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summervale · 5 months ago

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「Merriment」

Third-person reader insert! Y/N is the younger sister of King Robert Baratheon. Her house sigil is a stag, yes, but it seems she has a particular fondness for hounds.

Contains: Reluctant pining, kissing, mature situations Words: 2,311

UNFINISHED WORK: This was supposed to be a long, multi-part piece which is why it takes so long setting up! This was part one and is about halfway finished. Figured there's a lot of Sandor fans that might enjoy a small something cute <3

No husband and no responsibilities made for a very happy woman indeed. Small wonder she was all smiles and riddles and gayeties; she must, the commonfolk thought, be the happiest woman in all the seven kingdoms.

This was likely true.

She was forever laughing. There was a smile on her face always, it seemed, and everywhere she went she took merriment with her. Her ladyship took great pleasure in riddles and games and shows of mummers and fools, and King’s Landing had not hosted a tourney that did not have her there in the pavilions in many a year. She was a friend to all regardless of birth or station or reputation (within reason), and for this she was quite loved, but also quite resented. The resentment was paid little mind—turning a blind eye and smiling was much more fun, as it was often irksome to those who were loth to favor her.

Y/N Baratheon. Lady of Storm’s End, younger sister to Stannis and Robert, older sister to Renly. She possessed the same appetite for amity as Robert coupled with the mirth and grandeur of Renly. Of Stannis, it was said, they shared only a name. Still she insisted she adored all her brothers equally, “even the gloomy one.”

Much was afoot in King’s Landing.

King Robert had named Lord Eddard Stark new hand of the king, and Stark had arrived with a host of his own and his two daughters in tow. This was cause for celebration, and celebration was cause for a tourney, and where there was a tourney (or a celebration), Lady Y/N was to be found.

And she was found in King’s Landing quite a lot, of recent.

There was a rumor, often dubbed a vicious and untrue one, that though her house sigil may be the King's own stag, Y/N had a particular fondness for hounds.

The sun was two hours from setting when a host of black and yellow arrived at The King's Gate. In came banners that bore stags, and a spate of wagons bringing wines and cheeses and polished pears from Storm’s End. An impatient rider rode ahead of the rest, leaving behind a cry of protest as she thundered away, alone, up the streets of King’s Landing.

She arrived with a well-lathered horse and a swirl of her cloak. A party had time to gather in the yard of the Red Keep; a paltry welcoming committee with little time to prepare.

But the King was there—of course the King was there.

Had she not already been grinning, she would have grinned. “There’s my favorite brother,” said Y/N, dismounting and already forgetting her palfrey.

The look on Robert’s face was strange, though, and uncharacteristic of the Robert she knew and loved. The years had not been kind to him (as was made most evident by his growing waistline), and his face was stern, drawn into a scowl, his brow furrowed.

Is he not happy to see me? she thought even through her smiles and excitement. Gods, he looks as grim as Stannis, maybe twice as much. When she made to throw her arms about his neck, he took her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length instead.

“That’s your grace to you, woman. I am the King, or have you forgotten?”

The King’s sister opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, which was done dumbly and not unlike a fish.

The ruse was short-lived.

Robert Baratheon—King Robert Baratheon—broke into a roar of laughter like that of a bear made human. Still holding his dearest sister by the shoulders, he gave her a hearty shake. “Your face!” he boomed. “You should have seen it!”

Her smile returned, then her laughter. “You’re a fool if ever there was one, Robert!” She threw her arms around his neck even as he shook her, and the big king lifted his little sister in his arms and hugged her so tightly, so fiercely, that the now-arriving party feared the king may crush their lady.

Robert didn’t crush Y/N, though. No, they were both used to it. “You’re crushing me, Robert,” she huffed at last, prompting the king to drop her back down onto the ground.

He clapped her on the shoulder. “Right then, let’s get inside. We have much and more to catch up on, and there’s a flagon of wine calling my name.”

“Every flagon of wine calls your name, your grace.”

The King was laughing again, then, and the King’s sister was smiling.

That, as far as the two Baratheons were concerned, was the way it always had been, and the way it always would be, until one buried the other.

Meeting the King’s party was a grand ordeal, though Y/N had already met most of the partygoers in attendance on at least one occasion. Of course she knew the Lannisters, her brother’s family by law, and she’d met Lord Eddard Stark once before. Lord Eddard’s daughters were new to her, however, and a few of the faces at court as well. Having been taught well, she recognized most of the family names and colors, smiling and shaking hands and doing all the formalities a lady should do.

The occupants of the Red Keep’s great hall that night came from houses big and small, known and unknown, and saw the attendance of lords and ladies, knights, hedge knights, bards, poets and singers, fools in their motley and mummers with their painted faces. There were cards being shuffled and dice being thrown. Serving girls brought plate after plate of selections from the kitchens: stuffed capons, wine-glazed lamb, honeyed figs, dark breads with thick crusts, sweet lemon cakes still-warm from the ovens. The courses seemed never-ending and the wine never stopped flowing.

“Never was there such a party before, brother,” declared Y/N. She lifted a gilded goblet with a flourish, and rich, purple wine splashed over the rim and down her hand. She was the picture of effortless joy.

And she knew it, too.

If she hadn’t known it, the guests would have reminded her; the way they flocked to her in throngs and yammered on and on whenever she should happen to lend an ear—which was often. Round and round she circled the crowd as the evening wore on and the wine continued to flow, searching the room for a familiar face—a face that would stand out even in the most crowded of rooms.

Her gaze passed the lords and ladies, passed the knights in their polished armor, until at last she found her mark.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, stood near the far wall, obscured halfway in the shadows. His face was grim, as it usually was, pulled tightly into a scowl that had long since worn its lines permanently into his features. The burn scars that marred half his face were highlighted by the flickering torchlight, giving him an even more fearsome appearance.

She knew Sandor was not like the other knights, not like the men who fawned over ladies with flowery words and grand gestures. He was rough, blunt, and often downright rude.

He was the perfect change of pace.

Oft she sought him when at last she could take the rinse-and-repeat of perfumed nobility no longer. She wove through the crowd with ease, exchanging smiles and nods as she passed, until she finally stood before Sandor.

"Sandor," she greeted him plainly. “It’s been too long.”

He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. For an overly long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a grunt, he inclined his head slightly. "My lady," he replied, his voice as rough as the gravel on the King’s Road.

Y/N smiled up at him, unfazed by his gruffness. "Why do you stand here all alone?" she asked, her tone teasing. "Surely even hounds deserve a bit of merriment."

Sandor huffed, a sound that could have been a laugh if it had come from anyone else. "Merriment’s for fools," he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words.

“Forgive me, then, for it seems I’ve forgotten my motley.”

“So it seems.”

She knew he was not a man of many words, especially when it came to matters of the heart. But she also knew that, for reasons she could not fully explain, she had become someone he tolerated more than most.

Perhaps it was a royal decree by Robert unbeknownst to her. And what a royal decree that would be! The thought made her laugh aloud, which only earned her a raised eyebrow in response.

He indicated the floor from which she’d just come. "Motely or not, you should jingle along with the other fools,” he said, though his tone was less stern than usual.

"And you should be out there with your fellow dogs," said she, “but here we are."

Sandor's lips twitched as if they might have remembered how to smile for half a moment. “Surprised you’re not dancing again. It went well for you last time.”

With one sentence he had broken the façade she wore so well. Her look of smug mirth disappeared from her face in an instant and was replaced instead by one of flustered surprise.

It had been a celebration much like this one and she was deep in her cups by the time the sun had set and the dancing had begun. Y/N had been at the heart of it, twirling and dancing with little care, passing hand from one lord to another, from knight to knight, breathless and flushed and shoes long forgotten.

The next thing she knew, she was stumbling, and a moment later, toppling entirely. The ground rose up to meet her with an unpleasant wack!, and the pain in her cheek was overshadowed only by a pain in her ankle. She’d gotten too carried away and twisted something, it seemed, and hadn’t even felt it until she was picking herself back up off the ground.

Or, well, trying to pick herself back up off the ground. The usual cloud of courtiers buzzed around her in an attempt to see her upright again, but the pain in her ankle swelled red hot and angry.

A shadow passed, then, and she had looked up, her vision slightly blurred from the wine, to see Sandor Clegane’s gruff face above her. There had been no mocking grin or cold stare, just a look that might have been concern on a more expressive man. “You’re alright.”

Without another word, he had scooped her up in his arms, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all.

Y/N had gasped, her hands instinctively clutching at his shoulders. "I can walk!" she had protested, though she hadn’t made any real effort to leave his arms.

"Not on that ankle you can’t.”

And so she had let him carry her, through the bustling hall and up the winding stairs of the Red Keep, all the way to her chambers. It had been awkward, but it had also been…

More.

“You’re quite strong,” she said to him, which earned only a grunt of acknowledgement.

Something—something—fluttered inside of her when she saw him so close; the burned skin unevenly healed, the scruff that dusted his face, the muscle of his neck that disappeared beneath his armor where her prying eyes could not follow—but her imagination could.

When they reached her chambers, he had set her down gently on the edge of her bed. She had looked up at him, her heart pounding in a way that had little to do with the wine. As he made to release her, she caught the back of his neck with her hand and held him there, inches from her face.

She’d expected him to break free, to pull away, to do anything else. But he stayed.

He stayed there like that, his lips inches from hers.

He had hesitated, his expression torn between wanting to leave and the pull of something deeper that they both felt there between them. They both smelled of wine and honeyed mead, lips sweet.

She didn’t know who kissed who, but in half a heartbeat they were entangled.

Sandor’s breath came ragged against her mouth. Her fingers tangled in his hair. She bit his lip and he growled. It was fast, animal, raw want.

And a longtime coming.

When he pulled away, she pulled him back in again, and he didn’t fight her. Breathless, she’d pulled herself up by his shoulders and onto her knees, the pain in her ankle unfelt and forgotten. Her hands cupped his face and she pulled him in, in, in, until her chest was flush with his and she could feel every rise and fall of his on hers.

At last he’d taken her by the elbows and pushed her away, and it ended as suddenly as it had started.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he told her.

“But I haven’t had enough of you.”

“You’ve had your fill of that, too,” he said, turning cloak and leaving.

“I’m quite certain I haven’t had my fill of you.”

He paused mid-step and looked at her over his shoulder. “You don’t want that,” he assured her. There was something dangerous in his eyes, something sharp as steel and burning hot.

Y/N leaned back on the bed. “I know what I want,” she said, wishing she could stand and go to him, to pull him by his cloak and his armor and whatever else she could get her hands on—something lower than his beltline. “I’ve known for years and years.”

Slowly, deliberately, Sandor crossed the room again, silhouetted against the warm torchlight that poured in through the still-open door. “Trust me,” he said, towering over her, leaning in close. “You might want to get your fill of me, but you don’t want me to get my fill of you.”

Her breath left her body in a shuddering shiver.

Again he had turned, then, and didn’t stop to look back at her that time.

#game of thrones #unfinished fic #game of thrones fic #sandor clegane #sandor clegane x reader #fluff

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rise-my-angel · 2 years ago

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Heart of the Great Wolf

Masterlist

Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn)

Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Pre Series Content and Extras:

Scattered Memories of the Starks

Shadows of their Hatred

The Quiet Wolf's Reminisce

The Stag and The Young Wolf

The Lost Chapters of Jon Snow

A New Life's Darkened Lust

Interlude of Jealous Desires

The Trials of Resurrection

The Injured and the Perverse

NSFW Alphabet (contains spoilers for part 3 and 4)

Woes of a Modern Day Love (a modern!au)

Fresh Heals of Old Pain (a modern!au part 2)

The Aftermath of Envy (a modern!au part 3)

Stoking the Flames (a modern!au part 4)

Then Came the Explosion (a modern!au part 5)

A Family Conflicted (a modern!au part 6)

A Jealousy of Infighting (a modern!au part 7)

A Small Bundles Flash Forward (a modern!au part 6.5)

A Snowy Wolf Pup (a modern!au holiday drabble)

Part 1:

Wolves of the Lone Stag

Mouth of the Lion's Den

An Intrigue Drenched in Blood

Standing Behind a Betrayal

A War of Tragic Beginning

Part 2:

King and Queen in the North

Shadow of a Fiery Stag

Reunion of New Enemies

Pleasure of Conflicted Desire

The Sanctity of Children

What Lies Beyond The Veil

Part 3:

The Cost of Our Sins

Dragged Through the Violence

Only the Cold

Fire for the King's Blood

Part 4:

Ashes of Various Grey

Plans of Pain and Horror

Afraid of a Ravens Flight

Trust in the Gentle Rasps

Visions in Eyes and Flames

A Bastard or The White Wolf

Part 5:

Home of Bloodsoaked Stone

Blazing Fire of Storming Ice

Ghostly Dreams of Old

Sailing Through the Glow

The Last Dragon

The Winter Rose

Part 6:

The Clash of Three Kings

Shrouded Truth in Sickness

Winged Shadow in the Sky

Light in the Darkest Storms

Peeking the Realms Woes

Blood, Roses and All Lies

Broken Love of the Dead

The Souls Tethered in Death

Wolves of the Past and Back

The Crows and The Sight

Part 7:

A Brewing of New Mystery

Great Wolves of White Mists

Darkness Heavy in a World

Past Becomes the Present

The Thing in the Night

Waving Tides of Turmoil

Greenish White Boodraven

Dark Blood of Blinding Light

And Wait for the Snows

Part 8:

Into the Haunted Forest

Fist of the First Men

Through the Frost Fangs

News From the South

Lies Within the Sunlight

Night of Two Distances

Screams of Cracking Ice

The Final Marching Trek

Fear Overtakes a Night

Wolves Teeth and Claws

Part 9:

Forcing Past Our Safety

One Whirlwind to the Next

Court of the North

Glimpse into the Rains

Scattered Pieces of Truth

Reunions and Realizations

Laws of Gods and Men

A Mockingbirds End

The Cold and the Rats

Blood Filled Danger

Memories of a Dead Past

The Winterfell Sept

Young as Stained Red

#jon snow x reader #jon snow x you #robb stark x reader #robb stark x you #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jon snow #robb stark #game of thrones imagine

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sandersstudies · 1 year ago

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I sincerely believe there is a gap in genres between Novels Using Catholic Aesthetic and Catholic Novels.

Like, a Catholic Novel is similar to a Catholic film. It’s primarily consumed by people who are active Catholics looking for Catholic media that reflects or enforces their beliefs.

Now, Catholic Aesthetic appears a lot in other genres, perhaps especially horror. The terror of exorcism, or the piety/remorse associated with the confessional or a cathedral, for example. They all make for great imagery and typically attract non-Catholic audiences, and sometimes Catholics are actually offended by inaccuracies or contradictions to the catechism.

BUT. SOMETIMES. As somebody who studied Catholic apologetics in college (literally defense of the faith) and now lives a relatively secular life but keeps rosaries and incense on hand, I feel like Catholicism has so much history and superstition that people DON’T lean into because most people stop at that obvious imagery so they can appeal to a wider audience.

More of “this is my blood, this is my flesh, given up for you, take and eat”! More relic horror! Their bones live in the crosses of Christ’s crucifixion! More parading a skull on a gilded pillow! More Virgin Mother weeping blood! More of the sheer bodily horror of developing spontaneous stigmata! More crucifixion and burning alive and impaling yourself on the sword of martyrdom! More horror of Felicity and Perpetua! More horror of Saint Joan! More terrors of Saint Olga of Kiev! More horror of seeing a stag in the woods bearing a glowing orb of the Holy Ghost in its antlers! It’s demons, it’s ritual, it’s spirits, it’s eldritch, Lovecraftian horror at its best! It’s fear of God and his awesome (as in awe-inspiring) power!

That! Shit! Fucks!

