#the hands of the king are the hands of a healer

[pinklayla123]

Death and the Maiden

A/N: So this year, I decided to brush off the cobwebs between my fingers and write again after almost ten years. If this feels incomplete it's because there was supposed to be more but I decided to make part 2 to this under the Peace and Quiet category. This is my first entry for @elriel-month, and I'll try to do as many as I can. I hope you enjoy!

For eons, Death roamed the earth. His cloak over his head, his scythe in his hand, his dagger by his side. He did not meddle with the affairs of mortals, whether in this realm or the one beyond the veil. That was not his dominion. He simply carried out his task, shepherding souls across the veil when their time had come. Mortals believed him to be a cruel monster that struck in the dark and took away their loved ones, but truly, he was simply fulfilling his duty, maintaining balance in the world. He did not question who or when or why, he simply collected.

He did not do so all by himself, ofcourse. There were too many birds and trees and rabbits and people whose hourglass emptied at the same time, too many for one being to handle, no matter how powerful. Delegating some of his tasks, whether by area or creature, allowed him to personally collect souls where his presence was needed most. Whether that be a child that had been taken too young and needed reassurance, or a tyrannical king who needed to be made aware of what was coming next.

One such day, he entered the bedchamber of a young woman, the pallor of her face indistinguishable from the ivory pillow upon which her raven-black hair was spread. Her mother held her right hand, her betrothed the other. She had fallen into the path of an incoming carriage, and sustained injuries to her head and back. He could sense her terrified spirit trapped inside her body; able to feel the pain of her injuries but unable to move, able to hear the sobs of her loved ones but unable to respond. There was no hope of healing her, her frail mortal body too broken. It would be a kindness to take her away, to remove her pain and take her beyond the veil to wait for her family in peace. He passed the girl’s father, standing with his hand on his wife’s shoulder, and approached the bed. He stopped beside her pillow, and it was then he noticed the other maiden in the room.

She stood at a table next to the window, beyond the girl’s betrothed. Her golden-brown curls were gathered at the back of her neck, falling to the waist of her simple gown. He followed the movements of her elegant hands as she transferred the contents of a mortar into a teacup and added water from a kettle. A healer from the village, he presumed. Someone who had learned some of nature’s secrets and knew how to use them for various purposes.

She turned from the table, stirring furiously, and froze as she beheld him. She seemed just as shocked to see him as he was by the realization that she was staring directly at him. In all his centuries, no mortal had ever looked at him directly when he was in this form. Some were more attuned to his presence than others, exhibiting discomfort as he passed by, but none had ever seen him so clearly. The healer’s shoulders fell as she realized who he was, why he was there. She placed the teacup on the table behind her, and approached the bed. 

“She doesn’t have much time left,” she whispered to the family, her voice hitting him like a blow to the chest. He watched her as she did her best to comfort the family, and kneeled beside the girl’s betrothed and asked them to join her in praying for a safe and peaceful journey into the hereafter. He waited for her prayer to end before he touched the tip of his scythe to the girl’s forehead, taking her with him. The last thing he saw was the healer’s doe-brown eyes, bright with tears.

A few days after his encounter with the healer, he found himself wandering the forest near her village. A healer would need to gather plants for her medicines, and thoughts of her plagued him too often to be able to stay away. He saw her in a field of flowers, some tucked in her loose braid and some placed in a basket dangling from her arm. She turned to him as he approached, her eyes widening like they had the first time.

“You are Death,” she said, and although it hadn’t been a question, he nodded.

“Are you here for me?” Her voice was steady, but he could see the tightness in her shoulders, the way she swallowed before she spoke. She wouldn’t fight him if he told her her time had come, but she wanted to live, and live well, before that happened.

“I am,” he replied, “but not to take you beyond the veil, simply because I wished to see you.” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I wanted to ask you,” he continued, “how is it that you can see me, when my cloak is spelled to keep me invisible from mortals?”

“I have always seen things I shouldn’t be able to,” she smiled, “It seems you are no exception.” His lips twitched. She was brave, this mortal who cracked jokes in the face of Death instead of running in the other direction.

“My name is Elain,” she introduced herself. A beautiful name to go with a beautiful smile, the thought occurred to him before he could understand its source. He lowered his head and placed a gloved hand on his chest. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.” She blushed, and inquired after his. “I am Death,” he replied simply. It was who we was, his entire existence and purpose wrapped up in one word.

“That’s what you do,” she said, “but surely you must have a real name.” She looked up at him curiously, and he realized he wanted to tell her. “My name is Azriel,” dredging it up from the depths of his memory. She repeated it to herself, and as he heard the name his mother had given him spoken aloud for the first time in millenia, something unlocked in his heart.

[hameesstuff]

"Ash Oath: The Crown"

Pairing: Prince Jaehyun x Knight!Reader

Themes: Medieval Fantasy, Slowburn, Heavy Smut, War, Angst, Fluff

Word count: ~5.1k

Preview: In the heart of war, Prince Jaehyun finds strength and love in his brave knight. Through battles and longing, their bond deepens—until one tender night changes everything, and love becomes their peace after the storm.

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Prologue: The Oath

You kneel before the throne, steel armor catching the dying light of the sun that slips through the stained glass. The court is silent. Only the sound of your own heartbeat thunders in your ears.

He stands above you—Prince Jaehyun, crown barely tilted, expression unreadable.

He’s barely older than you, but the weight of ruling already drapes over his shoulders like chainmail. His jaw is sharp. His eyes sharper.

“Swear your sword,” the king commands. But it’s Jaehyun you look at.

“I vow to protect Prince Jaehyun with my life,” you say clearly. “To shield his heart, his name, and his crown—even if it costs me everything.”

Jaehyun’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Rise, Ser Knight.”

You do. And when his hand clasps your shoulder, his touch is warm.

That night, he does not look at you again.

But that was before the war.

Before the fire.

Before the night he vowed to love her.

CROWN AND CONSCIENCE

The storm hadn’t yet passed, but the fires had already started.

Smoke from the outskirt village curled into the gray skies like a cry for help—one the court had chosen to ignore.

“They brought it upon themselves,” the Duke spat. “They trespassed into disputed land. The royal decree is clear: no aid.”

Jaehyun stood still at the head of the council chamber, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides.

“They are our people,” he said, voice low. “Starving. Sick. And burning.”

“The crown must stand firm. If we help them, we break the treaty. We risk war,” the Chancellor added.

Jaehyun looked around. Not one noble met his eyes.

Not even his father.

So he left.

He walked out in silence.

And by nightfall, he was gone from the castle.

The next morning, soldiers whispered.

The prince had taken a full supply cart. Two dozen loyal guards. And one knight—her—riding by his side.

By dusk, they reached the village.

Children coughed from smoke inhalation. Old men collapsed in the mud. The stream ran black with ash.

Jaehyun dismounted without hesitation, sleeves rolled, crown gone.

He lifted a girl from the rubble with soot-streaked hands. Tended wounds. Shared his own water flask. Carried wood and bandaged burns with the knight’s steady presence at his side.

She watched him, her heart aching and swelling all at once.

“You broke royal law,” she murmured beside him.

“I couldn’t sit on a throne and let them die,” he replied, wiping sweat from his brow. “If that makes me unfit to rule—so be it.”

She looked at him—his dirt-covered tunic, scraped hands, and burning eyes—and whispered, “That makes you the only one worthy of the crown.”

That night, as the fires died and the villagers slept, she found him sitting alone outside the healer’s tent.

He didn’t notice her approach until she knelt beside him.

“You’ll face consequences,” she said.

He looked at her.

Soft. Unafraid.

“I don’t care.”

And under the stars, she saw not a prince bound by duty—but a man ruled by compassion.

And she fell for him just a little more.

SPEAKING FOR A PRINCE

The great hall of the royal court was cold with judgment. Noblemen lined the carved benches, voices sharp, robes heavy with power. The scent of ink, candle wax, and tension hung thick in the air.

Prince Jaehyun stood before them—cuffed, accused of overstepping his command during the last border battle.

He was calm, jaw tight, eyes steady. But behind the mask, she saw it—the weight of betrayal from within his own court.

The High Chancellor raised his voice, “Prince Jaehyun acted against advisement. He led troops beyond sanctioned lines. Risked lives. Disobeyed counsel.”

“He saved them,” she snapped, stepping forward.

Gasps stirred through the room.

The Chancellor blinked. “Knight, you were not summoned to speak.”

“I wasn’t,” she said, striding to the center. “But I was there.”

Whispers followed her like wind through the stone chamber.

“I saw the command you all hesitated to give. I saw the soldiers who would’ve died had he waited for permission. I watched your heir bleed for people you’d already written off.”

Jaehyun’s eyes widened slightly. She didn’t look at him.

“He didn’t seek glory. He didn’t seek rebellion. He sought to save lives when you sat in safety and silence.”

A noblewoman stood. “You speak boldly for a knight.”

“I speak truth for a man who earned my sword and my loyalty.” Her voice cracked slightly. “And if you question his honor, then question mine too. Because I followed him not out of rank—but respect.”

The room was still.

Jaehyun’s lips parted—but no words came.

She turned finally, meeting his eyes.

And for a fleeting second, the world narrowed to only them.

“If you're going to try him for saving lives,” she said gently, “then try me too.”

Silence.

Then the King stood slowly, his eyes unreadable.

After a moment, he spoke. “The court will recess. And reconsider.”

As murmurs rose again, Jaehyun was uncuffed.

He walked to her, slow, deliberate, his voice hushed.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

She met his gaze. “Yes, I did.”

And he smiled—small, awed, full of quiet devotion.

It was the day the court questioned his worth.

And the day he realised he had fallen too hard.

MOONLIGHT AND SILK

The corridor outside her quarters was still, save for the low hum of torches lining the walls. Prince Jaehyun’s boots barely made a sound on the polished stone floor as he approached, one hand loosely holding the sheathed blade he’d had custom-forged for her. A new sword—elegant, balanced, strong. Just like her.

He hadn’t intended to deliver it himself.

But something about her lingered in his thoughts too often lately—the fierce way she fought, the subtle kindness behind her sharp eyes, the way she always saluted him without hesitation, never letting her exhaustion show. And then there were the nights—like this—when he found excuses to see her again.

He raised a hand to knock.

But the door wasn’t fully closed.

It was slightly ajar, and the soft whisper of movement inside caught his attention. He hesitated, but before he could announce himself, the moonlight streaming through her window shifted, casting a silver glow across the room.

And then he saw her.

She stood with her back to him, brushing out her hair by the open window. Her long white sleep gown clung gently to her waist and hips, falling to the floor like silk and mist. The fabric shimmered faintly, molded to her shape by the breeze. Her hair cascaded freely down her back—no armor, no blades, no duty.

Just her.

A woman—not his knight, not his protector—just her.

The prince forgot to breathe.

