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humanpurposes · 3 months ago

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August

Part 1: Possibilities and Peace Offerings

Your family has been invited to spend August at Dragonstone, where things get a little tense after an unfortunate first encounter with Aemond Targaryen, one he's determined to put right.

Aemond Targaryen x Reader // Modern AU

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

Warnings: 18+, nothing too bad here, eventual smut, slight enemies to lovers, mutual pining

Words: 7k

A/n: Summer romance is here!! hope you likeeee. This is going to be three parts in total.

The impending summer exists beyond time, beyond the rest of the world. Exams are over and you’ve already received a mark for your dissertation. The dorm room you called home for three years is packed up and returned to its prison-like appearance, just as it was when you were an eager and excitable fresher. Suddenly the world is an endless sea of possibilities and you’re standing on the water’s edge with nothing to lose.

You spend a few weeks with your friends, drinking in pub gardens and driving down to the rammed beaches along the coast near King’s Landing, but this summer of possibility takes an unexpected turn when your father receives an invitation to spend the month of August at Dragonstone, as a guest of Viserys Targaryen. Viserys and your father have been business partners for just under a decade, but to be welcomed into his inner circle, to the ancestral home of the Targaryen family, is another honour altogether.

Your parents are beside themselves with excitement. You’re a little more sceptical but you won’t let them know it. So once your uni friends have gone back to their hometowns, you pack an array of swimsuits and summer dresses into a suitcase, and bundle into the backseat of your father’s car.

The aircon is on full blast. You sip on the last of your water as an 80s playlist blares through your headphones to block out the conversation of investments, clients, lawsuits and legal fees from the front seats.

Dragonstone is three things; an island, a town, and a castle. You drive out of the city, red and grey buildings blurring into greenery and vast spaces of blue, the sky and the sea. A ferry takes you from the mainland to the island’s port. The song you were listening to fades away as you slip your headphones off your ears. The town is utterly charming, from the rows of fishing boats in the harbour to the cobbled streets and obscure little buildings, bookshops, bakeries and butchers. The sun shines brightly, heat pulses through the window even with the blast of cool air.

A few more miles and you reach a gatehouse, ancient stone walls smothered with ivy, guarded by two stone creatures with their jaws wide open— dragons with spikes and sharp teeth. The driveway is lined with thick trees and foliage. Suddenly you turn a corner and there it is, towers and turrets reaching up into the summer sky, hundreds of windows, more carvings of dragons looming proudly over where Blackwater Bay becomes the Narrow Sea.

The man who greets you by the doors is not a Targaryen. He has dark hair, dark eyes, a crisp white shirt and a radio on his belt. Your father seems to know him already. He greets him as “Cole,” and introduces him to you and your mother.

Cole offers his hand to you. “Criston,” he insists, “I’m the head of Mr Targaryen’s security.”

Two identical butlers take your bags from the car while Criston shows you into the entrance hall. He comments on the antiques and the 14th century timbers, leading you through to the room he calls “the waiting chamber”. It has high ceilings, wood panelled walls, an enormous fireplace and aged but comfortable looking leather sofas at the edges of the room. You note the portraits on the walls, the more recent photographs on the mantle, but before you can get a proper look, someone announces their own arrival into the room.

Viserys Targaryen has his arms open, dressed far more casually than you’ve seen him at various galas and events, he even has a pair of aviators keeping his silver hair out of his face. He greets your father with a smile and a firm handshake, his eyes sharp but somewhat hollow.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” he says, moving onto your mother and then to you. “We’re having drinks on the patio, enjoying the sun. Why don’t you join us?” He chuckles and you don’t really understand why. You’re not sure how any of this works.

Viserys leads you through the house, stopping by the great hall and the library, pointing out details like Criston did. His home is devoted to family and every furnishing carries some sentimental value. The curtains and the sofas in the library are Arryn blue for his first wife, the shelves are laden with books that belonged to his grandfather. There are items here which have belonged to the Targaryens for generations and their house’s sigil is carved into the walls and wooden beams.

At last you come to a hall with tall windows, glass chandeliers and marble floors. Viserys calls this “the west gallery”, a more modern addition to the castle, built in the 17th century. He opens a double glass door and you can already see the sprawling green gardens, the unnatural blue of a swimming pool somewhere in the distance. Before all that is the raised patio, an array of chairs and the people sitting in them.

You step into the heat of the garden, into cigarette smoke and the sounds of laughter, loud and seemingly rehearsed. Your father knows most of these people, other associates of Targ Corp, Corlys Velaryon and his wife Rhaenys Tagraryen, Jason Lannister and his wife Joanna, Lyonel Strong and his son Larys. Even Otto Hightower is lounging back in his chair, sunglasses over his eyes, a pale pink cocktail in a crystal glass.

Your parents smile graciously, your mother clutching her handbag over her shoulder, your father wiping the sweat from his brow, trying to air out the damp patches in his shirt. They’ll want to make a good impression. Each person staying at Dragonstone this summer is another opportunity for your father.

You glance down at your denim shorts and your sandals— an outfit for comfort, not for networking.

Viserys directs the three of you to a cushioned wooden bench and you squeeze in beside your mother. Another butler appears and offers you all a drink. Your parents both ask for a gin and tonic. You’re thinking that you’d like to dunk yourself in the pool, so you ask for a large glass of water.

“With ice and lemon, miss?”

“Yeah, please, if you have it?”

Your mother nudges you with her elbow and whispers in your ear. “This is Dragonstone, if you want it they probably have it.”

“If I asked for the Prince of Pentos’ phone number, do you think they’d bring it out on a silver tray?” You return with a grin.

The minutes drag by. Lyonel Strong asks your father about his law practice. Corlys Velaryon and Jason Lannister enter a heated discussion about yachts. Otto Hightower mentions the name “Daemon” and the other voices go quiet. You take large gulps of your water, occasionally sharing silent looks with your mother.

The heat is sweltering. You feel your head pulsing, your skin becoming damp and you worry you may end up as a puddle on the patio if you don’t find a reason to escape soon.

The glass doors open and two women enter the garden, one with auburn hair, dressed in a floral dress and high heels. The other, younger, blonde hair cut into a fashionably short fringe, barefoot, dressed in denim shorts and baggy t-shirt, goes straight to Otto. She doesn’t look at anyone else. She stands behind Otto and leans down to wrap her arms around his neck. This must be Alicent Hightower and her daughter.

Alicent makes her rounds elegantly. She’s familiar with all the people present, except for the three of you, the outsiders, piled onto a single piece of garden furniture. Her eyes are wide and brown, her lips full and fallen slightly even when she smiles. She asks about the journey from King’s Landing, if you’ve had a chance to explore the town.

She asks you a lot of questions too, what you do, where you studied, what your plans are for the Autumn. And once she’s found out what she wants from you, she starts telling you everything about her children, unprompted.

“Helaena’s starting a PhD in a few weeks, staying in King’s Landing– King’s college, of course, not KLU, seven heavens. We didn’t want her to be too far away from home,” she says, looking back at her daughter and her father. “Etymology. Well, she’s always had a thing for insects, I could never understand it, but it’s easier to let her follow her interests, she’s that sort of girl.

“Now Aegon is like that too, he likes a lot of things, would be nice if he could be interested in something that makes him money. Oh well, he’s into the arts, fancies himself a photographer, directed a few plays at university– Oldtown. He wrote a screenplay, you must remind me to show you, it’s really quite clever. It’s about injustice or something like that.

“Daeron is at Oldtown too, at Citadel Boys. He’s the only child I sent to board, I just felt he might be happy with a bit of space from all of us. He wants to go to Oldtown like his brothers. His father wants him to do economics, but he’s very good at history.

“Aemond did history, but then he trained in accountancy. He’s worked all over, Oldtown, Storm’s End, Harrenhal, but he’s looking to stay in King’s Landing now–”

“Mum, you’ll bore her to tears,” Helaena says and it’s only now you notice that she’s moved to stand in front of you.

Alicent frowns.

You stifle a smile and raise your brows hopefully.

“Do you know where you’re sleeping yet?” Helaena asks, looking at her mother.

“I’ve put her in the moat room,” Alicent says. She turns back to you, “I’m sorry, darling, you’re probably tired, aren’t you? Helaena can show you your room.”

You kiss your mother's cheek and agree to reconvene for dinner in the evening.

“Sorry about mum, she just jumps at the chance to talk about her kids,” Helaena says as you walk back through the west gallery.

“It’s sort of cute,” you say, staring up at the gold detailing on the ceiling. “Very informative.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she says with a wicked smile.

When Helaena laughs she scrunches up her eyes and her nose. She sways her arms by her sides as she walks and trails her fingertips on the walls. Unlike Criston or Viserys, she doesn’t have little anecdotes about any of the vases or paintings on display. She’s a juxtaposition of her family’s ancestral home, airy and lighthearted, earthy and inexplicably real.

“Your parents are probably in the west wing,” she explains as you come to a winding stairwell. “That’s where everyone else will be too. The moat room is on the other side of the house.”

You nod along, stealing glances out the windows, at the gardens, and from higher up, you can see the sea.

“Don’t be too disheartened though,” Helaena says, “that means you’re with us.”

She shows you your room first. It sits at the very corner of the castle with windows to the north and the east. The moat in question isn’t a moat, it’s more of a well kept ditch. By the rest of the house you were half expecting the room to be medieval, but to your surprise it’s bright, carpeted, sans priceless antiques and heirlooms. A queen-sized bed waits for you piled with pillows.

“I’m down the hall, and the boys are in the next corridor,” Helaena explains. “If you smell something suspicious, it’s Aegon.”

She helps you unpack your suitcase, admiring your swimsuits and looking through the small collection of books you’ve brought to pass the time.

She shows you her room which is further down the corridor. It’s much larger than yours, far more personal. She has worn patterned rugs over the wooden floors, dark blue wallpaper and accents of gold everywhere, the mirror over her vanity, the handles on the drawers and the wardrobe. You’re most intrigued by the framed taxidermies on the walls, butterflies with the most beautiful wings you’ve ever seen, moths, beetles, even a scorpion.

You’re a little relieved when you see a cat curled up on her bed, with a thick white coat, brown ears.

“Dreamfyre,” Helaena says, scooping the cat up in her arms. “She’s named after the Valryian god of prophecy and wisdom.”

You hold your hand out for Dreamfyre to sniff. She considers you for a moment, and runs her head against your fingers. “So can she tell me my future?” you ask.

Helaena stares at you. “Don’t be ridiculous, she’s a cat. Why, hoping for something in particular?”

“I like to see where life takes me,” you say.

After exchanging phone numbers and scrolling through each other’s Spotify playlists, Helaena tells you that she thinks the two of you are going to be friends.

Dinner is surprisingly more pleasant, where you all eat around a table on the patio. Being outside is far more bearable once the sun starts to set and a breeze sweeps in from the sea. You’re served white fish, potato salad coated in herbs which Alicent says she grows herself, summer vegetables, grilled courgettes, red and yellow peppers, sweet and tangy tomatoes, washed down with white wine.

You sit beside Helaena, opposite two of her brothers, Aegon and Daeron. Daeron is far taller than his older brother but his face is clearly younger. His pale blond hair is slightly overgrown, his nose a little pink and his skin freckled from being in the sun. “Aemond managed to beat me at tennis today,” he says.

Aegon rolls his eyes, far more concerned with scratching the ears of a golden labrador perched on the floor beside him.

You look to Helaena for an explanation.

“Daeron’s looking to go pro. Aemond can’t stand that he’s not the best at something.”

There’s an empty space at the head of the table, between Aegon and Helaena. You’ve yet to see any other evidence that the elusive middle brother exists.

“There’s a tennis court here?” You ask.

“Towards the water garden, you should be able to see it from the moat room.” Helaena says. “You should have a look.”

Dessert is pistachio ice-cream, then everyone starts to disperse. Aegon grabs a bottle of wine and he and Daeron traipse over to a firepit at the edge of the patio, followed by the labrador. Your parents follow Viserys and the others into the house. Corlys and Rhaenys linger at the table, staring up at the sky and taking long drags from their cigarettes.

You trail Helaena to a neatly kept kitchen. Some of the staff pass through, into a far larger back room with metal surfaces, where the real cooking is done. Criston sits at the kitchen island on a stool, eating a pasta salad from a glass bowl. Helaena pats his head as she passes him. He doesn’t seem surprised by it, perhaps it’s a common occurrence.

“Feel free to grab anything you want, by the way. There’s all sorts of snacks and stuff, and if you want more of something give Criston a shout,” Helaena says, picking out bags of chocolate buttons and sour sweets from a cupboard.

“That’s kind,” you say, twisting your fingers over each other in front of you. “I’m quite tired, I think I might just have a shower and go to bed.”

“Darling, it’s summer, you can do whatever you want,” Helaena says. “See you at breakfast, yeah?” She pulls you into a quick hug and disappears out into the garden.

Not wanting to linger when Criston’s phone starts to ring, you decide to brave it and find your way back to your bedroom. Aegon and Daeron seem like fun, maybe too much fun for tonight, you just need to sleep off the fatigue from the sun.

This place is far too big for you to feel settled just yet. It amazes you how everyone can navigate the castle so easily, it’s like a maze. Eventually you find your way back to the entrance hall. You think you might know the way to the east wing from here, but when you see the sky beyond the windows, lilac and orange, dotted with grey clouds and the first few stars of the evening, you want to make the most of the dying light. Maybe you could head towards the water garden and find the tennis court.

Your sandals crunch against the gravel which stretches out into paths leading in three directions. The central one leads to the driveway and the gatehouse. To the left is the gardens past the edge of the moat, and to the right is an outlook and a downhill path which disappears from sight, which you assume leads down to the sea. You can hear the waves in the distance.

The sunlight is fading fast. You cross your arms over yourself, shivering and regretting the lack of a cardigan. You tell yourself you might warm up with a bit of a walk.

You take a few paces down the path towards the gardens– a dog’s bark has your heart leaping out of your chest. It’s deep and loud, coming from behind you. Your head darts around. An enormous dog has emerged from the downhill path and is bounding towards you, covering ground quickly.

You keep your feet planted on the ground, out of fear

The dog, a great dane, stops before you— it truly is huge, its head would come up to your torso if you were close enough, and you don’t really want to find out– barking viciously. Its teeth flash, flecks of saliva dripping from its mouth.

“Back off! Come, Vhagar!”

You look back along the path. A man in a black t-shirt and black shorts is walking quickly towards you and the dog. He grabs it by its collar and yanks it back, fastening it on a leash.

His eyes dart up— eye, you realise. The right side is a bright blue, the left is clouded, framed by a scar slicing down from his brow to his cheek.

“Who are you?” He asks like an accusation.

You hesitate, your heart still racing in panic.

You say your first name, then your family name, at that the man tuts and raises himself to full height, keeping the great dane on a short leash. “Right. What are you doing out here?”

“Just… looking around.”

“Just looking around someone else’s house?”

Gods now you’re really starting to panic. He’s glaring at you as if it’s your fault his dog just made a break for you.

He huffs irritably through his nose. “Look, Vhagar’s not always friendly and especially not around strangers. Be careful, yeah?”

Vhagar now seems content enough sitting by her owner’s side, wagging her tail and panting with her tongue out. Her grey coat is covered in sand, especially her paws and her nose.

“If your dog’s not always friendly why wasn’t she on a leash?”

His face hardens. Frowning suits his sharp features and the intensity of his eye. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is my fucking house.”

That explains the blond hair, and you suppose now he has the same lanky look as Daeron and the same gauntness in his face as Aegon.

“Right, your dog could have just mauled me but thanks for the friendly reminder.” You turn towards the house and mutter loud enough for him to overhear, “prick.”

You can’t shake the frustration. Nothing takes the edge off, not the hot stream of water from the shower, the routine of your skincare or the feeling of sinking into an impossibly soft mattress. Dragonstone is perfect… and all you want to do is scream, just a little.

Breakfast is served in the morning room, next to the kitchen, according to the text you got from Helaena. You put a swimsuit on, a patterned one piece and pull on some shorts. Before you head downstairs you grab a pair of sunglasses, a bottle of suncream and a book, determined that your morning will be peaceful and idyllic.

People flitter into the morning room as they please. Helaena is still in her pyjamas, tucking into a bowl of yoghurt and fruit. Daeron comes in and starts eating toast off Alicent’s plate, having already run a casual 5k about the grounds.

The man from last night is hovering by a side table, placing sausages and bacon onto a small plate. He glances sideways at you as you enter.

You keep your teeth pressed together as you reach for a plate and go for the platter of pastries, reaching for an almond croissant.

His elbow must be a few inches from yours. “Morning,” he mutters.

You were half expecting him to act like you don’t exist. “Morning,” you mumble back.

“Have you two already met?” Helaena asks loudly from the table.

“Briefly,” he says.

“And you didn’t actually tell me your name,” you say, adding some strawberries to your plate for good measure.

“The boy has no manners,” Daeron says in a mocking voice, earning him an exasperated chide from his mother. Helaena giggles to herself.

He faces you fully. “Aemond,” he says.

“Good for you,” you say, and go to take a seat beside Helaena.

“Tea or coffee?” she asks you, reaching towards the two silver pots in the middle of the table.

“Coffee, please.”

Helaena makes a shocked expression. “Blasphemy. I’m a tea girl.”

As Helaena pours some coffee into a china cup, Aemond takes the free seat opposite you. Your heart races a little, infuriated at the sight of him, somewhat guilty that your time at Dragonstone has already soured and his entire family is there to see it.

You add just a dash of milk to your coffee. In the corner of your eye you see him watching you, fork hovering in front of his face. You muster the confidence to look up and he averts his eye.

After you’ve finished your breakfast you head out to the patio, down the stone steps and to the pool, settling on one of the lounge chairs. Helaena has gone back up to her room to change and bring you both down a towel.

You lather suncream on your limbs, face and neck, and open your book. This is a nice kind of heat, one that you’re more prepared for. You can almost feel it permeating your skin, breathing new life into your blood.

You get a few moments of bliss until a silhouette appears beside you.

You raise your eyes from the page, over the edges of your sunglasses, staring ahead at the surface of the pool. You can smell a man’s aftershave, and you can tell he’s too tall to be Aegon.

Ice clinks against glass. He leans down to place something on the small table beside you. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

You don’t want to turn your head, that might be misinterpreted as you actually caring.

But then Aemond’s voice takes on a lighter tone and he says, “Are you reading Crime and Punishment?”

You scrunch your brows in bewilderment as you look up at him.

His eye moves between your face and the book in your lap

“Yeah,” you say, shifting your legs and drawing your knees closer to your torso, “I’m finding it a bit boring to be honest.”

His lips are parted ever so slightly and you can see the tips of his teeth. “It’s one of my favourite books.”

“I think that might explain a lot,” you say.

The corner of his mouth flickers like he might smile. He holds it back.

“What’s this?” You ask, looking down at the glass of iced coffee he’s placed on the table.

“A peace offering,” Aemond says. “I really am sorry about yesterday evening. I just… panicked. Vhagar isn’t always good around people she doesn’t trust. She bit my nephew once actually.”

“Oh, not good.”

“It was years ago, and to be fair to her—” he doesn’t finish that sentence. He presses his lips together. “I just thought I should apologise to you.”

Even when apologising he sounds smug.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” you say.

He hums, it’s cryptic and it throws you off a little. He looks at you like he has a secret, like he’s managed to spot something that you haven’t.

You feel aware of yourself and now you can’t breathe without doing it consciously. You feel beads of sweat forming at the back of your neck, the warmth of your own skin with your thighs pressed together, the pulse in your chest, the restless feeling in your stomach. You’re worried you might do something stupid, but how could you? You’re only sitting in a swimsuit and sunglasses, while Aemond is doing nothing to hide the fact that he’s looking at you– studying you with a hint of excitement in his eye.

And after about a minute of this he says, “enjoy your morning,” turning and strolling towards the patio.

You clench your jaw, determined that you won’t look back at him, but you listen to his footsteps as they move away.

With each line you read, you can only think of Aemond pouring over every word and making this book his bible. You imagine his hands holding the cover, his fingertip dragging over the page, his lips parted in concentration. It feels intrusive, it feels too involved. You couldn’t possibly put this book down now.

Aemond is an understated presence amongst his own family. He often lurks in the library or in a corner of the sitting room with a book. He wanders the gardens with his headphones on. He takes Vhagar down to the beach every evening and some nights you steal glances of them from a window at the front of the house. He gets these headaches, something to do with the scar over his eye, and when he does he likes to retreat to his room. When he is around for dinner he sits at the head of the table, opposite his father but miles away from him. He’s not a big talker but when he does have something to add to the conversation he commandeers it. Everyone stops to listen when he speaks.

You like watching him, the way he fiddles with anything within his reach, how he strokes his fingertips over his hands, the edge of his jaw. You look for his microexpressions, the twitches of his brow and the quirk of his lips when he finds something amusing, and how at the mentions of sensitive subjects or certain names, his eye widens.

He smirks when he sees you looking, you don’t mind that he knows that you are.

You don’t want to seek him out, but you don’t try to avoid him either. He’s always somewhere in your periphery, his hand brushing against yours at the dinner table, the smell of his Marlboros wafting from the patio when you’re sitting by the pool which makes you wonder if he’s watching you. In the evenings after dinner, you and the Targaryen siblings hang around the firepit late into the night. Helaena and Daeron talk about constellations and roast marshmallows, Aegon plucks on a guitar, and you and Aemond fall into a game of pretending like you’re not looking at each other.

Some nights you sit across from him, your view distorted by the heat and the flames. Other nights he dares to sit beside you, close enough that his leg will rest against yours. He keeps his voice soft until you’re leaning in closer to catch every word he says, this insufferable man who bings you a coffee every morning and asks you about the books you read.

One night Aemond is sat beside you. Helaena sings along to Aegon’s guitar, Daeron drums his fingers against his legs, gazing in wonder at his siblings because moments like this are a rarity for him.

“Do you forgive me yet?” Aemond asks, his arm draped along the back of the bench you sit on. Maybe he can read your mind because you’ve been silently begging for him to come closer… closer…

Your senses are hazy, the smoke of the fire, the scent of cigarettes and aftershave lingering on Aemond’s shirt, the glasses of wine you had with dinner, the clear, cold night air piercing the backs of your arms. He notices you shivering and slips his arm around your shoulders, slowly, so you have a chance to tell him to stop. His heat is white hot. Your chest feels hollow and weightless.

Everything about him is hypnotising, the curve of his mouth, his self-assuredness, the look in his eye that’s gentle and intense all at once.

Your body feels heavy; you should probably go to bed soon. “Do you care if I forgive you?”

He frowns, less disappointed, more intrigued and lifts his hand to brush your hair from your neck, fingertips grazing over your skin. Your body stiffens in his wake, like electricity coursing through your shoulders, down your spine.

“I’d hate to have it hanging over my head,” he mutters.

You turn your head and now your faces are inches apart. His nose twitches as he breathes, you notice.

His palm comes to rest on your bare thigh, below the hem of your shorts. In the corner of your eye you see heads of silver hair glancing across the firepit. Aegon chuckles. You’re content to let the distractions fade away. “Keep bringing me coffees and I’ll consider it.”