#horror #body horror mention

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sierrawitch · 1 month ago

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Altars & Sacred Spaces

by autumn sierra

Altars are very personal for each practitioner, both religious and secular. Some use them, others don’t, some establish sacred spaces specific to their path.

I recently came across questions about outdoor altars, how to create them, what to include, as well as advice for altars in general. So, I thought it appropriate to cover all of this in one cohesive discussion.

Wiccan Altars

The Wiccan altar is, I think, the most commonly known arrangement. Wicca is so widespread that many conflate it with witchcraft in essence. Of course it uses aspects of witchcraft in its practice, but it is a religion built on the foundation of the god and the goddess (oftentimes vaguely referenced in such a way).

The Wiccan altar is very specific. Each tool and representative token is displayed just so, and can be done in a symbolic pattern as well. There is a statuette for each deity, along with their respective candles, items to depict the elements (incense for air, salt for earth, water for—obviously—water, candles for fire), traditional offerings of food and/or drink (or any other types of offering one wishes), a bell for cleansing and invoking the gods, and a wand and athame for ritualistic purposes. A pentacle can be placed or drawn onto the altar’s surface, but I don’t think it’s necessarily required as much as it is a symbol of protection, cleansing, spiritual connection, etc.

There is a specific ritualistic approach to practicing Wicca, which means that the altar contains everything required to perform said rituals. Other items and supplies may be added depending on the type of ritual or spell performed.

Meditation Altars

Meditation altars are oftentimes simplistic and vary in design based on the practitioner. The simplicity of this type of arrangement helps to maintain focus on the symbolism of one or a few items to achieve the desired meditative state, or to meditate on a specific topic.

Sound bowls, incense, crystals, statuary, elemental tokens, and other items can be incorporated depending on the intention for the meditation. The arrangement of meditation altars can change according to the practitioners needs, or stay the same to aid in grounding.

Deity Altars

Deity altars differ for each religion. A Christian altar will not be the same as a Buddhist one, or a Norse pagan one, or a Shinto one. Each deity altar is specific to one deity, or can honor multiple of the same pantheon.

I would say it’s best practice to separate deity altars based on the pantheon if you are eclectic. Gods from China aren’t the same as gods from Ireland (although they may represent similar aspects), and are venerated in different ways. It’s respectful to keep this in mind moving forward with designing and assembling deity altars in the home.

Unlike Wiccan altars, statuary isn’t required for deity altars (as seen above), but is nice to have as a visual representation of the deity’s “mortal” form. They usually incorporate plants, stones, incense and/or candles, dishes for food/drink/item offerings, and other tokens that the deity would like or represents them in some way.

Above is an image of someone’s personal Cernunnos altar. Deer antlers and bones are closely tied to Cernunnos as he is associated with stags, and has antlers himself. Deer represent the wild freedom of nature. Pinecones and acorns represent the cycle of life, fertility, growth, strength, and fortune. The framed art is most likely a representation of Cernunnos and his aspects, and the stones are collected and placed on the altar as offerings in a small half circle. The tall stone in the middle of the partial ring most likely represents Cernunnos as well, and the incense is lit to cleanse and offer as a gift of scent.

Intention Altars

Intention altars (or what I term them to be) are spaces dedicated to long-term spells and intentions. A great example of this is money spells. I personally have a money spell set atop my bookshelf surrounded by items which attract financial prosperity. It’s not large or flamboyant like the one shown in the above image, but it’s practical and gets the job done as I need it to. And it’s been in that same place, refreshed every now and again, for a few years now.

Intention altars can work for any long term intention or goal you’re working toward. Be it glamour, attracting money, attracting love, protection, education and enlightenment, or other purpose. These altars don’t have any parameters aside from what the practitioner deems necessary for their spell or to empower their intention.

Ancestral Altars

Ancestral altars are dedicated to passed loved ones and relatives. Not only are these altars nice for remembering the dead and showing them appreciation, but they also act as conduits for communication with them. You can ask them for support, guidance, and protection as respected companions in your practice. Communication also becomes easier during the thinning of the veil at Samhain and other liminal times like dawn, dusk, and midnight.

Items placed on an ancestral altar are specific to the practitioner’s culture and familial traditions, as well as what each departed loved one liked during their lifetime. This includes photos of the departed, notes/cards, personal trinkets of the departed like jewelry or lucky charms, candles, incense, flowers, stones/crystals, dishes for offerings, and anything else preferred for that specific altar.

Outdoor Altars

Outdoor altars have the same applications as indoor ones, except they’re out in nature rather than in the home. Many people create outdoor altars to venerate deities or nature spirits, others act as ancestral memorials. The options are nearly endless. There are a lot of materials available to use in outdoor altars, and each practitioner can decide whether their altar should be purely constructed with biodegradable and wildlife-safe items, or incorporate other objects from the home. (If you choose to make an altar in a secluded area of nature, please use wildlife-safe items if it’s not a location you plan on visiting regularly for upkeep. Keep our planet and its inhabitants healthy and thriving!)

Stone stacking has been particularly popular throughout history. Ancient megaliths provide evidence for mankind’s affinity for balancing rocks both big and small. Incorporating stone stacking into an outdoor altar can make a sturdy table, or a decorative wall protecting the altar from harsh weather.

Sacred Spaces

Sacred spaces are what you decide they are to you. Is it a place of worship, or connection to the earth? A place to disconnect from society, or familiarize yourself with spirits and the sìdhe? Or all of the above?

Sacred spaces can appear differently as well. It could be a clearing in a forest, or a set of stones arranged in a way that would otherwise seem improbable. It could appear as a cliffside, or a single tree, or even a space within your home. Liminal spaces are included in this list as well (see the photo above).

Regardless of the space(s) you choose as your sacred space, it is the space where you can carry out ritual and reestablish yourself in your practice through meditation, spell work (if applicable), and simply being.

Altars exist in sacred spaces. So, whether you think you have a sacred space or not, if you have an altar, chances are you have already created a sacred space of your own rather than found one out in the world.

Challenge yourself to discover a sacred space in nature. A home away from home. A place where you can go that’s uniquely separated from modern ways of life and reconnects you to your spirit and the spirit of the earth. This alone is a great exercise in maintaining a strong relationship with your personal practice.

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rise-my-angel · 1 year ago

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The difference however, between whoever is Azor Ahai and Jon Snow, is that nothing Jon does will ever be in the name of any prophecy or destiny. He doesn't care if someone thinks he is or isn't a "chosen one".

Jon does what he does because he is a good man fighting for those who can't fight back and being some mythical prophesied savior is something he would consider to be grossly egotistical to allow himself.

It's why I refuse to ever speculate if Jon is Azor Ahai, because nothing about some legend will he let effect who he is as a man. He doesn't care about it and doesn't think others should care about if he is or isn't either.

got/asoiaf meme: 3 major characters: jon snow

#i think azor ahai is a red herring anyways #a savior that doesnt exist because true feats of greatness are rarley miraculous acts by one man #that and i think rhaegar acts as a cautionary tale anyways #he thought he was the prince that was promised and it gave him a god complex to do horrific things because he was the supposed savior #whereas jon would refuse such a title if it meant letting such a god complex influence his choices #though if im being cheeky #jon was born from a war started with fire when aerys burned rickard and brandon stark #jon was born through the slaying of animals in a war of wolves and stags against dragons #and jon was born through the slaying of nissa nissa #who for jon is lyanna #his mother the only woman hes spent his life wishing were there wishing he knew and hoping she loves him #and lyanna seemed to have died as a result of a complication in giving birth to jon #so he fits fire animals and nissa nissa all as a result of the circumstances of his birth #born after the red comet meaning born admist salt and smoke as well #if you told jon all that hed be like shut up im king now i have 800 meetings to attend to by lunch take your stupid legends somewhere else

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agroteraa · 1 year ago

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Actaeon

Oliver Quick x f!Reader

My fic masterlist

Part 1.

Part 2: Artemis

Part 3.1: The Wrath of the Stag (ch.1)

Part 3.2: The Wrath of the Stag (ch.2)

Warnings: smut, voyeurism, masturbation, fingering, light choking.

Word Count: 5K

"Venetia! I also wanted to..."

But she had already triumphantly closed the bathroom door. You slammed the door a couple of times, but all you heard in response was the muffled sound of water and a Paris Hilton song blasting from the speakers that were in that room. She would definitely listen to the entire album during her bath procedures, and certainly more than once.

Clearly, this would take a long time. It was too long to wait - you'd been shivering from the cold. Nothing special had happened, you just opened the window in your room and were so engrossed in reading a book that you forgot about everything in the world. The summer days in Saltburn were hot, but still the nights gave you chills sometimes. So, every fascination has its price to pay.

The second bathroom in your wing of the house broke down tonight. That was bad, because the servants could not cope on their own, and it was too late to call the plumbing, and there was no such urgent need when there were several bathrooms. It was a pity the senior Cattons didn’t know that when Venetia used to occupy the only bathroom nearby, that was indeed the most urgent need.

You didn't want to bother Felix and Venetia's parents, much less use their bathroom. James and Elspeth were friends of your parents and this was far from your first summer in Saltburn, but still it would be somehow too inconvenient, they were not your uncle and aunt, after all. There was also no question about the servants' bathroom, it seemed even more inconvenient for you to occupy a bathroom that was used by more than 10 people at once.

There was only one option left if you wanted to lie in the bath for as long as you wanted so that no one would bother you, and right now.

You went down to the living room, where you could hear the sound of the TV. Felix was sitting next to Oliver, smoking a cigarette, switching channels and talking cheerfully to his friend.

"Hey Felix!" you spoke to the guy, and he turned to you, his face reflecting the blue light from the TV in the semi-darkness.

"Yes, Y/N?" he smiled.

"Mm... Can I use your bathroom now? We’ve got one tub malfunctioning, and Venetia got stuck in the other, deciding to do Live at Saltburn's Bathroom 2007, no less..."

You specifically said "your bathroom," looking at Felix the whole time. It was more correct to address both guys at once, but you just couldn't look into Oliver's eyes like that and ask him to use his bathroom with Felix.

"Say no more," he grinned, "Of course! Go ahead, enjoy yourself!"

"Thank you," you smiled and nodded at him, and at that moment you finally looked at Oliver. Unlike you, he had been doing nothing but staring at you all this time. You looked into his blue eyes on a face that was bathed in blue light, which made his eyes seem even more piercing. But he never said anything, absolutely nothing. His expression was unreadable. Was he offended that you didn't address him?

You smiled shyly at Oliver, nodded too, and left the room, bumping into Farleigh in the doorway, who was carrying a large pack of crisps.

"Hello, Y/N! How are you... hey Felix, did you switch that reality show that I was watching?!"

"Of course, yes, because no one wants to watch it except you," Felix replied.

"What? It's "Big Brother", actually! Yes, it's a great show, and we all need a little drama sometimes late in the evening! I bet Oliver likes it too. Yes, Oliver?"

"Oh, please!" Felix rolled his eyes and teasingly began to put the remote away from the hands of the approaching Farleigh.

You chuckled and finally left the room. You never looked at Oliver again, but you could swear that you felt his gaze burning into your back.

God, could he really be offended? Or maybe you did something or said something before and didn't realize it? It seems that Oliver had been noticing a lot, but always kept everything to himself.

Oliver, this guy. You met him at Oxofrd and you chatted and even went to some pubs with him and Felix a few times, but you didn't understand what he was like then. To tell the truth, you still had no idea, but the main reason why you were afraid to look him in the eye when you asked about the bathroom was that you thought he would immediately feel and find out about the crush that had been developing for him for the second month now of your growing closer with him here, in Saltburn.

The only thing you could say for sure was that he was not as insecure and awkward himself as you thought at university, rather he was silent and observant, knowing the value of himself, his words and actions. Attentively listening and being generally deep. His inner confidence and even some kind of mystery began to intrigue you in earnest.

Walking through the corridors of the beautiful old manor, you thought to yourself that you were even glad that everything turned out that way with your bathrooms. The thought of you lying in the same hot tub that Oliver lied almost every night strangely excited and turned you on.

You reached the right room, looking around - it was quiet and cozy. You immediately started taking water into the bathroom, and while you were waiting, you started walking in circles. Here was Felix's bathroom table, next to which his red robe was carelessly hung, two crushed toothpastes and a brush with slightly protruding bristles. You imagined that he was brushing his teeth with the speed and power of a blender in order to quickly deal with this chore and get down to much more interesting things that another day had prepared for him.

You laughed softly at this thought, and then went over to Oliver's side.

Everything was surprisingly neat in contrast to his neighbor, one almost full paste, one brush, two neatly folded towels. You wonder where his robe was. Did he come and go without it?

Gods, you started to think about something wrong. But it was too late – you already started imagining Oliver in his underwear, how he comes into this bathroom, takes them off and lies down in a hot tub… Or maybe he comes and goes here right away without underwear? Ugh... that's enough.

You decided not to lock the door from Felix's room - the boys were obviously absorbed in domination for the telly, besides, they know that you were here, so you just loosely closed the door. No one should come in.

The bathtub was almost full of water, you impatiently took off your clothes and decided to put them together with your bathrobe... where? You didn't want to go to Oliver's side - it was too minimalistic and clean. And besides, it seemed like... too intimate for some reason. But Felix's side would tolerate it, also there were a couple of spare towels in the corner that you forgot to take.

You carefully lowered yourself into the bath, the hot water started nibbling your skin. God, it felt so good. You gradually began to stretch and relax.

There was something about lying in an empty room in the bath while the water was still bubbling. The light was pleasantly dimmed, and the air in the room was gradually getting hot and sticky. This kind of environment had always calmed you down and turned you on at the same time. Except that there was a lot more of the excitement this night rather than the calming.

Thoughts of Oliver came back to you. The way he leaves his room, comes into this very bathroom, fills it just like you did. He lies down in it, as you were lying now, inhales hot air and breathe out even hotter air. Beads of sweat are gathering on his body. And you'd already seen his body too many times while you were swimming or sunbathing. Even you, being more of a face girl rather than a six-pack girl, could not sometimes look away, it was good that most of the time you were wearing sunglasses and he hardly noticed anything. Usually you rather admired his face and beautiful eyes, but now, in your fantasies, his eyes were closed, so your imagination stopped at his beautiful figure and, without too much modesty, began to write it out in details.

You couldn't help yourself, except…

The fingers on your left hand began to lightly brush your lips from left to right, you felt your own hot breath. You wondered if they were…

Then the hand began to descend lower, to your breasts, gently cupping one breast. Fingers slowly drew circles around your nipple, and then squeezed it, causing you to bite your lip and inhale sharply.

...if it were his hands, then....

The water was hot, but the heat below you was even stronger. Unable to resist it, your hand moved even lower, carefully making its way through your folds. You started caressing yourself. All these stoked emotions, tension, unspoken words lately, it was all too much. Of course, when you turned to Felix, the first thing you thought about was that it wasn't him using this bathroom, but someone else. What if he did it too, right here in this place?

...You wonder if those were his hands, would they have caressed you the same way?

This and the previous thoughts and the briefly popped images in your head finally brought you to the peak.

"Oliver..." you whispered loudly, unable to keep that name on your lips.

He almost gave himself away at this point.

Of course, you weren't alone all this time. While Felix and Farleigh were arguing over the right to own the remote, Oliver sat next to them, unable to believe that this was happening. You were going to his bathroom. Of course, in his thoughts now (and maybe in his plans for the future) it wasn't just you and Felix's bathroom, no. You, lying in his bathtub, was the only way to say it correctly and so... luscious.

He was already preoccupied with these thoughts from the very beginning, when you innocently asked Felix about the bathroom, and was just waiting for the right moment to slip away from this company. Fortunately, Elspeth soon joined them, and James came in after her, so, thanks to new guests in the room and the still ongoing discussion about what the Catton family would be watching on TV that evening, Oliver was able to slip away without much difficulty.

