#thanks to frey for betaing this

[as-is-above-so-below]

The Captain - Simon Riley x Sniper!Reader, Wife!Reader

Part 6: Darling

summary: Ghost’s sniper wife (reader) joins Task Force 141 on an op, against his wishes call sign: Freyja warning: implied sexual content, MDNI Note: PART 6 HAS ARRIVED! Thank you for all of your support! A special thank you to @lethalchiralium and @peachesofteal for workshopping with me, per usual, and being my beta! Enjoy and blessed be! (p.s. ghost drinking an orange sodie lol) << Previous | Next >>

Simon could hear his daughter’s screams as he came up the walkway to their front door, duffel slung over his shoulder. He had returned from a month-long deployment an hour ago and only allowed himself enough time to debrief and return his weapons once on base before hopping in his car and heading home.

He entered the house, still in full gear (mask and all), to find his heavily pregnant wife pacing the living room, their crying daughter in her arms. Her eyes and cheeks were red when she turned to the door, sobbing in relief at the sight of him.

“Oh, sweetheart. What’s going on?” he asked, dropping his bag by the door and going to her.

“She has a-a cold.”

“I can see that.” He wiped at the snot and drool on Joanie’s lip with his glove. “Where’s Roach?”

“He went to pick König up. You didn’t see him?”

“No. Must’ve just missed ‘im.” When Price handed out assignments for their most recent deployment, Roach had offered (more like decided) to stay with Freyja for the duration of his absence. With König also deployed, it made sense for him to help her with the baby and housekeeping while Simon was gone. Better than staying on base – alone – for a month. Knowing someone was in the house with his family made him feel better about leaving for such an extended period, especially with his track record. The last time he had left the country, leaving his pregnant spouse behind…

Simon rubbed his daughter’s back, his heartstrings tugging at the thought of her being in pain. “Give ’er here, I’ll take a turn.”

“Si, no, you must be exhausted-”

“I am exhausted, which means I’m in no mood to argue. Go to bed, love, please.”

His pleading didn’t seem to affect her as she went back to doing laps around the couch. “The doctor said there’s nothing we can do. It just has to pass. I’ve tried everything. Chest salve, shower steam, saline – nothing’s working. Every-Every time we put her down or sit down, the screaming just gets worse. Can’t stop…moving, and your son is kicking the shit out of me-”

This was ironic, considering how Joan only kicked when Simon or one of their friends spoke or touched her belly. Now, their son only ever kicked for her.

“Freyja.”

She stopped her rambling and found he had stepped into her path; he firmly held her biceps and dragged his hands up and down. Freyja sniffled as another tear slipped down her cheek. No singular word could describe how she felt (and probably looked). Drained, fatigued, beaten, dog-tired; none quite did the trick.

“You look like shit. You need to get some rest.”

“No, Simon, please just go to…bed.”

Soon as Ghost took Joan and returned to massaging her spine, her wails simmered to quiet whimpers as she cuddled into him. She dropped her head onto his shoulder, little fingers hanging from the collar of his shirt to the top of his vest. Their baby was getting big, her senseless baby talk beginning to lean more toward coherent vocabulary. When Joanie cried a soft “Dada” against his neck, Freyja started to sob harder, the heels of her palms dug into her eyes. 

Shit. “What’s wrong? She stopped screaming bloody murder. That’s a good thing.”

“I’ve been trying to calm her down for hours! You come home, and after five minutes, you’ve fixed it. She hates me! She fucking hates me!”

“Frey, look at me.” He stopped comforting Joan for a moment to tilt his wife’s chin up, forcing her to listen to him. When she did, he took his hand back. “Babies see their mothers as an extension of themselves. She knows your heartbeat and breathing sounds; she gets food from you…”

“Who told you that?”

“…I read about it.”

Freyja softened, tears no longer flowing freely. “You read parenting books?”

“Of course I do. I want to be the best for them and you.” He pulled her into his chest with one arm, his covered lips pressing into her hair. “You are her mother. I could never take your place. You’re her home. But I’ve been gone for a month, and I’ve never been away from her this long. There’s something to be said about missing her dad and wanting some comfort.”

When Simon brushed her tears away, she turned to kiss his palm, then rested her cheek there. Freyja didn’t know how, but her husband sure had a way with words, always knowing how to make her feel better. 

“Better?”

“Mhm,” she hummed and, before she could reach to pull his mask up, Joanie whined in frustration, kicking her legs impatiently, about to start up again. Simon chuckled and let his wife go, his heavy boots thunking against the hard floor as he began what would be a long night of getting his steps in. 

“Good. Now do as Daddy tells you and go to bed. Don’t make me tell you again.”

.

.

.

Coming up on the end of her pregnancy, the ‘waddling’ stage was in full swing. If Freyja thought she was big just before Joan was born, she was almost certainly a whale now, and she was losing energy much faster than before. This time around, though, they were sure to schedule a c-section for the week before her due date. The OB didn’t put up much of an argument with her medical history and Joan’s early arrival.

Her phone pinged again as she rounded the corner toward her husband’s office.

And again.

Joan’s irritable whines became more evident as she closed in on her destination. “Si, I can only move so fast.”

“Oh, thank god.” Ghost detached Joan’s iron grip from his mask while she was distracted. She continued to kick her little legs against him, trying to get away. “She’s antsy. I can’t get her down for shit. She’s sick of me.”

He wheeled his chair around the desk and tugged her missing sock back on (to her protest) until he reached the other side and placed her feet on the floor. “See? Mum’s here. Go see her,” he cooed, her tiny hands gripping his thumbs for support.

“Dad Ghost” as she had lovingly coined Simon in his work attire, was a walking contradiction. An arguably massive man, a masked mystery to majority of the population on base, snapping otherwise cocky and egotistical soldiers back in line. Still, no one dared to laugh as he screamed at them for poor technique or a lackluster performance with a blonde baby on his hip or strapped to his back. It never failed to make her want to giggle, hearing such a soft, gentle tone from the big scary skull plate affixed to his balaclava. 

Freyja was halfway across the room when he stood their daughter between his comically large boots. “She won’t go that far,” she admonished. “If you give her too big of a task, she’s not going to even try-”

As if sensing her mother’s doubt, Joan took a steady step forward, still holding Simon’s hands in deep concentration. Then another, and another –

Until he couldn’t stretch forward anymore, and she let go, hobbling towards Freyja until she stumbled at her feet, letting out a soft baby grunt.

They both stared at each other in silence, eyes wide and mouths agape in shock. Neither spoke for a good minute, until Joanie pulled herself up again by Freyja’s cargo pants, babbling, “Mum mum mum mummm”, gnawing at the thick material and looking up with big, brown eyes.

“Did she just…?”

“I told you, she’s bloody brilliant.” Simon shot up to scoop the baby and place her in his wife’s waiting arms.

“My big, smart girl! I can’t believe it!” She squealed and giggled as Freyja peppered her face in fat, wet kisses and gently shook her. Ghost joined in, playfully nibbling at the rolls on the other side through the black material covering his face. Joanie smacked them both away, screaming with joy. Amongst all the commotion, Price stopped in the doorway on his way to their brief (which they were about to be late for). 

“What’s going on here?” he asked, fists on his hips in faux anger. “I thought we had an understanding! No fun at work without Granddad.”

“We officially have a walker on our hands!”

Price gasped and crossed the room in an instant. “And I missed it?!” He shoved the stack of mission folders at the lieutenant and stole his granddaughter from her mother, hiking her high up on his waist. “You walked without me? I’m offended, little miss, but I’ll settle for a victory lap.”

He plucked his green bucket hat off the top of his head and dropped it onto hers, earning a high-pitched shriek of delight when it covered her face. “Let’s roll, everybody. We’ve got a meeting to get to,” he commanded before marching down the hall. “Oi, lads! She walked!”

A chorus of cheers broke out in the distance, followed by a wall-shaking group chant, “Joanie! Joanie! Joanie!”

Freyja just stood there, pouting, arms crossed atop her belly. “Just once, I’d like to celebrate our baby’s milestones in peace.”

“You know that’s not possible, love.” Ghost chuckled next to her, offering a single pat to her ass as they headed to the briefing. While neither of them would be going, it was their job to know what was going on during their impending absence. The ruckus started to die down when the couple sat, and the others followed suit. Soap placed a mug of peppermint tea in front of her, which she thanked him for, and  Laswell, Gaz, and Soap filed around the table.

“Kӧnig and Roach should be here shortly,” Price said, bouncing Joan on his lap as Ghost passed out manila folders.

Gaz checked his watch with a furrowed brow. “It’s five past. Maybe they forgot?”

“Just give them a few minutes. I’m sure they’ll be here.”

“His office was closed, so he’s definitely in there. I can go grab ‘im. It’s no trouble,” he offered, the metal legs of his chair scraping against the floor as he stood up.

“Be my guest, Sergeant,” Freyja hummed, making eye contact with John as she sipped her tea, hiding her mischievous grin behind the cup. She waited for an appropriate amount of time, about how long it would take to take ten paces up the hall before she held up five fingers. 

“You’re a demon.”

“Five, four, three, two…”

“Verdammt nochmal!” 

There’s a loud bang, eerily similar to the sound of a six-foot-six body slamming into the floor. Boots thunder against the ground until Gaz appears in the doorway again, eyes wide and blushing like a madman.

“Genau deshalb habe ich das Militär verlassen, keiner von euch hat den Anstand, verdammt noch mal anzuklopfen!”

“Didn’t knock, did you.”

“Nope.”

“How bad?”

König stomped into the meeting, red as a tomato as he jerked his long, tangled (read: freshly fucked) hair into a knot at the base of his neck before slipping his hood on. Roach walked in behind him, grinning like an absolute idiot (read: clearly the one doing the fucking), albeit a bit flush, and his clothes untucked and wrinkled as he plopped beside John. 

“At least I didn’t get knifed this time.”

“Der Tag ist noch jung, Unteroffizier.”

“I don’t know what that means, but it sounded like a threat.”

“It was,” Freyja sang, her body shaking as she attempted to withhold laughter.

By the time Price had finished divulging the details of the op scheduled for the end of the month (which was also around the time of her c-section, which left Freyja and those deploying disappointed), Joanie had escaped his hold to crawl across the table and landed in her mother’s lap. She sat back against Frey’s round belly, happily gnawing on a teething ring while the captain combed her fingers through her soft, blonde curls. 

John cleared his throat and leaned back, tipping the chair on its back legs. “So…In a shocking turn of events, Roach is the top–”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY, CAPTAIN?!” Soap screeched after choking on his coffee, leaving a stain on his shirt as it dripped from his nose.

“Oh, mein Gott…” 

“I don’t know. What did I say, Sergeant?”

Across the table, Roach held his lips between his teeth as he wheezed, quickly signing, “Only for my king.”

“PLEASE PLÖTZE! Stop talking!” König, finally deciding he’d had enough, shot up from his seat and practically sprinted out of the room, almost bonking his head on the door frame on his way out. A moment later, he stormed back in and snagged his forgotten file awaiting him in Roach’s outstretched hand before turning back out.

Biting his lip, Soap muttered, “Interesting…” to himself, eyeing the Austrian’s retreating form before flicking back over to Roach. The Brit was already looking at him, probably having heard him being sat next to him. He winked with a devilish smirk, and practically purred, “S’alright, happens tae th' best o' us.”

.

.

.

A few days shy of their next mission, and the birth of the newest Riley, the gang gathered around their living room for one last game night before Roach, König, Soap, and John departed for another mission. Roach and König were less than pleased to be missing the birth of their godson, but it couldn’t be helped.

Kyle placed a red eight down on the stack of cards, ending his turn. “C’mon, mate, what’s the wildest thing you’ve done on a mission?” he prodded, raising a brow in Simon’s direction. “You know all our stories. It’s only fair.”

The two shared a knowing look, and Freyja giggled once before Kyle interrupted, “Besides that, you heathens.”

Simon pressed against the kitchen chair he had dragged in for himself, seriously considering what he would consider the most outlandish activity he had partaken in outside of combat. Particularly, that didn���t involve screwing his wife in places they shouldn’t, like public places, sniper lookouts, cars, or supply closets…

Before he could drift too far, he caught the saucy side-eye his wife was throwing him from her deep armchair.

“No.”

Soap peeked up from his hand with a quirked brow. “Does Ghostie have an embarrassing secret? Now we have to know!”

“It’s not a secret, and I’m not embarrassed by it just because I don’t flaunt it around,” he said, shot back the rest of his whiskey, and replaced his mask. Simon didn’t always wear it with their friends; he just so happened to feel inclined to it that night. There was no rhyme or reason as to when he needed the comfort; the urge just came and went as it pleased. 

He tried his best to sound completely disinterested, hoping the discussion would blow over as he threw down his card. “Blue.”

Unfortunately, his plan did not work, and all interest in their game of Uno was lost. Kyle threw his hand down on the table, completely giddy. “WHAT IS IT?! TELL US!”

Simon groaned, throwing his cards at his wife, who simply laughed. “See, look what you did.” He sighed and begrudgingly unhooked his mask from behind his ears, tossing that at her too. After a beat, he let his tongue loll out, revealing a silver ball.

Several (if not all) of their jaws dropped, save for Freyja’s, who was utterly thrilled that this was happening.

Johnny was the first to speak. “Is…that…” he stuttered, staring unabashedly in disbelief. 

He snapped his mouth shut again once everyone had had a decent look. “Alright, can we move on please–”

The Scot pounced across the space, clearing the coffee table as he knocked Simon out of his chair, taking them both down into a heap on the floor. They wrestled as he tried to dig his fingers into Ghost’s mouth and pry it open again. “LEMME SEE!”

“JOHNNY!” Simon roared, bucking and thrashing his hips in attempt to get the man off, but he quickly scooted up until he sat firmly on his chest, knees pinning his shoulders as he yanked the piercing back out.

“Awe, so that’s why you’re always fuckin’ like horny teenagers! Oh, ah bet that feels good on your cu-”

“SHUT UP, SOAP!” “THAT’LL DO!” 

Freyja whipped her slipper at Johnny’s head, which he swiftly dodged. Meanwhile, Gaz was face down on the floor, having a fit and struggling to breathe. Price looked like he would actually rather die than endure another moment of the scene unfolding at his feet. Kӧnig was carefully weaving between people and furniture to remove Soap before he got hurt, and Roach stayed in his spot, mouth open in silent laughter.

Thank God Joanie was a heavy sleeper.

“Are you gonnae sit there ‘n tell meh that a’m wrong? A husband should always eat arse!”

“JOHNNY, OH MY FUCKING GOD!”

Kyle finally caught his breath and cut back in, “But does it WORK?!”

Everybody froze, including Kӧnig, whose hands looped under Johnny’s armpits, about to extract him. From underneath him, Simon glared up at his wife (who started this whole fucking mess). “Freyja–”

But Freyja, being the brat she is and loving the chaos, “…It works.”

Simon covered his face with both of his now freed hands, so utterly sick of her shit as the sergeant shook his shoulders, he and Gaz both screaming like madmen. Kӧnig still hovered over them, ready to remove Johnny if Simon called for it, his red hair up in a neat top knot at the crown of his head. A few strands hung loosely by his ears and at the peak of his forehead, framing his pale skin.

“AAAAAYYYYYY, SO YOU DO GIVE GOOD HEAD!”

He removed his shield at that, looking up at Johnny with a confused expression. “Who said I don’t give good head?”

Price flinched with a crinkled nose and grabbed his hat from the back of the couch. “That’s my cue.”

“Scary guys either have monster cock or scary good head,” Kyle stated as if it were pure fact.

“But he has both.”

“I can’t fucking take this.” Simon finally shoved at Johnny and the Austrian lifted him with ease, standing the Scot back on his feet.

Soap dusted off his pants. “Damn, you’ll have’ta get one’a those, Köni,” he teased and turned to face the giant, looking up at him with a boyish grin. 

König’s skin, ever the shy one, immediately painted itself a rosy hue, unable to be hidden by any hood or mask. Even Roach was taken by his brashness and turned a little pink himself, choosing to sip his drink. König was, unfortunately, frozen in place, wide eyes staring down at Johnny’s proud face.

Three seconds pass.

Then two more.

Then three again.

“OH MY GOD, THAT WAS THEM?! The threesome you told me about a few weeks ago, was them?”

With nowhere else to go, König collapsed onto the couch and pulled the neck of his sweater over his face. “Verdammter Himmel, Johnny…” If he could crawl into a hole and die, he would.

“What can ah say? M’services are world-class.”

“Can confirm,” Roach added, having put his glass down so he could use both hands to talk.

Johnny raised a brow and dragged his eyes from Roach’s shoes, slowly up his shins, then his thighs and chest before settling on the challenging smirk on his freckled face. “‘S that so?” he asked, stepping into the space between Roach’s knees and the table.

Roach simply nodded, looking up at his boyfriend through hooded lashes, resembling a lovesick puppy with shocking accuracy. He knew exactly what he was doing, too, the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth. Roach was a…talented flirt, to say the least.

His glass was carefully removed from his hand and placed on a coaster. Without a second thought, Soap wrapped his fingers around Roach’s wrist, dragged it behind his neck, and tossed the man over his shoulder. Gaz gaped, completely dumbfounded into silence – flabbergasted, if you will. He paused in the entryway, looking over his opposite shoulder.

“You comin’, Kö?”

König, still tucked away in the corner of the couch, peeked out from the cocoon he had created with his sweater. Even his forehead was tinged red, still. He openly stared for a bit before mustering up enough courage to rise again, and in an impossibly meek voice for such a large man, replied, “...Yes, sir,” and loosely tangled their fingers together.

Kyle threw his hands up then dropped them onto his head, dragging his cap back a bit. “WHAT IS GOING ON?!”

Freyja offered a sympathetic pat, her bottom lip jutted out. Poor Simon, who had returned to his seat, covered his mouth with one palm as he tried to contain his chuckles. He pulled his mask back on after retrieving it from the floor.

“Don’t worry, Gaz,” she said and poked his cheek. “We’ll find you a nice girl.”

“I GET AROUND FINE!” He swatted her hand away, glowering at her. “You’re all just a bunch of slags!”

He jumped up, abandoning his beer and putting his hat back in place. “Where’s my niece? I need to restore my innocence,” he grumbled, trudging upstairs.

“Simon, did he just call us sluts?”

“Yes, darling.”

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[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | FINAL CHAPTER

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

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Author's Note: WE ARE FINALLY HERE HOLY HELL! So much love and thanks to my wonderful beta and co-pilot, @foxinthegodswood. I would not have gotten this far without you. Thank you to everyone whose joined us on this journey. Stay tuned for the sequel!

Summary: Something Borrowed, Something Blue, Something Red, Something Dead

Chapter Twenty-Five - The Second Great Council

The room still held the earthy fragrance from the High Septon’s thurible as he blessed her that morning and it blended with the lighter fragrances of rose and bergamot from her bath. Abby sat on the stool before her dressing table while Wylla and Lythene gently combed her hair, their fingers rubbing oil through the curls to tame the frizz the damper air of the Riverlands had caused. Wylla, being someone who had her own head of frustrating ringlets that needed tending to and understood the maintenance required, held a pair of fine scissors in her hand to trim Abby’s waist length hair before they would fashion it into something appropriate for the ceremony.

“Oh!” Lythene’s startled exclamation brought a flush to Abby’s cheeks as she watched the girl notice the bruise Aegon had left near her ear.

It certainly wasn’t the only one left upon her neck and collarbones but so far, Abby had kept them out of view, not wanting to deal with any fuss. It wasn’t like every member of the realm was going to inspect her and Abby had far surpassed her limit of caring. She’d be married in naught but a few hours. It didn’t matter.

“Is there a problem?” came Lady Lysa’s voice from the far side of the room where she was overseeing the preparations on the queen’s behalf.

Abby caught Lythene’s wide eyes in the mirror, smiling conspiratorially back. “Everything’s quite fine, Lady Lysa,” she called back. Wylla let out a small snort and the three of them descended into a flurry of giggles. Abby squirmed in her seat, fingers knotting and twisting into the dressing gown she wore. “I just want this to be all done already.”

“Such impatience,” Wylla teased, shaking out the section of hair she’d just finished with. “Isn’t that one of the virtues of your gods?”

“And one of yours too,” Abby reminded her. “Patience for the long winters would be the first rule, would it not?”

Wylla’s brows raised and grey eyes met her own in the mirror. “The winters and you spending yesterday bowlegged are two entirely different matters.” Lythene snorted and dropped the comb as she clapped her hands over her mouth, unable to help herself and, considering herself the winner of which virtues were which, Wylla went to fetch what they’d end up pinning into her hair.

The apartments had quieted at least a little from that morning, when the troop of women had burst in to bathe her and feed her, chattering around offering advice and their two cents on things. Great Aunt Mya could not make it up the stairs that morning, but Cassana had, distracting Cory with the most important task of assisting the queen in her own chambers, as well as realizing very quickly that Abby was overwhelmed by all the attention and the noise. The chattering group had been shooed into the solar; Rhea Royce and Sarra Frey had left with several others to oversee the wedding gifts and where they’d go and who had gifted them.

Meanwhile, Deidre was tucking wrapped bundles of herbs beneath her pillows and under the mattress, much to Lady Lysa’s consternation. The elder had decided it wasn’t a battle she needed to engage in, and was presently giving orders to Cassana about how the accompanying gaggle of attendants who would follow Abby into the hall should wear their hair.

Desma and Merei were in charge of her gown, the pair of them carefully laying out her fine silk stockings and the lake blue garters, the latter which had been painstakingly embroidered with dragons shimmering in gold thread and chasing rabbits of silver. Blue was the color of the rivers and brides were often clad in gowns meant to evoke the waters of their land, the life giver that fed the body and fed the forests and the animals, that housed the fish that graced their tables, grew the reeds and rushes that were woven into every aspect of their life.

But Abby had been denied her blue gown, so she would wear the garters instead. It didn’t mean that she disliked her gown. Far from it; Abby was enthralled by it, although they had denied her seeing her reflection during the last fittings so she could only glean the view looking down at herself. The gown itself was currently folded and wrapped in a protective cloth, hidden away until it was time to put it on. It wouldn’t do to have something so painstakingly and delicately made accidentally ruined.

Her mother’s earrings sat on the silk pillow of the jewelry box. Little round rubies were wrapped in silver and from them, ruby teardrops hung, the silver wrapping they were set in etched like miniature flower petals. There was a matching necklace inside; a large, oval cut ruby inlaid into an ornate silver casing that would rest at the hollow of her throat with silver filigree spreading out on either side before attaching to a robust silver chain. A ruby teardrop hung from the center ruby, the Castamere jewels on full display.

Her gaze moved to the warm glimmer of Sunfyre’s scales set in their new home, the ruby on that necklace smaller but no less exquisite. Aegon had wanted her to wear it today. Abby wanted to wear it today.

“My mother’s earrings,” she whispered and took the jewels out to rest next to the scaled choker. Guilt gnawed in the hollow space between her ribs and stilled her fingers where they hovered over the box. She curled them in to keep herself from snatching the earrings, looking up as delighted shrieks and laughter filtered in from the solar.

“Your mother’s earrings,” Wylla said, wrapping her hand around Abby’s curled fist. She nudged at Abby to move over so she could sit on the stool beside her, taking the held hand in both of her own. “And Aegon’s necklace, your family’s maiden cloak. You don’t have to choose and the rest is lost forever if you don’t pick to wear them today. They will be there on the morrow and the day after and the day after that.”

“I don’t have to choose,” Abby repeated with a long exhale, her shoulders sagging as the tension eased. She batted Wylla’s hand when she reached up to pinch her cheek. She was about to say more when movement at the door drew her gaze.

Helaena stood in the doorway, exquisite in layered, sapphire blue silk overlaid with intricate silver appliques along her bodice, a silver belt heavy around her waist. Her pale blonde hair was held back from her face in a decorative net of matching sapphires winking from the delicate wirework. Her large eyes took in the room, her plump mouth pressed thin.

“Heleana!” Abby’s voice pitched high with surprise and she jerked from the stool, bumping into the dressing table and setting everything wobbling from the force of it. There had been little time to spend with the princess since arriving at Harrenhal. Abby felt as if she was standing at the edge of a great chasm that had grown between them, Helaena a speck in the distance on the other side.

“May I have a few moments alone with my sister.” There was no question, no request for permission on Helaena’s tongue. It was simple and soft, the command a gentle one but a command all the same.

Wylla rose with a final squeeze of Abby’s hand, and the women left the room, Desma and Merei closing the doors behind them. Abby tugged her dressing gown more tightly around her, fiddling with the ties about her waist, wanting to reach for the other but she wound her belt around her hand instead. The fireplace crackled merrily behind the protective screen, illuminating the cut out shapes of Children of the Forest dancing among weirwood trees.

Helaena turned to face her, her own fingers twisting together at her waist. Her gaze lingered over Abby’s shoulder before flitting away, absent of the gentle command she had just possessed.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Abby blurted out, lips pressed together briefly. “I’ve missed you and you’ve been avoiding me since you arrived, since we’ve all arrived.”

“You’ve been preparing for your wedding,” Helaena murmured, reaching out to trace her fingers along the bedpost and toying with the blue brocade curtains. “It’s strange here. The air tastes…” She shook her head. “You’ll be gone. I’ve had to get used to being without you.”

The stool teetered over as Abby knocked into it in her haste to cross the distance and the crash of it froze her in place. “Being without one another? Helaena, we agreed months ago that it would be of no issue to visit, that it’s only a short ride away-”

“But you’ll be too busy with Aeg-”

“Of course I’ll want to spend time with my husband, Helaena!” Abby picked around the fallen stool to approach the taller girl, her frustration rising. “And you have been spending time with Jace, so don’t turn this into my soon to be married life getting in the way of things.” Her voice hitched and grew louder with each word, her cheeks flaming, skin prickling with the uncomfortable conversation. Guilt clawed in her once more, but irritation crept in so unexpectedly that it had caught her unawares. Could she not have this one thing to be selfish for and not have it held against her? That wasn’t like Helaena and there had been a time where they’d known one another so closely that this wouldn’t have happened. Things changed and Abby hated it. Feared it. “Why have you pushed me away? Was it you watching from the gallery during the rehearsal?”

Helaena didn’t answer either question, her gaze roving from her face to over her head. Abby clenched her hands against her waist to keep from reaching out to pull her back from wherever she had gone in her head. She knew that it wasn’t Aegon who had spurred Helaena’s distance, as she’d been supportive after the initial shock of it all. Abby swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I am sorry that I’ve neglected you these past months, Hel.” Quieter now. It wasn’t as if this had all happened overnight after all. “I’ve been so caught up in the wedding prepara-”

“Pink and red, might be dead.”

Helaena’s voice was harsh and whispered, a whistling wind through the cracks in the walls, the spirits come to speak of things that they shouldn’t be privy to. Her pale, lavender eyes bored into Abby’s and Helaena took her hands tight in her own, pulled her in closer, lower lip wobbling. “I don’t���”

‘A bride for Harrenhal. They leave quickly. Sickness. Water. Poison.’

“Who might be dead, Helaena?” she whispered, as if speaking any louder would shatter something delicate. She’d heard Helaena’s words before, so long ago, that day seared into her mind. Helaena had been staring out the window, refusing touch as Abby dressed her, before Otto came to tell her of her future. By the gods, it felt like years had passed since that day. The words remained, spinning in Abby’s mind with the prophetic warnings from the antlered priest in the godswood. “Helaena.” The princess still gripped her hands, fingernails pricking into Abby’s skin from the force of it. “Sister, please, tell me-”

Once more they were interrupted by the bedroom doors opening and Queen Alicent gliding in without invitation. She was beautiful in a gown of rich, deep green velvet, the square neckline trimmed with a wide, deeper green band embellished with pearls. Three heavy strands of matching pearls hung from shoulder to shoulder, pinned in the center at her breast with a brooch etched with the seven pointed star. A simple gold necklace with emerald tear drops adorned her throat. A five pointed reach-style hood studded with jewels adorned her head in place of a traditional crown, the finely made black veil hung from the back and covered the knot of auburn hair.

Abby wondered why she decided to wear green now rather than at Aegon’s nameday feast, and thought that perhaps it was her armor with Rhaenyra under the same roof.

The queen’s hands were clasped at her waist, color high in her cheeks from the long walk from her rooms to Abby’s chambers, and the amount of stairs she’d been forced to climb. The ever present tension lingered, but her smile was small, genuine.

“Your Grace,” Abby curtseyed a little awkwardly given that Helaena was still gripping her hands. Helaena looked down at the floor and pulled away after Abby rose, plucking at the cuffs of her deep sleeves, the cuffs folded and pinned back to keep her hands free.

“Helaena?” The queen’s attention immediately switched to her daughter, tone full of gentle concern. “Sweetheart, is everything alright?” Abby stepped back to give them space and allowed herself to breathe through the clawing sensation around her throat, as if Helaena’s prophecy had grown hands to wrap around her neck and wring the life from her itself. Gods above, this was meant to be a happy day. She was elated that in just a few hours, she would kiss Aegon and their hands would be bound and they could start their lives together.

“Why can’t this be simple?” she muttered, rubbing her fingertips against her temples.

She’d just have to make it simple. There was no getting around it. Abby poked her head into the solar where the gaggle of cousins and ladies had set themselves up in their preparations. “Please bring some tea,” she told Morya, who was closest. Her cousins’ wife looked up, startled at being addressed, and Abby immediately remembered she was kin to Lord Edmund. Not sister, but cousin perhaps? Abby smiled in what she hoped was a relaxed manner and the tension around Morya’s hazel eyes relaxed, returning the smile with a murmured, “As you’d like”, and went to retrieve the tea service. Tea would ease her nerves, would ease Helaena’s as well, she was sure.

She would not throw it in the queen’s face for forcing Cassandra Baratheon upon her. No, she’d bring that up later. It was her wedding day. Aegon was hers. No one was going to ruin that. Not meddling, mortal girls, nor the gods or demons of prophecy.

Was it too much to ask to simply have time to be happy and not have a force to do its best to ruin it?