The next day you’re laying on your bed, enjoying the cool of the early evening against your damp skin and hair after a shower. How you can be so exhausted after a day of reading by the pool makes you despair a little. It’s the heat, it messes with your brain.

The music through your headphones is interrupted by a notification.

Helaena Targaryen: Aemond said he’s off to walk the dogs if you want to join him.

You frown at the screen. Did he want Helaena to ask you? You specifically?

Surprisingly, you were getting on rather well with Aemond today, not enough for him to text you himself, or ask for your number for that matter. At the very least, things have been less hostile since your first encounter. You saw him at breakfast and he asked you how you were getting on with Crime and Punishment, if you had finally realised that it’s the best piece of literature put to the world (his words). You said you were not convinced, only because it was fun to argue about it with him. While you were sitting by the pool he came down in a pair of black trunks and no shirt, swam twenty laps in twenty minutes, then dried off in the lounge chair next to yours. Later, while Helaena was sitting with you, he appeared from the kitchen with two bowls of strawberries with the stems cut off. And then at lunch he sat between Aegon and Daeron, and hardly looked at you.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, painfully conscious that Helaena will be able to see that you’re typing.

Helaena Targaryen: I think it’s part of him ‘making amends’ with you.

Helaena Targaryen: He probably still feels bad about it.

Helaena Targaryen: Loser.

You smile to yourself and type out your reply: Yeah, why not. Where does he want me?

While Helaena starts to type you quickly pull on some shorts and a clean t-shirt. Your phone dings while you’re in front of the mirror, dabbing concealer under your eyes.

Helaena Targaryen: Front door. Five mins. Have fun :)

It will probably take you five minutes to find your way down to the entrance hall anyway. You finish your face off with some blush on the apples of your cheeks and a thin amount of mascara on your lashes. There’s not much you can do about your wet hair, but other than that you’re mostly satisfied with yourself, so you pull on a pair of trainers, slip your phone into your back pocket and hurry through the corridors of Dragonstone.

He’s waiting for you in the entrance hall by the door, Vhagar, the great dane on one leash, Sunfyre, the golden labrador on another. He gives you a half smile as you approach them.

“Who am I walking?” you say.

“My girl stays with me,” he says, offering you Sunfyre’s leash, which you take, ruffling his ears.

“Vhagar is your girl then, is she?” you ask as Aemond leads you out the door and down the front steps, past the spot where she scared you half to death. The dogs are eager to storm ahead but Aemond keeps Vhagar on a tight lead, so you do the same.

“I suppose. We’ve had great danes forever, my father’s very fond of them. We got Vhagar when I was sixteen and well, we just like each other a lot I guess.”

“What about Sunfyre?”

“He’s Aegon’s really, but mostly he stays at the Keep with mum and dad. Aegon doesn’t really stay in the same place long enough.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Yeah well, he does what he wants. This way,” Aemond says, nodding towards the downhill path to the beach. You’ve been down here with Helaena already, a winding gravel path lined with bushes and brambles down the cliff face. Vhagar plods along leisurely, Sunfyre can’t get down fast enough. When you stumble, Aemond steadies you, a large hand wrapped around your forearm. “He can run off now anyway,” he mutters, undoing the leash, and Sunfyre darts along the path in a golden flash.

Low in the sky, you see the sun dancing along the surface of the sea, waves rolling orange and blue into white foam as they meet the shore.

“What about you?”

Aemond looks at you with a brief look of bewilderment.

“Are you not doing what you want?”

He tries to conceal a frown, pouting his lips slightly. “Maybe I did for a bit, wound up working for Targ Corp, so I don’t see what difference any of it made.”

Once you reach the sand and Sunfyre is sniffing at some rocks along the base of the cliff, Aemond looks at you. “Are you alright if I take her off the leash?”

Vhagar looks pleadingly up at her owner, her tail thrumming against the ground.

“Yeah, of course,” you say.

“I just didn't know if you’d be comfortable after…”

“Oh,” you say, “thanks for considering it, but yes, it’s more than fine.”

Aemond grins as he undoes the clasp connecting the lead to Vhagar’s collar.

“What?” you ask.

“Does that mean you forgive me now?”

You fold your arms, your cheeks straining as you try to withhold the extent of your smile. “You do make a good coffee, I’ll give you that.”

Sunfyre and Vhagar entertain themselves, chasing each other, running to the edge of the water where the waves rush over the sand and retreat again. You and Aemond walk along the shore where the sand is damp and stable. Aemond says the tide will be coming in within the hour.

“So why work for Targ Corp if you don’t want to?” you ask him.

Aemond contemplates this for a moment, making a low humming noise in his throat. “If I really didn’t want to, I wouldn't.”

“But if Aegon gets to do what he wants, why don’t you?”

He looks down at his shoes, white sneakers, and digs his hands into the pocket of his joggers. “I remember thinking when I finished my bachelor’s, there were lots of things I was good at.”

You make a teasing face.

“No, I just mean there’s lots of things I could have done. I thought about being a curator, or something, you know? I did my dissertation on that actually, how museums and exhibitions can distort the past as well as preserve it–” he interrupts himself with a short tut. “Sorry, I don’t need to bore you.”

Your eyes trail along the curve of his jaw and his chin in the fading light. The wind is gentle, whispering over the bare skin of your cheeks, your arms, your legs. The smell of sea salt lingers in your nose and on your tongue. “I’m not bored,” you say.

With a shy sort of smile he tells you more, how he used to spend hours in the museums in Oldtown, looking at exhibits on Dorne, Essos and Valyria, the papers he read, the cultural memory and the dissonance. “History and heritage, when you think about them, are inherently vague concepts,” he says, “because they’re all based on claims and narratives that are difficult to determine and if they are clear cut, they’re biased. So how do we find the truth? How do we know that what we’re claiming is the right story is actually accurate?” You find yourself watching the parts of him you usually do. He speaks with his hands, indicating and gesturing and moving them randomly when he’s trying to think of a word or explain himself. Occasionally he runs his fingers through his hair or rubs his chin. And his single eye is wide, looking up as he pieces together a thought, looking back to you so he knows you’re still listening.

“But after all that, you went and trained to be an accountant?” you ask.

“You should have seen the look on my father’s face when I told him I wanted to do a masters in museum studies. So yeah, accounting it was.”

It makes you sad, but you don’t want to tell him that. The entire time you’ve been here you’ve never seen Aemond so animated, talking about something he seems to love.

“What about you? What are your big life plans?” he says.

“Anything but accounting.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I bet.”

“I’ll do a masters eventually, but I want to work for a little bit. I’ll start applying for jobs when I’m home.”

“In King’s Landing?”

“Yeah.” You look back up at the dark stone of the cliff, the layers and straight lines, the tops of the castle’s turrets just visible from the shore. “Yeah, yeah I think there’s so much pressure to find something to do. I mean, I was trying to focus on my dissertation and my exams, and I kept having these weird moments where I’d think, what’s the point? I don’t have a job ready to go. I don’t have a place on a masters course. I don’t have any plans to travel or volunteer at an orphanage in Meereen. It was like there was a timer going off in my brain and if I didn’t make something of my life before my exams were over, well it was all going to be a waste.” Now you’re the one moving your hands mindlessly, and you don’t know why but saying it all out loud makes you nervous. “Sometimes I feel like I’m running out of time.”

You look back at Aemond and realise you’ve stopped walking. Somewhere along the beach the dogs bark and splash in the shallowest part of the water. Aemond is watching you. He still has his hands in his pockets, his lips curled into a vague smile. “You have plenty of time, don’t worry,” he says.

It suddenly strikes you what Alicent had mentioned, about him moving back to King’s Landing.

Without stepping away from him you take a mental note of him, your eyes glancing up and down. You want to remember his silhouette, his posture and how he stands, the way he angles his chin, the way he likes to hold his hands behind his back, the joggers and the shape of his torso though his t-shirt. You think you could recognise him at a brief glance, a single body in a crowded city. You think you’d find him.

Aemond meets your eye and raises his brow.

You smile slightly to fein innocent interest. “We’ll be neighbours, we might see each other wandering around the city.”

But you realise you’ve made a mistake. His amusement starts to fade from his face, his shoulders stiffening. He turns and puts his middle finger and thumb in his mouth to whistle the dogs. They both freeze and bound back towards you. “Tide will be coming in soon,” he says to you.

He has Vhagar and Sunfyre on their leads again. By the time you come back to the path on the cliff the sky is a dull shade of dark blue. The castle looms in darkness and the light comes from within, golden through all of its windows.

“I’m sorry if I was a bit of a downer,” you say.

“You’re fine,” Aemond says. Your steps sound in perfect time along the gravel, up to the front steps. Vhagar and Sunfyre huff and pant, pulling on their leads and eager for a rest.

You reach the door and Aemond opens it. Down the hall one of the butlers is waiting to take the dogs.

“It’s just, I thought we were getting on.”

“We are,” Aemond mutters. “Do you think we are?”

It’s hard to tell with Aemond. He’s polite when he needs to be, easily irritated around his siblings. He’s so calm and composed, but you can see it in his eye when he’s thinking– you just don’t know what. But then there are moments like this, when you think you’ve scratched the surface, when his gaze lingers on you and his eye is soft but intent. When he brings you a coffee in the morning, when he tells you about his favourite book and the things he wishes he’d done with his life.

You’re standing in the entrance hall. Dragonstone is alive, filled with people and distant sounds. Beyond the ancient walls the wind picks up and the tide is coming in. If you took one step closer to Aemond, your navel would be pressed against his.

“I want us to get on,” you say.

“Me too.”

“And I thought we were getting somewhere.”

“Maybe we are,” he says. “I liked this, you’re a good listener.”

“I don’t get that a lot.”

“Do you not?”

“Well I suppose it helps if the person speaking has something interesting to say.”

“Oh,” he says with a little nod, “I thought you were going to say you just liked me that much.”

“That helps too.”

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loserboysandlithium · 7 months ago

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Summertime: Billy Hargrove One Shot

18+, explicit sexual content. Minors DNI

Word count: 3.2k

A/N: I had a request for some Bills and my writing brain has been shit lately so I’m moving over an old one shot from wattpad. @billysbot I hope this is okay for now and I’ll get to your request asap. 🤭🖤

*******

Summer. Fucking finally. The warm night air hits your face as you walk outside towards the cooler searching for something to help you relax. Parties weren’t always your favorite thing but it was a good way to kick off the summer. A nice time to relax and one of the only fun things to do here.

You check out the scene, a crowd of people around the keg stand, a group by the fire, and a few girls fighting for the attention of Steve Harrington.

He is one handsome guy. You watch as he runs his fingers through his fluffy brown hair, the girl directly in front of him reaching out to touch it, giggling flirtatiously as he gives her a sweet smile. Even after graduation, Steve always threw the best parties in Hawkins.

You suddenly hear a shout from your left as you grab yourself a beer, popping it open.

“The keg king has returned!” a guy shouts in the distance.

Tommy. You roll your eyes, the noise from the party already starting to give you a slight headache. I need more alcohol.

“Billy Hargrove, what did we do to deserve this?” another loud voice booms, followed by a laugh.

The name catches your attention and your head whips around to see him standing there with a bold smile on his face.

He looks about the same. Tight denim clinging to his muscular thighs. He turns and you catch a glimpse of his ass, his jeans showing you every curve perfectly.

That ass. You quickly finish your beer, this time reaching for the whiskey, pouring a bit into your cup before walking a little closer to all the commotion. The crowd is loud as guys and girls alike come to welcome him back.

He left last year for college along with a few others. Most of you were stuck there. Going to community college or working full-time jobs.

You had hooked up with Billy one time before he left for California. The backseat of his Camaro. You hadn't gone all the way but the things you had done were stuck in your brain since last summer. It was a night you thought about often.

He turns your way and your eyes meet his. You instantly feel your face flush and try to conceal it behind the red plastic cup, taking a large gulp.

A white t-shirt fits firmly against his body, a black leather jacket thrown on top. His sandy curls look a little more taken care of, a little smoother, one curl spiraled to perfection on his forehead.

He winks and smiles that charming smile as he squeezes through the crowd, heading your way.

Fuck me.

“There you are.” he huffs as he comes to a stop in front of you. His cologne fills your nose, the aroma immediately sending you back in time, the memory of last year clear as day.

His soft lips on yours, his fingers working you to your peak so effortlessly. It was like a dream.

“That feel good, baby?” he mumbled in your ear as his thick fingers glided in and out.

“So good, Billy.” you moaned breathlessly, your head falling back against his leather seats as he leaned over you.

He chuckled deeply, his fingers working in and out slowly before he curled them slightly, pressing into your g spot, making you bite down on your lip, a small whimper escaping.

“R-right there..” you gasped, rolling your hips, grinding on his hand. No one had ever been able to get you off before and Billy knew exactly what he was doing.

“Mmm… That's it, baby,” he murmured against your lips as your eyes fell shut.

“H-holy shit..” you moaned loudly as your thighs began to tremble. His two fingers precisely stroking across your sweet spot. His thumb moving up and down your soaked slit, brushing against your clit over and over.

You had completely lost yourself in the moment, the pleasure something you had never experienced by the hand of another.

“I can't wait to hear you cum.” he burned, his words bringing you closer and closer until you finally fell apart, your cries filling the small space in the car, Billy encouraging you to scream his name. And you did. Again and again…

Billy’s smooth voice saying your name brings you back to reality and your face reddens again. You still haven't had an orgasm like that since.

“Something on your mind?” he teases, reaching down and snagging a beer for himself.

You quickly shake your head and give him a soft smile. “Just thinking about last summer… How is school? California looks like it's treating you well.” you state sweetly, stepping slightly closer to him.

You take in every detail of his pretty face. His sun-kissed skin dusted with freckles, his long dark lashes such a contrast to his light curls, his lips plump and soft, his mustache trimmed neatly.

Now that he was here, no one else at this party could catch your eye. He was so alluring. So addictive.

Billy smiles as he pats his pockets for his smokes, pulling one out and offering it your way. You take it and place it between your lips, Billy reaches out lighting the cigarette for you before taking the flame to his own.

He inhales deeply, slowly releasing the smoke before he speaks.

“It’s been good. You know, same old shit.” he shrugs casually, his eyes stuck on you. You watch as his gaze travels from your face all the way down your body and back up, his lips curling into a smile.

You shift your feet, your Converse kicking the dirt as you feel his eyes on you. You were happy you had forced yourself into a dress tonight instead of your usual t-shirt and shorts. It was a deep red, riding high on your thighs, sculpting your body in all the right places.

“You look good, sweetheart.” he compliments, his tone warm and sugary. Another little wink in your direction making your heart speed up in your chest.

“So do you. You look really good. I like this shirt.” you gush, your hand reaching out to touch his chest. You can feel the firmness of his muscles underneath the skin-tight shirt. His body tenses under your touch as your hand slowly trails across his stomach.

“It looks better off,” he suggests playfully, his blue eyes glinting under the moonlight.

“Do you wanna swim?” you blurt out quickly, making him laugh.

“I didn’t bring a swimsuit.” he teases, his hand reaching out to tuck a strand of loose hair behind your ear.

“Me neither.” Your voice comes out hoarse as he looms over you.

His fingertips ghost across your thigh as you look up at him.

“Anything under this?” he whispers, his voice deep and low as he lightly tugs on the hem of your dress.

You nod, your entire body tingling from the sensation of his fingers against your skin.

“Let’s go.”

********

“You want me to swim in my underwear?” you stare at him as he begins to unbuckle his belt.

“Mhmm..” he hums lightly, shuffling out of his jeans. His jacket was next, then his shirt. Leaving him standing there in his boxer briefs, his perfect body on full display.

You cross your arms surveying the area, Only a few people were in the pool, most of the party was inside dancing or getting drunk. Billy raises an eyebrow in your direction and you bite down on your lip.

“It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.” he presses, walking closer. His hand rests on your waist, pulling you close, his body is warm against yours as his lips meet your ear.

“You weren’t shy when you were screaming my name, baby.” His breath tickles your ear, his words making you throb. His hand reaches around your back, taking your zipper in his fingers, slowly drawing it down.

“Or when you sucked my dick and swallowed every bit of my cum..” he continues, the zipper coming to a stop just above your ass. “Remember that night?” He rasps as his hand moves to your shoulder, gently pulling the strap of your dress down your arm.

“I think about it all the time.” you admit quietly as he works the other strap.

“I know you do.” he boasts, a smile playing on his lips as he pulls your dress to the concrete.

Billy’s POV

I was hoping she’d be here. Cute little thing. Sweet fucking pussy. I remember sucking her off of my fingers. And those lips.. fuck they felt good wrapped around my cock.

I can tell when I make a girl cum for the first time. It’s so gratifying. Hearing their cries, their moans, their surprise as they realize how good sex can be. There are way too many women who haven’t been pleased right. I bet she hasn’t gotten off like that since I left. But tonight, I’m gonna fuck her. Give her everything Billy Hargrove has to offer. I can’t wait to blow her fucking mind.

I watch as she kicks her dress to the side and slips out of her shoes. There are a few people on the other end of the pool, a couple making out, a few guys roughhousing.

Doesn’t matter. I’m about to make her squeal. Audience or no audience.

I reach out for her hand and her slender fingers intertwine with mine as we make our way toward the pool steps. I step down into the water, it’s a little chillier than I expected but it feels nice as we step deeper into the pool. I turn to see her with little goosebumps spread across her arms. Her nipples hard against the thin fabric of her lace bra.

She’s a fucking sight. Her perfect ass on display, her tiny panties barely hiding anything. The moonlight casts a glow across her body as you drink her in.

I’m excited to hear her cry my name again. The way she screamed just from my fingers.. Fuck, this is gonna be fun.

Her eyes shine bright as she peeks over at me. A slight smile on her face. A dark red lipstick painted on her soft lips.

Her little shy act is cute too. But she won’t be able to maintain it for long. Soon she’ll be begging me to do filthy things to her. And I’ll happily comply.

I normally would have gone for someone new but there was something about her that made me crave more. I've thought about her many times since I left. I'm not in love but the girl is something and I'm eager to have more.

I can tell she's thinking the same as she wades into the water, beckoning for me to come closer. She swims to the corner of the pool and I dive in, following behind her. I come out of the water, face to face with her. Her mascara runs slightly, leaving little black smudges under her eyes.

I love that shit. Though it’s normally caused by them gagging.

I press up against her lightly and take note of her body’s reaction to me. Her gaze falls from my eyes to my lips and back up again. Her chest moves up and down rapidly. A small bite of her lip, her body leaning into me.

Mmm.. I know, baby.

I reach out, firmly gripping her waist as she instantly presses her lips to mine, her arms coming around my neck. The noise of everyone around us seems to disappear as she slips her tongue in my mouth. Her fingers thread into my hair as my eyes shut and I take over, kissing her fiercely, pressing her body against the pool wall.

She moans into my mouth making my cock twitch. I dig my fingers into her hips pulling another moan from her, making me smirk against her lips before pulling away breathless.

“You taste just like I remember.” I groan, reaching around cupping her ass in my hands causing her to gasp. “How about that pussy, baby? Can I get another taste?” I mumble against her neck as I begin planting slow kisses up and down her exposed skin.

“Yes.. fuck.. where should we go?”

I let out a deep laugh before gradually gliding my fingers down her side. My hand skates across her thigh and slips in between her legs.

“Billy, there’s people..”

“Then I guess you'll have to be quiet.” I taunt, my voice low in her ear.

“Shit.” she breathes out as my fingers run across her clothed pussy under the water. I move the delicate fabric to the side, one finger slipping into her slit. Even under the water I can feel her need for me, her warmth wrapping around my finger, slickness coating it as I press deeper inside, a little moan falls from her mouth as it drops open.

I work in another finger, plunging into her pussy as her head falls to my shoulder trying to conceal her noises. “I missed these fingers,” she mumbles into the crook of my neck, sending a smile across my face.

I work her with my hand, adding a third finger, keeping them buried deep.

“Fuck!” she cries, her squeal barely muffled as I continue to fuck her with my hand.

Her moans grow louder as she buries her face even deeper. I can feel her pussy pulsing around my fingers as I curl and stroke across her g spot making her legs shake.

I hear voices from the other end of the pool, reminding me that we’re not alone. I lift her with one arm, her legs wrapping around my waist as her nails dig into my shoulder blades.

“Mmm.. I’m gonna.. Billy.. I’m gonna..” she stammers, her voice is shaky as I feel her clench around me.

“Cum for me, baby. Then I’m gonna take you inside where you can really scream.”

My words send her overboard and her teeth sink into my neck making me moan as she comes undone, her walls fluttering around my thick fingers. My jaw clenches as I feel the pain from her bite, followed by her lips sucking harshly as she rides out her orgasm.

Reader’s POV

“Oh my fucking god.” you laugh breathlessly as your body comes down from your high. You bring your face around and slam your lips to his, feeling elated.

He plants a few hard kisses on your lips before lifting you out of the pool. You stand up as he hops out, your eyes glancing towards the opposite side of the pool. You see the same couple still making out, people swimming around none the wiser. Holy shit.

As Billy stands, your eyes roam down his body, his erection clear through his wet briefs. Fucking hell.

“Bedroom?” you suggest coyly.

“Bedroom, baby.” he chuckles, swiping up your clothes and pulling you along.

******

“Is this Harrington’s room?” Billy questions as you lock the door behind you.

“Mhmm.. You okay with that?” you ask, walking further into the room. Billy laughs loudly at your question.

“Just makes it even better.” he snickers before tossing you to the bed.

Fuck, I'm excited. No stopping this time. I'm getting all of him.

You unclasp your wet bra, tossing it aside, watching as Billy’s eyes fall to your chest. He grins as he slides his underwear down, his cock finally unrestrained. You swiftly slip your panties off and giggle as Billy basically tackles you into the mattress.

“You're so fucking beautiful.” he compliments, as you feel his weight on top of you.

“So are you,” you reply, your voice hushed. You bring your arms around his neck and draw his lips to yours, his tongue parting your lips gently. You can feel him against your warmth as you wrap your legs around his waist.

You lift your hips, grinding against him, feeling his cock rock hard.

“I want you.” you plead desperately.

“How do you like it, baby? Soft and slow? Rough and fast? Tell me what you want.” Billy says as his hands begin to explore your body.

“Mmm.. Either.. Both.. I just want you.” you breathe out.

“My kinda girl,” Billy smirks before you feel him at your entrance. He gradually presses the first few inches into you, the stretch so delicious, so fucking good.

“Fuck, you're big.” you whimper slightly and he kisses your lips once more.

“I'm barely in, sweetheart.” he brags, a hint of cockiness laced in his tone. He pushes in deeper, making your mouth drop open with a squeak.

Once fully inside he begins to thrust. In and out, slow and steady. Your body feels overwhelmed from this new sensation. You've never had someone so deep inside of you before.

He starts to get into a nice rhythm, rolling his hips, driving into you at a perfect pace. Your eyelids flutter as he glides in and out of your pussy, your slickness coating his cock entirely.

“Fuck, baby.” Billy grunts as you start to rock with him, your bodies working perfectly together. He times his time, pumping into you with long hard strokes as he kisses you deeply.

You cross your ankles behind his back, pulling him back into you over and over again, moans and praises pouring from your lips as you give into him completely.

“Harder!” you cry unexpectedly, your body aching for something it's never known. I want him to destroy me and I know he can.