He impatiently followed your footsteps, counting in his head whether it was enough time to pass for you to look around there, fill the bath, lie down in it and start relaxing. Thinking about the last words, Oliver began to tense up in a certain sense and in a certain place. Yes, he decided, enough time had passed.

Very quietly, he walked through Felix's dark room to the crack in the door, which left a narrow strip of light from the next room. You were lying in the bath. God, it was a pity that he missed the moment when you took off your clothes and lay down there, but it was also good. He would see everything again, and very soon.

Oliver breathed very quietly and slowly.

God, how beautiful you were, even that small part of your body that could be seen from the bathroom and was also limited to the door crack was inexpressibly beautiful to him. He felt like an ancient Greek myths character, some kind of satyr watching the bathing of a beautiful nymph. No, the goddess. He thought of himself as Actaeon, and you were now his Artemis, taking your bath. A hunter who made his way to the goddess of hunting in the forest and was punished for his excessive curiosity, desires and impatience.

It was also some kind of forbidden act, as if he had actually made his way into the sacred grove. The grove was sacred, but he was glaring at you in a completely blasphemous manner. If he had got to be turned into a stag or something, he was willing to pay the price right now. Every fascination has its price to pay. Although no, not right now.…

Oliver was breathing very quietly and slowly, but soon his breathing became heavier and heavier.

It was too much when you started slowly running your hand over your body, starting with your lips and going lower and lower.

His mouth involuntarily opened in amazement, and then his jaw clenched, and he gnashed his teeth almost audibly. He bit his lip. It was impossible to tolerate, no. His own hand also began to slowly descend.

What was he counting on? Probably just to see you lying in his tub, left to yourself. He didn’t know himself. But for some reason, he did not hope for what was happening at that moment. What or who is Y/N thinking about now? He would give a lot to know that. And he would give everything to change the answer to his own name.

His excitement and despair grew within him every passing second.

He did not calculate exactly what happened next. Or rather, he could have guessed only in his wildest dreams. But it must be said, Oliver always had wildest dreams, which he quickly began to believe in.

"Oliver..." - the acoustics of the bathroom and the silence around gave away your secret, and the sensitive hearing of the bearer of this name picked it out unmistakably.

At that moment, the pupils of his eyes widened to their limit, as if he had just learned the most important secret of the universe, which he had longed to possess all his life. To some extent, even on the modest scale of human life and the moment, this was exactly the case.

So, yes. All this time Y/N was thinking about him. Not about Felix. Not about Farleigh. God, it was not even about Venetia or anyone else. About him. About Oliver. About Oliver Quick.

He smiled broadly at the thought that his observations, his intuition and his wildest dreams had met at a single point of truth. He knew that he hadn't made much of an impression on you in those brief meetings you had at Oxford. But you made an impression on him, and that was enough. He was good at waiting, and he was even better at planning. All this getting closer with Felix, this whole year – it was all for you first of all. He knew that you were friends, that you were the daughter of his parents' friends, and that you were often invited to stay at the Catton family estate, and he did everything to get there too. Yes, even if he didn't make a big first impression on you, even if you didn't study together, even if Felix didn't study with you and your paths didn’t cross often enough to communicate a lot at Oxford, but Oliver knew the place where all this would happen. In Saltburn.

That was why he’d been working very hard for the last two months – even if he wasn't always a good conversationalist, he was a great listener and an even better observer. You began getting closer, and he clearly caught your attention. But to what extent, even Oliver was not sure. It seemed that you communicated with Felix and Farleigh with much more ease, even flirting a little. And not only with them, in general, your ease was expressed in communicating with anyone. With anyone but him. More and more often, you began to avoid his gaze, felt visually uncomfortable, stiffed when you were alone with him, and felt a clear relief when someone joined your company. Did you really get to know him better, and the initial indifference became a constant awkwardness in his presence? Oliver was very afraid of that. And deep down he hoped that this way you could just mask your affection for him, because sometimes people do that. This was also present in him to some extent, or rather, it used to be, because Oliver Quick decided to bury his insecurity and shyness deep inside himself. He was not quite done with it yet, but oh the boy was trying, he was trying very hard. He wanted to kill everything in himself that prevents him from becoming who he desired to be and getting what he wanted. Or who he wanted.

That brief smile changed again to a soundlessly open mouth that almost gave out a groan. Oliver held his hand tightly on his crotch, holding onto the wall with his other hand so that his knuckles turned white. After that confession of yours, Oliver was ready to burst into the bathroom at the same second, but no. He would restrain himself, he would not do that. He would be smarter than Actaeon.

He was really able to keep his composure and wait for you to relax and move away from your blessed condition a little, diving into the water a little deeper and slightly closing his eyes from pleasure and calmness that came to you. He moved noiselessly to the other side of the room. He exhaled deeply. Oliver looked at the half-finished can of Red Bull that had been on Felix's bedside table near the entrance for almost a week. Now it was time to act.

You heard footsteps approaching and shivered, opening your eyes.

"Knock, knock! May I come in?" a familiar voice asked sweetly and quite lively.

"Oliver? What are you..." you started, but he interrupted you by going into the bathroom, without waiting for your invitation or even more so for a refusal.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I need to change my clothes urgently," he began guiltily, "I-I'm not looking!"

He was actually walking past you, covering his face with his hand.

"What's happened?" you asked, half rising from the tub.

"I spilled a drink on myself. It's so unsuitable, because this is a shirt that Felix recently gave me, so that I, quote, "won’t wear the same thing over and over again, otherwise it upsets mother, we're not some kind of paupers here, she said to him." This is so damn awkward," he said frustratedly.

"Yes, of course, come in. It's okay."

"Thank you, Y/N! Once again, I'm sorry for the suddenness."

Oliver disappeared and rummaged in his room for a while, and then knocked again, but this time from the side of his own door.

"Yes? Do you want to go back?"

"Yes. And no. Not quite. It seems that I need to wash my shirt right now, before the stain is completely dry..."

"Can you just leave the shirt to the maids?"

"No, no! Disturbing people at such a late hour...And again, until I find someone and get there..."

"Yeah, you're probably right. Come in... if you won’t be watching,"

"While I'm washing my shirt, I won't," Oliver smiled.

He entered the room with his eyes closed in a caricature manner and showed a white shirt with a dark yellow Red Bull stain on the shirt hanging in his outstretched arms. He was wearing white tank top and black trousers, which were only left part from his dinner costume. He also took off his shoes.

"Yeah, I see it. Maybe you can wash it with soap or something?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm going to do now," Oliver went to his sink under a mirror, starting to wash the stain.

You didn't promise not to look. This view of him, the combination of a formal suit with something casual, formed a knot in your stomach. The white tank top that accentuated his slender torso and exposed his muscular arms so well, which were now busy doing laundry, black suit trousers that hugged his legs and ass in such a nice way, as well as the fact that he was standing barefoot in the bathroom, created a feeling of some kind of intimacy. Few people could see him like this even in this house, as if you came from some sort of gala dinner, and now you saw him in the process of changing clothes between some business. It was like you came together, and this was just your house, and that only you were allowed to see this semi-domestic, yet at the same time very sexy look. You inhaled the air quite sharply.

He didn't promise not to watch either. Therefore, the smile slipped from his face, since you did not see him from this angle, from where he could watch you through the mirror while washing his shirt, completely not looking at it. The smile faded because he could barely contain himself again. He was breathing heavily the hot and sticky air of the bathroom. Damn if only could he pounce and ravish you right now, in this very bath. Oliver was reveling in the way you were looking at him, the way you were looking at him now, thinking that he didn't notice it. Your sharp sigh was the last drop.

"Thinking about something?" Oliver asked you in an even tone.

"What? Oh, no, I just, uh..."

"It's weird, I thought I heard your voice when I first came in here. Did you talk to someone?"

"Of course not, because it's just me... and you."

"I could swear you were talking to someone..." Oliver said wistfully.

You felt the heat in the still hot bath water again, only now your face was burning. Did he hear you muttering his name? It couldn't be, could it have happened before he came in? Or did you not remember something? You were so relaxed. And now you were tensing up, afraid that he would find out your little, or rather, very, very big secret, which you were afraid to fully admit even to yourself.

"I... don't..."

Oliver sighed and stopped washing his shirt, turning to you and leaning on his table. He stared at you unblinkingly, arms crossed over his chest. You instinctively gasped and covered your chest with your hands, crossing your legs.

"My dear, I don't bite. Be a good girl and tell me who you were thinking about while lying in that bathtub, mm?"

"You promised not to look!" It seems like your face couldn't be any redder than it was now.

"I said I wouldn't look while I’d be washing my shirt," Oliver raised both hands in front of him, looking straight into your eyes, "As you can see, I'm done with it."

"But I’m not done with you at all," he thought to himself and slowly began to approach you from behind.

"Oliver, what are you-"

"Shh," he knelt down and gently put his hands on your shoulders, carefully gathering your wet hair to the center of your neck, "I won't look if you want, but let me apologize for my intrusion, I didn't mean to bother you."

He began to gently massage your shoulders, as the pads of his thumbs moved to your neck. You sighed softly and shifted your legs. It seems like both halves of your body were burning equally badly now.

"That's it, good girl," he cooed softly, exhaling hot air almost into your ear. His measured breathing burned your neck, "So, will you tell me who you were thinking about while lying in this tub?"

He asked the question as if he knew the answer to it. You wanted terribly and didn't want to tell him at the same time. It seems that even if you wanted to, the words were stuck in your throat. His long fingers began to tighten, moving slightly towards your neck. "I won't leave it until you tell me yourself." You twitched your legs again. Were you scared or did it turn you on? It seems to be both.

"And please don't hide with your hands from me, yeah? Do you know how fuckin' beautiful you are?" he took one hand off from your neck and gently pushed your hand away, taking up space under your breasts. There was a complete silence in the room. He moved a little to the left side of the tub. At that moment, your eyes met, and everything inside you turned upside down. His beautiful blue eyes were now almost dark with longing. His breathing was slow and heavy, shaking the already hot and sticky air between your faces. The tension was too strong to resist. Yes, it seems that your feelings towards each other were mutual.

Your lips slowly met, and then everything was like a blur. After a short while, Oliver sensually ran his tongue over your lower lip, asking for an invitation to come in. You opened your mouth a little more, where he immediately had slipped with his tongue, leisurely enjoying every corner of your mouth as much as possible. Then he broke the kiss in the lips just to kiss your collarbone without breaking your visual contact. You remembered that his other hand was resting under your chest, and now it began to stroke your skin and climb higher. Oliver began caressing your breasts just the way you had done before – first cupping it in his hand, and then slowly began to lead circles around your nipple until he squeezed it lightly. You cried out softly with pleasure.

"So, darling? And now you're going to tell me who you were thinking about...?"

If earlier words did not come out of you because of surprise and sensation of a slight fear, now they did not come out of you because of excitement and disbelief in what was happening in general. Oliver grinned, closing his eyes, lowering and shaking his head a bit. Then he stood up and, cupping your face in his hands, kissed you again. But this time the kiss was greedy, almost immediately his tongue penetrated you mouth, without asking for any permission now. But you didn't need it, you almost moaned into his lips in response. One of his hands moved from your cheek to your neck and began to squeeze it lightly.

After breaking the kiss, he looked at you again. It seems that now you were ready to reveal his name, but decided not to do so, to see what would happen next, gathering all the remnants of your weakening will, and silently looked at him in response. Oliver seemed to catch this mood and, giving you a dark excitement smile, took a step back, removing one hand from your throat and moving it to your inner thigh. His other hand was on your chest again. Your body covered with goosebumps under the water. He entered you with one finger, and you finally let out a real moan. Smiling with satisfaction, he added his second finger and increased the pace. The water started splashing out of the bathtub from your fidgeting and legs movements. The hand that rested on your breast began to squeeze it, and the thumb massaged your nipple rougher and rougher. You began to moan more often and louder under the caresses of your uninvited, but such a welcome guest. Perhaps it was more correct to say that you were the guest, and he was more like the host here, but your already confused thoughts were interrupted by his hoarse and authoritative voice, "Who were you thinking about lying here, touching yourself? Whose hands were you imagining at that moment?"

You just moaned in response, and he picked up the pace.

"Say the name, say it out loud"

"Oh... Oliver! It was you, Oliver."

"Yes," his eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze darkened even more, and his mouth let out a soundless moan full of satisfaction at what he had heard. He had experienced complete moral satisfaction, and now he would give you a physical one.

He bent down to you more, greedily and sloppily kissing you, without taking his hands off caressing your body, he added the third finger, and in less than a minute you came loudly under his fingers.

You were breathing heavily, just like Oliver himself. You looked at each other, both of you had a swarm of thoughts and a hurricane of feelings in your heads. "Good, sweet Y/N. I'm so glad that tonight turned out that way," he kissed you again, sweetly and almost innocently. He sat on his knees by the bath for a while and just looked at you. You started to get embarrassed again and looked away.

"I'm sorry, you probably need some time alone, and they've probably been waiting for me downstairs. The shirt still needs to be hung up to dry!" he said cheerfully, getting up from his knees, quickly taking the shirt from the sink and disappearing into his room. When he returned, you saw that he was wearing shoes again, and another shirt was thrown over his tank top.

"Have a pleasant late evening, Y/N! If you're not tired, join us in the living room," Oliver smiled at you, and then, already standing in the aisle, added quite nicely but firmly, "And if you want or need to use this room again, put your things down and take towels from my half of the bathroom, hmm?"

With these words, he left the room, leaving you in a storm of feelings and once again thinking how observant and puzzling he was sometimes, as it may not seem at first.

He was over the moon, but of course he would like to get a lot more out of you than he got today. But he knew how to wait, a good hunter should be able to do it, and today Oliver praised himself that he did it perfectly. Actaeon was considered the best out of the mortal hunters.

He was running, almost flying down the estate towards the living room. The Cattons were probably watching some nonsense there, as they always did. But he didn't care, because all his thoughts were about tomorrow night, hoping that you would come to use his bathroom again. Hoping that Venetia would occupy your bathroom again for a long enough time, and if she wouldn't, then maybe he would consider clogging of the second tub.

Oliver knew how to wait, and even better he knew how to act at the right moment.

Surely, he would surpass Actaeon himself.

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

Text

To Hunt a Silver Stag (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Knight!Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Fae Princess!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 6.9k

WARNINGS: Arranged marriage, talks of childbirth, traditional views of women & men in medieval times, talks of war, death, heavy religious imagery/symbolism, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wore a crown of deer antlers atop your head. Charms were woven into the gaps between the tines, attached to golden thread; jewels of starlight strung like teardrops from the moon. Your feet, staying still on the hard stone of the Great Hall, are bare though attract no dirt or dust—it is as if the very ethereal aura that coats your gown of pure white repels any such thought of uncleanliness or corruption of this mortal plane.

You are so very far from home.

Standing in the center of your soon-to-be husband’s court, your eyes seem not to be on the man himself, who watches you greedily from the throne of black iron, but instead behind him. Blank of any emotion, your long lashes blink in the direction of the stained glass windows with a horrible longing. Whispers from the multitude of court attendants go in one ear and out the other—useless to you. Their time would be gone in a blink, and yet here you would remain, immemorial. Their words were nothing, and their utterances would turn to dust faster than their bodies would.

You can’t help but wonder if those colorful depictions in that glass window, of God and his valiant angels, are mocking you as you blink at them slowly. Not only for what you are and where you now find yourself in the kingdom of your enemies but for being so full of the very qualities that would normally resign a woman of this age to the stake.

Independent, confident, and curious, among others.

A voice raises above the rest, and your eyes blink elegantly, the silver hue to them unnatural in all senses. Yet, you do not look away from the mighty white stag, its soldered bits of thin glass a patchwork of an overwatching Lord. Saint Eustace is there, staring at it, just as was told from generation to generation.