Morya returned with the tea service, the scent of mint, ginger, and elderberry assaulting her nose and immediately easing the tension in her shoulders. Abby took it from her with a quiet thanks and returned to her room, setting the service down on the low table before the fire. Helaena sat on the edge of the couch beside her mother.

“You should not be doing this, Abrogail,” the queen said. “Where are those girls-”

“I sent them out, Your Grace,” Abby interrupted, handing the first cup of tea to her. “It was rather loud in here and if I could use the quiet, then certainly Helaena can as well.”

“Thank you,” Helaena said as she took the second cup of tea, finally meeting Abby’s eyes and the small smile that graced her face brought heat and tears to Abby’s eyes. “Your mother would not begrudge you a necklace, Abby. She is not that spiteful of a shade.”

“Oh.” Abby’s teeth clicked as she shut her mouth, busied herself with pouring her own cup of tea.

“What’s this about a necklace?”

“Abby was trying to decide if she should wear her mother’s necklace when she’d rather wear the one Aegon gave her.” Helaena sipped loudly and Abby hid her own smile behind the rim of her cup as Alicent winced ever so slightly at her daughter’s lack of manners but markedly said nothing. Instead, her large brown eyes found Abby’s, and instead of the judgement or wariness that Abby expected, there was a curious tilt to her head, gaze pensieve.

“The one you wore at dinner the other night.” When Abby nodded in confirmation, Alicent hummed. “Your mother…” Silence stole whatever the queen was about to say and filled the space between the three of them. Abby sat in a nearby chair and let the tea spread its warmth down her throat and through her limbs, focusing on the calming sensation it lent her, the subtle bite of the ginger root that tickled her tongue. “Your mother,” Alicent said, finding her words after her contemplation, “Would most certainly not begrudge you a gift from your husband to be. It would gladden her to know Aegon gave you such a token of his affection and that you have gladly received it.”

Relief made Abby’s heart stutter in her chest and she could only nod in acknowledgement of the queen’s kind words. She had made her decision, but the guilt had been acrid in her throat. There was an absolution in what Alicent said, and the fact that they reflected much of what her grandfather had told her all those moon’s ago about her mother wanting only her happiness, Abby felt that she could trust them.

“Helaena, darling, could you give us a moment? Are you feeling well enough to go to the solar?”

“If it’s too much for you, Morya could take you down to the gardens,” Abby offered. Helaena gently set her cup down upon the silver tray with a shake of her head.

“I’ll wait. I want to be here to help you dress. You’ve always helped me, and it’s my turn to return the favor.” Helaena rose and smoothed her hands over her skirts, gently maneuvering around the low table to drop a kiss on the top of Abby’s head.

The doors shut behind the princess, leaving Abby alone with the queen. Without being asked, she joined her on the couch and allowed Alicent to reach up to tenderly tuck a stray curl behind her ear. The queen was always affectionate with her when she was unable to be with her own children, but this time, Abby understood that the comfort was the intention, from the glossy sheen in Her Grace’s large, brown eyes.

Abby hadn’t just lost her mother. The queen had lost a dear friend. Things had changed when Celeste Reyne died, succumbing to years of illness not entirely dissimilar, from Abby’s understanding, to how Lady Alerie had been claimed by long illness as well. Her Grace had grown harsher, in little ways at first, until she became the anxious, fear and anger ridden woman she was now.

The Red Keep had twisted her. Abby knew that. The machinations, the politics, had wound like ivy around her limbs and her heart and trapped her in its confines. The same snarling vines had clung to Abby as well. She could feel it pulling and pulling until the stems had snapped when they’d gotten far enough away.

Abby was not a foolish girl, however. The vines still tangled around their feet, hers and Aegon’s, and would for as long as uncertainty reigned.

“Thank you for your kind words, Your Grace,” Abby said. “I know that she would not, but my heart is hesitant to agree. Your reassurance is a balm.”

“A bride needs such reassurances on her day. I was absent mine own mother on my wedding day.” Abby glanced down at the emerald ring the queen absently twisted on her finger, the spots of red along her cuticles. “I had my aunts and good sisters and cousins and… I had support, of course, gentle love and…” Her gaze grew distant as she stared into the fire, and Abby watched with alarm as tears pricked at her future goodmother’s eyes, her lower lip trembling before being pressed firmly to hold back the emotion. Abby said nothing and politely averted her gaze, allowing the queen her reflection on what was clearly a complicated memory.

“It was not the wedding to a knight of flowers and song that you had expected,” Abby whispered, recalling the words of attempted comfort Alicent had tried giving her, misplaced as it was. The queen scoffed and shook her head.

“It’s a great honor to be chosen to serve the realm, an honor that I didn’t expect but have done my best to fulfill.” She had provided the king his longed for sons, which was the first duty of the queen, and yet it had not gone how it was expected. Even if they had not been pressuring Aegon to prepare himself to be king someday, the insult done to House Hightower had been grave and still the king did not see. Everyone knew that.

It was all so very broken and it didn’t have to be. Now here she was, wading into the rising tempest. She would not let Aegon stand in it alone. She would not stand by while the rest of them tried to pull him under.

Abby only hoped they would be able to keep each other afloat.

“The king has granted you the title of princess in honor of marrying his eldest son,” Alicent continued, clearing her throat and smoothly removing herself from the emotion that had trapped her in memory. “You will, from now on, be referred to as Your Grace, as a princess of the realm and of House Targaryen. The expectation that comes with this title is more than simply being the lady of a house.”

“Yes, my queen.”

“You saw the concern that Lord Elmo and the other lords expressed with this marriage. However, Princess Rhaenyra has not raised any objections to the match, nor has the Small Council. That is all that matters. You will represent the crown with all the grace and wisdom that I have instilled in you. You will guide Aegon to break bread with the lords, and foster geniality and respect with House Tully. Lord Elmo will soon be Lord Paramount, and it is up to you to reassure him of the fealty owed to him.”

Fealty that would be fraught once her and Aegon took the seat of Harrenhal properly, years from now. Aegon was a prince of the blood, owed fealty himself, and yet would bow to a Lord Paramount. How was she to make that genial?

Lord Elmo had two sons.

Abby let out a long breath and smoothed her dressing gown over her knees. Not even a child quickened and already their future matches needed to be thought of.

“What if I cannot bear children, like my mother?” Her mother had struggled so much to bring her into this world, so much loss preceding Abby’s own tumultuous birth. It was quieter than she intended, more vulnerable than she wanted to reveal, but Alicent Hightower was the only mother she had now, known longer than the fuzzy memories of red hair and a wan, pale face tucked in bed. Alicent let out a soft sound and cupped Abby’s face. It took everything in Abby not to flinch and she gave in quickly to the gentle touch of a mother, gripping Alicent’s wrists for some connection.

“Abrogail, listen to me.” Voice gentle but firm, Abby’s eyes fixed on Alicent’s face, unblinking. “Maester Orwyle said you should have no issue. Your mother gave birth to you. You will not go through this alone. You are older than many mothers, older than I was, and you shall be safe. When you are with child, we will have the Grand Maester monitor you. I will send Septa Lyserra-”

“No.” Abby recoiled at that, pulled out of the queen’s touch with a sharp shake of her head. “That cruel woman will not stay under my roof, Your Grace. She has treated Helaena harshly, and myself. I will not have her around my children.” She could not deny Cassandra Baratheon now, but she would deny that awful woman. Abby didn’t know what recklessness had overtaken her to speak to her queen and good-mother in such a way, but she moved forward all the same, tempering her outburst to something more appropriate. “I appreciate the offer, Your Grace, and I do trust the wise council of the Grand Maester, but I will not have Septa Lyserra tend to me. I will speak with my aunt on such things should I feel it is needed.”

Abby should apologize but she kept quiet, running her tongue over her teeth behind her closed lips before she took another sip of her tea. Her mother had struggled to conceive her, to birth her, had died from her last miscarriage, it seemed, given that she had never recovered from it, growing more ill by the day. And of course, there were the whispered stories of how the last queen, Aemma, had suffered for decades to produce more than a single, living child.

Death was a bridal cloak around her shoulders, the shadow that followed her with each step, each breath, each blink of her eyes. It was not a legacy she wanted to pass down to her children. It was not a legacy she wanted at all.

“I did not know.” Abby looked at the quiet queen. Alicent was pensive, eyes downcast, focused on her hands, picking at her thumbnail. “You did not say anything.”

It was true, they had not. Abby didn’t know how to find the words to explain that they didn’t want to bother her with the treatment, and then eventually, didn’t think it would matter. She wanted to reassure her that it wasn’t her fault, that she didn’t know, but the words stuck in her throat.

“Aye, I didn’t,” Abby whispered. “But I am now. Helaena will not say anything, so I shall.”

The queen nodded. “I will send the septa back to Oldtown with the rest of my family when they leave. Thank you for saying something.” She sighed and smoothed her hands over her velvet skirts. “I do mean what I said, Abrogail. We will ensure you have the best of care when you become pregnant. You will not be neglected, and you shall be safe. It is the most important duty a lady has.”

Rhaenyra had five sons now. Would they be disappointed if all Abby managed to bear were daughters? Would Aegon be upset? The thought made her realize that they had never really talked about children, only that they had wanted many before falling into one another’s arms, less concerned with the sex of said children and focused on the taste of one another.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Abby said, forcing a smile onto her face, desperate to remove herself from this conversation and retreat to the giggling from earlier. Or, better yet, move past this to the giggling of kissing Aegon as they were brought to their bedding.

The bedroom doors burst open and both of them looked up to see Abby’s grandmother, Lady Dalla Swyft, having pushed the doors open with Aunt Mya at her shoulder.

“Alicent, why on earth are you keeping the girl from getting dressed?” Lady Dalla clapped her hands and bustled in, her movements slow with her age. She’d been unwell for such a long journey in the previous months, and Abby was grateful that her grandmother had been able to make the journey for the wedding.

The queen’s mouth gaped, her words momentarily caught before she rose with hunched shoulders, brows furrowed as she processed being addressed so casually. “I was speaking with my good-daughter on reassurances of her wedding, Aunt,” she defended herself. Grandmother’s curls were pulled back, the strawberry blonde long given way to grey and snowy white, her small mouth pursed in assessment. She reached up to gently pat the queen’s cheek.

“Well, there’s a dear.” She hummed and turned her green eyed gaze upon Abby, her left eye rheumy but the right sharp as ever. “Oh, cub, you look positively frightened! Whatever for?”

“Just feeling lightheaded,” Abby said, her words rushed as her grandmother pulled her into an immediate hug, the scent of medicinal cream mixing with the violet perfume she wore. It was not entirely unpleasant, but unexpected. The hug was warm and reassuring and Abby clung to it, nestling against the softness of her grandmother as if she were a little girl once more.

“None of that now, dear. Let us get you dressed. Where are your ladies?”

The room descended into a flurry after that and Abby was guided behind the partition that had been set before her mirror to protect her privacy. There was little time to be drawn into her thoughts when her dressing gown was being pulled from her body to leave her in her smallclothes. The silk shift rippled over her body like a breeze. She could barely feel it on her skin as Desma slipped it over her head and Abby was so afraid of tearing the delicate fabric that Desma had to nearly lift her onto the chair so that Merei could slip on the silk stockings over her feet and tie the dragon-and-rabbit garters. Low-heeled silver slippers were carefully slipped on and tied, glittering with the dozens, if not hundreds, of tiny pearls that Wylla had affixed with much complaint. Abby smiled down at them, lip caught in her teeth at the way they shone.

The gasp that came from behind her pulled Abby from her admiration to crane to look behind her at the women gathered around what must be her dress.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Helaena said, the traces of anxiety and prophecy faded in her voice to be replaced by a girlish excitement.

“Good,” came her grandmother’s voice, awed and full of approval. “You used the silver I sent.”

“The silver and gold, yes, aunt,” Alicent confirmed. “The embroidery is quite exquisite. I’ve had the girl working on new dresses for Helaena now that this one is done, as well as something for myself.” The sounds of approval and discussions of the successful seamstress that Abby had found in the Master’s Market those months ago was amusing, although Abby was miffed that she could not bring the girl with her. She would, of course, have better fortune having her work seen at court. Abby hoped that she could at least secure more gowns from her in the future, if the work she had done was so masterful.

Helaena came to her with a smile, holding her hands out to help Abby rise from the chair and she gently tapped the tip of her nose. “Now, you must not look, Abrogail. Back to the mirror.” She held Abby’s hand as she stepped onto the low stool, her back to the mirror as instructed. Fluttering butterflies burst in Abby’s belly as she closed her eyes, for it was only then that Helaena would allow Merei to approach with the gown. The approving whispers and giggles had Abby shifting her weight from foot to foot, rocking on her heels until Wylla put a hand to her back to keep her from toppling over when she wobbled.

Instruction followed of how she should raise or lower her arms and the whisper of heavier fabric slid cooly over her, more sounds of awestruck glee slightly muffled until her head was free. She blinked quickly to let her eyes adjust back from being shut and her mouth went dry as she saw the look on Merei and Wylla’s faces both, the rest of the group still on the other side of the partition to await the full reveal.

“Stay still,” Helaena said from behind her, hands tugging gently on the back of the gown. Merei hurried to join her and Abby could hear the gentle scratch of the cord as they slowly closed the back of the dress. Wylla closed the distance, teeth scraping across her lower lip as she deftly adjusted the neckline so it sat low. Her brow furrowed with thought as her fingers tapped just to the side of the mark Aegon had left, the skin freshly darkened with no place to hide with the dropped shoulders of her gown.

“Ridiculous, he couldn’t just wait?” Wylla muttered with a roll of her eyes.

Abby smiled innocently, full of tingling giddiness at the memory, relieved that neither the queen, her aunt, nor her grandmother could see the evidence at this moment. Not that there was much to be done with it, but Wylla came back with the powder and carefully began dabbing it along the bruises, painstakingly blending it so the entire realm did not witness how wanton the chaste bride had been. Her face was lightly powdered, coral paint dabbed on her lips, cheeks pinched and dabbed with another powder to make them rosy, and the dragonscale choker was affixed, the silk ribbon tied just tight enough to keep it properly in place.

Merei held her hand as she stepped down from the stool and still with her back to the mirror, she sat back down once more and deft fingers freed the abundance of copper curls from where they’d been pinned up, shaking them loose. Wylla and Merei went to work pinning the golden netted cap to the crown of her head and twisting thick coils around it, pinning it in place with decorative pins tipped with jeweled flowers.

Her wrists were lifted, her blended rose and currant perfume oil gently dabbed along the soft skin and behind her ears, mingling with the bergamot scent of her bath oils. The trio stepped back to look down at her, smiling down at her with the satisfaction of a job well done and the giddiness of a surprise to reveal.

“Am I allowed to look at myself now?” she asked and lifted her hands to be helped from the chair, keeping so still, as if she balanced books upon her head as she’d done in her lessons as a girl.

“If you do,” Helaena said, rubbing her thumb over the back of Abby’s left hand, “There is no going back. I don’t think there are any other dresses that will do for today.”

Abby hummed thoughtfully, giving Helaena’s statement the consideration it deserved. Then, she dropped her hands and turned to look at herself in the polished glass of the mirror.

The breath left her, the rushing in her ears muddled the sounds of the other’s folding away the partition so the aunts and the grandmothers and the rest of them could see her.

The gown was extraordinary to behold that she could not believe it was her standing in it. It would be, Abby was certain, the finest thing she would ever wear. It was silver, as was common for brides to wear. The underskirt was surprisingly simple: a heavier silk that brushed down to her shoes just enough to hide them but not enough to fully impede her movement. The overgown was an exquisite example of talent. The overskirt was split, a much lighter silver silk that glimmered in the light as silver threads were woven into it, giving it the illusion of shimmering like the Blue Fork glittering beneath the bright, noon sun. The trim down the center was exactly as she hoped: seed beads were sewn into the shape of gold dragon scales like hidden coins amidst the folds of the fabric. There was a tiny strand of pearls beneath her bust, and the dragon scale pattern continued up on either side of the deep v-neck. Layers of lace filled the open neckline, appliques of ruby red weirwood leaves a burst of color over her heart and decorating her sleeves, from which bunched layers of silk poked out at her elbows and the tops of the sleeves where they’d been opened to show off the fine and delicate chemise underneath.

Her hair had been twisted from her face and wound around the crown of her head before falling in a rope down her back, leaving her face open, blue eyes bright and lined with light tracings of kohl, her freckles pale beneath the light dusting of powder. Her mother’s gold and ruby teardrop earrings tinkled at her temples, and Aegon’s necklace was bright around her neck, the large, tear shaped ruby nestled at the hollow of her throat, the jewels matching the red of the leaves at her breast, the gold and seed pearls both glimmering.

Helaena came up behind her in the reflection, her hands gently cupping her shoulders, cheek pressed to hers. Abby met her sister’s eyes in that other world of the mirror, a trembling smile on her face as she lifted her hands to clasp Helaena’s, squeezing them as she had done for countless years.

“You’ll come visit?” she whispered, voice shaking.

Helaena nodded. “As long as you remind him that he must bring you to me as well. I was your first kiss, after all. He does not get to claim that.”

Uncle Simon looked down at her with a warm and gentle smile on his aged face, his white beard and hair neatly trimmed. He wore a rich, velvet coat of deep blue lined with black fur, his brocade tunic beneath a deep shade of green, his golden chain scattered with rubies as was the buckle on his belt. To Abby, he looked far more like the Lord of Harrenhal than her brother, and in the shadows and torch light of the antechamber, her heart ached for how she imagined her father would look like now.

“A leanbh,” he crooned with a soft laugh, reaching up with the cuff of his sleeve to dab at the tear that had rolled down her cheek. “This is a happy day and you are happy, aren’t you?”

“I am,” she sniffled, clutching the gathered bouquet of flowers in her hands, wincing as she felt a hidden thorn on one of the stems prick her finger. The scent of roses and freesia, wisteria and myrtle made her head spin as she sniffled once more. “I…”

Uncle Simon made a clucking sound, humming and nodding as he understood what she wasn’t able to put into words. “Your parents would not forgive me if I escorted you down this aisle full of grief. They are with us, with you, and they are most proud, Abrogail. Most proud. You are here, where you belong.” He smoothed his hands over her shoulders and adjusted the cloak. It was long and heavy from the length, made of brilliant white velvet with three stripes of brilliant, gem toned silk slashed down the middle of sapphire blue, scarlet red, and emerald green and held in place by a chain of gold, the links reminding her of her father’s, although much smaller.

There were so many people in the great hall. The Second Great Council, she’d heard the maids whisper that morning in the quiet dark before dawn when she was supposed to be asleep. Her eyes glanced over the crowd as they walked, a gentle and practiced smile on her face. There were no banners here to mark who belonged to which house, just the realm that parted to let her pass and at the end was Aegon.

If only she could see him, but the beacon of him was blocked by her ladies, the septons, and the acolytes in the procession before her. Wylla, Lythene, and Sarra walked before her, their hair bound in braids woven with white silk ribbons, each one in a gown of either red, blue, or green, veils of Myrish lace held in place by simple, silver circlets. Behind her, Rhea, Merei, and Desma were dressed the same but holding the hem of her long cloak so she would not be weighed down by it.

The acolytes were young, clad in deceptively simple robes of rich ivory samite glimmering with threads of gold. Thuribles heavily swung from thick chains, the heady incense meant to cleanse the bride’s way to meet her bridegroom. Before them, seven members of the Most Devout glided, clad in vestments of cloth-of-silver embroidered with the seven pointed star and crystal coronets that threw dancing rainbows across them when they passed through the long shafts of light.

From the gallery, hymns fell down upon them like leaves from the trees, praising the Father and Mother, asking for the Maiden’s blessing of the union, and the echo of their sweet voices washed over her, pushing away the melancholy thoughts of all that was absent. Butterflies fluttered furiously in her belly as giddy excitement washed over her the closer they came to the front of the hall. She could just see the canopy of black and red velvet over the heads of those in front of her but not King Viserys and Queen Alicent themselves where they sat overlooking the ceremony. Soon, and yet not soon enough, the faces on either side of the aisle became familiar and the crowd before her began to part as the Most Devout streamed on either side of the second dias, and then…

There was Aegon.

He stood beside the High Septon who dressed to draw all attention in his imposing, crystal and gold crown and cloth-of-gold vestments, but Abby could only look at Aegon and his bright, relieved smile, as if he wasn’t sure she would be there when the crowd parted. Her breath caught just as their eyes met and Aegon’s own widened, his features softening into something aching as he took her in.

Aegon was so handsome; not like some unknown and impossible knight from a song, but her love from her dreams both sleeping and awake. Utterly imperfect and entirely hers. For his selfishness and his devotion, for his kisses and his shadows, and she would have all of him. His pale hair gleamed warm beneath the shaft of light, curling softly around his face and just past his chin, a golden crown encircling his brow. His jerkin was grey to better show the scaled texture of it, edged in glittering gold piping. The shoulders tapered into thick black padding embroidered with gold thread, and the black leather sleeves were slashed along his biceps, allowing the rich, scarlet velvet of his shirtsleeves to poke through. His belt was black leather decorated with circles of stamped gold, the buckle a dragon curled in on itself in an ouroboros. His groom's cloak was affixed by a black strap embroidered with golden dragons affixed over one shoulder and stretched down across his chest, the black velvet lined beneath in more brilliant, scarlet silk. His trousers were a similar shade of grey as to his tunic, tucked in tall boots of gleaming black leather. Aegon’s hands were folded in front of him, his many gleaming, golden rings glittering on his fingers as he tapped his fingers against his wrist in a familiar manner. She could not tap her own in return, but she smiled more brightly to him in answer.

She meant to step closer, but the hold Uncle Simon still had on her reminded her to stop, and she stood still as the long maiden cloak was lifted from her shoulders. Immediately, Abby felt as if she grew two inches from the freedom of it, and her ladies carefully folded it away as her uncle brought her up the stairs to the dias before the High Septon.

Briefly, Abby looked over her shoulder to where Larys stood next to Aunt Mya, a coat of heavy, dark maroon velvet swamping his slim figure. He had made no move to greet her when she arrived, inserting himself into the crowd as another family member and not her guardian.

The disquiet she felt from her brother’s continued distance vanished like smoke as soon as her hand rested in Aegon’s, a smear of crimson streaking across his hand from her cut finger. She handed her bouquet off to Wylla, striking in her crimson gown. Abby held Aegon’s hand and her glittering silver skirt in the other as he helped her up the few stairs to the High Septon. As they came before the purple and mahogany kneelers, Abby looked at Aegon.

He looked at her; bewitched,the warmth in his lilac eyes blooming, the awe in his expression brightening as his gaze roamed over her. She noticed how the touch of his wonder settled at the dragonscales collared around her throat, the curve of her bare shoulders and the dips of her collarbones, the golden dragons so carefully, painstakingly embroidered along the trimming of her gown. Only once before had Abby felt as seen, as treasured and cherished by Aegon as she did now, here before the realm, before their families, before the old gods and the new.

She could count the pale freckles across the bridge of his nose, see the fine, golden hair that he had not shaved from the top of his lip, and the warmth of him, the scent of mint and lavender, intoxicated her through the incense of the thuribles. His mouth was red, inviting, so soft-

“Lords, ladies, noble bannermen!” boomed the High Septon, shattering the pull between them. Aegon’s gaze cut to the man, annoyance plain on his face while she straightened, tapping her fingers reassuringly against his wrist. “We are gathered here today beneath the grace of the Seven to stand witness to the joining of two great houses! The flames of Old Valyria join the steadfast strength of the rivers of Westeros! Aegon, Prince of House Targaryen, and Abrogail, of House Strong. Today, in this hall, we celebrate the union of fire and water, of sky and earth. We pray.”

Together they knelt upon the purple brocade pillows of the kneelers, heads bowed and hands clasped before them. The acolytes continued to swing their thuribles just to either side of them, the incense lending a haze as Abby looked down at the High Septon’s feet just poking out beneath the hem of his vestments.

The first prayer rang through the great hall, so loud that Abby flinched and from the corner of her eye, she saw Aegon do so as well. “Father Above! Hallowed be thy name…” The hall answered in a rumble louder than the dragons roosting on Dragonstone as the guests followed the intoned instruction, sending shivers down Abby’s spine from the vibration of it all. “Mother Above! Mercy and grace are thee…” and when the prayer was done, the High Septon traced the a line of the star upon their brows with strong smelling oil - steeped in the same incense, Abby surmised, before Aegon took her hand to help her rise and sing the hymn to the almighty power of the Father and Mother.

Then they kneeled once more for the Maiden and the Crone, for courage in her marriage, for wisdom for their future. Anointing oil. Rising. Another song. As they knelt again, Aegon did not let go of her hand and Abby smiled at him and he returned it while they shared their tender defiance. The prayer barely registered and the words were merely movements of her mouth, silent as she went through the motions of singing the final hymn.

They rose for the final time, Abby’s heart pounding in her chest and she watched Aemond mount the stairs, the black velvet bridal cloak, the tri-headed dragon of House Targaryen red as blood, held in his arms. She smiled at him as he held the cloak out. Aemond looked very handsome in his black velvet and leather waistcoat, the buttons gleaming gold, Valyrian braids in his long, silver hair. His mouth twitched in return as Aegon pulled the heavy cloak from his brother’s arms.

Heavy black velvet unfurled like a banner, the Targaryen Dragon glittering in red silk and chips of rubies. Like Aegon’s own cloak, it was lined in the same crimson silk, the chain that would hold it made of gold links. She turned and pulled her hair out of the way while Aegon closed the distance and she could feel the heat of him, wanting to lean back and let his arms wrap around her. Aegon lingered longer than he needed to and she didn’t mind, his arm reaching around her to clasp the chain so the cloak was secure before he stepped back and she could turn to face him once more. Aegon’s right hand held her left and the High Septon wound a long length of embroidered ribbon around them, the seven pointed star shining in golden thread.

“Let the Seven bear witness to this sacred bond!” The High Septon’s voice boomed through the hall as he wound the ribbon around their joined hands. “May the fire of House Targaryen always burn bright, and the strength of House Strong never falter. Let it be known that Abrogail of the Houses Strong and Reyne, and Aegon of the Houses Targaryen and Hightower are now one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

He tied the ribbon and raised his arms high. Abby met Aegon’s bright, lilac gaze, lips slightly parted, the heat of happy tears pricking her eyes.

Abby would swear that she thought Aegon’s voice trembled as he spoke, but it was as clear and loud as a song itself. “With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.”

She squeezed his hand in hers, voice cracking as she in turn answered, “With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”

With hands bound, Abby sighed in relief as their lips met, and although the hall echoed with cheers so loud it shook dust from the rafters, her world in that moment was only Aegon.

“Pity we aren’t sitting with the High Septon.” Aegon drank deeply from the heavy golden wedding chalice, its more delicate twin before her own setting. “I wonder if he’d blush easier than you.”

“Are you certain that the High Septon is such a wilting flower?” Abby asked as she nibbled on brown bread spread with a chicken and pork pate flavored with ginger. “Perhaps he would welcome such attempts from you.” Aegon laughed into his goblet and she watched her husband. Oh, how giddy it felt to now have it as truth, not simply just their hope for the eventual future.

He leaned in, hand braced on the back of her chair and his lips brushing the shell of her ear and Abby shivered. “Why, Princess,” he murmured, “Are you insinuating that the High Septon himself not only gives in to pleasures of the flesh but buggery as well?”

“Why, Prince,” she whispered, reaching for her goblet, eyes demurely downcast. “I would never start such gossip, especially when sitting next to the king himself.” Abby watched him over the rim of her goblet and sipped the fruity, white wine paired with the course before them. Aegon pressed a brief kiss to her temple before he occupied himself with some of his own buttery sliced mushrooms in their salad of leeks and onions.

Abby looked at the platter of haddock before them, the sauce vibrant and red from the dragon pepper and carrots, the scent of allspice mingling with it, mouthwatering in how delicious it looked.

Pink and red, might be dead.

Nausea curled in her gut and she watched as Princess Rhaenyra took a large bite of the flaky, white fish, humming in pleasure. Abby tried not to stare as the woman chewed, swallowed down and took a healthy gulp of her own wine before leaning over to speak to her husband in Valyrian. She did not turn pale or mottled red, did not clutch at her throat and keel over.

Abby drummed her fingers on her goblet, fingertips dancing over the embossed dragons over the cup. The stem was thick and knotwork similar to the Riverlands knot that she’d given Aegon for his favor wound around the stem, embedded with small rubies that also glowed in the eyes of the dragons. It was a heavy thing and her hand struggled to hold it, but it was beautiful to look at. She took another sip of her wine and finally plated some of the fish and hearty sauce onto her plate.

Excited applause echoed through this half of the hall as the entertainment for this course came out. The first course had the fools, Lolly and Butterbee, performing. Rhaenyra had brought Mushroom, who had left with her when she’d gone to Dragonstone, but the dwarf was nowhere to be seen. The king’s speech was a distant memory. Abrogail had been relieved he had not dwelled upon the absence of her parents and looked more to the future, and not the shadows and ghosts of the past.

Now, Pentoshi dancers rushed to the open floor beneath the dias, clad in long tunics of red with black belts, draped in chains of silver and gold with bells on their wrists. Strong men of the troop balanced the slighter figures on their shoulders, performing feats of tumbling that left Abby gasping and clapping in delight. They looked as if they were flying, bright red birds jangling with music of their own. Drum beats sounded from the gallery above as their own music accompanied them, a type of flute that Abby hadn’t heard before that held its own entrancing melody.

“In Pentos,” Rhaenyra said beside her, goblet clutched in her bejeweled hand. “They drape silks from the rafters and swing in them, roll themselves in the cloth and perform death-tempting feats.” She shrugged a shoulder, the purple and red silk of her gown sumptuous, her low neckline edged in gold and silver threads, her thick, silver hair a crown of braids woven with gems and pearls. Her ruby and obsidian tiara glittered in the candlelight. “It’s a pity they could not orchestrate such things in this hall.”

“That’s because the rafters are likely to give way,” Daemon yawned from the other side of his wife. He scraped his fork against his plate before stabbing a mushroom. “Though perhaps that would be considered a small mercy in putting an end to the evening.”

