casting a brief breeze across her face. He walked to the other side. The mattress dipped as he climbed in, and Anne flinched at the cool night air that hit her back when he lifted the blankets.

She felt Richard shuffle closer to her, until her back was pressed against his bare chest.

“I know you’re awake, ma belle ,” he whispered, pressing a few soft kisses on her neck.

Anne sighed tiredly and rolled over to face him. She opened her eyes to him propped up on one arm and smiling at her. She smiled back and angled her head so he could keep kissing her neck. That is what he wanted, right?

But he didn’t return to her neck. She glanced at him, staring at her with his head tilted in amusement. He cupped her cheek with his free hand and bent down to kiss her lips, softly and sweetly.

Then he rolled on his back an tugged Anne to his chest. 

“Richard?” Anne said, puzzled.

“Hmm?”

“Are you not — are we not going to…?”

“Make love?” he finished. Anne smothered a giggle in his chest. She suspected she’d never get used to this. He chuckled too in turn, the movement bouncing her gently. “You can say it, ma belle . We are married, and married people make love ,” he said sensously, bringing her up to kiss him again, deeper this time. When he released her lips, he still held her face in his palm. “You are tired,” he explained. “So am I. I spent all day arguing with George about the Beauchamp estates.”

“But –” she stuttered, “but you had me brought to your champers, and I though–”

“That I wanted to ‘claim my marital rights’ like you told that- that bastard of Lancaster did?”

Anne flinched at his harsh words, tears pooling in her eyes. Edouard was dead . His ghost should not haunt her now.

“Anne?” His voice was gentle now. “Anne, I’m so sorry, I did not mean to speak so harshly. I only meant that I am not like him. I love you-”

“Oh Richard,” - she looked back up at him - “I am the one who should be sory. I should not assume these things. You’re right. It was only that you came to my bed and I thought-” she stopped at he started chuckling again. “What is it?” she said indignantly. They were speaking of serious matters, and he dared to laugh? “What is funny, Richard?”

He cupped her cheek again. “It is my bed, ma belle ,” he said, “and I enjoy having you in it.”

“But I though-” 

“That we would have separate rooms?” She nodded. “No, I liked having you here last night. The last thing I saw before I slept, and the first when I woke. I wish to hold you in my arms at night, to keep you warm and safe. And,” – his face turned serious – “I did not think it wise to leave you alone at night here. Especially not with how vehemently George has opposed out marriage.” Anne nodded understanding. “I feel safer knowing you’re in my arms, and that no-one will try to take you from me.”

“I should have asked you earlier, about our sleeping arrangements.”

Anne smiled, nodding in agreement.

“So, would you, my wife,” – she giggled, knowing what he was doing now – “like to share my bed with me every night of our marriage whether we make love or not?”

“Just to hold each other?

“Just to hold each other.”

Anne fiegned thought for a moment. If last night was any indication, she would not be against being held. In fact, she rather liked it.

“Yes,” she nodded, “on one condition.”

Richard leaned closer. 

“It is our bed now.”

He laughed, his grin lighting up his whole face. Anne swore to herself there that she would make him laugh like this again as often as she could.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Is it our bed now?” 

She giggled as he sat up to kiss her.

He fell back to the bed again pulling her with him.

“Good night, sweet Anne.”

“Good night, husband.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and began stroking her hair.

It did not take her long to fall asleep.

[dearmantis]

Also in case anyone is wondering:

Part 6 of something special is done. it has been done for like a week now. I just don't like it. It's boring and while I do think that the series needs to calm down a bit before the finale, especially after the chapter where Reader kills and eats three wolves, I don't want it to be boring.

Reader is also a bit too sane for my personal taste (especially considering they're kind of hallucinating, maybe, in previous chapters), and I really need to fix that.

[conundrumoftime]

frosts are slain and flowers begotten

A story for @arafinwean-week: Galadriel in the Second Age. (1200 words, G; also on AO3)

----

On the first day of snow that winter Celebrían rises before the sun does. She refuses to be still, refuses to sit for breakfast, dances through the halls like a whirling silver blizzard herself, so entranced by the dazzling white landscape outside that she cares for nothing else. The past few winters in Ost-in-Edhil have been mild; this will be the first year she is old enough to play at sledges and snowball-fights with the other children and she is delighted beyond words.

Galadriel finds it harder to wake that morning. Dreams seem to weigh more heavily on her lately and prove themselves more reluctant to depart come the dawn. Waking to the sound of her daughter’s chatter proves a greatly-needed reassurance after the visions the night brought, but her thoughts remain sluggish and dulled, her mind as muffled as the snow-quiet city outside. 

When she gathers together enough of herself to rise from the soft unfocused warmth of her bed, she finds Celebrían kneeling on the window-seat of the solar with her palms pressed to the glass, watching the snow outside while Celeborn combs through her hair. Below, the streets and squares of Ost-in-Edhil are blanketed in white. A few trails of faint cart-wheels mark the passage of those who have already begun the day. 

“Gloves,” Galadriel says. “And keep them on.”

Her daughter nods with enough force that even her tiny shoulders are caught up in it. Celeborn stills the comb until she is settled again and then resumes where he left off, lifting sections from the front to pull into the start of a simple braid. His lips do not move but his voice sounds clear in Galadriel’s mind: is all well?

Nothing. Dreams.

Not a convincing answer but he does not say so. Instead he nods, small enough to be imperceptible to Celebrían even if she were paying attention, and continues the fast work he is making of her hair.

The three of them walk down to the south fountain square together. Celebrían does not take long to find her footing in the snow, balancing on the tops of walls and leaping frozen puddles, flopping down belly-first into low snowdrifts with the other children. She is fascinated, and she is young enough that her way to be fascinated with things is to let them swallow her up whole. 