Billy grins wickedly, picking up speed, slamming into you, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“Yes!” you wail, clinging to him wildly, your nails dragging down his back as he thrusts mercilessly.

You lose yourself in the pleasure, as he pounds you into the mattress, your boobs bouncing with every thrust. You feel his hand on your ankle as he easily tosses it over his shoulder, leaning over you, making your legs tremble instantly.

“Oh- oh my god!” you scream as his cock slams directly into your g spot.

“There she is.” Billy growls, his smile widening as he slaps your thigh roughly making you squeal in delight.

“You like that?”

“Yes!”

“You like it rough?”

“Yes, Billy!”

“Tell me.”

“I want it rough. Fuck me hard, please!”

With no warning, he flips you to your stomach, pulling your ass up in the air and enters you again. His hand grips your hair and gives it a yank, a drawn out moan leaving your lips.

He slams into you, your ass bouncing against him over and over as he wears you out. His firm hand leaving handprints all across your ass. Your hands grip the sheets tightly as your body gives into the euphoria. The perfect amount of pleasure and pain blended together.

You had reached your high twice, the second even stronger than the first. Your body sensitivity at an all time high.

“Cum for me, again.” Billy mumbles lustfully, his hands gripping your waist, fingers digging into your skin.

“Yes, Billy.” you whimper. Your entire body felt like jello but you didn't care. You wanted this, needed this.

You soaked his cock once more before he filled you with his cum, both of you collapsing to the bed, out of breath.

“Why the fuck did you have to move again?” you pant, your cheeks flushed, your heart pounding.

Billy chuckles as he reaches over for a cigarette, pulling one out for you both.

“Any time I visit.. This is happening, doll.” he motions between the two of you.

“Visit more than once a year?” you pout, laying your head on his sweaty chest.

“Mhmm.. I didn't think I’d miss anything about Hawkins, baby. But damn I'm gonna miss you.”

#billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove smut #billy hargrove x fem!reader smut #billy hargrove oneshot #billy hargrove

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upsidedownwithsteve · 9 months ago

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A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [5.9K]

THE TIMELINE

"Oh no, you know you know I'd be lying if I said I wasn't dying, For someone I could die for, someone I could try for Fall apart and cry for, go 'head, risk my life for."

-Someone I Could Die For by Lewis Capaldi

II. ROME, ITALY: 49 BC

The roar that came from the bowels of the Colosseum never became easier to hear.

The noise seemed to make the city shake, the streets empty, the market stalls abandoned in favour of bloodshed. The games took place in the summer, when the skies were an endless blue and there were no clouds to tamper down the climbing heat. The sun bore down on the sandy pit of the enormous Amphitheatre and the seats were filled, the doors that had already been closed still surrounded by regretful stragglers who were forced to listen to the chaos from outside of the walls.

Fourteen men had died already, three from the jaws of the lions, two from the bears and eleven from the swords of other imprisoned slaves. The cheering from the crowd made your stomach curl. The floor of the stage was covered in red, the sand streaked with spilled blood and the animals that were bullied back into their cages had their jaws tinted pink.

It wasn’t a joyous occasion, no matter how many people celebrated in the name of their emperor. The leader of Rome was sitting mere seats away from you, dressed in ruby robes that were slung like a cloak over his white toga and his laurel crown glinted with golden beads that sat tucked into the olive wreaths. He was drunk on wine and violence, and your father sat next to him in the royal box, ever eager to please as he clinked his chalice against his kings.

Being the daughter of Rome’s most beloved senator certainly had its positives. You were dressed just as finely as the royalty around you, the fabric that was made to fit your frame swept to the floor and only yesterday, the emperor’s cousin had gifted you a necklace made of the finest gold, inset with glittering emeralds, pretty enough for a princess.

The same cousin smiled at you from across the row, each seat in the royal box made from plush velvet, the high backs ornate and cushioned, unlike the stone carved benches the rest of the civilians were sitting on. You smile back, uneasy but polite, and your father nodded approvingly.

You were expected to marry, you knew that much. You were already considered too old to be unwed and you knew the rest of the court whispered about how you would now struggle to bear a child. But the man that was expected to be your husband wasn’t who you loved. He wasn’t unkind, he wasn’t cruel - not like you’d heard men could be. The girls in the kitchen would tell you stories of how their husband made demands. Shouting each night for their meals, their baths, how their shirts weren’t stitched right, how their beds would lay cold because their wives were too tired.

Some men visited the bath houses, you knew that much. Seeking out a lupa for the night, the ladies that were called she-wolves, with their painted lips and robes that showed so much skin. Some men decided that they didn’t need to listen to their wives at all, you were once told, horror etched on your face. Some men took what they thought they owned.

So no, the emperor’s cousin seemed kind enough. But you weren’t in love with him. You weren’t sure who you were in love with. A dream, perhaps. One that kept returning to you from a young, young age. A dream about a different town, one you’d never been to before. But in your sleep, it felt like home. White buildings and green gardens with tall, tall trees and pretty, ornate gazebos made of stone on the edges of shallow ponds. You were by the sea there, a blue-green ocean that seemed so calm.

Sometimes monsters came, the marble statues that guarded the city came to life and turned your dream into a nightmare. There was always fire and fury, storm clouds and too big waves and a man with skin the colour of death would try and take your hand. But even when the dream turned bad, there was always someone else.

A man, with a blurry face and a mess of almost too long hair. It hid his eyes from you and you could never make out too many details but you burned when you looked at him, you could weep when he touched you. Sometimes he led you through the burning town, his hand clasping your own as you both tried to run and run and run.

Other times, you lay in a bed with him, skin bare and your head on his chest as he murmured the sweetest poetry to you, words that made your heart race. Your dream was encased in white linen sheets, a hazy, soft light that always made it look like early morning and when the man’s lips met yours, you always woke up.

Him. You loved him.

You hadn’t been in love before, but whenever you dreamed of the stranger, you were sure that must have been what love felt like.

“Have some grapes, darling,” your thoughts were interrupted by your father as he thrust a plate of fruit and cheese under your nose.

But the fifteenth gladiator was being dragged through the gates by the armpits, a clawed hammer still sticking out from his chest and your insides turned over at the idea of eating such sweet treats as blood poured from the men in front of you. The emperor’s box was almost nauseatingly close to the fights.

You shook your head before you remembered your manners, smiling politely and murmuring, “I’m quite alright, thank you.” You blew out a breath, shaky and faint.

From your other side, one of the young girls who had been gifted to you on your sixteenth birthday waved a giant fan. A large peacock feather, a huge plume of colours that merely wafted the too warm air back and forth but you smiled your thanks at your lady in waiting, a pretty girl who’d turned into a prettier young woman. She was small and lithe, angular in the face with curls that came to her sharp jawbone and she smiled back.

Nancy, as she’d introduced herself to you a week after she’d arrived at your fathers house, from the Wheeler family of Liguria. She didn’t like the gladiator fights anymore than you did, always murmuring about the rights of the animals and how inhumane it was later in the night as she drew you your bath.

“—from Verona,” your father was saying with a mouth full of provolone. “One of their best, so they say, His Majesty simply had to have him.”

You blinked, frowning in confusion at your fathers words. You hadn’t been paying attention in the slightest and nothing you’d caught made any sense. “Sorry?” You grimaced apologetically and took a few pomegranate seeds from the plate of food in apology for your rudeness. “Who is from Verona?”

Your father rolled his eyes, a sure sign that you’d be lectured in his study later for your lack of respect. “The next gladiator, child.” He gestured to the stage where the soldiers were locking the gates to the tigers, each big cat growling with menace when the men came too close to the bars. “They say he’s unbeatable. Our Highness offered a more than generous helping of coin for his papers but Verona’s general didn’t seem to want to part with him.”

You frowned again. The crowd seemed to be aware of this man and his presence, murmuring and shifting in their seats in anticipation. “If that is the case,” you prodded. “Then how is he here? If the gladiators… owner—” the word left a terribly bitter taste in your mouth and you felt heavy with guilt when Nancy’s fan brushed your shoulder. “If his owner didn’t want to sell him?”

Your father snorted, an unattractive sound that made Nancy wince beside you. “No one tells the emperor of Rome ‘no’, dearest.” Your father shrugged. “The gladiator cannot be owned, if his owner is dead.”

Bloodshed. Always bloodshed.

A man came from the east side gates with chains around his ankles and wrists. You couldn’t quite see him for your seat, not yet, but the crowd above and around you roared, eager for the final fight to begin. The man already looked beaten and tired as soldiers stepped forward to unlock his manacles and you sat forward in your seat for the first time since you entered the Colosseum that day.

He had messy hair, dark brown and hanging just past his chin. It was already damp looking, matted and dirty from being kept god knows where as the emperor's new toy. He was shirtless, his body lean but corded with muscle. He had wide shoulders and a lithe waist, powerful thighs and skin that was tanned from the sun, a sure sign he spent too much time outside, training hard in the Italian heat.

As he moved closer to the middle of the stage, you saw the marks on his body, leftover scars and new slices in his flesh that still looked viciously red. The crowd got louder as a sword was thrown at his feet, a large, heavy looking thing with a bronze handle. Some cheered for the new warrior, hoping for some excitement, while others jeered and booed, already too attached to their darling reigning champion.

The gladiator picked up his sword and the crowd became wilder still, but he gave them no mind. He didn’t put on a show like some of the others, he didn’t flex his muscles or raise his weapon like it was already a prize. His leather loincloth was a deep wine colour, the tan leather pleats looking far from newly made and the material was already streaked with blood and dirt before his first opponent arrived.

Your heart felt heavy for him, as it did for all the others who were forced into the Colosseum - prisoners, slaves and animals alike. You watched the gladiator flex his wrist, testing the weight of his weapon just as the gates in the west cranked open.

Rome’s current champion strode out from the shadows and into the bright sun, his bare chest glinting with sweat and Hargrove held his hands aloft, grinning as the crowds went insane. He beat his chest, his long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and when he was handed his own sword, he wasted no time in running towards the new fighter, the steel blade glinting.

You gasped, moving closer still to the edge of your seat and you couldn’t find it in you to bear much mind to the looks your father and Nancy shot you. It wasn’t like you to take such an interest in the sport, never mind be so heavily invested. You didn’t like to watch the wounded, preferring to close your eyes when the screams began, hiding cowardly behind Nancy’s fan when the blood turned the sandy stage pink and red.

But this new gladiator, he was fast.

He dove at the last second, dodging the tip of Hargrove’s blade and he rolled towards the section where you sat. Dust kicked up from the move, his sword tearing into the wreaths and sashes that hung from the Emperor’s box. You grasped the edge of the wooden frame, peering over the side and down to the stage, hoping to not see blood already.

Instead you found the gladiator looking back up at you, his sword still in his grasp and when his eyes met yours, they widened. Something like recognition hurtled through you, a feeling that sucked the breath from your lungs and you felt dizzy, like lightning itself had struck you from the sky. You thought the man perhaps felt the same, a frown on his face telling you that he felt just as confused as you did.

But before you could consider where on earth you could have possibly seen his face before, Hargrove attacked again, bringing his blade down to where the gladiator's shoulder should have been, if he hadn’t rolled once again.

You were on your feet now, the stares of your father be damned. Your eyes were wide, your heart beating far too fast, like you yourself were on the stage, being hunted for sport. Wood splintered into the space under your nails as you watched the man run, his muscles pumping, his eyes narrowed.

“Darling, are you quite alright?” Your father placed a hand on your arm, more confused than concerned.

“Yes, I just— yes.” You cleared your throat and sat down again, albeit back to the edge of your chair. You could feel the rest of the royal party staring at you. “Where did you say the man was brought from? The new gladiator?”

“Harrington?” One of the Emperor’s councilmen interjected. He pointed a pudgy finger at the brown haired gladiator, who was now swinging his sword with as much power as Hargrove. “Steven Harrington of Verona, best of his breed I heard. His general didn’t take too kindly to the King’s offering and well— you know what happens when his Highness is made to feel upset.”

The metallic clink of the swords filled the arena as everyone held their breaths. Not many had lasted this long against Hargrove before.

“Rumour has it that he didn’t take too kindly to his general being beheaded. Took six men to get him into the back of the cart, even more to make him train. He’s been refusing food all week.”

The idea of it made you feel unwell, a sickly, creeping kind of pain curling around each of your ribs and suddenly you were starving, just as much as you were sure the man would be. But still, I didn’t seem to make him move any slower, it didn’t hinder him in bringing his sword down any harder.

But strangely, every time the new gladiator was struck, every time his knees hit the raw sand, every time he got close enough for you to see him suck in a gasping breath— you felt it too.

It was a battle like you’d never seen before, more vicious than the others from that day, a showdown under the blazing heat of the high sun. No tiger seemed as powerful as Steven Harrington of Verona did. There was something animalistic in the way he moved, all power and lean muscle, a steely glint in his brown eyes that you didn’t dare look away from. He moved too quickly for Hargrove’s blade, dodging and diving as he flung up sand, blinding his opponent and slicing at his legs. Each move was a blur, the stage bleeding with fresh red, the blonde gladiator on his knees.

But Hargrove was ruthless, grappling with the newcomer until they were both wrestling in the dust cloud and the crowd went insane, people chanted and stomped their feet, the amphitheatre shaking down to its very bones. The imperial box quaked with the energy, but truly, you weren’t present enough to feel it.

Your eyes never left Steven’s fighting figure.

The swords seemed to be forgotten, the steel blades rusted with blood, both fresh and new, and they lay in the sand. Fists flew, knees pressed to chests to keep the other down and it was brutal, it was harsh, it was deadly.

You wanted to vomit. You feared you might.

You wondered what would happen if you leapt from your chair, if you let your skirts get torn and bloodied in the mess of the stage, if you threw yourself down onto the sand and begged for Hargrove to take his hands away from the new gladiator's throat.

Would you be punished? Beaten? Locked away? Killed?

You weren’t sure but somehow, all the options felt worth it. You couldn’t watch this man die before you. Not when it felt like you’d already witnessed his death before.

But Steven wrestled himself out of Hargrove’s hold, twisting and tumbling whilst he gasped, one hand clutching at his reddened neck and the other grappling for his blade. He swung it through the air, arching wide, his wounded shoulder ripping with effort it took but the sword landed where the warrior intended it to.

Silence settled over the colosseum, the air still enough for you to hear the surviving champion heave out gasping, heavy breaths. There was blood on his hands, his chest, his face.

His right eye was already bruising, red and lilac coming to the surface of his skin like fresh blooms in spring. His shoulder was a mess, his right leg causing him to buckle slightly as he rose to his feet.

The man turned, jaw slack, his sword falling limply to the ground once more, his opponent still and at his feet. His eyes found yours and time stilled, at least, to you. The crowd erupted, an explosion in its own right, the entirety of Rome cheering for their new champion.

A man you were sure you already loved.

By the time the fight had ended, you felt beaten and bruised. There were no marks on your skin, no blood seeping through your gown, but something inside of you hurt all the same. It felt like something was clawing at your heart, a memory that was banging on the front of your skull, screaming at you to remember.

When the guards dragged the gladiator from Hargrove’s limp figure, he dropped his sword to the sand and spat a mouthful of blood towards the ground at the royal pit. The Emperor merely chuckled as others around you gasped and before you could even hear your fathers protests, you were on your feet.

Steven Harrington was shackled once more, the metal chains clinking around his hands and feet. And as he was led away back into the arches, the gears of gates making an awful protesting noise, his eyes found yours once more.

A burning gaze, too intense to look away from and you could’ve sworn on the gods, on the stars above, that something inside of you tugged sharply. Like the pull of a string, tied in a bow between your ribcage, urging you forward.

Telling you to go.

So you did.

You gathered your skirts in your hands and made your way to the exit of the box, too focused to hear your fathers objections until the guards at the doorway halted you with their spears. The wooden stalks crossed themselves over your chest and you froze, the string tied to your heart pulling tighter and tighter and tighter—

The Emperor was staring at you, with cold eyes and a smile that wasn’t really a smile. He spoke to your father, not you. “Where, my dear senator, is your lovely daughter running off to?” The king turned back to you, brows raised. “Doesn’t she know that more wine will be served soon? My cousin is looking forward to her company.”

Your father stared at you, a stricken expression on his aged face because everyone in the royal box could read between the lines of the Emperor.

You cleared your throat, eyes still trained on the sharp metal points of the spears that were very much in your face. “Forgive me, father - your highness - I was merely hoping to get some fresh air.”

“The sight of all that blood makes her rather delicate,” your father agreed and the crowd of councilmen, generals and their wives tittered in their jewels. “She isn’t one for conflict.”

The Emperor stared at the side of your face, something you could feel despite bowing your head in his presence. You stared at the floor and waited, heart racing.

The royal tsked. “What a pity,” he declared but he waved a hand, each finger heavy with golden rings, and his soldiers stepped aside. “Be back in time for the parade, child, you have company to entertain.”

The Emperor’s cousin leered at you, his wine glass empty, his lips stained ruby but none of it mattered right now, not when you were taking off once more, skirts dragging across the dust and sand, your chest heaving as you tried to navigate your way through the crowd that was already dispersing.

More guards, heavily armoured and with their swords drawn, were too preoccupied with a fight that had broken out between the arches, two lower class men arguing over a coin they found on the ground. Taking your chance, you moved with your head down, your face hidden as you slipped through a door that was normally carefully watched.

The heavy wood slammed shut behind you, the sunlight swallowed whole. Burning torches lit the narrow corridor, a maze of them leading you underneath the Colosseum. The hypogeum was almost damp as you tried to navigate its many walkways, a gasp leaving your throat as you took a wrong turn and ended up face to face with the iron bars that separated you from the animals.

A huge tiger growled at you, bloodied teeth bared in a snarl, the stench of raw meat and faeces hanging in the cool air. You backed away, eyes flickering from cage to cage, each one filled with another poor creature. Lions, bears, a rhinoceros and its offspring, and beyond them, an even larger cell holding prisoners. They all stared at you, men and animals alike, but nothing was spoken.

You backed away, unable to breath, turning on your heel and walking quickly enough to spot the familiar grey robes of the healers used after the battles. You followed, your steps light, and watched him enter a small room. Between the door opening and closing, you spotted the gladiator perched on a wooden table, his head bent low and his face hidden behind his damp hair.

You weren’t sure what possessed you, but before you barged into the room too, both men staring at you from the table where the healer held a ragged cloth to the gladiator’s shoulder.

“Miss, you have no need here,” the healer announced, his voice strict and cold. He narrowed his eyes as he gestured to the door. “This is no place for—”

“My father sent me.” It was a lie, of course. A bold and bare faced one at that. But you stood a little taller and lifted your chin, the emerald necklace at your throat shining in the low light that came from the small fireplace in the corner. “The senate has questions I’ve been asked to deliver. I shall not leave without the appropriate answers.”

On the mantle, beside bottles of acids and other medicinal vials, sat a small statue of the goddess Veratis. Her marble eyes seemed to judge you and your lies and you swallowed down the bitter taste it left on your tongue. But looking at the man - this stranger from Verona - the need to speak to him, to be alone with him, was overwhelming you to the point of senselessness.

The trouble you could be in if you were to be caught in your lie… or worse, down in the hypogeum. This was no place for a woman of your standing, never mind to be alone with a gladiator, both of you unspoken for. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

“If we may have some time alone?” You added with more authority than you should have held. “Unless you’d prefer that my father leave the Emperor’s side to ensure his orders are fulfilled?”

The healer sighed but placed down his tools. He flashed you a smile that was all crooked teeth, more bite than kindness, but he made his way to the door. “That won’t be necessary, My Lady,” he told you and he left, closing the wooden door behind him.

The silence was a deafening thing. The crackle of the fire was still there, the distant roar of some poor, wounded animal, but whatever was held between the two of you took on a life of its own. It seemed to suck the rest of the world into it until there was nothing left but you and this man. He was staring at you still, brown eyes wide and so familiar, looking as confused as you felt as you stared right back.

It felt too easy to take a step forward, but the warrior flinched. Your next was slower, softer, more cautious. Your hand found the rag that the healer had once held, what little water it had been soaked in was cold, the material harsh. It didn’t take you long to find a new cloth in one of the drawers of the apothecary table and you took your time to warm some fresh water over the hearth.

Honestly, you didn’t know too much about medicine, only the basics that your father’s head servant had taught you as a young child. You found the small bottle of alcohol with ease, plucking it from the shelf and adding it to the warm water before soaking the new rag.

You held it up in offering to the man, still far enough from you that his dirty hair hid most of his face. His tanned chest was streaked with sweat and dust, marred with old cuts and fresher wounds from Hargrove’s weapon, but for the most part, he seemed okay.

“Can I?”

The gladiator lifted his head then, his hair falling away from his cheeks and you took in a sharp breath at the sight of his face. He was handsome, painstakingly so, but over and above all else, he was someone you were sure you knew.

The man nodded, just once, lips pressed together and as you came closer, his nostrils flared and his large hands gripped the edge of the table. His eyes raced across your features, recognition coming to the surface and before he could ask the questions that were clawing at his throat, you lifted the cloth and pressed it to the cut on his shoulder.

He hissed, teeth bared and you frowned, hushing him softly, apologies murmured just as quiet. “I’m sorry,” you told him and gods, he knew you meant it. “I need the alcohol to soak the wound.”

Your heart stuttered when he let you, shoulders tight and back ramrod straight, but his eyes were on your face the entire time you worked. “You’re not a healer,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

His voice rung through you, a deep timber that was hoarse and scratchy, no doubt from refusing to speak since his capture. You hoped he’d been drinking enough water.

You shook your head as you pulled away, dipping the bloodied cloth back into the bucket. “No, I’m not,” you confirmed.

Another swipe at his skin had him jerking in response but the blood and dirt was finally clear of the cut. It would need stitches, you were almost sure of it, but your skills started and finished at the basics.

“Then why are you here?” The gladiator’s eyes were trained on your necklace, a sure fire way to recognise nobility and you were overcome with the urge to rip it from your throat. “Why did you follow me?” He spoke like he already knew the answer.

You were hesitant about it, but you couldn’t stop your hand from lifting to his neck, fingertips brushing two beauty marks on his skin. They felt electric under your touch and you were impossibly warmer now, despite the old cell lacking the heat from the summer above.

“I feel like I know you,” you whispered. Your voice cracked with an emotion you didn’t quite know the name of. “I feel like I’ve mourned you.”

The gladiator looked back at you from behind his damp hair, the long strands matted with his and his enemies blood. He didn’t look as concerned as he should have been at your strange words. In fact, he leaned into your touch, lashes fluttering at the sensation.

“What an odd thing to say to someone who hasn’t died,” he answered quietly. But his gaze roamed over your features and something about being so close to him felt cosmic, it felt like a catastrophe waiting to happen. “I think I’ve met you before,” the gladiator whispered. He sounded reverent now, his own hand shaking as he brought it to your face.

He cupped your jaw, your chin, his rough fingertips trailing over your soft skin and when his thumb dragged across your bottom lip, you gasped and pressed closer.

“I think I meet you when I sleep,” he said and he frowned at his own words, at how confusing he must’ve sounded. “Every night, when I close my eyes. You’re in a garden and then you’re in my arms.”