Abby’s neck and cheeks prickled uncomfortably with heat while Rhaenyra shot him a look. “We appreciate your part in our happy day in spite of your misgivings, Prince Daemon,” Abby said as Aegon shifted beside her. She leaned forward a little to look past Rhaenyra to the languid, bored visage of Daemon Targaryen. He watched her, pale, violet eyes unblinking and heavy lidded as she spoke, not quite a smile crossing his narrow face. She had the distinct sensation of being watched, the way that she had seen the slight Tessarion watch sheep be brought before she was given leave to consume.

“This hellish place is supposed to be cursed, is it not? Best to not tempt fate when such superstitions keep repairs from being made with any urgency. A death is not what most people find entertaining at a wedding.” His features animated then, a thoughtful downturn of his mouth, a cock of his head, silver braids like Aemond’s tinkling with Valyrian runic charms woven through the strands. “Although perhaps that would liven it up all the same.”

‘Then you can just go back on your dragon and leave’, Abby thought, leaning back as the servant cleared her plate. Aegon made a sound beside her and she reached down to palm at his thigh reassuringly, a little distractingly, both for him and herself. Mercifully, before further barbs could be exchanged, upfront and backhanded, the performers finished and the hall erupted into cheers. She gestured to one of the attendants who stood at attention, beckoning them closer.

“Please ensure that in addition to what they’ve been paid, another quarter of it for such joy. Also ensure their bellies are well filled.” The black garbed servant bowed with a soft, “Yes, Your Grace,” and hurried away to ensure her instructions were met. Soon, the next course was brought out. The wedding pie required four livery men to carry it in to much fanfare, and they rose to clap their approval.

“Ser Gwayne!” Aegon called to where his uncle sat nearby with the rest of the Hightowers. Gwayne rose smoothly, handsome in a tunic of deep green, finely embroidered with silver flames. His grin was broad as he basked beneath the attention, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“My prince!” he called back, tossing back his auburn hair and giving a bow. “Congratulations on your happiest wedding to you and our beautiful new princess!” Another wave of merry shouts and cheers filled the hall and Abby demurely inclined her head in thanks.

“In honor of my Riverlands bride, cut this magnificent pie! Your prince commands it!” He held up his goblet in toast as Gwayne gave a shout, drawing his gleaming steel and cutting into the great wedding pie. Doves burst forth in a flurry, another shout from the crowd at the spectacle.

“Let’s hope they don’t shit on our heads or in that damn pie,” Abby heard Daemon mutter loud enough that she knew it was on purpose. Privately, she hoped it would happen to him since he was so intent on wishing it into existence. The pie was cut, overflowing with all kinds of meat, carrots and leeks, sweet onions and the heady scent of cinnamon. The plates were piled with cuts from the stuffed boar, its tusks gilded with gold, and the spectacle it made brought much laughter. On its back was a cooked chicken clad in a little cloak of red with a tiny lance tucked beneath its wing and a shield in the other. Daeron shouted that he wanted the knight amidst the din, bickering soon ensuing between the younger boys.

The entertainment was much closer to home. A troupe of dancers merrily stomped their feet and spun around as the traditional music of the Riverlands played, the hurdy-gurdys, the fifes and the drums striking up a merry tune that had them both tapping their feet and the crowd clapping their hands in tune. Even Rhaenyra smiled, clapping her hands in time with the music.

The further the afternoon went, the less Helaena’s prophecy lingered in Abby’s mind. Perhaps not a prophecy as feared, but simply a bad dream. The venison in the wedding pie was magnificently tender, and the boar, with chestnuts and chicken meat, with fragrant cheese and ginger and dragon pepper, nearly melted in her mouth with each bite, the plum wine exquisite. The fresh peas with parsley and mint cut through the savory food and she was grateful for the plate her and Aegon shared.

“Your Graces.”

Abby looked up from her plate. Before the table stood the newly made Lord Blackwood, Willem. Abby smiled at him warmly, if a little confused. “Lord Willem, it is good to see you again. We hope you are enjoying the feast.”

He was not an overly tall man, his deep red cape pinned to his shoulders with iron raven pins, his grey doublet understated but fine. His beard was generous, so much so that Abby did not immediately see his mouth until he spoke once more.

“It is good to be here. House Blackwood thanks you for the welcome to your festivities. May your marriage be long and fruitful.” Another shallow bow. “Welcome to the Riverlands, Prince Aegon.”

“Willem Blackwood?” Rhaenyra asked, tapping her fingers against her cheek, an amused look on her face. “Why, when I last saw you was in Lord Boremond’s great hall with a blade in your hand.” Even with the amused look, her tone was neutral if cordial. Abby raised her eyebrows as she watched Lord Willem look bashful at the remembrance of pulling live steel in a Lord’s hall and killing another boy over an insult.

“Your remembrance of a young boy who steadfastly upholds your radiance honors me, Your Grace.”

“Aren’t I radiant too?” Aegon said softly, just loud enough for her to hear before taking a gulp of wine.

Abby hid her smile with a bite of the delicious boar. “You are most radiant, Prince Aegon,” she whispered and he preened into his goblet.

“Killing a man in our cousin’s hall over Princess Rhaenyra’s hand. Why, I do recall hearing this tale,” Daemon said, snapping his fingers. “I believe the princess was most amused at a young lad’s attempt at someone far out of his reach.” He smirked. “Right for the thigh. Well, you wouldn’t have been able to reach much higher. Such a mess. Because he called you - what was it again?”

Willem’s smile grew tight. “A cunt, Your Grace.”

“Thank you for coming to give us your well wishes, Lord Willem,” Rhaenyra interrupted Daemon, who was leaning forward with a gleam in his eyes, a cat who had found prey and could no longer wait. The lord gave another bow, more well wishes and departed with a dramatic swish of his red cape.

“Jacaerys wears his cape better,” Abby told Rhaenyra softly. The other woman snorted in amusement.

Abby was nearly too full for the next course, but there was no helping the cry of excitement as the food was brought out. A vegetable pottage of cabbage and carrots, small pies of beef and currant, delicious looking puddings with figs and dates and the centerpiece. A large, marchpane Sunfyre rose from the table, his wings spread, the almond and sugar dyed with saffron and red berries to bring the glow of gold and pink to the dragon’s form. Moreover, there was a sculpted maiden holding the dragon’s snout, her long hair dyed with red berries in an emulation of her own.

As they indulged in lighter fare, a bard took the audience, singing sweet songs of young love, of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne’s elopement in the face of their mother’s refusal, and a melodious poem about the Maiden and her falling in love with Galladon of Morne and gifting him his sword. They were all lovely, the singer’s voice clear as water and delicate, surprisingly robust in such a great hall.

The dancing commenced as the desserts were brought. A platter piled high with golden honey cakes glistening with syrup was set before them, their delicate crusts flaking. Abby immediately took one as a platter of roasted quinces were set, the flesh turned a deep, dark red from cooking and piled high with cream and red berries, the juices streaking the cream pink. Aegon tugged the platter closer, shoving his spoon excitedly into the dish, licking cream from his thumb as he dug in.

“Don’t eat too fast,” Abby laughed, biting into her cakes slower. “I don’t want you getting sick as we dance.”

“I have paced myself quite well, hunītsos ñuhu.” He waved her off and she contemplated the dessert he was so ravenously eating, popping some of the berries in his mouth and the juice staining his fingers, a smear of pink cream across his knuckle.

Abby didn’t think she could finish the honey cake after her third bite and she settled back in her chair with a groan, hand pressed to her middle. No, she should definitely stop. She gestured for the attendant to fill her goblet with lighter fair than the sweet drinks they’d had over the course of the feast, needing to cut the taste in her mouth with something else. “Aemond promised that he would not let them become too exuberant during the bedding, right Aegon?”

Aegon didn’t answer.

“Aegon?” He was leaning on his elbows at the table’s edge, his face flushed deeper than it had been before, his lips parted in quick breaths. Aegon wasn’t looking at her, he didn’t respond to the repetition of his name.

Her fingers went cold. It was such a strange thing to notice, but it’s what happened first. Louder, Abby cried, “Aegon!” rising from her seat and grabbing Aegon’s shoulders to look at her. For the first time that afternoon, she heard the king pay attention to them, asking what was the matter.

The voices of Rhaenyra and the queen both rose, “Aegon?”

Pink and red, might be dead.

He was trembling, gasping, his hands clenched and she tried to heave him from his chair but his heavier weight sent them tumbling back, his chair falling as they hit the floor. Aegon shook as if he were cold, sweat pouring down his temples, soaking his hair, the black of his pupils eating the color of his eyes. Abby gripped him, hauled him into her lap, pushed his hair from his face. There was another pair of hands, auburn hair.

“Orwyle!” She didn’t know who had yelled for the Maester.

“Aegon,” she breathed, shaking him, his gaze going to hers. Her arms felt cold, her heart beat pounding in her ears. “No… no no… Aegon…” Abby clutched him tighter and she could feel his arm fumble, his fingers clumsily trying to grip her forearm.

“Abs,” he gasped. “Ab-Ab.” But he couldn’t form her name, panting, his skin going from deep, flushed red to something bluer, his lips losing their color.

Hands gripped her shoulders but she leaned forward more, trying to see Aegon more clearly but for some reason, it was as if looking at him underwater, both of them drowning and trying to reach for one another. Heat coursed down her cheeks, and there was water splattering on his face. Where did it come from?

“Aegon… Aegon, no please, please you promised,” she cried, shaking him. “Aegon, no! No!”

What was happening, what was going on? He was fine. He was fine. They were going to dance.

Pink and red, might be dead.

Who might be dead, Helaena? Who?

“Aegon, please don’t do this. I love you, Aegon, you promised. Aegon, Aegon…”

They were married now. Everything would be better.

His eyes were rolling back, his body seizing in convulsion.

“Aegon!”

He was shuddering, his fingers gripping her sleeve so tight the delicate material tore.

“No no no, I love you, Aegon stay here stay with me you promised you wouldn’t leave me stay, Aegon, stay.”

The gasping stopped. He went still.

Abby screamed.

Aegon and Abrogail will return in The Princess and the Dragon Knight

And we made it! You all made it! And it's going to be okay! This is a Fix It Trilogy with a Happy Ever After but damn, it's gonna take our kids some work!

Thank you all for reading, for your encouraging comments, for your support, discussions, and investment in this story and journey with me. I treasure you all, silent or otherwise, but know that I would love to hear from you.

Keep a lookout later this year as I'll be doing a giveaway for a handbound copy of this first installment <3

Reblogs are how tumblr works! If you enjoyed this story, please reblog! I always read your tags and my askbox is open!

[babyblue711]

Loyalty

Aemond Targaryen (HOTD) x Alys Rivers - Part 2 Including the conclusion of its sister story, Little Dragonseed Summary: Aemond, in his quest for vengeance, torches the Riverlands while Alys is but an unwilling passenger with a burning secret of her own. Meanwhile, back at Harrenhal, the little maid waits for her rescuer, but war-torn Westeros may have other plans in store for her. Words: 3.6K

Chapter Warnings: NSFW, Sexual Content 18+, Canon Divergence, War things A/N: As noted, there is canon divergence in this story; there is no Sabitha Frey, and, for the purpose of this tale, the timeline may be a little wonky. Perhaps it's just me, but I broke my own heart writing this. I hope you all enjoy. Comments, reblogs, thoughts, opinions are welcome and appreciated 😘 💙 And, thank you, to my amazing beta reader and incredible gif maker, @myfandomprompts who made the Aemond banner for me.

<<< Part 1

They flew.

And the realm burned.

On they soared upon ancient wings… 

And burned. Burned. Burned.

Any settlement in the Riverlands sworn to Queen Rhaenyra met their downfall, becoming kindling for Aemond’s wrath. Nothing could stand against Vhagar’s flames as she left ashes and despair in their wake. 

Riding on dragonback was a breathtaking experience; there was an exhilarating power in soaring through the sky, close to the heavens, far removed from the hellish war-torn realm below. But she could not enjoy it, her awe was constantly overshadowed by Aemond’s unyielding anger.

He had brought her along purposefully, but for all the notice he took of her, she might as well have been invisible. Her attempts at calming his relentless rage were futile. He seemed interested in one thing and one thing only: her visions of the future and the path he should take forward. When she couldn’t summon an immediate answer, his response was simply to enact revenge on the supporters of the Black Queen. Unable to sway him, she remained silent, an unwilling passenger caught in the storm of his vengeance.

They did not return to Harrenhal and, instead, survived off the land. Luckily, she possessed a deep knowledge of edible plants and fungi and they had no trouble catching game. They bathed in a freshwater river and, in the evenings, Vhagar’s fiery breath cooked their suppers and provided warmth against the chill of the night. 

Aemond barely spoke to her, his mind consumed by grief and rage, his ego shattered by Daemon and the black faction at the insurmountable loss of King’s Landing. The once prideful, arrogant young man was becoming a shadow of the fierce prince she had known; his calculating eye now vacant and haunted as he worried obsessively about what had become of his family he left behind.

During one of their many silent nights sat around the fire, the urge to speak to him gnawed at her. She knew she should tell him the truth, but the timing felt impossibly wrong. 

She needed to tell him that they had succeeded. She had suspected for a little while now, but wanted to wait to make absolutely sure. Now that time had passed, it was hard to keep this knowledge to herself.

But how could she share this revelation when his heart was still so torn? She watched him from across the fire, his sculpted face illuminated by the dancing flames, feeling the weight of her secret press down on her. 

She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the inevitable. “My prince,” she began softly, her voice almost swallowed by the crackling fire. He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “There’s something you need to know…”

“A vision?” he asked, immediately perking up, interest piqued. She pressed her lips together as she moved around the fire to sit on his good side; Would that be all he would ever care about? Is that all she meant to him? 

She chose not to voice these thoughts, instead gently taking his warm hand into her own. Her touch seemed to surprise him, a flicker of emotion crossing his face; they had not been intimate since they left Harrenhal. He turned to look at her fully for the first time in what felt like ages and she felt breathless under the intensity of his gaze, as if he were truly seeing her again.  

“No… not quite,” she replied, trying not to feel discouraged as she saw his face fall. She decided to get it over with quickly, the words tumbling from her mouth. “I…I am with child. Your child, my prince.” She placed her free hand over her lower belly for emphasis, giving him a small smile at this precious news, waiting with bated breath for his reaction.

Aemond's gaze hardened, his eye narrowing as he processed her words. His nostrils flared, and a tense silence hung between them, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she waited for him to speak.

“Ar– are you not pleased? Your bloodline will endure…” she started to say, her voice faltering.

“A bastard. That is what we have made together,” he interrupted, disappointment etched into every line of his exquisite face as his frown deepened, twisting his sensuous lips into a grimace as his words cut through her like a knife.

“Aemond…” she began again, her voice more determined, “this child is part of your legacy. The blood of the dragon flows through his veins. Does that not mean something to you?”

He pulled his hand away from hers, standing up abruptly and pacing by the fire, his mind clearly torn.

“Legacy…” he mutters, almost to himself. “What legacy do I leave in this world of ashes and betrayal? My family doesn’t even know about you…what would my mother say– ?”

She rose to her feet, moving towards him, needing him to understand.

“Their opinions matter little now, what’s done is done. A child is a blessing, Aemond, no matter who its parents are,” Alys said softly but firmly, running her hand over his arm and feeling relief when he doesn’t pull away. “I implore you to listen to me. I carry the child of Aemond Targaryen, Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Dragonrider of the mighty Vhagar. If it bothers you that we are unwed then do what’s best for the sake of your son, Aemond. Marry me,” she pleads, her eyes shining with sincerity. “I long to be your loving wife, to stand by your side. I will help you achieve greatness, and ensure our child not only endures but thrives, following in your footsteps to rule the Seven Kingdoms. Together, we can end this war.”

Aemond looked lost, his gaze still fixed on the dancing flames of the fire, the light flickering across his face, highlighting the lines of worry and doubt etched into his features.

“How do you know I will rule?” His voice is barely above a whisper, tinged with uncertainty.

“I have seen it, my prince,” Alys replied, her tone filled with conviction. She leaned closer, her hand still resting on his arm, drawing strength from the contact.

“Daemon is your one last, true foe. You will defeat him, how could you not? He is old and well past his prime. Caraxes is no match for the might of Vhagar. I have seen your victory in the clouds when we fly high on Vhagar’s back. There will be a battle above a great lake; I have seen him fall into the water and be swallowed by their depths.” Her voice gained a fervent edge as she continued, painting a vivid picture of the future she envisioned. “You will rule and be a mighty king, my prince, and I already carry your son and heir.”

Aemond's expression remained conflicted, but there was a spark of something in his eye—hope, perhaps, or a glimmer of belief. Alys could see the battle within him, the struggle between his self-doubt and the destiny she foretold. She pressed on, her hand moving to gently cup his scarred cheek, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“You are destined for greatness, Aemond. Together, we can shape the future of the Seven Kingdoms. After Daemon is finished, we will go to King’s Landing and rescue your mother and sister within; they are still alive, I know it. Trust in me, trust in us.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Then, slowly, Aemond lifted his hand to cover hers, a sign of his acceptance as his eye finally softened. His grip was firm as he bent to kiss her sweetly on the lips, which she immediately deepened, starving for his touch and affection. 

“For our child,” Aemond said with conviction as he pulled away, his singular violet eye alight with fire once more, alive with passion, fueled with purpose.  

With only Vhagar as their witness, they stood beneath the open sky and recited the ancient marriage ritual of House Targaryen, their voices steady and resolute, echoing the vows of his ancestors. 

For a moment, war and destruction, heartache and pain seemed to fall away as they found solace in each other’s arms. Aemond's touch was gentle, his fingers trailing softly over her skin as if memorizing every inch of her. He made love to her with reverence, with such a tenderness it was as if she was suddenly made of glass. The world outside ceased to exist as they lost themselves in each other, their bodies entwined in a rhythm of love and passion.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, Aemond allowed himself a moment of happiness. His usual mask of sternness and determination melted away, replaced by a genuine smile as he thought of his son. He looked at Alys with true affection, his hand moving to rest on her still flat belly. She could see the wonder in his eye, the silent imagining of her swollen with his child, a symbol of their union and the future they hoped to build together.

Basking in his tender affection, her heart swelled with love and gratitude. She returned his caresses, her hands moving over his strong back, tracing the contours of his muscles. As Aemond placed a gentle kiss on her abdomen, she sighed with deep contentment, enjoying his bare skin on hers, the feeling of his seed leaking from between her thighs, the burning of the fire in her lower belly as the blood of the dragon nestled within. It is the most loved and cherished she had ever felt in her entire life.

Back at Harrenhal, the little maid waited anxiously. A few days before, the Prince Regent and the witch had fled together after news of King’s Landing's fall reached them. Ser Criston Cole had taken the green army south to join the Hightowers, leaving Harrenhal unguarded and eerily quiet. Now was the most opportune time for Daemon to rescue her, but she had no way to send word to him; she wasn’t even sure of his whereabouts.

So she waited and prayed fervently that her father would come for her. But her prayers were laced with a growing worry.

She worried because her moon's blood was late and she was never late. Despite drinking the tea the witch had given her, she had only had that one cup and now questioned its effectiveness. Was it enough? There was no one left to ask or to make more for her.

She worried because she felt cramping in her lower abdomen without any sign of bleeding. She worried because ordinary smells now made her nauseous, her breasts were constantly sore, and still, her blood did not come. 

One evening, unable to hold back her fears any longer, she broke down and confided in the matron, her surrogate mother that she loved dearly and who she had failed miserably by letting Aemond take advantage of her. The matron listened intently, a deep frown etched between her eyebrows, but she wasn’t angry or disappointed in the maid’s confession. She was only terribly upset for what her young adopted daughter had endured at the hands of the Prince Regent.

Discreetly, the matron arranged for the maester to examine her, and he confirmed her worst fears. She was indeed pregnant; the witch’s potion had failed. His confirmation did not surprise the little maid in the slightest. She had known, deep in her heart, that she was carrying the child of the One-Eyed Prince. A child conceived not out of love, but out of revenge and hatred, shattering her innocence, leaving her to pick up the pieces alone.

The realization weighed heavily on her. What would her father say if he ever found out? Daemon Targaryen was fierce and proud, he would surely be enraged, would surely put her babe to the sword as soon as he was born and the thought horrified her beyond measure. And so she vowed never to tell him the truth. If he came for her, she would have to hide her condition, pretend to have been foolish with someone else…anyone else. 

Not long after her discovery, the haunting shriek of Caraxes pierces the silent night, announcing the return of the Rogue Prince, as he had promised. She rushes to meet him, excitement bubbling in her chest, but also a twinge of fear, knowing she now has to play her part.

Daemon looks tired and worn, the toll of the war evident in every line on his face. But when he sees her, his expression brightens.

“Little one,” he greets warmly, reaching out to embrace her in a father’s hug she has never known before. She inhales the scent of dragon and smoke clinging to his clothes, feeling a fleeting sense of safety.

“Are we leaving? I can pack my things…” she begins eagerly, her voice trailing off as she notices the sadness in his eyes.

“I’m afraid, my little dragonseed, that we cannot go,” Daemon says softly, his voice filled with regret. “I must stay here and cannot be distracted…the Queen and the realm depend on it.” Tears spring to her eyes, and he gently lifts her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“Little dragon, you must get away from here. Leave Harrenhal, this place is cursed, probably from that despicable witch,” he growls as a flicker of anger crosses his face as he remembers Alys. 

“She’s gone now…with Prince Aemond,” the little maid tries to explain, her voice trembling. “Alys is not here to make you suffer as she did before.”

Daemon frowns slightly at this unusual piece of information, that Aemond would flee with the witch of all people, but quickly returns to his original point.

“No matter. Run, flee. Do not go to the Riverlands right now; it is not safe,” he says urgently, taking her face into both of his hands and bowing his forehead against hers. His desperation is palpable and she can see the pain in his eyes, the sorrow of knowing he cannot keep his promise to take her with him.

“But how will you find me again?” she whispers, her voice breaking with emotion.

“Do not worry, my child. If I survive, I will come for you,” he promises for the second time, his voice filling with determination. Yet she can’t bring herself to believe him entirely. She knows he is here to await Prince Aemond, and the prospect of either of them surviving a battle against one another seems slim. Daemon is choosing to sacrifice himself for the good of the realm and she cannot even begin to understand how incredibly brave he is.

Her tears start to flow at this realization and she hates the thought of leaving him behind to await his fate alone, but knows she has little choice. “Where should I go?” she asks, her voice small and fearful.

“Try to avoid any large settlements on your journey. They are currently being targeted by the one-eyed welp. Head south, towards Dragonstone….those loyal to Queen Rhaenyra will help you,” he instructs.

“I don’t want to leave you,” she sobs, her hands clutching at his tunic. “I’m scared.”

Daemon’s heart breaks at her words and he strokes her hair gently, trying to soothe her. “You are strong, my little dragon. You have the blood of Old Valyria in your veins. You will survive this. You must.”

The next day dawns cold and gray, a fitting backdrop for their departure. She and the matron join a gaggle of other inhabitants all intent on fleeing the cursed castle. The little maid is glad to be free of these dark and haunted halls at last.  

Before she leaves, she embraces her father one last time. His arms around her feel strong and protective, but there is a sense of finality that she cannot ignore. She clings to him as he whispers, “Be safe,” his voice rough with emotion. 

“I will,” she promises, though her heart aches with the knowledge that this is a promise she may not be able to keep; the road is dangerous and fraught with peril. She pulls away, wiping her tears on the back of her hand, turning away from him and forcing herself not to look back.

As they leave Harrenhal behind, the group moves in silence, each lost in their own thoughts and fears. The matron walks beside her and the little maid finds herself reaching for her hand, needing reassurance just as if she was a child again. 

She wonders about their journey ahead, hoping they will settle someplace safe; she has already decided that she and the matron will raise her son together. They will find a quiet place, far from the war and destruction, and he will grow up being loved, fiercely and unconditionally. Her son will know the stories of his heritage, even if he never knows his family, and she will be certain to tell him about his brave grandfather and the legacy that flows through his royal veins. 

Alys managed to convince Aemond to delay for a day, to celebrate their union before his incessant need to return to burn the Riverlands once more. They settled in a faraway meadow, a place untouched by the war, where the air was fresh and the sounds of conflict were but a distant memory. It was a brief respite from the carnage, a stolen moment of peace. 

She devoted herself to Aemond, worshiping him with her mouth, savoring, sucking, treating him as a king should be treated. They made love countless times in the soft grass and, as before, Aemond was exceedingly gentle, his touch soft and caring as he suckled her engorged breasts. He didn’t rut into her viciously as he had been known to do in the past, instead pleasuring her with long, slow strokes, bringing her to peak with his tongue.

In those moments, he was without his eyepatch, bare and vulnerable, and she saw the man he might have been had violence not scarred his soul. If the war had never started, she thought, this was who Aemond would be. She wished with all her heart that she could bring peace to the prince’s troubled spirit. 

As they journeyed back to the Riverlands, she estimated they had been gone from Harrenhal for nearly a fortnight. Reality hit her hard as she gazed upon the war-torn realm once more and for the first time in a long while, she was hit by a multitude of visions, many which did not make any sense. She could feel the Rogue Prince’s presence, hear the shriek of his dragon in her dreams. She confessed to Aemond that they must return to Harrenhal, that they were being sought by Daemon.

While they flew, her thoughts drifted to the little maid they had left behind. She fervently hoped the potion she had given the girl had worked; the maid did not need to suffer any more than she already had. Alys could not bear the thought of another child contending for Aemond’s heart….or his legacy. She resolved to check on the girl as soon as they returned to the castle.

As they neared Harrenhal, she felt the unmistakable energy of Caraxes well before she even saw the castle, confirming her fears and driving away any other thought. She knew that this encounter was fated, that the impending clash between Aemond and Daemon was inevitable.

She kissed Aemond for good luck, her prince, her king, the father of her child. His singular eye looked at her with a fleeting softness before hardening into the mask of determination she knew so well. He mounted Vhagar with practiced ease and took to the skies in pursuit of his uncle, so sure of his victory.

High above the God’s Eye she watched their fearsome battle, fear striking deep into her heart as the dragons danced.

And then he fell…she watched in horror…no, it couldn’t be… this was not as she foretold… her beloved prince and his mighty dragon… 

Irreparably broken…

And her world shattered. 

Epilogue

A few years later, along the tranquil banks of Riverrun, a young woman walked with a woven basket in hand, occasionally bending to gather an assortment of mushrooms or plants. She hummed a light, cheerful tune, her bright blonde hair hanging loose and flowing in the warm summer breeze. Here, she no longer had to hide her true self, her bloodline, or her past.

She and the matron had made it back to Riverrun just in time for her to give birth; their journey had been long and arduous as the war raged on, but she had been relieved to finally return home. 

“Mama!” came a small voice from the riverbank. “Fish! Mama!” He pointed excitedly as she drew near and she smiled at his enthusiasm. 

“Yes, Daemon, fish,” she confirmed in a gentle, motherly voice, as she approached him and smoothed his bright blond hair.

The boy turned to her with a radiant smile, his cherubic face and round cheeks a picture of joy and health. His violet eyes always pierced her soul whenever she looked at him, the shadow of his father already prominent in his young face. He was a living, breathing reminder of Aemond, the last trace of his lineage to walk the earth. 

She watched her son affectionately as he splashed in the shallows, his laughter loud amongst the soft sounds of nature. He giggled in delight as the small fish swam around his ankles, seeming just as interested in the little boy as he was in them. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden glow over the river, she held his small hand as they walked back toward home, the basket filled with the day’s harvest, her heart content. 

She hoped her father would be proud of her.

[cdragons]

Like the Wave, She Broke; But Like the Sea, She Persevered

Chapter 2: You are my Best Friend, the Family I Chose, the Home I Found

Previous Chapter, Next Chapter

A Robb Stark X Yi Tish Reader/OC Story

Author's Note: The Reader/OC will be mentioned but not written in this chapter, but she will make an appearance in the next one. I do not own Game of Thrones or ASOIAF or any of GRRM works. But please no hate, but please comment, like, or reblog if you liked reading this story and want me to continue! Also the OC's name and her pet's name are not in Mandarin but in Romanization because the characters in this chapter are thinking in English.

Also many thanks and love to @valeskafics as my beta! Check out her work if you don't follow her already, she's amazing!

Warnings: sexual content, sexual abuse, mentions of SA and r*pe but no descriptions, violence and violent themes, depression, suicidal actions, mentions of PTSD & survivor's guilt, offensive and racist terms, GOT canonical misogyny & sexism, angst (so much angst), and dark/yandere attitudes.

Previously in “Like the Wave, She Broke; But Like the Sea, She Persevered”:

“A place where she would meet another Greyjoy, but a different Greyjoy, a better one. A Greyjoy whose blood was Ironborn, but his heart would be northern. A northern boy whose blood carried the salt of the sea, but whose heart and soul were strengthened and bathed by the snow, the trees, and the winds of northern land. A boy who she distrusted before slowly and surely becoming her found brother, and she becoming his found sister.”

Theon’s POV:

Theon Greyjoy was somewhat of an enigma to most people, and to himself if he dared to be honest. He was known as Robb Stark’s best friend and brother, but Gods Old and New help him if he forgot that he was young Lord’s, no sorry, the young King’s inferior. He was the rakish and obnoxious ward graciously taken in by the honorable Eddard Stark, late Lord of Winterfell and House Stark, Warden of the North. But the term “ward” doesn’t hide the fact that he was their captive, their hostage. A hostage who at the age of ten, was robbed from his family, his culture, his home, after witnessing hundreds of Iron Island sailors and civilians being completely annihilated, just to be plopped down in the middle of a frozen mainland where no one likes him. Ned Stark may never have beaten him, but that didn’t mean the fact that he could with full jurisdiction send Theon to the gallows with a single word, and no one would bat an eye. He was supposed to an Ironborn, except he wasn’t, not since he lived amongst mainlanders for the past decade. He wasn’t a Northerner and couldn’t be a Stark, and he certainly wasn’t an Ironborn and he despised being a Greyjoy. He wished he wasn’t one the moment he stepped foot on the mainland, since he was brought to Winterfell, since he felt the gaze Lady Catelyn Stark’s cold and righteous eyes. But by the Drowned Man, he never hated his family name so much until he knew you.