Something in his chest tightened, as if caught between reverence and ache. He had seen her bleed, seen her break men with her sword arm, stand unflinching before death. But this? This sight undid him more than any battlefield.

She turned slightly, sensing movement behind her.

“Who's—?” she began, then stilled when she saw him.

Her eyes widened a little. Not with fear—never fear—but with quiet surprise. “Your Highness.”

Jaehyun cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of how the moon painted her skin in soft silver and shadows.

“I—I came to give you this.” He held out the sword like a shield between them. “Your new blade.”

She stepped forward barefoot, the sound barely a whisper on the stone. She took the sword gently, their fingers brushing. Her brows rose as she admired the craftsmanship, but she noticed something else—his gaze lingering longer than it should have, the way his lips parted as if he wanted to say something and couldn’t.

“Is something wrong?” she asked softly.

Jaehyun shook his head once. “No. Not at all.”

She nodded, then turned to rest the sword carefully against her nightstand. But he didn’t move. He stayed rooted in place, still watching her with the eyes of a man who’d been struck silent.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he finally said, voice lower than usual. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

He turned to go.

“Prince"

He looked back.

The moonlight made her look like something from a dream. Real, and yet otherworldly. Her eyes met his with that same steel-and-softness he’d come to crave.

“Thank you,” she said.

Then it hit him like a thousand arrows.

He was in love with her.

Not because she was strong. Not because she had saved him a hundred times on the battlefield.

But because in this quiet moment, she had unknowingly shattered every wall he’d built around his heart.

And for the first time in his life, the prince didn’t want to leave.

BEHIND LOCKED DOORS

The castle trembled with distant noise—boots pounding on stone, swords clanging, desperate shouts echoing through the halls. Smoke curled beneath the door.

She slammed it shut, bolting it with trembling hands, her chest heaving. Her sword was slick with blood, her tunic torn at the sleeve. The corridor had nearly swallowed them both.

Jaehyun leaned against the wall behind her, his breathing sharp. Blood trickled from his side, dark and steady. His armor hung broken over his frame, the left pauldron nearly ripped clean off.

“You’re bleeding, my prince” she said, turning to face him fully.

“I’ve had worse.”

“You’ll have worse if you keep talking,” she muttered, moving swiftly to her washbasin. “Sit.”

He obeyed with a grunt, sinking onto the edge of her cot. The flickering candlelight bathed the room in a gold haze, illuminating the sweat on his brow, the way his jaw clenched through the pain.

She returned with cloths and clean water, dropping to her knees before him.

“Hold still.”

She reached for the clasps at his shoulders, unbuckling each one with precision. His armor fell away piece by piece, clanging softly against the floor. She set them aside carefully, revealing the soaked linen shirt beneath—torn at the hem, stained with blood.

Her fingers hesitated at the edge of it. “I need to see how deep it is.”

“Go ahead,��� he said quietly.

She looked up—his eyes were already on her. Intense. Unreadable.

Her hands went to the hem of his shirt, lifting it slowly, carefully—until his torso was bare before her. Her breath caught as she took him in: the lean muscle along his ribs, the angry gash slashing across his left side, the bruises blooming along his back.

He wasn’t just a prince. He was a man carved from battles and burden, held together by will.

She dipped the cloth into the warm water and pressed it gently to the wound. He flinched.

“Sorry,” she murmured, softening her touch.

He said nothing—just watched her. Watched the way her brows knit in worry, how her lips parted when she concentrated, how her fingers trembled just slightly as they cleaned the blood from his skin.

“You do this often?” he asked, voice low.

“Patch up reckless princes who dive into ambushes alone?” she muttered. “Far too often.”

He gave a soft, wry chuckle. “You’re angry.”

“You could’ve died, Jaehyun.”

He stilled.

She never called him that—not like this. Not when they were alone and the world fell away.

Her hand paused at his ribs, fingers spread wide against his skin. Her eyes lifted to meet his—and what she saw in his gaze wasn’t pain. It was hunger. Admiration. Something vulnerable.

“You saved me,” he said quietly. “Again.”

“I always will,” she whispered.

The noise outside had dulled, but inside—everything was louder. Her heart. His breath. The tension between them strung tight like a drawn bow.

His hand reached up slowly, curling around her wrist. Warm. Firm. Gentle.

“I’ve worn crowns and commanded armies,” he murmured. “But no one’s ever looked at me the way you do.”

She exhaled. “I see the man. Not the title.”

He leaned forward, close enough to feel the heat of her breath. “Then kiss me, knight. Before I beg.”

She did.

It started as a whisper—lips brushing, soft and unsure. Then deeper. Warmer. His hand cradled the back of her neck. Her fingers gripped his bare shoulders. They kissed like the world outside didn’t exist.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads touched.

“Stay,” he whispered. “Just tonight.”

“I’ll guard the door myself,” she said, voice trembling.

“No,” he murmured, brushing her cheek. “I meant here. Beside me.”

And for once, she laid down her sword—not because the war had ended, but because for the first time, her heart had found a reason to stay.

FIRELIGHT

The first thing he felt was the ache. A dull throb beneath his ribs.

The second—emptiness.

The sheets beside him were cold.

“...Y/N?” Jaehyun rasped, voice hoarse in the darkness.

He sat up slowly, the bandage on his side pulling with the movement. Candlelight flickered low in the corner of the room, shadows dancing against stone. Outside, the castle slept, but the corridors still pulsed faintly with the warmth of scattered torches.

He swung his legs over the bed, wincing as his bare feet met the chilled stone. The nightshirt clung to his chest, sweat-dampened from fever or dreams—he couldn’t tell which. He remembered her touch… her kiss… the warmth of her lying beside him.

But now—

He stumbled out into the corridor, jaw clenched.

And then he saw her.

Just past the archway, near the stairs that overlooked the southern wall, she stood in silence—bathed in golden firelight. Her back was to him, a white nightgown hugging her frame, hair unbound and tumbling over her shoulders like ink against snow.

Her hand was pressed gently against the side of her own ribs—over fresh bandages.

She hadn’t told him.

She had been hurt too.

“Y/N…”

She turned at his voice—slowly, carefully. Her eyes widened in quiet surprise.

“Jaehyun,” she breathed. “You should be resting.”

“You’re bleeding,” he said, taking a slow step forward.

“So are you.”

He was beside her now, and the firelight cast their shadows long across the stone. His hand reached out, brushing her hair back from her face, thumb grazing her cheekbone.

“You hid it from me.”

“I had to.”

“Why?”

“Because you would’ve worried. You’d do something reckless like—” she paused, eyes softening, “—like stumble out of bed half-healed to chase after me.”

He laughed, just a breath of it. “Too late.”

She smiled gently, and he leaned in—forehead resting against hers.

“I woke up and thought I dreamt you,” he whispered. “I thought maybe you’d never been there at all.”

“I’m here,” she said, voice low. “I’m always here.”

He took her hand then—pulled it away from her side and pressed it flat over his heart.

“Then don’t ever leave without telling me again.”

“I won’t,” she promised, eyes glassy.

He kissed her then, slower this time. Not urgent, but steady—like a vow made in firelight, when the rest of the world was still.

WOUNDS AND WHISPERS

The firelight in her chambers glowed low and golden, casting gentle shadows across the stone walls.

“You should lie down,” she whispered, guiding him to the bed. Her nightgown swayed with each step, the soft fabric brushing against his legs like a ghost.

“So should you,” he murmured back, brushing his thumb over the bandage beneath her arm. “You’re still hurt.”

Her eyes softened.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and she stood before him. In the silence, he reached out, fingers ghosting over the hem of her nightgown. “May I?”

She nodded, and he peeled it upward with care, revealing the curve of her hips, her thighs, the rise and fall of her breath. Her skin glowed warm under the firelight, marred only by bruises and healing cuts she had kept hidden from him.

He pressed a kiss to each one.

As if to say I see you. I honor all your pain.

When he looked up, her eyes were glassy.

“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly. “Even when you're hurting. Especially then.”

She knelt on the bed before him, her hands undoing the loose ties of his shirt. He winced faintly, and she slowed.

“Sorry.”

“No,” he said. “Touch me. Just—don’t stop.”

She helped him out of it gently, exposing the wrapped wound over his ribs. Her lips found his shoulder, then his collarbone, every kiss feather-light, like she was trying not to break him.

He reached for her then, pulling her close, their bare chests pressing together carefully. The moment was raw and real, made of aching hearts and trembling hands. They kissed like they were mending, like the world outside could burn and all that would matter was this room, this breath, this closeness.

When he slid into her, it was slow—achingly so.

Her arms wrapped around his neck. His hand cradled her lower back. They moved gently, savoring each thrust, each soft gasp, like every second was sacred.

“I’ve never…” she breathed, forehead against his.

“I know,” he whispered. “Me neither. Not like this.”

No rushing. No dominance. No need to prove.

Just love.

His lips found hers again and again, their bodies rising and falling together with patient rhythm, careful not to press too hard against bandaged skin.

She moaned softly against his mouth, and his eyes fluttered shut at the sound.

“I’m yours,” he said, voice hoarse. “If I die tomorrow, know that.”

“You won’t,” she whispered, tears sliding into her hair. “Because I’ll protect you.”

They came undone in each other’s arms, quiet and trembling—clinging, not for lust, but for love. For peace. For the promise of something beyond war and fire.

And when they collapsed back into the sheets, breath mingling, hands still locked—

There was only stillness.

And comfort. Even if it was for a while.

THE TURNING POINT

The battlefield was drowning in smoke.

Ash fell like snow from the sky, clinging to armor, skin, and the broken soil beneath Jaehyun’s boots. He stood near the southern ridge, sword in hand, heart pounding against scorched ribs.

Just ahead, the enemy forces—outnumbered, fractured—were beginning to retreat.

“We have them!” a commander yelled beside him. “They’re breaking!”

Jaehyun dared to believe it. One final push. One last surge. Victory, after all these brutal months, was so close he could taste it—bitter and bright like metal on the tongue.

He turned to find her—his knight. His heart.

She was across the clearing, leading the flank. Her armor was bloodstained, cracked along the shoulder. But her blade flashed like fire, and her eyes burned with relentless purpose.

Then—

A scream.

His blood iced.

It was one of their own—a young soldier, barely more than a boy, falling to his knees as a hidden detachment of enemy reinforcements surged from the treeline. An ambush.

“Hold the line!” Jaehyun roared, charging toward her.

But it was too late.

She saw the danger before he could reach her—and she moved.

Shield up, she threw herself into the fray, intercepting the attack meant for the crumbling left wing. Chaos exploded around her—swords clashing, arrows flying.

NO CHILD LEFT

The air was thick with smoke and screams as she moved through the burning village—enemy territory, but tonight, no one was counting sides. The earth was torn open, houses turned to skeletons. Every breath was ash.

“Pull back!” someone shouted from the hill. “Orders are to evacuate—now!”