It is a fine morning. The sky is a sharp clear blue now, the sunlight dancing in the captured light of icicles and frost-rimmed leaves. Galadriel settles herself on a stone bench beside the frozen fountain and watches as Celebrían and the other children race around in whirling chaos.

There is safety here and happiness and her daughter’s hands are warm inside fine leather gloves cuffed with fur, and still Galadriel cannot shake the previous night’s dream. It had been a cloud of images and sensations rather than anything clear: hunger, sorrow. Little Idril’s golden hair matted with ice. Polished aquamarines spilled in the snow. 

Celeborn comes to join her after a while spent talking with some of the others, gathering now in groups of four or five to watch the children play. These are friends – and her friends – but she is too much in the past this morning to wish for their company.

“Guards caught a wolf out near the bridge pastures,” he says, kicking the heel of his boot against the stone to shake off the packed snow.

“So far south?”

“It’s a bad winter, they’re hungry.”

He may not seem troubled but she feels this news to be an ill omen all the same. She has dreamed of wolves here before, wolves circling the fortressed walls of the city in great packs. There is no threat; they are at peace; in Eregion she has what she wanted, what she came to Middle-earth to find; but something in her remains unsettled. 

“We used wolf fur for our clothes on the ice,” she says. “We lined the edges of our hoods with it to keep off the wind.” She remembers fastening little Idril’s with a cloak-pin, the child no older than Celebrían is now tipping up her chin and refusing to cry. 

“You were dreaming of it again,” he says. 

She finds a smile for this. “So obvious?”

“Only when you talk of ice-floes in your sleep.”

She has woken him before - sometimes unintentionally, sometimes in a desperate need to tell him of an unformed fear for the future that has seized her. Others call it foresight but she never has; it is not clear enough, never clear enough. Sorrows of the past and fears of the future and she cannot tell one from the other.

“I dreamed of a necklace I broke,” she says. “It was the first year, I think – maybe the second. I needed the chain to mend a quiver and I let the beads fall into the snow. We were desperate then and so poorly prepared for what we faced that it seemed near impossible to go on. But I looked down at those beads and found that I did not wish to leave them after all, and so I picked them up and cleared the snow from them and carried them with me. The next year I made a new quiver that would not grow brittle and break in the cold and I sewed the beads onto that. It lasted me many years. I don’t know what it means that I should dream of this now.”

He weighs the thought of this as though she has given him a riddle to solve, which she supposes she has. It is a comfort that he never finds her dreams and visions unsettling but it has always troubled her too that he should find them so easy to accept as a part of her. “Perhaps good things. Perhaps that you found hope and beauty still.”

They are interrupted by Celebrían springing up onto the stone between them, her eyes wild and fierce. “We are making a great serpent out of snow,” she announces. “I am looking for eyes.” And then she steps out onto the frozen surface of the fountain’s pool.

There cannot be more than a couple of inches of water beneath the snow and likely it is frozen solid by now anyway, and yet Galadriel feels absolute terror seize her at the thought of it: the ice will break, the sea beneath will never return what it takes. “No,” she barks, lifting Celebrían down in the curve of her arm, “never walk on ice, what were you thinking?”

Celebrían, entirely unused to harsh words, gazes up in shock. 

“Here,” Celeborn says, taking off one of the rings he wears. “An eye for your snow-serpent.” 

It’s a new ring that the mírdain made for him, a round opal with reds and yellows meant to capture the colours of beech-woods in autumn. In Celebrían’s gloved hand its gold rim of it catches the sun’s light and seems to burn like fire. She is delighted and all thoughts of the scolding are fast forgotten; she tugs at her father’s arm demanding he come with her to set it in place.

Be at peace, Galadriel, Celeborn’s voice sounds in her mind as he allows their daughter to drag him to his feet. It is winter; but it is only winter. Spring will come. 

Spring and what else, she thinks. 

That night she dreams of Idril again standing at the shores of a sea. This time Celebrían is with her too, pale as a spirit as she leans into Idril’s shoulder. “I will hold you up,” Idril is telling her. “Spring will come again.” And whether to call this foresight or fear or hope, Galadriel cannot say.

[lincolndjarin]

Best Kept Secret

chapter eight : solar markets (RE-UPLOAD)

ao3 link ✿ series masterlist ✩ main masterlist ✧

pairing : bodyguard!Din Djarin x afab!princess!reader

rating : 18+ mdni

word count : 5.3k

summary : the mandalorian takes reader on a day trip

warnings, etc. : language, reader thinks about sex like a little bit

A/N : i had to change accounts so this is a re-upload of my ongoing fic bks!!

It’s nice to wake up excited again. 

You wish you could say that it happened more often but hopefully it will from now on. It’s going to be your first time leaving the castle grounds since you got here. You’ve spent the last four weeks cooped up and you couldn’t be more thrilled to finally get to see something new. 

As much as you love the library it can be suffocating to spend every single day between those four walls. 

So you summon Elaine and Lysa as quickly as possible, grinning as you stand in the mirror until you notice the faint blooms of purple on your waist. 

Shit. 

You have to rush to find undergarments that will cover them and you’re barely pulling them over your hips as the door swings open. 

“Good morning ma’am.” Elaine smiles at you as she grabs a brush, going to stand behind you to comb out the knots in your hair. She snaps her fingers sharply and points to the closet signaling for Lysa to fetch you a gown. 

“Good morning Elaine.” You give her a smile, “Good morning Lysa!” You say slightly louder as you watch in the mirror as she brings out a flowy lilac gown. “I’m going out today girls.” You turn to smile at both of them. 

“Is that so ma’am? Where are you going?” Elaine speaks as she pulls the dress over your head and begins lacing up the corset. 