Oh gods, you. He couldn’t help the sheer pride and love in his smile thinking about you, even in his sorry state. Because despite how his body still healing from the wounds brought by the ambushed arrows, the pure elation and shock from you storming the shit-stained Frey keep with five-thousand men (if he wasn’t so fucking plastered, he would’ve cried) and saving Robb and most of their asses, with minimal losses of only 157 men 158 if you include Talisa. You had even managed to subdue both Roose Bolton and Walder Frey before dragging their asses to the prison cells, along with the rest of their traitorous kin. However, there wasn’t time to celebrate their (really your) victory as you immediately put everyone to work. For someone who worked in the shadows, you looked so natural in organizing the camp to sections reserved for healing those who survived, and preparing the burials for those whose lives were lost. After that, you rushed every lord whose mind was just lucid enough in the largest empty tent. You insisted that finding whoever assisted the Frey’s in this ordeal, as Walder Frey may have been a vile greedy cunt, he wasn’t a tactical mastermind. And while Roose Bolton was an apathetic amoral sociopath, he could never possess the imagination for something so grand scale. After countless sleepless hours, the pieces were all put together, and ice that froze every lord’s blood in learning that this was a premeditated trap engineered by one fucking Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock. The chaos and fury that followed was a sight to be memorized and passed on for years to come, any lost morale before that moment came back by a thousandfold strong. The southern snakes had really done it now, even if the plan had worked, the North would only drawback until they could strike once more. If there was one thing about the North that would always remain true, it was the fact that the North and its men never forget, especially an act as sacrilegious as what they now call the “Red Wedding”.

Every lord was shouting and screaming out blame, whether it be the execution of Lord Karstark, the release of the Kingslayer, the broken oath to the Frey’s, and on and on did they go. They didn’t stop until Lord Umber blamed on Theon for his father’s invasion to the North (despite that 1) he didn’t even know about the bloody invasion, and 2) he never left the fucking camp), and the usually mild-tempered Daiyu leapt on the table and knocked the Greatjon Umber on his great ass in retaliation. The sight of you in command will never leave him, not even when he had forgotten his own name and was too feeble to wipe his own ass. Even in your most irritable state, you dared not publicly showcase your emotions. But everything from the cold fury in your eyes to the raw determination in your spine, was enough to freeze a dragon’s fire. By reminding everyone while nothing can change the past, this event only further proves how there is no limit to the Lannister’s teachery, and that it was imperative to secure the North’s independence from the Southern leeches. You then told them of how you learned of the plan through a deal with a stranger wearing a red tunic and grey cloak, and that if they managed to survive the treachery, they were to immediately send word to Dragonstone.

“Dragonstone,” shouted out Lord after Daiyu grew bored of him and was now contently purring against Theon’s legs as he stood by you, “why in the seven hells would we send word to Dragonstone? So that we can get pissed over by Stannis Baratheon? How do we know you didn’t just make up the deal so that we could bend the knee to Stannis, or perhaps you’ve been working for the Lannister’s with the Boltons and Frey’s? Well? Answer me you chink-”.

Theon drew out his sword the second before he could finish, “You take those words back and beg for my sister’s forgiveness right now before I cut your tongue out and feed it to my falcon, you rancid shit.” Theon could allow disrespect against him, he grown used to it after all; but he would be flayed, eaten by hounds, and broken to a shell of a man before he allowed anyone to utter a word of disrespect to you, let alone that word. Each of the bannerman’s eyes shifted between the men, as most knew better than insult the mysterious spy from the far orient in the presence of the young Kraken. If Theon was not with their king, he was by his sister’s side, arm over her shoulders and her head on his, more often in silence as words were never needed in order to take comfort in one another.

And the girl was no different in her devotion to her brother, as her protection over him was as ruthless as it was creative. More than once had there been instances of soldiers throughout the camp making claims ranging from mad visions in their sleep to horses stampeding them throughout the woods to those who spoke ill of the Stark’s ward. The bannerman would have demanded their king to call for her head hadn’t her punishments been more amusing than irritating. Not that it would have worked, if there was only one thing the two young men had in common, it was the devout protection they showered the stoic spy. Even when the young king broke his oath to the Frey’s to marry his pretty foreign healer, did he remain true in his defense if anything it only grew. Such was the case with his own direwolf, who although remains steadfast in guarding his currently comatose companion, adored the Yi Tish girl far more than the now late queen if they were honest, as he was often seen being petted and fed scraps by her and even playing with her shadowcat. However, they just reasoned it was due to being acquainted with one another since the pup’s arrival at Winterfell shows what they know.

You placed a hand on your brother’s wrist, stopping any further action on his part towards Lord Umber. Theon’s eyes immediately darted down to your hand, and then looked at you. To an outsider, the act would look no different than a scolding to a child; however, those who had watched the two grow together, like one Lady Catelyn Stark, recognized the interaction to be one of the many of silent conversations between the two of you. Her eyes darting down to her late husband’s ward’s wrist, eyeing the rather poorly made charm bracelet you had gifted him for his name day so many years ago. Being a ward to one of the seven great houses, Theon was gifted many precious things, from expertly made blades to fine cloaks; but that little…thing was the item he treasured more than life itself, that and his loyal falcon, Ari. A falcon abandoned by its mother, was found by Theon and was assisted in healing the poor creature by none other than you.

A moment passed, and another had gone by, followed by a few more before Theon reluctantly lowered his arm and sheathed his sword. You turned your gaze to Greatjon once more, hand still holding on your brother’s wrist, before speaking in a loud and clear manner, “I will graciously ignore you accusing that I would ever betray House Stark, even going so far to suggest that I would ever switch loyalties to a southern house I had never cared, but may I first ask you what is the purpose of the North’s campaign to the South?”

“Pah! Aye, I can tell you, to march down to King’s Landing and swing our steel at enough of their piss-haired inbred to free the North-,” Greatjon was interrupted by the slamming of your fist to the table.

“WRONG!” You exclaimed, “Our goal from the beginning, our true purpose was to free our Lord Eddard Stark and his daughters from King’s Landing, and upon his death, we swore to avenge him and rescue his children! Have you forgotten my lords, forgotten Ned Stark, late Lord of Winterfell, the man you swore fealty to when you bent the knee to his house? Now we stand, fighting in a war, leagues from our North, miles from King’s Landing, from his daughter who he loved and cherished so dearly that he confessed to crimes he did not commit in attempt to save her from the lion’s den? Does Ned Stark stand here, does his daughter Lady Sansa? In fighting for the North’s freedom, we had forgotten our first goal, our true purpose! To avenge the blood of House Stark, to fight and protect their children! And as a result, the Gods have punished us for forgetting that purpose to the state we see ourselves in now. We have lost our greatest bargaining chip, half our men in taking Lord Karstark’s head, and now with greater losses in numbers with the betrayal from both House Frey and House Bolton. We may have regained one wolf, but such a miracle cannot be claimed by us as it had been Ser Sandor who brought her home.” Your words brought the attention of Sandor Clegane, who was standing in a corner. He was observing the scene unraveling before, in both shock that you thanked him for his act, and cursing you for bringing any attention at him at all.

“And do not ignore that another young wolf still remains at the lions’ mercy. And if Sandor’s words of her treatment hold truth, then I fear that her livelihood is at more risk than ever when word reaches the Red Keep that Tywin Lannister’s plan had failed.” Your voice grew more somber and quieter as you finished your speech. It seemed as if time had stopped, shame overtook every lord’s and lady’s face at your words, and Lady Catelyn knelt on the ground, sobs overtaking her body. The relief and joy in being reunited with her Arya, was overshadowed by the realization that still had one daughter far from her arms. Greater grief struck her in learning that her sweet Sansa had been routinely beaten and ridiculed at court by Joffery’s orders.

Ever so carefully, you knelt beside her, and gently placed your hand on her shoulder before grasping her to stand while allowing her to take comfort in your strong but gentle grip. You quickly called for a squire to fetch some cool water before handing Lady Stark a simple but clean handkerchief to wipe her tears. Such an act of familiarity to a highborn from a lowly spy would never be tolerated in normal circumstances, but no one dared to point this out, fearing that their Lady would fall apart had it not been for your support. After what seemed to have been an eternity to pass, Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island stepped forward.

“The girl is right.” Her voice left no room for argument, “In fighting for our freedom, we had forgotten our people, our past leader, and his own blood. We lost sight of our true goal, and in doing so we allowed ourselves to be vulnerable to our enemies. Right now, Stannis Baratheon is our best hope in retrieving Ned Stark’s daughter. And we need all of the hope we can get, be it in numbers or supplies.” The next words coming out the fierce Mother Bear of House Mormont shook everyone to their core, “I can sacrifice our independence, I can bend the knee to another Southerner, but I cannot call myself a northerner if I forget my oath in avenging the Quiet Wolf, along with Jory Cassel, and the rest of the northern men that died in that rotten keep.”

“But how can expect Stannis to hope true in his word, is he even aware such a deal took place?” Lord Rysell rose from his seat, his voice filled with trepidation. “After all, was it not Stannis who killed Renly, his own brother, his very own blood? How can we expect a Southerner, nay, a KINSLAYER to hold even a weight of honor after witnessing the mutiny we all had barely escaped with our lives? And what of the cost? What was traded for such information?”

“Stannis Baratheon along with Jon Arryn had been running King Robert’s kingdom throughout his entire reign. While Jon Arryn tried to reign in Robert, Stannis was the one who had actually proposed new laws in attempt to benefit the kingdom. This was a man who at age of 17, held his brother’s castle at Storm’s End and ate shoes and rats rather than surrendering to a hopelessly superior army from both land and sea. He, who ensured that his men, smallfolk, and his little brother were fed before him. And more importantly, Stannis has ships, ships that can lay siege to King’s Landing by targeting Blackwater Bay, should he want for an alliance.” Theon couldn’t keep the pride out of his eyes, here you stood, recounting the accomplishment of one man, stunning every lord by your extensive knowledge of military history in perfect clarity. Those hours spent in the Winterfell library and extensive lessons with Maester Luwin seemed to have paid off.

“As for the matter of honor, this war will not be won through honor, no this is war that will be done on the matter of duty.” Tears threatened to spill from your eyes as you braced your body in continuing, “Ned Stark’s duty as Hand of the King was to the kingdom. In choosing his honor, he lost his head. Robb Stark chose love over duty, and it cost him the lives of his wife, his child, and nearly 3000 of our men. Our duty to the North was to avenge Ned Stark’s death and protect his children, and in that we have failed miserably. Whether Stannis Baratheon is honorable remains to be seen, but it was his devotion to his duty had made his men so loyal to him and his enemies call him a man ‘truly just.’ As for the matter of proof, I would hope that this message that bears his seal to provide some comfort.” You hand a creased letter to Catelyn Stark for confirmation. After vigilant investigation, she confirmed that it was indeed written in his hand and that seal bore House Baratheon’s sigil, along with the seal of Dragonstone.

“And I can assure you my lords that the price was more than fair,” your confidence was slowly diminishing as you chose your next words carefully, “all that was asked from the stranger was that I sail from Seagard to a locate an individual and escort them to somewhere Beyond the Wall, afterwards I would be told more details of my mission from there.”

“What comes after you get those details and finish escorting them?” Theon didn’t recognize his own voice. “Do they send you somewhere else, who’s this person, where are you going?” Seven hells, is that panic in his voice? “When do you come back?”

You looked towards your precious brother, eyes trying to convey a hidden message you don’t dare to speak aloud. You take a deep and shaky breath before clearing your throat in an attempt to keep your voice steady and clear, “I don’t.”

And just like that, chaos erupts once more.

Theon doesn’t realize he was asleep before being so rudely pulled out of his dream…memory?

“Well, memory it may have been, but a nightmare to relive it once more.” Theon thought as he tried to focus on his surroundings, before seeing the reason he was awoken in the first place. On his chest, stood a majestic falcon gazing into the eyes of his owner. Despite being a first-class hunter, one would think this bird of prey that feeds on both fish and birds alike by swooping at tremendous speed with little to no sound, was really a smaller parrot if others knew how spoiled Ari was for attention and treats. “Forget Robb, the real challenge will be in keeping this little fellow from going mad from losing his main benefactor,” thought Theon as he lovingly stroked a finger on Ari’s head, the falcon sweetly preening from attention from his beloved savior.

“THEON!” A familiar voice bellowed as the footsteps whom Theon was sure belonged to one auburn-curled king grew louder as they stride closer to his tent.

“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Knowing what will soon come, I only hope to find a barrel of ale to drown my sorrows in afterwards.” And with that being his final thought before rising from his cot and just finished dressing himself before his tent’s flap flew open, and in came the Young Wolf with a fury so terrible it would bring down the Wall.

Robb’s POV

After arriving at the camp, Robb immediately jumped down his horse and demanded a steward to take care of his steed before he marched forward with only one person in mind, Theon Greyjoy. His father’s ward, his best mate, his brother without blood and in-arms, and the brother to one particular Yi Tish girl that was sailing further and further from where she belonged. If there was one person who knew where she was going, it was Theon. He had to know, Li and Theon had a bond between them. A bond that Robb loathed to admit many times, as it was that bond that could not be easily shattered or poisoned as such with the bonds of mere companions or even lovers. For companions, some periods of time apart would often do the trick, but even on the most drawn-out operations his father sent you out on, time only proved to strengthen the bond as you would return with tales of the people you were sent out to watch, and even come back with small gifts as tokens of fond remembrance. Every single one of those gifts, no matter how often Theon would act as if he were given something burdensome, were treasured and placed inside a wooden box that he secretly commissioned one of keep’s craftsmen to create in order to store them. Even if you two were lovers, however painful that would be for him, it would be of great comfort to Robb knowing that it such affections would one day pass. No matter how great the flames of passion arose, they would usually die out, especially in one’s youth. In your case, hopefully in a way so spectacularly horrendous that it would kill any hope of rekindling those flames ever again. But no, instead you two stubbornly remained siblings, and your bond was that of great platonic love and adoration. It baffled Robb to no end as to why the two of you remained so insistently loyal to one another, but it was the same answer every time Robb brought out his frustrations.

“He is my brother,” you would say without fail. “He is the family I chose to love and cherish, and so I will choose him. I will choose him every time.” You would look directly at him, with your big brown almond-shaped eyes, so warm and frank, as if you were stating so completely plain and obvious to a tempering child.

“Can’t you choose me? I would choose you. I could be your family.” Robb exclaimed in great exasperation at your persistence. After all, why couldn’t he be your family? He who saw how well you played and calmed his younger siblings when he, his mother, his father, and even the septas were too busy; who would always help you whenever you stumbled upon a difficult word that you couldn’t spell or pronounce; who would show you the secrets of the Winterfell Keep that he would not even show to Jon or Theon; he who saw your secret smiles and hidden protection you bestowed upon the many strays and smallfolk children in the village town. By the Seven’s sake, he was to be the Lord of Winterfell and of the North after his father, who better than him to take care of you?

“No,” you stressed out, “No Robb, you couldn’t. You and I could never be each other’s family, not the way that he and I are, not in the way you want us to be.” You looked at him with your eyes, your big, brown, warm, cruel eyes; eyes that looked so genuinely apologetic that it almost made him forget his anger, almost. “I’m sorry.”

“Why not?” Robb was sure that he sounded pathetic, but he needed to know, to understand, why he couldn’t be the one for you. Was it the differing status between you both, did his mother speak ill to you when he and his father were unable to witness it, or was it because you had feelings of love for someone else, someone not him? Oh gods, he could feel his young heart breaking at that final thought.

“Theon and I…”, you tried to find the words that could capture the meanings you didn’t know the words to, words that were not in any of the languages you had learned and spoken, “he and I are bonded. In a way that goes beyond words, beyond simply moments and memories. It is built on an understanding that only the two of us know of, something you have never and I pray that you never will understand, because it is a pain that very few our age knows about, and that is really all I can say of the matter.” With that being the final word, you turned and walked away, leaving the young heir more lost and aggravated than ever.

“Oh Li, my sweet, darling Li.” Robb thought as he admonished your words with tender childing. “How could you be so blind to your so-called brother’s selfish and arrogant ways? Do you not see how he would ruin you, how he would twist your naïve and tender heart with his cunning words and leering eyes?” After all, brother or not, Robb was not as stupid as many would like to him to be. Yes, he would admit that marrying Talisa was in poor taste, especially in letting her believe that she meant far greater to him than her original purpose. A purpose to strictly bring physical comfort and to destress after hard-fought battles, as well as to help him forget that he was to marry one of Walder Frey’s daughters and to forget about you. While he had never meant in their affair to go so far, he will admit that he got carried away with her. He got lost in their conversations and banter, in her altruistic warmth and kindness, he allowed himself to give into the idea of championing love and how it would conquer any obstacle set before him. But most of all, he longed for the idea of sharing a love with someone new, someone who didn’t know him from his youth. He wanted to love someone who didn’t know of the many insecurities that plague his mind whenever he planned for his next battle. He pined at the idea of someone who didn’t see the vulnerable boy he hid away to project the undefeated wolf marching towards the lion’s den. He was desperate for the warmth and frankness that would be rewarded to him from a woman whose love was sweet and generous and easy.

Talisa had been all of that, and more, so much more. She was opposite to you in every way, physical and emotional. The only similarity that could be shared between the two of you would be that your hair was dark, but even in that there were too many differences. You had routinely cut your hair to your armpit, whereas Talisa’s hair flowed past her midback. And upon further inspection, one could see very things streaks of silver and grey as a result of stress, meanwhile there were no such signs in his late wife’s dark locks. Both of your faces were beautiful and similar in some features but your beauty differed in hers not only in the regions of birth, but in evidence of treatment. Both of your faces had a straight nose, downward turned lips, and almond-shaped eyes. But Talisa’s elegant and angular visage contained no markings or blemishes of any kind. There were no crow’s feet, or scars. Even after witnessing her most laborious treatments and amputations, did she contain an angelic maturity that would envy the wealthiest of highborn women. Everything about her… her willowy and pliant frame… unblemished reddish hue complexion…angelic lips…legs that stretched for miles and were connected by full hips…all of it in the form of one truly mythic beauty.  

Whereas you…if Talisa’s beauty could be compared to an angel that glowed compassion and wisdom, yours was that of a survivor that radiated the hardships from years of regimented training for an enduring body and great mental fortitude. Your shoulders and rib cage were broad, but your stomach was slim with a taut core. Your arms were a bit trim, but years in learning how to properly shoot a bow and arrow, along with varying combat made them toned and fine. Your calves were strong and thick and they stretched your trouser legs, and while many insisted you looked more man than woman, you relished in their power in action. Your waist was sinched in a way that showed off the fullness in your hips, and perfectly gave way to your marvelous ass that he stared at more times than he likes to admit, especially with Theon’s overly protective gaze following him no matter the time or place. But he had remained respectful in his gaze if you don’t count the number of times, he spied you while swimming in the springs with the sheer small clothes as your only barrier, or when he watched you bathe in your quarters in the secret compartments or whenever he stroked his cock with an unwavering gaze as you rubbed your clit calling out his name.

While Talisa’s skin bared no markings, there seemed not to be a single patch of skin on your outer framework that didn’t contain a fading mark or scar. Even your proportional facial features: with downward lips that usually remained stoic, and straight framed nose that rarely crinkled even when it was red in the harshest of winters, and eyes that seemed unemotional until one paid close attention in order to see the carefully guarded mirth and gentleness that brightly shone in your peace; were littered with marking brought by you whenever you spied a pimple and removed it, letting it bleed and fester before it healed and scarred. This aggravated his mother and sister Sansa to great lengths, especially Sansa as she would insist that you were spoiling your own beauty and that no man would ever want to marry a woman with such awful scars on her face. You would turn to her stating that you would likely never marry in the first place, nor did you want to leave. Marriage would mean leaving Winterfell, the Stark family, and your new friends, including her who gave you your first gift. This shocked and flustered Sansa, as that “first gift” was a poorly embroidered handkerchief she just wanted to throw away, but instead gave it to you. Not long after, Sansa gifted you a much prettier embroidered handkerchief, one that had little blue flowers sewn across the borders. She insisted that you throw out the first, but you told her that she made both, so both were too important. So, you bought a small wooden box from your meager savings, and tucked both away neatly and lovingly. She still chided you something fierce whenever she caught you picking and scratching your own face. But sometimes Robb would pass by Sansa’s chambers, and double back in shock seeing the two of you conversing (well, more akin to Sansa gossiping and fantasizing about the South while you gave monosyllabic responses) on her bed while she practiced braiding your hair.

This brought up the most glaring difference between you and Talisa, although neither of you were born in Westeros, let alone in the North. But Talisa would never, could never be a Northerner, not in the way he and his family were Northerners as they were Starks, not in the way you grew to be a Northerner. She would never be able to adapt to the bitter cold and snow, could never love the harsh and biting winds, take comfort in the fresh air and scent of smoke wood burning in a hearth the way you had when you were brought to Winterfell by his father. There was no doubt that she would be respected, admired even, but the North and its people would never take to her in the way they took to you. You, who after weeks of careful interrogation and healing, took off running in the Godswoods, climbing its trees, breathing in its holy air, sitting before the weirwood tree with no fear as if you knew it your whole life. While it took a good while for you to gain the castle’s staff trust, it hadn’t taken much time for the village folk to look after you, despite being a foreigner who barely spoke the language. Granted there was the occasional drunk and youthful miscreant who still called after you in offensive terms, but they were quickly taken care of by Theon (who was the third in the keep to take you under his wing, after his father and Maester Luwin).

In return for their kindness, you became somewhat of a silent guardian. You made sure that no wild animals harmed anyone, even those who lived outside the village and in the deep forests; ensured that no child was lost after dark, often returning with bitemarks and long bleeding scratches; and fought off cruel men to the women working in the brothels and the barmaids in the Smoking Log. You even went so far as to “educate” the men who crossed your ire with you... somewhat disturbed skillset from the streets of Qarth. These particular teachings brought you much favor with the town’s women, none more so than Ros (who just so happened to your brother’s favorite whore). So much so that she liked to refer to herself as your “best friend,” a sentiment you returned wholeheartedly, as she was one of the few who heard you laugh, not just a giggle, but a full-bellied laugh, and seen you genuinely smile more times than anyone (besides your brother of course and him). And animals, gods. Don’t even mention to Robb about the animals, he could go on and on about how you seemed determined to take in every stray that wondered around aimlessly, hoping for some scraps of food or a place with walls to keep out the cold. In the first year you were brought, Robb could name over a dozen separate occasions you brought in a stray to care for before being found out. His father had hoped that by letting you keep your beloved shadowcat, you would stop this habit. This caused the very opposite of his hopes to happen, as you had no intention to stop taking in every stray that looked you with sad eyes. You only made sure to hide them in more…discreet locations, mostly in Jon’s and Theon’s rooms, as they shared a fondness for a singular cute creature with sad eyes (you).

But even that was not the limit of your protection. You even provided help to the wives whose husbands abuse them in cruelties beyond imagination, to where these men’s cruelties extend to their own children. These circumstances were tricky to say the least, as there was little to be done as the wife and children belonged to her husband and father, as he was usually the main provider of the family. Very few women dared not indicate any signs of abuse to anyone, much less towards his lord father. Robb was in his father’s solar at the time, learning about his future duties when in you barged in, holding a thick stack of evidence and documentation of not only the alleged offenses, but also proof in showing that these women willingly came to you to bring forth justice, knowing that their Lord Eddard Stark could only do so much. Not only that, but you also found evidence of reports of similar offenses being thrown out, meaning that you took the time and energy to fish out the documents from every trash heap in order to properly present your case.

This is where your true talents laid, in your relentless empathy and your perseverance for change. You may hide your heart in guarded walls made of heavily forged iron, but that didn’t take away the fact that you cared, you cared so deeply. You would use the skills you tirelessly trained for the purpose to protect those who cannot demand protection from those in power and cannot afford to bring attention upon themselves. In presenting the evidence, you asked whether this would be enough to request a change in policy regarding the protection of women and children in not only Winterfell, but across the North. Your body in steeled posture, expecting refusal and rejection, froze in shock in hearing that he would immediately establish a new policy regarding the treatment of familial relations, and punishment in violating that policy would result in amputation or beheading. Immediately, you raced across his desk and hugged him so tightly that Ned Stark was sure you had been possessed by a strange benevolent goblin. Noticing your precarious position, you straightened yourself out and apologized profusely before thanking him and swiftly exiting his solar. When brought up to House Stark’s vassal houses, many protested, though none more so than Lord Roose Bolton, as rumors of him leeching and torturing his wife and smallfolk were legendary in infamy. He questioned why such Lord Stark felt it necessary for such a policy to be implemented, but Robb’s father remained firm in keeping your anonymity, knowing you would be targeted for serious punishment if the lords knew of your identity.

“Being a Lord is like being a father, except you have thousands of children and you worry about all of them. The farmers plowing the fields are yours to protect. The charwomen scrubbing the floors, yours to protect. The soldiers you order into battle.” He paused before continuing, “But it seems, I have forgotten what it means to be a father to many others. I have evidence, of hundreds, if not thousands of reports stating the mistreatment by a family head’s hands. Reports that were never brought to me by men I thought I could trust. As Warden of the North, it is my duty to care for these women and their children, but I have failed in my duty. That is why I have created this law, and any violations of this law will be brought to my attention by the official guards of each house’s town. However, any knowledge of these violations going unpunished will be informed to someone else, someone personally placed and hidden that not even your best spies will find. They will be my eyes and ears; they will be my messengers. Should you bring your own twisted sense of justice upon them, I will know, and as you all know, I’ve never been one to use a headsman to do my beheading.” With that being the final word of the matter, Robb’s father dismissed his men, and called for the ravens to carry out the new law across his land. Robb would never forget those words for as long as he lived.

True to his father’s words, reports of these violations were kept in the known, and the Northern houses were expected to carry out the law’s sentences. Wicked men who violently struck their wives and children without proper justification had their hands chopped off. Those who starved their families were thrown into the dungeons without food or comfort for varying periods of time. And vile rapists had public castrations, and were also faced with beheadings. The lords ceaselessly hired the best spies and sellswords to find Ned Stark’s eyes and ears, but nothing came out of it. Soon enough, crimes of not only this offense, but other unrelated offences started to cease. Time continued forward, and the number of reports continuously dwindled until women felt it safe to walk at night without the need of a dagger, children felt it safe to play with outside after dark, and those with wickedness in their hearts learned what it meant to act properly without needing intervention of a higher power.

Smallfolk across the North sung praises to Ned Stark, for his kind and noble heart, for his true sense of justice, for being a man with true honor and knew the meaning of a lord’s duty of his people. But the women and children of Winterfell knew the truth, and it was you they silently revered. After all, only you listened to their cries, to their pain and anguish. You who searched for proof and evidence until the amount grew so great that you knew it could no longer be ignored. Things were not perfect, no far from it, but they were better. They were so much better, and they had you to thank for that. You were their paragon of justice and truth, someone who pushed for action in their lord’s idleness. One young man came up to you in privacy, and cried his thanks. He revealed to you that he and his brother were raped by their mother since their father’s death, but he could not tell anyone the truth, he could not bear the shame. But thanks to you, that wretched cunt was beheaded, and he could finally take his siblings far down south, where they would hopefully find better work and start a better life. You were silent until you carefully asked the young man if you could have his permission to hug him. When he granted it, you carefully and slowly placed your arms around him before both of you were sobbing and wishing good fortune to one another.

“No,” Robb thought as he almost reached Theon’s tent, “Talisa would never be accepted as his queen, not when you had taken the hearts of Winterfell’s inhabitants.” And as much as he felt guilty for her death and how he wouldn’t truly love her, he knew that this was for the best in the long run. Talisa was intelligent, and kind; but the coming winter would be ruthless, and her warmth would be swept out long before spring would arrive. He did mourn for his child, but he knew that with you by his side, there would be plenty of opportunities to create new heirs, and soon enough Winterfell will be run amok by little wolf pups and laughter once more. “Even if you do not understand it now, you cannot hide your feelings from your mate, little dragon.” As furious as Robb still was by you running from him, he knew that sooner or later that the two of you would find each other once more, and in finding each other, you would rule by his side as his queen and the North would only prosper in your reign together. A reign that would come a lot sooner than later, if he knew where in the seven hells you were off to.

“THEON!” Robb shouted before he stormed into Theon’s tent, he watched with furious eyes at his oldest friend and greatest enemy when it comes to you as Ari off his shoulder and perched on top of Grey Wind’s head. His chest was heaving, his nostrils flared in barely veiled anger, as he vented out the words, “Where is she?”

“With all due respect, your grace,” Theon quipped out as he began to pour himself some water, inhaling it in a few gulps before continuing, “you’ll have to be more specific. I don’t have the faintest idea of who this ‘she’ would be?”

“Oh, so that’s how he wants to play this out,” Robb thought out as he took a deep breath. He should have known better than to expect Theon Greyjoy of all people to give a straightforward answer. He quickly sent Grey Wind out to guard the tent, and not anyone in before curtly replying, “Don’t act dull. You know exactly whom I am referring to.”

Theon sat at his desk before pretended to ponder with his chin in one hand, and elbow in another, before continuing, “No, no, I’m afraid not, your grace. ‘She’ could really be anyone, would ‘she’ happen to be your mother? No, no, no…how about Arya, or perhaps Sansa? No, Arya just got here, and Sansa’s still not here, no thanks to you…Oh! Might ‘she’ be your late wife? The one who you fucked, then married and got killed- “Robb grabbed his throat before he could continue on, fury finally getting the better of him, and slammed the back of Theon’s head on top of the desk.

“Don’t you start with me Greyjoy,” Robb could barely contain himself, but he knew he had to, if only to get the information of where you were heading. He swallowed his pride before loosening his grip, and spoke his next words through clenched teeth, “Where is Long Li going? Don’t even think of lying to me!”

Theon’s eyes softened at the mention of your name, before whispering out, “Are you demanding an answer as my king?” His eyes and voice hardened to prepare saying the next words without spitting at the man above him, “Or as my brother?”