But she didn’t stop.

Because she heard him.

A small, choked sob beneath a crumbled stone wall.

She dropped to her knees, tearing through splinters with bloody fingers until she saw him: a boy, no more than six. Filthy. Crying. Trapped. Alone.

He flinched when he saw her armor.

She tossed her blade aside.

“I’m not your enemy,” she whispered hoarsely. “I’m your way out.”

She reached in and hauled him out, his frail body clinging to hers like a lifeline. He smelled of smoke and fear, skin hot with fever.

Then—

“Commander!” a soldier barked behind her. “He’s one of them! You can’t bring him with us!”

She turned, eyes blazing, hair soaked with sweat and ash. “He’s a child! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“You’ll get us court-martialed,” another snapped. “We don’t help the enemy!”

She stepped forward, clutching the boy tighter. “Then court-martial me! Strip my armor. Lock me up. But I will not leave a child to die in a fire because of your fear.”

"But commander-"

"THAT'S FINAL!"

There was silence.

Even the fire seemed to pause for her words.

The boy whimpered, burying his face into her shoulder.

And she turned her back to them all—and ran.

Through collapsing beams. Through enemy lines. Through bullets and flames.

Jaehyun met her halfway to the edge of the safe zone, eyes wide, blood still dripping from a fresh cut at his temple.

His voice cracked. “You—what happened?”

“He was alone,” she gasped. “I couldn’t—”

And he didn’t let her finish.

He stepped forward and took the child from her arms, settling him gently against his chest.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get him to safety.”

Her heart caught.

Because in that moment, with flames behind them and a new future just ahead—she realized:

He's the one she's fighting to stay alive for.

A SMALL VICTORY

The battle had finally quieted.

The field was scorched, blood-soaked—but still. The last horn had sounded, signaling retreat. Smoke curled into the clouds as the enemy forces vanished beyond the valley’s edge.

For the first time in days, there was no screaming. No sword drawn. Just silence.

And then—

A cheer.

It started with one soldier. Then another. And soon, the air echoed with tired, tearful cries of triumph.

She stood among them—her armor dented, hair tangled, face streaked with soot. Blood stained her side where she’d been grazed, but she stood tall.

Alive. Fierce. Radiant in the sun breaking through smoke.

Jaehyun spotted her across the clearing—and everything else blurred.

His feet moved before his thoughts did.

And then he was in front of her.

She blinked. “We did it.”

He didn’t answer.

He reached out—one trembling, dirt-smeared hand—and cupped her jaw. His thumb brushed her cheek gently, reverently.

Her breath caught.

And without another word—

He kissed her.

Slow. Certain. Soft.

Right there in front of everyone.

The soldiers fell silent. Watching. And then—smiled.

Because they all knew.

This was more than a victory on the battlefield.

It was a win they had fought for.

A promise that not all things were lost to war.

When he pulled back, he leaned his forehead against hers and whispered, “You’re why I made it through this.”

And she whispered back, “We made it through… together.”

EPILOGUE – THE GARDEN IN SPRING

The castle stood quiet now, its stones no longer echoing with the sound of swords or cries, but with laughter and birdsong. Spring had returned, weaving green into the cracks left by fire. Peace was still a fragile thing—but it bloomed, nonetheless.

In the royal garden, beneath an arch of flowering vines, Jaehyun found her.

She sat on a bench, polishing her newly forged sword—not for battle, but tradition. She still wore armor sometimes, though it had grown lighter, paired now with silk instead of steel.

He stood for a moment, watching her.

The sunlight kissed her hair, and when she looked up—smiling, free, his—he knew again why he’d bled for this peace.

“You’re staring, Your Majesty,” she teased, wiping her blade with a grin.

“I’m admiring,” he corrected, walking over. “Is that a crime?”

She tilted her head. “Might be. Depending on how you plead.”

He leaned down, stole a kiss from her lips. “Guilty.”

She laughed, catching the collar of his robe and pulling him closer. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep an eye on you, your Highness.”

“As my knight, or as my wife?”

She raised a brow. “Both.”

He smiled. “Good. I’d rather be guarded by no one else.”

Nearby, children’s laughter echoed—the orphans they’d taken in, now running through the garden paths. Among them, the small village boy she’d once carried from the battlefield, now bright-eyed and safe.

She watched them with a quiet smile, her hand finding Jaehyun’s.

“I used to think we’d die in the fire,” she whispered. “But somehow, we made it here.”

He brought her hand to his lips. “You’re the reason I came back.”

“And you’re the reason I stayed.”

Their foreheads touched.

A breeze carried the scent of roses and rain.

And in the garden they’d once passed through as strangers—Prince and Knight, bloodied and burning—they sat in peace, fingers entwined.

Together.

At last.

The End.

Feedback is welcome :)

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[multi-fandom-imagine]

➤𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐃𝐚𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

↳𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖫𝖾𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗌, 𝖠𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗋𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖥𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗋

LEGOLAS — The Devoted, Overprotective Softie

Daughter’s Personality: A curious whirlwind of giggles and rebellion, somehow always managing to climb the exact tree he told her not to.

Nickname(s) for Her: Elenneth (“Star-maiden”), Tinu (short for Tinúviel), “Little Moonbeam”

|| Before She’s Born ||

•Legolas is quiet but visibly emotional when he learns you’re carrying a daughter. He places a reverent hand on your belly and whispers in Elvish, “A daughter of starlight.”

•He often sings to your belly in soft Sindarin lullabies and kisses your bump before every journey, no matter how short.

•He carves a cradle from mallorn wood, blessing it with Elven runes for protection and peace.

|| When She’s Born ||

•The moment he holds her, his breath catches—her tiny fingers wrapped around his own feel like a miracle.

•He swears he sees stars in her eyes. He names her something soft and lyrical in Elvish, meaning “gentle wind” or “shining dawn.”

•Legolas is completely and utterly bewitched by his daughter from the moment she first wraps her tiny fingers around one of his. He’s faced trolls, orcs, and worse—but nothing terrifies him more than the thought of her being hurt.

|| As She Grows ||

•He sings Elvish lullabies to her every night, often while holding her to his chest and swaying near a window under the stars. Her favorite is one his mother once sang to him.

•Tries to teach her archery with the utmost patience—but she has your temper and his recklessness. The first time she fires an arrow (completely off target), he beams like she just saved Middle-earth.

•Gets wildly overprotective when she hits adolescence. “No, you may not ride alone into the woods with that boy. I don’t care if his father is a respected healer, I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

•Secretly carves her a new bow each year for her birthday. Hides them until she’s old enough to use each one.

•Once let her paint leaves on his face for fun. She called it ��camouflage.” He wore it for the rest of the day like it was war paint.

They make flower crowns together, and Legolas wears his proudly if she puts it on his head—even in the presence of Aragorn and Gimli.

He tells you often that she has your smile and your strength. He thanks you for giving him a gift greater than eternity.

Sometimes he watches the two of you together, awe in his eyes, whispering, “How can one lifetime ever be enough for this?”

•Every time she runs into his arms with wildflowers tangled in her hair and dirt on her dress, he thinks: this is the purest joy in all the world.

ARAGORN — The Wise, Rugged, and Deeply Affectionate Father

Daughter’s Personality: Fierce and clever, always trying to live up to her father’s legacy while making her own name

Nickname(s) for Her: My lionheart, “Little Shieldmaiden”, “Star of my House”

|| Before She’s Born ||

•Aragorn is overwhelmed with emotion when he hears you’re having a daughter. He never had much of a family, and now he’s going to make one.

•He hand-carves a tiny sword for her—even before she’s born—and says, “She will be strong. Like her mother.”

•He’s surprisingly superstitious, refusing to let anyone speak ill near your belly, and constantly has his hand resting protectively over it.

|| When She’s Born ||

•From the moment she’s born, Aragorn becomes a gentler king. The crown may sit on his head, but you and her rule his heart. He swears a quiet vow over her cradle: to protect, to guide, and to never let either of you be alone in the dark.

•Tears roll down his face as he holds her for the first time. “My little queen,” he whispers, voice trembling.

•He kisses her forehead and swears before the stars that he will protect her always—even from fate itself.

|| As She Grows ||

•He takes her on long walks through the fields and forests, teaching her plant lore and healing herbs like how he was taught.

•When she asks why people bow to him, he kneels before her and says, “Because I serve the people. But I would kneel only for you and your mother.”

•She braids little flowers into his beard. He lets her. Every time.

His daughter loves to run around the halls of Minas Tirith barefoot, a crown of dandelions on her head. He calls her his “true queen.”

He lets her braid his hair when she’s little. She once accidentally tied it into a knot so bad that Legolas cried laughing and Arwen had to cut it out.

|| Soft Dad Moments ||

•He carries her on his shoulders through the halls of Minas Tirith, declaring, “Make way for Princess Trouble!”

•he sits in his lap during council meetings, often falling asleep curled against him while he signs decrees.

•He gives her piggyback rides in full armor, even though it kills his back. He insists he’s still as strong as a Ranger.

|| Protective Instincts ||

•The first time someone breaks her heart, Aragorn finds out and has a polite but terrifyingly intense talk with the poor fool.

•His sword is kept near her room—not because he expects war, but because peace is something worth defending with steel.

•He calls you the Queen of his heart and thanks you every day for giving him the one thing he never thought he’d have: a real family.

•Sometimes he wakes in the night, watching the two of you sleep, overcome with gratitude and disbelief.

•Despite her being raised in royalty, Aragorn takes her to the wilds often. He teaches her to track, ride, and survive. “You are my daughter, yes—but also your own sword. Forge yourself.”

•Will drop the “kingly” mask in an instant if she gets even a scratch. Once carried her through the entire Citadel because she stubbed her toe. No regrets.

FARAMIR — The Gentle, Bookish, and Sentimental Father

Daughter’s Personality: Thoughtful, perceptive, and incredibly intelligent—loves books, flowers, and asking deep questions

Nickname(s) for Her: “My blossom,” Níniel (“Tear-maiden”), “Sweetling”

|| Before She’s Born ||

•Faramir reads every book he can on childbirth, ancient lullabies.

•He writes her letters before she’s born, tucking them away to give her one day. “In case I’m ever not there,” he tells you quietly.

•He dreams of reading with her beneath Ithilien’s blooming trees, of teaching her about peace, not war.

|| When She’s Born ||

•Faramir never expected to feel peace until he holds her in his arms. Every harsh word Denethor ever said dissolves the moment she rests against his chest.

•Faramir weeps silently as he holds her. “I will not fail you as my father failed me,” he vows, voice barely audible.

•He cradles her like a treasure, calling her my little hope.

|| As She Grows ||

•He reads to her constantly—The Lay of Lúthien, The Silmarillion, even dry old histories. When she falls asleep mid-story, he always finishes the chapter in a whisper.