Flashes of a bed came to mind, white linen sheets and too much bare skin. A man’s chest, tanned and muscled from hard labour, your hands that roamed the expanse of his back. You remembered how he kissed you in your dreams, with a longing so intense it could waken the gods.

Like he had enough love for you that he could end the world.

You could only nod. His thumb was still pushed to your bottom lip, your mouth parted as if you were waiting and his stare was so intense you felt warmer than you had in the stadium above.

Who was this stranger?

And why did it feel like something inside of you was being stitched back together by the sheer sight of him? His touch felt healing, it felt like home. Like it was only made for you to feel. Like he was made only for you.

Above, something boomed. Loud enough to be heard underneath the hypogeum, over the roars of the unsettled animals. If you had been outside, you would’ve witnessed the blue sky turning grey, shades of moody lavender and navy, storm clouds rolling across Rome from seemingly nowhere.

Thunder rumbled, threatening noise, something that made you and the man move closer to each other, like you both knew you were in danger.

That you knew something bad was coming.

“I don’t understand,” you said, eyes blurring. You weren’t sure why you were crying but Steve didn’t seem to question it. He merely swiped away the tears that slipped down your cheeks. “You’re a stranger— we’ve never— we’ve never met.”

Despite your words, the gladiator moved closer, standing from his seat on the wooden table to lean his forehead against your own. Your eyes slipped closed, nose bumping his. He smelled like metal, like blood and dirt and sweat but underneath there was something like fire there, like molten iron, like lavender fields and fresh cotton. Like a daydream, like something you weren’t sure was real.

His bottom lip touched your top one, only just, only barely. A whisper of a kiss, a small insight of something that could’ve been, of something that maybe once was.

Thunder rolled again, louder than before, as if it was right above you both. Even over the din of the crowds above, you could hear the heavy patter of rain that was now flooding the colosseum, the stage soaked. Another warning, something you’d seen before in a dream just before it turned to a nightmare.

“I was meant to find you,” Steve murmured. He had your face cradled in his hands, an overwhelmingly gentle touch despite the dried blood under his fingernails. His voice grew in urgency then, like he knew something was coming. Someone. “I was meant to come here. I can feel it. I understand now.”

“Someone once told me you’d come back,” you suddenly remembered, your voice eager, your eyes wide at the memory. “I don’t know— was it you? From before? From—”

From another life, you wanted to say.

How ridiculous those words were, how silly, how stupid. But there wasn’t any other way to explain. Logic didn’t seem to exist when everything you felt from this touch of this stranger led you to believe that somehow, someway, you’d spend a lifetime together.

Like you were supposed to spend this one with him too. And it didn’t seem long enough, decades wouldn’t make up for the time you’d lost searching for him, for this stranger who only came to you in your sleep. But he was very real now, solid flesh and bone underneath your own hands, brown eyes that seemed warmer than the Italian summer.

You didn’t want to let him go.

“In here, my King,” a voice interrupted. The door was open and the healer had returned, a cold look on his already stern face. The Emperor was behind him, ruby robes collecting dirt from the old floor. Four soldiers flanked him. “I have every reason to believe the Lady sold me lies, Your Highness.”

It happened too quick. Too fast.

The Emperor studied you, Steve’s hands still on your face as you stood too close, ready to kiss, ready to fulfil something neither of you were sure of. It felt catalytic.

“Seize him,” was all the Emperor said, one lazy flick of his wrist sending all four guards at you both.

There was too much movement in the tiny room, bottles of medicinal wares clattering to the ground and smashing at your feet. The table groaned as Steve was shoved into it, his own reactions too slow from his injuries. He grunted and reached for you too late, his hand slipping from your own, fingers barely touching, as he was shoved at from either side.

One soldier shoved the butt of his sword into Steve’s wounded soldier, the other bringing his armoured knee into his bare stomach. The gladiator doubled over, a gasp leaving his chest before he fell to his knees on the stone floor.

“Stop this!” You yelled, urging forward, trying your best to throw yourself into the mix of it all but someone’s arms - another soldier - caught your round the middle. “Unhand him! Your Highness - please - he hasn’t done any wrong, please—”

The Emperor just looked at you blankly before he picked at the jewels around your neck. He tutted, as if it were a shame, a waste. You could hear the shackles being placed back on the man, the low groan he gave as the metal was tightened around his sore wrists.

“He won,” you whispered, your voice low and choked. You were ready to beg. “Please, he won. He doesn’t deserve this—”

“I don’t like anyone else playing with my toys,” the Emperor interrupted. He said it like he was discussing what to have for lunch. “And my dear cousin doesn’t like anyone playing with his.” He motioned to the guards once more. “Take her back to her seat, where you make sure she stays. This isn’t any place for a Lady,” he told you mournfully.

You didn’t get to see what happened to the gladiator as you were escorted out of the room. But you did hear his yells when the door slammed shut, the dull thuds of impact that you were sure were on his already bruised and broken body. You hadn’t even told him your name, or that you dreamt of him too. That during your worst night terrors, he was the one that saved you.

When you reached the imperial box once more, your skirts dirtied from the sand, your face tear stricken, you felt broken. Like you’d been snapped in half, like someone had found that wound Steve had stitched up and pulled it apart again the seams. Like someone had ripped something important from you, half of your heart, perhaps.

You didn’t even notice that it had stopped raining. The skies were blue once more, the sun shining, the only evidence of the sudden storm were the drops of rain that had soaked into the pillow on your chair.

Steve was gone and the thunder was too.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington oneshot

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obaex · 2 years ago

Text

sweet silence - rafe cameron

summary: rafe manages to say a lot to you without saying anything

word count: 3.3k

warnings: cursing, ward being ward

You, Sarah and Kie were sprawled out on the living room floor in Tanneyhill amidst a pile of pillows and blankets late into a Saturday night sleepover. You could hear the two of them breathing softly, asleep, as you stirred awake. Your ears perked up, but all you could hear was the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. That's when you heard a rustling and the sound of keys jangling against the back door. You got up slowly, careful not to wake them and went to investigate. You heard the back door open and close quietly and you held your breath as you tiptoed around the corner into the kitchen and ran straight into someone tall and muscular. You let out a yelp as he cursed quietly, "Fuck, what are you doing?" Your eyes adjusted in the darkness and you found yourself face to face with Sarah's older brother Rafe.

Your gaze swept over him quickly, taking in his mussed hair, skin shining with a layer of sweat courtesy of the sweltering humidity of the OBX summer. His eyes were glassy and his pupils were dilated, zeroed in on you. His mouth was downturned, angry, waiting for you to reply. That's when you noticed his split lip and the caked blood on his face. As his eyes tracked yours, he quickly wiped his lips with the back of his hand, avoiding eye contact. "I'm fine" he said, answering the question that had been lingering on your lips.

"Rafe -" you started.

"I said I'm fucking fine" he shoved past you, his shoulder colliding with yours as he made his way upstairs.

I don't need you. I don't need anyone.

The next morning you sat around the Cameron's dining room table enjoying a breakfast spread fit for royalty alongside Ward, Rose, Sarah and Kie. Conversation was flowing amiably until Rafe ambled into the room, sliding into the only open seat which was next to you. An awkward silence descended and you could feel the energy in the room shift as Ward's focus fell on his son.

"Nice of you to join us, Rafe" Ward commented.

"Must have missed the memo" Rafe retorted, avoiding eye contact with the group as he stacked his plate full. In the light of the morning, you could see his split lip was badly swollen and a deep purple bruise was forming under his left eye. It didn't escape Ward either.

"What time did you get home last night?" Ward countered.

"Late" was all Rafe offered.

"I would ask what happened to your face, but I don't want to start my day with more of your bullshit Rafe. You'll be washing the Druthers, skimming the pool and anything else I damn well ask of you today, is that understood?"

Your insides twisted at Ward's sharp tone. You felt your cheeks flush from secondhand embarrassment and the shame of being in the middle of such a personal confrontation.

Rafe's response was a scathing glare at his father before returning to focus on his breakfast.

Without warning, Ward slammed his fist down on the table, causing all of you to jump involuntarily as he raised his voice, "Dammit, Rafe! You will look at me when I'm speaking to you and you will acknowledge me when I ask you a question! I said, do you understand me?"

Rafe met his father's gaze, straightening in his chair. "Loud and clear" he said, his voice betraying his confident posture as it wavered.

You never imagined the day you would see Rafe Cameron, King Kook, anything less than confident, snarky and brazen, but now he looked utterly afraid, small, almost childlike.

Ward continued unrelenting, "You are a constant disappointment to me and this family, you understand that, right? I want you to be a man, to take over the company, but you refuse to grow up, refuse to be an adult and take responsibility for your actions -" His berating continued as you closed your eyes, subtly trying to drown him out and will yourself out of this situation. Next to you, you could feel Rafe's leg jiggling up and down nervously under the table as he fidgeted with his hands in his lap. As Ward's words continued to pound down, you reacted without thinking, your hand shooting under the table, onto Rafe's lap, grabbing his hand, lacing your fingers with his and squeezing.

When you realized what you had done you began to pull your hand back, embarrassed, when Rafe started squeezing back, hard. He was clinging to your hand like a lifeline, squeezing as each of Ward's words continued to fall over him.

Don't pity me...But don't let go.

"Heelloooo, anybody home?!" You refocused your attention as JJ waved his hands in front of your face, bringing you back to reality, surrounded by your friends as the steady beat of music pulsed around you at the boneyard the following weekend. "I asked if you wanted another beer?" JJ repeated.

"It's fine, I'll get it" you replied, hopping up from your seat at the bonfire and walking over to the keg.

As you approached, you saw that there were already a few people around the keg, Topper, Kelce... and Rafe. They were pouring themselves drinks, talking animatedly about something when Rafe looked up and caught your eye. While the others ignored you, Rafe's eyes scanned you unabashedly, a lopsided grin on his face. You felt your skin prickle under his gaze. Without saying anything, he refocused his attention on pouring beer into the solo cup in his hand and when it was full, he held it out to you, meeting your gaze. Never breaking eye contact, his telltale grin lingering on his lips, his fingers ghosted over yours gently as you took the cup from him.

Hi his fingers said smoothly as they skimmed yours

Hi said yours in return

You returned to your friends, mind racing. Had you just had a moment with Rafe Cameron? Something inside of you sparked at the idea, the excitement, the intrigue. Rafe was nothing if not a loose cannon. A rogue firecracker: beautiful and exciting to look at, but inherently dangerous with the capacity to leave a scorched path in its wake.

You took several deep sips of your beer. You didn't want to think about Rafe Cameron. You didn't want to get your hopes up only to be deeply disappointed and heartbroken. He was King Kook, you were a Pogue Princess, that's where this story starts and ends. But at the same time, you wanted to slip further into your buzz and let yourself pretend, even if just for tonight, that there was something there you could hold on to.

Your buzz, sponsor of all great ideas, was what drove you to hop on the tall driftwood with Sarah and Kie, using it as a dance platform as the party raged around you. The three of you danced on it like you were on top of the bar at The Wreck. You hopped from driftwood to driftwood, the liquor in your cup and your flimsy flip flops making the dives precarious and wobbly as you closed your eyes, lifted your hands and let your hips sway side to side. All too soon, you heard the telltale siren of approaching police cars. Not looking to be busted, you frantically scrambled down, teetering slightly as your feet hit the soft sand before firm hands steadied you from behind, gently grasping your arms.

I've got you... I don't want you to get hurt.

You turned to see Rafe smiling down at you. He opened his mouth to say something but was cut off as Topper grabbed him and ran down the beach.

Midsummers arrived and Sarah was adamant that you go with her. She fussed with your hair and makeup all afternoon, and frankly the end result was astonishing. Your hair was swept into a soft updo and your sunkissed skin glittered against your dress, the perfect shape and color.

When you arrived, you could feel the heat of the glares and the whispers that followed you. You weren't sure if it was the fact that the Pogue Princess has graced Figure Eight with her presence or the way your dress hugged you in all the right places, but you let yourself think the latter and didn't spend too much time worrying about it. Before long Topper whisked Sarah away to dance and one of his Kook friends asked you as well. He was nice enough in an overbearingly preppy way, replete with a pink bowtie and seersucker suit; it took everything in you not to laugh out loud as you awkwardly shuffled back and forth like you were at a middle school dance. Halfway through the song, you felt a presence behind you as a hand gently grazed your lower back. "Chad, is it? Chaz? Chase? Why don't you go get yourself a drink buddy?" Rafe stated, really more of a command than a suggestion. Charlie quickly dropped your hands, nodding at Rafe before making himself scarce.

Wordlessly, Rafe took his place, swiftly closing the distance between the two of you as his right hand spread across your lower back and his left hand enveloped your hand in his.

His eyes twinkled as they looked at you, taking you in at this close distance. You were inches away from him. Close enough to feel his body heat, to smell him: fresh linen and sandalwood, and to see the freckles that dotted his nose.

You settled into an effortless rhythm as he guided you along to the music. Your silence was comfortable as you adjusted to the proximity of each other, your heart hammering so hard in your chest, you swore he could hear it. He grazed his cheek softly against yours, his hand spreading further across your back as he pulled you closer. Hoping to say with his body, what he couldn't find the words to say out loud.

I needed to know what it felt like to hold you in my arms, to feel your body against mine, to take in your perfume that reminds me of a warm day on the beach. I've been thinking about you. Incessantly. I don't want to hide it anymore. And I don't want to see you dancing with anyone else.

Your mind whirled and your breath hitched as he traced small circles on your back, pressing himself against you, his cheek resting against yours. A thousand questions traveled around your head. Is there something here? Do I make him nervous the way he makes me nervous? Why is he doing this? What am I to him?

Eventually, you squeezed your eyes shut, relaxing into his touch, willing yourself to enjoy the moment while it lasted.

"Mmkay, so are we going to talk about you and my brother last night or are we all going to pretend like that didn't happen?"

Your cheeks flushed a deep scarlet and you prayed the glare of the sun would hide your embarrassment from Sarah as you began to fill her and Kie in on everything that had transpired. There was no use in hiding it now, and you had meant to talk to them about it, but didn't think there was anything to talk about until now.

"So y'all haven't said more than five words to each other?" Kie asked. "I support you doing whatever you've got to do dude, even if I for sure don't understand it. Just please be careful."

"Funny, Rafe usually never shuts up" said Sarah, "especially when it comes to girls." She made a puking face. "But he hasn't said anything about you, or anyone else actually, for a while."

You focused back on your lunch as the topic of conversation changed. You were on the patio at The Wreck, nursing your hangovers with the rest of Figure Eight and tourons alike. "I'll be right back" you muttered as you popped up to go to the bathroom. You shimmied your way inside amongst the wall of bodies that packed the island's favorite bar and restaurant, the smell of sweat and stale beer heavy and the touron crowd rowdy in the throes of day drinking.

You had just made it past the bar when someone roped their fingers into the belt loop of your denim cutoffs, spinning you around to face them, "Hey sweet thing, come take a shot with us," twanged a touron, continuing to yank you towards his group of college buddies who were egging him on with shouts and jeers.

"Maybe next time!" you replied. He was cute, but you knew better than to mess with the touron crowd and the sheer thought of a shot increased the pounding headache of your hangover. As you turned to walk away, you felt him yank you again, harder this time, nearly knocking you off balance.

"'Fraid we can't take no for an answer! This is our last day in the OBX! You can't say no to us!" he implored. You squirmed, annoyed, trying to release his hold on your shorts as he pulled you closer before you heard someone start shouting over your shoulder.

"Hey, fuckface, she was trying to be nice, but let me spell it out for you. She doesn't want your $2 Fireball shot, and she doesn't want to be anywhere near you, so take your goddamn hands off of her before I slam your face into the bar."

At that, you felt a warm body behind you as Rafe's arm slid over your shoulders, wrapping around you and pulling you gently into him and away from the group. His words were steady, but you were surprised to feel his body quivering with anger. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, you placed your hands over his arm, hugging him to you.

I don't want to see another man's hands on you. You're safe.

Rafe led you away from the bar into a quiet corner of the restaurant, as he turned to face you, you both began speaking at the same time.

"Rafe -" you started

"Can I see you tonight?" he asked. His expression was serious. He was laser focused on you. You could see that he was clenching and unclenching his fists, clearly riled up from the confrontation at the bar. His question caught you totally off guard. Was this a date? Was he angry with you?

"Y-Yes!" you said.

"Be ready at seven" he said, brushing your shoulder gently as he walked out the front door.

I need to leave before I rip someone's head off. I don't want you to see what you do to me. There's a lot I need to say to you, but I'm not going to do it here.

With no indication of what Rafe had planned, you dressed, undressed and redressed several times before landing on an outfit that was cute but casual: your favorite denim cutoffs that hugged your curves just right and a white crop top. Just before 7:00 you heard tires crunching in the gravel of your driveway. You steeled yourself, touching up your hair and makeup before making your way out to his truck. He hopped out of the driver's seat at the first sign of you with a relaxed and goofy grin on his face. You couldn't remember a time you had seen him look so at ease, even happy?

He walked to your side of the car to open your door for you and offered you a hand to help you into your seat.

You settled into a comfortable silence as Rafe navigated the truck, his left hand resting on the steering wheel, his right drumming a repetitive beat on the center console in time with the song playing quietly on the radio. You tried to say something, anything but couldn't bring the words to the surface, questions bouncing around your head as your heart beat soundly in your chest. Your shared silence over the last month had gone on so long it felt like a third passenger in the truck that didn't want to be interrupted.

You refocused on the road, tracking the familiar path as Rafe drove to the beach, out to the tip of the island furthest away from the noise and crowds of the tourons who were dragging toys, tents, umbrellas and chairs back to their hotels for the evening. As the crowds faded, you were left with the quiet, calm breeze blowing through the palm trees and the gentle crash of the ocean waves that lapped the shore as the sun sank lower in the sky, putting a pink-peach filter on the day.

Rafe parked and quickly hopped out of the truck, jogging to your side of the car to open your car door and help you down. You placed your hand in his and as you settled by his side, he didn't let go, weaving your fingers more closely together as he led you onto the beach.

As you both kicked off your shoes and your toes sunk into the warm, soft sand, you gave his hand an involuntary squeeze as your heart fluttered. This was your favorite time of day in your favorite place in the world, how had he known that? He looked down at you, smiling his lopsided smile at the feeling of your hand in his as you began to walk along the ocean.

You continued in silence, the rush of the ocean and the occasional call of the seagulls and pelicans gliding overhead the only sound between you until Rafe stopped to face you, taking both of your hands in his.

He opened his mouth to say something. Stopped. Tried again. His brow furrowed and he broke eye contact with you, his eyes finding his feet in the sand, shuffling them. You could see a tic in his jaw as he worked it back and forth in frustration. You wanted to say something but you also didn't want to ruin this moment, this chance to finally hear what it is he had to say after a month of trying to interpret stolen glances, brushed fingers and a dizzying pattern of body language that made you feel like you had swallowed a mason jar of butterflies.

Finally, he looked back at you, meeting you with such direct eye contact that you felt your breath hitch. His eyes were searching yours, looking for something. Trust? Understanding? Acknowledgement? Without thinking, you gave his hands a gentle squeeze.

It's okay, I feel it too.

And that seemed to be the reassurance that he needed, dropping your hands to cup your face with his, closing the distance between you. Before your brain could calculate what was happening, his lips were a breath away from yours, ghosting them gently with the slightest touch, teasing you, testing you, a wide smile on his face, reveling in the moment, knowing that he had you mind, body and soul before relenting and pressing his lips to yours gently, softly. The intense physical connection after so many subtle moments was like surfing a storm surge, waves crashing over you. You looped your arms around his neck, pulling him flush to you as he deepened the kiss, his left hand moving from your cheek to tangle and fist gently in your hair while the other snaked around your waist. Your body, your everything melted against him. He tasted like limes and ginger as his lips enveloped yours, sliding his tongue into your mouth as you let out an involuntary sound from deep within you. Your head and heart tossed like you were caught in a rip current, happy to let the force of the wave pull you down into oblivion, each crash of his lips saying be mine, be mine, be mine.

#rafe cameron #obx rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x reader #obx fic #obx fanfiction #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #outerbanks rafe #rafe x you #rafe fanfiction

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countrymusiclover · 3 months ago

Text

7 - Having a Friend

Part 8

A Wolf Among Lions

Tag list ( just ask to be added ) @tallrock35 @kmc1989 @starkleila @noirrose21-blog @lover-of-books-and-tea @immyowndefender @iamavailablesstuff @plaguecourier

A light summer snow fell down on the winter woods of Winterfell. My younger brother and I were silently walking through the trees of the Godswood. For that brief moment of silence we didn’t have to be the future Lord of Winterfell or the future Lady of House Targaryen. We were simply Cregon and Lehna Stark.

“So will you be marrying a girl from the South in exchange for me being shipped halfway across the world in return?” I asked my younger brother who was only the age of ten and three.

He knew what I was talking about regardless of him not being the right age to marry yet.

He was already being taught how to be lord by our uncle who was ruling as the current Lord of Winterfell until my brother came of the rightful age to inherit the lands and his title. “I hope I can marry someone closer to home. Someone that understands how we live out here.”

“I wish I had the same option, little brother. Sadly I must be sent off to the furthest place from the Wall and Winterfell.” I sighed heavily finely, making up my mind that I more than likely would never grow to call Kings Landing my home.

Cregon spared me a look with a raised brow. “Most girls that I hear about would be thrilled to marry a dragon prince. Why aren’t you, sister?”

“I'm not happy about it because I am horrified that he will do everything in his power to change who I am. I don't want to change my personality to try and please my soon to be Lord Husband and anyone who does is a little ridiculous in my mind.”

Cregon chuckled, shaking his head at me with a cheeky grin on his lips. “I pray to the gods that whoever gets your heart is prepared to handle a stubborn Northerner girl.”

“It will surely take quite a man to be able to keep up with me.” I smirked and my brother began chasing after we had a contest to see who could get to the castle first.

Sitting in a chair I had placed by the large window that was part of Helaena's chambers just enjoying the peaceful silence that was currently occupied in the room. It had been a few weeks since the incident that I caused at Aegon's nameday feast. Daemon and I hadn’t spoken to one another, not that I currently minded anymore. I'd spoken more with Aemond before that event then I had him so this wasn't really much of a difference.

Gently flipping to the next page in the book I kept my eyes trained on the words trying to get my brain to comprehend the strange words faster somehow. For days on end I have been studying the different phrases of old Valyrian that I could not wanting to avoid anymore chances for me to not understand what Daemon, Rhaenyra or Aemond was saying that I couldn't understand.

The chamber door was pushed open before I heard two sets of footsteps racing over to me with excitement and joyful voices. “Mommy!” Caraxes and Visenya both attempted to jump up in my lap at once.

“Woah, woah, slow, slow down you two - I can't - I can't have you both on me.” I couldn't hold back the fit of laughter that escaped my lips, having me have to quickly bookmark the page I was reading and sit it on the window seal. Once I had done that I wrapped my arms around the two bouncing kids seated on my legs.

Visenya gripped the fabric of the gray gown I was wearing, my eyes staring back up at me. “Mommy, come play with us.”

“Aunt Helaena thinks you're avoiding her…and us.” Caraxes lays his head against my stomach.

I bite my lip being able to hear the sadness in the tone of both of their voices. “Oh my babies. I am not avoiding either of you, nor Helaena.”