“The Mandalorian is accompanying me to the markets in the city today.” You try to hold back a bit of the enthusiasm in your voice. 

“Mhmm. That sounds wonderful ma’am.” Her head turns. “Go get her a cloak, and then go find Leodall to give her some credits.”  

“Of course.” In a rush Lysa threw a light gray cloak onto the bed and darted out of the room. Elaine dressed you in near silence after that, softly humming a song to herself every once in a while as you let her straighten the cloak over your shoulders. 

It gives you time to think.

Are things going to be different now? It would be hard to go back to how things were at this point, but you don’t want to have to act like strangers again. You’ve agreed to keep having sex at the very least which is a huge relief, but you also want to make sure that you can still talk to him. Just act normal. Act like nothing is different. 

She’s quick with your makeup, doing some simple little accents around your eyes and letting your hair fall around your face in a way she typically doesn’t. 

“Even though you haven’t made many public appearances it will be best to keep your face mostly hidden my lady.” She adjusts the hood slightly over your hair to shield the top of your head. You nod slowly.

“Is there a bag I can take?” Is all you have to say in response, you aren’t particularly worried about any threats in the city. After all, you have Mando. Who, now that you’re thinking about it, you have never seen in action. Sure he’s big and imposing but it’s still troubling to think that he might be all talk. He does love to talk. You’ll be fine. He wouldn’t take you into the city if he couldn’t protect you. 

Probably. 

Elaine throws a white satchel over your shoulders and takes a step back to admire her work before nodding. 

“If you’re ready I’m sure he’s waiting for you.” She gives you a grin before leaving. You take a good look at yourself in the mirror, Elaine really does work wonders. You honestly aren’t sure how she does it, it’s not like you’re unattractive by any means but you don’t think you were this alluring back on Hoth. 

Is it okay to hope that he notices? That doesn’t break any rules right? 

You don’t have long to wonder because Leodall is bursting into the room holding a small leather coin purse. Holding it out to you. 

“I wish you had given me more warning princess… this was what I was able to put together on such short notice.” He’s seemingly trying to catch his breath still as you take the purse and open it, your eyes going wide. You were royalty back on Hoth but clearly not this royal. There’s more credits than you could possibly know what to do with inside. 

“A-are you sure?” You manage to stammer out, you’re nervous just holding them. 

“I mean if you’d like I can see if I can make it down to the vaults but it will take me much longer to get more, how much do-” You cut him off.

“Nevermind Leo. Thank you.” You give him a reassuring smile as you put the credits in your bag and dismiss him with a nod. You slip on a pair of riding boots before exiting the room yourself. 

He looks different. 

Scarier. 

You clearly hadn’t been getting the full Mandalorian before because now there’s somehow more attachments. Ammunition. He’s shinier if that was somehow possible, like he polished his armor for this outing and he’s got a brown canvas bag thrown over his shoulder. 

He looks like a proper killer. 

Why does that send a rush of heat between your legs?

“Good morning, princess.” He gives you a curt nod.

So far so good. 

“Good morning Mando. You look… nice.” You tilt your head slightly, getting a real eyeful of him before meeting his visor. 

Okay this is a little more difficult than you thought it was going to be.

Of course it’s harder than you thought it’d be to have a conversation with someone you’ve had impulse hate sex with. 

You just want things to be normal. Just friends. You can do this, this is what you wanted so you need to make it work, you will make it work. 

“Are you ready?” 

“Always.” He turns on his heel to start making his way down the hall and you swiftly follow. 

“Will we be walking there?” You can’t stop smiling at the prospect of finally actually seeing other people. 

“It’s a bit far for that. We’ll take a speeder.”

“Like a bike?” You can’t hide the excitement in your voice, as he lets out a low chuckle. 

“No princess. I don’t think it would be proper for me to take you into the city on a speeder bike. We’ll be taking a landspeeder.” You try to hide your disappointment as he leads you through the twisting halls until you finally reach the familiar front gates. You’d only ever gone in through them when you arrived all those weeks ago. When you went to the garden you had taken back exits. Mando is already talking to a droid near the gate and you can’t catch what he’s saying but he comes back with two silver bands, holding one out to you. “Palace rules, if you’re leaving the grounds you’ve gotta wear it.” He easily clips his on as you fumble with the clasp on yours.

“What are they for?” You can’t help but bite your lip as you try to get the damn thing on before finally he takes your wrist and does it for you.

“Trackers.” He says it like he doesn’t like the taste of the word in his mouth but you choose to ignore it as he walks through the gate, scanning the bracelet as he does so, you follow his lead and then you’re outside. A light blue landspeeder is waiting for the two of you and you take his hand as he helps you get into the back seat before pulling himself up next to you. The driver nervously turns to stare at him but says nothing as he turns back around. “Solar Markets.” Is all Mando has to say in that stern, bounty hunter tone before you’re flying. 

✩

It’s annoyingly beautiful. 

You’d convinced yourself that Naboo was a place you had been condemned to but it’s stunning. It’s greener than you’d realized and you swear you hear Mando laugh at the awestruck look on your face. 

He looks comfortable like this, leaning back, his arms spread out across the back of the seat. You must look like an over eager child the way your eyes keep darting around. You almost want to ask if you can keep riding around for a bit when the speeder stops. 

Almost.

But the markets are much more enticing. 

Alive and buzzing with people, there’s probably more people just on this street than there were in your entire colony back home. Mando helps you out of the speeder by lifting you up by your waist and once you’re on the ground you pull your hood back up. He leans down to whisper to you.