•She becomes his tiny shadow. She follows him everywhere—through the gardens, into the archives, into strategy meetings (where she falls asleep on a pile of maps).

•Teaches her to observe people. When she’s older, she can read a courtier’s intent faster than a hawk can spot prey. He’s both proud and slightly scared.

•Loves watching her wander the gardens of Ithilien. She names every flower, talks to bees, and brings him handmade flower crowns. He wears them to council meetings with no shame.

•Faramir nearly faints the day she climbs a tree in a dress. Éowyn cackles from the balcony. “She takes after me.”

•Keeps every letter, drawing, or scribble she makes. His office has a drawer labeled “treasures.” Even when she’s grown, he adds to it.

•His daughter once called him the “wisest man in Gondor.” He excused himself and cried in the hallway.

•He teaches her to write her name before she’s five. She writes it in the dirt outside the healing houses and beams when he kisses her forehead in praise.

•He tells her stories of your courage every night, instilling in her quiet strength and unshakable worth.

|| Soft Dad Moments ||

•She rides on his hip during garden walks, clutching a tiny basket of flowers.

•He lets her nap on his chest as he reads, one hand absently brushing through her hair.

•He kisses your hands and belly with reverence, still awestruck that you chose him, bore his child, and gave him the life he never thought he’d have.

•He calls you his heart, and your daughter his soul. And you? You’re the foundation of everything he is.

|| Protective Instincts ||

•Faramir is gentle but deadly if threatened. He does not shout—he warns. The one time someone mocked her stutter, the boy found himself escorted home by five guards and Faramir himself.

•He ensures her tutors and companions treat her with respect. He won’t raise his voice—but the disappointed silence of Lord Faramir is far worse.

[kingofattolia]

Breaking News: I Am Obsessed With Aragorn

[incorrectsmashbrosquotes]

[gwaedhannen]

[Excerpt from Sorrow Beyond Words: Collected Testimony of the War of Wrath, 3rd Edition; edited by Elrond Peredhel. Kortirion Public Library, copy received TA 2510]

“The worst thing I saw during the War? Ancalagon of course, but you won’t find anyone who won’t mention him. Second worst thing? It was a few months later, once Morgoth had been de-footed and dragged out by the stumps, and we were cleansing Angband. We knew we had limited time; the continent was barely holding itself together before a certain dragon collapsed Thangorodrim in its death throes. Delving into the iron hells, with practically every maia of Ulmo, Aulë, Yavanna, and Tulkas singing continuously to keep it from collapsing utterly and taking the entire north with it, just having seen what they brought out of the upper levels, was a rather daunting task. Still had a curiously large number of volunteers, since within you couldn’t hear Morgoth laughing and screaming in his cage.

“So we went fast, killing orcs, experimental monsters, the occasional Umaia. Glad to say I missed the Balrog in the forges; it killed two score before Meril finally took it down. All distractions, regardless. The pits were the real goal.

“How do I even describe them? There were, as best I could divine, about three tiers of thrall quarters. The cells, for prisoners Morgoth and his lords deemed important, general quarters for most thralls, and the pits. The Valar said that he could no longer twist elves into orcs even by the time of his first imprisonment, but from the conditions there, from the bodies we pulled out…I don’t think he cared. Every torture, every debasement, every abomination against the Eruchîn that could be imagined. For each we thought might survive if we got them to the surface, there were five who wouldn’t, and ten corpses. And in the deepest, blackest pit of them all…

“The second worst thing I saw during the War of Wrath was High King Finarfin’s face when he found his sister again and knew he couldn’t save her.”

[bellatheinkdemon]

Boredom kicks my ass once again

For context, Eary Gray and Dark Choco canonically can't see very well. (For Earl Gray, it's if he loses his glasses and for Dark Choco, he just can't see too well to begin with)

[krakenartificer]

LOTR fandom - help

I haven’t the patience or focus or … something … needed to read Tolkien’s books all the way through, but I am in desperate need of reading some scenes or conversations that say that it’s OK to be a glorious victorious warrior and also to be sick and disgusted that you ever had to fight at all; that it’s OK to be grateful and overjoyed to be home and safe and also to be unable to quite relax just yet.

So … what chapter(s) of Return Of The King do I flip to, for that? (Or any other of his works, I suppose)

[peppermintgrim]

*blows a kiss to my computer* this one's for you, Aldith Sereda Wilhelmine Aeducan, kinslayer & kingmaker

[kingofattolia]

i'm going to have to rearrange my schedule... too busy thinking about Aragorn's healing abilities for the next few days...

[miss-carter]

The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known.

Aragorn + hands

[mithrandirl]

Then an old wife, Ioreth, the eldest of the women who served in that house, looking on the fair face of Faramir, wept, for all the people loved him. And she said: ‘Alas! if he should die. Would that there were kings in Gondor, as there were once upon a time, they say! For it is said in old lore: The hands of the king are the hands of a healer. And so the rightful king could ever be known.’

[heliosunny]

thank you for feeding us with your yan content please continuing writing for more (no pressure btw)

also more yan phainon pls ): my life is yours

Yandere!Demon King Phainon x Reader

Your sibling was dying. The sickness had come like a curse, your younger brother’s body growing weaker each day. You had gone to healers, priests, alchemists—each shaking their heads, saying there was nothing to be done. His once bright laughter had faded into weak, pained whimpers. You had sat by his side, clutching his frail hand, praying for a miracle that never came.

Until the summons arrived.

"The Demon King Phainon has called for you."

The words alone sent a chill through you. The Demon King? The ruthless conqueror of the underworld? You had heard the stories of how he razed kingdoms, how his power was beyond comprehension. Why would someone like him want you?

You almost refused. But then you looked at your sibling, their chest barely rising, and knew you had no choice.

The demon realm was unlike anything you had ever seen: vast, dark, otherworldly. The sky churned with violet and crimson hues, casting an eerie glow over jagged mountains and blackened trees. The air thrummed with power, with something ancient and dangerous. And at the heart of it all sat Phainon.

He was unlike any demon you had imagined—tall, regal, with hair white as snow. His blue, a piercing, glacial blue, colder than the heart of winter gleamed under the golden crown. He sat lazily on his throne, watching you approach as though he had been waiting for this moment his entire life.

"You care for your sibling deeply, don’t you?" he mused, his voice smooth, yet carrying an underlying menace.

You fell to your knees. "Please… if there’s anything you can do…"

He leaned forward, resting his chin against his knuckles. "Anything?"

The weight of his gaze made your skin prickle.

"Yes."

His smirk was slow. "Then you are mine."

You hesitated for only a second. then nodded. If it meant saving your sibling, you would endure anything.

Phainon kept his promise.

Your sibling’s illness vanished overnight. You had sobbed in relief when you heard their laughter again, clutching them close. But you never got the chance to say goodbye.

Because by then, Phainon had already taken you away.

You had expected chains, dungeons, cruelty. But instead, he placed you in a grand palace, one crafted of obsidian and lined with glowing runes. Servants bowed at your feet, offering silken robes, jewels, exotic foods you had never seen before.

He never forced you to stay by his side, not physically.

Yet, his presence was inescapable. He was always near, watching.

At first, you had kept your distance. You had no illusions about your situation, Phainon was the Demon King, and you were a mere human caught in his grasp.

But time had a strange way of softening walls.

It started with small things.

One night, you were wandering the halls when you heard movement from his chamber. The doors were slightly open, and inside, you saw him seated on the edge of his bed, shoulders tense, breathing uneven. His usually composed face was shadowed by something dark.

A nightmare?

You hesitated. Then, against your better judgment, you stepped inside.

"Your majesty?" you called softly.

His eyes snapped to you, sharp as a blade. But the moment he registered your presence, his expression softened ever so slightly.

"Why are you here?" he asked, voice rough from sleep.

"I was getting some water and heard you. You looked… troubled."

For a moment, he said nothing. Then he exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

"I do not dream" he murmured. "But sometimes… memories return in ways I do not like."

You weren’t sure why, but your feet moved closer on their own.

"Bad memories?"

His fingers clenched around the sheets.

"Assassins. Betrayal." A bitter smile. "You wouldn’t understand."

Maybe not. But you understood pain. So you did something you never thought you would—you reached out, placing a hesitant hand on his arm. He tensed immediately, as if startled by the touch. But he didn’t pull away.

"You’re safe now" you said softly.

Phainon’s gaze locked onto yours, unreadable. His breathing slowed, his shoulders relaxing under your touch.

"…Stay" he whispered.

One evening, he asked you to accompany him on a walk.

"You enjoy nature, don’t you?" Phainon asked.

You looked up from the book in your hands, arching an eyebrow. "I do, but there isn't much of it around here."

"Then let's take a walk."

You were surprised by the offer, but you didn’t refuse.

The forest he led you to was nothing like the gardens of your homeland. You expected a garden filled with roses, maybe a balcony with a scenic view. Instead, it was dark, ancient, and filled with creatures that shouldn’t exist. The ground pulsed faintly beneath your feet, as if the earth itself was alive.

"Why here?" you asked, glancing warily at a tree whose bark seemed to shift.

"It’s cooler" Phainon said simply. . "And I find the creatures here... fascinating."

He wasn’t wrong. You had never seen insects with glowing wings or mist that moved as if it had a will of its own.

But then something massive stirred in the shadows. A creature with glistening black scales slithered forward, its multiple eyes locking onto you. It let out a low, threatening growl.

Before you could even think, you stepped behind Phainon, gripping the back of his cloak.

His laughter was soft but unmistakable.

"Oh? Seeking protection from me now?"

"Shut up and kill it!" you muttered.

With a flick of his wrist, the beast was instantly reduced to a pile of ash.

Phainon tilted his head at the remains, his amusement fading slightly. "Strange. Normally, they obey me."

You gave him a look. "Yet, you took me here."

His gaze flicked to yours, something unreadable in his expression.

"Would you rather I let them come to the palace?"

You frowned. "That’s not what I meant."

Phainon only smiled. "Then let’s continue."

He reached for your hand. And though you hesitated, you let him take it.

"Maybe visit places like... demon market next time." You suggested

"And why is that?"

"I'll buy something to cook for you, the food at the palace didn't suit my taste."

He smiled and nodded. "Sure."

Phainon’s palace had an army of servants consists of demons who prepared extravagant feasts daily. Yet, one evening, as you were passing the kitchens, you saw the Demon King himself standing over a pot of something that smelled… absolutely foul.

You froze.

"Are you… cooking?"

Phainon glanced at you, stirring the pot with a lazy expression. "Trying to."

You hesitated, peering into the pot.

It was black.

"What… is that supposed to be?"

"Something edible." He scooped a bit onto a spoon, lifting it to taste.

You watched in horror as he swallowed without flinching.

"How did you survive before I was here?" you blurted.

He smirked. "I’m a Demon King. I can eat pretty much anything."

"That doesn’t mean you should." You sighed and rolled up your sleeves. "Move. I’ll cook."