“But you are avoiding someone, right?”

Slightly turning my head at the new voice that came with the new set of footsteps that entered through the chamber doorway coming over to the three of us by the window. “Helaena. I - um don’t really wish to talk about this with them.” I nudged my head down to the two children still seated in my lap.

“Diana, is down the hall. She can watch the children so we can talk privately if you wouldn’t mind.” The dragon princess sent me a light smile before she called for the women who came and escorted the children outside to play in a room nearby, leaving me and the princess to sit in her chambers and just simply talk to one another. “Who are you trying to avoid, Lehna?”

Brushing hair behind my ear, sighing heavily before picking the book back up from the window seal, putting it back down in my lap. “My husband, obviously. Daemon and I just aren’t good together. I - I - I don’t want to be with him, but we were wed before the gods so I suppose I have no escape from this.”

“You will still be a part of this family. You will marry another dragon.” Helaena nodded her head in my direction muttering under her breath.

Knitting my brows together I wasn’t quite sure I had heard her say that sentence correctly. “What did you just say?”

“You will marry another dragon.” She repeated the second sentence to me.

I silently stared at the young girl who was the most innocent person I have ever come across in my life. She reminded me so much of myself when I was around the age of ten I believe. I prayed that I could keep my children in the same type of perspective that she currently has or will this world take it all away from them.

“Helaena, do you have many friends inside the Red Keep?” I questioned the princess getting a non verbal shaking of her head no, allowing me to reach for her hand with her sitting in front of me in her own chair by the window. “I think we should have a friend here inside of this castle and I’d like to be yours if you’ll have me.”

Helaena squeezed my hands in hers, gently smiling. “I’d like for you to be my friend too, Lehna.”

“Helaena, have you seen - Lehna, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.” The chamber door got thrown opened causing the two of us to quickly turn our heads watching Aemond walking into the room and heading straight towards us.

Helaena glanced over her shoulder at her brother. “Aemond?”

“Why were you looking for me, my prince?” I questioned him by addressing him by his title. I didn’t feel that I should call him by his name any longer given that everyone in the room that night saw me make a physical attack on him when he tried to pull me away from Daemon.

Aemond’s one good eye focused solely on me. “Lehna, I wish to speak with you privately.”

“Privately about what exactly, my prince?” I raised a brow.

He crossed the room and I quickly rose to my feet, nearly dropping the dusty book from my hands. Helaena closely watched our movements towards the other person. Aemond and I were standing nearly chest to chest with one another before he reached down, taking one of my hands in his own, causing me to lock my gaze with his one good eye that was trained on my face. “I want - I want to treat you the way my Uncle Daemon has denied you all these years. I wish to court you properly if you’ll graciously accept.”

“Aemond, oh I - I accept.” Sparing a glance out the corner of my eye to Helaena. She was sporting a light smirk on her lips at the interaction going on between me and her younger brother standing before her. I knew she was finding much enjoyment in it.

Helaena brightly smiled seeing him lead me out of her chambers and down the hallway when she peeked her head outside the doorway. “Have fun you two.”

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rise-my-angel · 1 year ago

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Heart of the Great Wolf

2 - Mouth of the Lion's Den

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn), Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Length: 11.2k

Warnings: Slow Burn, strained parent-child issues, mentions of minor character death, injured/sick child mention, slight canon divergence

Notes: We're in the thick of the plot now. Based on the show but will include direct book elements. Previous Chapter Here.

You used to not travel very well as a child. The first time you left Dragonstone was right at the crux of the seasons change. Summer had ended, and it was a quick Autumn which felt far more like winter the more North you sailed. The sea was always cool, and the north was cooler. When you returned to Dragonstone some months later, Maester Cressen had said that the mix of seasons being the first time you left home is what caused you to get so ill.

What a meeting it was. Lord Stark had told you that it was halfway through your first meal with them when you collapsed. Barley touched anything on your plate which they first thought you just weren’t used to the food. That was until you collapsed onto the floor just as you stood from your seat as you burned up.

Whatever it was, it went through you fast and terrifying to the point where Maester Luwin had told Lord Stark to prepare to send a raven in case the worst happened. It didn’t though, you slept through the fever and by the time you awoke, you remembered none of it. You assumed you fell sick before arriving at Winterfell that’s how little you were really aware of anything.

It wasn’t like that anymore, but as you had sat in your room at the Inn days ago it did make you wonder what could have possibly hit Lord Arryn faster and harsher then that. Despite his age, he was more healthy as an older man then you were at the age of eight. Yet you had survived and his sickness burned through him in one single night.

Perhaps you had too much time that night to think on it, no one really was in any mood to converse after what happened. Once Lord Stark had put Lady down, he had you go find Jory. “Tell him to choose four men and have them take the body back North. Bury her at Winterfell.” He had taken the girls to their rooms, and even in the muffled quiet you could hear Sansa crying through the walls. Arya’s cries would be too quiet to hear, but you were no fool to think her chasing off Nymeria just to save her life wouldn’t leave the child in tears of her own.

So the Inn was silent, save for the low tones coming from Lord Stark’s own room. One where he laid the truth out, what Lysa has sent her sister, what it said about the Lannisters. He asked you what did you notice from before he died, and you were honest. Very little.

Your lord father had kept you away on purpose. He and Lord Arryn distant and secretive, and you had suspected you were sitting on small council meetings not just in his place but as if it would keep you preoccupied from their doings. Which it worked, but it also was not enough to dull you. Lord Stark agreed that it all worked out too seamlessly, Lord Arryn dies suddenly from an unknown illness, Stannis Baratheon urgently marries his firstborn daughter off to a far northern house as he himself flees to Dragonstone.

They both knew something, and what that was, sent your father away on his own accord. Shutting himself back on the grim island and leaving you to the wolves and the lions.

“You’re our family now. You are as good as one of my own daughters, and we protect our own. You stick by me once me get to Kings Landing. Work by my side, you’ll stay in our quarters with the girls until we learn what it is Jon Arryn died for.” Once again, that lingering feeling sat in your gut that walking out of the capital wasn’t going to be as easy as walking in this time around.

Now, sitting atop your horse once more you felt even less happy about being back then you had leaving the north. Your face flat and cold like stone as you rose through the crowds welcoming the King and his company once more. The cart behind you carrying the girls, Sansa no doubt bright eyed and taking in the awe of a place she dreamed would be for her. Arya you knew no doubt, was already wondering just how much she would explore when left to her own curious devices.

Just ahead of you, a page awaited everyone’s arrival. Calling to Lord Stark for a small council meeting at Grand Maester Pycelle’s request. You dared not move an inch thinking about how typical it was that such a meeting wasn’t called by the King himself, despite no doubt arriving before you all had. Oh the many matters of your King Uncle to attend too. So much wine to drink, and so many whores to fuck.

Lord Stark calling back, “Jory, get the girls settled in. I’ll be back in time for supper.” Calling your name, you climbed off your horse as he beckoned you. “You’re with me.”

The Page glancing over his attire and yours as you approached, “If you’d like to change into something more appropriate…” The combination of yours and Lord Stark’s unmoving stare causing him to stammer and backtrack. Any other time you may have considered it, but now you were here in place of your fathers position and spending time dolling yourself up once more looked more and more like a waste of time.

Renly had once told you every time you return to Kings Landing, you seem to be more and more of a splitting image of your bore of a father. He might be onto something in truth.

The Red Keep had not changed, and nothing passed your mind to care to think about it until the doors to the Throne room opened and right at the top looking up at the Iron Throne was just another face you wished not to see so early in the morning. Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, and twin brother to the Queen, he certainly held all the superior smugness of such titles in his very posture had seemed to arrive far earlier then yourself.

A little nod did not suffice as you wished it did, as he saw fit to open his mouth as soon as you came even slightly close. “Lady Baratheon- or, I suppose it’s Stark now isn’t it? Already quite adjusted to the northern boys afterall, aren’t you?” Barley managing to muster up the weakest of half smiles he only grinned more, leaning in to give a fake too-loud whisper in your ear. “I do hope you weren’t too broken in for your new husband, would hate to break the boys heart before he even had a chance.”

Biting your tongue, you were sure had he not found victim in Lord Stark behind you, the pressure would’ve drawn blood. You didn’t wait, making your way into the small council chamber with little care of greeting those already present, for the most part.

“Ah, the newly named Lady Stark. I must congratulate you on your marriage, always nice to see the young love flourishing. Shame to be torn apart so early on.” Nodding, you managed more of a smile this time. You didn’t particularly trust Lord Varys but considering he was the man who likely knew so much he could tell you what you had for breakfast three days ago, playing nice was better then not playing at all.

“Thank you, Lord Varys. But, he has Winterfell to run and I have my work here. I’m sure Robb understands.”

Passing to the table, you nodded to Grand Maester Pycelle, and saw fit to ignore the other party in the room without any shame in doing so. Not that you would be aware of, but to the others it really was as if Lord Stannis had walked in like normal. The man having no patience for Petyr Baelish as well. If anyone lit your gaze up slightly, it was the smirk of the younger man already waiting by the opposite end.

Renly had no qualms about approaching you with a casualness, and no need to pretend as if either of you cared to be formally civil. “I can’t tell if the north suits you my dear niece, or if it’s just being around this lot making you so much more droll.”

Arms crossed in front of you, an eyebrow quirked up as he held a smirk. You’d hit him later. “Shame you were so busy Uncle, would have been nice to have at least one other family member there to share the festivities with.”

Hardly a secret anymore, most in the court knew of Renly’s private preferences but you might be the only one who knew it without any doubt. The only one it seemed, that he trusted to know as well. Not that his brothers would despise him for it, but certainly the King a bit too crass to not be offensive and well, least to say your father was not exactly a comforting kind of man. He wouldn’t care and he certainly would make you feel as such for it.

“What can I say, so much work, so many laws to look into.”

Your eyes glint, passing right by with a tone only audible enough for him, “Swordplay isn’t a law, last time I checked.” You’d be a fool to think Renly didn’t take advantage of so much of the royal court being away, not to lock himself up in his chambers with a certain flower for as long as he could get away with.

Not that you were in such a position to dare judge.

Your father used to get annoyed constantly by the lack of work Renly was properly given, but it might be he expected too much. Renly had a tendency to be handed easy tasks and get more credit then the nights your own father spent buried in papers in his office would accomplish. Leaning your hands on the top of what was now your seat, you watched the others greet the now approaching Lord Stark.

“We are all praying for Prince Joffery’s full recovery.”

Oh the rewards the gods should bestow upon you for how little you changed your expression. He gets one bite from a barley grown Direwolf and he has the realm on it’s knees pretending to sob at the tragic wounds. You had more scars on you from being hit with sticks and practice swords over your childhood before the spoiled Prince ever reached that age.

Even in Winterfell, you watched him get angry and frustrated at how often Robb would hit him in the courtyard simply beacuse he had no idea what he was doing. The Hound having to remind him even that he demanded they spar just to show off, and he can’t stand there and whine blaming Robb for doing exactly what he asked.

Besides, not that anyone had asked, you’d have to admit that not all bites from a wolf were entirely bad. At least it took as long as it did to get back to Kings Landing, those marks having healed over by the time it became too hot to cover them up then in the northern cold.

Renly’s voice from beside you, “You look tired from the road, I told them this meeting could wait another day but..”

“But we have a kingdom to look after.” Looking over you saw a strange smile on Lord Baelish’s face and so did everyone else if the uncomfortable air in the room was honest. “I’ve hope to meet you for some time, Lord Stark. No doubt Lady Catelyn has mentioned me.”

“She has, Lord Baelish. I understand you knew my brother Brandon as well.”

If Lord Baelish could have purposely made things more uncomfortable you think the room might have melted away just to escape it. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard whispers of his affection for her, but it was brazen of him to be so open about it in front of her husband of over twenty years.

Settling in, you sat beside Lord Stark as Renly pulled out a paper, explaining to the council that the King wasn’t exactly a common presence at the small council and most of these matters were left without his input. “My brother has instructed us to stage a tournament in honour of Lord Stark’s appointment as Hand of the King.”

Didn’t take being Master of Coin to know the money wouldn’t be coming from the surplus of the Crown. Grand Maester Pycelle’s frail voice piping up, “Can the treasury bear such expenses?”

As if ordering food from a servant, Lord Baelish waved the concern. “I’ll have to borrow it. The Lannisters will accomodate, I expect. We already owe Lord Tywin three million gold, what’s another eighty thousand.”

You felt for Lord Stark beside you, “Are you telling me the Crown is three million in debt?”

Looking firmly at the table with an irritated grimace, you corrected him for the worse. “Actually, he’s telling you the Crown is six million in debt.” Lord Stark, was in shock at the state, demanding to know how this could happen and once again, Lord Baelish acted like such debt was easily forgiven.

“The Master of Coin finds the money, the King and the Hand spend it.”

Lord Stark beside you sounded as annoyed as you felt on the inside but he was still tinged in disbelief as he looked at the man. “I will not believe Jon Arryn allowed Robert to bankrupt the realm.”

The Grand Maester for all his slowness, had the grace to speak the truth instead of washing it away like the other Lord in front of him. “Lord Arryn gave wise and prudent advice, but I fear His Grace doesn’t always listen.”

Sitting up straight, you nor Renly were quite sure if it was his voice that came out of your mouth, or the unimpressed voice of your father who held the same opinions. “The King loves tournaments and feasts, but not the conversation of money that follows. ‘Counting Coppers’ he calls it.”

You admired his determination to reason with the King. Even with both his blood brothers at his side, neither man could settle his indulgences the way Lord Stark may have the ability too. Even now you could hear the ramblings and angry ravings of your father in his office, going about how he was born the wrong family if he were to ever make his brother listen. Many had thought that Lord Stannis would take over as Hand of the King, and you would take his place as Master of Ships in the immediate aftermath of Lord Arryns death.

Your father had been sat on the small council for almost ten years at that point, and had been home less and less as those years passed. The only letters he exchanged anymore were with some of his closest men, and of course, Shireen. You envied her in that sense. Not that she was loved in the way she was, but that she had such a happy innocence about her.

Once Maester Cressen had said she was the saddest girl he had ever met, that he considered that part of his failure to cure her. But she had been cured, just not by him and clearly he took it hard, but she wasn’t sad, not in the way some assumed. She loved learning, and your father had been determined to give her the same education as he had you. Everyday she would run to him once he was in his own quarters, jump onto his lap and go on about what book she was learning to read, and were he not there, she’d scramble to write a letter to tell him.

Few people adored Lord Stannis, but she was always his biggest supporter.

As you entered the very bottom of the tower of the hand, you wondered how much she knew. Did she know Lord Arryn was dead, did she know you were acting in your fathers place, did she even know you were married? She’d be upset to learn she wasn’t there for your wedding. One day when she was just barley older then a toddler, you had been sitting on the edge of a cliff on Dragonstone with Shireen sat in your lap.

Going on about what a highborn lady would do, who she’d marry and what the wedding would be. You planned hers and yours, just two little girls by the waters edge and it saddened you to think that she wasn’t there to see yours. Childishly, you wondered if she’d like Robb.

Walking through the door, you passed some of the Starks household guard, regarding you with a familiarity as you passed. As if you really were family, not just a guest. Maybe it was for the best that she had father with her again, at least he still felt like one to her.

The chambers were quiet, and as you saw what was left of easy food on the table you hadn’t the stomach for it. Sitting down regardless, you lifted some of the plates out of your place, pouring yourself water as you stared at the little flame the light on the table wickered with. Pulling out a small slip of paper from a small pocket, you slipped the seal off, a small direwolf. Looking over the words as you sipped at the water.

Sending a raven was risky for what he was trying to say, but Robb was smart enough to not say anything of anything. Telling you of Bran, and your heart broke at how devastated the boy feels of not being able to walk again. More he tells you of how he has no idea what to even say to make it better, that Bran just needs time to get used to things but watching his little brother be so miserable and not being able to fix it just makes him angry. You knew exactly how that felt, watching your little sibling suffer and being completely useless to them for it.

A slam shook you out of your focus, pulling the letter back suddenly and tucking it away before you looked up to see a somewhat grumpy Arya now at the table with you. “I know my face usually looks like that, but what’s got yours in such a put off state?”

Sighing, she draped her arms over the top of the surface to gently lay her head in them, turned enough to still see you. “I don’t know how you stand it, being here all the time.”

Leaning forward, you mimicked her posture, looking back at her now from a tilted but even eye level. “I’m here because I have to be, not because I want to be. I have a duty, and that needs to be upheld regardless if it makes me miss home or not.”

Pushing up suddenly, Arya’s eyes were bright and bordering on an intense curiosity. “You’d rather be home? At Dragonstone?”

Moving back yourself you paused as you opened your mouth. Closed it for a second, before sighing out as you crossed your arms over your chest. Leaning back against the chair behind you looking at the nothing of importance on the table. “Honestly? I’m not sure where that is anymore.” Her brows narrowed in confusion, “Where I feel at home I mean.”

Were there not such a heavy weight in your heart you may have smiled at how quickly she reacted, and the finality of her tone. “You’re one of us now, Winterfell is your home.” Just as something crossed your mind, it clearly did hers too. Shoulders deflating as she lost the shine in her eyes. “Or, it’s supposed to be.”

Heart reaching out to hers, you knew comforting wouldn’t make it better, or change what hurt in the first place. “You won’t be in Kings Landing forever.” Her eyes flickered to you and then back did they focus into her mind. “Eventually you’ll go back to Winterfell, get restless there too and you’ll either insist someone take you there or you’ll be old enough to just head out to visit on your own. He’ll always want to see you.”

Arya grumbled out, quiet and filled with a twinge of guilt as if she couldn’t decide should you be able to hear her or not. “Not just me he’ll want to see.”

Leaning forward, your back sat straight for the most part as you leaned your forearms against the table again. “There’s five of you, Arya. You have to share your brother with all of them at least sometimes.”

Quieter so much this time, you weren’t sure if you even actually heard her speak but there was a faint sound like, “Not just us,” that you choose to ignore. As Arya herself pushed passed it as well. “Sansa won’t care. She barley ever even calls him her brother.” There was a bite to her tone, and you knew all too well that it wasn’t just about this.

She didn’t find out until the next day about the butcher’s son, and she still hadn’t taken it very well.

You tried softly calling her name, but Arya got louder. Her arms swinging a bit as she gestured in her expressiveness. “She always calls him our bastard brother, not even half brother or anything like he’s not been her brother since she was born. She doesn’t respect him, she doesn’t respect anybody who isn’t herself or the stupid prince.”

Anywhere but the safety of her own walls, you’d scold her for so freely vocalizing her insolence. But she was in her new home, and Joffery certainly was a stupid, vile little creature who got Arya’s new friend killed. People could claim it was the Queen, but you unfortunately knew her well enough that she was far more clever of a monster then that. No, that was Joffery’s angry, immature rage which sent the Hound out against a boy not even in his teens.

Glancing at the door you knew to be both Lord Stark’s room, and if his work ethic was consistent, scribbling away on the too many tasks the King left to his Lord Hand, too busy to come out and hear you. “Do you want my honest opinion? About that night?” Her head nodding fervently, brows narrowed in a manner that looked so strikingly serious like Jons. “It doesn’t matter what Sansa would have said, as soon as Joffery showed up to the Inn bleeding, the Queen already made her mind up. Sansa could’ve told the complete truth and they still would’ve blamed you and Nymeria.”

A flash of sorrow in her eyes made your heart tighten painfully before covering it up with an easier to swallow emotion, “The she shouldn’t have lied! If it didn’t matter she could’ve told the truth about Micah and-”

“And the Queen would’ve done everything the same. And she still would’ve blamed you.” Leaning forward, your voice lowered to something much more serious. “People like you, like us? We don’t do well in places like this. You’re too honest and headstrong, and you haven’t been here long enough to learn how to hold back. And people like the Queen? Joffery? We are exactly who they want to take advantage of.”

You could hear the condescension even now, “She’s as wild as that animal of hers,” And it made you mad all over again. After some time when father brought you here, he ended up being the one to help you with your sword lessons alone in his own quarters, not wanting people like the Queen, or his brothers to have any more reason to look down on you. He wasn’t a popular man, he knew it, but he wouldn’t have these people mistreat his daughter, especially as a young teenager.

“I’m not saying you have to change, or pretend to be something you’re not. But I am telling you, this place has eyes and ears everywhere. Me, your father, Jory, people like that you can trust. You can be angry, and honest and upset around.” Glancing once again to Lord Starks door, you felt ashamed for what came from you next but mincing words was not a trait of the Stannis Baratheon variety of stags.

“Sansa wants to be here, and she wants to be apart of this because she’s naive. As long as the Lannisters give her pretty smiles, and soothing words she will bend to them because she thinks they could be her family some day. That doesn’t make it right the way she threw you and your friend to the wolves,” Arya quirked an eyebrow with a smirk, and you shook your head with one of your own. “Lions- shut up.”

Sighing, she leaned back into her seat. “I don’t hate her, not really. I just..”

“Don’t trust her.”

Glancing up with a bit of a stun, she seemed shocked you didn’t tell her to do anything otherwise. In a sense, you knew what she was feeling.

You loved Renly, he was closer to your age and the two of you always felt more like brother and sister with how easily he could bring out your more playful side in this pit of a captiol. But you didn’t trust him one bit. Not with your secrets, not with your work, and not with the particular companions he had been keeping as of late.

Renly and you were as close of friends as you had in this city, but at the end of the day. It was Stannis who was your father. It was the brother which both others looked down on, the daughter which had far too much of Stannis in her blood and personality to be seen as one of them. Robert didn’t care much for his brothers, but best be said he is lying to himself if he thinks he doesn’t show preference to Renly.

Stannis had always felt he was cheated of Storms End. The ancestral seat of House Baratheon, his by rights. Many times even in your tenure here at his side, he had gone to King Robert singing the same song. Anytime it was mentioned, your father would clench his jaw so tightly, you thought his teeth would shatter. You once had brought it up to one of his men, back on Dragonstone that he seemed to take it as a slight.

Ser Davos Seaworth had just looked at you with a somber look, one that was as sympathetic to his lord as he was offended on his behalf. “I think, my little lady, King Robert had meant it as a slight.”

It was the same here. Arya suffered, was threatened and attacked, her own direwolf having to be sent away just for protecting her master, and her new friend murdered for just agreeing to play duel by the river. Sansa had lost Lady in the Queens injustice, but she still got to walk the capitol and be treated like the princess she dreamed of being. While Arya was looked at as wild, untruly, and thought less of without being given a chance.

Falling back into the present, you sighed deeply. “Why do you think my Uncle Renly fits in here, when I stand out as much as your father does?”

Arya too, glanced at the closed door. “Because he plays along?”

“And I do my duty.” Sipping at the water once more before continuing. “Sansa is your family, and you shouldn’t forget that. You need each other, but I’m not asking you to trust her. Not the way you do your father, or Jon-”

“Or you.”

In those two words, your heart missed Shireen. She and Arya were alike in a lot of ways, Shireen a little more reserved but the same eager and honest spirit. You smiled, unsure if it was warmth of how Arya saw you, or yearning for the little sister you barley had seen grown up so far.