“No one is going to recognize you, it’s okay.” Is he smiling? It sounds like he’s smiling. You let the hood fall and run your fingers through your hair to try and brush the wind out of it. He holds his arm out and you briskly take it, clutching yourself close to him as he starts walking. It’s almost like a small path through the crowds clears whenever you walk and you immediately regret letting your hood down until you realize it’s not for you.

They’re scared of him.

People get quiet when you walk near them, they whisper, eyes start darting around frantically. 

“I didn’t realize you had a reputation…” You mumble, leaning closer to him.

“Not me princess, my people in general. Don’t worry about it, it just means no one is going to mess with you.” He lets out a chuckle as he slows his pace. 

“What are they saying about you?” You look warily around the crowds, holding on to Mando’s arm a little tighter.

He fidgets with something on his gauntlet and is silent for a few minutes as you walk before he fidgets with it again.

“Just your usual Mandaloian panic, mostly people worried about you.”

“Me?” You can’t help it when your voice goes up a pitch. It makes him chuckle softly. 

“Some people are worried you're my prisoner.” 

“Why would people think that?” You can’t help but look up at him in confusion.

“Usually we travel alone, or with other Mandalorians. Or people don’t see us at all, some people are just concerned that I’m holding you captive.” Why does he sound like he’s enjoying that fact?

“Well that’s annoying.” You scoff.

“So, what are we shopping for today?” He tilts the helmet down to look at you as you take in the dozens upon dozens of stands. It’s entirely possible that they will have quite literally anything you could ask for. 

“I didn’t actually have anything in mind… can we just look around?” 

“Of course.” Okay, he’s definitely smiling. 

The two of you arm in arm walk through the first street of stalls. Nothing in particular catches your eye, it mostly seems like antiques and other such things, it must take well over an hour though and as he turns you down the next street you're hit with a wave of different smells as you start your trek through what you figure is the food stands. Your stomach lets out a small grumble since you skipped breakfast for this.

“Are you hungry? Can you eat if no one is looking?” You say softly, turning towards him. 

“Someone is always looking. I’ll eat when we get back.” 

 You can’t help but frown. It passes quickly though as you get an idea. You keep your eyes peeled for a specific stand. 

“You called this the Solar Markets earlier?” You say absentmindedly, still looking around.

“Yes. During the day they are called the Solar Markets, at night they do a quick turn around and then open the Lunar Markets.” He’s speaking so softly you can barely hear him and you wonder if he does it on purpose to keep up appearances of a stoic silent killer. 

“Will we be able to stay for the Lunar Markets?” You turn to him hopefully and you hear the beginning of a laugh before the modulator cuts off. He takes a second before you hear the filter crackling back to life. 

“No princess. I will have to find a way to sneak you out after hours to show you the Lunar Markets.” His voice is tinged with amusement. 

“Why? Are they dangerous?” You instinctively squeeze his arm tighter. 

“Not at all, we’re just going to have to make sure you don’t have a tracker on when we go, I’m sure I’d get in a lot of trouble if anyone found out you went, we’ll have to keep your hood up for that trip.” There’s a teasing tone to his voice that you don’t get. 

“Are you going to tell me why or am I going to have to guess?” 

“I think it will be better if it’s a surprise.” He whispers as he pats your arm gently. You’re about to interrogate him further but you see what you’re looking for and drop his arm, jogging up ahead to a stand, handing over what is definitely too many credits as you tell the Gungan running the stand to keep the change, Mando is right behind you when you turn around, you’ve got a big smile on your face.

“Don’t run off like that. Just because nobody knows you doesn’t mean you aren’t precious cargo.” His voice is stern but you don’t let it bother you as you hold up your purchase. 

“Look what I got us.” You're beaming ear to ear. “It’s pear and some kind of spikey melon I didn’t recognize.” You hold the smoothie up towards his helmet and he tilts his head ever so slightly. 

“Okay…?” He says it slowly like he’s being careful not to hurt your feelings. 

“It has a straw! So you don’t have to take your helmet off.” You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world as you take a sip. It’s thick, and sweeter than you were expecting but it goes down smooth and you can’t stop smiling as you hold it out towards him.

“That’s very kind of you princess… but it might affect the presence I’m trying to put out if I’m walking around with a straw under my helmet.” He sounds serious as he says it which makes you lose the smile as you think again for a moment. 

“Okay. I need to tell you something.” You take his hand and pull him just behind the stall, out of sight of most of the people.

“You’re confusing me princess.” He laughs softly. “What do you want to tell me?” He puts his hands on his hips and you hold a finger out to make a “come closer” motion.  

“I have to whisper it.” He sighs as he leans down so his face is next to yours and your mouth is where his ear would be. “Release the airlock on your helmet.” You whisper it and he starts to pull back but you put your hands on his shoulders. “Please. Just for a second.” He lets out another exasperated sigh but after a moment you hear a hiss of air and you bite back a giggle as you bring the drink up between the two of you and shove the straw under the edge of his helmet, you use your body to shield him from anyone passing by. If anyone looked it would look like you were just whispering a secret to him. There’s a moment where you’re worried you’ve gone too far but then you hear a quiet slurping noise and you know you’ve won. After a moment he pulls back and you can see through the clear cup that he’s downed a solid quarter of it. The air hissed as he resealed his helmet. 

“Happy?” He has a mock tone of defeat as you grin.

“Extremely.” You take his arm again and lead him back into the crowd as you sip at the drink lazily while you walk. “Did you like it?” You don’t bother concealing the satisfaction in your voice. 

“It was a little sweet for me… but yes.” 

“I knew you would. I’m always right.” 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Do you come here at night to buy food or do you just get stuff from the castle?” As you speak you walk over to a pastry stand and drop a pile of credits into the young woman's hand as you take a few small cakes and cookies and put them into your bag, waving off the change again. 