He blinked. "You?"

"Yes, me. Or would you prefer to poison yourself?"

Phainon chuckled but stepped aside, watching with genuine curiosity as you worked. You cooked the way you had at home- simple but warm, flavors balanced with care. When you finally served him a plate, he took a bite and paused.

You shifted nervously. "What? Is it bad?" He shook his head slowly.

"No."

You were startled to see something unfamiliar in his expression. Softness.

"It’s warm," he said. "Like you."

Your heart stuttered. "Shut up and eat" you muttered, flustered.

He smiled—but this time, it wasn’t mocking.

You had been holding it in for so long. But one night, when Phainon was away, one of his subordinates, one who clearly resented a human in the palace—cornered you.

"You don’t belong here" they sneered. "You think because the King favors you, you are one of us?"

You didn’t argue. What would be the point?

But when they tripped you, making you stumble against the stone floor, pain flaring in your ankle, the dam broke.

You curled up in a quiet corner, hugging your knees.

You missed your family.

You missed your home.

For all Phainon’s kindness, you still felt alone.

And then—he found you.

"You’re hurt."

You looked up to see Phainon staring at your ankle, his expression dark.

"Who did this?"

You shook your head, not wanting to make things worse. But Phainon wasn’t an idiot. He knelt beside you, gently lifting you onto his back.

"What are you—?"

"You need treatment" he said simply. "And I’m not letting you walk."

So you let him carry you. As his warmth surrounded you, you realized something. For all his power, for all his cruelty, Phainon wanted to be cared for, too.

This was a mistake.

Because when the truth came out, when you realized everything had been a lie, you weren’t just betrayed.

You were heartbroken.

You had grown close to him, despite everything. Then you overheard the truth.

"It was all a lie. She was never here out of love."

The words hit you like a dagger to the chest. You stood frozen as the demons gossiped, unaware of your presence.

"He manipulated everything. She was always meant to break the seal for him."

Everything.. the kindness, the protection, the gentle moments—it had all been a carefully woven deception. That night, you locked yourself in your room.

Phainon found you.

He smashed the door open, eyes wild with panic when he saw the blood dripping from your palm. You had cut yourself, trying to undo whatever magic bound you to him.

"I don’t speak to people who lie" you said, voice shaking.

For the first time, Phainon looked truly afraid.

"I never lied about loving you."

At first, he endured your silence.

But when a subordinate attempted to brain wash you in his absence, Phainon intervened violently, slaughtering them in an instant.

You saw the horror in his eyes, not at what he had done, but at the thought of losing you for good. In that moment, you understood, his love was selfish, consuming. But it was real. And in the end, you let him in once more.

But Phainon was not one to leave things to chance.

That night, while you slept, he branded you with a sigil, a binding mark ensuring you could never leave him again.

"Who knows how long you'll stay?" he murmured, tracing the mark on your skin.

"I can't risk losing you again."

[targaryenimagines]

A Gentle Flame

Dark!Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 6,701

Summary: After months of trying, you are finally able to give something back to your Khaleesi that she never thought she’d have again — an heir to not only House Targaryen but the Iron Throne. You just aren’t sure how you’d like to reveal the good news to your beloved; taking solace in your dearest friend’s company as he tried to help you in revealing the truth. Of course, you should have known that your dragon’s possessive fire would never be quenched — not even for Grey Worm.

Warning(s): G!P Daenerys, jealousy/possessiveness, and pregnancy.

Notes: Can be seen as part of the “My Khaleesi” series, but can also be read as a stand-alone as well. Thank you to the wonderful @rain-mikaelson for this amazing idea!

Series Masterlist

“She doesn’t know?”

You don’t have to turn around to see, with picture perfect clarity, the confusion that must have been etched upon your dearest friends face. The thickening of his accent alone told you all you needed to know.

“No,” you reply, setting the brush you had been fiddling with firmly back in its place on your vanity. “I only just discovered it. I went to the Palace Healer after I missed my second cycle in recent months.”

The familiar sound of leather rubbing against sharpened metal echoes through the air — a telltale sign that he was processing what had been revealed — as you begin to fiddle, once more, with the brush you hadn’t needed since the conversation had commenced.

“And the Healer?” He hedges out the question, hesitation clear in his tone. “She won’t divulge anything to the Queen?”

“No, I made sure of that. The only way Daenerys will find out I’m pregnant is from my own lips and no one else’s.”

There’s a brief moment of silence. “Why tell me, Your Grace?”

Twisting around, so you’re finally staring face-to-face with your closest companion, you can’t help the small, albeit genuine, twist of your lips as you smiled at him. “Because you’re my closest friend, Grey Worm.” You wave a hand in the air, even as a melancholic twinge echoes within your heart. “Dany always had Missandei and I always had you.”

“And you still do,” he intones, clearly fighting through the wave of emotions that her name still invokes within him. “You always will, Your Highness. For as long as I shall live and be able to raise my weapon to the sky in your honor.”

You’re touched by the fierceness within his tone — not doubting, for even a second, the sincerity behind his words; Grey Worm would always protect you, would always be there — but the knowledge of what the upcoming days would bring, causes you to lean back against your vanity with a heavy sigh.

“I just don’t know how I’m going to break the news, Grey.” Running a frazzled hand through your hair, Grey Worm simply observes as you sort out the various thoughts whirling in your head. “The Summit is commencing in five days, the guests will be arriving in two, and you know how Daenerys has been planning this for months.” Your eyes raise to meet stoic brown. “I can’t have her know I’m pregnant until after.”

He tilts his head. “I would assume the Queen would be ecstatic to learn the news, Your Grace.”

“She would be,” you state, confident in that knowledge at least. “But, I can’t have that be what she’d focus on this week. Even if she’d pretend to be business as usual, we both know how Daenerys gets when even the slightest chance of my safety is in question. How do you think she’d react or behave, with all these unknowns arriving in King’s Landing, if she knew I’m with child?”

Grey Worm doesn’t respond, he didn’t have to, not when the last time your life had seemed to be in peril was still so fresh within both of your minds. You had been ambushed returning to the Red Keep after a day in the city, a couple of vagabonds testing their luck against Valyrian and Dothraki blades, it had ended quickly, but your darling wife had not taken the news of no major injuries lightly; not when things could of had a different conclusion. Daenerys had been on a warpath for weeks, refusing to let any stone go unturned, until everyone she deemed responsible for such a fuck up was punished accordingly; whether that be the genial blacksmith that had sold them their weapons, the proprietors of the tavern the vagabonds frequented and loudly discussed their plans, or the guardsmen themselves that hadn’t realized there was a threat before it was almost too late.

“She can’t know,” you stress. “Not when this Summit means so much to her.”

There’s a beat of silence, wherein your closest companion simply observes you, taking note of what feelings must have been flickering within your gaze, before he inclined his head, an imperceptible motion that only the people who knew him would be able to pick up.

“What will you have me do?”

“I wish for you to stay close, my love.”

It wasn’t a request, nor a question, by the steely undercurrent that lay within her tone, the diplomatic smile on her lips causing her eyes to strain with the force of keeping her emotions in check. You could tell that Daenerys had begun to tire of playing host to all the nobles, both of major and minor houses, that Westeros seemed so proud to boast. However, the end result of what this Summit could potentially do, collecting all of the major players within the Seven Kingdoms to witness the power that is House Targaryen, meant that she was allowing herself to be docile for the moment.

At least until the single House that caused her hackles to rise appeared.

House Stark moved as a singular unit, bringing truth to the old adage that its members were like a wolf pack, but the lone man leading met your gaze solidly with his own steely brown. An action that didn’t go unnoticed by Daenerys, nor the guard standing mere feet behind you both, and you could practically feel the air thicken with growing tension. Something that would have caused Daenerys to take up arms if she knew of the life I’m now carrying.

“Your Majesties.” A familiar gravelly voice greets, his head inclining to the both of you. “It’s a pleasure for House Stark to be invited back to King’s Landing.”

His sentiment was clearly not shared with the two women behind him — the shorter of the two looking like she was about stab someone and the taller one’s lips twisting in bitter distaste — but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Warden Snow,” Daenerys greets in return, her smile now almost looking like she was baring her teeth in warning; a sign of dominance that any wolf would know to back away from, unless it was a fight they were after. “I welcome you to the Summit with open arms. I do hope that the amenities within the Keep will be enough to sate you during the duration of your stay.” Violet eyes flicker to icy blue just behind him. “If there’s something you need, you’re more than free to find an attendant that will help you with any issue you may have.”

You stifle the urge to curse under your breath at Daenerys’ veiled insult. It was no secret that House Stark, namely the red-headed she wolf, was at odds with House Targaryen; ever since Daenerys had blatantly told them that the North would not be gaining any form of independence, siting there was no justification for it, as Daenerys had barely gained anything from the short alliance they had brokered during the Long Night. Nor did the North have anything to truly offer since The Wall fell.

It’s an argument that still caused an icy frigidity from members of House Stark now — one that Daenerys didn’t deign important enough to deal with at the present moment, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t ever watchful for what the scheming mutts could be cooking up in order to gain a modicum amount of power for their insipid region — which is why, due to their close proximity, you could feel the steady presence of Grey Worm at your back, his rigid posture even more tense than usual due to the news that only he, and the Palace Healer, were privy to. His close proximity is something you’re sure Daenerys has taken note of, if her varying glances throughout the night were anything to go by, but she was constantly pulled in different directions before she was able to speak the words that clearly wished to escape.

Although aware of your close relationship to the Captain of her Queensguard, she was also aware of Grey Worm’s unfaltering fealty to her and how he would never cross a line that Daenerys had drawn in the sand the moment she had claimed you as her own; you were off limits. The only time anyone should ever enter your personal space, barring her and your handmaidens, and even they had a tight leash to tread with, was if they were pushing you out of the way of immediate danger.

You had told Grey that his proximity would be a red flag to your wife, but his protective instincts seemed to not care as he stared impassively at the three individuals at the bottom of the dais you were standing upon.

Knowing that this could only go one way, if the looks that were being exchanged between Daenerys and the youngest Stark were anything to go by, you step forward, placing a gentle hand to the small of your wife’s back. “I believe it’s time to give your speech, Dany,” you murmur. “And we both know you don’t want to keep this crowd waiting.”

While Daenerys doesn’t turn to face you fully, you’re well aware that you have her attention, her body leaning against the palm of your hand, the simple touch soothing the roaring fire that might have been into a gentle flame.

“You’re right, ñuha perzys.” A gloved hand ghosts across your hip, but Daenerys keeps her gaze resolutely forward. “I’m afraid I must cut this rather delightful exchange short. It’s about the time that I should be addressing the room.” Violet eyes glint sharply. “Wouldn’t wish for anyone to think I favor House Stark.”

Crisis averted, you think, observing the whispered conversation between the three as they left to find their seats. For now.