A pagan man converted to Christianity, the symbol of a cross set between antlers very much like the ones adorning your head. Humming under your breath, your eyes dip down, chin moving. Below the window, there stands a tall knight, and your gaze locks with his softly.

“Today,” the King’s voice echoes over the crowd as brown orbs stare at you, blinking. “We are here to celebrate the joining of two great bloodlines!” He stands with a grand cape over his shoulders, falling to the floor as his boots stand at the top of the stairs to the throne. Yet, this knight holds your attention more than your Promised does as the cheering starts, loud; making your ears twitch.

At your waist, a golden belt is engraved with expert attention, stories woven into metal that even seem to move with the magic embedded into it. It seems to hum with an energy that makes your eyes narrow in confusion upon this stranger.

He had brown eyes, the knight, and the hues reminded you of brown that you could see in the trees of your home—those old beasts that grew still with the magic of your line and your gentle touch. Surrounding him, there was silver armor and a strip of red fabric that went over one shoulder, hanging beside the items of his station; a sword and a dagger on a brown leather belt.

Brows furrowing, your head tilts slowly, unblinking, as the eye contact persists.

A bold man, it seems.

The knight’s eyelids slightly widen, as if realizing he had been staring, and his face swiftly moves to the side, his short hair close to his oval skull. You hear the faint clearing of a throat come into the shell of your pointed ears.

Sighing, your focus returns to the matter at hand, the crown’s adornments clinking together as your head rotates. The speech.

King Michael spreads his hands out, a man far into his older years but still had the gleam of malice in his eyes. Those beady things. They remind you of a rat—a small creature, while intelligent, that cannot win unless through tricks.

“We all know that magic has slowly been disappearing from the lands,” the King utters, voice echoing off the walls. Your hands are holding themselves near your abdomen, grace embedded into your bones. Watching how he speaks, you can’t deny he was influential. But influence didn’t matter when you had no wife—no children. He has a dying line, and that means weakness…which is why you’re here, after all. “And in that time, our war with the Fae has fallen into a stalemate.”

Your expression sharpens, fingers twitching. Stalemate? There were humans in your lands—spreading their fires and swinging their defiling iron swords. There was no war here except the one that this King was perpetuating.

But you held your tongue, even if your silver eyes narrowed in an ancient, bitter, anger. Your head raises itself higher, hanging gemstones swinging. The knight near the stained glass is back to watching you—his feet shifting from under him, hands behind his armored back with loose shoulders.

“...Today, myself and the King of the Fae have come to an agreement in confidence, and in the fashion of old, I am to be wed to his daughter, a princess!” Gasps, cheers, clapping. They spring up from all corners of the Hall, bouncing. Your body longs for nature, to be away from rock and metal, these suffocating walls that close in with the gaggle of wretched corpses walking. “Peace shall be beholden to all of us! Magic shall come back into my bloodline through our many children, and all will share in its wealth!”

You had compared yourself to a broodmare when your father had given the news of your journey here. A womb to be filled until you could give no more; restrained to a bed—away from any privilege and right.

And you’d been sent here anyway. A price needed to be paid, your father had told you. A daughter to stop the war. A child to bring back mortal magic and keep the peace through generations. Was your head to be put to the block for that? Who was to say that children would bring peace? That there weren’t more conflicts to come?

This was a momentary sacrifice, and here you were wearing white.

You hum under your breath and feel shackles tie themselves to your ankles; tying you to this place. But what other option did you have?

Your ears listen to the loud rapturous cheering, the exclamations of love that mean nothing to you—you do not love these people, do not love their need for violence and their pride. You want to go home, to find where you can rest among glades and grass. Converse with the birds and the beasts to learn of their news of far-off lands; run your hands through clear streams and watch plants grow where you walk.

As your stone body stays still, silver eyes unblinking, the knight near the window is the only man in the room not gazing at you like he wants something from you. While Lords have their eyes filled with lustful envy of your age-less skin—your finery and wealth; the promise of strong children, the knight is the only one with an open expression.

He only watches, handsome face holding the whispers of stubble and eyes that would make many moral women wish to be his wife.

Admittingly, your attention keeps going back to him, just as his own is stuck on you even as he tries to look professional. Back straight, armor glinting, sword pommel fiddled with by long fingers.

The King is walking down the stairs, one withered leg at a time. You don’t offer any help.

“My bride,” Michael licks his lips when he’s in front of you; but he’s more fixated on your stomach than all else. What it will hold for him. “My beautiful Fae bride. My wedding will be known through history for ages to come.”

My.

The world holds its breath. The knight’s jaw clenches, though no one sees it.

You take a heavy breath into your lungs to hold back your snapping tongue. As the words meet the air, they come out as unemotional as a wave at sea. Wind holding mist.

“Certainly.”

—

As it turned out, the castle itself was even less homely than the material that was used to build it. You walk slowly through the halls, hands behind your back and your crown glimmering—the trail of a thin and flowing gown making you look like a specter. One crudely carved window after another passes by your right shoulder, and you look out of every slit; seeing the silver shades of moonlight. In contrast, everything on your left was washed with firelight from the blazing iron sconces, your ears twitching to the pop of wood and fabric saturated in animal fat.

Everything here was horrible.

A prison, you think, slowing near one of the larger windows in the hall. A cage.

Staring outside, trying for only a moment to understand the disgusting castle and adjoined town you look at, there’s a faint noise from far down the corridor.

Wasting no time, your head moves slowly to the side, blinking. There isn’t anyone to be seen, but yet again, your slightly pointed ears twitch.

A firm heartbeat.

Bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump.

Staring at nothing, you listen for a moment, taking it in as your visage fights with blue and red light, shadows littering the small cracks and the marks of stone—your hands slightly tighten, but you hold no fear.

You refused to be afraid here; you would go to your spiritual death with a high head, and nothing less.

“It’s unbecoming to stalk as if a wolf,” you call, voice smooth and even. A beat of bird’s wings. “Four-legged beasts have perfected it, yet, the same cannot be said of you.”

There’s a lapse of silence—a swirling of slight tension that comes not from you but another. The heartbeat in your ear lightly skips. Startled. A shadow cusps one of the connected hallways, a gleam of silver armor. You blink slowly.

“Apologies, Ma’am.” The Knight. The one from the Great Hall. “I…didn’t mean to make you nervous.”

His lithe form doesn’t try to hide from your accusation, instead, his body moves to the middle of the stone floor and straightens—one hand going to his heart and the other behind his back; bowing. The darkness of his complexion seems to glow in the light, smooth skin besides the marring of small scars along the left cheek. Tiny things, only two lines.

For no reason at all, your body lightly turns towards him, watching.

“I’m not nervous,” you respond. “Please, stand straight.”

He does so without hesitation, though his eyes are avoiding yours. A guilty pull is to his lips that you can’t help but quirk a brow at. Yet, you remain emotionless, and outside the shadows of flying birds shift past.

“What is your name, Knight?” You see his expression slightly tense at the question, but you continue easily. A test, perhaps, if this man was worth your time. “I recall your face.”

“I can’t give you that, My Lady.” Brown eyes go to meet yours, and the silver flecks in your orbs glimmer. “My orders were clear.”

“And were those orders also to follow me?”

He clears his throat, feet shifting. “...Maybe.”

You hum, moving your body slowly and walking forward to him. The man blinks in surprise, straightening even more but a firm set to his eyes. His attention never wavers, unless it’s to glimpse your crown and belt, perfect pieces of artistry lost to this section of humanity. No mortal craftsman could imagine making something as such. He liked them, you notice at the light impression of awe in his gaze.

Anyone with sense would.

Stopping just a few feet away, you tilt your head.

It was common knowledge that you never gave your name to one of the Fae, your betrothed would have told everyone close to him to avoid doing so. Just as you would never tell your real name to anyone—not even under dire circumstances. Names hold power, and no person in this castle would make you even more of a prisoner than you already were.

You know the names of beasts and plants, flora and fauna—they bend to you, let you manipulate them to your will, though you often find no need to. The animals from any land prefer your company, anyway. The castle’s hunting hounds have already become well acquainted, just as the messenger birds had.

But mortals? No. No, there were no names that you knew besides the King himself, and even then it was a fake one. Second names and such, are common.

“Your title, then,” you say to the Knight. “If you’re to be a constant face to me.”

“Gaz is just fine, I’d say.” He nods his head, a slow smile moving his cheeks. Your brows furrow. Strange fellow. “A pleasure. I really do need to say that I wasn’t following you for long—I was only concerned you might have lost your way.”

You stare.

“Lost?” Owlishly, your head shifts.

Gaz makes a noise in the back of his throat, one hand coming up to rub at the base of his neck. “Yeah—lost. It’s, uh, it’s a big castle, My Lady—”

“Stag.” Wide eyes blink, this meeting is only awkward on his part and not yours. In fact, for how humans go, he was acting far better than most. Usually, there was iron being brandished by now.

“What was that?”

“My title,” you explain, your crown’s gems bright in the light. The fire crackles, popping. “Stag. I do not need my status stated. I know what I am, Knight.”

“Then I’d say the same,” your fingers twitch, liking the word game he plays. Inside of your sockets, the unnatural makeup of your eyes shimmers.

“Very well,” you pause, picking your words. “Gaz. A strange choice to be sure.”

He chuckles, nodding in a very stoic-like way despite the nearly boyish nature of him. “Well, Stag isn’t exactly common, either.”

You hum in your throat, unblinking; staring. Your intrigue grows the longer the man talks. Just like in the Great Hall, his form attracts all of your attention to it, against all laws that you seem to know in your soul.

“Pray tell,” you shift, moving back to the window with your feet not making a single sound. Gaz watches on, eyes flickering between the hanging gems and how you tread over the stone as if you had wings. Your form slips back to the window, and your focus once more goes outward. “Has the King told you to spy on me, Gaz?”

The title, even if not the one of his birth—not the one written on his soul like a brand—still made the air quiver with might. You were older than most of this kingdom, the Knight knew. Older than the oak trees of the nearby forest; older than rock and wind and air.

Power dripped off your tongue like water to a leaf.

But it wasn’t your influence that made the man answer you. It was his own nature.

“Yes,” Gaz says, taking a few steps to where you stand, watching a flock of birds dance above the courtyard, silver moon-drips illuminating white feathers. “But I wouldn’t call it spying. Officially, I’ve been put in place to keep you safe, Princess.” His dark brows crease when you don’t pay him any mind. “I take my job very seriously, yeah?”

“I can see that,” you utter, eyes still on the birds. “The only thing I need protecting from is the iron ring on your right hand.”

He startles, blinking for a moment.

“...Parden?”

Silver eyes pierce him, watching; waiting.

Gaz looks down, locking on the hand that has been resting on the pommel of his sword. Cape swishing, he makes a noise in the back of his throat. His sigil ring—the one that had been given over at his dubbing ceremony sat on the first digit, the engraving of his King’s coat of arms glimmering back.

A wolf; a snake caught in its fangs.

Brown eyes dart back, and he sheepishly smiles, huffing a chuckle of sorts.

“Comes with the job, unfortunately,” yet still, his other hand easily grasps and slips the thing off, tucking it away into the leather pouch swinging from his belt. “I thought that was a myth—the Fae being harmed by iron. Conjured up to give people something to cling to.”

“I can name a million things that men and women like you consider myth,” you mutter, starting at that pouch, deep in thought. You hadn’t expected him to give in that easily. Your shoulders loosen their rigidness, but your chin never drops its high pride. “Every story comes from somewhere—be it reality or wives’ tales. Who’s to say that the words don’t give them life in one form or another?”

“Bloody hell. Not a discussion to take up with me, I’m afraid,” Gaz huffs a chuckle, smirking. While still hesitant around you, the conversation wasn’t anything that made him want to not be around you. Everyone deserved to have their character shown, and what he was seeing so far wasn’t ringing any alarms. “Sound more of a scholar than a Princess, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Your lips quirk. “I prefer philosopher.”

“And what’s a Fae philosopher doing out in the middle of the night, then?” A breeze wafts through the window, blowing on your dress and making Gaz’s cape flutter in its bloodish tint. The torches whip and dance. You take a low breath, bird chips coming closer.

“Speaking with an old friend.”

A white dove lands on the stone opening of the window, fluttering wings coming to fold along its sleek form until it shakes and settles all at once.

“Lysander,” you say in greeting, nodding your head. Gaz watches, barely moving as his lips part in astonishment.

Your hand extends itself, bearing no rings or bracelets. All you needed was your crown. Tiny eyes blink as an angular head turns to the side, tiny coos sparking from a rounded breast. Pale feet grasp your perfect flesh, such a tiny weight settles before you lift effortlessly; wings flapping to keep balance.

“What news, then?” You ask in a whisper, bringing the beast to your crown. Lysander settles on one of the tines, head dipping down as feathers puff. Into your ear, words take shape.

You hum in answer, blinking at every clicked sentence; tapping talons.

Gaz stares blankly, eyebrows pulled up on his head and unable to articulate himself.

So many stories about your people—he hadn’t thought half of them to be true. While he’d been stationed in many places during the duration of this war, he’d never actually encountered one of the Fae before. Gaz had been told they were like a plague; they came in when you weren’t looking, spoke magic into your ears, and forced you to come back to their home and live as mindless beasts. Cupbearers and entertainment.

Of the countless knights he’d been in line with, he knew the true names of none of them. A precaution. Forethought.

Yet…you don’t look dangerous.

But the man is far from stupid.

“He says the fires from your forges burn his eyes,” your voice snaps him back to you, and he straightens, fingers twitching. Gaz finds your face already turned his way, owlish in its movements. “The smoke makes his throat ache.”

“I,” he pauses, mouth opening and closing. Brown eyes dart to the sharp-beaked dove; the thing very much like you in the way it watches him. “I’m…sorry?”

Your lips pull in a frown, sighing with a shake of your head.

I can never survive here, you find yourself thinking. I believed this is what I had to do, but if this is how I’m going to live…

“Tell me about your King, Gaz,” your body swiftly turns, feet carrying you down the corridor once more with long, even, steps. “If I’m to marry him, I will know of his nature.”

The man clears his throat and follows after, where you hear the clinking of silver and the scabbard against his thigh. He glances over at you, walking if not a bit behind yourself in proper fashion.

“What do you want to know, Ma’am?”

Your unnatural orbs shimmer, and the bird on your crown hunkers down; puffed contently and eager to rest his wings from a long flight.

“Everything. I will not be unaware of my fate.”

“Well,” Gaz sighs, rubbing at his chin with his opposite hand. He licks his lips, mind running to answer the best he can. “You’ll not want for anything—finery and wealth will—”

“I do not care about mortal revelry. I need neither fine things nor wealth.” Your voice curtly moves along the open air. The Knight’s boots connect with stone while your bare flesh emits nothing. “His character, Knight. Is he fair—just?”

Gaz’s face tightens, glancing from you to the hallway as he takes a moment to think.

“My King has…become troubled with the turning tides of the war. I’m sure when your marriage is official, he’ll go back to how he was before.” He doesn’t seem certain, but loyalty is a trait that a knight knows well. You had been set as his charge, of course, not under the best of circumstances, but he would do his job how he believed would benefit all parties. Even if his guts were stiff at the thought of a forced marriage.

“My Lady Stag?” He asks, and your heart jerks unexpectedly at the muttering of your title.

Blinking in confusion, your hand coming up to rub at your collarbone like a willow branch, you almost miss the question entirely.

“Where you come from, if I can ask, of course, what’s it like?” Your mind strays from marriage ceremonies and consummation—momentary peace slipping in on waves of this man’s smooth accent.

Mouth opening, only to close once and open again, you decide to indulge this man with your answer. If only because he speaks of your home.

“Green,” is the soft utterance of your answer to him. “It’s green. More trees and rivers than you can count in your lifetime. Animals each more fantastical than the last; all of which your people now call nothing but hearsay.”