“I usually just eat ration packets back at my cabin.” 

Full stop.

“Why aren’t you getting food from the kitchens?” You take a step in front of him, staring up into his visor with your arms crossed. You’d had ration packets plenty of times back on Hoth when they were unable to get cargo ships in. They were filling but honestly you’d found them gross most of the time. You didn’t like the idea of him relying solely on those when he had so many other options available to him.

“I never thought to do so. I’ve always just eaten rations packs.” He sounds almost bored with the conversation as you glare up at him. You want to scold him but you know he won’t listen so instead you make a mental note to pick up a few things while you’re here. You take his arm and start walking again. “Do you need anything else from this street or do you want to go to the next one?” He whispers it like he’s unsure if you’re mad at him. 

“I’m done here, we can go to the next one.” You keep it light, not wanting anything to ruin this day as he brings you down the next street. This is easily the biggest, most crowded area. It seems like the majority of the vendors set up shop here and you’re having trouble focusing on any single stand as you start your slow trek. A particularly sharp burst of color catches your eye as you approach the stand. The Toydarian manning the shop seems nervous about Mando but you ignore it as you start searching through the plastic flowers. 

“We have the gardens at home, why the hell do you need fake flowers?” His eyes are looking around the shelves as he speaks and you find the plastic lilies you were looking for. 

“I had these growing up. I just want some for my room.” You can’t help but smile at the idea of having a piece of home back in your chambers, as you hand the shopkeep the credits you catch Mando also handing him some as he shoves something into his bag. You don’t ask because once you leave another stand has already caught your eye. 

“Oh no. You’re not getting that.” He’s groaning as you run up to the droid selling vibroblades. 

“Come on, they’re all so small I won’t be able to do much damage with one anyway.” You’re peeking through the display case at the knives, settling on a simple dainty one, it’s entirely silver, handle and blade. The droid retrieves it the moment you point it out and you hand him the credits as you put it into the sheath provided before shoving it into your bag. 

“Why do you even need that? You have me to protect you.” He puts a hand on his hip but you just take his arm and push him to keep him walking. 

“Just for emergencies. Don’t worry about it.” He sighs as you keep walking. 

“What emergency? You have a state of the art locking system on your door and a state of the art bodyguard.” He sounds almost offended and you burst into laughter. 

“Please don’t tell me you’re jealous of a knife.” You can hear a little huff of air coming from the modulator. 

“No.” There’s that bounty hunter voice. 

“Oh come on, don’t be jealous, I promise I like you more than the blade.” You poke his pauldron as you tease him. 

“I’m not jealous.” He scoffs out. 

“Just making sure.”

✩

You spend the rest of the day in the third street of the market. It’s massive, you don’t even get a chance to see every stand. You aren’t even sure you’ve seen half of them. Around midday you take out one of the little cakes you’d bought and eat it, offering him half but of course he declines. You buy a lovely crystal vase for your faux flowers, a few other little snacks you find and several bowls with sealable lids. You’re sure that purchase has Mando raising an eyebrow but he doesn’t say anything. 

You’re exhausted by the time the sun is lowering in the sky but you don’t want this day to end. You can tell he’s about to call it as you see a stand that catches your eye and you drag him along to it, you can feel a slight resistance as he realizes where you’re dragging him but it’s too late because you’re already talking to the woman folding fabrics at the entrance. 

“Do you by any chance have other wares I could peruse in the back?” You give her a smile as she looks warily between you and the Mandalorian before nodding and taking your hand. He starts to follow but you put a hand against his chestplate. 

“You’re not going anywhere without me.” His tone has gotten all stiff and bounty hunter serious as he gently takes your wrist and removes your hand. 

“I’m trying on clothes. You need to wait outside.” 

It’s way too tense for such a simple request. You can feel the shopkeep trembling behind you but you don’t drop the glare you’ve got trained on his visor. You don’t know how long you stand like that. Scowling at each other. Definitely too long but eventually he sighs and takes a step back. 

“Ten minutes. If you don’t come out, I’m going in.” He points a warning finger at you but plants his feet and you know he’ll stay put as you give him a big grin before following the woman into the back. 

It’s exactly what you thought it would be. 

A lot of the stuff was classier out front but you knew there would most likely be skimpier options where the public couldn’t see them. You started looking through the shelves of lace and silk. You’re only doing so for a moment before the woman is clearing her throat. 

“Are you okay, miss?” Her voice is small and timid as she looks over her shoulder anxiously. You raise an eyebrow in confusion. 

“Yes…? Why do you ask?” You look away from the woman as you find a shelf exclusively containing green fabrics. Jackpot. 

“It’s just, I don’t mean to intrude but- but I’ve never seen a…” She leans in to whisper. “A Mandalorian traveling with someone before. I just want to make sure you aren’t being held against your will. Such a pretty young woman, accompanying such a dangerous man.” 

Oh.

Well you should have seen that coming. You give her a reassuring smile. You want to be offended on his behalf but maybe you just didn’t truly grasp how afraid people were of him.

“I’m perfectly safe ma’am, he’s my friend.” She nods slowly, seemingly satisfied with your answer as you hold up a particularly revealing piece. A satiny green two piece set. They could probably pass as pajamas if the bottoms weren’t practically just panties. You put it over your arm as you look for something a little more racy. “Is this everything?” You turn to look at her again.

“No miss, but we don’t bring out what I think you’re looking for until after sundown.”

Oh. That’s why you weren’t staying for the Lunar Market.  

“Ah, okay. I’ll be sure to come back for that at some point. Thank you so much for being so accommodating” You hand her half of your remaining credits and her jaw is practically on the floor as you make a swift exit, shoving the clothes into your bag. Finding Mando just outside. He’s in nearly the same position except now he has a small bag in his hands. You pay it no mind as you go to take his arm. 