A soft touch to your cheek causes you to almost jump out of your skin, the sight Daenerys’ concerned expression doing little to sate the racing of your heart. “Are you well, dearest?” Worry colors her tone, eyes flashing with a protective fire. “You’ve seemed preoccupied all night.”

“I’m fine, Dany.” You cradle the hand that’s currently still doing the same to your cheek. “It’s just been a long day. I’m anticipating when it’ll all be over and I’ll get to be alone with you.”

You could tell that your wife felt the same, but something still lurked in violet depths that you adored so much. Something that made you want to curse once more — sometimes you hated how perceptive your wife was, even if the knowledge that she observed you to the point that she could pick apart the very foundations of your moods set you alight with adoration, you couldn’t help but wish that Daenerys would let this slide.

“I’m anticipating the same,” Daenerys replies, stepping back to offer you her arm; a gesture that you accept instantly. “But, for now, we must be the royals that Westeros demands us to be.”

Keeping your gaze locked with the seat that’d be your home for the next few hours, you completely miss the look Daenerys sends Grey Worm as he diligently follows behind you, never missing a step, remaining your ever loyal shadow, and the way her arm tightens around yours that much more because of it.

“I truly don’t know why I haven’t killed them yet,” Daenerys mutters, running gentle fingers through the tangled locks of your hair. Violet eyes staring up at the ceiling of your shared bedchamber. “It’d be so easy then I could simply appoint a new Warden of the North that wouldn’t annoy me so.”

Huffing out a laugh, you rest your chin on Daenerys’ clavicle, staring at her with soft eyes, despite the topic at hand, and press a light kiss to the patch of the skin that was easily available. It was later, hours after the dinner had ended, with the moon hanging high in the sky, but, despite the weight of the day bearing down upon your shoulders, you couldn’t help but feel like you were floating; here, in this bed, with your darling dragon, tangled naked in the rumpled sheets of your marital bed.

“Because you don’t wish to deal with the hassle such an action will cause, beloved,” you reply, knowing that Daenerys would appreciate your insight. “You’ve already dealt with two wars in this infernal landscape as it is. There’s no reason to fight another so soon. Not so early into your reign.”

Tendrils of your hair curl around pale fingers, a soft look etched upon her face; an expression that Daenerys only leveled at you and Drogon. “So much knowledge hidden behind such a beautiful face.” She strokes your cheek, love speaking through every action and echoed in the look upon your own face. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, which is exactly why I wish to deal with those blasted mutts.” Her arm tightens around your naked form. “I don’t trust them, and I know they don’t trust me, nor do I think they’ll just let things go. They have a personal vendetta against me and I fear they’ll use you to rectify it.”

You nuzzle closer, comforted by your Khaleesi’s sweet scent. “We don’t know what the future may bring.” Some more than others. “But, I have hope that I’ll be protected.”

What was meant as a soothing gesture, an affirmation that Daenerys would always be able to keep you safe, seemed to have the complete opposite effect. Her pliable body going stiff against your own, hand halting its comforting movement, a sharpness entering her gaze.

“Dany?” You question, rising up onto your forearms to peer down at her. The silence settling over you like a thick blanket, a brooding entity that meant she was deep in thought, an elegant brow furrowed as she tried to corral her rampant thoughts. “What’s the matter?”

Finally, after another beat of tense silence, her eyes slip to meet your own. “Do you feel that confident with your security detail, ñuha perzys?”

“Yes?” Not understanding where this line of questioning was coming from you couldn’t help the slight lilt at the end of your answer. “Of course, I do.”

A stormy look falls across your wife’s face. “Really?” She straightens to lean against her pillow, now peering down at you. “You feel so confident when those very people almost got you killed by random mercenaries? I find that hard to believe.”

“I thought we went over this when it happened, Dany,” you sigh, finally sitting up to be on a more level field. Knowing now that you weren’t going to go back to snuggling anytime soon. “The two responsible for the oversight were dealt with, by your own hand if you recall, and the rest have more than made up for it. They won’t fail me or you again.”

“It was dealt with so swiftly due to my Captain straightening it out,” Daenerys snipes, arms crossed over her naked chest, the thin sheet having fallen around her hips sometime ago. “I don’t even want to imagine what those fools would have done without him.”

A small smile curls your lips. “Yes,” you agree. “Grey Worm did an excellent job at handling the situation. I’m thankful for his help and continued support.”

Your wife’s cheek twitches due to force in which she’s clenching her jaw, a sight that causes worry to bubble within your chest. Something had obviously set her off, but you couldn’t, for the life of you, figure it out. Leaning forward, you gently take Daenerys’ hand, releasing her white-knuckled grip on the sheet, and cradle it.

“But,” you continue, ensuring you maintained eye contact. “If it wasn’t for you, my darling dragon, I know that I would have been lost long ago. You’ve saved me from so much, Dany. You’re my constant protector, my most treasured companion, and my loving wife. I could never ask for, nor want, anyone else by my side, and I’m so thankful that I get to call you mine.”

The tender words, coupled by the unwavering sincerity in your voice, finally causes Daenerys to slacken, violet eyes going soft as a hint of embarrassment reddens her cheeks. Slim hands soon finding their way around your waist to pull you back into her embrace, head nestled in the crook of her neck, as she seems to simply breathe you in.

“I’m sorry, darling.” Warm breath ghosts across your skin, a phantom touch that raises the fine hairs on your arms. “I think the long days, coupled with being around boastful imbeciles constantly, has muddled my mind more than I would like.” Long fingers curl underneath your chin, tilting your head back just enough so you could see the beginnings of a smile curling full lips. “Even getting to the point where I thought you were hiding something from me.” Daenerys huffs out a laugh, clearly perplexed at herself, even as you feel your blood freeze in your veins. “And do you want to know the funniest thing?”

Your tongue feels like lead in your mouth, a suddenly dry throat trying desperately to make any sort of sound. “W-What?”

“I believed Grey Worm was in on it.” Daenerys rolls her eyes, scoffing. “I couldn’t help but notice how attentive he’s been of you as of late. Always being one step behind you at all times.” Lean arms, that hide a strength few were ever privy to, flex around your body, pulling you closer. “Can you believe I thought something was going on between you?”

Laughter bubbles in your throat at the outlandish insinuation — you could never want, or ask for, anyone else — but the strain around your eyes, as you desperately tried to keep it together, was apparent, but Daenerys, lost in her own thoughts, obviously trying to come to terms with how she could come to such a conclusion, didn’t notice.

You weren’t sure if that fact was fortunate or not.

Soon Daenerys, curled protectively around you, falls asleep, after a final whispered apology, her gentle breathing a soothing melody that you have grown to adore over the years you’ve spent in her bed. Normally, you’d be quick to follow your Khaleesi into the land of dreams, but her words, the thinly veiled accusations, the quickly shifted in self-deprecating jokes, kept the lull of oblivion from claiming your mind.

The very notion that you’d ever cheat on Daenerys was laughable — something that would never cross your mind, an annoying gnat that you simply swatted away without a second glance — but the knowledge that she believed you wouldn’t keep something from her unsettled you. Of course, you knew you had good reasoning behind your decision, but it still stung all the same; feeling like you were betraying your wife somehow.

Your wife didn’t have faith in many people — the ones she used to were either dead, imprisoned, or gone from her life in some other fashion — which left only a small handful left: Drogon, Grey Worm, and yourself.

The Summit will be over in three days. You just have to hold out for three more days.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you force the thoughts, and the feelings they invoke, from your mind as you nuzzle closer to your wife; heart aching when she instantly brings you closer in response.

Just three more days, my love, you think, pressing closer. Three more days and then I can tell you the news that we’ve both been so desperate for. Just three more days…

It never seemed like such a large amount of time before.

Guilt, you learn, did not go well with pregnancy.

You weren’t able to be around Daenerys for long after that night — knowing what you did and what you were keeping from her — which was something that could easily be explained due to how hectic the daily life usually was in King’s Landing; now multiplied even further due to the Summit. Feigning different duties around the castle was simple, even if you missed your wife terribly during the long hours apart, that ache was easier to handle then the one that erupted every time you looked into her soft gaze.

The guilt, coupled with your own growing symptoms of your condition, caused your stomach to twist constantly, ensuring that you spent a large portion of the day keeled over a bucket with Grey Worm standing watch.

Of course, after the first day, when you only greeted Daenerys with a fleeting kiss to the cheek, and an airy greeting mixed soon after with a brief farewell, your wife began to grow concerned, her gaze often seeking you out within the crowded room of nobles and dignitaries. Uncaring of anyone that may be trying to talk to her, her attention focused solely on you alone, something you wouldn’t normally mind, except for the simple fact that you’d sing like a canary if she leveled you with inquisitive look one more time.

You hadn’t come this far to mess up on the last day of the Summit; the final meeting being hosted in the Dragon Pit, recently reconstructed to an echo of its former glory. Although your darling son refused to even grace the structure with his presence unless it was to deliver you and Daenerys.

“Are you feeling well, Your Grace?” The familiar presence settled a half-step behind you, his accented voice a relief over the miasma of varying conversations that were occurring as people prepared to head over to the Dragon Pit. “Do you require anything?”

“No,” you reply, side-stepping an obviously over encumbered stable hand, as you spot the hulking obsidian mass that was Drogon; the people unfortunate enough to have left their things where he decided to land were scuttling around him like frantic ants, his own expression one of boredom if it was ever possible for a reptilian face to showcase such an emotion. “I’ll be fine for now. Thank you, Grey.”

At the sound of your approaching voice, Drogon swings his head in your direction, crimson eyes lighting up in recognition, as a gentle croon rumbles from deep within his chest. The people around him pause their activities, afraid that he may lunge any second, but your son didn’t pay them any mind. Instead, he lowered his head to give you easy access to scratch the underside of his chin, pebbled scales warm against your cool fingers.

“I’ve missed you too.” You smooth your hand out against his jaw, an adoring smile on your face. “Need to make sure that I carve out more time to see you in the future.”

You can’t even begin to imagine how lonely he must feel — what was once three was now only one — if the ache in your chest was anything to go by it must be difficult; something you didn’t wish for your son to go through alone.

A son, you quickly notice, that was now pressing his snout against your stomach, a low rumble sounding from deep within his throat, not unlike the croon he released earlier, but this, coupled with the protective glint in his fiery gaze, made you understand, with perfect clarity, that Drogon knew. That he had no doubt about the life you were now carrying.

“I know that you and your mama have this special connection,” you whisper, scratching his jaw. “Like the one that I shared with Viserion, but you can’t give her any hints about what you’ve discovered.” Crimson eyes flicker in understanding, his intelligence shining through. “Do you think you’ll be able to hold your protective instincts back for the day, Drogon?”