You can sense his attention, sucking up knowledge as if he had the years to know and understand it all.

Lysander coos, shaking his feathers out, and you glance upward without moving your head. You chuckle like a blade of moving grass.

Blinking, Gaz slowly begins to smile, cocking his skull to the side boyishly. “What’s so funny, then?”

Your high nose twitches.

“He says you’re as if a Wyvern hatching. A curious thing.” Brown eyes drift to your companion, whose peaked eye pierces like black fire-stone. Gaz’s mouth releases a puff of a chuckle, chest jerking.

“Hell, never thought I’d get insulted by a bird.”

“Humans have not the ability to speak with beasts,” you ease out, walking on. “On that, I have to say you are at a sure disadvantage.”

“What?” Gaz’s amused voice is in your ear. “Minus the whole immortality thing?”

You side-eye him, visage calm with decades of understanding. “Not everything is built to last forever.”

A momentary silence falls between the two of you. Eyes locked, you both stare, legs carrying bodies across the unfeeling stone until the area Lysander had told you about takes form. You shift a slow right and exit into the inner courtyard, large stone walls making a small square of patchy green grass and dying plants. A fountain sits still.

“If this is to be a game of equal exchange, Knight, I desire to ask the next question.” Your eyes take it all in, hand moving out to capture the blackened leaves of a Medlar tree. Frowning at the dead fauna, you hear Lysander take to wing, flapping until his ghostly form lands on the far-off fountain’s edge.

“Alright,” Gaz nods, looking around at the dying place with a frown as well. He’d never come here before, but the state of things was…sad, really. “Ask away.”

“When you leave the castle—the town,” you let power move to your fingertips, and you feel the tingles of it running the lengths of your arms like ice and fire; taking a low breath. “What do you see? I admit, I’m not used to having company with humans. I know not how their souls feel.”

Gaz walks into the small enclosed space, humming as he taps the pommel of his sword. His shoulders shrug as his head tilts up, blinking at the stars.

“I wouldn’t see it as you would, I gather.”

You look over your shoulder, amusement in your face mixed with a slice of intrigue. “That wasn’t my question. But, no, you would not.”

“Figured,” he chuckles, nodding at you. Gaz articulates himself dutifully. “I see a place far more peaceful than the one here. Outside the stone and smog—it’s beautiful, truly. Calm. You can actually think above the noise, you know? I usually find myself wanting to get out more often, but my duty ties me here.”

Your eyes soften slightly, thumb running the face of the leaf as you take in his words. Lysander stoops to take a sip of water.

“You’re…” You lack the words, only humming and stopping yourself.

“Why are we here, Princess?” Gaz asks you, gazing around. “I had only expected you to walk to the kitchens—the library, even. Don’t get me wrong, you can go as you wish, but I’m not sure this is the most…” He grunts. “Sightly place to end up. Everything’s dead.”

“Nearly,” you whisper, a tiny smile taking over your flesh. “Not quite.”

Gaz’s frown is lost to you, as is his comment that he mutters, “Looks it.”

Leaning forward, you press your lips to the leaf you hold as if a precious object. Into its blackened and shriveled form, you whisper its name—its true name, one you had learned through years of patience and trust that bordered on an entirely trance-like state. A Medlar is a tough and stubborn thing, like the fruit it bears, it will hang on until all else is gone to dust. Its roots are strong, and from them, you had listened to the earth sing its songs one buzzing note at a time.

All things speak, you just have to know how to listen.

There’s a surge of wild order, a dichotomy of will and freedom; the sing of an axe and the memories of young saplings just gracing their leaves to the sun. A circle of death and rebirth as old as the stars that still shone in a sky of black.

You know many names, but those of the trees were the first to come to you, and it was only proper. Before anything, there were trees.

The Medlar shakes, its leaves dropping down one at a time until they come in groups, in clusters—bare branches shiver like dogs do until creaking ballads move over the air.

Starling, Gaz had taken a large step back, hand snapping to the handle of his sword, the blade half drawn. Lysander flies past his face, blunt talons skating the close-cropping of his hair before the bird grapples to your crown. Flinching, the knight watched with a mixture of horror and pure wonder.

The tree was sprouting new greens.

You step back, and from your feet, the dead grass quivers, before the smell of groaning earth makes his nose twitch; fresh blades show themselves anew. The dove atop your crown jumps from one sharp tine to the next, dodging lines of gold—eyes glinting and wings flapping excitedly.

Life is in the very air.

You smile to yourself, silver eyes moving as a nearly ancient-looking spark flares to life in them—a long breath entering your lungs.

Gaz’s face begins to heat as he watches, his heart pounding with something he can’t understand. He stares at your bright face before his fast-blinking eyes move to the grass growing all around; the bushes dancing, flowers opening up and turning to you. Birds gather on the edges of this verdant and fertile land, darting one by one to the fountain and to the trees. Singing.

The knight steps back, feet dancing over the ground with an airy laugh stuck in his throat.

“Holy hell…” he breathes, nearly panting.

Wide eyes move back to you, expression open, innocent. This was a moment when you truly believed you’d never seen a face more bare than this; more giving.

“You…” He laughs. “You’re tellin’ me you could always do that?” You chuckle, and it is a sound that could make roots grow in his heart, flowers bursting from his lungs. “I…I’m speechless, really. This is,” he laughs once more, turning a full circle, with his hand going to the back of his neck in shock. It was entirely new—all of it. Ivy climbed the stone, and the animals spoke and flew in the air; excitement something that transcends species. “This is extraordinary.”

You were something incredible.

Chuckling, you raise a slow brow, feeling a foreign heat move over your cheeks. It’s a moment before you speak, taken aback by the reverency.

“My thanks, Knight,” your head nods his way, a simple dip of your chin and nothing more. “But this is only a small courtyard. A fraction. If I so wished, forests could grow from ashen ground.”

“How?” He asks you, eyes glittering more than the moon.

Smaller birds join Lysander on your head, finches, perhaps, and sparrows. They tweet and chip, speaking their thanks. You reach up and let one move onto your finger, bringing it back to eye level as you move to softly connect your forehead to its own. Moving back, you hum and watch the bird fly off.

“Ages of practice,” you elegantly tip your head his way, careful of your cargo. “Quite verbatim.”

Gaz is speechless, unable to recall something in his life that had made him feel so special to be able to witness it. Magic to humans was a dying thing—you’d be surprised if he’d ever even seen it in this magnitude before.

“...Amazing,” he utters under his breath, smiling like a fool.

For all of your Fae trickery, your games, you had to be honest. “I don’t believe I thought you’d be this moved by it.”

“Really?” He blinks at you, a boyish twist to his face. “How could I bloody not be, Love?”

Your air gets stuck in your throat, eyes minutely widening.

Gaz quickly comes back to himself, straightening and clearing his throat as your face suddenly blazes in a way that startles you. Heart pattering like a horse’s hooves not only at the…different title but his awe at your magic as well.

“Forgive me, My Lady,” you choose not to correct him. “I overstepped.”

His body bends forward in a deep bow, hand to his heart, resting over his armor as the cape drapes its crimson fabric to the now vibrant grass.

It had briefly eluded you that you were to be married soon. A comment like that could get the Knight and his tree-bark brown eyes put to the sword. You hold back a long sigh, eyelids fluttering shut softly.

“Is he kind?” Your question is small, but it moves like a knife.

Gaz stares hard at the ground, once dead and nothing but a reminder of nature. He clenches his jaw, a worry swirling in his gut. The man knows who you’re asking about, and he holds the same dread he did in the Great Hall as you were led like a sacrificial lamb to the altar.

Maybe the Knight was broken, but even if he’d never met one of your kind before, he knew that no person deserved to be bartered for the illusion of peace—forced to give children like they were only objects. But maybe he was also just a man not meant for this lifetime.

It was the way of things.

Gaz swallows the tension in his shoulders. He will not lie.

“...No.”

—

This tall knight had become a constant at your side. Officially, he’d been placed for your protection, but you knew it was because the King didn’t want you to cut and run.

But unless there was a very good reason to, he should have known that you were not the running type. It was a battle of wits, and even into your marriage, you would always come out on top.

It started easy enough—Michael would invite you for tours of the castle ‘making it a home’ he’d said in front of his court. It was a power trip.

He’d talk about his wealth like it would make you swoon; like you cared at all. You could only hide your sneer for so many hours, even with your infinite amount of patience. Time had mellowed you like the rocks of the ocean, but even they cracked when the storm was strong enough.

Yet still, you considered yourself too intelligent for baseline insults.

“My palace was much the same, your Highness. Our towers rose high—nearly gracing the clouds themselves.”

“Oh, lovely, my King. Pray tell, do you also have pet dragons? Oh…unicorns, perhaps? My, I had the most lovely unicorn companion when I was just shy of my two-hundredth birth year. A little thing—all legs and neck. Beautiful creatures.”

“Gorgeous little trinkets. Tell me, do you have a coffer for fallen stars? They create the most magnificent illumination for late-night reading.”

Gaz nearly lost his composure at times, even if no one else could tell except for you and your pointed ears; twitching at every breath that was fought to keep still. The over-the-lip huffs and chuckles. In fact, you found yourself perpetuating the back-handed insults just to hear those noises. Such small and meaningless things, in the grand scheme.

You took…enjoyment from it.

Seeing the effect it had on the King was also a bonus—his raging eyes, snapping tongue held back for only his reputation and little more. He wanted to take you by the arm and shake you, you knew, yell in your face.

Kind, King Michael was not. Gaz had been correct.

In the nights, you would discuss with the Knight—sitting in the dense and growing courtyard with your body comfortable on the grass; Gaz’s on the fountain’s edge.

You have much of the same confidence in one another as you do tonight.

“Do knights marry for love?” Your voice wafts out, petting Lysander with a single finger in your lap; itching at his neck as he coos. “Do they get to choose?”

Gaz fiddles with his cape’s clasp, fingers dancing over the silver make. He has made a motion to always take off his ring when it’s just the two of you, easily slipping it away until he was forced to put it back on. He doesn’t know if you feel it, but he believes the two of you to be well-off acquaintances—perhaps even friends.

The man enjoyed speaking to you. He reveled in the limitless knowledge that spilled from your tongue, your stories and tales. Gaz, unlike so many others, enjoyed your company not for the power that it offers in a physical sense, but for the words that you freely give. Often your sentences were like honey to him, seeping into his head.

A princess speaking with a knight? Unheard of. A Fae princess? Blasphemy.

It was easy to forget that you were older than many generations of his family line.

“No,” he says, glancing over. “All knights take a vow of chastity when they commit to service. None of those alive in this kingdom will wed unless they willingly break their oaths.”

Your head tilts, crown resting comfortably a small distance away on a rock.

“That sounds lonely.”

Gaz smiles, “Worried about me?”

You stare, eyes traveling the little deaths on his face—the lines, the scars. “If it’s what you wish to do with yourself, who am I to tell you any different?”

The man’s face softens, lips pulling as his cheeks heat under the moonlight. “Figured you’d have some opinion of it.”

You hum, raising a brow. “It’s your life—it’s so fleeting. Tread it as if water between your fingers. Before you know it, it’ll be gone.” Lysander leans into your flesh, shivering. “Live it.”

“For someone who says they don’t know humans that well,” Gaz grumbles, though his chest is light. “You sure know a lot about them.”

“Intuition,” your mouth twitches in a smile. “And a bit of reality.”

Delicate looks are shared.

You do admit, you liked these conversations with Gaz. The long nights and the feeling of grass under your flowing dresses; the horrid contraptions that your betrothed had tried to make you wear stuck far back into the wardrobe of your room. Heavy items—suffocating corsets, unlike the simple but elegantly sewn one you wear now. You could feel it trying to sneak in when the days drew on.

Control.

It was all becoming more and more apparent. You did not want to live like this.

Your face goes troubled as the calm silence moves over the Medlar with its reaching branches. Fireflies hang like miniature stars as you take your crown and slip it back on; to feel the comforting weight of antlers.

The knight pauses as he slips his cape off of his shoulder, blinking over at you in a slow confusion. You look troubled. He’d never seen that expression on your face before.

“Stag?” Your head swivels, as if in another world.

“Just thinking,” your voice moves into his ears, making them hum with energy. Gaz’s brows furrow, a frown taking over. After a second, he stands, moving closer on quiet feet.

You watch him as he goes to kneel near you, one arm moving over the bent nature of his leg while the other holds fabric—letting it cascade over the earth. Brown eyes narrow, and a joking tease moves with the undertone of slight concern.

“I’m usually the talker, I know, but when you look a bit like that it makes me nervous.”

You frown. “Look like what?”

“Like someone’s got a sword to your neck, Princess.” The air is cool here, the deep throws of night taking you by the breath in your throat. A smooth smirk. “It’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen, yeah?”

If you leave, if you find a way out of this…the war will never end. It will go on until stone cracks like glass and generations forget why it even started in the first place.

But why were you put to the axe because of it? Why must you take the blade to the stomach—an object of greed?

Gaz’s amused voice moves lower at your immobile lips, going serious.

“Hey,” a hand outstretched to your arm, hovering. “Really, is everything alright?”

“Gaz,” you pause, voice still level despite your heated pulse. It’s like a snake curls itself in your guts, roots growing in your veins. The courtyard seems to shiver all by itself, leaves curling into themselves from bushes and trees. Lysander’s feet shimmy, head moving about.

This knight had been kind to you as well as honest about his intentions. Chivalrous. Such qualities are hard to come by anymore.

“I don’t believe I want this.” It’s a breath more quiet than a lapping of waves. Gaz stills, fingers above your flesh twitching. “I can’t live in a cage. I refuse.”

Silver meets brown, holding it firmly.

“I will not be a prize to be chained to a birthing bed.”

The man’s face pulls at that, tightening.

You don’t know what to expect. It isn’t fear in you—no, nothing like this could make you afraid. Apprehensive? Perhaps. Age made you cautious. At any moment he might flip his tune; run off to tattle to a King he, seemingly, likes just as much as you. Which is to say, very little. But there’s still the possibility, the knowledge stacked over ages and ages of strategy and mind games.

A knight of a tension-ridden kingdom, swearing fealty to a King whom you’re betrothed to. You’d just expressed treason, in a way. It could put you to the sword; to the rope. To irons. Your mind runs through the millions of possibilities, not able to settle on a single one before—

A cape settles over your shoulders, startling you.

Hand snapping to grab the front, your head snaps up, eyes wider than you can remember them ever going.

Soft browns meet you, a thin smile. Fireflies buzz about, and a dove sits under your still finger, watching with beady orbs intently at the scene. A Medlar quivers.

A stag and a knight breathe the same air. A godly creation and a saint ensnared in a song far larger than they intend, as the world shifts past all around them. Silver starlight leaves long reflections breaking from the hanging glory of your gems, but the patches of light on Gaz’s face capture yours in that instant far more than they should have.

Impossibly so. Unnaturally so.

Does this mortal have magic of his own, perhaps? You have to ask yourself. There was no other possibility.

And when he speaks…it’s like whatever ice has been layered over your antediluvian heart breaks into fire. There wasn’t even a fight from him.

“Then tell me what you need.”