But you miss it completely as someone grabs your other arm pulling you in the opposite direction. 

“I haven’t seen you around here before, are you new in town?” It’s a human man with long black hair, he’s got welding goggles strapped to his head. You try as gently as possible to shove him off. 

“No, I’ve lived here for some time now, and I should be getting back to my friend…” You’re about to point to Mando hoping that would scare him off but the man is putting a hand around your waist and starts walking you down the street. 

“Oh come on sweet thing, why don’t we just walk for a little bit, maybe you can show me what you bought from that stand.” You can hear his hot breath against your neck as he leans closer and you’re about to reach for the blade in your bag but you don’t get too because he’s already on the ground. 

You don’t have anytime to realize what’s going on until it’s already happening.

“ Give me a reason to do it. ” Mando’s already on top of him, blaster pressed to the bottom of the man's jaw. His voice sends a chill down your spine, if you thought that the stern tone he used on most strangers was his bounty hunter voice you were horribly wrong. This was his bounty hunter voice. When the man didn’t respond you watched as the barrel of the blaster pushed a hair deeper into the man's skin. 

You should probably unpack at some point why you find this so attractive. 

Maker, would it be inappropriate to ask him to recreate this later in your chambers? 

You don’t register what the man mumbles as Mando reholsters his blaster. Standing up and facing you. You do happen to catch the next words the man mutters as he gets to his feet, unlucky for him Mando catches the words as well. 

“Have a good night with your whore, jackass.” 

The crack of the punch is so loud, you’re absolutely certain that Mando broke his jaw. The man drops to the ground in an instant and your Beskar companion simply shakes his hand out once before offering you his arm again. You take it as you try to avoid looking at the crumpled body of the man. 

Stars, you don’t know if you’ve ever been this attracted to someone. 

As a friend. Obviously. 

“You get everything you need?” He says as he starts backtracking you down the market street. He’s alarmingly casual. 

“Yes. I’m ready to go now.” You give him a nervous smile as you walk, trying to  enjoy the sun setting on everything. 

It’s hard not to talk about it.

But it’s probably for the best all things considered, if you start reliving that memory, who knows how long you’ll be able to resist dragging the Mandalorian into an alley and getting on your knees. 

On your way out you tell him you want to stop and grab some things for dinner, if he notices you buying more food than you could possibly eat he doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t even say anything when you make him carry it. It’s a quick ride back to the castle and you can feel the exhaustion taking its toll as he walks you up to your chambers. Leo is waiting for you in the hall to take your tracker bands, Mando mumbles something about losing his but you pay him no mind as you hand Leo yours, telling him to inform the girls that you won’t need them, they can have the night off, and with that he departs. Mando helps you into your room and helps you set your things onto the bed. 

“Did you have a good day?” He’s gentle again. Nothing like his tone when you were in public. It makes you smile, like he saves it just for you. 

“I did. Thank you, for everything.” 

“So you aren’t stressed?” He doesn’t look up, he’s setting a few of the bowls you’d bought out on the bed. 

“No not at all, why? If you’re worried about the guy, don’t be I didn’t even have a second to process what was happening…” Your voice trails off as you realize why he was asking.

You idiot. 

This is Purely Stress Relief.

Your rule.

You want to take it back immediately but he’s already standing up straighter, and you know you’ve already missed your chance. 

“Do you need anything else or should I leave?” He says it with the same tone of disappointment that you currently feel. 

Damn it. 

You stupid, stupid woman, less than an hour ago you were gonna jump his bones in the street and now that you’ve got him alone you just blew your chance to… well, blow him .

Whatever. It’s for the best. It would be weird to have a really great day out together and then come home and have sex anyway. That’s something a couple would do. And that’s not what this arrangement is. But you can’t let him leave without executing your master plan. 

You start opening the food containers and scoop half of everything into the bowls, sealing all of them before rummaging through your bag for one of the little cakes, setting it on top of the three sealed bowls, stacking them. 

“Here.” You hold it all out to him and he just stands there for a moment. 

“You don’t have to-” The voice that comes out of the filter almost sounds small. 

“I know I don’t have to. Now take it, I’m ordering you to go home and eat actual food.” You shove it into his arms and he starts carefully tucking it into his bag.

“You don’t have the authority to order me to do anyth-”

“Shut up. For once, about that.” You give him a stern look and you both stand awkwardly across from each other. You aren’t really sure what he’s waiting for but finally he reaches into his satchel and hands you the small bag he had been holding earlier. 

“I bought this for you earlier while you were trying on clothes. It made me think of you.” He doesn’t even give you a second to say thank you before he’s out of the room, closing the door gently behind him. You stand there dumbfounded for a moment before you open the bag, looking down at the contents.

You reach in and hold the necklace in front of your face so you can get a good look. 

It’s a simple leather cord but what really catches your eye is the tiny charm. It’s a little silver outline of a flower hanging from the band. A little flower. 

Sarad’ika.

You’re glad he didn’t linger to watch you open it because you have to hold back tears.

Even though he didn’t stay you can’t help but smile as you started nodding off. Closing the food containers before grabbing a few things, retreating to the closet. You lay down in your nest of blankets, setting your book down next to you as you stare down at the charm in the palm of your hand. You don’t think you ever had a day this fun even back on Hoth. No one had ever put this much thought into a gift for you. No one had ever defended you like that before either, he had even drunk what you offered him… Your fingers played with the small silver charm as you carefully tucked the necklace between the pages of The Smitten Paladin. 

It was probably the most lovely day you’d ever had. 