Silence between you was comfortable for a moment, until of course, Arya found something to blurt out. “Father caught me with Needle.” Raising your eyebrows, she slunk down a bit. “Needle’s my…it’s my sword. Well sort of a sword, it’s small and thin, but it’s supposed to be for my size. Anyways, he knocked on my door and I didn’t really notice that I didn’t bother hiding it. Or maybe I didn’t care if he saw me with it. He let me keep it, but he says I shouldn’t play with swords.”

Shrugging one shoulder, your voice was strangely casual. “They aren’t toys.”

“I know that!” You laughed at how defensive she got. You had a feeling you weren’t the first or even second person to tell her that. “You can use a sword, why shouldn’t I?”

Smiling to yourself, you refrained from specifying that the only reason you started to be trained on how to use one, is beacuse a certain dark haired, grey eyed boy had snuck up behind you and hit you with a practice one when no one was around to scold you two for it.

“Will you teach me?”

The letter in your pocket begin to weight you down, you needed to ask Lord Stark about it before morning. You had another small council meeting early on and you didn’t fancy being kept out of the dark again. Standing up, you ran your hand playfully over her hair as you passed. “That’s up to your father. It’s late, go get some sleep.”

Turning to approach Lord Stark’s room, you missed the feeling glance from the small Stark watching you leave. Something in her eyes that knew things which you couldn’t have guessed she was privy too, but just added to her growing admiration all the same.

As you guessed, the man was sitting at his desk writing away when he called for you to enter. Shutting it gently behind you with a polite, “Lord Stark.”

Chuckling, his hand paused before shaking his head slightly and continuing. “You’re allowed to call me my name, you know. I think marrying my son gives you the right to at drop the titles in private.”

Nodding once as you approached, “I’ll try to remember that.” He knew you wouldn’t.

When you hesitated, he looked up at you with a questioning look. “What is it?”

You stood unsure for another moment before quickly moving to take a seat on the opposite side of his desk, pulling out the letter. “I heard from Robb.” Lord Stark- Ned, leaned forward curiously. “Nothing new, just updating me about Bran, how he’s fairing as Lord of Winterfell.”

“I’m assuming you’re not just here to make small talk.”

Well it certainly wasn’t your skill that was true. Inhaling a slow breathe, you looked straight at him to just ask what you needed to confirm. “Lady Catelyn was here, wasn’t she?” His brows narrowed deeply as he reached a hand out, taking the letter from you.

Skimming over, he smiled amusingly as he reached the end. “You two talk in code often?”

You failed to prevent the smirk on your lips before you had noticed it was even forming. “Only when we’re talking about things we’re not supposed to.”

“And how often is that, exactly?”

You only shrugged. You, Robb, Jon, and later Theon, would get into trouble a lot when you were younger. But when you would leave, you and Robb figured out a way to talk about things that would certainly get you punished if your father ever found out. So you started writing in almost childish imagery. Hence the end of his letter, saying to ask his father about “some stray kitten I saw running around the halls the other day.”

Folding the letter, he handed it back to you. “Clever. But he’s right. I shouldn’t keep this from you, and Robb clearly doesn’t want me too.” Leaning back he pulled something from his desk, what looked like a blade with a rich ornate handle to it. Placing it on the desk you leaned forward to look closer as he explained. “A man came into Brans room some night after we had all left Winterfell. Told Cat no one was supposed to be there, that it was a kindness.”

The bite in his tone was angry and spiteful even if his face remained steadfast. Like he was lost in thought, he seemed to trail off in his head before coming back. Telling you of the man trying to kill him, how he had almost killed Lady Catelyn in the process, and the direwolf which ripped the assassins throat out. “Bran’s wolf had saved his life..”

Leaning forward you felt a horror bubble up inside of you, Bran was a boy of ten who would do such a thing? Voice weaker, cracking a bit at the look of almost shame or guilt in his eyes forming. “Lord Stark?”

Head shooting up to look at you, like those words, that specific title speaking of the wolves clicked something in his head that he didn’t know how to feel. “The direwolves, when we found them in the woods…Jon had said something. That my children were meant to have them..”

Jon hadn’t included himself. There were five pups, two girls and three boys and Jon had purposely not counted himself as one of Lord Stark’s children in order to prove they were meant to go to them. He had found Ghost off to the side all on his own, so quiet Jon wasn’t even sure how he had heard Ghost’s tiny cry when not a soul other had.

Lord Stark still lost in his thought, “If the Gods sent those wolves…I killed Sansa’s..” Just as fast as he lost himself in a spiral, he took back the reigns and pulled right back out of it. “Everything adds up but I don’t know to why. Lysa telling her that the Lannisters murdered Jon Arryn, Jaime Lannister being the only man who didn’t join the hunt the day Bran fell and strands of blonde hair in the tower when I could tell you for a fact no one had been in there for a very long time.”

He tapped his fingers at the blade and you felt a weight in your throat trying to fight against the words. “The blade?”

Lord Stark laughed meaninglessly. “The blade belongs to Tyrion Lannister.”

For all that you knew him, and for as different as he seemed, you couldn’t find it in your heart to see such traits past the blood of who he was and who his family was. “How do you know?”

The answer, you liked even less. Lost in a bet to the Lannister during a tourney, the previous owner knew who it now belonged to without any doubt, beacuse it’s previous owner was Petyr Baelish.

You were finding it increasingly hard to figure out who you didn’t like more in this city. Luckily for Tyrion Lannister he in fact, wasn’t in the city so he found your newfound anger towards him unobtrusive. Not as lucky for you, sitting at the small council you found too many men in the room you didn’t trust as far as you could throw.

Lord Varys avoided much interaction with you has he did your father, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t fully aware of every step you had taken in this city and no doubt others. You dared not think about how much he really knew, not that it mattered much now, but you didn’t appreciate the concept of lording information over another head to make them dance.

Lord Baelish was as trustworthy as he was kind, meaning none. A self serving worm who had no care for anything or one that didn’t give him either money or power. Though, you did consider him to be the less offensive to look at only if in comparison to the bloated faced man standing before the council.

Lord Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch was nothing short of an insult to the eyes. Patchy facial hair that didn’t quite sit well over the slight pudginess of his face that wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t also always plastered with a high and mighty look as if he knows better. Standing before you, speaking of his struggle to keep the peace in the streets.

His voice covered itself in slime. “It’s the Hand’s tournament that’s causing all the trouble, my lords.”

An exhaustion sat in Lord Starks shoulders, his tone annoyed as his posture to the idea. “The King’s tournament. I assure you the Hand wants no part in it.”

Your father didn’t care for Lord Stark personally, but at least they would agree at such a waste of expenses. Being Master, or in your case, acting Master of Ships didn’t mean you were not painfully aware of how much spending your assets should be restricted of just to amuse the growing relentlessness of the King.

Slynt continued. “Call it what you will Lord Stark, the city is packed with people and more flooding in everyday. Last night we had a tavern riot, a brothel fire, three stabbings, and a drunken horse race down the Streets of Sisters.”

Your eyes narrowed, voice loud and yet even with little emotion behind it. It unnerved many how similar you were to the unwelcoming and bluntness of your lord Father. “Discipline should lie with the capabilities of a commander. If you cannot keep the King’s peace during something as innocuous as a tourney, perhaps the City Watch should be commanded by someone whose ability we can rely on.”

Oh the fire in his eyes as he glared at you, spit coming from his mouth as it did his worse. His chest and cheeks puffing like a frog. “I need more men.”

Lord Stark had the final decision however, and you would never dare go against or even speak up against it. Such a thing was not your place, nor would you let it be. “You’ll get fifty, Lord Baelish will see it paid for.” Your own harsh gaze, bordering on a glare peeling over to the Master of Coin seemingly surprised by the notion. Lord Stark’s order firmer then ever. “You found money for a champions purse, you can find money to keep the peace.” Turning to Slynt, “I’ll also give you twenty if my household guard until the crowds have left.”

Giving more men to the one who didn’t know how to command them with fairness was not quite how you felt about such actions, regardless of how the rest of the council didn’t agree. Was it too harsh of a stance, or was it a firm position influenced by what you already knew was incompetence. Janos Slynt was not someone trustworthy, but as long as he got paid he would do the bare minimum.

You and Lord Stark sharing a glance as he relaxed somewhat. “The sooner this is over the better.”

Lord Varys leaning forward, tone as even and light with hope as he could paint it. “The realm prospers from such events, my Lord. They give the great a chance at glory, and the lowly a respite from their woes.”

Legs crossing over the other you sat back in your seat. “It’s not glory those men need more of, Lord Varys I can assure you. They have quite enough of that to go around.”

Lord Baelish leaning far too close to make eye contact with a sly grin. “And yet it puts coins in many a pocket, my Lady. Glory has filled every Inn throughout the city, and the whores are walking bow legged with every step.”

Grin growing more detestable as you looked from him with an uncomfortable glare. Your dear Uncle did not help the matter as he spoke up, a laugh in his lungs doing so. “We’re fortunate my brother Stannis is not with us. Remember when he proposed to outlaw brothels? Robert had asked if he’d like to outlaw eating, drinking, and shitting while he was at it.”

The force to not roll your eyes tested your every power of will. Every sense of faith in a man like your father that they assumed he had suggested or done so on Dragonstone for the superficial. Many Lords in the capital were keen on keeping your father at an arms length and you couldn’t help but speculate how much was truly just his personality, and what was fear deep down.

Afterall, he had two living children, and four which had passed before they could become your brothers. Clearly it wasn’t sex itself that was what he disliked about the premises.

Lord Stark looked to you instead of bothering to even entertain this discussion, calling your name. “You haven’t heard from Lord Stannis have you? He has not formally passed is place on the council to you, I’d have to guess he intends to return from his visit at some point?”

Neither of you said it to the current company, but Lord Stark didn’t quite appreciate the treatment of his new daughter by marriage. Sending you off to be wed out of nowhere, not accompanying or letting your mother or sister come to see you married, and then dragging you away from his son after one night to act on the council in his unexplained absence.

It was unfair to you and Robb, and it also sat rather suspiciously that you had been kept so terribly in the dark with this, and whatever your father had been investigating with Lord Arryn.

Lord Baelish’s tone was as mocking as ever, looking right at you. “No doubt he’ll return as soon as we’ve scourged all those whores into the sea.” You could hear Renly laugh somewhere to your left.

Standing abruptly, you smoothed down your skirt and nodded stiffly. “Until tomorrow, my lords.” As you stepped away you muttered uncaring if you were heard or ignored. “I’ve heard quite enough about my father and whores for one day.”

Renly’s laughter bothered you the whole way out of the small council chamber. You and Lord Stark had business to inquire of Grand Maester Pycelles but you found yourself perfectly content with waiting out of ear from mocking of your lord father for one day.

Words from the night before long since burned in the light of one of your rooms candles, in your pocket now sat one of you own writing and a new one sent to you. A raven from Dragonstone had surprised you only as long as it took to see the neatness of the letters.

Shireen was outraged that she missed your wedding. Had asked a million questions, what did you wear, who attended, did Winterfell have a nicer sept then they? That one you were going to have to explain another time that in your new life, you found more peace in the way the Starks followed that of the old gods. More questions of what is the capitol like with the new hand, was Robb as handsome as she was picturing. A question which even in the privacy of your own room, made you fluster a bit.

Only your dear sister could have you ready to spill about a man your married too, in ways like you were still a girl her age with a petty crush. Her letters always long, and always excited to hear what her well travelled big sister was doing regardless of how little you ever wanted to tell the truth of it anymore.

She was just a child, a rather innocent one at that. You wondered what father told her of the reason behind his sudden return home. Thinking to the two girls you returned to the city with, they too, were too young to have to be around this den of masks and liars. At least Arya’s needle was a bit more of protection then that of Sansa’s naivety.

Grand Maester Pycelle’s office was unbearably stuffy. The scents, the thick air and the mixture of whatever liquids sat both around the surfaces and tucked away into cupboards did not make the heat of summer any easier.

His frail voice seeming having gone on for far too long, “The smallfolk say the last year of summer if always the hottest. It is not often so, but it can feel that way does it not? On days like this, I envy you northerners and your southern snows.”

Both you and Lord Stark standing by his desk, it felt as if he was ready to dismiss before why an audience was requested in the first place. “I’ve been hoping to talk to you about Jon Arryn.”

To his credit, the Grand Maester had the patience to look surprised by the subject but not suspiciously so. “Lord Arryn? His death was a great sadness to us all. I took personal charge of his care, but I could not save him.”

Eyes narrowing slightly with a tilt of your head, you considered back to your own insights. “Did he seem sickly to you before the fever hit him? He hasn’t seemed like himself for some time but it never struck me like a physical ailment.”

Considering the idea, the Grand Maester himself looked a tad shamed. You doubted there wasn’t much he could do, and yet you could see similar feelings of confused failure in like your own once Maester Cressen. “His sickness truck him very hard, and very fast. I saw him in my chambers just the night before he passed. Lord Arryn often came to me for counsel.”

Lord Stark bluntly asking, “Why?”

Your insides rolled over at how indigent and offended the man instantly became at Lord Stark’s mere question. Nothing but worry over pride and image for such people. “I have been Grand Maester for many years. Kings and Hands have come to me for advice since-”

Voice raising enough to speak over him, you cut his tongue back down with the sharpness of your own tone. “Why did Lord Arryn seek you out, the night before he died? What did he want?”

The answer, only brought more questions.

Bringing you and Lord Stark closer in his office to a shelf, many large tomes sat across them as he shakily dragged one onto his desk. Landing it down in front of Lord Stark with a thud. “The lineages and histories of the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms. With descriptions of many high lords, noble ladies, and their children.”

Watching Lord Stark pull off the metal clasp and tossing it down, the book was loose and not well made but the pages inside were vast on thick paper filled to the brim with words in many styles of writing in many degrees of faded letters. Flipping through multiple pages until he landed on one at random, Lord Stark begun reading out one of the passages.

“…blue of eye, brown of hair, and fair complected. Died in his fourteenth year of a wound sustained in a bear hunt.”

Head tilting as he sat back down, “As I said my Lord, a ponderous read.”

“Did Jon Arryn tell you what he wanted with it?”

A slight shake no, of his head. “He did not, my Lord. And I did not presume to ask.”

Skimming the pages, you barley glanced at them before looking up to meet the Grand Maesters eyes but did not find him hiding much behind them. Nothing pertaining to the conversation at least as Lord Stark continued his inquiry. “Jon’s death, did he say anything to you during his final hours.”

Instinctively he denied, “Nothing of import, my Lord.” before pausing his hand raised as if to collect his thoughts within them from his older mind. “There was one phrase he kept repeating. The Seed is Strong, I think it was.”

Your eyes narrowed, “The seed is strong? What does that mean?”

No curiosity in his eyes, “The dying mind is a demented mind, Lady Stark.”

Whatever he said right after, was missed in the brief second of childish notions, much like what Shireen always tried to dish from you. Some familiar just called you by your name, others stuck to the simple My Lady, others such as Ser Jaime Lannister only switched between names in mocking as if there was something usual about a highborn lady taking on the House of their husband.

But hearing Lady Stark so casually, shouldn’t have clicked such a second of girlish glee as it had. You pulled yourself together though, hoping neither noticed your stammer of formality. Lord Stark beside you continuing, “And you’re quite certain he died of a natural illness?”

Grand Maester Pycelle seemed taken back, alleviating guilt at how quick his confusion at such a suggestion was at least ticked a name off your list. “What else could it be?”

Lord Stark seemed like he however, knew what his answer was. “Poison.”

Unwilling to think of such a crime, he shook his head in denial. “A disturbing thought…I don’t think it likely. The Hand was loved by all, what sort of man would dare-”

Your eyes and Lord Stark’s flickered to the other for just a moment, your voice without accusing if only in pure read of your words. “I’ve heard it said poison is a woman’s weapon.”

“Yes. Women, cravens…and eunuchs. Did you know Lord Varys is a eunuch?”

The spinning of mistrust once more, not the game neither you nor Lord Stark cared to get involved with now or ever. Enough was on your plate as it was. There was no conceivable thought of what Lord Varys would gain from murdering Lord Arryn in your mind. Then again, Lysa had named the Lannisters and yet you too had no idea what would be gained by that either.

Nor what trying twice to murder an innocent ten year old boy wold gain. But the signs all pointed to the golden lions.

Finding Arya near the top of the steps balancing on one foot, you smiled. Taking the tome from Lord Stark to his office for him so he could inquire what her dancing teacher had her practising now. Earlier he had commented to you that it felt like everyday Arya came back with new bruises or scratches with a worried furrow in his brow.

You simply had held back a smirk, “If I recall that’s exactly how everyone found out I was learning to sword fight when I was her age.”

Lord Stark had laughed much easier, running a hand over his stubble. “It took us that long to find out because you and Jon would sneak out at night so neither of you would get in trouble.” The first few lessons did have a lot of Jon hitting you harder each time until you got fed up and learned to block properly. “You should be thankful it was me who caught you and not Cat.”

You were twelve at the time, Jon fourteen and even all those years ago still far stronger then you. You couldn’t have imagined how much trouble he would’ve gotten in were it now your own father who caught you two one night.

Sitting now at Lord Stark’s desk, you had been mindlessly flipping through the book. Pausing at random pages before coming across the current accounts of Baratheons. The King first, and his children, then your lord father and his. Including all four which never made it, and a sickening description of Shireen as “disfigured” from her greyscale.

Renly when he thought neither or your father in ear had often referred to Shireen as “that ugly daughter of his” and you hated it. She would’ve been far worse had your father listened to the other Lords. Send her off to old Valyria to be of the stonemen before she infected the whole of Dragonstone.

Dancing over her name with your tapping finger, you told yourself not to. Biting your tongue before your weakness overtook and flipped to the pages of the current Starks. Glancing down to Lord Eddard Stark, then that of Robb did you pause. Shireen asking if he was handsome and certainly the drollness of a Maesters documents did nothing to answer that.

But your eyes skipped down. Looking to the description of Eyes of Grey, black of hair and the beginnings of the letter ‘S’ coming into sight did you slam the book shut with an angry huff. Your best friend for so long, and now his memory tainted with feelings which you both were forced to tear away from.

You’d love to just think of Jon the way you could Theon. Fond memories that weren’t anything more, and none which made the flutter in your stomach getting used to your new husband feel shameful. Hearing Lord Stark’s footsteps you stood up from his seat, leaning against the wall to the side with your arms crossed your chest.

Closing the door behind him, “Do you know a Ser Hugh of the Vale?” Head jolting back you found nothing with such a title and name until Lord Stark elaborated. “He was Jon Arryns squire.” Your lips parting in recognition you turned to look back at him confused. “He was knighted after his murder.”

“Knighted for what?”

Tilting his head he almost smiled. “That’s what you’re going to find out.”

Ser Hugh as it turned out, was exactly the kind of glory seeker you knew didn’t need more cheers and gold bolstering his ego. Down in the open field where they set up the tourney, you recognized him at least while he was in much more average attire. Still nicer then what you recalled he wore as a squire.

“Ser Hugh?”

Your footsteps towards him quick and long, your voice not shouting and yet projecting enough to startle those around as the man turned annoyed towards you. “As you can see, I’m busy.”

Busy taking steps, yes a task needing great concentration to a man of his calibre. Your eyes narrowed in the bright sun making you look far less tolerant of such an attitude. Renly once had said that between the flowing dresses, the light fabric of an equally as long cardigan with hair that looked far nicer unrestricted by whatever styles these girls in the capital pretended were fashionable, you might actually attract a suitor once in a while were it not for you being a perfect copy of your father’s morose and drab glare.

“I’m here on behalf of Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King-”

Not giving you a second chance, he waved you off. “Well run along and tell your master if the Hand wishes to speak to me, he should come himself. Knights don’t have time for a servant girls questions.”

Turning and stepping along the path you resisted the urge to see his head smash into the wooden railing he walked beside. There was no point in arguing, he seemed unlikely to be honest if he did answer any questions, and you and Lord Stark had a much more promising visit far down in the streets of the city.

“He said he’d only be willing to talk to the hand himself. A knight such as him.”

You and Lord Stark glancing at the other with a vapid smirk, of course how could you have been such a fool to dare ask anything of a well seasoned warrior such as Ser Hugh of the Vale. Intrepid Knight of Half a Day.

“Ah, a knight. They strut around like roosters down here. Even the one who’ve never seen an arrow coming their way.” The armoury Lord Baelish had directed you towards approached quickly. Sounds of yelling and barters all around and children play fighting in every direction.

Many eyes looked towards the pair riding down the path. Either such a sight was unusual to them, or perhaps all too similar. The Lord Hand and Master of Ships travelling down the poor city streets looking in the same places for the same people, only months after the last pair did the same to no known success.

“We should be careful out here alone, my Lord. There’s no telling which eyes belong to who.” Glancing at him, he seemed unaffected by the idea. Climbing off your horse as he did too, you both steeled in a natural air of cold confidence. Working beside Lord Stark for you was easy, you couldn’t however imagine such an easy pairing in Lord Arryn and your own father.

“Let them look.”

Tobho Mott greeted you both with upmost respect, seemed to be much more relaxed with your presence then he did mention of your lord father. Lord Stark beside you prompting the conversation moreso. “What did Lord Arryn and Lord Stannis want?”

“They came to see the boy.”

Lord Stark saying he’d like to see him as well, Tobho nodded and turned into the forge where the consistent smashing of metals stopped banging. “Gendry,”

Easy to see from his demeanour, it was clear he was likely either incredibly lowborn, or even a slave must to your dismay. He didn’t look at either you or Lord Stark in the eye, standing straight and respectable, but did not think he had the right to make eye contact.

You stood still, trying to see what it is that would be on any interest to the lords before. Not just that, what was seen which scared your father back to Dragonstone, and Lord Arryn into the grave? The three men went back and forth for a while over the ornate bulls helmet which he had made himself, easing the pair into the inquiry.

His voice didn’t give much away, but a tint of attitude which wasn’t unfamiliar. Taller then, you, his hair was dark to the point of a deep brown and by your guess would be a a little younger then you. Lord Stark changed subject, “When Lord Arryn came to visit you what did you talk about?”

Not looking still, your eyes narrowed as something pricked at your skin. “Just as me questions is all, milord.” Next asked if your father had ever questioned him, was a rare moment that made you break a smirk and eyes lit up with an amusement not often seen of you in Kings Landing. “No, he never said a word. Just glared at me like I was some raper who done for his daughter.”

Mott turning and raising his voice. “Watch your tongue boy. This is Lord Stannis’s own daughter you’re speaking too.” Turning to you with sincere apology in his eyes you couldn’t seem to look away from Gendry. He apologized, but you only found yourself looking at him with a more scrupulous gaze.

You tried, but whatever pricked at your skin settled over every corner of it until you wanted to twitch with unease. Lord Stark spoke for you, sensing that you were seeing something close to what he was slowly putting together. “What kind of questions did Lord Arryn ask?”

“About my work at first. If I was being treated well, if I liked it here. But then he started asking me questions about my mother.”

You spoke up before you could stop yourself. “Your mother?” Gendry specifying he meant just who she was and what she looked like, you continued to speak first unable to keep the intensity away out of your gaze on him. “What did you tell him?”

“She died when I was little. She had yellow hair, she’d sing to me sometimes.”

You couldn’t say why it clicked, but it did. Stepping forward you were sharper with him then you may have intended, “Look at me.”