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swanmaids · 3 months ago

Text

the god of the forests once took a lover who was called the fairest among his own people. celegorm the third child of feanor of the noldor was perfectly formed in every way, so much that it was almost as though his mother had simply carved him from marble and then breathed life into him. the sun was reflected in the gleam of his golden hair, and his eyes, though pale, held strange depths.

orome came upon celegorm when the boy, who had just become a man, was hunting deer alone in his woods. great orome, being overcome with celegorm’s fine beauty, transformed himself into a mighty stag, and allowed celegorm to chase him, and then to fell him. when he began to cut apart his quarry, hands warm with blood, orome took on his true form once more, and celegorm looked into the face of his god, and found himself enchanted in turn.

all was well for a time between them, but celegorm was vain as well as beautiful. whenever he lay with the god he would ask: am i not fairer than the queen of spring, who makes the flowers grow? am i not more skilled in bed than your holy wife? and orome implored him not to speak such words, for he feared to incur the wrath of vana his wife, but celegorm did not listen.

and so when ever-young vana heard the boasts of her husband’s lover, she, furious and humiliated, sought to repay him for the insult. she went to nessa her sister by marriage, and they spoke of how this ought to be done.

that night, while his divine lover slept unknowingly beside him, celegorm was awoken by the gentle tune of a flute. as though compelled, he crept from their bed out into the night to follow the music, and as he followed the sound he began to dance. alone in the otherwise silent woods, he spun in circles, again and again. the music sped up, and so did he. the music did not stop, and so neither could he. celegorm’s bare feet began to bleed, but he paid them no thought, and his blood he trampled into the soil that he churned as he danced.

much later, the song ended.

when the sun came up the next morning, orome searched for celegorm, and came eventually to a clearing in the heart of the forest. his lovely corpse lay there in the pale sunlight like an offering, and his feet were bloody and ruined.

#tolkienhorrorweek #what is this idk #my post #my fic

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blupengu · 8 months ago

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Okay I got over my tantrum Hollow Knight is fun again LOL

Y’all is Hollow Knight hard or do I just suck because oh my god??

#‘will not be playing for the foreseeable future’ haha jk I’m a lying fickle bitch that can hold a grudge against a game #though it does feel like I went through the five stages of grief last night lmao #I just gave up on trying to retrieve my soul from the same spot over and over #and went to explore a different part of the map #and now it’s fun again! 😂#(though I still feel horrible dread when I die in an unknown area with lots of money far away from a bench… oh well)#goodbye that particular corner of fungal whatever I hope I don’t see you for a long long time #I fought the soul master in the soul sanctum instead (and oh man the ost for this game is great)#and now that I hope the down B equivalent + wall jump + dash #I went backwards to the beginning and… bruh there’s a whole ass map up here????#am I supposed to be here????????#I mean I guess technically I have the skills required to get up there but… this feels like it should be more endgame stuff lmao #found Joni’s blessing and the fury charm too #also thank god I accidentally found millibelle the banker #so I was able to buy the little lantern #bless her shell #also the old stag dude is so cute?#and the design for the player character is so cute??#how are most of these little bug dudes so cute???#and cornifer!!#I feel so much relief when I hear him humming #I also found some nail master and finally learned the spin attack!#… I’m just treating tumblr as a diary at this point lmfao oh well #god this game is so huge #sometimes I do wish it pointed you where to go next a little bit more but as an exploratory open world my god it’s amazing #like hot damn it’s definitely comparable to Metroid dread #i don’t really remember the map from dread but hk almost feels bigger #okay diary entry good night #my post

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its-time-to-write · 2 years ago

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Final one for today

This one is a little odder but I feel like a single parent story would be great for Jamie

Like maybe reader is a single parent and is out in the park where the child is playing alone with a football (maybe trying to do some tricks) and accidentally kicks it to far and it hits Jamie (Who maybe is jogging by) jamie brings it over and does some tricks and the kid is like omg can you show me how to do that! reader is like embarrassed but Jamie is like sure so they spend a bunch of time playing football. The kid is a fan of Richmond but tickets are expensive so Jamie invites them to a game (Free) and they get to meet the team and it becomes a regular thing

Jamie is trying to work up the nerve to ask out Reader (He has never dated someone with kids before) and he doesn't want to mess up the relationship finally the child is like please ask my parent out!

I can't wait to see what you do with these!!

Here’s another one that I’ve been sitting on forever! Finally got around to it. And in case you couldn’t tell, I freakin love Keeley Jones. I think she’s great. Enjoy!

if only love were true

Thank god that Keeley Jones is your friend and she promised you’d never have to go stag to a work function.

“Keeley,” you say over the phone, “I need you to be my date for this fancy dinner/gala/thing I have for work next Sunday. I absolutely cannot go alone.”

“Next Sunday?” she says. “Let me check my calendar.”

You wait a moment as she presumably scrolls through her phone, checking her availability.

“Sorry babes,” she says after a long moment, “I’ve got a work thing too. Otherwise I’d totally be down to go as your hot trophy date.”

You groan. “Is there any way you can get out of it? Out of all the things I’ve taken you to, this is the one I need you at the most.”

Keeley’s silent. You can tell she’s thinking. She knows why this one is important.

“Alright,” she says finally. “I can’t go, but what if I sent you with a friend of mine?” She continues loudly over your beginning protests. “He’s really sweet and fit and funny, and he owes me favors pretty much for the rest of his life. You’d have a great time I SWEAR.”

“I don’t know,” you say. “Do you think he can go along with everything? There’s a 50/50 chance it’ll be a shitshow.”

“Absolutely,” Keeley replies without hesitation. “He’s fucking great. Can be a bit of a prick sometimes, but he’s learned how to use those skills for the greater good.”

“Uh huh,” you say. “Right. I’m trusting you on this one, Keels. If he’s as good as you say, I’ll take him. But I really, really need this to be good.”

“Trust me,” she says, “You won’t regret it.”

—

Jamie Tartt arrives at your doorstep, fully briefed by Keeley as to his responsibilities.

Be a gentleman, make her laugh, don’t fucking leave her with Harry.

Keeley showed him pictures of Harry’s instagram so Jamie would know exactly who he is on the lookout for.

It’s funny and it’s weird, but he’s not uncomfortable standing at the door, waiting for some woman he doesn’t even know. He’d do anything for Keeley, well aware that if she’s asking a favor, it’s for a good cause.

This is far out of his usual realm of expertise, but he reminds himself that he’s a person outside of being a footballer. A regular person would be a blind date for a friend of a friend at an awful work function.

Right?

Jamie doesn’t have time to dwell on the normality of this situation because the door is opening and you’re standing in front of him in some long gown that he swears outshines the stars.

“Hi,” you say. “It’s nice to meet you. Sorry about this.”

You call a goodbye down the hall before shutting the door. Jamie assumes it’s to a flatmate or something, whoever the owner of the other car in the driveway is. He just smiles.

“I’ve had weirder dates,” he says. “Don’t worry about a thing, love. Tonight’s gonna be fucking mint.” He offers you his arm.

You take it and feel yourself relax. It’ll be fine.

—

It is not fine.

Harry’s there, and god help you if you don’t want to kick him where it hurts. He’s surrounded by girls, shining that far-too dazzling smile and you’re pretty sure you’re going to throw up. Your grip on Jamie’s arm tightens, and he follows your gaze to your ex-flame.

“He’s fucking old,” Jamie comments.

“Yeah, well, that’s kind of how he gets you,” you reply. “Acts all charming and smart and shit and then next thing you know, you’re in his bed. Soon as that’s over, you’re done.”

“Twat,” Jamie responds with such conviction that you chuckle a little, despite yourself. That is, until Harry sees you and sheds his little entourage as he makes his way over.

“Shit,” you whisper. “How do I look?”

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” Jamie replies without missing a beat.

The words are barely out of his mouth when Harry is upon you, leaning in for a hug that Jamie doesn’t allow. You’re grateful for his block as he pretends he was going for a handshake. You don’t want Harry touching you and the sentiment is reinforced as he gives you a once-over and says, “Didn’t expect to see you here, darling. What, are you neglecting your duties for the evening?”

That sentence must have some hidden meaning, because your teeth are bared and it’s gone over Jamie’s head.

“My duties,” you say through clenched teeth, “include being here at this gala because we both work for the same company.”

Harry tilts his head in mock sympathy. “Yes, but if I recall your priorities have… shifted.”

Jamie might be losing circulation in his arm and he may not know exactly what is happening here, but he knows enough. Keeley told him Harry was a right git without really saying why, but he is in no need of an explanation. In fact, he thinks that “a right git,” is too much of a compliment.

Harry turns his attention toward Jamie. “Has she told you?”

Jamie doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but he’ll be damned if he lets this prick win.

“Yes,” he replies forcefully.

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Ah, and that’s not a dealbreaker?”

Jamie shakes his head.

“How…progressive of you,” Harry replies, meaning the exact opposite. “You see, I wouldn’t want someone who… well, you know.”

Jamie’s about to say, “No, I don’t know,” and also maybe punch Harry when more people come up, demanding your attention. As you both turn away, Harry calls, “Let me know when you get tired of the immaturity and need a real man. My bed is always open to you.”

Your face is bright red and you think you’re going to bolt. Jamie starts like he’s going to fight Harry and for a moment you wonder if Keeley sent him because he’s a little bit feral.

Unfortunately for Harry and fortunately for you, he spoke a bit too loudly.

You’ll find out later that he was heard by some higher-ups and removed from the premises. However, since that information is not made available to you until the next day, you spend the rest of the evening looking over your shoulder for Harry’s reappearance.

Jamie, god bless him, is a wonderful date. He goes the whole nine-yards, holding your hand, tucking your hair behind your ear, cracking jokes with you and others at your table. He’s making you look good, and feel relaxed in the process. By the end of the night you’re feeling confident and have made a good impression on several people on the board.

You have new opportunities at your disposal, as well as a potential promotion. You put a reminder in your phone to send Keeley some daisies as a thank-you. You’ll send something for Jamie as well.

—

He walks you to your door, ever the gentleman. You thank him profusely for the night, and tell him you’ll be rooting for him next time Richmond has a match. He grins. “You a fan?” he asks.

You laugh. “Yeah, I am. Used to go to every match till… well, I just don’t get out much anymore.”

Jamie grins. “We’ll have to change that, darling.”

Darling.

He says it so differently than Harry. It’s all… bubbly. Not condescending, not designed to make you feel small.

“Good night, Jamie,” you say.

—

You don’t really expect to see (or hear from) Jamie again, except you do. Because he’s texting you.

The content varies, from messages passed on from Keeley to gifs to memes to weird little stories from training. You think you’d like his coaches, even Roy. It already felt like you knew them from all their interviews that you’ve seen, but hearing the behind-the-scenes snippets solidifies the feeling even more. Your chatting is regulated to the early morning and your lunch breaks, as you’re not much of an evening person anymore.

Jamie doesn’t seem to mind, he’s up early to do extra training with Roy and you’re up early to prepare for the day. You enjoy hearing from him at 6am on the dot every morning.

Saturdays are nice, because you don’t have work. Keeley comes over sometimes, but today you’re on the Richmond Green. You’re sitting on a bench, watching a boy kick a small football. You’re so completely absorbed in the way he’s running back and forth that you are startled when a shadow casts over your face.

“Fancy seeing you here,” says a distinctly Mancunian voice.

“Jamie!” you exclaim. “What’re you doing here?”

Jamie points to his trainers. “Going for a quick run. Roy’s out of town, but he still makes me take laps. Fucking mental.” He shakes his head. “What are you doing here?”

You open your mouth to reply when the boy with the tiny football comes flying over. “Are you Jamie Tartt?” he asks.

Jamie crouches to his level. “I am. What’s your name, mate?”

“Liam!” he replies. “I have a football like you!”

Jamie smiles. “Good lad. Keep up with the practice, and you’ll be better than me someday.”

Liam’s bouncing up and down, so excited that he throws his ball in the air. Jamie catches it and does a trick. At this point Liam is completely enamored with Jamie, and you are as well. He’s giving this kid his complete attention, making his whole day. Anyone else would have just shooed him off, but not Jamie.

He’s good with kids, your brain yells.

You tell your brain to shut up.

Jamie tosses the ball back to Liam. “Where’s your mum?” he asks. “Might have tickets to a match for you.”

Liam points. Jamie turns to look behind the bench where you’re sitting, as that’s where Liam is pointing. There’s no one.

“Which one?” he asks, turning back to Liam.

“Me,” you say. “I’m his mum.”

Liam climbs into your lap and holds your face in his tiny hands. “Mum, Jamie Tartt says we can go to a match!” he says.

You laugh. “Don’t get your hopes up, love, Jamie hasn’t made any promises.”

Liam settles into your lap, facing Jamie. He can’t see your face or the pleading look you’re giving Jamie.

Please don’t mess this up, you try to say with your eyes. Jamie must get the message because he keeps smiling and asks Liam if he wants to kick the ball around for a bit. You watch them go, dreading the imminent conversation.

—

Liam’s asleep in his little Richmond pajamas. He loves football, and you watch every single match the Greyhounds play. Tickets are expensive, and you promised you’d take him to a real game one day. Truth is, you aren’t sure when that will be. It’s not easy being a single mum, but as you watch Liam’s sleeping face, you know you wouldn’t trade him for anything.

You sigh and get out of the rocking chair. Might as well call Jamie and get it over with.

Please pick up, you pray, and he does; you’re in the dim kitchen lights, poking at a cup of tea.

“Hey!” comes Jamie’s surprised voice. “You alright? Need anything?”

You shake your head even though he can’t see. “No, I wanted to talk about today. And Liam. Harry’s his dad.”

“Figured,” Jamie replies. “Made his comments at the gala make more fucking sense.”

“Yeah,” you say. Harry is a fucking prick. “Harry… he doesn’t have any custody. He’s not allowed near Liam. He also doesn’t pay child support. Or want a child. Or anything, really. He just wants to fuck around and do what he wants with no consequences. I should’ve known better honestly, I’m not even one to go around like that. Figures the one time I do it ends up like this. Not that I’m complaining,” you continue, “Liam is the best part of my life. It’s just hard when I keep losing people because they don’t want him too. Keeley’s the only one who stuck around. Did you know she’s a surprisingly great babysitter? Even kicks around a football in the yard with him.”

Jamie makes a surprised noise. It’s hard to picture Keeley in that exact situation, but not hard to imagine her doing anything that her friends needed.

“Anyway,” you continue, “I get if this makes things weird. You don’t have to get us tickets to the match. Liam’s still pretty little anyway… always taking bathroom breaks and needing snacks.”

“The owner’s box would be perfect,” Jamie blurts.

That isn’t the reply you were expecting, so you’re silent for a moment as he continues, “I mean… It’s easy to get in and out of, Rebecca’s got a fridge and a restroom…People bring their kids all the time. He’d love it. I’d love it,” he finishes.

You’re not sure. This is the longest anyone has ever stuck around when it comes to Liam, and you don’t really want to go to jail for murder if Jamie breaks his heart. All he could talk about for the rest of the day was how Jamie Tartt played football with him. Isaac McAdoo is is number one favorite, but you think Jamie is now a close second.

“Alright,” you say finally. “We’ll be there.”

—

It’s past Liam’s bedtime, like way past, and he’s asleep with his head on your shoulder. Your arms are tired from holding him and your throat is sore from screaming at the Richmond match. Jamie was right, Liam loved it. He wore his McAdoo jersey and got to meet the whole team before the game. You have a picture of him on Isaac’s shoulders, smiling so big. It’s weird to think that he probably won’t remember any of this when he’s older.

You’re waiting in a lobby of some kind for Jamie to come out. You’re leaning against a wall, feeling Liam’s steady breathing as he dreams.

Meanwhile, Jamie’s in the locker room, freaking out.

“Coach,” he says, wearing a hole in the floor, “how do you ask out a girl who’s got a kid?”

“Well Jamie-” Ted says.

“Are there some kind of rules I’m supposed to follow?” Jamie continues, oblivious. “I mean, what the fuck am I supposed to say?”

“I think-” Ted tries again.

“Nah fuck it, I’m just going to ask,” Jamie says.

Ted grins. “That sounds like a good plan, son.”

Jamie smiles back. “Thanks, coach. You always have the best advice.”

Ted shakes his head, still smiling as Jamie leaves the locker room.

—

Jamie rounds the corner to find you half-asleep against a wall near some trophy case, with Liam breathing out tiny snores. He swears that he’s never seen anything more beautiful, and it freaks him out for a moment. It’s…domestic in a way he didn’t ever expect his life to be.