“Aye, I am your brother, now and always, but right now, I come to demand you answer me,” Robb’s voice grew stronger as he stated his next words, “as the man who intends to take her as my future wife and mother of my children and future heirs.” As he finished speaking, Theon felt anger surge throughout his body, and he gripped Robb’s doublet with both hands and flipped him onto his back.

“What makes you think I know?” Theon venomously spat out with a bit of condescension, “And for that matter, what makes you think that I would ever tell you? The boy who threw duty for love, that’s what everyone’s calling you. And for good reason too. Robb Stark, King in the North, the Young Wolf that never lost a battle, almost got 3000 men killed for love, and did get his wife gutted for it.” Theon let out a mocking laugh Robb, who struggled to get out of his grip, only to remain pinned on the desk. “If it weren’t for Li, we’d all be dead, bodies thrown into the river, rotting at the bottom. And because of you, she’s gone, gone with some mad man who could do anything to her.” Theon could feel his throat constricting, but didn’t bother to restrain his worst fears. He wanted Robb to bleed out more than when Roose Bolton shoved an arrow to his chest, “She could be gutted, maimed, or raped by now, and it’d be all your fault.” Theon released his grip and quickly turned away as he wiped the tears running down his cheeks at the thought of you getting hurt, and him not being there to protect you. Recalling your tearful goodbye, filled with gripping hugs and sweet words, and refusal to acknowledge the fear of never seeing each other again. The thought of you, the only person he truly, completely, and unconditionally loved, gone forever killed him. He tried to not completely fall apart as he remembered the final look you gave him before urging your horse into a gallop to put as much distance between you and the camp on your way to Seagard.

“I begged her to not go. I told her that no duty was worth her, that she’s done enough for others and that she should just stay here, where she could be safe.” He let out a bitter laugh before persisting while pacing around his tent, “But she wouldn’t hear of it, said that she had to go, and worst of all, I couldn’t go with her. She said that she needed me here, to make sure that you had your head an’ wits still with you after you wake up. She told me, ‘Robb’s lost too much already, and you’re his best friend. He just lost the woman he loves and their child, he’s going to need you to keep him grounded more than ever now.’” He poured more water, and swung it back before continuing, “‘Keep you grounded’, yea’ fat load of grounding I did before, eh? No matter what me, your mother, or Li told you…you still married your pretty healer queen, because you thought you were entitled to more happiness than the rest of us. Some king you are, you fuckin’ piece of shit.”

Theon finally stopped before sitting on his bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, sounding so tired and small that Robb wouldn’t have believe it was him if he weren’t right in front of him, “My sister is gone and might turn up dead and it’s all your fault, Robb Stark. And even if she’s alive, she can’t come back. You’re a shit king for making her doing this, for everything she did so that you’d and your family be safe.” Theon looked up, tears still streaming down his eyes, and stared directly at Robb as he scoffed out the next words, “She left feeling guilty, for so many things, all out of her control. First, for being too weak and injured to outfight the Tarth bitch; second, for not guarding those Lannister boys well enough, and the final part? The last’s the worst ten times over, because she thinks it’s her fault that Talisa and your child got murdered, that if she were just a little quicker and a little smarter and a little better, she’d get there earlier and both of them would make it out breathing. She almost went mad over it you know. I almost had to talk her out of throwing herself off the fucking Frey bridge, as if she hadn’t lost enough of her sanity already.” Both of them went silent after that, only until Robb walked over and sat by Theon and broke the tense silence.

“I didn’t love Talisa,” he rasped out, “I thought I did, I wanted to, but I couldn’t.” He looked at his feet, shame overtaking him as he only just realizes what Theon had lost as a result of his selfishness. “I cared for her, I loved our child, but I didn’t love her. I couldn’t, not when I already love Li, not how I will always love Li.”

“I know,” Theon responded, “I know.” Because while he was still angry, he knew Robb was genuinely sorry, even if he was an entitled prick.

“So,” Robb looked over to ask his old friend, “what happens now?”

Theon took in a deep breath, eyes closed in careful thought before answering, “We get out of this tent, execute some Bolton’s and Frey’s, meet with the bannermen, and make the preparations to Maidenpool to meet with Stannis to bend the knee or some shit.” He then turned his head to look at Robb with his trademark smirk and quipped out, “But before that last part, we’re going to find the biggest barrel of ale we got, and then drain the whole damned thing.”

Robb barks out a quick laugh, and tries to grip himself together in saying, “Perfect, what comes after the ale and before Maidenpool?”

“After the ale, we fight some more, drink some more, and then probably piss ourselves in our sleep.” Theon lists off before the two young men erupt in laughter, both tired of being mad at their best friend. “And before you ask, we’re meeting Stannis at Maidenpool because we got no bloody ships, and it’s going to be you, me, Arya, and Blackfish.” He saw the confused look in Robb’s eyes before going on, “The note asked for me specifically, probably to call me out for treason in being a Greyjoy or something. You’re coming because you’re the King in the North, Arya because two Starks are better than one in this case and your mother is in no state to continue on, my guess is that the bannermen probably want to send her back to Winterfell. And Blackfish is going because he’s a Tully of Riverrun, but he’s not your fuckup Uncle Edmure Tully of Riverrun.”

Robb chuckled out, “Aye, at least he’s not Edmure. And it’d be good for my mother to return to Winterfell, she likely wants to see Bran and Rickon more than she wants to see Sansa.” Satisfied with everything out in the open, the two men got up and called for their animal companions who guarded the tent from onlookers as they had their squabble.

“Come on now,” Theon slapped his king’s back as Ari flew to his right shoulder, “let’s spill some traitor blood and finish this meeting quick. Ale waits for no one.” And Robb laughed and smiled, remembering how good it felt to be laughing with Theon like he had in Winterfell. When everything was alright, his father alive and well, his sisters bickering but together, his mother with all her children, him with Jon and Theon in the training yard teaching Bran and Rickon how to shoot. No war to fight, no battles to be won, and most importantly, you were still by his side.

Please like, reblog, or comment your opinions if you want to, but please remain respectful. If I missed any warnings, let me know.

[strangelanternofficial]

january 2024: development updates

hello you,

after a big hold on major development of our first full game due to moving and starting a new day job (and of course, the holidays) we are happy to announce that our lead developer has returned to work on Frey Nel, a rpgmaker horror game that has been in the works since may of 2023! you may have seen the demo version available on itch.io, or our game jam game Terminated which is available for free on the same platform. so, without further ado, lets get into our announcements and goals.

announcements:

over half of the ending cgs for Frey Nel have been finished by our wonderful head cg artist @elkatt-art, thank you!

@bibixpgames is going to be our composer for the original soundtrack, thank you so much for agreeing to work on this project!

@noodleshark has been brought on board as the cg artist for one of the collectible sets in the game, thank you!

goals

to finish most, if not all, maps for Frey Nel

code all the achievements and cg unlocks into the game

while two goals do not seem like much, rest assured that these are two big ones, especially for one main developer. special thanks, of course, to @polyampotato, @nightblumingbingus, and @jaceofharts for being wonderful beta testers and rubber ducks.

with that, this is @untamedeventuality signing off

[casspurrjoybell-24]

My Unwanted Mate - Chapter 35 - Part 1

*Warning Adult Content*

Calvin Frey

The council is here and tensions are high.

Already fights have broken out amongst young Alphas who didn't know how to control their anxieties.

Everyone was paranoid and on edge.

It made sense now why they waited for the end of the conclave to arrive.

There would have been no fun outings on the lake or shared meals in the ballroom.

Their presence in the house made everyone wary.

I didn't understand it but I felt it too.

I was a solid wall behind Torin, shadowing every step my little brother took, eyes on every wolf in our vicinity.

The council's first request was for a meeting with the Alphas, only the Alphas.

This caused more tension, the Alphas not wanting to leave their Omegas or mates but they had no choice but to trust their Betas.

"It's so unfair," Torin huffed, finding a seat in one of the surprisingly empty sitting rooms.

He rubbed at his belly as I looked around the room before deeming it safe enough for my Luna.

I had been on edge since waking up to the strange feeling that something was wrong.

My wolf was not a quiet presence in my mind today.

He wanted out but I could not leave Torin's side, not until Robby was done.

Torin groaned, shifting in his seat uncomfortably, his brow pinched.

I picked up the pillow from the other end of the couch and my little brother let me place it behind him.

Smiling up at me in thanks. I paced around the room, unnecessarily checking the windows.

"Will you sit down already. You're making me anxious."

I dropped down on the couch beside him, running a hand over my head.

"Do you smell that?" I asked, jumping up again to look around the room.

"I don't smell anything, you weirdo," Torin snorted, playing on his cell-phone.

"You all have been acting crazy and they don't want us to have any power."

He rolled his eyes dramatically.

He wasn't lying, the POmegas seemed to be the only levelheaded ones today.

I did smell something though.

A soft sweetness that I could taste on the tip of my tongue.

A young-looking male entered the room, his eyes on his phone but it was the male behind the Beta that had all of my attention.

His head was held high, every step almost graceful, an elegance about him that I had not noticed before.

He refused to look in my direction but his shoulders tensed as he walked past me to get to the couch.

"Hey," Torin shouted excitedly, trying to get up but the blond Omega stopped him in his struggle and sat close beside him.

"Hi, Luna Torin," his soft voice sent a chill down my spine, his scent growing stronger with every second he was in the room.

I tried to quietly take in deep lungful of air.

Gooseflesh covered my arms as that sweet scent surrounded me.

Torin pulled a face, his nose scrunching in annoyance.

"We don't have to do all that, we're family."

Tatum looked surprised by my brother's words but I was not.

Of course, Torin would always consider the twins my mates.

So, to him, they were family.

My eyes scanned over the male, noting how much thinner he looked.

Like Nathan, no longer were his muscles filled out nicely but unlike his twin, he did not look sickly, nor was he with pup.

My jaw clenched tightly from the reminder and my ears became hot.

I had no one to be mad at but myself.

It was all my fault.

I watched the Omega, downright stared at him as he talked to my brother in a low voice.

His neck was littered with another male's marks... scars that he did not deserve, no one deserved that kind of pain.

They served no purpose, made them no closer to a male that did not deserve them.

They were just for show.

A show of dominance from a pathetic bastard.

Blue eyes flickered up to mine for only a second before focusing back on my brother.

He remained tense, every word spoken was precise and careful.

My eyes finally pulled away to look at the male who was already watching me.

"I'd be careful, Beta, he's claimed."

I smiled at him, whatever he saw in my eyes made him look away.

Tatum shifted, moving closer to Torin and taking my brother's hand between his own.

They spoke in low whispers, so low that I could not even hear from where I stood a few steps away.

The Beta beside me was watching them too.

When the male went to separate the Omegas my hand shot up, stopping him in his tracks.

"Don't go near my Luna," I bit out, turning towards him.

What I wanted was to tell him to stay the fuck away from my mate but those were not my own thoughts, my own wants, it was only instinct.

My wolf wanted out.

"Get your fucking hand off me."

I laughed at the male, stepping closer so that I was staring down at the bitch, my chest in his face.

Silently daring him to do something about it.

Almost begging him to.

I knew he would do nothing and after a few short seconds that stretched on in silence, it played out precisely how I imagined.

He relented, taking a few steps back.

"Someone's smart," the taunting made him look away with a sneer and I turned back to the Omegas with a smug smirk.

Knowing exactly what I was doing, knowing that turning my back on him would succeed in pissing him off even more.

They continued their whispered conversation until Tatum stood, leaving without a backward glance and the Beta following.

I rolled my neck, hands clenching at my sides as I tried to dispel the tension in my muscles.

Something was wrong.

I knew something was wrong.

But I could not leave Torin alone. Robby would be pissed.

"Why didn't you just whip your dick out and compare sizes."

Torin rolled his eyes in exasperation as he made himself comfortable again on the couch.

I ignored the gibe and went to sit down beside him. Tatum's scent lingered and I tried not to be too obvious as I breathed it in through my nose.

"I think I know how to get the council to listen," Torin pursed his lips in thought, ignoring my questioning gaze.

[pink-grapefruit-cafe]

i’ll be yours (if you’ll be mine)

[4498 words] [7/7]

be mine week drabbles, flowershop based, multiship

‘there are those blurred ones, that you read and they do tell a story as well, but you more feel them than read‘

- happy valentines day guys <3

[cc: @writethehousedown ]

[impala67-aka-baby]

Tune In & Night Out

Word Count: 1.4K

Pairing: Steven Grant x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: None. Just None. This is pure fluff with a dash of friends to lovers.

A/N: This is only my second fanfic so it might not be that good but yes I poured my heart and soul into it. This is very self indulgent so you have been warned. Also a special thank you to @mandoworryan and @samantha-thewinchester for beta reading this.

It was a late Friday night, and you had just gotten home after work. You decided to make a short trip to the public library. You had borrowed a few James Frey books and it was already past their return dates. You were searching for another book to keep you occupied for the weekend before leaving when you saw someone– Steven actually.

You remembered the day you first saw him. It was during your freshman year. He was sitting quietly under the cool shade of a tree and reading "Galatea" by Madeline Miller. There was something about him that intrigued you. Something that instantly pulled you to him. Your curiosity made you start a conversation with him.

You'll never understand why he remained by your side despite the trouble you caused him. One time you pranked a senior with water balloons and got chased around the campus. Unlike you, he didn't think it was funny but he didn't run away when the Dean punished you either. He complained a lot for that though.

Steven would never admit it but he found a little joy in your shenanigans. As you were thinking of "your glory days" where you'd never leave each other's side you felt a smile creep on your face. You were glad that your friendship wasn't damaged after college.

It was good to see him here, sitting in the music room with a guitar. A guitar..? You didn't know that he played. Your best friend plays the guitar and you never knew? You racked your brains but could not remember a single instance of him playing in college. He must have started playing only recently then….

You thought to yourself that he must have wanted to practice alone if he came here at this hour …  He didn't tell you about this anyways and you do not want to invade his privacy. That's not what good friends do.

A part of you wanted to go back home and not bother him. But another part of you wanted something else entirely. It wanted to stay and listen to his beautiful voice and admire him. That's when you remembered something. A certain conversation about him which made you firm in the decision of staying.

You stood outside and watched as he sang along to the song "The Strays" by Sleeping with Sirens. His big frame was hunched and eyes were closed as his fingers plucked the strings in quick and swift motions. His voice seemed peaceful, pure and innocent. You watched as he played and sang the different notes, some very clumsily but with feelings.

He soon finished playing and started gathering his things together. He hummed a tune under his breath. Loud enough for you to admire it but not loud enough for you to identify the melody. He seemed to be sure that nobody would be here at this hour. Quickly proven wrong when he turned around, and saw someone outside.

And not just anyone.. you…

As soon as he saw you, his cheeks turned bright red. His cheeks seemed to do that a lot around you lately. You leaned against the doorway and smirked at him unbothered that your presence was known to him now.

"Uh, s-sorry (y/n). I was just leaving." He mumbled, clutching his bag as he tried to get away from you.

"Leaving so soon?" You asked, catching him by the shoulders as he tried to leave the room.

"I-I have to…" he trailed off, unable to think of an excuse. 

"Stay."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to. You have a beautiful voice, Steven."

He blushed even harder and nodded his head. He sat down at one of the desks and set his bag down.

"So what are you doing in here?" He asked, glancing at you.

"Well, I came to return some books, but now I think I'll sing along to a few songs." You smiled wide.

"O- Okay." He said, playing with his hands.

"What are you doing in here so late?" I asked, pulling a piece of paper with music noted on it out of his binder.

"Just practicing a few songs."

"Oh, what can you play?"

"I know Born to Be Wild by Steppenwolf ."

"Damn, can we do that?" You grinned, your eyes shining bright.

"Uh, yeah sure…"

He got his guitar ready and strummed it a few times, then grabbed the music out of his binder. He set up the stand and set the music on it, playing the song with ease. You seemed impressed, smiling as you listened to him play. 

"You're good." You said. 

"T-Thanks." He said, blushing and fixing his gaze on the ground.

"You're welcome" you said before starting to sing. You knew the lyrics by heart. So, you sang the lyrics perfectly as Steven played the music, smiling as his fingers played the song flawlessly. He was full of surprises. You hadn't even known that Steven played the guitar, and you had known him for years now.

Once the song finished, he smiled over at you. And you smiled too.

"I didn't know you were such a good singer."

" I didn't know you played guitar."

"Well, I guess you learn something new everyday." He said, smiling slightly as he stood up.

"Yeah, I guess you do." You said, also standing up. You walked towards him.

"W-What are you doing ?"stevenI asked nervously, backing up.

You just smirked at him. You gave him a wink. He backed up further until he hit a wall, widening his eyes. You gave him a devilish smirk and leaned in. You pressed your lips together. It was obvious that he hadn't done this in a while, but you didn't pull away.

You led the kiss since he didn't really know what to do, considering he had always had a crush on you. It took him a minute to realize that this was indeed happening. A kiss with his favorite person in the world. You pulled away after a few seconds, smiling slightly. 

"I like you. A lot." You said.

"Well that's kinda obvious now." He said, rolling his eyes playfully with a slight grin on his face.

"Your friend called me the other day… told me that you really liked me." You said.

Steven mentally screamed "Bloody hell Marc! That's why  I don't like telling you anything. You just go ahead and tell people who I have a crush on. I'd get you for this later." But for now, all he could think about was that he was alone with you.

"So uh, how long have you liked me for?" You asked, rubbing the back of your neck awkwardly.

"I think since about that stunt you pulled in freshman year." He said with a smile. 

"Really?" You chuckled.

"Yeah."

"I've liked you since sophomore, I just didn't have the courage to tell you." You laughed.

"Wow, I guess I'm a bit oblivious huh" He said, meeting your eyes.

Then you both realized how close you really were. Steven leaned in and so did you, and your lips met once again. It was a small and delicate kiss, but it was nice.

"So are we like, a thing now?" He asked once we had pulled away from each other.

"Well, let me do it the right way." You said, taking his hand in yours.

He watched you carefully. Intrigued by your actions. 

"Steven, would you please do me the honor by becoming my boyfriend?" You grinned.

"Of course" he said, smiling as you stood back up.

You both took the time to cherish the moment while looking at each other like two lovestruck teenagers experiencing love for the first time. 

You bit your lips to hide a smile and asked, "Wanna head over to mine?"

"Sure." He nodded his head and grabbed his things. He picked up the guitar and put it in it's case. You walked out together.

"We should play songs together sometime." He said as the two of you walked hand in hand.

"And why's that? I'm not that good." You said, blushing slightly. 

"You are good, you're a good singer and I'm good at guitar." He said. "I think we make a good pair"

[hydrangeawise]

Because something something end of the year something, I felt like doing a small post on things I really enjoyed this year, in no particular order:

Sasaki to Miyano (anime): made my heart bloom like, idk, a meadow in spring or something. I've adored the manga for years, and the anime transported everything in this story so well!

Aurora - The Gods We Can Touch (music): uh, yeah. This album was released early in the year and I haven't stopped listening to it since.

Sabikui Bisco (anime): tackled me into the ground, has excellent worldbuilding & character dynamics, made me cry.

Shokei Shoujo no Virgin Road (Light Novel): probably the thing that got me back into reading physical books again, swallowed me whole, made me fall in love with many unhinged women (I'm still waiting on my pre-ordered copy of the fifth volume, I can be patient though).

Little Witch in the Woods (video game): very charming story so far! I'm a bit miffed that almost all my progress got deleted when I updated to the Beta version, so I'll have to redo a lot of things when I get playing again the next time, but still, very charming.

Frey & McGray series by Oscar de Muriel (books): I'm currently reading the 4th book. It's all very enjoyable, the character dynamics are intriguing, I enjoy the stories very much, and I'm looking forward to slowly making my way through the rest of the books.

Lycoris Recoil (anime): I still am very much hip deep in this. Takina still has my whole heart, thank you very much. I'm looking forward to the light novel & the manga. (I did write a lot of posts screeching about the girls).

Hello from the Hallowoods (podcast): I adore this podcast. With my whole heart. I'm slowly making my way through the episodes because sometimes I get easily overwhelmed when I'm listening to it, but - I adore it; so much!

Kitchen for Singles (series of short videos on YT): pure comfort to watch - I also started trying some of the recipes (and I may have adopted the tomato sauce permanently into my staple recipes).

The Cat Proposed (manga): uh, yeah. So this manga probably kind of preserved my sanity? In a "I found it when I was in a pretty not-good place and it got me back on solid ground" way, I suppose (maybe I'm being a bit melodramatic, but I truly feel like it did save some part of me). Charming story, charming characters, I have so so so much love for every single bit of it.

And that's it, I believe. This is what my cheese brain held on to for the last 12 months.

[rufousnmacska]

Only You

A manorian arranged marriage fic from an anon request -

Do you think you could write an angsty manorian drabble where political/royal pressures and such has Dorian marry someone else + Dorian being mortal has Manon encouraging him? just all that manorian heartbreak+pining. also really love your fics!

This turned into much more than a drabble, but I hope everyone enjoys it! 🤗

Many thanks to @itach-i for beta reading and helping plot things out! ❤️

*

PART ONE

*

Dorian hadn’t noticed the cold until his valet wrapped a furred robe around him. How long had he been standing out here? The sun had just broken from the horizon and his breath was pooling in front of him with each exhale. The valet, a gray-haired man named Ruben, disappeared back into the royal suite, muttering something about the foolishness of young men. Dorian smiled grimly, knowing he was indeed foolish. Worse. He was a godsdamned idiot. And he felt numb, as though his body was somewhere far from here, his mind with it. None of it was due to the winter chill. Staring off towards the hills west of Rifthold, his eyes glanced over the many red and gold banners attached to the city’s roofs, snapping in the wind. Part of him loved seeing his people so excited, so proud for the coming celebration. They’d suffered greatly during the war and had worked hard in the rebuilding effort of the last two years. But that small joy for his kingdom was overshadowed by his own despair. How many times had he stood in this spot, watching and waiting and holding his breath until he caught sight of those silvery wings and moon white hair dancing in the sky? He’d known today would be his last chance to watch for her. And since sleep was a fool’s hope, he’d come out to his balcony and stood here for hours, his gaze on the west, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

***

The rising sun shone brightly off the tops of the castle towers, giving the small group of witches their first real view of Rifthold in the distance. In the past, this sight would leave Manon breathless with anticipation, pushing Abraxos to speed up in her excitement. There had been times when her giddy desperation to reach the castle was almost humiliating, forcing her to contain her emotions before she landed. But no matter her control in those moments, Dorian would greet her on his balcony with a ferocious embrace, seeing right through her mask. He always had. Now, Manon wished that truth away, pushing it deep down, along with the nausea roiling in her gut. As they drew nearer to Rifthold, she could just barely make out the decorations hanging from the castle. It almost brought up the meager breakfast she’d eaten not long ago. With the brightening sky, she realized the entire city was decked out, covered in colorful banners and garlands. Of course, a royal wedding demanded finery. She had expected it, guarded herself against it. But her expectations were dealt a swift blow by the reality now facing her. Manon was on her way to Dorian’s wedding. Not as the bride, but as a royal guest. And she had no one but herself to blame.

*****

Six months earlier…

Manon frowned as Abraxos landed on an unusually empty balcony. Though she’d never asked for it, the space had been rebuilt to provide a large enough area to comfortably hold a wyvern. Wrapping halfway around the king’s tower, the balcony offered magnificent views of the ocean to the east and the mountains to the west. As she dismounted, Manon realized that vast western view was what gave Dorian the ability to know she was almost there. Normally, she wouldn’t notice the view because he would be there, scooping her up and taking her inside to say hello in her favorite ways. But tonight, she and Abraxos were alone.

Quietly, so as not to startle Ruben, Manon stepped through the doorway. She needn’t have bothered. The bedroom was as empty as the outside and she heard no sounds coming through the door to the other rooms. Wondering if he hadn’t received her last message telling him when to expect her, Manon sat on a sofa to wait. She lasted less than five minutes before pacing around the room, then finally deciding to go in search of Dorian.

The office was empty and as she continued through to the exterior door, Manon rolled her eyes at the messy desk. How Dorian managed to keep everything straight in the piles and stacks of papers was beyond her. She wasn’t in the corridor long before she heard angry voices echoing up the stairway. Chaol and Dorian had stopped part way up the tower.

“You can’t afford to just dismiss this threat of rebellion. Lord Frey is an ass, but he has the ear of too many other nobles to be ignored.” Chaol sounded winded. Manon didn’t think he came up here very often since his mobility was tied to his wife’s magic. That he was here now to continue this conversation was significant.

“I refuse to give into his demands,” Dorian growled. “He complains about me leaving the kingdom to Erawan, and yet he brags about how he profited from the war. Whatever gold he has in his coffers did not come from me.”

Manon inched back to the door on silent feet. She knew Dorian’s lords were causing trouble, but he’d refused to go into detail about it with her. The thought of anyone claiming Dorian had willfully abandoned Adarlan to Erawan made her blood boil. The valg king and his armies had left a path of scorched earth and devastation on his march to Terrasen. And Dorian had spent the last two years of his life dedicated to rebuilding his kingdom.

Chaol sighed. “Yes, but what he’s proposed in exchange—”

“What he’s proposed will not be considered,” Dorian interrupted. It was a voice Manon had never heard from him.

After a long pause, Chaol continued. “I know how you feel, Dorian. But we need to put emotions aside and think this through. I’m not saying we go along with it. But right now, we have to look at every option.”

“You say ‘we’ as if you would be the one marrying his daughter.”

Manon gasped, covering her mouth to remain quiet.

“It would be a political alliance,” Chaol reasoned. “You wouldn’t have to end things with—”

Again, Dorian refused to let him finish. “Stop. I’ve told you my decision. We will find some other way to placate the rebellious lords. I am not marrying her.”

Soft footsteps punctuated by the clack of a cane sounded as Chaol left his king and descended the tower. When he was gone, she heard Dorian smash his fist into the stone wall, pieces of mortar crumbling and raining down onto the floor. Manon was paralyzed, her hands balled up into tight fists, eyes wide. And that was how Dorian found her when he took the final steps up to his suite.

***

“You misunderstood. Frey doesn’t have enough clout to demand such a thing.” Dorian was frantic, spending the last two hours trying to explain away what Manon had heard. But her face had frozen into a mask, nothing he said could tease out even the slightest reaction.

“You can’t be so flippant,” she said, the stony resolve in her voice starting to scare him. “He’s offered you an out from civil war. If you care about your kingdom, you must do it.”

He was going mad. First Chaol, now Manon. Where was Yrene to talk some sense into them? He cared about his kingdom and his people. He cared so much that he had no life whatsoever beyond the endless meetings and negotiations and squabbles. His sole joy in life was standing before him now arguing that he should marry someone else.

“If I care?” he asked. “I was prepared to die for it. On many occasions. I would gladly give my life. But I won’t give my heart.”

Manon blinked slowly, and he realized she was looking past him. “You once told me you were prepared to give up your throne for Sorscha. Then the war taught you how foolish, how childish that was. And now, as if you learned nothing, sacrificed nothing, you want to do the same thing. Your life and your heart are one in the same.” Finally, her golden eyes met his. “I am immortal. You are not. You need a human queen to give you heirs and unite your kingdom. I will not play a part in disrupting that.”

Dorian searched for any sign - an unshed tear, a twitch of her lips, a clenched jaw. But there was nothing. Nothing on her face except a cold certainty that left him feeling lost, alone. He knew this was an act, a means of protecting herself. And yet, she was right. When they’d parted ways in Orynth after the war, he’d ignored the desire to ask her for some sort of commitment beyond “We’ll see.” They both had countries to rebuild and had chosen that greater responsibility over personal wishes. Dorian told himself then that they had time. Yes, he was a mortal. But he still had a plentiful well of raw magic on which to draw upon, magic that would give him a much longer life than a normal human. And only two short years later, out of nowhere, everything was falling apart.

No, he would not let his people suffer through war again. But giving in to extortion was not an acceptable alternative. He thought of Aelin, wondering how she would handle a situation like this. With the way her people adored her, he knew she’d never reach this point. Maybe Frey and his allies were right. Maybe he’d left them to fend for themselves out of cowardice instead of prudence. Suddenly, Dorian was exhausted, tired of being king, tired of giving up everything he wanted. He rubbed his eyes until they were red

“You know it has to be this way,” she said, having watched him sort out his thoughts. “No matter what they claim, you’ve never once abandoned this kingdom. Which is why you won’t do it now.”

Dorian stared at the ground, grasping for a way out, but his mind felt like aspic, soft and muddled and useless. “I won’t be a king who takes a queen and still keeps a lover.” The ultimatum was hard to voice, but it was true. Despite his rakish history, he’d never taken a new lover without breaking things off with the old one. If ever an exception was to be made, it would be with Manon. But he would never disrespect her, a queen in her own right, by reducing her to a secret paramour and source of castle gossip.

Still stoic, she replied, “I would not expect you to.”

They had always pushed and teased each other, seeing which one would break first and admit their feelings or give in to the desire. Desperately hoping that they were playing that game now, he surrendered. “I want you, Manon. No one else.”

The slightest hitch in her breathing and a tiny flutter of her eyes sent his hope soaring. But, with a firm tone that meant she would say no more, Manon said, “Marry her, Dorian. Save your throne and keep your people from more bloodshed.”

Before he could respond, she walked out the door and climbed into the saddle still strapped to her wyvern. Manon was in the air without a look back, and Dorian sank to the ground, his head in his hands.

*****

Rumors were flying through the witch city faster than the most agile wyverns. Mere months ago, the witches had expected an announcement from their queen, happy news that their kingdom would be united with Adarlan. Some were not in favor of their queen marrying a human, king or not. Others, especially those in the queen’s council, saw it as a good match. A love match, they claimed. But now, after the royal messenger from Adarlan had arrived, the gossip was spinning out of control.

Manon stared at the thick envelope sealed with red and gold wax, the wyvern stamped into it watching her with a single mocking eye. Dorian had once laughed about how significant it was for his royal crest to include a wyvern, a connection forged between their two kingdoms before they had even met. She’d brushed the thought away at the time, rolling her eyes at his insistence that fate was at work. But now, the memory of his teasing voice sank into her chest, adding to the heaviness and pain that had been choking her since she’d left him on that balcony months ago.