Meeting your eyes, you felt that sensation shiver through your body like you had just been tossed in a river. There was no denying what it was you were seeing. Had you not known better, you could’ve mistaken Gendry for your own brother. The green eyes wide and bright, hair so dark and thick, the strength in resemblance of his facial structure and all linking back to why the snark of attitude pinged at you.

Almost in shock you leaned back, glancing to Lord Stark who briefly flickered to meet your eyes with an unsettled understanding of what you were seeing. You didn’t like what you were feeling in any way. Lord Stark handed him back the bull helmet, “Get back to work, lad.”

Diligently, he left further into the forge and the hammering started once again as Lord Stark spoke quietly to Mott. “If a day ever comes that boy would rather wield a sword then forge one, you send him to me.”

Coming up to Renly’s quarters, your head was in a spin and something told you to go anywhere that wasn’t where all your questions had laid. Knocking on his door, you almost jumped back in surprise by the one who actually answered.

Taller then you with a darkish dirty blonde hair rung up into curls that most girls you know envied with passion, Ser Loras also stood before you shirtless in a manner you amusingly knew a certain young redheaded Stark would’ve had her cheeks turn just as red at the sight off. Luckily for you, the shock on his face and the smirk on yours already knew the story better.

Walking in as you brushed past him, you raised your eyebrows at your Uncle now rushing to cover his own chest as if you were stupid enough not to know. “My Lady, apologies we were just-”

Turning to Loras beside you, you smirked wider with a playful squint in your eye. “Ser Loras, a word of advice. If you wish your private affairs to remain private, maybe don’t answer my Uncle’s door when you’re both still shirtless and this one’s still in bed.” You nodded over to the annoyed Renly.

Loras couldn’t decide if he was annoyed or horrified, but left as soon as he could be considered half way presentable. Door closing behind him, you walked in further, leaning against Renly’s desk. “I know discretion isn’t your strong suit Renly, but maybe if he’s trying to keep it a secret at least pretend you two aren’t locked up in bed half the time.”

Rolling his eyes, he reached passed out to pour himself wine. “Aren’t you missing your tournament?”

Shaking your head at his offer of a glass to you, “Oh am I Hand of the King, now?”

Glaring, he rested beside you against the desk as he sipped. “Spending enough time with him, it’s easy to mistaken I suppose. Much like my dear brother seemed.” Glancing beside you, you said nothing as he continued with mocking joy. “Jon and Stannis spend an increasing amount of time together only to stop when one of them dies and the other runs away out of reach. Only difference is the Hand this time is a wolf, but the Stag stays the same. Or are you a wolf now too?”

Pushing off smug with himself, you crossed your arms. “I married into a house of wolves, my name is theirs now, I suppose yes dear Uncle I am a wolf now if such a distinction matters.” Titling your head you were far less amused now and much more openly accusatory. “Does that make you a rose, or just a stag stupid enough to let roses tie themselves around him?”

He glared at you, “My relationship-”

“I’m not talking about Loras. Not for that. I’m talking about the less time you spend doing your duty the more I seem to find you spending time whispering with the Tyrells.” The guilt on his face grew tenfold as you slammed more to the open air. “You didn’t hide very well what your plan for his sister was, Margaery was it?”

Oh you hit a wound. Renly face twisting into a snarl unbecoming of someone like him. “Plan?”

Crossing your arms you didn’t move an inch but your eyes trained on his with scrutiny. “What was it my father said you planned, trying to make dear Margaery, Robert’s whore?” He paled but you didn’t let him blabber. “Everyone in the seven kingdoms knows he’s got enough of those, so I have to ask why exactly try to send the pretty girl from Highgarden into the bed of our well rode, drunken King, and then you yourself having the same ride by her own brother?”

He shrugged, but did not do well at hiding his anxiety. “You and Stannis are missing out, Tyrells are quite interesting in bed.”

You raised your eyebrows. “So are wolves, I’ve found.”

“Did you come here for this or what?”

Pushing up you walked more to the middle of the room. “No, actually I came here to ask if you’re going to the tournament tomorrow.”

Renly’s eyes flickered side to side, “Most likely. Why?”

You shrugged, losing all pretense of suspicion for now. “Just wondering if I’ll have someone to talk to who doesn’t make me want to tear into my palms.” Renly laughed, telling you this was the wrong place for that.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, for a brief moment he looked actually concerned. “I know I joke about it, but the capital doesn’t suit you does it?” He smiled when you shook your head no. “You know every time you came back from Winterfell you looked miserable. You hated coming back here and each time you come back a little more fed up then the time before.”

You said nothing as you looked blankly at him. There was nothing to deny, coming back here was always the worst and it never stopped being the worst until you were back with the Starks.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to your wedding.”

You shrugged. Not the answer or even emotion he expected, but you were just looking at him.

The wide bright eyes, the shape of his cheeks, jaw, the colours in those eyes and the darkness of the thick hair he was so bad at letting grow out just like your father. All you could think of was what in those looks scared your father out of the city.

What did he find in those looks that was so bad it got Lord Arryn killed. You and Lord Stark had many clues but no hints except for one glaring one. You had returned to the horses, nearby where Jory had been waiting.

When he asked if you two had found anything, you hadn’t been quite the same since realizing what Lord Stark had. All you could see when looking at Renly now, was what Lord Stark told Jory then.

Something that had no right being a clue to such a dark mystery and yet here you were, standing before water as murky then ever only this time it was your own kin that was being told as the dangers to look out for.

Gendry wasn’t just a tiny clue of no meaning, somewhere in Lord Arryn’s death was a page about finding King Robert’s bastard son.

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

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superprincesspea · 10 months ago