He shakes off the weirdness and walks over.

“Hi,” he says, unable to contain a smile. “D’you want me to hold him for you?”

“That would actually be amazing,” you reply. “My arms are killing me.”

The sight of Liam asleep in Jamie’s arms is enough to make your brain go oh shit. Because, oh. Shit. This boy is going to break your heart if you’re not careful.

“How’d you like the game?” Jamie asks as you begin to walk to the car park.

“I loved it,” you reply sincerely. “Haven’t actually been to a match since this one.” You pat Liam’s back affectionately. “Kid had a great time too. Talked about meeting Isaac McAdoo the entire match. He’s like some football aficionado in a four-year-old’s body, swear down.”

Jamie’s still smiling as he helps you get Liam into his car seat. “What’re you doing the rest of the night?”

You laugh. “Oh god, I wish I could say going to sleep. But I have to meal prep for the week while Liam’s asleep. Otherwise he gets his sticky fingers in everything. Gonna take a solid two hours, at least.”

Jamie hesitates. It’s now or never. “Could I come over?” he asks. “Can’t cook for shit, but I could keep you company.”

You pause. “Jamie- I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

But god, you want it so bad.

“I’m being serious,” Jamie says. “Not trying to mess with you. I like you. Think you’re fucking fit. I like being around you and I liked kicking the football around with Liam. He’s a good lad. I think it’s worth giving a try.”

You look at Liam. He’s still fast asleep, oblivious to his mum’s turmoil.

“Alright,” you say, still not looking at Jamie. “Let’s give it a try.”

Jamie grins and ghosts his thumb across your cheek, making you look at him.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says. “So now’s your moment to tell me to fuck off.”

You smile. “Can’t say that in front of Liam anyway,” you say as you crash your lips into his.

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt #ted lasso

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witchofhimring · 1 month ago

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Disloyalty (Chapter 1)

Book One Masterlist (Loyalty)

Synopsis: Time has gone back and everything as is it once was, except you. After spending your first life being the pawn of others you are ready to even the score.

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Tyrell Reader

Aemond Targaryen x Ellyn Baratheon

Alys Rivers x Aemond Targaryen

Jaecerion Targaryen x Reader

Jason Lannister x Reader (minor)

(more to come!)

Y/n Tyrells Profiles

Warnings: Angst, heartbreak, childbirth, emotional turmoil, death, unrequited love?, humiliation by Ellyn Baratheon, marital abuse, marital consummation, misogamy (internalized as well as external), brief depictions of smut, mentions of rape (not to the reader), morally grey reader

You sat there in the cold dark, mud clinging to your skin. Resting against the Weirwood you were only faintly aware of it digging into your skin. The only physical sensation of importance was a stinging pain in your wrists and heavy painful breaths. Images of Alys and her green eyes were still imbedded onto your eyes. Light emanating from wherever was scarce. Shrouded in darkness you were hard to spot. Faintly you were aware of music playing near by.

Where were you? The archaic energy pulsing out of the tree made you realized it was a Weirwood. That was the only thing you were certain of. Was this the afterlife? Had the Seven sent you here to pay for heresy? A sickening panic brought you to life. Suddenly you could sit no more. The idea you were stuck in hell frightened you, and like a child you staggered up in terror. A great pain erupted in your heart as the situation set in. Owen, your son, was dead. Your dear little boy whom you had failed to protect. A wail of pain was wrenched from you. His little face floated in your mind. He was surrounded by blood with blue lips. The questions that had haunted you chanted like a morbid chorus. Collapsing to the ground you shuttered. You were stuck in this hell, forever to be tormented by the death of your son.

"To Prince Aemond and Princess Ellyn!" Jerking up you looked to see it was not just you and the tree. The light was coming from windows above. With trembling legs you stumbled a few paces and looked up. Above loomed the Weirwood. Through the branches you realized this was a garden, enclosed by the castle. Stepping further back you realized this was not just some castle.

It was the Red Keep.

Tapestries hung from the windows with the Stag and Dragon intertwined. The music now registered in your head. On the upper floors people were running to and fro, laughter on their lips. The sent of a feast permeated your senses. You looked back at the Weirwood and its many face. Twisted face forcing the bark to mold into grotesque mockeries of faces. Silently you stared down at those other faces. Were you in hell after all? For why would the Seven have the Old Gods were they could reign over man in hell? Unless this was not hell at all. Maybe this was some strange dream, perhaps that was all death was. One long endless dream.

You walked forward to those faces. Once they may have frightened you. But you were dead so they could do no harm, right? Closer you drew and one cold, bloody hand touched a face. Flesh contacted flesh. Your eyes met hollow but very much alive ones. "Hello?" For the first time you spoke to them, not out of fear. "Have you seen Y/n?" Cerilla's hatefully familiar voice floated, pleasing as the stench of dragon dung. You faded into the shadows. Looking down for the first time you realized this dress was not one recently one. In fact, you had not worn it since Prince Aemond married Ellyn.

Cerilla and one of her friends came into the garden. A thrill of hatred passed through you. If only there was a knife you might kill her then and there. A pity your body was not quite one with your brain. Your body felt like it had just been violently ill and only now just recovered. "I do not think she is here." Said Cerilla's friend, a girl you only knew by sight. Her dress was blue with flowers. This girl was a Florent. The same as that evil bitch Jenna. Jenna Florent. She had sent you to your death and taken everything for herself. If the Sven Hells's existed you hoped hers was a deepest, darkest part where no light ventured. "I suppose not. Think she has blubbered off into the forest?" Both girls laughed and departed. What they did not know was that Y/n had heard. And you emerged from out of the shadows, covered in blood and a look of hatred upon your face.

Your heart beat painfully. This pain inside might as well kill you. For a moment you remained paralyzed with pain. Then you realized it was not just pain, but rage. A rage that threatened to overtake you. It acted as a balm for your physical weakness. Banishing any thoughts of exhaustion you strided forward. The Red Keep had many passages. The nearest one was just behind a statue of Queen Alysanne. For the first time in two years you stepped into the Red Keep and flood of warmth filled you. So overpowering that you froze, completely forgetting you purpose. You were back where it all began. In these halls lay many memories, both good and ill. You only moved when your mind warned you someone might come. You gave the Weirwood one last glance before disappearing.

It helped that you knew the Red Keep so well. Every time someone passed you hid with ease. Everyone was either dressed in their house colours or of Targaryen or Baratheon. Once you made it to the door everything was dark. Time had passed but you knew this place well. Going up the stairs you finally reached a familiar place, your room. It was just as you had left it two years ago. Your blue sheets lay as they always did. A green dress hung over a chair, just as it had two years ago. Anyway, had you not gotten ride of that dress? Silently the door shut as you examined the room. Everything was familiar. You opened the curtains so see the moon in all its splendor. The forest outside seemed to breath with life. A surge of such intensity came and you dwelt in it. Closing e/c eyes you took it all in, the cold air, pine and so many other scents lingering. The moonlight more powerful than any sun.

A knock broke the brief spell. You tried to speak but only a croak came out. The door opened and Elinor stepped in. Suddenly nothing else mattered. In silence you simply stood there. Over the past year you had thought of all the things you would say, but now nothing came to mind. Numbly you just looked at her, every thought scattered.

Elinor quickly grabbed you by the arms and regarded with horror your appearance. Covered in blood and dirt Elinor likely thought you had been attacked. "Y/n! Oh Gods I better-" Elinor made to call for a servant. But you seized her sleeve and shook your head. "Please do not." "But you are hurt. Look at you!" It did look pretty bad. "I went into the forest and slipped on a carcass." You were quick to lie. Elinor still checked over you, only relived when she realized there were no wounds. "Very well, lets clear this up. I am sorry for startling you I just thought...well never mind. I will call for a maid." You needed no worries. Elinor could yell for all you cared. She was here.

The dress was immediately taken from you. Likely it was unsalvageable. A large basin was brought in and Elinor sent the servant away. Warm water washed away everything. You were rubbing away a stubborn piece of dirt from your knee when something alarmed you. On your right wrist was a long thin line. Like someone had slit your wrist. You tentatively touched it and then realized the same mark was on your other wrist. Two long thin marks scared your wrists.

"I was worried about you, taking into the forest like that. But I do not want you to think I am chastising you. I know today has been very hard." She was right, it had been hard. Thought it was hard today for a different reason than it had two years ago. Right now your thoughts were a million miles from anything regarding Prince Aemond and Ellyn. Instead you attempted to make sense of everything around you. Whether this was a afterlife or not. Had the past two years been all some strange dream? The memories felt too real, the mind was a powerful thing. Everything around you was clear. You had always been lucid in those dreams that felt so real. But even then it felt different. This was not a dream and maybe not even the afterlife.

Elinor laid out a nightgown on your bed. Making sure she could not see your wrists you put it on any got into bed. "Goodnight my sweet girl." Elinor placed a loving kiss to your cheek. You did not want her to leave. Nevertheless you watched her blow out the candle and close the door

In the darkness you lay, tormented by your thoughts. Without Elinor they came howling back with a vengeance. Most of all the weight of your lost son. Tears rolled silently down your cheek. Why had he died while you lived? Every parents askes these questions when they lose a child. It is one without answer or meaning. A simple snuffing out of light. A dreamless death was preferable to this. A blank nothingness was better than whatever existence you were thrown into. You had missed Elinor terribly but it could not protect you from all this pain. His blue bloody lips haunted your very soul. He had died alone in agony and there was nothing you did. You just let it happen.

You did not sleep that night, the moon passing through a dark nighttime sky. You watched it and resented your son not being there. He should have seen so many more sunrises. You heard the sounds of young children bellow, likely being allowed this rare privileg because of the wedding. Owen should have had the opportunity ty to play. To feel the deep bond that one friend feels for another. His life had been so brief, a sudden spark snuffed out, and yet his presence was a burn to your heart. A mother should never have to feel this.

You shot up. The reality hit you like an avalanche of rocks. A sickening thought occurred. This may not be a dream or the afterlife. If neither were true then there was another option.

Some say there was a God who could turn back time....

"Helaena!" You threw off the covers and did not even bother to put a robe on. The urgency made you nauseous with fear. Bursting out the door you ignored the cry of a maid. You were practically flying down the hall. You had to make it down there it time! Approaching a flight of stairs you were nearly there.

A hand which possessed an alarming amount of stress seized your left arms. Slamming into the stone wall your skull seemed to rattle. "Where are you going, you little snake?" Someone had you pinned against the wall. When your sight cleared you realized who it was. Cerilla had you right against the wall. The very girl who had your son killed and mocked your pain. She was right in front of you. "Get off me!" You roared. Did she not understand there was no time! "I asked you where-" You were beyond angry. First she had Owen killed and now had come back to mock you more! "For fuck sake Cerilla get off me now!" You screaming caught attention and suddenly there was an audience. People roused from sleep had come out to see the commotion. "What is going on here?" Jaecerion walked through the crowd. Going weak at the knees you nearly collapsed. Even Jaecerion was alive. "Y/n was causing trouble and I-" "I was doing nothing but this wild little bitch attacked me!" There was a gasp from the onlookers but you did not care. You wriggled and finally Cerilla let go. You made to run but Jaecerion stuck out a hand. "Jaecerion please." He saw the desperation in your eyes and looked to Cerilla. "Cerilla, what was Lady Y/n doing?" Cerilla's eyes were unusually wide and her hands were clenched. "She was running in an unruly manor and I was concerned she would run into someone." Cerilla tried to justify. "So was Y/n trying to cause trouble?" You just wanted to leave. "Jaecerion I do not have time." To everyone's astonishment you ran right past Jaecerion's arm and disappeared.

You were almost there, just a flight of stairs left. One level and you would be there.

Then a blood curdling scream rendered apart the calm night.

You could not bring yourself to go to Helaena. Once you realized it was over you collapsed against the wall. You were too late. Footsteps were racing past you in a hurry. The familiar scent of blood added itself to the Red Keep. Once more Jaehaerys Targaryen's story would become part of this cursed places legend. He would once more joining the line up of deceased people, cut down before their time. And you could have stopped it. Instead you just lay there in bed and stared at the wall. Helaena was now suffering as you are because of oversight. You were angry with yourself, and then angry at those who had cut him down. Once more the Blacks had struck and killed. Your swelling hatred found its fixture on Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. Last time they had both died, but their son sat on the throne. They still won despite everything. Despite all the blood, they had won.

Rooted to the spot you stayed in the stairwell. Jaecerion was still with you. Everyone else had left but him. Beside you, Jaecerion had come and placed an arm around you. 'Y/n?' Your legs seemed unwilling to move. Realizing this Jaecerion picked you up in his strong arms. Your mind was a thousand miles away. Barely aware of what was going on around you. Things swam in front of you. Hands placed themselves on the cold face in a vain attempt to block everything out. A great tempest stormed inside feasting on rage and despair. Ripping at everything you were, everything you ever would be. Settling itself in your very soul these festering emptions would plant themselves. Roots would sink into every part of who you were, blooming in all its malignant nature.

Jaecerion set you down on the bed. Green sheets rustled under your weight. Suddenly you were very cold, and it was not from the open window. This felt like one of those wretched dreams you got in Harrenhal. Except there was no escape from this one. Trapped in the nightmare you spiraled into the darkness. Laying down in his bed felt like being buried alive. Nausea boiled in your belly causing physical pain to clench like a fist. Hands curled into tight fists as you imagined them covered in blood. Jaehaerys's blood sticking to your skin, crawling up to your elbows.

With a great lurch you bolted up and vomited right onto the floor. Hands were touching you and fear became overcoming. 'Let go! You dashed to the other side of the room in a grazed frenzy. Two figures stood by the bed and in your madness you thought them ghosts. Crouching down you clasped hands together in some sort of prayer. Every breath seemed magnified, sounding like a great gust of wind each time it passed through cold chapped lips.

'Y/n?' Elinor's voice seemed far off. But you looked up and realized Jaecerion and Elinor were both looking at you. No ghosts. Blinking, you were brought back to reality. Your hands were not bloody. But that smell of freshly spilt blood never left, at least for you. bringing your hands to your mouth you closed burning eyes. 'Y/n, lets get you back to bed.' Elinor gently helped you up. 'I will summon a maester.' Jaecerion said. And you were lead back to the bed where once more dark thoughts surrounded you like a rope around the condemned's neck.

The nightmares came back. For the first time since living in Harrenhal you could hear the voices of the beyond. Everything was dark and despite reaching out you could not make any bearing. Everything seemed to fall away, like you had jumped down a deep hole with no end. The lack of control made you want to rage with helplessness. Would being brought back truly bring you victory? Or was this simply a cruel joke by beings greater than yourself? And what was the point of all this? Was this punishment for your sins?

When you woke up gasping and in a cold sweat they thought it was from the shock of Jaehaerys's bloody death. This was partially correct. The scent of his blood and headless stump sickened you. Having lost your own son you could only feel more pity for Helaena. Now there was also the combined feeling of deep shame. You could have stopped his death. At least his chances may have been better. Just like last time the assassins' hacked off a little boys head. Dread settled in your belly. If this could happen then what else could? Of course there was the obvious answer. Jaehaerys had died because of your inaction, not divine providence. Either way, there was only regret and grief.

Outside you could hear guards. Aegon had the castle shut down in the wake of his sons death. Despite having no love, or even liking for Aegon, you felt immense pity. Helaena's descent into madness seemed natural in her case. You had not seen Aegon after the death of his son, but you heard that he tore apart his room. Viserys's model of Old Valyria had lain in pieces afterwards. Soon Kings Landing would be in mourning, the stench of hung rotting corpses would fill the air, mingling with those killed in Rhaenys's flight from Kings Landing. Kings Landing was filled with the stench of the dead.