“You don’t have to go. No one would fault you for it. We can send Petrah as a representative,” Glennis said, her voice stiff and formal. It was a tone usually relegated for council meetings, not a conversation with her granddaughter.

She was silent for a long moment, still looking at the envelope. Instead of answering, Manon picked it up and ripped apart the seal. The invitation was written in fanciful blue ink with a border of red berries and ivy stamped into the parchment. She frowned at the flowery words that matched the design, knowing the girl must have been behind all of it. The girl. Manon knew she was likely close to Dorian’s age, but she didn’t care. The future queen of Adarlan would forever be the girl in her mind. Even so, it was impossible to miss her name in elegant calligraphy.

Your presence is requested at the royal wedding of Lady Eveline Frey and His Majesty Dorian Havilliard II, King of Adarlan

Manon stopped reading at his name and continued to flip through the remaining pages. They contained notices of the pre-wedding events that the ‘happy couple’ hoped people would attend, despite the possibility of poor weather at that time of year.

Happy. Her eyes caught on that word and didn’t move. She knew it was a lie. And yet, her old doubts and fears flooded back into her mind. She was still heartless despite her efforts to change, he deserved someone who could sufficiently return his affections. She was immortal, he was not. Manon had reasoned that she would rather lose him like this than watch up close as he aged and died. Rather lose him now, when they could both move on to full lives, than be forced to somehow carry on after his death. A magically extended life or not, she could see no other scenario if she continued with him. And if that was truly how she felt, then she wanted to be there and show him they were both better off this way.

Glennis watched her, likely reading every thought that had gone through her head. For when Manon said she was going, her grandmother’s head dipped in resignation. “Then I will accompany you.”

Manon lost count of her attempts at crafting a reply. She began with a simple list of witches who would attend with her, which morphed into a long drawn out explanation of why she wanted to be there. Then she backtracked into a brief, two sentence response. And even then, she had to make several copies until one was legible. The anguish of what she faced kept showing itself in her shaking hand.

Her eyes keep going back to their names and she found herself wondering what the girl was like. Did she like to read? Could she fight with a sword? Would she stand up to the nobility who claimed Dorian was not worthy of his throne? How would she react to him waking up screaming in the middle of the night from a nightmare in which he’d been torturing people?

That last thought made her feel sick. Not because of the dreams that still plagued him - she was well versed in helping to comfort him, just as he knew how to ease her grief and fear after a nightmare. It was the idea that they’d be sharing a bed that turned her stomach.

Gods what was she thinking? There were two months until the wedding. Was that long enough to forget everything Dorian was to her?

Manon knew the answer. And yet, when she read over their names again, she made herself remember why things had to be this way. Adarlan could not survive another war, especially one which tore it apart from the inside out. This was for the best. His and hers. This wedding would be closure, and afterwards, she could move on, search for a suitable consort. Not to become her king. She could not bear seeing anyone else beside her in that capacity. But finding an acceptable male to produce an heir would help to stabilize her kingdom. If Dorian was forced to set aside his heart to help his people, then she would do the same.

When she gave the reply to Glennis later, her grandmother frowned. “I find myself not wanting to send this.”

“It will be us and two sentinels. That’s all,” Manon said, ignoring the witch’s reluctance. “We will arrive the day before and leave immediately after the ceremony.” As Glennis nodded in agreement, Manon noticed she held a royal envelope in her other hand. “What is that?”

Again, that frown. “It’s from Prince Fennick Whitethorn of Doranelle. A cousin of Rowan’s I believe.”

“Was he in Orynth?” She didn’t recall him being there, but her memories from those early days battling Erawan’s army were foggy.

“I don’t think he was.”

Manon took it, examining front and back. The wax seal matched that of Queen Sellene Whitethorn. “What could this be?” she wondered aloud.

Glennis was already walking away, but she turned and said sharply, “I can only imagine.”

Manon was glad she waited until she was alone to read it, for by the end of it, she was sitting motionless, the letter forgotten on the floor.

Prince Fennick Whitethorn, a cousin to both Rowan and Queen Sellene, had written to express his regards and dismay at the news that the King of Adarlan would marry a noble from his own kingdom. He’d felt compelled to write her directly, offering her his support and friendship since he’d experienced something similar a few hundred years before. As Doranelle’s representative at the festivities, he hoped they could meet in Rifthold. In not so veiled terms, he suggested they might establish an alliance of their own, one that would be amenable to both their countries.

Mere hours after speculating about taking a consort and here she was, staring at a proposal. She couldn’t decide between outrage or amazement at the audacity of the fae male. It had certainly taken balls to approach her this way. And at this time. Picking up the letter, she read it over again. From the sounds of it, Fennick had been left heartbroken in his past. A past that extended even further back than her own. Had she not used her own immortality as a reason that Dorian should wed another? Here was an immortal throwing himself at her, eager for alliance. But she wondered if his interest would wane when he was told that at best, he might become her consort. There was only one man who she’d accept as her king, and he was now outside her reach.

She decided not to send a reply. If the fae prince was there, she would meet with him, see what kind of male he was and whether he might bring anything of worth to an alliance. If not, it would be one less thing to worry about.

That night, as she tried and failed to fall asleep, Manon found herself imagining how she might say goodbye to Dorian. They never used the word, choosing instead to focus only on their hellos. It made a twisted sort of sense that this goodbye, this parting that would be permanent, would be the first and last time it was spoken between them.

***

Yrene found Dorian in his office, watching the brutal winter winds send snow whipping through the air outside his window. Judging from her expression, she knew why he’d sent for her. When her eyes went to the letter on his desk, her shoulders seemed to slump, and she sat down heavily across from him.

“She will be attending,” he said, pushing the short reply across the desk in case she wanted to read it. After immediately recognizing the handwriting as Manon’s, he’d stared at it for a long time. As if there might be some sign of hesitation on her part, he’d examined the note, his eyes running over each stroke of ink, again and again. It was flawless. Just like her, he’d thought miserably.

“I didn’t think she’d actually come. It was meant as a formality between two allies.”

“Perhaps that’s why she has agreed. Formality, nothing more,” Yrene offered.

“How do you think Eveline will handle it?” Despite a wedding date only a few weeks away, Dorian barely spoke to his future queen. Yrene had been acting as a go between, keeping Dorian from having to feign pleasantries and interest in someone who he’d claimed looked and acted like an empty doll.

“She has been trained as a courtier since birth. I’m sure she will be as polite and ladylike as she always is.” Yrene rose and came around the desk, standing in front of the window to make Dorian look at her. “She may appear timid and vapid in front of her father, but she is no fool. She knows what this arrangement is and why it’s happening. Your involvement with Manon was never much of a secret. Eveline knows she is not your choice. But like you, she is doing her duty.”

Dorian didn’t reply. He knew his opinion of her was misguided, that it was based on anger at the situation, at her father. Which was why he kept his distance. If he couldn’t keep himself in check in private or with his friends, how could he expect to refrain from unleashing his rage on her with hurtful words? At least, that’s what he told himself. It was true, but some part of him knew that if he gave in and spent time with her, it would make this all the more real.

Yrene’s eyes darkened as she said, “Lord Frey has a reputation to match Chaol’s father. With her mother gone, I suspect Eveline has not had much control over her life. This would be nothing new to her.”

Now fully ashamed of himself, Dorian only nodded. If there was anything he could understand, it was not being able to defy a bullying parent. A new sense of sympathy filled him as he wondered how desperate Eveline must be for a new life. Freedom from an abusive father would be worth the heavy responsibilities and loss of privacy that came with being a queen. Maybe it was time to make an effort. He couldn’t envision a future where he would ever develop actual feelings for Eveline. But he could at least become her friend.

“What else have you learned about her?” he asked.

Yrene shrugged. “Her education has been extensive, and she knows much about the court and how it runs. She enjoys art and music, embroidery …” She trailed off, trying to think of any other attributes worth sharing. “Horse riding. She always seems to be coming back from the stables when I see her. I’ve gotten the impression her father does not approve of that hobby, but she maintains that being a good horsewoman befits a true lady.”

“So, she does disobey him then …” Dorian smiled slightly, recalling how he used to rebel against his parents. Horse riding was much less scandalous. “Does she need any help with the wedding plans?”

The suddenness of his change in tone had Yrene blinking at him. “I don’t believe so. But I can ask her.”

Dorian stood and walked towards the door. He knew if he didn’t start now, he never would. “I will go ask. I’d like to recommend some music.”

“Wait,” Yrene cried, trailing him out into the corridor. When she caught up to him, she asked, “What are you doing?”

The fear in her eyes almost made Dorian turn around and forget his pledge of moments ago to try and accept this. Yrene had always been the biggest supporter of his relationship with Manon. Whether she was helping them arrange a short, secret escape from their duties, or using her sharp tongue to tear down any detractors of the Witch Kingdom, or giving him advice on how to help Manon recover from the loss of her coven … Yrene had always been there. And now, for the first time, it seemed to be sinking in for her that what she had dreamed for her friends – a happily ever after to rival what she had with Chaol – was impossible. It pained Dorian to see it and he pulled her into a hug.

“If there was another way, Yrene, I’d do it. You know that.”

She hugged him back fiercely, her voice shaking as she said, “I know. She is my friend too, Dorian. And I don’t want to lose her.”

Gods, Dorian thought his heart couldn’t break anymore. And here it was, cracking into even more fragments, each time becoming smaller and smaller. “I know.”

Yrene backed away and let loose a string of curses and insults about Lord Frey that left his eyes wide and mouth agape. He’d never heard her speak like that before, had never thought her capable of such filthy language.

Before she could think to apologize, he laughed. “Well said, Lady!”

Red with embarrassment, Yrene burst into laughter too. When they’d both regained their composure, she said, “Come. I’ll walk with you to Eveline’s rooms and catch you up on her wedding plans.”

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it. “She is as much a pawn in this game as anyone, and she doesn’t deserve my animosity.”

Yrene nodded. “As much as I hate to admit it, she’s a perfectly lovely young woman. It makes things worse in a way.”

When they reached her rooms, Yrene led him inside.

“Your Majesty,” Eveline said brightly. Her dark hair matched her eyes and she gave him a beaming smile. “I was not expecting you today.” She was going through a stack of replies to the invitations.

“Please, call me Dorian. I insist,” he said. “I have one more to add.” Slowly, as if not wanting to give it up, he handed her Manon’s reply. He and Yrene both watched her carefully as she read it.

With the same smile as before, Eveline said, “I’m so pleased the Witch Queen will be attending. None of your other royal friends are able to come due to the weather. Though Doranelle is sending someone.” She paused, thinking. “I can’t remember his name.”

As the two women went through the replies and spoke quietly, Dorian pretended to listen. For one terrible moment, he wondered what the word princeling might sound like from Eveline’s mouth. The thought felt blasphemous, leaving him spinning and trapped between two worlds: the reality sitting next to him, this perfectly lovely woman for whom he felt nothing, and a dream world where he’d wake up happy each morning to snow white hair and golden eyes. A dream that had slipped through his fingers, like the wind gusting wildly outside.

Perfectly lovely. Eveline was lovely, and perfect, with exquisite manners, an impeccable wardrobe, and a distinguished education. But despite that loveliness and perfection, he knew without a doubt that his feelings towards Eveline would never come close to what he felt for Manon. Manon was his mirror, his equal. If beings other than fae were able to have true mates, she would be his.

The thought struck him like a dagger, straight to whatever bits of his heart yet remained. Shaking his head, Dorian tried not to think of Manon, of how this next visit for the wedding would likely be her last. Tried not to dwell on how he would have to live the rest of his life without her, his mate in every way that counted.

Of course, he failed. And when Eveline asked him about what music he’d prefer, Dorian used every ounce of strength he had left to force a smile on his face and answer.

To be continued...

***

Thanks for reading! You can find my writing master list here or on AO3.

It’s been a while since I’ve written and I’m not sure who all is still out there. So if I missed you, or you’d like to be tagged/removed for parts two and three, let me know.

@itach-i @bookishwitchling @manontrashbeak @awesomelena555 @jimetg98 @over300books

[artificialqueens]

Til Forever Falls Apart, 1/2 (Gottrosenali) - Pinkgrapefruit

Denali frowns, eyebrows crinkling with confusion. “Baby, that was yesterday,” he tells her, conviction clear in his voice.

“Nuh-uh,” she replies, shaking her head as she shovels a forkful of eggs into her mouth.

“I swear it was.”

Kahmora looks at him, a little concern in her eyes as she shakes her head again, softer this time. “Unless you’ve suddenly found a soulmate or something, you probably dreamt it,” she tells him, and he concedes, pushing his bacon around his plate, suddenly not hungry.

A/N: hi!!!! i really hope you enjoy this because i’m a little in love with it! I’m not going to explain the premise too much because I’m pretty sure you’ll pick it up! thanks to emerald for proofreading and frey for betaing and thank you so much to ella my love for helping my vague ideas all come together!!!

please let me know if you like it!!!

*

Out on our own

Dreaming in a world that we both know

Is out of our control

But if shit hits the fan we’re not alone

*

He feels like he’s living in a dream - coming off the main stage of RuPaul’s Drag Race, and he won? After the week he’s had, all the twists and turns of the Porkchop Loading Dock, the runways, and ‘Phenomenon’, it’s like a breath of fresh air to be able to relax. Even if it’s just for a little while.

He slips off his heels, padding through the lot without care that he might rip his tights because, god, it feels good to be able to move his toes. Taking them in one hand - heel hooked over his finger, he takes Rosé’s hand in his other - swinging it between them with a contented sigh.

“Good job, Baby,” he whispers, head tilting so the plastic hairs of his wig graze Denali’s face.

“God, I’m so glad you’re here,” he replies, blinking a couple of times because the early evening sun is threatening to make his eyeliner trail down his cheeks. “Bestie vibes.” It’s a high pitched coo that makes Rosé snort, leaning forward to rock on his toes. He tightens his grip on Denali’s hand to make sure he doesn’t fall over, and Denali feels a warmth in his chest.

“Fuck, that voice,” Rosé coughs out, smiling from ear to ear. “Such a muscley little man making such a white girl noise.”

Denali rolls his eyes, but can’t stop the smirk playing on his lips, dropping Rosé’s hand to flip of Kahmora, who’s turned back from chatting to Joey just to raise an eyebrow at the two of them.

He turns back to Rosé and then gestures towards the sound stage. “What do you think we’re walking into?”

“Fuck if I know,” he responds, rustling his plastic sleeves for added effect, sending them both back into peals of laughter that make the PAs scowl at them as they enter the soundstage.

“HARD ICE,” they all scream, forcing Denali to stifle his laughter with the back of his hand before remembering how dark his lipstick is. He turns to Rosé and pouts, letting Rosé fix up the outline of his lips with the pad of his thumb - squinting in the dim lighting.

“All good,” he whispers, and Denali swallows hard at the feeling of his fingers on his face. He shakes his head slightly and switches his focus, putting his white pumps on so he has something to do.

They wait for around half an hour, rotating in their little circle so they each get time under the aircon. When they’re eventually called to move towards the werkroom, he sighs and hauls himself up from the crouch he’s been sat in (tugging on Joey’s arm), feeling his knees pop as they decompress.

When they enter it, faking smiles to cover their apprehension as if they don’t know what’s about to happen, Denali’s eyes scan the room. She takes them all in, red hair, tiny cowboy hat, pigtails, white face - all the usual, staring down at them like they’re less than.

“Ohhh, that’s what’s up,” he hears himself say - chuckling at Rosé’s button to his comment. He feels his shoulders relax when Joey’s scream crosses the room, a collective sigh of relief blanketing the room as they all ease their intimidations. They crowd around the table as if half of them aren’t in wigs bigger than their heads, and Denali feels a stabilising palm on his lower back.

He breathes in through the nose and out through the mouth before turning back into the conversation. He’s exhausted, the adrenaline high from winning long worn off, and he’s grateful Rosé noticed.

They manage to move through the rest of the pleasantries quickly enough, and he’s out of drag, into the van and into his bed quicker than you can say ‘B squad’.

When his head hits the pillow, he lets his weary mind wander to tomorrow. He can’t wait to see what happens.

*

‘Cause you’ve got me and you know

That I’ve got you and I know

If the tide takes California

I’m so glad I got to hold ya

*

Denali’s jolted awake by the tinny tones of the hotel alarm clock, pushing his fists into his eyes and rubbing them a little too hard to try and get himself in the mood for people before ducking into the shower. He does his cursory shaving, his armpits, chest, and chin before starting to brush his teeth, only remembering afterwards that the hotel is doing squeeze your own orange juice this morning. He scowls in the mirror but shrugs, throwing on his clothes (and hoping no one notices they’re the same as yesterday). He’s just in time, and he slips out of the door as the PA calls his name.

He spends the walk down to breakfast trying to remember what he knows about the other queens. He’s heard about Tina from Rosé, and so far she seems to be just as much of a shit-stirrer. Kandy is a well-known name among RuGirl hopefuls, so he’s not shocked to see her, and Symone is linked to Gigi from last season so she’s not a surprise either. He’s surprised Elliott is still here, but it makes sense…

His train of thought is cut off as Kahmora taps his shoulder with a beaming smile, a glass of apple juice in hand. “You excited for Phenomenon today?” She asks, wiping a droplet of the juice off her chin before picking up a plate full of scrambled eggs and following Denali over to their table.

Denali frowns, eyebrows crinkling with confusion. “Baby, that was yesterday,” he tells her, conviction clear in his voice.

“Nuh-uh,” she replies, shaking her head as she shovels a forkful of eggs into her mouth.

“I swear it was.”

Kahmora looks at him, a little concern in her eyes as she shakes her head again, softer this time. “Unless you’ve suddenly found a soulmate or something, you probably dreamt it,” she tells him, and he concedes, pushing his bacon around his plate, suddenly not hungry.

“Okay,” he admits and he tries to forget about it. Admittedly, he does a very poor job - there’s no way in hell he dreamt it - all of the memories feel too tangible. And that doesn’t even account for the way his legs seem to know the choreography before they come up with it. And he’s not the only one because he notices how Rosé keeps getting this dazed look in his eyes and how he marks his entire solo without hesitation. That didn’t happen last time.

Then again, everything seems a little different from last time. He and Rosé don’t bicker over the choreography, instead, working together smoothly which seems to confuse them both.

He realised very quickly that he could ignore the situation or lean into it, so he delights in doing little things that seem to quirk Rosé’s eyebrows until the brunette pulls him aside after rehearsal. He places a firm hand on his hip and holds him in place, using the other to scratch at his scalp in frustration until Denali bats at it.

“Stop it,” he scolds before twisting his body to lean his head on the cold concrete wall. He sighs. “You feel it too, huh?” he asks, trying to be vague in case the hunch he’s got is wrong.

Rosé falls back against the wall next to him before sinking to a squat. “What?” he asks, a little sardonic. “Feel like I’ve already lived this day, but no one else seems to have noticed?”

He sounds exhausted, and Denali realises that he probably hasn’t even asked someone, he’s just going through the motions and hoping he’s not insane.

“You’re not going crazy,” he tries to console - thinking it’s probably what he would want to hear. At Rosé’s small exhale of relief, he reckons he was correct. “I feel it too.”

“Then we’re both crazy, great.”

Denali sits down next to him, letting his legs fall out in front of him and smiles to himself when Rosé’s head falls onto his shoulder.

“Kam told me it was either a dream or I’d met my soulmate,” he chuckles, meaning it as a joke, but trailing off when Rosé tenses next to him.

“What’s the chance we shared the same dream?” Rosé asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’d like to find out.”

*

And if the sky falls from heaven above

Oh, I know I had the best time falling into love

We’ve been living on a fault line

And for a while, you were all mine

*

Mik brushes sleep out of his eyes with an absent-minded motion, calling out to the PA banging on his door that he’ll just order room service for breakfast. He hears their call time is four o’clock, but brushes it off in his hazy state until he sits bolt upright. The covers fall onto his lap, pooling on his thighs like fluffy clouds, and he’s half-convinced he needs to fall back into them and just go to sleep. He pulls on a pair of basketball shorts and a beanie, and pads to the door, poking his head around it with a furrowed brow.

“I missed the call time, remind me Mel?” he asks his PA who’s sat in an armchair with an amused expression.

“It’s four,” she tells him, “but please try to stick to the sequester.”

He chuckles, waving a hand in apology before shutting his door and falling onto his bed with a shaky breath.

Something’s not quite right.

He stands up again, anxiety seeping into his limbs and he walks over to the wardrobe - opening it to find a wig head with a long turquoise wig.

“Fuck.”

Next to it is his makeup, set out on the shelf under the mirror in a meticulous fashion - one he can’t remember doing before he went to bed.

He pulls out his small journal and tries to play detective, feeling like a little kid again, scrounging for clues.

There’s his wig - the one he’s pretty sure he wore yesterday and left in the werkroom. There’s his call time - a good nine hours later than he thought it was going to be - and then there’s the weird feeling of deja vu.

It’s crackling through him - blazing up like a wildfire, and he can’t seem to shake the feeling that something is going on.

Yesterday feels so vivid and real. He remembers how Symone smelt when she hugged him, and the timbre of Denali’s voice even though he’d never met him before.

Deciding he’ll figure it out once he’s had some food, he flicks the TV on and pulls the room service menu out of the drawer next to his bed. He’s ordering when he hears the news.

June seventh.

Again.

*

I’ve spent a lifetime giving you my heart

I swear that I’ll be yours forever

'Til forever falls apart

'Til forever falls apart

*

Rosé rolls out of bed and hits the floor with a sigh. It’s the third time this has happened and while he’s pretty sure the universe could have chosen a better way to wake him up - it’s a pretty good indicator of what day he’s living. He winces as he scrunches up his nose, but knows there’s no lasting damage, so he stands back up with a frown and flicks on the TV for some background noise. Hotels are always a little too silent for him, and he can’t trust his inner monologue not to uncover something he doesn’t want to think about right now.

“June seventh,” he mutters under his breath, “perfect.”

He goes through the motions of getting ready without really thinking about it, pulling on his heather grey sweatshirt and joggers before sliding out of the door. He and Joey share a PA, and so he asks a perfunctory question about Joey’s dance school before tuning out the other man on their way down to breakfast.

He grabs his apple juice quickly and pulls Denali down to sit at a table.

“Ugh, apple juice again?” Denali moans with a pout, placing down a plate of watermelon slices and toast in front of him.

Rosé frowns, looking down at his eggs. “Didn’t you have bacon yesterday?” he asks, and Denali catches on quick enough with a knowing smile.

“Yeah, but I think it’s going to get dull pretty quick if I don’t switch some things up here and there.” He tilts his head in thought before placing an entire wedge of watermelon in his mouth - the rind covering his teeth, so he ends up with a green smile.

Rosé chuckles, wiping a droplet of apple juice from his chin that threatens to dampen his toast.

“I can’t argue there,” he responds, switching his usual ketchup for sriracha on impulse. He takes a bite of eggs and mimes fanning himself, sticking his tongue out to the sound of Denali’s giggles.

“God, you’re so white,” he teases, and Rosé flicks his middle finger up, unable to hide his own smile.

When they finish, they wait quietly for the van to take them to the set, and Denali stretches his arms above his head, twisting from side to side in a way that makes his shirt rise just above the band of his joggers. The trail of hair peeking out in the gap makes Rosé want to run his finger down it, and he has to turn away to keep himself from doing just that.

“Guess this isn’t a dream then,” Denali says, and he hopes his blush is gone when he turns back around to respond.

“I guess not,” he replies lamely and then watches as the brunette chews on his tongue for a second before he seems to remember what he was looking for.

“I spoke to Kam,” he says, and Rosé goes to speak until Denali places a firm hand over his mouth. He makes a face when Rosé licks a stripe up his palm but doesn’t remove it. “I spoke to Kam,” he repeats, rolling his eyes, “and apparently the soulmate thing happens when two soulmates meet for the first time and get stuck in some sort of time loop until they make a connection.” He removes his hand, wiping Rosé’s saliva across his own stubble, making the Scot wince.

“Didn’t want a face covered in my own saliva, but werk, I guess,” he starts, and Denali shrugs as if to say ‘shouldn’t have licked me’, gesturing for him to go on. He lowers his voice but the worry increases. “You did not just walk up to Kam, though, and tell her what’s happening?” He sounds almost frantic, eyes wide, and Denali has to place a cool hand on his shoulder to try and calm him down.

“Chill,” he says as if the whole situation is completely normal. “It was totally natural. I just mentioned I was reading a book.”

“You, reading?” Rosé jokes, seeming to have regained some of his cool. He brushes his hoodie as if trying to remove some stray crumbs and stands up a little straighter.

“Oh, shove off it,” Denali retorts. “You’re allowed to be scared,” he adds, voice softening slightly, “but we do need to actually talk about it.”

He steps a little closer, tilting his head curiously.

“We are talking about it?”

“Sure, love.”

They’re called to the van and the conversation is left alone.

Rosé’s not sure if that’s for the best.

*

So this is it, that’s how it ends

I guess there’s nothing more romantic than dying with your friends

And I’m not sorry for myself

I wouldn’t wanna spend a minute loving anybody else

*

He’s about ready to jump off the balcony, he decides, as he falls flat on his face for the fourth time. He rolls onto his back with a huff and looks up at the wood-chipped ceiling. He wonders if there’s a god up there - if his Nan had been right and the lord really was going to punish him for being gay. Maybe this is it.

He inhaled slowly and lets it out through gritted teeth before rolling back onto his front. Placing his hands on either side of him, he pushes up into a plank before dropping into some push-ups just to prove to himself he can.

And maybe because he’s going to see Denali in twenty minutes or so.

Maybe that’s why he pulls on a teal shirt that clings a little tighter than usual. Or maybe not.

He might as well look nice if God is deciding to smite him - that’s his reasoning, and he says as much to Denali who splutters on his apple juice, spraying it across the table in a way that makes the rest of the cast look at them funny. They’re quite a sight.

“Nice to know you think I’m a punishment,” Denali jokes, mirth in his tone, but just a tiny bit of hurt glittering in his eyes. It’s something Rosé wishes he didn’t see because it sends a slice of guilt through him wider than the San Andreas faultline.

“Baby,” he says, reaching across the table so he can take Denali’s hand, and not even wincing when his arm falls into a puddle of sticky apple juice, “Fuck, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Denali’s eyes flick down at the table before meeting Rosé’s, too hesitant for his liking. “We need to have that talk,” he says. “I need you to acknowledge what this means.”

Rosé nods, resigned. “Okay,” he agrees, “after the lipsync.”

They fall into their positions backstage, sunk against the wall, a little ways from the others with the air-con providing just enough noise for their conversation to be muffled from others.

Rosé takes Denali’s hand again, rubbing his thumb slowly against the back of it.

“You’re my soulmate,” he says slowly, feeling the words form in his mouth. “Soulmate,” he repeats again - its shape feeling a little too round and a little too rough on his tongue.

“Soulmates,” Denali agrees, and somehow it sounds perfect coming from him.

They sit in silence, listening to the rumble of the air con and the bustle of the crew.

“Surely this is a connection though?” Denali points out after a few moments, and Rosé has to shake his head to allow his thoughts to catch up. He’d gotten stuck on soulmates, and his brain had just stopped. “Like, surely this is something.”

Rosé shrugs, squeezing their intertwined fingers and letting his head fall onto Denali’s shoulder - reminiscent of the first conversation they had like this. “Maybe you need to kiss me,” he suggests, half joking, but Denali places two fingers under his chin.

A sly smile crosses his face, and he presses their lips together before Rosé can blink.

It’s over in seconds, and yet it lasted long enough for Rosé to remember that Denali’s lipstick tastes of vanilla.

He’s not sure he’ll ever forget it.

Denali looks at him in the backstage lights, using the fingers under his chin to manoeuvre his face, and then the pad of his thumb to gently blend any purple into the nude of his lipstick.

“Six out of ten,” he quips, unable to do anything much, except relish in the electricity that seems to be flowing through him from where their lips touched.

“Shut up,” Denali replies with a small smile, standing up and reaching out a hand to tug Rosé up next to him. “I’ll kiss you properly when I know these bitches will remember it,” he points to Kahmora, who’s watching them both with a raised eyebrow - the rest of them seem oblivious.

Rosé smirks.

“Deal.”

[loving-inkpressions]

12, 17, 30 please 💙

Thank you Frey! ❤️

12. Favourite wip?

To be honest, it’s a toss up between Burning Up and I Put A Spell On You. The only problem is I’m just a little stuck on how to proceed with both of them right now.

17. Beta or self-proofer?

Self-proofer, though I'm obviously shit at it since I always spot errors after posting. I'm just too self-conscious about my writing to get someone to look over it hahaha

30. Have you ever done a self insert?

Never, and will never, done that before. Too much realism and little creepy in my opinion. 😅

[writethehousedown]

And the Livin’s Easy Chapter One (Multi) - Zyan

a/n: me? doing yet another multi-chapter for the challenge? how original. this idea came to me while i was watching hawaii five-0 and i just ran with it. i have no actual knowledge of how the surfing world works, i’m a simple kick boxing fighter, so please bear with me and the in-accuracies you’ll find. the rest of the characters mentioned in the summary will appear in the next chapter :D my sideblog is @chachkisalpaca - oh, and also, frey is an absolute angel for beta-ing this. hope you enjoy!

Summary: The surfing season in Honolulu is at its peak, with every surfer, old and new, having their eyes on the big prize of the Hawaii Surf Association annual competition. As the day of the competition comes closer, Crystal tries to not get distracted with a certain Californian girl, Vanessa swears she’s over Brooke, Yvie tries to seduce the hotel’s lifeguard and Jaida is just witnessing everything go down as she sips on her piña colada.

It’s summertime and the beach is packed.

Crystal doesn’t expect any less, honestly; the summer season is at its peak, plus Honolulu is always a famous tourist spot. No wonder there’s barely a spot to stand in O’Ahu.

The waves are good today and Crystal engages in a playful banter when she encounters some of her fellow surfers while training. There’s a surfing competition next week, a very important one at that, and every surfer and their grandma wants that prize. To think of what she could do with the money — Crystal might just layback for the rest of the season and enjoy some very well deserved vacations before going back to Missouri for yet another college year.