You knew, even as you asked, that it would be like asking Daenerys the same exact thing. Something that causes your stomach to twist once more. You could play off Grey Worm’s presence and increased vigilance, as he had been appointed to your guard until competent ones were found, but Drogon? Your wife would instantly be able to tell that something was happening, and it probably wouldn’t take her any time at all to discover what it was.

Which meant that you wouldn’t be able to fly with Daenerys to the Dragon Pit; something you had been looking forward to as it’d give you a chance to be with your wife, soaring over the city she had claimed, and may cause the growing suspicion to die within her gaze.

“Ready to go, ñuha perzys?” Daenerys’ lovely voice causes you to startle, wide eyes meeting her questioning one. “I believe we’ll be able to do a few laps around King’s Landing before the first people arrive at the Dragon Pit.” A charming smile catches your wife’s lips. “Giving us a chance to spend time with one another. I’ve missed you the last few days.”

The genuine statement causes your heart to twist, your stomach lurching, but you maintain your smile, hoping that you didn’t look as faint as you felt. “I was actually thinking of taking Nox.” You gesture to the dark stallion, his large stature easily seen over the fences of his stable. “Grey Worm has been meaning to show me something, and it’s on the way to the Dragon Pit, so I thought I’d just do both at once.”

While the genial smile doesn’t fall from Daenerys’ lips, the fire behind her eyes grows with intensity until it’s almost scalding across your skin. “Grey Worm?” At the mention of his name from his Queen’s mouth, the aforementioned man steps from his place in the shadows. Forever dutiful, even if it meant walking straight into the gaping maw of a dragon. “You wish to go with Grey Worm instead of me?”

Any other time the incredulous tone within your wife’s voice, causing it to turn almost shrill, would have made you chuckle, but you could see the darkness that was beginning to become apparent — one that had a propensity to turn lethal if it wasn’t dealt with appropriately — and you wanted nothing more than to chase those shadows away; to bring your wife back into the light.

Just a few more hours, you try to soothe yourself. Just a few more hours and this will all be behind you. You’ll be able to tell Dany and everything will right itself.

“Yes,” you reply, maintaining an air of obliviousness in hopes that Daenerys wouldn’t press the issue further. “Besides, I’ve been meaning to let Nox stretch his legs for some time now. You know how Dothraki horses can be, Dany. They’ll only get more irritable the longer they’re cooped up.”

Violet eyes shift from you, to Grey Worm, all the way to the aforementioned stallion across the courtyard, until they land back on you; the expression on her face made you glad that this would be the last day of the Summit, because you know that Daenerys was at the end of her patience, that she wouldn’t let you get away with this one. For now, as the sounds of various voices finally broke in through the haze of everything untold, and Daenerys allows herself to shift back into her queenly stature.

Even though, you knew, that it’d only take one more thing for the bow to break, and then nothing would keep her from finding the answers she’s seeking.

“Very well.” Her tone clipped, detached in a way that stings your heart, Daenerys easily mounts Drogon and stares down at you. “I hope that your journey to the Dragon Pit is fruitful, but do be prepared for the discussions that’ll take place once we return to the Keep.”

And, with those parting words, and one last gentle nudge from Drogon, Daenerys is in the air, soaring higher into the sky until she breaches the clouds. You wish, more than anything, you were with her and your son, but you know that this was the right course of action. Even if it felt like it was the absolute worst.

Grey Worm settles beside you. “I wasn’t aware there would be more talks after the meeting held at the Dragon Pit.”

“There isn’t.” Your stomach twists, meeting concerned brown eyes with a grim expression. “That was a direct summons for me, and only me, by my darling wife.”

The heavy doors of your bedchamber close with a sharp bang behind you, a sound that almost causes you to flinch if it wasn’t for the woman watching you from across the room garnering all of your attention instantly. Daenerys had already changed out of her court attire — wearing a simple dress instead of the black ensemble she had been wearing, the very one she had worn upon conquering King’s Landing — but she looked anything but relaxed.

“You’ve been avoiding me, dearest.” It’s not a question, simply a statement of fact, as Daenerys stalks towards you. “And I’ve been trying to figure out why. Why would my darling wife not wish to be in my presence? Why would my most cherished companion not wish to see me?” She’s closer now, close enough for you to see the rage that’s beginning to build in her slim form. “And do you know what I uncovered? The only possible reason I could come up with?”

You’re not going to like this. “What?”

“Guilt,” Daenerys snarls, lips pulling into a sneer. It’s clear she was trying to rein herself in, that her famous temper wished to unleash itself, but, even now, when she was at her breaking point, she’d never wish to turn it on you. Something that both breaks and reassembled your heart. “You’re guilty about something. To the point that you practically reek with it now. Of course, I truly don’t know what you could feel guilty about, until I remembered the conversation we had a few nights ago.”

Oh no…

She’s pacing in front of you now, a short line that doesn’t take her too far from you, but gave enough room to excise some of the energy bubbling within her. “A conversation wherein I explicitly told you that I believed you and Grey Worm were hiding something from me. Where you told me that I didn’t have to worry.” The sharpness in her tone, the accusation within her eyes, were like physical blows. “So, I truly don’t know what to believe. Should I believe my wife, who’s been pulling away from me, or should I believe my gut instinct and deal with the problem immediately?”

Your eyes snap to look at Daenerys, horror-stricken. “Deal with the problem? What in the Seven Hells do you mean by the that, Daenerys?” Stepping closer to your wife, when she doesn’t answer immediately, you can’t help the desperate lilt from entering your voice. “What have you done to Grey Worm? Did you do something to him? Answer me!”

“Begging for your lovers life already?” Anger twists her face, shrouding the deep love you know she has for you. “I haven’t done anything, but make no mistake that it means I won’t. I’m going to make that man remember that when you swear fealty to House Targaryen it’s for life, and there isn’t any room for dissenters.”

Lover?

An even more horrific realization strikes you like an arrow to the chest.

“You think he’s my lover?” Barring the complications that would already bring due to the environment Grey was raised in, you couldn’t even begin to comprehend him in that manner. Nor could you ever imagine wanting anyone else beside your wife. “No, Dany, no.”

Sighing, you run a hand through your hair and move to settle on the end of your bed. This wasn’t how you wanted to tell her — over a nice dinner, after a nice ride on Drogon, or simply curled up together in this very bed — but you had created this situation and now you had to go with where it’s led you. Looking up, taking note that Daenerys had trailed after you, a gentle smile curls your lips and you beckon your wife closer.

“Grey Worm isn’t my lover, Dany. Nor will he ever be. I know that things have been tense these last few days, but I never wish for you to think that I’d ever be unfaithful to you.” Taking her hand, you tug her pliant body closer, even if you could still see the tension within the rigidity of her shoulders. “You are, and will forever be, my first, my last, and my always.” You place a tender kiss to her clothed abdomen, leaning into her comforting warmth. “Why would I ever want anyone else when I have my Khaleesi?”

Slender fingers run through your hair, the familiar motion allowing your eyes to slip shut contentment. “Then what has been going on, ñuha perzys? You haven’t been yourself and I still have half a mind to take Grey Worm to the dungeons to get him to answer me.”

Looking up, resting your chin on her abdomen, you peer into the violet gaze that you adore. “You’re not going to do anything to Grey Worm, Daenerys. He hasn’t done anything except be a good friend to me and faithfully serve me to the best of his ability.” Standing up, you easily maneuver Daenerys to settle in the position you had just been in, now looking down at your beautiful wife. “Which is something you’ve desperately wanted for me, if I recall.”

“Not if it means that I’m kept in the dark about you.”

The petulant pout causes a tender expression to fall across your features, love and adoration sparking within your heart, as you look at the woman that could turn the world to ash in an instant melting into your gentle touch. And, in that moment, you knew it was time.

So, without preamble, you take one of her hands and gently place it on your abdomen in return. “I didn’t wish to tell you until the Summit was over because it was too important to screw up, and I’m well aware how you get when my health is involved.” Your fingers ghost across her sharp jawline, watching as the beginning of her understanding begins to spark within her gaze. “Add our unborn child’s health too? The Summit would have ended like a Dothraki Wedding if you had your way, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

There’s a beat of silence wherein Daenerys digests the news, a multitude of emotions flickering across her face, before complete and utter jubilation takes its prominent spot.

“You’re pregnant?” Her hand presses gently against the spot you had placed it, wanting to get closer to the life that lay within. “We’re going to be parents?”

You grin. “We’re having a baby, Dany.”

Before you know it, you’re wrapped in the tightest embrace Daenerys had ever given you, happy tears staining the skin of your neck as she nuzzles closer. You’re well aware that she was going to have a talk with you about your secrecy at a later date, especially given the fact that Grey Worm knew before her, but, for now, she was content in simply holding you in her arms, the both of you sharing in the happiness the moment brought.

“Drogon won’t be alone anymore.” Violet eyes look down at your abdomen with utmost affection. “He’ll finally have a sibling again.”

You press your forehead against hers. “The dragons will be returning to Westeros, my Khaleesi, and the skies will once again be filled with dragon song.”

“And everyone will know the power of House Targaryen.”

“Yes,” you murmur, pressing your lips to hers in a chaste embrace. “As well as the woman who leads them.”

“The women,” Daenerys gently corrects. “For I’d still be lost if I didn’t have my darling Queen by my side.”

“And I’d never know that I was cold without the gentle flame of your love keeping me warm.” You lean into her touch, pressing your bodies firmly together. “You brought me to life, Dany, and I’ll never take the love you’ve given me for granted.”

Daenerys smiles. “Together we will bring back what has been stolen from my family, we will right the wrongs that have plagued this land, and we’ll ensure that our children will be able to reap the benefits once we’re done.” She smooths her hand across your abdomen. “Even if it means Fire and Blood will be paid in penance to make it happen.”

“Together.”

For one couldn’t be without the other — the Khaleesi and her Queen — as it always should be.

[iceunhie]

head empty, thinking about jealous!jiaoqiu who purposefully puts ten times the spice in the food he presents to your admirer/s whenever they go and seek some of his eternally praised cuisine for a health benefit or something to heal their injuries. my petty king 🤩

with the few careless (and frankly, dense, because what in Lan's name did they think they were doing, cozying up to you in front of him) individuals who had the actual nerve to flirt with you right in front of jiaoqiu cooking, it doesn't bode well for them. at. all.

(the yaoqing receives a huge number of people who seem to have a) fainted b) fell ill c) couldn't taste anything afterwards.)

soon after, an unspoken policy is formed, warning any that ask for your hand.

if the healer jiaoqiu is in the vicinity, cease all closely intimate and casual actions with [name] at once.

if jiaoqiu sports a gentle, close eyed smile while preparing his concoctions, please prepare for an intense assault of spice. (note: smile with teeth showing indicates immense level of malice! we do not advise visiting jiaoqiu's services at said time.)

please do not attempt to flirt with healer jiaoqiu's lover; should you value your life.