A specific scrawled line of text catches your eyes as they dart to the rules scrawled against the back inside cover and you slam the book shut, shoving it into your pillowcase for safekeeping. 

No Romance. 

Fuck.

I am no longer doing taglists so follow @lincolndjarinnotifs and turn on notifications to be notified when new chapters are posted !!

[winterrrnight]

KEZ!!! I just thought of an amazing idea😭, you know how Ward lended Rafe, Cameron industries…what about before Rafe married reader, she always dreamed of having (the pictures), a majestic bookroom filled w books. So!! Before getting married she would always talk abt Rafe building anything similar for her, and since we all know Rafe is OBSESSED w wife, he already started rough drafts to make sure wife got everything she wanted, what Rafe vowed to her 🥹

IM GOING CRAZY IM GOING CRAZY IM GOING BATSHIT CRAZYYYYY abby I'm kissing your brain rn so hard 🥹🥹🫶🏼🫶🏼

part of this little universe <3

rafe has always known about his wife's obsession for books and her dream of having a book room, all of it decorated with aesthetics that she loves with all her heart (like literally anything!! whatever aesthetic the reader loves) and filled with so many books, like basically she wants her own little home library. 🥹

and rafe practically vowed the day she told him about her dreams that he will give it to her.

so the drafts were started, the ideas were thought, the sketches were made, and he was so determined to give her what she wants.

so, I believe that after their wedding when his wife gets to see their new house for the first time that rafe has been having built since the day he decided he's going to marry her and wants her in his life forever, the first room she's taken to is the bookroom!!!!

and its decorated exactly like how she used to tell him.

she wasn't even sure he would remember, but she is so in awe when she sees how much attention he paid to the details, how everything is just exactly the way she would describe to him.

she just didn't know rafe would be so lost in her words when she used to be telling him about her dreams of owning something like that, and how he loved that dreamy look in her eyes that she gets each time she talks about something she's extremely passionate about.

and to see her dreams come to literal life, you all best believe she has to pinch herself to convince her mind it is real!!!!

and then rafe shows her around, showing her everything he got built in the room and she's just so in awe with the way he practically bought heaven to existence for her.

after they start living there rafe knows that there's a good chance she's almost always in that room, reading something she loves so so much.

and after she's done reading whatever book it was that kept her so intrigued she would share her crazy theories on the book and rafe would listen to her no matter what!! cause he loves her!! with her whole heart!! he'll bring her the entire solar system if she asks for it!!

her face again has that dreamy look he so so so SO loves, and he gets lost in it. lost in her soft expression, her voice, her gaze... and its like he's falling in love all over again.

goodness he's so so whipped for her, he's never letting her go for real. she's her goddess always and forever 💘

tagging my baes @runningfrom2am & @chenslucy who i know will eat this up!!!!

(share any of your husband!rafe thoughts and headcanons and/or your other drew/rafe/zach thoughts! sfw only <3)

[supern0vashii]

A River of Regrets

( A comic of Godbox!SMG3 & Nova possession origins. ) The scene was quite ugly. Blood and ichor splattered onto the concrete floors, and two beings collapsed and heaving for air on either side. One of them, SMG3, noticed a severe tear in the inside of his wing. He attempted to cover this, but winced at the feeling. He looked upon his opponent, her most eye-attracting qualities being her angel-like wings and her outfit, were dirtied with golden blood, and blood that wasn't hers.

Nova, the Concept of Creativity herself, held her gaze of disgust as she examined him the same way he examined her. Directly noting all of his weak points. She detested the piercing silence between the two. "Not so high and mighty now huh?" The Concept reveled in the fact that a vessel of the Godbox itself could be weakened by her. She thought he would last longer. "You little--" The sound of her voice alone irritated SMG3 to no end. He clenched his hands, attempting to get up, but his legs felt like gelatin. "--bitch." He finished, his voice tainted by the impact of falling back onto the hard ground. "You're pathetic." The Concept of Creativity spat, the smile in her voice dissipating. She struggled, but eventually managed to stand on her own two feet. Nova let out a degrading chuckle, picking up her staff from the rubble, and pressing the tip against the vessel's throat. SMG3 choked in response, his hands reaching for the base of the staff. "You should be the--" SMG3 gasped for air. "--last person talking about being pathetic. You think I don't know anything about you? Nova, you destroyed lives, killed millions, ended solar systems, you are pathetic." "An honest sinner 'till I die. Which is never." She responded, thrusting the tip of the staff into his throat, not enough to kill SMG3, but to cut off air circulation. "But, what's the harm if I don't mind? We had a deal, SMG3. You don't back away from a deal." The staff against his throat was now beginning to truly affect SMG3. He gasped for air again, yet he refused to ask for mercy. Nova hissed at his defiance, and reached in to grab SMG3 by the throat and hang him in the air like a lost sock. "You coward! You promised me power, and I'm not giving that up." She could feel the golden blood drip down her nose, and it drove her all the more insane. SMG3 couldn't even speak anymore, and out of unrecognized fear, reluctantly listened to what she said. He hesitantly reached down to Nova's gemstone on her chest, the star-shaped crystal that held her soul. SMG3's hand grazed the surface of the crystal before allowing himself to be swallowed by the emptiness that was Nova's body. After a few moments of terrifying silence, SMG3 found himself in his vessel's body. He felt an unyielding flow of a river slosh below his knees. Suddenly, the vessel corrupt SMG3 with a rush of memories that weren't his, but were Nova's. He saw a reflection in the star-shined river, and found himself in a ..celestial court.

The court’s silence was pierced by the sudden sound of a door opening. The judges eyes fixated on the intruder, the glass walls reflecting off of her decorative shining stars. She came in a rush, her facial expressions showing nothing but pure rage. Her teeth gritted, wings fluttered and fluffed up, and her hands begged to punch something. “What the hell?!” She shouted. The sound seemed to resonate throughout the room, the echo drowned by her heavy breathing. 