She finds it sad that the waves last only during the summer, because she’s capable of surfing them even when the water temperature is below 0 and would catch a cold for the mere act of standing too close to the water (“Colds start with the feet,” her mother has been telling her since she was a child, and it just stuck.)

But she doesn’t have to worry for the winter that’s still months away; right now she just lets the Sun burn her skin as the water soaks her entire body.

She feels lightheaded, like she’s capable of doing anything while she’s on her surfing board.

“You getting’ better, Glass,” Vanjie shouts, while riding the same wave as her.

Crystal laughs loudly, the nickname ‘Glass’ still sounding so wild to her, she sometimes wonders why and how did Vanjie ever come up with that one.

“What do ya wanna bet that I’ll beat your ass next week,” Crystal yells back, and Vanjie cocks a brow, focused on keeping her balance.

“Fuck off, I bet you won’t even last the rest of training without falling.”

“If I make it through training without falling you’re buying me a drink at Sal’s.”

Vanjie meets her gaze for a brief second and laughs shortly.

“Es más fácil decirlo que hacerlo, but you got a deal, bitch.” She winks at her and Crystal takes it upon herself to win that bet.

“Veamos si puedes conmigo, perra.”

*

Gigi is, decidedly, not a beach person.

She gets it; the water looks pretty under the Sun, the palms make a good background for an Instagram picture, and her bathing suit fits her like a glove, drawing attention from both men and women, but despite all this — she just can’t take how crowded it is, the children running around and yelling like banshees, how cold the water is, the dirty people that leave their trash behind, and a long etcetera.

Brita’s been so kind to invite them to their family’s house in Honolulu for a few weeks, Gigi is very much aware of it, which is why she tries not to be a gigantic bitch while they’re on the beach; she doesn’t want Brita to kick her out, basically.

Besides, Honolulu is very pretty. One of the most beautiful cities she’s ever visited, actually. She doesn’t mind the rest of it; it’s this specific part of the city that she dreads. She’s also very aware of the irony of agreeing to go to a place that’s famous for its beaches while hating beaches, thank you very much.

She applies a generous amount of sunscreen to every inch of her body, still sitting under the umbrella and ignoring her friends’ pleas for her to join them in the water. Gigi merely says that she’ll meet them in a moment, and though they’re not very convinced by it, they still run towards the sparkly blue water.

Gigi clearly lied; as soon as they’re out of sight, she pulls out her phone and thinks for a moment about taking photos for her Instagram — if she’s going to spend most of this trip at the beach, she might as well take advantage of it and take some cute pictures for her feed. She didn’t pack so many bathing suits for nothing.

She’s scrolling through her DM requests —deleting the men, replying to the women— when there’s a sudden uproar from the people sitting around her. They’re cheering for something or someone. Gigi looks around, confused, until she lays eyes on the sea in front of her and the waves crashing against the shore; there are surfers in the waves, naturally, but these seem like the skilled type.

Gigi decides to film it for her Instagram Stories, because why not, they are talented, and Gigi can barely float around in her parents’ pool in a donut floatie without rolling over and drowning.

One of them falls, and the crowd gasps, though Gigi isn’t all that interested in it. Her friends wave at her from the sea and Gigi scrambles to find an excuse not to join them.

*

Crystal can’t stop laughing, even when they arrive at the shore and all Vanjie does is shout at her, saying that she bewitched her or something, because there’s no way she fell instead of her.

“Get over it, Vanj. You owe me now.”

She sticks her board into the sand, taking her hair tie off and rearranging her hair in a ponytail. Her hair is soaked, clearly, and Crystal’s hands are already tired at the thought of having to shampoo the sea water off it.

Crystal doesn’t mind though, it’s worth it.

Vanjie shots Crystal a deadly glare and rearranges her own hair, groaning slightly as she does so.

“I’m only paying you because a bitch keeps her promises,” she says. “Also, on the note of having drinks, you wanna grab a smoothie before going on with training? But you’re paying for your own drink, ho.”

Crystal laughs wholeheartedly with a nod. She goes to look between the pockets of her bag for money and asks one of her friends to watch her board for her; it’ll just be a moment.

They’re talking about their plans once the competition is done and what would they do if they get the prize money. Vanessa says she’ll pack up her stuff and go back to Puerto Rico for the rest of the summer even if she loses, and will chase waves on her hometown beach. Maybe teach a few of the little ones in her family to surf, if she has the time and patience for it.

“Y’know, the little shits are getting bigger and bigger, and they barely remember their aunt Vanessa! My girl Julia, bless that one, still remembers me — but, bitch, she did her first communion already! Damn, last time I checked she was still five,” Vanjie rambles, and Crystal definitely feels her on a spiritual level.

This is the part she likes about being friends with Vanjie, the fact they both have similar experiences with their Latin families and understand each other in a way most people wouldn’t. Her favourite part of summer is getting to spend it with her.

Crystal says something about her little nephew Mateo —who Vanessa adores, despite having not met him yet, just because his name matches with her surname— and how he’s gotten so big in the blink of an eye, already reaching Crystal’s hip, when she bumps into something.

Or rather, someone.

There’s a gasp and Crystal is wet yet again, though this time it’s sticky and it smells fruity.

“Well, there goes ten dollars,” a voice snarls, and Crystal finally pulls up her gaze to meet the asshole that just spilled their drink all over her.

She finds a woman with long auburn hair, skin pale as snow, think as a rail, with pink plump lips and a pair of icy blue eyes staring right back at her. Crystal thinks it’s a shame that she’s an asshole, because she is really pretty.

“Watch where you walk, pendeja,” Crystal bites back and the woman rolls her eyes, avoiding her as she goes on with her way. Vanjie and Crystal briefly look at her before proceeding with what they were doing. “At least I can wash the stickiness off once we hit the waves again,” she consoles herself, resigned to smell like fruit until she gives her bathing suit a proper wash.

*

“I hate the beach,” Gigi declares, settling at Jackie’s side with a huff and her arms folded. Jackie quirks an amused eyebrow, barely stifling a laugh, and Nicky casts a side glance at her.

“Why’s that?” Nicky asks, her gaze still glued to her phone.

“Some idiot cost me ten dollars, can you believe? I didn’t even have a sip of that smoothie!” Gigi complains with a whine that’s rather childish. Jackie just laughs, patting her friend’s back.

“If you join us now, I’ll buy you another smoothie later.”

“Fuck off with that motherly tone, Jacqueline,” Gigi says with a laugh, Jackie gasps offended and swats her arm playfully.

“That’s not the way to talk to your friends, baby Geeg!” Jackie scolds her, only making Gigi laugh louder.

Jackie is the eldest of them all (though, to be fair, she’s only a couple months older than Brita) and she’s naturally the mom friend. She’s pulled them out of the bar, called cabs, helped them through heartbreaks, more than Gigi can count (though Gigi isn’t good at counting). It’s only fair she gets to do these jokes.

Gigi pouts and puts on her puppy eyes, locking her hands. “Do you promise to buy me a smoothie, though?” She asks, in a tone so high-pitched she annoys herself.

But never Jackie, she’s got the patience none of them have, so she just nods with an over the top sigh and forcefully drags her to the water.

Gigi hates what the salty water does to her hair, though to be fair — Jackie did buy her a smoothie once they came back to their spot.

*

Sal’s Shack has grown to be Crystal’s favourite place on the island.

She discovered it when she was a little girl and came to Honolulu for the first time, after her parents saved up for a whole year and her father pushed as much as he could for a promotion at his job. It isn’t just a restaurant or a bar; Sal doesn’t like labels, so he never put one on his establishment.

It’s whatever you want it to be, though it does become a bar after midnight, that title going away once the Sun is up.

When Crystal met Vanjie, almost five summers ago, she took her to Sal’s Shack, and Vanjie was so in love with the place they kept on coming back, with or without the other.

Sal immediately smiles upon seeing them enter, even if the place is already getting crowded, Sal tells them he’d be able to hear Vanjie’s voice from a mile away.

“What can I get you tonight, girls?” He asks, with that warm, kind smile that reminds Crystal of her childhood years.

“I’m in the mood for your spicy meatballs sandwich,” Vanjie says dreamily, prompting Sal to laugh wholeheartedly. Crystal follows her suit by saying she wants a burger, and tells Sal not to be shy with the sauce.

They get settled while they wait, talking about how their college careers are going and how much they want the summer to be endless.

There’s just something about this city that makes it magical, Crystal likes to think. She’s had a few summer flings there, never seeing them again once she packed up her things and came back to Missouri, but each one of them had something special that made Crystal feel as if it wasn’t just a summer fling.

She wonders if she’ll find someone new this time around too, though it isn’t high up in her priority list.

*

Brita takes them to her uncle’s restaurant-bar-whatever, saying they have to visit it, not only because they serve pretty good cocktails, but also because there are always some hotties hanging around.

Though the idea of a summer hook up is attractive to Gigi, this isn’t Los Angeles; she doesn’t have any cab numbers, she still can’t properly manage herself around, and would consequently get lost trying to come back to the house. She tells herself that she’ll wait a few days until she’s a little more familiar with the place, just in case.

They arrive to the bar —Gigi’s decided to call it a bar for her own sanity—, and much like at the beach, the place is full, and she can’t see a free table.

“Don’t worry, girls,” Brita says, “I called my uncle and told him to save us a table, follow me.” So follow they do. They absentmindedly link hands and elbow their way through the place. The music is blasting through the speakers, there’s a couple of people dancing, and a lot of others just standing with their drinks and nudging on them.

Gigi has to admit Brita was right; there are some attractive people around, and it takes all of Gigi’s willpower not to stare. Perhaps sticking to the rules she’s just imposed on herself won’t be that easy.

They make it to the end of the bar and Brita smiles widely upon seeing her uncle, breaking the chain of hands and launching herself into his arms. The girls stand there awkwardly until they finish their conversation.

“He looks like Brita, but as a man,” Jan comments in a whisper, making Gigi and Nicky laugh. Jackie shushes them, though she agrees under her breath.

Brita introduces them one by one with a wide smile, and Gigi has to admit the resemblance between them is scary. Brita’s uncle gives them a warm welcome and tells them to call him Sal before guiding them to their table. It’s in a corner of the place and they can see everyone and everything, plus, they’re a few feet away from the bar. It’s a nice spot overall.

They get settled and Sal leaves them a few menus with the drinks options, including non-alcoholic drinks, and leaves to go back to work, telling them to look for him if they need anything.

Gigi briefly looks at the menu before setting it aside and looking around the bar, trying to find a face that stands out from the rest — instead, she hears a voice that breaks through the noise and makes a few heads turn around.

They voice comes from a few tables away, right in front of them. There’s a woman with dark, curly hair waving her arms around and talking with her friend, while the other woman sitting in front of her and facing Gigi is dying with laughter.

Gigi squints, finding her face oddly familiar, until it clicks.

*

Crystal throws her head back as she laughs, bracing her stomach as Vanjie grows louder and louder during her speech.

“And the fucking bitch had the AUDACITY to call me a fucking liar! Can you believe?” Vanjie slams her fist on the table and Crystal is hollering with laughter. She knows she shouldn’t have brought up the fact that her ex is also coming to the competition, but right now Vanjie is too worked up to back down.

For the longest time, Crystal thought Canada didn’t have any surfers — with such a cold weather, how could someone even want to enter the water? But it turns out that Vanjie’s ex, Brooke, is Canadian and a surfer, and she’s going to be competing alongside them. She found out, because she follows Yvie Bridges’ socials, and she posted a picture with Brooke, captioning it with “Excited to be reunited with my sister in Honolulu!” Except with a lot more exclamation marks.

Vanjie quickly tries to backpedal her entire rant by saying she’s not bothered at all by Brooke’s presence, because she’s over her and she’s seeing this girl, Kameron, who she met in a competition in Puerto Rico and is a sports photographer.

Crystal cocks a brow and before Vanjie can further prove to Crystal that she’s not over Brooke at all, she asks her if she wants another round of destornilladores. Vanjie nods effusively, tossing bills to her.

She heads to the bar and perches herself on it, waving at the barman. She places her order and when there’s a seat available, she takes it without hesitation.

Crystal is watching the barman as he mixes her drink, when someone slides into the empty seat next to her. She casts a quick glance over them and has to do a double take when the woman’s face is familiar.

She blinks repeatedly; this is the woman that threw her smoothie at her earlier that day.

It seems that Smoothie Girl recognizes her too, because she stares at her for a moment too long, and somehow Crystal finds the courage to speak up.

“You’re the asshole that threw their smoothie in my bathing suit,” Crystal finally speaks up.

“And you’re the asshole that threw herself into my smoothie,” she shots back, cocking one of her perfectly painted eyebrows, and Crystal has to admit that was a good one.

The barman places her orders in front of her; Crystal quickly pays him and Smoothie Girl takes advantage of his presence to place her own order. Crystal searches for Vanjie’s eyes among the crowd, and she finds her with her stare glued on her. She smiles when she sees their drinks, but frowns when Crystal points at the woman sitting beside her.

It’s her, she mouths, but Vanjie tilts her head, confused. Smoothie Girl, she mouths this time, and Vanjie looks surprised. She starts to mouth things Crystal can’t catch, but she guesses it’s a combination of get your ass over here, and that bitch.

“I’ve been thinking all day about what you called me,” she says, attracting Crystal’s attention again. She frowns, confused.

“What? Pendeja?” She asks, and Smoothie Girl nods. “Oh, that’s Spanish for asshole.”

Smoothie Girls snorts, cocking a brow. “What’s the Spanish word for ‘you owe me ten bucks’?”

“That would be ‘in your dreams,’” Crystal retorts, the brunette rolls her eyes.

She knows Vanjie is watching them closely, her stare burning a hole in Crystal’s neck, in case hands need to be thrown. But she has a feeling she won’t be needing Vanjie’s hands — not that she can say the same about this woman.

The barman leaves a drink in front of Smoothie Girl and she pays with a coquettish smile, Crystal thinks her drink smells way too fruity.

“That smoothie left my bathing suit smelling like fruit even when I washed it three times,” Crystal comments, trying to sound nonchalant. The woman cocks a brow as she sips on her drink. “What flavor was it, anyway?”

She seems surprised by the question, though she’s quick to answer.

“Uh, mango and peach, I think,” she replies and Crystal scrunches up her nose.

“Ugh, that sounds hideous.”

“It’s not! Had you licked your bathing suit you would know it’s very tasty.” She laughs at her own joke, and Crystal finds herself laughing too.

It’s weird how just moments ago they were calling each other assholes and now they’re laughing like nothing happened.

Crystal scoots herself closer in the chair, their knees practically brushing as she tries to catch her gaze.

“You got a name, Smoothie Girl?” She inquires in a casual tone. Smoothie Girl finally meets her gaze, and her blue eyes aren’t as icy as the first time they ran into each other.

“Genevieve, but everyone calls me Gigi.” She offers her hand to shake and Crystal gladly takes it. “And you?”

“I’m Crystal. Some people call me Crys, others Cryssie — and that dumbass over there,” she discreetly points at Vanjie, who’s typing away in her phone, trying to act as if she hasn’t been staring at them for a long minute now, “calls me Glass. Don’t ask me why, she just does.” Crystal shrugs, and Gigi laughs.

She feels some sort of pride blooming in her chest at making Gigi laugh.

“So, Crystal,” Gigi begins. “Do I have to assume you’re a surfer? I mean, what you were wearing when you ran into my smoothie looks like something a surfer would wear.”

Crystal nods enthusiastically, proceeding to tell her that she’s been surfing on and off since she was just thirteen and how she comes to Honolulu every year, rarely shifting her destination for the summer.

In return, Gigi confides her that she’s from California and it’s her first time in Honolulu, saying that her friend —Sal’s niece, apparently— invited them and she just couldn’t say no, even when she isn’t that much of a beach enthusiast. She hates them, in fact.

Upon hearing this, Crystal lets an over the top gasp that makes Gigi go into a fit of giggles, apparently already expecting that reaction.

“What the fuck? Dude, you can’t be serious,” she exclaims, and Gigi continues giggling.

“I’m deadly serious,” she assures her, twirling a strand of hair around her index finger.

“You don’t even like the food or ice cream?”

“I do, I hate the dirty people that leave their trash behind, though.”

“What about the kids? They’re always so cute — running around with their water guns and getting excited over everything. Some remind me of my own little cousins.”

Gigi visibly scrunches up her nose, doing a disgusted face.

“I hate kids, actually.”

Crystal folds her arms in a huff, intently staring at Gigi.

“No, there’s no way you’re that much of a… Beach Grinch,” she blurts out, the embarrassment flooding over her as soon as the words come out from her mouth. Gigi cocks a brow.

“Beach Grinch? Now that’s original,” Gigi says, leaning in closer to Crystal, a wicked smile painted in her lips. “Y’know, though I find the beach extremely boring, I can’t say the same for the people that like it.”

Crystal grins; she’s played this game far too many times, but something in Gigi makes her think this time it won’t be as easy as with the other ones.

Just when she’s lining up a witty reply, Gigi suddenly scoots back, a bashful smile where there used to be a wicked one.

“Sadly, I don’t have the time to think too much about it, ‘cause I’m here to have a good time with my friends. Later!”

She hops off from her chair, bringing her drink with her, and makes her way back to her friends, swaying her hips as she walks and making her skirt fly with the movement.

Crystal takes a moment to realize what Gigi just did, and when she finally pulls herself back together to walk over to Vanjie with their drinks, she tries to convince herself that maybe Gigi is another one of those straight girls wanting to “experiment.” It’s what she says to herself to make her cheeks cool down several degrees.

Vanjie says they can cash the bitch outside if she wants to fight, but Crystal just dismisses her with a wave of her hand.

After they finish their drinks, they hang around at Sal’s for a little longer, dancing when there is a good song playing and talking with strangers, and just before they leave, Crystal looks through the crowd for Gigi’s eyes, and she finds her staring right back. What she sees in her eyes makes her stomach twist.

‘If she’s playing hard to get, then it’s on,’ she thinks, and the next thing she thinks is that Gigi can read her mind, because the wicked smile is back into her face before Crystal withdraws her gaze.

[zwritestuff]

if you fall, i fall [jackie/nicky]

a/n: for the lovely layla @portfoliono​ ! i hope you like it, it’s 7.4K of tooth rotting nackie fluff, because you said you like jackie and your favorite ship is nackie, so i ran with it. i hope i did it justice. the prompt for this fic comes from @dailyau​ “We’re teachers and our students keep getting in trouble and causing general mayhem to try to get us together so let’s just pretend to date so they stop doing that and whoops I think I kind of like you now.”

 also- thanks for frey for beta-ing and catching the plot holes. what would i do without you?

ao3 link.

***

Jackie has to bite her lower lip to prevent a loud laugh from escaping her mouth, but as Nicky keeps on talking, it becomes nearly impossible. 

“And then they promised me they’d stop cheating on the tests if I asked you on a date. I wonder if they’d keep that promise, though, because some of them clearly cheated on these exams,” she finishes, holding up two paper sheets with same mistakes, and Jackie erupts in laughter.

It’s already a routine for them to have a second breakfast together in the teachers room on Fridays, since Nicky rarely eats breakfast on her own, and talk about the crazy stuff their students say and do to convince them they should date each other. Jackie’s not sure how it all started, nor where did they get the idea, but it had been going on ever since the school year started and at this point, they’re finding it more amusing than annoying.

Well, Jackie finds it amusing. Nicky not so much.

“The little shits are getting on my nerves,” Nicky declares solemnly, earning a slap in the arm from Jackie. “What? I’m not wrong,” she says with a cocky smile, sipping on her coffee.

Jackie cocks a brow, taking a bite from her toast. “No, you’re not. But don’t call the kids ‘little shits’,” she scolds her, and Nicky puts her hands up in mock surrender.

She’s not a fan of calling their students names —what teacher is?— but she definitely has to agree with Nicky. They are little shits. Not all of them, clearly, but the overwhelming majority is, anyway.

Jackie slouches in her chair, stretching her wrists as she sighs, looking at the pile of papers she has yet to grade. She takes a long sip from her mug and rests her head in her palms, watching closely as Nicky grades exams, muttering words in French and occasionally complaining to Jackie that an exam is clearly done with Google Translate. She chuckles softly, making the oh so typical comment about how they didn’t have Google Translate when they were in Middle School, and Nicky laughs wholeheartedly.

“When I was in Middle School, I didn’t have half the guts the kids have these days,” she says, grabbing her red marker and circling a few mistakes in a sentence. Jackie hums in agreement. “Not that it’s bad, it’s amazing. These kids are the future. I just wish they’d use it for something more important than convincing us to go on a date.” Nicky rolls her eyes, discarding the red marker and moving onto the next exam.

Jackie thinks for a moment that it doesn’t bother her half as much as it should, because they’re still children and it’s normal for them to act childishly, and that, if anything, she’s flattered the kids think her and —in their words— “the pretty French teacher with a nice accent” would ever go on a date with her if she tried hard enough, because half of the teacher staff is already after Nicky.

Well, anyone with functioning eyes is after Nicky, which only makes it more difficult to even have a shot with her.

She doesn’t care, though. Nicky and her have been good friends since Nicky started working at school eight years ago, and Jackie is fine with just being friends. For real. Nicky is fun, has great taste in movies, and always has a cup of wine ready when Jackie needs to vent after a bad day.

They work well as friends, no matter how many times the kids insist they’d go well with each other and that when Jackie is teaching the French revolution, she could have Miss Nicky over to help her with the class. 

Out of the blue, an idea crosses her mind. It’s stupid, not practical at all, far too cheesy, and, all in all, not something a grown woman in her thirties should be even thinking of doing — but it settles in her mind, buzzes around incessantly until she can’t help but say it out loud.

“We should just tell them we’re dating already, that’ll get them to stop, surely,” she says, trying to sound as convinced as someone who just suggested to their colleague they should fake-date to stop a bunch of twelve year olds from interrupting their classes.

Nicky cocks an amused brow, a smile creeping on her face as she sets her coffee mug down.

“You think? Isn’t that just adding gasoline to an already burning fire?” She inquires, sounding far too dramatic. Jackie laughs shortly, biting the inside of her cheek, regret slightly washing over. Until a complimentary idea pops up in her head.

“Well, maybe. But if we say we went on a couple dates, or, I don’t know, dated briefly and broke up, maybe that’ll be enough for the kids to drop it,” she suggests, chewing on her lower lip.

She knows it’s stupid to go to such a length to get the kids to drop it, but they’ve reported it to Principal Hall and she just laughed, saying it was just a matter of time before they stopped, or that it’d end once they advanced grades.

Nicky seems intrigued by the idea — how wouldn’t she? She loves those cheesy rom coms with that same trope, or the friends to lovers one, or anything that’s cheesy and sugary enough to leave her longing for a great romance.

Jackie’s not expecting her to say yes, though. Because Nicky is a responsible adult and-

“Alright, let’s do it.”

Oh.

Jackie blinks repeatedly before she registers what Nicky said. “For real?” 

Nicky shrugs, giving her a playful smile before taking a sip from her coffee. “I don’t see why not. It’s convenient for both of us, and if I get you to take me to a dinner during it, I have nothing to complain about.” She briefly looks up at her and gives her a sly wink.

Jackie stares at her for a moment. So it’s just as simple as that?

“Alright. Let’s do it,” she echoes, and goes back to grading papers.

And it is as simple as that.

 ***

 It may not be that simple.

For starters, they have to figure out a lot of details; like when was their first date, what did they do, and where did they go. 

They get together on a windy Saturday, in a cafeteria that serves the best pastries in the whole city, or so Nicky claims. The least thing Jackie cares about are pastries, but she appreciates it when Nicky buys her one and sets it next to her mug of hot chocolate, claiming that she has to try it or she’s breaking up with her. 

Jackie lets out an over the top offended laugh. “Why don’t we tell people that we broke up because we had an irreconcilable fight about pastries?” She suggests playfully, taking a bite of the pie. It tastes amazing, but she’s not giving Nicky the satisfaction of agreeing with her.

Luckily, Nicky is busy devouring her own slice.

“I think that’s a pretty solid reason to break up,” she replies, her mouth is half full, and Jackie scolds her softly, but Nicky dismisses her with a wave of her hand. “I don’t know why are we still fake dating if you don’t consider Shuga’s pastries the best in the whole city,” Nicky teases, and Jackie rolls her eyes with a grin.

“You got something here,” Jackie says, bringing her hand to Nicky’s chin and leaning over the table. Nicky freezes mid-movement, staring intently at Jackie as she gently brushes off the crumbles from the corner of her mouth. “There.” She smiles and withdraws her hand, not thinking much about the way Nicky brings her hand to touch where Jackie’s thumb was just seconds ago, hesitating before going back to what she was doing. She doesn’t think about it at all.

“Thank you,” she mumbles with a small smile. Jackie grins again, dismissing it with a wave of her hand.

They resume their conversation about what the hell they are going to say if questions about their relationship come up, which they will, and Jackie can tell Nicky’s seen one too many movies, because she comes up with stories worth of a Hollywood romance that Julia Roberts probably stars in.

Jackie turns her outlandish ideas a few notches down to make them more believable, and Nicky complains because, to her, it’s totally believable that their first date happened on the coldest day of the year, having dinner over at Nicky’s apartment when the power went out in the whole city, so they lit up candles, wrapped themselves in all Nicky’s blankets and cuddled until the next morning.

It sounds like something, but not a believable something.

Nicky folds her arms with a childish pout, mocking Jackie for her lack of ability to have fun with their little trickery.

“We’re already living our own Hollywood drama, we might as well have fun with it,” she debates matter-of-factly, raising her index finger and straightening her posture. Jackie knows that position and tone, it’s the one she uses when she scolds the kids. She chuckles softly.

“We could have fun, but we gotta make it believable. The kids aren’t idiots,” she points out, and Nicky clicks her tongue, placing her chin on her palm, tapping the table with her perfectly manicured nails as she thinks of another explanation.

Nicky hums thoughtfully as Jackie takes a last sip from her hot chocolate, setting the mug aside. She stares at Nicky, counting and connecting the beauty marks on her face. They remind her of the stars, and before she can get any more cheesier, an idea comes to her mind.

“You know this restaurant called Avril’s? The one that’s on a rooftop with the glass ceiling?” Jackie asks, Nicky nods shortly. “Let’s say we had dinner there and the waiters wanted to kick us out, because we stayed over closing time and were too busy stargazing, talking about everything and anything,” she offers, wondering if it’ll meet Nicky’s standards of romance. 

Apparently it does, because she claps excitedly, and her smile is so bright Jackie swears she could outshine the sun.

“That sounds amazing! And something you could treat your fake girlfriend to, y’know,” Nicky cheekily suggests, a playful grin growing in her face.

Jackie snorts. She’s not sure if she means it, but she agrees anyway. Besides, what’s the worst thing that can happen if Nicky texts her one night, demanding to be taken to Avril’s? They’ve had dinner together before, it’s not a big deal.

 ***

 It’s Valentine's Day when they decide to start with their little white lie.

The kids from the students’ council are selling flowers, with personalized little notes for an extra dollar. They do it every year to collect funds for some of the many projects they have going on. If you’re not courageous enough to buy a flower and send it to the person you like, they deliver it anonymously for five more dollars. The middle school kids are always sending each other flowers anonymously, with the occasional brave boy that walks up to his crush —usually a girl from higher grade— and gives them the flowers before running away. 

Jackie knows it’s Nicky’s favorite part of the entire year — of course it is — so she wasn’t the least bit surprised when Nicky suggested she gives her a bouquet of roses right in the middle of the hallway. Jackie preferred something a little more lowkey, but Nicky put on puppy eyes and batted her eyelashes prettily, and she said please several times, so Jackie lost the war before it began.

The bell for recess echoes through the entire school and Jackie calmly collects her stuff as the kids exit the class with clear enthusiasm. She bids them goodbye, tells them to remember to do their homework, and soon she’s alone in the class again, suddenly wondering if she should go with the plan.

Almost as if on cue, a text from Nicky comes through. 

I’m waiting for you already, xo.

She bites her lower lip. She can do this, it’s just buying flowers, walking a few feet to meet Nicky, and then hiding in the teachers’ room before she has to teach her next History class. Easy peasy.

Jackie walks up to the nearest flower stand, noticing how a few of the students she’s just said goodbye to are floating around. Perfect.

She greets the students, asks how the sells are going, and they chirp excitedly about all the anonymous deliveries they’re doing.

“Do you wanna buy some flowers, Miss Cox?” One of the girls, Melissa, asks sweetly, batting her eyelashes and pushing a bouquet of roses towards the teacher.

Jackie laughs wholeheartedly. “Sure, why not? How much for these?”

“Ten dollars.” Melissa’s smile doesn’t even quiver. Jackie quirks an eyebrow. She’s making Nicky buy her a slice of pie for this.

“Alright.” She pays for the roses, and the kids ask if they’re for her mother or someone especial. “Wouldn’t you guys like to know,” Jackie teases, thanking them for the bouquet and walking away, heart racing in her chest as she walks towards Nicky.

Nicky’s talking with the art teacher, Crystal, perched against the door of the art classroom, looking casual as ever. Sometimes Jackie wonders if Nicky really is as laid back and relaxed as she always seems or if she’s a great actress. 

Jackie takes a deep breath, and it’s not long until she can hear Crystal ramble about the art exhibition she’s prepared with the kids, and Nicky nods with a polite smile, saying something Jackie can’t quite make out.

It’s then when it hits her that other teachers don’t know about their little scheme.

Shit.

“Jackie! Hi!” Crystal chirps excitedly upon laying eyes on her, and Nicky turns to see her with a smile shiny like that day at the coffee shop. It makes Jackie feel a little lightheaded, but she manages to babble out a greeting. “How have your classes been so far?” She asks sweetly, and Jackie awkwardly settles herself next to Nicky.

“As good as they can be on a day like this, and you?” She politely asks back, and Crystal happily babbles about the cheesy projects her students turned in when she said the theme for today was love.