-> the subject of this policy is a point of laughter for you and jiaoqiu (but mostly jiaoqiu) for a long, long time.

when you ask why he doesn't dispel the rumors of him accidentally poisoning people with spice, jiaoqiu smiles, hiding his gloat behind his fan. “it's more convenient that way.”

?????? what is happeningngh........ am i transforming into a jiaoqiu simp 😨😨

[myladysapphire]

A doe, A deer - A Drop of golden sun

being the youngest archeron sister often meant that you were the forgotten one, no one ever saw you, until he did.

Azriel x Archeron!OC

CW: mdi 18+, selective mutism, struggles with eating, talks of nausea, war/acowar? but its not described just happens, kidnapping, angst, fluff, canon character death, violcene, king of hybern being a creep. not beta read!

word count: 2,280

authors note: thank you for so much support in part one! hope you all enjoy this one as much as the last!

Masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part

Daphne had yet to wake.

Three weeks had passed, and Daphen remained unconscious. Her face pale, and the rise and fall of her chest was barley noticeable.

The inner circle feared she was dead. Or at least had been dead when she was tossed into the cauldron.

Madja thought as much but refused to admit it as she overlooked the youngest of the Archeron siblings.

She had had to work around a loitering Azriel.

The male was hellbent on watching Majda’s every move and refused to leave Daphnes side.

He only left when the high lord ordered it. And even then, he was quick to return.

The bond between them bounding her to him.

It had since the moment she bumped into him and her pretty eyes connected with his.

And when she had spoken, though little and shy, her sweet voice taunted his dreams as he thought of her.

He had been as shocked as everyone that she had spoken. Having been told by Feyre she had been silent since an event in their youth. And He worried after her departure. And more so as after every visit, she laid bound in bed, and the reck of death loitered around her body.

The had begged Nesta to allow him to take her with him, to have a fae healer her, and he had been refused and forced to leave her to the useless hands of whatever healer the Archerons had employed. The very healers that had all but killed her.

He had felt the bond go dead as she was thrown in the cauldron.

The scream he let out as he wept and mourned the bond he never truly got to experience. He mourned the person he had begged to know for 500 years; the person he had begged Feyre to tell him about.

And now he was stuck preying to whatever gods would listen that she would wake up.

As Feyre retuned home, he was forced to focus his attention on matters of the court, his heart aching as he was forced to leave Daphne, and though she was in the company of at least one of her sisters or even Mor. He hated it.

He hated even more the fact that when she finally did wake up, it was like she hadn’t woken up at all.

she was silent, more so than before according to Feyre.

She refused to eat or leave her seat by the window.

She seemed to rock back and forth on the floor, her hands covering her ears.

He hadn’t been allowed to see her, barred entry by Rhysand, who had all but commanded him to stay away.

It killed him, even more so when he started to see the bond blossoming between Feyre and Rhysand, and even more so when he saw Elain starting to let Lucien in.

She could hear the sound of her heart, the waves in the sea and the whispered words of Feyre and Rhysand outside her door.

She could hear everything, and though she had completely lost her hearing before, everything had gone form being faint and having to focus in order to listen, to sitting as far as she could and being bale to hear everything.

The door to the room she had been placed in opened, and Feyre slowly entered. Her face hopeful as she looked at Daphne.

“How are you today?” Feyre asked, her eyes begging her to speak.

But the want to speak had left her, she no longer wished for the ability to speak, or begged for her thoughts to be voiced. Instead, she simply stared having no will or want to voice her empty mind.

“have you eaten?” she questioned, clearly eyeing the tray still full of food.

She huffed at the lack of response, her hand reaching for Daphnes, only for her to flinch away.

“Please Daphne” she begged, for what neither knew wish.

They sat in silence for a time before Feyre finally left.

And Daphne let out a sigh of relief.

Another week passed, and Daphne, though still refused to speak to anyone, had started to talk to herself.

It had started by accident, with her looking in the mirror and analyse her new Fae form. She spoke her thoughts out loud, and though she had expected he usual nausea to emerge, but none came.

She began to eat, even if it was only a biscuit and tea, at least she was eating.

she hadn’t had any visitors in days, having been finally left alone and being given the chance to think and process.

At least that was until a knock sounded and Azriel entered the room.

Daphne looked at him curiously.

“Daphne?” he spoke carefully, looking around the room and taking in her half-eaten dinner.

His shadow’s whispering relief at the fact she had finally eaten.

“How are you?” he asked softly, taking a seat not to far from her.

She looked down, thinking thoroughly, as if unsure of how she felt.

She looked back out the window, her eyes distant, “I died” she whispered. She didn’t know why she said it, or where the confidence to talk to him came from.

His shadows seemed to circle her, wrapping around her arms, almost caressing her to comfort her.

“What?” Azriel questioned, his voice soft and careful. As if he would spook her and she wouldn’t talk to him again.

Her eyes jumped to the shadows, a soft smile on her face as they danced around her.

“I was dying…and that night my heart stopped” she continued, her face slowly turning to look at him, “the cauldron said so”

A tear dropped from his eye, his face one of devastation, “but your alive now.” He said whether it was to comfort himself of her he wasn’t sure.

“yes” she sighed, not in disappointment. “I can hear everything” she breathed, “I have to stuff my ears with cotton so I can sleep”

“i- fae hearing is rather different to human…I can ask Rhysand to put a sound barrier up for you, so that you can sleep”

She nodded, swallowing roughly.

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes watching her closely, before he stood to leave.

“stay” she murmured, “please” and he did, for the next week he would come and visit her for hours on end, where she would eat and sometimes talk.

Her voice still rough and slow as speaking didn’t come easier to her, but something about Azriel’s presence seemed to comfort her, and made her feel safe.

“How is she?” Feyre asked Azriel, her voice dripping with concern for her youngest sister.

Elain and Nesta seemed to be doing better, making progress even if it was slow.

And with the recent high lords meeting, and the wall falling, Feyre mind had been occupied on the war. She was filled with guilt over neglecting her youngest sister, but Azriel the quiet shadow singer seemed to be spending all his time as of late with her.

“she’s doing better” he spoke, “she…she is eating and she’s been speaking”

Feyre shouldn’t of been jealous, shouldn’t envy her friend for the comfort her sister found in him. And yet she was.

“Really?” she tried to keep her voice even and not show her true feelings on the subject.

It had been a long day and though she was making some progress on flying it was stills sore and tiring.

“What do you speak about?”

“i- I don’t think she want me to tell you…sorry” he mumbled.

“But she’s, okay?”

“Okay as someone can be after what she went through” his tone was dismissing, “though…she does want to see you, and Nesta and elain” he said slowly, gagging for Feyre reaction, “but don’t expect her to say anything…she barley speaks and is very unsure of herself”

“of course,” Feyre nodded, her face lighting up with a smile.

It had started of slowly, whereas nest and elain had greatly improved over the last month and half, even if Elain was still stuck in her head half the time and still needed the company of Lucien to eat or sleep.

She started to venture outside of her room, joining the inner circle for meals.

She had yet to speak to anyone but Azriel, and even then, it was rare.

She was content to be silent but know knowing she had the option to speak if needed filled her with a confidence she hadn’t had before.

And even if she wasn’t using words to verbalise her thoughts, she could sign when she wanted to.

Feyre had evens tarted learning it, after spotting her using it to speak to Azriel and Mor, even Rhysand after she made it clear she wasn’t comfortable with him talking to her in her head unless absolutely necessary.

Then as a week went on, her and Elain started to garden, and she had even asked Azriel to take her into Velaris to shop for plants and seeds. An activity he was more than happy to do.

But all this process seemed to stop as the Archeron sisters found themselves in the midst of a war.

She had found herself chained and gagged. A voice soothing her as she was lured from bed into the enemy camp and tied bound and bed of the to the very person that had tormented her and her sisters so.

Elain too had been lured, though she was kept somewhere else. Having been instantly separated.  

The king looked down at you with a taunting glare, his hand swiping at her face in a way she were sure was meant to be a caress.

Daphne shivered in disgust, her legs kicking at him, as his soldiers tried to bind them too.

“aren’t you pretty” he crooned, “and silent too…most would be screaming, but not you” his eyes gleamed as he spoke. “a shame I need you unharmed and untouched” he crooned, his eyes looking over her body, before he stood to leave, his eyes surveying over her form, his arousal clear, as he exited the tent.

The soldiers gave you a similar look as they tied her down and left to stand guard.

And she was left to shiver in the cold tent and pray your someone came to her rescue.

Her mind instantly went to Azriel, the male she had a hopeless crush on since their first meeting.

He had always been kind to her, looked at her with such care, talked to her so softly and never expected anything in return for his kindness.

She had felt a connection with him from the moment she met him, as if there was a string that tied her to him. She only hoped he felt the same.

But she also feared he did, she feared she wouldn’t be good enough, or not enough for a male such as him. Feared that he would rather rescue Elain and leave her in the hands of the enemy.

She didn’t know why she had these thoughts. But they chased her.

Elain had powers, she was useful.

She could talk.

She was everything Daphne wasn’t.

It was a thought she had had her whole life.

Surely, they would prioritize Elain, she was the useful one whereas Daphne was the burden.

Tears feel from her eyes, and feeling of panic overtook her.

She didn’t want to be left behind, she had scarcely even lived.

She felt a tugging in her chest.

Different from the usual tugging she felt whenever she would have an attack.

This one tugged at her heart and flooded it with comfort.

The tears in her eyes fading as she focused on it.

She had felt it before, whenever she was sad or nervous, often a shadow would appear shortly after, and wrap around her wrist.

And this time was no different.

The tugging felt stronger, as if whatever it was that was tugging her was getting closer, and as more shadows entered the tent, and the sound of guards dropping outside. She realised the source of the tug walked into the tent.

“Daphne” Azriel breathed, his blood-spattered face frowning as he took her in. “are you okay?” he questioned, approaching you slowly, “did they-“ he couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t bare to say the words.

Daphne shook her head “no” she breathed “they needed me intact” she said, her tone angry as she recited the words.

Azriel slowly undid her binds, before lifting her into his arms. “ we need to leave now…Feyre has Elain” he mumbled, as if reading her mind and the question on the tip her tongue.

The journey back was long. From being chased and hunted out of Hyberns came, to the actual journey back to camp.

Azriel didn’t leave her side for the rest of the night. In fact, he refused to leave it all together, and the few moments he did, she found herself tugging on that string between them.

They didn’t talk about it, no one mentioned it as they saw her wrapped around his ar, refusing to leave his side.

It wasn’t what was important, at least right now.

For now, they had the war to think about.

She couldn’t remember much leading up to the moment, only the image of her grabbing truthteller, Azriel’s sword, and plunging it into the king of Hyberns neck. Of Nesta’s Scream. Of their father’s neck snapping.

And then there was a burst of golden light, something the heat of the sun flooded the field, taking the life of Hyberns troops.

And then there was nothing but darkness.

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