“What brings you here, Creativity?” A being questioned. 

“Don’t call me that– My name is Nova. And you know real well why I’m here!” The intruder continued to yell. “Why would you go through my personal space?! Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Reality?!” She huffed. 

Reality gave a quick answer. “What I’ve done? Do you know what you’ve done? You betrayed our moral code. You know that we Concepts do not get along with mortals.”

“You mean–.. Nevermind. Humans aren’t even that bad? Why don’t you get out of your protective little shell of yours and actually try to get along?! It’s practically your fault we’ve been at war with humans for eons!”

Reality lightly gripped the surface of the desk in vexation. “What war? The war that humans are foolish enough to think that we don’t exist?”

Nova could feel the rage burning up inside her. “Maybe it’s better to be human then whatever the hell we are!” Those words hung in the air, the rest of the council not knowing how to respond to such an insulting statement. The only sound in the court was Nova’s huffing, yet eventually even she realized the weight of her words. Nova’s eyes darted around the room, eyeing each and every other Concept there, waiting for something. A reaction, an eye twitch, something. “How dare you!” Another concept yelled, his hands gripping on his own desk. His teeth gritted against each other. “You are lucky that I, as a mother, as the Concept of Creation himself, have treated you so well! How dare you say something so vile towards your own creator!”

“Ugh, Mom! Now’s not the time!” Nova barked back. Her wings fluttered as she groaned. She refocused on her topic and continued. “This council has treated us Mixed-Concepts like toys for you to use! With all this, maybe being human doesn’t sound so bad.”

Reality tapped their fingers on the desk, a slight look of frustration could be seen, despite them being faceless. As the concept continued to think of solutions of how to find a resolution to the dispute, they had an idea. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” The concept questioned. “I could accomplish that, for a small price, of course.” Nova was taken aback. She did not expect such a request. Allowing this to happen could refute their claims that humans are simply just monsters. Yet, her pride as a concept would be shattered within an instant. She would feel.. pain. “..Do it. Make me human.” Nova demanded, her wings folded against her back. Despite the demand, she could feel herself getting uneasy. Her hands began to tremble, and her eyes flickered from concept to concept. She mumbled under her breath, immediately regretting her decision.

“Hey! You can’t just do that to one of my creations! I poured my heart and soul into that!” Creation snapped back. The two concepts then began to argue back and forth, their arguing filling the court with dispute.

Suddenly, the Concept of Destruction butted in. “You two! Stop arguing! You’re both major Concepts so act like it. Don’t be so foolish.” The two argumentative concepts stopped their bickering. They gave each other harsh looks, but didn’t say anything more. “If she wants to be human then let her. It’s her own choice. Plus, she’s the one suffering, not us.” The Concept of Reality chittered, letting out a low sigh. “Alright. It’s her choice.” The concept waved their hand magic twinkling through their fingers. Nova braced herself, expecting a plethora of weirdness. For a moment, she was confused, for she didn’t feel anything. Then, all of a sudden, she felt a jolt of pain throughout her body. Nova collapsed to the floor, letting out a soft cry. Glistening tears rolled down her star-freckled cheeks as the agony spread throughout her skin. She felt a thick liquid thrashing in her throat, threatening to spill out of her open mouth. The liquid spread throughout her body, and she concluded what the liquid could have been; blood. After what felt like eons, Nova’s suffering was no more. She vomited a gold liquid, which now resembled her blood. She could feel the aftermath of the pain, and it was such a strange sensation for someone who couldn’t feel anything. Her wings flicked. She didn’t look any different, but that was a stark contrast to the immense turmoil of discomfort and soreness she felt in her newly instituted stomach.

. . .

SMG3 was taken aback. He didn't expect anything like this. His lips, or rather, Nova's lips quivered. He blinked, and now the river was gone, and his own body was gone. He looked at what was supposed to be his hands, but now were white star-speckled pitch black claws and the red bonds that had haunted him for what felt like centuries. What had he gotten himself into?

( @grinnames for you cuz i left that piece of lore with no explanation 😋) ( @3nvymist cuz i know you'd die to read this ;-; ) I DID THIS WITHIN AN HOUR 💔💔💔💔

[solar-verse]

Welcome to the solar verse world where I'll be writing a bunch of fanfics on BTS, mostly on Jungkook and all of them would be idol au. The reason is that like any reader I was searching for good idol BTS fanfics but like you probably know there aren't many. So after many hesitation I decided to write them myself.

Disclaimer: English isn't my first language so please bare with me.

My board

I don't tolerate any disrespect here, if you have an opinion be polite while expressing it or be silent.

If you have any requests please do write them but I only write BTS idol au. And you don't know maybe it would turn to a book too.

I'm not good with smut but I'll try to write them if I feel comfortable enough. But I won't promise it would be good.

I love interacting with all of you so please don't be a silent reader, we can also talk about about anything besides the books.

I only ask to be friendly towards each other and enjoy this journey together.

Masterlist:

Info:

Meeting him was like a warm ray of sunshine that gently touched her little, beating heart, or like a soft breeze playing with the loose strands of hair that had escaped her braid. Meeting him stirred emotions within her that her young mind couldn’t quite comprehend. Yet, his rejection and annoyance brought forth feelings she desperately wanted to bury, feelings she wished she could forget forever. How could one person evoke such a whirlwind of emotions? Emotions that made her run away to protect what little remained of her fragile heart, and emotions that made her curse herself when she crossed paths with him again. He was her older brother’s childhood best friend, the object of her silly childhood crush. Jeon Jungkook.

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