“One of them did a realistic portrait of a rose, and it was so pretty! It was like the ones you have,” Crystal points out innocently, but she stops for a second, blinks repeatedly, and looks back and forth between Jackie and the rose bouquet she’s holding. “Oh, you have roses. Are they for anyone in particular?” She asks, but by her tone Jackie can tell she hasn’t quite caught on the way Nicky leans against her, wrapping her hands around her bicep.

Nicky’s touch sends shivers down Jackie’s spine, and, for the love of everything holy, she tries not to blush and to keep her voice steady as she speaks.

“Yeah, they are,” she vaguely says. Because Crystal didn’t ask for who they are. And besides, she probably has an idea of who-

“Aw, that’s nice! I hope your Valentine likes them. I’m gonna buy some flowers for my own Valentine too, see ya around!”

Oh. So it really wasn’t a lie that Crystal is oblivious.

Jackie just stands there awkwardly, with Nicky still hanging off her arm. She turns to see her and hands her the bouquet.

“For you,” she simply says with a meek smile. Nicky coos, grabbing the bouquet, smelling the flowers and slightly pressing it against her chest. “You owe me a slice of pie from Shuga’s,” Jackie whispers in her ear, and Nicky rolls her eyes, smile still present on her face.

“Consider it a date,” she teases, tugging on Jackie’s arm so they start walking. “That went better than I expected,” Nicky mumbles close to Jackie’s ear and stands on her tiptoes to press a kiss to her temple. It makes Jackie’s stomach twist, but she dismisses it as nerves. A few students stare, but they act as if they didn’t notice it.

“I think so,”  Jackie replies, Nicky giggles as if she just said something funny and rests her head on Jackie’s shoulder.

For the rest of the day, Nicky sporadically texts her about her student’s reaction and how they all want to know who gave her the roses. Nicky never said her name, but she did act flustered when one of her students said Jackie’s name. It was all they needed to jump into conclusions.

Some teachers gaze at Jackie out of the corner of their eye when they see her in the teachers’ room, but she pays them no mind. 

At the end of the day, Nicky grabs her at the entrance of the school and kisses her cheek to say goodbye. Jackie’s heart skips several bits, but all she does is touch the mark of lipstick Nicky left behind, replaying the feeling of Nicky’s lips on her skin for what feel like forever, before snapping out of it and heading to her car.

 ***

 The next day everyone, teachers included, seem to know there’s something going on between them. Jackie feels as if she was sixteen all over again when she walks through the hallways, trying to keep her poised facade, while students follow her with their gazes and whisper something to their peers. 

And she thought she’d be more respected as a teacher. 

She doesn’t have any classes to conduct during first period, so she pathetically hides in the teachers’ room. The new maths teacher is there, too - Gigi, if she recalls correctly - and she stacks pens and pencils in her bun as she grades homework, seemingly not noticing Jackie’s there. So Jackie just settles herself, grabs the papers she still has to grade from her bag and sits on the other side of the table.

They exchange just a couple of words; the only time Gigi talks to her is to ask if she has white out, the rest is just her mumbling curses and wondering aloud what on God’s green Earth she’s reading.

“Do you have any idea who’s the literature teacher in eighth grade? It’d be really nice if they gave these kids some calligraphy exercises,” Gigi comments in an annoyed tone, and Jackie chuckles. 

“Oh, I tried it too. It doesn’t work, believe me. They either don’t do it or pay someone else to do it,” Jackie says with an eye roll, and Gigi quirks a brow.

“Huh, the worst part is that this is actually what I was doing when I got calligraphy homework,” Gigi chuckles, rubbing her eyelids as she sets the papers aside for a moment. “How long does it take until I can read chicken scratch?” 

Jackie laughs wholeheartedly, if Gigi knew that after all this years she still can’t read some of her students writing.

“Give or take, a couple of years,” she says instead, because she’s not about to stress this young teacher this quick and early in the morning. “It gets better the more you get used to your students.”

Gigi sighs heavily, standing up from the chair and walking up to the sink. 

“I wonder how Nicky deals with bad calligraphy, since most of the homework and exams she has to grade is already unreadable sometimes,” she says, and Jackie shifts in her seat a little, wondering if she brought Nicky up intentionally because she heard the rumors, or-

It’s too early for Jackie to be overthinking already.

So she snorts and rests her chin on her heel of her palm, loosely looking over her papers.

“She’s, uh, she’s used to it by now, I guess. She has this, um, this instinct that never fails her, y’know?” Jackie offers, trying not to stutter and failing miserably. But she sounds like someone that’s so excited to talk about her girlfriend that she can’t get the words right, so she guesses it’s a good thing. It’s the little things that sell this fake relationship.

Gigi turns around to look at her, taking a sip of water and quirks an eyebrow, the sign of a smile creeping on her face as she sets the cup down.

“How long have you been dating?” Gigi asks, straight to the point. Jackie bites the inside of her cheek. Well, that was quick.

“Couple of weeks,” she answers, suddenly noticing Nicky and her didn’t talk about how long they were dating for when they had planned this whole thing. Shit.

It seems like a good enough answer for Gigi, so she goes back to her pile of papers and takes a green pen from her bun.

“She’s never told me anything about it,” she mumbles. “You guys wanted to keep it a secret, I’m guessing? I’ve been told shit spreads quick around here,” Gigi says jokingly, causing Jackie to chuckle. That’s probably the understatement of the century.

“Sort of. We’re just taking things slow,” she comments softly, with her cheeks getting a slight shade of red. This is the first time she’s talking about her fake relationship and for some reason, it makes her feel warm and fuzzy, as if this was real and not a pretend game. 

Gigi looks up to meet her gaze one last time and smiles. “Well then, good luck. Nicky can be a bit of a pain in the ass sometimes,” she teases with a smile and goes back to grading.

Jackie mumbles a soft thank you, wanting to say that Nicky is actually funny to be around, that she always looks forward to seeing her because she always makes her laugh, and how everytime she smiles, Jackie feels lightheaded. 

But she doesn’t say anything, just goes back to grading in silence, and bids goodbye to Gigi when it’s time to leave for her class.

Her students have clearly heard the rumors, and they try to pry by asking if she’s hung out with Miss Nicky recently and if she would consider telling her to tone down their amount of homework. Jackie just laughs and announces she’ll give back the homework she took for grading. That shuts them up almost immediately.

Some of the students that like to cause problems once in a while try to bring it up again, but Jackie shuts them down at lightning speed, using the stern voice her mother used on her when she was their age. That gets the job done and makes the students fall back into silence. 

At the end of the day, she finds Nicky at the entrance, and she’s about to say goodbye to her, when Nicky places a kiss on her cheek, leaving her lipstick behind.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, honey,” she says, winking at her before turning around and heading towards her car. 

Jackie stands there for a second, watching Nicky leave as she smiles dumbly. She wouldn’t mind if this became a routine.

 ***

 “Do you wanna go roller skate tonight?” It’s the first thing that Nicky says when Jackie picks up. 

Jackie cocks a brow. It’s a Wednesday afternoon, and Jackie’s watching “I Dream Of Genie” yet again, cuddled up on her couch with a blanket. Their scheme had been going on far too well at school. Everyone knew about them, including Principal Hall, who had pulled Jackie aside to get all the information she could. And Jackie couldn’t lie to Jaida, she was her best friend after all, so she ended up telling her everything and made her swear on Beyoncé she wouldn’t say anything.

Jaida said she wished her luck trying to not fall in love with Nicky, that she’d seen how this plays out in movies, and that it was a matter of time before they end up dating for real.

Jackie had ended that conversation by leaving, saying she had work to do and hiding the blush on her face by burying her nose in her scarf.

“Nicks, we have work tomorrow,” Jackie tries to argue, and for some reason she can feel Nicky rolling her eyes on the other side of the line.

“It’s disco night over at this skating rink I know,” she says, blatantly ignoring Jackie’s complains. “Can we go? It’ll be just for a little while, please? We’ll be back before your bedtime!” Nicky teases, and Jackie laughs shortly.

“My bedtime is at nine.”

“The rink opens at seven thirty.” 

There’s a short-lived silence on the line as Jackie tries to fight back a smile. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say this is a date. 

“I’ve never roller skated before, will you teach me?” She asks, standing up from the couch and walking towards her closet. 

“Oh, I’ve never roller skated either,” Nicky confesses nonchalantly, and Jackie gasps, taken aback, immediately asking why she’s inviting her if she’s never skated before. She can almost see Nicky shrugging. “We can figure it out together. If you fall, I fall, cherié,” she offers, making Jackie blush just a teeny tiny bit.

“Alright. You’re picking me up, I suppose?”

“Of course! Wear something cute,” she says, and Jackie has no way of knowing, but she’s ninety percent sure Nicky winked when she said that.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” is all that Jackie replies before Nicky hangs up.

 ***

 Nicky is terrible at roller skating, but Jackie isn’t any better either.

They hold onto each other for dear life, rarely letting go of the edge of the rink and laughing loudly when one of them falls. 

The rink is filled with people far more talented than them, that skate in tune with the songs blasting through the speakers, and Nicky is just getting up and shaking off the dust from her butt when her favorite song, “Pookie”, comes in. It’s as if a switch is flipped. She grabs Jackie’s wrist and does her best to copy what the seemingly professional skaters are doing, while Jackie complains that she’s going to make her fall.

“I’m counting on it,” she replies with a cheeky smile, grabbing Jackie’s hands and chanting the chorus of the song as she drags her around. “Loosen up, babe!” Nicky exclaims happily, and Jackie giggles.

The fact Nicky called her babe most certainly does not make her heart race. Absolutely not.

Jackie tries to follow Nicky’s command, but she ends up stumbling again, except this time she brings Nicky down with her.

Nicky is laying next to her, and Jackie apologizes profusely once she’s able to sit up, but Nicky just laughs so carelessly and wholeheartedly that it infects Jackie too.

“Wanna grab a cherry cola?” Nicky asks, pulling Jackie up. Jackie cocks a skeptical brow.

“They still make those?” She inquires. Her hand is still laced with Nicky’s, but she doesn’t bring it up nor tries to break the contact. It’s nice, and Nicky is keeping her steady, anyway.

There’s an area with snacks and drinks, tables scattered around, so they take off their skates for a moment, and Jackie looks for a table while Nicky gets them drinks. Jackie complains, because Nicky won’t accept her money to buy snacks, to which Nicky simply replies, “I’m paying, because that’s what fake girlfriends do,” she assures her, though Jackie can swear she hesitated when she said “fake girlfriend”.

She tries to convince herself that it’s just her mind, because Nicky knows this is just a casual hang out and their relationship is still fake. They’re just friends. Nothing else and nothing more (a tiny part of Jackie wishes it wasn’t like that, though).

Nicky comes back shortly after, with two cans of coca cola and two bags of chips, jokingly saying that dinner is ready. 

“I haven’t forgotten about your promise of taking me to Avril’s,” Nicky teases, making Jackie chuckle as she sips on her coke, spilling some of the drink down her chin.

“You really haven’t, huh?” She replies, aiming for the tissues, but Nicky grabs them first.

“Let me pay back the favour,” she says, and Jackie is about to ask what she means, when she takes her chin with one hand and gently wipes away the drink with the other.

Nicky’s touch shouldn’t give Jackie chills down her spine, shouldn’t make her feel butterflies in her stomach, and on top of all, it shouldn’t make her heart beat uncontrollably.

It shouldn’t. But it does. And the smile along with the soft stroke of Nicky’s thumb against her skin when she’s done definitely don’t help.

“There. All clean,” Nicky announces with a satisfied smile. Jackie gathers herself to muster a thank you, and busies her mouth with the chips. “Hey, let’s take a selfie.” She pulls out her phone before Jackie can swallow, scooting herself closer and focusing the back, so it shows that they’re at the roller skating rink. It disappoints Jackie a little that this is probably a part of their scheme, but she smiles with her cheeks full of chips either way. 

“You look cute,” Nicky compliments her, and before Jackie can say anything, she adds, “You are cute.” There’s a softness behind her words that surprise Jackie, heat spreading down her neck, and she has no way of knowing, but she’s sure she’s blushing ever so slightly.

“You are pretty too,” she returns the sentiment once she gains her voice back. Nicky smiles sheepishly, looking down at her phone. Jackie stares at her out of the corner of her eye, and if she was a bit more delusional, she’d say Nicky is blushing.

Her own phone lits up with a notification and she sees that Nicky posted the photo they just took together, captioning it with “Love this goofball @cox_jackie” and a string of red heart emojis.

It’s the word “Love” that makes Jackie’s heart go wild.

Almost immediately she has Jaida in her DMs, along with other nosy teachers like Crystal and Brita, asking if she and Nicky are together-together for real. She covers her face with her hands, completely flustered, and hears Nicky giggle mischievously.

“I hate you,” Jackie says, her hands still covering her face.

“You love me,” Nicky teases, snuggling to Jackie’s side as she scrolls through Instagram.

“Maybe I do,” she mumbles quietly, hoping it got lost in the noise of the rink. Nicky looks unfazed, so maybe it did.

Jackie notices it’s not long before nine, but she doesn’t bring it up and neither does Nicky. Instead, they stay for as long as they can, falling flat on their butts and helping each other up, leaning on the other for balance. 

Her ass will hurt tomorrow, and she’ll have to lean on tons of coffee to survive her class during the first period, but it’s worth it. Having a nice time with Nicky is worth it.

 ***

 Their scheme is maybe getting a little out of hand.

Neither Jackie nor Nicky can step into the teachers’ room without being attacked with questions about how their relationship is going; Nicky is the cheesy one that comes up with intricate answers for simple questions. She talks about Jackie as one talks about their crush when they’re fifteen and experiencing love for the first time.

It’s adorable. It makes Jackie want this to be real oh so badly.

It was a few weeks into their pretend relationship when Jackie realized she might like Nicky more than a friend and a fake girlfriend; she wants to kiss her, give her hand a squeeze when they’re watching horror movies and there’s a scary part, buy her coffee on her way to the school because she knows Nicky doesn’t have breakfast most of the time, to text her random cat photos she finds on the internet, buy a succulent with her and take care of it, slowly adding more plants to their collection.

Well, they technically have done all of that already - except the plants part. But Jackie wants it to be real, to stop doing it to get coos in the teachers’ room and showing off on social media. 

Jackie blames it on the almost daily dates, the constant texting, the kisses she gives her at the end of the day, leaving her lipstick behind, the cuddles anywhere and everywhere. Plus, Nicky is a very convincing actress, apparently.

She’s getting too attached to all of it, but she can’t. They will “break up” eventually. So when the other teachers, and even friends out of school, ask about her relationship, she keeps her answers short, polite, and precise. Nicky always excuses her by saying she’s just very private.

Jaida, on the other hand, likes to make fun of her for the situation she’s willingly messed herself into, and the jokes only increase when Jackie admits through gritted teeth that she may or may not have fallen for Nicky. Jackie can only shut her up when she brings up how Jan, the new football coach, has been working at the school for less than a week, and yet she has a big crush on her.

It’s a Friday morning, the only day they have a little bit of peace, and Nicky is talking about how stressed the kids make her, because, apparently, they are still keen on using Google Translate instead of checking their damn notes. Jackie listens and tries to cheer her up, but there’s a question burning on the back of Jackie’s mind, though she’s not sure if she should bring it up right now.

“Do you have any plans for the weekend?” Jackie asks out of the blue, just to stop her mind from going back to those three words. Nicky shakes her head, saying something about spending it grading, binging Project Runway, and ordering take out. Then, Jackie remembers the promise she made Nicky when all of this mayhem started. “Do you wanna go to Avril’s on Saturday?”

Nicky blinks repeatedly before a smile breaks onto her face, nodding enthusiastically. “I thought you forgot,” she says softly, fidgeting with her fingers.

“I didn’t, I wouldn’t.” Jackie offers her a shy smile, biting the inside of her cheek. “Is nine okay for you?”

Nicky cocks an amused brow, “I thought your bedtime was at nine,” she teases. Jackie laughs nervously.

“You changed that, I guess.”

***

Jackie makes an effort for their fake date (but is it fake? who knows anymore), puts on her favorite dress, a pair of heels, and braids her hair carefully. Spring is coming, and so is the warm weather, but she brings a jacket just in case. Who knows, maybe Nicky might need one?

For a change, she picks Nicky up, and does her best not to crash the car because of staring at Nicky out of the corner of her eye. She looks beautiful, but what else is new? Besides, it’s the first time she’s seen her wearing a suit, and the sight makes Jackie easily flustered. It’s casual, yes, but it’s not what she would normally expect from Nicky - who definitely won’t be needing her jacket tonight.

Little did Jackie know, it was just the start of a night full of surprises. 

A waiter takes them to their table, leaves the menu and says he’ll be back to take their orders. Nicky whistles once he’s gone, looking at the place.

“Well, this sure is fancy,” she comments to break the ice. Jackie hums in agreement as Nicky looks up, her eyes widening at the sight of the ceiling. “It’s so pretty.”

Jackie’s eyes, however, are still glued to Nicky. “I’ve seen prettier things,” she says, and Nicky pulls her gaze to meet Jackie’s, a cocky grin setting on her face.

“Like what?” She inquires, and Jackie hums, feigning thoughtfulness. 

“Well, for starters, Shakira-” Nicky yelps, offended, clutching her chest. Jackie laughs wholeheartedly. 

“And here I was, thinking you’d say something nice to your fake girlfriend!”

Jackie hates how she adds the “fake” before “girlfriend”, but she doesn’t say anything. It’s not the time, not yet.

“If it’s worth anything, I think you look beautiful tonight,” she says earnestly, and her heart skips several beats when Nicky bites her lower lip, looking away with what Jackie can only hope is a blush.

“You look stunning,” Nicky returns the sentiment, and Jackie beams.

They place their orders and talk about random topics before their food arrives. Jackie can’t say she’s sure, but at times she swears she can feel a different air hang around them. An air of unsaid words and glances that linger a second too long, of blushes hidden behind drinks and flustered laughs. She hopes she’s not imagining it.

They fall into a comfortable silence once their orders arrive - well, the silence lasts just for a moment, because Nicky moans when she tastes her lasagna and insists Jackie has to try it. After a few moments of goading, Jackie complies, and is taken aback when Nicky holds out her fork and urges her to eat it before it ends up on the tablecloth. 

Jackie locks eyes with Nicky as she leans forward on the table and wraps her lips around the fork, and there’s something in Nicky’s piercing gaze that makes her shiver.

“Tasty,” Jackie concedes with a giggle, Nicky smiles proudly, but Jackie’s sure she sees her swallow thickly. She parts her lips slightly, but shuts them almost immediately, stuffing her mouth with lasagna, and Jackie follows suit by going back to her risotto.

Dinner goes by in the blink of an eye, and Jackie feels her skin prickle with anticipation and anxiety; she just wants to say it. To lay her heart out in front of Nicky in order to get an answer for once and for all, so she can start getting over a fake relationship that, for being fake, got under her skin.

She wants to bring it up, she’s itching to say it, but she can’t gather the courage to do so in a casual way that wouldn’t sound so calculated, but she doesn’t want it to be a spur of the moment either. Jackie wants to give Nicky the Hollywood romance confession she deserves - whatever happens after that, happens.

The night is coming to an end, and Jackie feels like throwing a childish fit. She can’t let it end without telling Nicky. Jackie wishes she had ordered wine, maybe that would’ve let her tongue loosen up a little.

“Should we order dessert?” Nicky wonders, vaguely looking at the menu. “I dig the chocolate fondue, honestly,” she says, looking up at her through her eyelashes, Jackie quirks an eyebrow.

“Isn’t that a little too much for one person?”

“We can share,” Nicky offers almost immediately, making Jackie snort.

“Alright, habibi.” The word slips from Jackie’s mouth before she can think much about it. It’s nice though, even if it feels a little more personal than just calling Nicky “babe” or any term of endearment in English.

“You should call me habibi more often, I like it,” Nicky comments with a giggle. And she may not know it, but it makes Jackie’s heart swoon with happiness.

***

The chocolate fondue is probably the best idea Nicky has ever had.

It’s tasty, messy, and they get their lipsticks ruined by the chocolate with the first strawberry they dip, but damn it if it isn’t worth it. Nicky repeats the action of feeding her, and Jackie feels bold enough to return the favour. Their eyes are locked the entire time, and Jackie feels as if she’ll drop the bomb at any moment.

It certainly doesn’t help that Nicky starts making jokes about never wanting to break up with her if these are the perks of their fake relationship. It stings only a little, though it creates an opportunity for her to tell Nicky the three little words that have been burning at the back of her throat for the past weeks.

“If we break up, can you still take me here? These weeks with you have been way better than most of my relationships,” Nicky comments nonchalantly, almost making Jackie drop her chocolate-covered strawberry. Her heart starts pounding against her chest, forcing herself to look up to meet Nicky's gaze.

She's staring right back at her, with a look she can't quite decipher.

Jackie inhales sharply, realizing her opportunity had arrived. She breathes in deeply, licking her lips and hoping her voice doesn't betray her.

“Aw, you're exaggerating,” she says, trying to play coy and hoping and praying it goes the way she wants to. 

It does, sort of. Nicky softens up her gaze, smiling gently at her.

“Well, not really. My relationships haven't been all that great; maybe because I'm too much of a hopeless Hollywood romantic, and I expected a lot of my relationships. I know that's bad, but- During all this time I've spent with you, it was easy to feel as if I was in a movie,” she confesses earnestly, evading Jackie's piercing gaze.

Jackie can feel her heart beating in her ears, a rush of adrenaline overtaking her as she grips on the fabric of her dress, trying to form a coherent sentence.

“Says the one who lives on reruns of ‘Breakfast at Tiffany's’,” Jackie teases, her voice coming out breathier than she would've wanted, but Nicky laughs and her nerves melt away. “If I'm being honest, I like being your fake girlfriend, it's probably one of the best ideas I've had, if I do say so myself,” she proceeds, trying to sound jokingly, but before she can get another other word in, Nicky interrupts her.

“Yeah, it's your greatest idea, though there's only one thing I don't like about it,” Nicky says, her voice quivers every other word, and Jackie frowns, not understanding for a moment until it clicks.

She stares into Nicky's eyes, and she stares right back. And then she sees it. The feeling Jackie couldn't grasp on—it's love. Or something awfully familiar.

There's silence between them for a moment, until it gets awkward, and Nicky frowns slightly, opening her mouth to say something, but Jackie interrupts her this time.

“I like you,” Jackie admits in a whisper, low and breathy, staring right into Nicky’s eyes. And for a moment she thinks it got lost in the noise of the restaurant, but by the way Nicky’s eyes grow wide, staring right back at Jackie with a sparkle she’d never seen in them, Jackie knows she caught it.

“I like you too,” Nicky says softly. “I’ve known for a while. Even before this,” she confesses, and Jackie can feel her head spinning, her heart is pounding so hard against her chest that she’s sure if Nicky tries to listen carefully, she’ll hear it despite the noise of the restaurant.

She can’t believe this is actually happening. 

“I wanted to tell you sooner, believe me, but the words wouldn't come to me, and I was afraid you would reject me, because you're so pretty and cool, and all the teachers have a crush on you, and I felt like I wasn't good enough, and-” Nicky interrupts Jackie's rambling by reaching across the table and squeezing her hand, looking at her as if she's the most precious human to have ever existed.

“All the teachers may have a crush on me, but I have a crush on just one of them. Guess who is she?” She teases, giggling giddily. Jackie smiles, her cheeks getting as red as the strawberries in front of them.

“You're so cheesy,” Jackie says with a snort, allowing herself to get lost in Nicky's soft touch for a moment, until the curiosity takes the best of her. “So, uh, does this mean this is our first real date?” She asks shyly, stroking the back of Nicky's hand.

Nicky smiles, bright and beautiful, and if it wasn’t because Jackie’s sitting, her knees would inevitably buckle.

“The first of many, hopefully.” She winks, and Jackie holds back an excited screech. 

“So, this was indeed my greatest idea,” she says, and they laugh happily, the night slipping away between giggles and blushes they don't bother to hide anymore.

[imalwaysaslutfordrag]

To New Hytes Finale

Wow. Okay. Here we are.

36k words and a exactly a year to the day later and it’s all done.

(Sorry about the fact it took a year tho, my bad on that one!)

I don’t really know how to start this other than saying thank you a million times over to every single person who’s left comments or likes or kudos. I never imagined I would write something this long or something this close to my heart. I know that 36k words is easy for some writers, the premise basic enough, but for me it was something I hadn’t had the courage to do in quite a few years. I feel so lucky to have been able to share this with y’all and I really can’t thank you enough.

I do need to thank a few specific people though.

First of all, I have to thank all the Avengers because this fic started off as a Branjie story titled Prima, but after word vomiting on discord for an hour, and recieving so much support and love from my pals, it became what you now know as TNH.

Specifically I have to thank:

@janssports for betaing every chapter and being the most amazing person. Every thought, tidbit, brainstorm, chuckle, I shared with her. I am endlessly grateful for her friendship and love and I quite literally could not have done it without her. I will never tire of singing her praises and loving her to the moon and back.

@pink-grapefruit-cafe for betaing many chapters and being my fucking angel incarnate. She helped steer me in the right direction so many times, and acted as my personal cheerleader for so long.

@freykitten for commenting on every single chapter and being so fucking supportive and lovely. As well as being a Klair/Blameron supporter. Yall know I love frey.

@you-like-girls for leaving the most wholesome and lovely comments, as well as being a super sweet person and uplifitng me constantly. I adore you so much, babe.

@starrsbby for constantly being a light in my life and bringing me so much joy with all her comments and furious messages and her lovely self. I’m so blessed to have her in my life.

And I’m sure I’m forgetting some people, but please know that I read and reread every comment and every tag and I’m so so glad to have brought this world to life.

Thank you.

[tareloin]

SORRY FOR THE LONG POST I DONT KNOW HOW TO READMORE ON MOBILE

E: I have put a read more. Me yelling about Frey (and Allon, to a degree) below. And also formatting

Sometimes I think about how some of Frey’s first few words to you were “I was worried you had brain damage for a moment there” and I laugh my ass off every time because WOW, THANKS

He does care for us tho... if you talk to him (outside of the storyline, in the hospital when you first meet him) you’re asked if you’re feeling alright and if you tell him no, he’s all like “really?” and offers you “explorative surgery”. Thanks, great first impressions!

Truth be told though I didn’t really pay much attention to him until I noticed that he and Allon talked about each other a lot in their pop-up chats/if you talk to Frey... that got me interested real fast CJSKFJSK

For reference, the two of them... kinda got a history together. In the “they were friends when they were growing up but now their jobs kind of drove a spike between them so that status as ‘best friends’ is put to question” sort of history. Also they’re opposites in terms of colorscheme/personality and honestly those are my favorite tropes. How dare Nexon

In any case, yeah. They actually do talk about each other a lot, especially Allon (surprisingly?). Frey brings up the whole “our relationship is complicated” mess if you talk to him in Tria, but Allon refers/talks to Frey far more often in his dialogue than Frey does to him. But the thing is, these lines are usually hidden away from the main storyline so you can’t REALLY see them... but this one is the most obvious in terms of showing how Allon is actually pretty concerned about Frey:

Allon: Frey will protect Luanna with his life.

MC: With his life, eh?

Allon: Don’t look anything into it!

Like... ??! This happens during the epic quest before we’re sent off to Perion, I think. Certainly he’s a little concerned about Frey (but you probably could make an argument that it can stand for anyone), the MC is just a snarky mfer

As for other obvious stuff, in closed beta for KMS2 (and probably the pre-reorg storyline after it released publicly), Frey was actually incapacitated by Bella in Umbral Passage (the place where we’re meeting Eve before we see Katvan and Lennon. Actually, you can still see Oska and Frey’s models there...). He had to be rushed back to headquarters and treated there temporarily before getting sent back to Tria, BUT— the thing we’re focusing on is Allon’s response to that.

His response? “Frey’s a strong guy... he’ll recover soon...” (Translated roughly). Like. Damn. Allon,,, he has so much faith in his friend-rival-coworker’s recovery but it’s so clear he’s worried,,,

And it just makes me sad. You know what also makes me sad?? KNOWING HOW FREY GOT INCAPACITATED IN THE FIRST PLACE??

So we know that Oska and Frey were there in Umbral Passage together, right? Turns out, they had been ambushed by Bella’s forces and they couldn’t fend them off completely. Bella actually was aiming to attack OSKA, but instead FREY TOOK THE HIT?? AAAAAA???! Like fuck me, dude. He really does take his job as a guard seriously.

Frey just is really passionate about protecting others/Tria, it’s clear from his talksprite changes in key moments like the introduction of the siege on Henesys (“We can’t turn their backs on them!”) and the siege on Tria

GOD I LOVE THE SIEGE OF TRIA SM FOR FREY. I mean it hurts bigtime but duuuude omfg... so much character. He gets really pissed off when Karl tries to get Eve/Lennon arrested like?? Holy shit. He’s not even mad about the situation at hand rn (he should be though), he’s more worried about the men who had fallen in battle??

(Paraphrased, probably)

Enough! Look outside! There are dozens of men lying dead and wounded. Do you really think this is the time for your petty infighting?

Like. Fuck. Holy shit. Frey really does care about his men. After Joddy (a recently graduated guard) dies, Frey literally honors him and brings up his name several times during the next arc (Sky Fortress)?? Like... not even Luanna remembered his name... but Frey literally mentions him 2-3 times (during SF launch and also on the SF message boards). And if that doesn’t say something about him.

Frey’s pretty fucked after the siege though, if you check the questlog in the quest “Guard Captain’s Lament” it says that Frey looks like he’s aged 10 years. That shit hit him hard, man. But even after everything, even though the MC is like hey, you holding up okay? Frey’s just like. “I’ll grieve in my own time. For now, it’s up to me to stand as a pillar for the empire” or something like that and I’m like NOOO FREY PLEASE LET YOURSELF GRIEVE.

Hell, they actually CHANGED that from KMS? I’m pretty sure KMS2 had him say something like “Seeing all those men lost... it’s not easy, but I have to move on.” (I’ll have to find the original text later) but... Q_Q... Frey... please...

Anyways TL;DR: Frey’s my favorite character in MS2, he has a lot of little interactions with my faves that I really like and love to overanalyze, and I still have thoughts about him... so stay tuned.