All day you spent inside. It did not matter that there was noise coming from outside your door. Or that there was a draft blowing in from outside. You had sworn vengeance and yet here you were, paralyzed with fear and helplessness. Soon rage seeped in. There was no one preventing you from going on. Jenna was busy with other matters for now and you were not a prisoner. You as of now could not go out.

The next morning you forced yourself to get out of bed. Every cell of your body ached and your eyes throbbed painfully. Elinor had you take a cold bath which held a little. Dressed in a dark green and at the door you did not want to leave. Finally, cautiously, you stepped out. The guard watched you with observant eyes. Suddenly the hair on your skin stood on end. You did not like the way he looked at you. Who was he? In your last life you had hardly paid attention to him. That made you feel small, insignificant, and that made you angry. Very angry.

Like a ghost you wandered the halls. You thought of all the stories you had been told. Of dead princes and builders who ventured into the castles deepest bowels, never to be seen again. Perhaps you could fall into the darkness and become a mere legend. Like the small insignificant little girl you were. That night you wandered back to bed. But you did not fall asleep. Something in you, an ever vigilant part, commanded all your senses. 'Stay awake.' It told you. So that night, laying in your bed facing the door. You waited. The guards shadow lingered outside. For hours he did not move. Stained ears did not pick up another's movement. That was until another's footsteps caused you to freeze. They were lighter, silk slippers on the floor. And then the guard, the man meant to protect you, left. You could see his shadow through the bottom of your door. His footsteps echoed off the stope. In a leap of faith you got up and silently opened the door. there was no one there. You could have gone back inside. The warm safe bed was inviting. Instead you slipped outside. There was a statue near by that could provide a hiding place. Soon enough he came back, accompanied by another. The woman's face was covered. But you could tell it was not Cerilla. her mouth was small like a rosebuds. Moonlight was just enough that you could clearly see the lower half of her face. There was a small mole just above her upper lip. Analyzing, you noted her appearance. There was a slender neck and slightly cleft chin. This might very well be a friend of Cerilla's. Although they had tormented you it was hard to place these few features by memory. You tried to listen carefully to her voice. 'Has she done anything suspicious?' Rage spiked through you. Who did this girl think she was?! The guard replied that nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Little did they know you were listening. A bag of money was placed into his hand and the girl was off. Waiting, you watched like a silent predator. Nails dug into the stone, your teeth were bared like a panther waiting to pounce. And soon that anger turned to elation at the daydream of making them pay. Some evening of the score that was sweeter than any pastry from the Keeps kitchen. At some point you slunk back to bed when the guard had gone. Despite having hardly rested you were wide awake, heart singing with joy.

Waking up you felt strangely calm. Too exhausted to feel anything you lay there looking up at the wooden ceiling. Last night you had dreamed of Owen. It had been so peaceful, only it ended and the nightmare continued. This waking nightmare was worse than any other. Running through forests covered in blood was better. Anything was better than this half existence.

You could hear whispering by the door. Getting up you wondered if this was also your imagination. Or perhaps a spy. You opened it and heard someone dash away, green skirts disappeared down the corner. Hastily you peered down the hall. Someone was running away. Although you could not recall her face you realized it was one of Cerilla's friends. 'What the fuck?' Creeped out, you went back inside and locked the door, leaving the key inside. Why was Cerilla spy on you? Likely she would write back to Jenna, but about what? You doubted Jenna would care very much about you simply lying in bed.

Elinor came in a few moments later. 'Y/n, do you know where the guard is?' You shook your head, keeping the truth quiet. Likely Cerilla paid him something. If the man who looked out for your safety was in her pocket, who else was? Only Elinor were you certain of. Feeling suddenly angry you quickly ate breakfast, even though a concerned Elinor advised otherwise. Once that was finished you were dressed. Having no desire to interact with anyone, and having a sudden burst of energy, you told Elinor to leave. She had been concerned but you assured her all that was needed was quiet. After waiting several minutes to be sure she was gone you got up and looked outside. The guard had not returned yet. Slipping out you walked down the halls. Few were awake this early on. The morning was young and the sun not yet in full splendor. Shadows crawled alone stones set down by men slain. The red made you think of blood and ghosts dancing along the halls. Flittering about they haunted the place lamenting their untimely, unjust deaths.

Your feet took you to the lower levels. Sun and light was no longer available the deeper you went. Torches let of small flickers of light providing a small guide. Wandering, you allowed the misery of this place to engulf you in all its terrible power. Jaehaerys's ghost seemed to be right next to you, with blood trickling to the floor. For some time you were amerced in the catacombs. When you heard voices above and realized they were that of the living you decided to leave. It would not do you any good to be caught half dressed in public. You did not like to be laughed at. To avoid company you crossed through the courtyard. The Weirwood tree called to you in its ancient voice. For a moment you looked at it before disappearing inside.

You had assumed that Cerilla could make nothing of you laying in bed. That had been a miscalculation on your part. As the day went by you heard the full story that Cerilla concocted you felt the desire to throttle her. Apparently you were so aggrieved at Aemond's marriage that you collapsed and vomited. People snickered in the hall. Poor Jaehaerys had died and they cared more about some malicious rumor. Fingernails imbedded themselves into the skin of your cold palms when Erald Swann, Cerilla's cousin, made a ballad about a whore who's lover left her for another. Fingers tightening around the knife you wondered what it would be like to plunge it into his heart.

You had hated them back then too. But now ideas emerged from the darkness, dark ones. Fantasies in which you slaughtered every one of them. At night you would lull yourself to sleep with the knowledge that one day you would get even.

The ladies gathered in the Sept to pray. Last time, a lifetime ago, you had gone to this same place for comfort. Those cold stone unfeeling gazes looked at you. Now merely a shadow in your life, you felt nothing except apathy. Some part of you felt loss. Something was dead inside of you, having been slowly strangled to death. The lights flickered and you wished to dash them across the floor sending this place up in a great blaze. Afterwards, you slipped away.

Alone you walked in those old halls. Everything else, life, happiness, companionship, felt so far away. Heart beating you wondered if it might break. Unwillingly tears rolled down your cheeks. It seemed you were not yet past such emotions.

'You know I did see the Lady Y/n today. She looked quite aggrieved.' Having not taken care to remain aware of your surroundings, you realized this was near Ellyn's chambers. Through an open door you could hear Cerilla's putrid voice wafting out. 'Well the little slut better know her place.' Ellyn. Frozen, you suddenly were pulled back to the present. Your face turned ever so slightly, like a predator listening. Stalking slightly closer you strained to hear what they would say next. 'I do apologize that she is in your service, princess.' Of course Cerilla was sucking up to her. Her white neck looked so thin, so delicate.

You turned on your heel and walked away. Nearly running you raced back to the bedroom. Voices echoed, people stared. You heard someone lady with dark hair made a snide remark in your direction. Everything before you became hazy and the voices in your heard increased with fervor. Every word was magnified, scalding you, washing of you leaving behind wounds. You imagined blood running down their faces. Nails slashing at their skin. Howls of agony.

With a gasp you nearly collided with someone. People snickered and you soon saw why. Aemond Targaryen was before you. Recoiling as if presented with a ghost you wished the ground would swallow you right up. His face was that of a stranger. The boy who swam in the alcove was long gone for you. You tried to familiarize his face to memory. But everything about Aemond was so foreign he might as well be a stranger, because he was one. And now looking at him you realized something. Your love for him was gone. It had been something you knew for a while. Yet now it became fully clear, acknowledged.

'Lady Y/n. You best be careful.' The men behind you were laughing. Every one of their faces branded themselves in your mind. You were trembling, not out of fear, but rage. They laughed and laughed and you were the greatest fool. Your pride ripped at you with all its powerful fury. Aemond looked down at you as one might a mere passer by. Clearly the past meant nothing to him. He might throw it away, but it would sustain you.

Without so much as a word you speed off into the shadows. The Red Keeps cold bearing down on you. 'Then I shall keep her in my power.' Power? What did Ellyn know about power, what did any of them know!? You had gone through time, spilt your own blood! Looking at your hands, you realized, through the haze of pain, that another type of power was open. Alys had mentioned your mothers family. Reed blood that gave you blood of the First Men. If you could harness whatever power this was.......

'Change coats.'

'Running of blood!'

Just like last time you were woken by these words. Startled awake you immediately got out of bed. Pulling out a piece of parchment you wrote the words now. Whatever they meant you knew were significant. 'Running of blood' you could understand. But what was 'change coats' about. Surely it could not mean you would change sides. No, that was impossible. The very idea was ludicrous.

This morning you were filled with a strange energy. After months of being a prisoner it was liberating to be so free. Throwing open the window you could feel the breeze and summer air. Even the stink of King's Landing was welcome.

You were resolved to fight. Armed with knowledge of future events and the power of gods you would bring all your enemies down. Now you were certain of your fate. To perish or fight. Once you had blindly stumbled into the former. Your wrists throbbed painfully. Looking down you traced fingers over the scars. How did Alys do it? What power had allowed her to change time itself? She spoke of The Old Gods and a wheel. Having grown up in the Faith of the Seven you knew little about the north. It had been considered heresy and the maesters and septas tormented you with the Seven Hells. Now the world had been turn upside down. If this cold northern power would help you then so be it. Who cared what the future would be, so long as vengeance was to be had.

There was the obvious problem of where to begin. You could hardly go up and ask someone how to do magic. Only Alys could truly help you, but she was at Harrenhal. Would it be prudent to summon her? Given your station Alys would not be able to deny you. Or she might flee like last time. And who was to say Alys would even help you. Even if you were to bring her, what then? People would talk and there was no where to keep her. Despite being a lady this was not your castle. keeping Alys a secret would be hard. At Harrenhal Alys was infamous, bringing her to the Red Keep might make your situation close. The only way you could have her come would be to attain power through marriage. Soon they would betroth you to Jason Lannister. But you doubted he would keep his nose out of your business. Yet who else could you marry then?

Most nights you lay awake mulling over the past. Elinor brought you tea to help with sleep, which remained on the night table, untouched. In the moonlight you examined the scars on your wrists. Tonight you would likely dream again. Under a loose floorboard was a small dream diary. While you figured out what to do with Alys it would be prudent to keep an eye on these dreams. Books were hidden in various parts of your room. If Cerilla was spying on you it was best to hide anything suspect. Of course these books anyone could take out. But if someone found multiple books about the north in your room they might ask question. It would be just like that bitch to get you in trouble.

Not that the books told you anything about magic. Just mentions of old traditions and the north's history. Granted, knowing more about the north might help. But you were still left deeply frustrated. This far down south it was hard to find anything that could help. Andal tradition demanded that anything south of Moat Cailin be subjected to their ways, except for the few Weirwood trees scattered around. You had tried to get information from the tree. But aside from muddled visions and whisperings, nothing useful could be deciphered. It left you in a miserable mind.

At some point in the night you thought someone was outside the door. Someone who was not your guard. Pretending to sleep you saw the outline of a skirt. 'Some spy.' You thought.

The next morning you had an idea. The girl might not be able to find anything, but you did not like to be spied on. Rage made you want to hurt this girl. She would regret ever having played a role in Cerilla's schemes. True it was a ruthless plan, definitely spiteful. But she had destroyed the only place where you might be able to hide from prying eyes. So you would do the same to her. There was nothing would now not do. Long ago in another life time you might have balked at doing such things. Now it gave you a pleasure you had never known, ever truly indulged in. You had raged against Ellyn in the past, but only when she provoked you. Never alone had you been the architect of ones misfortune. You would posses power, whatever magic you may harness, and the power to reap vengeance on your enemies.

'Y/n, Princess Ellyn has summoned you.' Pulled out of your thoughts, you saw one of Ellyn's handmaidens standing by the door. Oh, right. You were in Ellyn's service at this time. In all honesty it was a bit funny. Once she had terrorized you so, now hatred had melted that fear. Besides, there were those you now hated more. Despite that, you remembered the interaction clearly. Being imprisoned for months on end gave one time to reminisce. You had poured over every detail and thought of ways you could avenge yourself. And to your savage delight, you could. She would dismiss Cerilla and have you alone tend to her. And on a table near by were nails filers. Sharp pieces of metal to style nails, or slice through skin.

In that moment a thought occurred to you. Had the handmaiden, who had now departed, seen the smile that curled upon your face she might have thought twice. Getting up you decided that yes, you would be more than happy to help. Slowly you made the walk to Ellyn's chambers. Last time you had walked slowly out of nerves. Now you did so in order for the time to be right. Your hands shook with excitement. Oh she would regret summoning you. Whatever accusation she hurled would pale in comparison to what was about to happen. She wanted to ruin your reputation, you would destroy hers.

To enter Ellyn's bathing chambers one had to walk through her bedroom. Six ladies sat sewing or talking in low voices. Good. They would hear the scream. A few looked up and you, one or two gave greetings. No one seemed to notice you looked unnaturally gleeful. A maid opened the door and you stepped into the moist, heavily perfumed room. It was like stepping back in time, because you were stepping back in time. Everything was just as it was last time. Ellyn in a bath, Cerilla fussing over her hair, and a maid. Cerilla gave you a nasty look. Much good it did, your attention was all on Ellyn. You would deal with Cerilla later. 'You. Get the herbs.' It was strange to see Ellyn so healthy. Jaecerion had not gotten to her yet. 'You never should have been so cruel to me.' You thought.

Nothing was said as you placed the herbs in warm water. You could feel Ellyn's cold blue eyes on you. Luxuriously she stretched out and eyed you imperiously. She had no idea what was about to happen. 'I think this suits you.' You wanted to say something. Ellyn no longer scared you as she once had. But for your plan to work everything had to go as it did last time. 'The Princess is speaking to you.' Yipped Cerilla the little lap dog. 'If the Princess whishes me to answer she may say so herself.' You heard the water splash as Ellyn got up and in a moment was out of the tub. Her nails dug into your skin just as they had last time. Back then it had hurt, but since then you had faced far worse. There were no tears in your eyes. Because you were no longer that little girl. You had always been prideful, but buckled under Ellyn.

'I am the Princess, you are my lady in waiting! You are nothing compared to me.' When her grip tightened you cried out. Louder than last time so they would all heart. 'I will keep you by my side if only to further vex you. Every night I will have you wait as my husband loves me. And when I have his son you may be here to assist. Then maybe I'll send you to the Silent Sister to release you from your torment.' Cerilla and the maid left, the door slamming shut. This was so easy you wanted to laugh. Last time she had laughed, you remembered. Not this time.

'How do you know it will be a boy.' You had leaned in very closely. The whisper could only be heard by you two. A hot ugly flush crept up her cheeks. 'No laughter?' You thought. Suddenly you were thrown back against the table. Behind you could hear the clattering of nail files. 'I am simply curious, no brothers...I mean. And I have heard some men put away...deficient wives. Perhaps you, not I, will be sent to the Silent Sisters.' Ellyn's hands closed about your throat. Her thin nails scratched at the skin. 'You bitch! I will have you flayed alive!' She hissed, and unlike you her words could be heard outside. Suddenly Ellyn jerked back, because in your hand was the nail file. It sparkled n the sunlight. Pale, unmoving, Ellyn stood here frozen. Then she sneered. 'I am a princess. You can not harm me.' 'Oh, your right. You seized her by the arm. An insidious smile curled on your lips, shocking the princess. And then in front of Ellyn you cried out 'Please don't hurt me!' all the while smiling. You forced the nail file between thin fingers, the sharp edge pointed right towards you. But you can harm me'. That was when Ellyn, with horror, realized what you were about to do. But it was too late. Pointing the razor towards flesh, you stabbed.

Warnings: Angst, heartbreak, trauma, mentions of child morality emotional turmoil, death, unrequited love?, humiliation by Ellyn Baratheon, marital abuse, marital consummation, misogamy (internalized as well as external), brief depictions of smut, grey reader

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