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Courted by the Dragon

Chapter 6 - Total Annihilation

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

Masterlist

~~~

You meet with the queen every day for the next three days.

Her favourite Cyvasse board is in her private garden, under a white stone arbour which is covered in burgundy roses, and that is precisely where you are sitting when the hunt returns.

You can hear the fanfare announcing their arrival all the way from the bronze gates, and the noise must be ear splitting to those closest to it, but you’re far enough away to enjoy the tune, thinking how fun it would be to have your arrival marked with such ceremony.

You stand, expecting the queen to do the same but she remains.

“We should continue our game,” she says, in no hurry to rush and welcome the men back to court.

"Will they not expect you?”

“Of course. But we cannot always give men what they expect,” she replies a little wickedly and you laugh, returning to your seat.

When Aemond arrives in the garden sometime later, he struts into the arbour in his usual arrogant manner. His dark outline looking decidedly stark against all the white stone and delicate flowers.

Stupidly, it hadn’t even occurred to you that he might come to the queen like this, and you curse yourself for not leaving when you had the chance.

Your only saving grace is that he doesn’t seem to notice you, his attention is entirely focused on his mother and, with your red gown, you’re trying your best to blend in with the roses.

“Welcome back,” she says cheerfully, holding out her hand.

Aemond bows, offering a soft smile and a light kiss across the back of her knuckles.

“Did Aegon kill the stag?” she asks, and a conspiratory look flashes between their eyes.

“Naturally ,” he replies, and you don’t have to ask to know that Aemond did everything but take the killing blow.

You wonder if you would be so kind to Cassandra, doing all in your power to make her look like the better sister, then again, there’s little you do which outshines her.

She is tall and graceful with impeccable manners and so many accomplishments. She can sew, sing and play any instrument she turns her hand to. In fact, Cassandra would basically be perfect if she wasn’t so shy, not that shyness really mattered here. Most men in Kings Landing seemed to prefer a woman who had little to say, and you could never be accused of that.

Still, you don’t really want to say much right now and you’re wondering if you can somehow sneak away. Yet before you formulate any sort of a half-hatched idea, Aemond’s attention turns to you. His smile quickly receding and, from the look in his eye, he seems surprised indeed to see you sitting in such private company with his mother.

You have to admit, you’d silently wondered if it was Aemond who had somehow orchestrated your friendship with her. Though you were not sure to what end.

However, from his furrowed brow and the tight line of his jaw, you can see that it was certainly not his idea. Nor is he pleased to see you.

“You know the Lady Baratheon,” Alicent says, gesturing to you.

"We may have spoken once or twice.”

You meet his eye. Once or twice. An interesting answer for a man who has seen you nude, but you welcome his restraint wholeheartedly.

“Well , are you going to make your move or not?” Alicent asks and your eyes snap back to hers, then to the Cyvasse piece hovering in your hand.

You place it down and Aemond moves to stand behind his mother, so he can see the board from her angle.

"She’ll kill your king in three turns,” he says quickly, as though he’s been studying the game for a while, yet he’s only given it a moments glance.

Alicent’s eyes dart around the board.

“He’s right,” she admits, meeting your stare, “you’re getting better.”

"Your Grace is an excellent teacher.”

"Then you should play Aemond,” she says with so much pride, craning her head to look adoringly at her son.

“Perhaps another time,” you reply a little curtly and with far less enthusiasm than she’s expecting.

A well born lady should say ‘yes, of course, I would love to play with the prince’. But you’d rather spend an entire afternoon embroidering cornflowers than say something like that.

“It won’t take long,” Aemond decides with so much confidence that the queen gasps.

Perhaps his arrogance should have stood as a warning, but it only seems to bait you into doing exactly what you didn’t want to do. Play .

Biting your tongue to keep yourself from saying anything inflammatory, you move the pieces back into their starting position while Aemond swaps places with the queen.

It's your move first and you play your favourite opening, one you have won with a few times before. And you’re feeling quietly confident for at least two whole seconds, before Aemond makes his turn, bringing his dragon right out into the middle of the board.

Your heart jumps, confused, yet you play on, sticking to your original strategy and wanting to force him into a game you can recognise.

Yet Aemond has a strategy of his own. Total annihilation. He steals your dragon with his second move, and you stare at the board a little blankly, feeling as though your legs have been swept from under your feet.

The next two turns are the same. Fast and aggressive, forcing you to play more defensively than you’re used to and giving you little time to think. At least it feels like you don’t have much time.

In reality, you have all the time in the world. What you don't have, is a shield from the way he’s looking at you. Or rather, studying you. Face to face and so close his leg brushes with yours beneath the table.

You hold your breath, shifting away from him, your hand dallying between two pieces.

You decide on the Heavy Horse and, just as you’re about to pick it up, he leans closer, catching your eye.

“Interesting choice .”

What does that mean? Your heart drums in your chest, your palms suddenly slick with nerves. Should you change your move? Or is he trying to trick you?

Deciding to not let Aemond get too far into your head, you move the Heavy Horse and immediately regret your choice. But how are you supposed to think under such circumstances?

With his leg brushing against yours for a second time, his eye grazing along your face, your neck, the soft v of your dress and right down to the tips of your fingers.

The queen never looked at you like that , nor did her leg ever brush with yours.

You meet his eye with as stern expression, but Aemond isn’t unsettled by stern looks, there is a dark smile pursed on his lips, and he seems to take great pleasure in stealing another piece, just as he is stealing all logical thought from your head.

You sigh sharply, frustration clawing at your skin and, though he has seen you naked, this somehow feels worse. As though your very intellect is bare before him and he’s besting you at every turn. The most unpleasant part is, you can see yourself falling into the trap he’s setting, but it feels unstoppable, inevitable .

Is this what it is like to spar with him? Does he look at his opponents with the same intensity, so they forget not only how to fight, but how to move altogether.

If the queen wasn’t watching, you would walk away and never look back. Instead, your heart still racing, you move again, and again you regret it.

He claims your Trebuchet and then your Light Horse.

You meet his eye, and his face is the same, dark and satisfied.

You decide right then, that if nothing else, you will take his Dragon and you do, sacrificing everything to claim it, right before he kills your King.

You’ve lost track of how many turns it's been, but it can't have been many. Ten? Twelve? It felt like a hundred, yet it was certainly the shortest game you’ve ever played.

“You are cruel,” Alicent scolds him, laughing softly at your expense, and you try to join her. Try to pretend it doesn’t matter that he won so easily. But it does.

Why did he have to be so good at everything?

Why does he always seem to have the upper hand?

“You’ve spent too much time playing with my mother,” he says as though you care for his opinion. "You need to learn other styles, be more unpredictable.”

"Then perhaps you should teach her,” Alicent suggests, and your heart stops just as Aemond snorts out a laugh of derision.

“What makes you think I would want to do that ?”

His words are so clipped and infuriatingly rude that your temper forces you to your feet, yet you remain in control of your tongue.

The Queen doesn’t reply, she smiles, giving you both one last long look before she walks away.

When she is gone, Aemond meets the stare you have been burning into the side of his face.

You really shouldn’t let him annoy you as much as he does, but you can’t help it, your reactions feel completely out of your control, just like the game.

“Did you ask her to say that ?” he says, and his tone is not exactly angry, but his eye is narrowed, as though you’ve done something wrong.

“Ask her to say what ?”

“For me to teach you.”

You laugh, wondering if the question is a serious one. Wondering if he truly believes you’ve spent the last few days coaxing the Queen to force you into his attention.

Is he completely insane?

“Your Grace must have a very high opinion of himself if he imagines every lady in the Red Keep is begging for his company!” Maybe that was true for some of the others, but it certainly wasn’t for you.

“So, you just happened to be here playing with my mother?”

You huff, pushing the chair back so you can stand where there is more room for your temper, “how was I supposed to know the hunt would return today? And she invited me !”

“Why?”

“Why not?” you practically demand and, when he doesn’t answer, you continue. “Your grace should be rest assured that I would rather eat glass than spend another moment in his company.”

Such harsh words should certainly not be exiting your mouth, and they should definitely be making him angrier. But the look in his eye only softens as he moves to stand beside you, a little too close for enemies.

“Will you attend the concert tonight?” he asks, his tone much kinder than before but not kind enough to ease your temper.

“Is that an invite ?” you say tartly.

A smile escapes onto his face and, for once, he looks as though he’s not sure what to say.

“My mother...” he begins, clearing his throat, “is not always as discerning as I, when it comes to... the ladies of court.”

This seems a difficult truth for him to admit, but you have no sympathy, and laugh, pleased to imagine him pursued by desperate ladies and their Mama’s.

“Perhaps she believes you need all the help you can get?”

He huffs out a noise which almost sounds like a laugh, yet the dangerous look in his eye is anything but amused as he shifts closer, pinning you between the Cyvasse board and the inch of space which snakes between your bodies.

“You think I don’t know how to seduce a woman?” he asks in a low voice, inclining his head as though he might brush his lips with yours. Yet he stops short of kissing, so only his breath inches across your lips, and you can almost taste him. Sweet, rich, like mead or honey cake.

Your heart is stuttering as you lean back, practically sitting on the board, your gaze only daring to fix on his chest, where the Targaryen Sigil is emblazoned in black and gold.

“Lucky for his grace, I believe your name will do all the seducing for you...” you say a little meekly before forcing yourself to meet his eye, “even if your manner might make a lady want to hurl herself from the highest tower of the keep.”

His face, which had been so tight with tension, softens and he laughs taking pleasure in your criticism instead of offence. “But my name does not seduce the enigmatic Lady Baratheon?”

“Should it?” you ask, instantly regretting the question.

Aemond steps back thoughtfully, allowing you a little more room to breathe, though it doesn’t feel like enough.

“I can think of nothing worse,” he says, and you feel a little bolder.

“Then you will be pleased to know I dislike you, name and all.”

When he smiles again, you think it might be quite impossible to offend an ego as large as the one he must have, and you know you should leave before making any more attempts.

“So, which one is it?” he says, keeping in time with your steps as you move towards the door which leads from the garden. “Does my company make you want to eat glass or hurl yourself from the tower?”

“Well ,” you faulter, laughing nervously and thinking you really should keep a better handle on your remarks. Cassandra would never say such a thing. “Since I shall be leaving court in less than two weeks, and I have no intention of ever returning. I believe I shall be forced to do neither.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he concedes as you both wait for the guard to open the door.

When you step through it, he remains in the garden but calls after you, “you didn’t answer my first question...”

You turn back. “About the concert?”

Aemond nods and the way he’s standing is so relaxed, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword, his foot braced on the stone step. It's as though you haven’t spent the past ten minutes telling him just how much you cannot bare him.

“Hm ,” you say, as though you’re pondering a decision, when you already know that you have zero intention of attending the concert, just as you have zero intention of giving him a straight answer.

Instead, you turn back towards the hall, leaving him to wonder and, though you really want to leave without looking back, you can’t resist one last glance.

He’s still standing in the same way, watching your retreat, a slightly devilish smile inching into his cheeks at the return of your attention.

You curse yourself. Stupid . You should have never looked back!

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #ewan mitchell #romance #female reader #enemies to lovers #aemond targaryen x oc #prince aemond

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valleyof-goldenlilies · 11 months ago

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A Christmas Visitor - Modern!Jace Velaryon x Reader

Summary: Jace takes it upon himself to cheer you up for your first Christmas spent alone.

Pairing: Modern! Jace Velaryon x AFAB! Reader

Warnings: fluffy boyfriend Jace, profanity, blowjob, face fucking, degradation, mentions of masturbation (both f and m) (let me know if i missed anything out!)

Word Count: 1.92k words

A/N: hoe hoe hoe! a very merry late Christmas and Happy New Year in advance from me to you :) this one is for those Jace girlies out there ;) I hope you enjoy!

lovely dividers credited to @firefly-graphics !

It was set to be a lonely Christmas for you.

But honestly? You had no one to blame but yourself. You were the one who had decided to migrate to another continent entirely for university, whilst most of your friends had stayed in King’s Landing, or other parts of Westeros, including your boyfriend, Jace Velaryon.

But Braavos University was undoubtedly the best university in the known world to pursue a degree in economics, and when you had gotten the acceptance email, Jace had urged you to go, telling you that you would be an idiot if you passed up on the chance.

Braavos was a wonderful place: a melting pot of different cultures, interesting architectural structures, along with an intriguing history. You loved studying and living here, but at times, especially now, during the festive season, you especially missed home. You missed seeing Jace’s wonderful, handsome, smiling face, missed his kisses, his hugs, his warmth, his everything.

In a video call with your boyfriend a few days ago, you had expressed how much you’d missed him, and he had given you a sad smile in return.

“I miss you too, honey,” Jace said earnestly, covering his headphones’ speakers again when a loud noise erupted from behind him. You winced at the feedback from the mic. “Cregan, hey bud, mind keeping it down a little?” Jace called out. “I’m video calling my girlfriend here.”

“Sorry dude!” A manly voice that was most definitely not Cregan called back, and you had to stifle a laugh at Jace’s knowing, disgusted look. “Ugh, these animals, I swear,” Jace joked, turning his attention back to you. His expression softened. “Hey honey, I know it’s hard on you. I wish there was something I can do to make you feel better.”

You smiled, trying to cheer up a bit for his sake. “It’s alright, really. I’m doing fine here, I’m just being a bit mopey because I miss you and stuff.”

“Aww,” Jace blew you a kiss through the computer screen. “I miss you too, honey. Uni life just isn’t the same without you. But you are still coming back for summer break, right?”

You nodded, blowing back a kiss to him. “Yeah, of course I am. I can’t wait-“ A crash and a gruff laugh sounded from behind Jace, and Jace’s eyes widened as he turned back to try and catch a glimpse of what was going on. “Jace, buddy, I might need some help here!” A voice that was definitely Cregan groaned out.

“I’m sorry babe, I gotta go,” Jace said apologetically. “Trust those guys to get wild when I’m trying to call my girlfriend.”

“No, it’s fine,” you tried to stifle a giggle. “You’re like their mom, you know.” “Am not,” Jace pouted, before blowing you a kiss. “I’ll video call you on Christmas, alright? I love you, baby.”

“Love you too, Jacey.” You blew him a kiss back before your computer screen went dark, and you sighed, slumping back in your seat. Video calling him had somehow made you miss him even more.

But alas, such was life. When the morning sunlight streamed through your dorm windows on Christmas Day, you had already carefully planned out your day.

“Okay, so,” you tapped your pencil on your paper, filled with a list of the things you wanted to do. First, I go across the campus to get those delicious pretzels from Lancelot’s Bakery, then I head to the grocery shop to get myself some chicken to cook chicken Alfredo pasta for lunch. Then-“

A knock at your dorm room caused you to look up from your list, puzzled. Your dorm mates had all left for their own homes for the holidays, so who could that be? You set down your pencil, moving to open the door. “Yes-?” Your jaw dropped when you saw who it was standing outside the door.

“Jace!” You let out a cry of delight at your boyfriend’s warm, smiling face. The smile that you had missed so much.

“Hey, baby-“ Jace barely had time to finish his sentence before you launched yourself at him, jumping into his arms and kissing him hungrily. Jace nearly staggered under your weight, hands going to stabilise you as you wrapped your legs around his waist. He savoured the taste of your lips, feeling you melt against him and nearly tearing up when you realised that he was real.

Oh, how he missed you. How he missed this.

Jace quickly brought you into your dorm room, kicking the door shut behind him as he didn’t break the kiss. He set you down on the edge of the desk that you were writing on, tongue tangling eagerly with yours. “Mmm, I missed you so much,” he mumbled against your lips, fumbling for the zipper of the shorts that you were wearing. “I missed your lips, your scent, your pussy…”

You let out a laugh, breaking the kiss to rest your forehead against his. “Someone’s eager, huh?”

“Don’t act like you aren’t,” Jace chided, chuckling as he pulled your shorts off. “Nearly six months without you has been absolute torture. I had to stroke my own dick almost every night for the first few months you know.” A pleasant shiver shot through you at the imagery: Jace stroking himself to the thought of you every day, groaning as he spilled himself in his hand.

“Sounds like I should make it up to you then,” you said slyly, pushing yourself off the desk and getting on your knees. Jace’s breath hitched as he took in the sight of you, radiant, rosy, glowing, down on your knees in front of him. Where you belong.

You made fast work of his jeans, unbuckling his belt and tugging his jeans and boxers down in one go. Your mouth nearly watered at the sight of his length, long and leaking with precum. You ran your fingers along the vein in his cock, teasing him, and Jace groaned, pulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail. “Baby…don’t be a tease,” Jace’s voice was low, pleading. You simply laughed, looking cheeky as you debated on whether you should give him what he wanted.

Jace nearly saw stars when your hot mouth got to work on his dick, licking the underside of it, letting the precum collect on your tongue. His grip in your hair tightened. “Love…”

Slowly, you began to take his cock into your mouth. The loud, scandalous, squelching noise of you taking his dick inch by inch reverberated throughout your empty dorm room, making Jace grow even harder, if that was even possible. He had dreamt of this moment so many times for the last few months…

He made a low, strangled noise in his throat as you hollowed out your cheeks to accommodate even more of him, trying not to gag in the meantime. His fingers tangled even deeply into your hair, “That’s it, that’s fucking it. Take all of me in,” Jace encouraged you. “You can do it. You’re a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

Your answering nod caused your head to bob on his dick a little, and Jace moaned at the sight. He could just die happy now.

“Can I fuck your face, sweetheart?” Jace asked tenderly, but you knew that his tone of voice, while friendly, left no room for negotiation. So you only looked up at him with those adorable doe eyes, and nodded slightly. Jace smirked, pulling out a bit before thrusting himself back into your throat.

He continued to fuck your face, going slow and gentle at first, then his thrusts grew more and more erratic as he felt your hot little mouth envelop his dick just so perfectly. The sound of your fingers playing with your pussy as he face-fucked you however, drew him back to attention again.

“Hey,” he slapped your cheek lightly, getting your attention as you looked up at him with wide eyes, having been caught. “You’re not allowed to touch that pussy as I face fuck you.” Your expression of dismay almost made him feel bad.

Almost.

“No touching yourself, sweetheart. Or else I won’t let you cum later, you understand?” Your eyes teared up a little, and Jace watched you with a smirk as your expression grew desperate, but you could simply nod obediently, knowing that Jace would make good on that promise.

“Good girl,” he soothed you, before thrusting into your mouth even harder, faster.

Your moans were muffled by his cock, but Jace let his unfiltered noises echo throughout the room, his curses and groans and praises only making you wetter. “Yeah, that’s it, baby…taking this dick like a pro, huh? What a dirty little slut you are.”

You could barely speak with his dick in your mouth, and Jace could feel himself getting closer as he watched your tits bounce in that skimpy top you had on. He couldn’t wait to have his hands and mouth all over them, kissing and biting and sucking on your hardened buds. The thought alone was enough to send him over the edge, and when you began playing with his balls, he completely lost it.

Letting out a rough moan, he spilled himself in you, his hot load shooting down your throat. The vibrations of your muffled moans around his cock made it feel even better.

He pulled out, watching your dazed, blissed out face. Gently tilting your chin up to face him, he ordered you, “Swallow all that for me, sweetheart.”

Obligingly, you did so, and Jace let out a sigh of pleasure. “Good girl. Come here.” He helped you up from your knees, gently hoisting you up onto the desk again while rubbing your red knees with his thumbs like a perfect gentleman. Then, his hands found his way to your cheek again, and his lips to yours. He could taste himself on your tongue, and he groaned into your mouth, hand going to palm at your tits through the fabric of your top.

“Best Christmas present I could ask for,” he murmured, sweetly pecking you on the lips. “Which reminds me,” you brought up, voice a bit hoarse after that intense face-fucking. “How’d you get here?”

“I flew out, duh.” You smacked Jace’s shoulder at that non-serious response. “Ow. I flew out all the way for you, and you abuse me like this?” Jace rubbed his hot shoulder, looking like a kicked puppy. “Hurts me right in my feelings, baby.”

“I’m serious,” you pressed, and Jace laughed, kissing your pouting lips. “I don’t know, you just looked so sad over the video call…I just had to come and see you.”

“And your family was cool with it?” Jace laughed again, rubbing your shoulder reassuringly. “Mom’s always chill about it, don’t worry. And you know my little brothers; they always act like they’re happy to be rid of me.”

“But for now,” Jace’s lips met yours again, searing, wanting. “Can we stop talking about how I got here and focus on worshipping you instead?” You giggled, tightening your arms around his neck. “Well, in that case-“

A clatter outside your door made you and Jace freeze in your tracks, wide eyes going to the door. “What was that-“

“My suitcase!” Jace exclaimed, a panicked look on his face as someone outside bellowed. “Who left their fucking suitcase in the middle of the hall?”

You couldn’t hold back your laughter at the sight of abject horror on Jace’s face as he rushed to the door to apologise to whatever poor soul had tripped over his suitcase.

Best Christmas you could ever ask for.

let me know if you wish to be added to a general taglist for jace related works, or just my works in general in the comments or through this form! :)

thank you for reading! if you liked it, likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! merry late xmas guys 😘🎄

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puckpocketed · 2 months ago

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hi!!!!! im maybe perhaps a little interested in following th la kings...what th vibes are who th characters are etc n was wondering if u knew of any good primers at all ? :3 !

there are no primers here please return to your seat

serious answer: i am currently occupied with another big beaugtiful baby of a primer ! but. i will commit to a short slideshow that’s funnier + with more pictures at some nebulous point in the future!! deepest apologies 😭👍 i am NOT your kings source. idk who the kings source would even be, but it aint me!!! below is a cross section of my posts so u can vibe check us - click the non-news articles for funnies :)

here’s a tiny one i did for one of our prospects . eurotrap weed dj. just a little guy

Our kids have a history of getting injured right as they’re set to make their big step up. UNLUCKIEST GIRLS IN THE WORLD. btw <3

articles + archive links: x / y - x / y - x / y - x / y

Most recently: Arthur Kaliyev - who wanted to be traded somewhere he would have more opportunities - is freshly, guess what.,... INJURED and just as he made his peace with no trade + turning a new leaf with LA !!!!

the vibes are. LA Kings Youth Movement (soon) (SOON) (<- lie!!!) (PLAY THE KIDS. PLEASE... GOD...) (take my hand. let’s slash rob blake’s tires together <3)

Two Staches

Jordan Spence and QB by @korshrimpski

^ Phillip Danault and his two sons

Raccoon Jesus who does not understand rizz + is having a brat summer !

The vibes at practice + HQ Juice unicorn pic (same day)

[ID: The 2023-24 L.A. Kings celebrating their post practice mini-scrimmage. The forwards, having just scored, celebrate in a puppy pile against the glass. To the far right, Adrian Kempe (#9) also known as Juice, skates into the scrum. He holds his stick to his forehead as though it is a unicorn horn. /. End ID]

The Ghost Of Pierre-Luc Dubois (to ME). a lot of prospects were traded away to acquire him and he um. did not do very well here.

many lak fans in other spaces have strong negative feelings towards PLD (as is their right!) but he’s my failgirlhorsewife and he’s our very best friend and he got traded for Darcy Kuemper over the summer, and i WILL be haunting the cap.s lb because of that. no one on kingstwt will shut up about him so i think they're taking the breakup well 👍

on the topic of Kuemper. sorry i keep linking my own posts but Darcy and Dave. big. natural. <3 our gonjeous double d's...!

these posts aren’t super informative and its a lot of Me... i’m so sorry </3 i just shuffled through my lak tag and tried to remember what was funniest. legitimately cannot find old Kings blogs that are still regularly Posting and Participating so theyre all very new things... we are building these train tracks as we ride HELP.... (I genuinely have no idea what happened to nuke the community on here since i just arrived myself. lak secret community if you’re out there please speak to us … god… it’s so dark in here…....)

it’s been a mini goal of mine to breathe a little life into the tag. this isn't my primary team but i am very fond of them!! i can count on my hands every kings blog ive met here, i legitimately think i know them all?? we are so small i don't even know if we can be counted as a community. but i hope to help make the tag a warm and fun place where we can yell about our failteam <3

2024-25 LAK RENAISSANCE RAAHHHHHHH

#help i frew up..............#shoutout to the solo-stans who followed their girls to this team im kissing u on the bucket . we're siblings fr #edit: TUMBLR ATE MY READMORE……#la kings #lak lb #los angeles kings #hockey primer #primers #<- not really but needs to be filed here for my sanity #asks #user rabbitwizards

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xxsycamore · 1 year ago

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A Night Too Hot for Sleeping

↬ 🧊 ❝ It's enough to cool off your pulse points in order to cool off your whole body. Stay still and let me work.❞ On a night too hot for sleeping, Chevalier leaves the bed to prepare his plan for cooling off the two of you. And he tells you to wait for him naked.

Chevalier Michel x f!Reader • rating: E (MDNI) • tags: Ice Play; Temperature Play; Vaginal Fingering; Vaginal Sex; Neck Kissing; Creampie; Aftercare • wordcount: 2,060 • masterlist

a/n: for darling @aquagirl1978 <3 Hope you enjoy ~ Part of Late Summer Rendezvous, prompt 11: A night too hot for sleeping & prompt 10: Hot skin + Cold sensations

It's too hot to sleep tonight.

In the act of throwing the covers off your body, your hand accidentally bumps into Chevalier's on the other side of the bed.

Oh no. Worried that you startled him in his sleep, you freeze for a second, listening to his breathing - but he surprises you in turn, breaking the dead silence of the hot summer night.

"So you too can't sleep."

Seeing right through you is perhaps not such a difficult task for Chevalier when you've shown one too many signs. But while you were tossing around, turning in various positions to seek after the imaginary coldness on the bedsheets where the heat of your body hasn't touched, you thought Chevalier was sleeping. Turns out, he's once again the wiser one, remaining completely still even in his troubled awakeness so as to not produce more body heat in useless movement.

You mutter a hum of assent. "It's awfully hot these days. Might as well give up on sleeping and do something productive instead..."

Chevalier produces a breathy noise that can be both interpreted as a rare show of annoyance towards the smoldering temperatures, and... a tiny sneer.

"You're starting to sound like me, simpleton. But it's futile. The heat would get in the way of your concentration."

Staring at the barely visible contours of the intricate design of the ceiling above, you frown a little at the accent he put on the word you. Right, of course, this won't be a problem for him. But the facts are that he's right here in bed with you, not seated at his desk busying himself with things more productive.

"Instead we can do something to cool ourselves off and attempt to get rest tonight."

You blink at the implication, hazy mind beginning to go through the options once again. Before your mouth can open for a suggestion, the king-size bed whispers a soft creak as Chevalier lifts his weight off the mattress, telling you he'll be returning in a bit.

And to wait for him naked.

You understimulated the difficulty of the task Chevalier left you with. Granted, he's seen every millimeter of your naked flesh, has studied it like a battle map and has familiarized himself with every curve and edge. You're aware of that, and the hint of embarrassment serves only to annoy, in the form of an additional layer of heat on your cheeks. Illogical but sure to gradually fade the less you think about it.

You have a bigger problem. A big, wet problem between your legs.

Chevalier had taught your body to get wet for him upon asking you to strip. Now completely nude, you remove your shaky fingers from between your legs with the liquid proof of that shocking realization. There wasn't as much as a hint of anything suggestive about to take place in this bed upon his arrival, yet here you are, waiting for him ready for something that's not gonna happen.

Your embarrassment suddenly makes more sense, and now you have to deal with two pestering, irritating sensations ruling over your body at once.

The bedroom doors are pushed open and the noise startles you, even if you've been expecting to hear it any second now. Chevalier doesn't bother casting any light upon the bed as he makes his way to it.

"It would be best if you lie on your stomach for this."

Another wave of arousal coils in the pit of your belly as you comply.

The darkness is not on your side as it allows you to make out Chevalier's gaze but not the contents of the tray in his hands. He sets it aside as he begins to take off his own sleepwear behind you where you can't see. He could be down to full nakedness just like you, your mind already vividly painting the picture.

"Brace yourself, this might surprise you."

What will? Hands grasping the sheets, you gulp as your throat dries and your senses sharpen up with anticipation.

Chevalier's warm hand takes hold of the sole of your left foot, as if to keep it in place and prevent sudden movements. Your curiosity is eating you up inside.

Then you feel it. Shocking stimuli of freezing coldness on your ankle, making your whole body shiver.

"Ice..." You gasp out, finally unveiling the mysterious sensation Chevalier inflicted on your body.

You can hear the smirk in his voice as he replies with a single word.

"Correct."

Just as you get used to the welcomed coldness, Chevalier moves to your other ankle, rubbing the ice cube there too.

Barely touching the skin, he traces along the length of your leg and he arrives at the back of your knee and presses it there.

You gasp out your surprise, shoving your head in the pillow to prevent any other such noises from escaping because of how embarrassing it would seem to fall for the same trick thrice, and you can't help it. The fold of your knee is so, so sensitive, and the strong sensation makes good use of it. Chevalier explains, as if reading your thoughts.

"It's enough to cool off your pulse points in order to cool off your whole body. Stay still and let me work."

You had no intentions of doing anything but. You feel the melted ice stream down your skin to soak into the bedsheet and Chevalier replaces it with a new one when he moves to your other knee.

His fingertips are icy as he holds your wrist flush to the bed, even if you've gotten used to the startling sensation and are doing your best at remaining still. You love that he insists on holding you.

The crooks of your elbows receive the same chilling treatment. His next command is for you to prop up on your elbows, so that he can have a better reach of your neck. It's a spot you anticipated, pulsing with heat, and thankfully he doesn't neglect it.

The rivulets of cold water make their way down the valley of your breasts, and for a second you think the position doesn't allow for Chevalier to see them. You're surprised when he traces them with a finger.

"Are you feeling colder now?"

Holding your position with only your lower body rested flush against the bed, you suck on your lip. In order to reach all your spots, Chevalier had moved on top of you, his muscular bare thighs straddling your own legs.

"I... Yes. Thank you."

"Liar."

Ice-cold fingertips trace along your spine, sending a strong shiver. They arrive at your backside, downwards, and then directly at the crux of your nethers.

"This place is burning hot. Why is that?"

Chevalier collects your slick, and you can't see him but you can visualize him stretching it between his fingers for a better look. You have no answer, the only thing escaping past your lips an embarrassing whine.

"Looks like the heat has gotten to your head. No need to answer me."

Chevalier's fingers ghost past your center, and you moan as they make contact with your burning folds. The temperature difference is stimulating you more than you want to admit, and you lower yourself down so you can arch your hips instead. You can't help it, you want more.

Chevalier enters you with two fingers in a familiar gesture of making sure you're stretched out and ready, his ministrations devoid of any means to bring pleasure in the current moment and instead loaded with promise of drowning you in it later. You hear the faint noise of his fingernails scraping against the food tray and water drops hitting the surface. Your eyes open wide.

A low, guttural grunt comes from behind you as you're left with the pulse drumming in your ears, insides clenching as you lay open and ready. Soon you understand what made Chevalier produce that sound.

As he pushes in, your body is sent in shocking yet pleasurable tremors - the man above you is quick to capture your wrists and hold you in place as he slowly slides home. He'd used the ice on his raging arousal in order to make that first thrust euphoric for you. And it's exactly that. He makes sure to go in deeper at a slow pace, gradually stretching you out so you can feel everything, one millimeter at a time - until he bottoms out and lets the sensation be enjoyed to its very end, by both of you.

The smoldering temperature of your core quickly consumes the coldness, but the pleasure only builds up. Chevalier envelopes your body from behind completely, keeping you prone underneath him as he seeks your neck. His lips find your pulse point, where the ice kissed your skin previously, and hastily overwrites it with kisses of his own. Sensation in reverse, Chevalier's mouth is hot on your freshly chilled neck, and you find that just as stimulating. He's been inside you for only a couple of thrusts yet your body already sings with approaching climax.

"Let me hear you."

You grasp the sheets harder, knuckles turning white, and abandon your last remains of decency as you let Chevalier hear what he's doing to you. His content grunt is barely audible under your own sounds yet unmistakable as it makes your insides convulse around his thick length.

Chevalier plows into you at a fast, rewarding pace, fucking you into the mattress until you're a puddle of pleasure, the only thing preventing your body from being completely limp and pliant being the growing need for release that makes you all spasms and tightening muscles and desperate sounds. Chevalier doesn't tease; at this point you'll get what you want, and perhaps that's exactly what he wants, as well. Still, with your position preventing you from clinging onto him, you're completely at his mercy.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the hot night, and Chevalier's thrusts grow frantic, making you lose control. You scream his name out loud and throw yourself at the consuming fire, climaxing hard around Chevalier, sucking him deeper in as each wave of pleasure rocks through your body.

Chevalier holds you down through it all, fucking into you to hear another scream, and another, letting all that he hears, and sees, and feels, inevitably bring him to the edge of his own climax. Until he tips over.

Holding you by the shoulders, he bottoms out in you harshly, hitting your deepest parts and spilling his semen there. Making you feel it paint your insides white; seconds becoming eternity until he thrusts again, just as deeply, and again and again, until your walls milk every last drop of him.

You can only compare it to the rumbling purr of a large tiger when he contently pulls his length out of you to watch his cum leak out of your hole, aftershocks of pleasure sending shivers down your body and likely he feels it too.

You don't know how Chevalier resists the urge to plop down on the bed all spent and glowing with satisfaction, but there he is, tending to your body instead. He cleans you with a wet cloth that interestingly was on the same tray he brought into the room. Which makes you remember...

"The ice must have melted already... You couldn't use it on yourself... I'm sorry."

Without missing a beat, Chevalier carefully finishes up cleaning you, letting out a small huff.

"You needn't worry about that. A small exercise like that naturally helps with both regulating body heat and bettering the quality of sleep."

Finally feeling the mattress dip again with Chevalier's weight, you relax and observe how right he is about it all. Even after what you just did, you don't feel all that hot. It's mostly dark, but you can still see the contours of his chiseled face as he lays his head on the pillow.

You suck on your bottom lip in thought.

"So we could just do that since the beginning?"

Realizing what you just said, you feel the embarrassment creep on your cheeks once again, and even though it's hot, you still feel like hiding your face under the covers. Chevalier holds your gaze with an unmistakable little smirk that tells you volumes about exactly why he chose not to just do that since the beginning.

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @ale-teodora @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran @pumpumnnnp @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @kimmy-banana @devonares @galaxyprison @sadshaxk @starshards26 @thewitchofbooks @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @keen19thcenturygoatsstudent @lordsister @ikemen-banshou @themysticalbeing @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning @ikemenlover24 @mcofthemansion @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-writer @tele86 @lovely-bubb1es @aria-chikage @babyblue0t7 @rhodoliteschaos @aceuuuuu @princesspraya Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikemen prince chevalier #ikemen chevalier #ikemen prince chevalier michel #chevalier michel #ikepri fanfic #ikepri smut #ikemen prince fanfic #ikemen prince smut #late summer rendezvous ccc #late summer rendezvous #ikemen #otome

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sincerelyyycece · 8 months ago

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if you seriously propose that i sit on your lap, i will kill you.

Starting the summer vacation off on the wrong foot with the situation of sharing a cabin with Sirius Black.

As Y/N walks into the train station, her ears are filled with loud chatter from the crowds and a deafening whistle blows. It had been a busy day at the Kings Cross station. People are probably going on vacation; after all, it is summer. She shrugs as she picks up her bag, huffing as she struggles to transport it due to its weight. She reconsiders whether her excessive packing was a good idea. She drops her bag the moment a body collides with hers. The stranger apologizes audibly. "Seriously?" she scoffs, annoyed with the stranger.

"M-miss, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to bump into you. I apologize!" the stranger frantically exclaimed. "It’s fine," she said in a tone that clearly did not sound 'fine'. The stranger's constant apologies irritated her. She kneels down once more, picking up her bag and checking for damage. The stranger also kneeled down, wanting to assist. The stranger cast a glance at her, allowing him a clear view of her. "Y/N?" the stranger inquired. How does this guy know my name? She took a slow look at him.

When she realized who it was, she tried hard not to roll her eyes. "Black," she says, unimpressed. He grinned amusingly. "Miss Studious actually takes a vacation," he joked. I sighed and returned my attention to my bag. "If you have nothing else to say, I recommend you leave now before you miss your train," I said. He just shrugged and walked away. I stare at his figure, stunned. This man. I shook my head and walked towards the train.

Walking to my assigned cabin, I found myself making eye contact with familiar eyes once more. He seemed surprised to see me again. "Are you stalking me, Ms. Y/L/N?" I scoff, replying, "You wish!" and waving at an employee for assistance. They smiled and greeted me. "I was wondering if there was any other cabin available left?" I inquired. The employee shook their head, giving me a sympathetic smile. "Unfortunately, ma'am, all the cabins are full." I nod in response.

"However, I can ask other passengers if they are willing to switch cabins with you," they offer. I look between the train employee and Sirius, debating whether to change. It might not be that bad to share a cabin with him, right? I sighed defeatily and shook my head at the employee. "I’ll manage here; thank you." Hopefully, I’m making the right choice here. They smiled again before continuing on their way. I entered the cabin and stowed my bag in the compartments above our heads.

"Hi there, Roomie," Sirius said, waving at me. I disregarded him. I scanned the seats and noticed two bags. I pointed to the bags and asked Sirius, "Are these yours?" He nodded, still wearing that dopey smile. "Can you move them?" I gently inquired. He shook his head, making my brow furrowed in frustration. "No?" I crossed my arms, impatiently tapping my foot on the carpeted floor. "Why not?" I asked, keeping my composure. "Just because," he shrugged, raising my blood pressure. I am beginning to regret my decision.

I take a deep breath to calm myself down. "What about that bag beside you?" I inquire. He points to an olive-green duffel bag. "This?" I respond with a nod. When he shook his head "no" again, I raised my voice to a shout. "Where do you-" I exhaled loudly to calm myself down. "Where do you expect me to sit, Black?" I ask. He smirks. I could tell he was about to say something inappropriate. "What if y--" I interrupted him. "If you seriously propose that I sit on your lap, I will kill you," I stated.

He suppressed a laugh and cleared his throat. "Do your words always have to be mean?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "Do you have to be insufferable all the time?" I shot back. A brief moment of silence passed. He simply smiled and then moved his bag. "Touché." I sat beside him and tried to ignore him throughout the train ride. As the train rattled on, the tension between us lingered, palpable but unspoken. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks seemed to emphasize the increasing distance between our seats.

The train ride continued, punctuated by awkward looks and mutual unease that neither of us was brave enough to express. Despite the picturesque sights outside, our internal landscapes remained chaotic as we were both engrossed in our own thoughts and completely aware of one another's presence. The stillness between us became louder with each mile, a sign of the unspoken tensions that remained simmering beneath the surface.

#sirius black x reader #sirius black imagine #sirius black fic #sirius black #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n

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vividxpages · 8 months ago

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The apricot trees stand proud and in full season when the letter arrives.

It is a warm summer night, a sky full of stars over the heads of Nikandros' family. He sits at the head of the table, the senior of the household and he is surrounded by his sons and their wives, his many grandchildren chasing each other through the gardens or still remaining seated to enjoy the last bits of dinner.

To his right, his wife takes a sip of wine and smiles at him and Nikandros thinks about how thankful he is to be granted with all of this. To live another day in a long life that has seen more days of peace than war.

He overlooks the small company they make as someone new arrives in the patio, all business and quick steps into his direction.

The Kyros is an old man now.

Over the course of his life, many letters have come and gone through his hands. Messages from the capitols, strategic correspondences on how to rebuild two countries into one. The first wedding invitations and swearing-ins in the new and rewarding peace times.

But the messenger is pale, jaw clenched and fidgeting with his hands as he approaches the table.

Nikandros nods at him and with a little less hesitation, the messenger from Arles stops the head of the tables and hands him an envelope with a respectful bow.

His hands are calm and steady as he breaks the sigil, his eyes roaming over the short message before they start at the beginning and some place deep inside of him starts to translate words into facts into reality.

Nikandros,

Although I wish my words would find you in a more adequate way, I see fit to inform you that my beloved husband and your king has passed away peacefully in his sleep.

I do not have the words, I am not sure I will have them tomorrow or on any day I will live without him. But I want you to know that in our last, happy days together, he often mentioned how he could not wait to see his most trustworthy and loyal friend again soon.

Until we see each other, soon.

Laurent

Silently, Nikandros puts the letter down on the table and watches as his thumb brushes over the parchment, its broken dark blue sigil. He doesn't feel their textures on his skin nor does he hear what his wife speaks to him, until he feels her hand on his shoulder.

He looks up and meets her and their children's concerned gaze, the younger ones in their family proceeding to eat dinner as the messenger quickly disappears down the path he has come from. Nikandros doesn't remember having dismissed him.

His love frowns and Nikandros watches himself take her hand, pressing a apologetic kiss to her knuckles before he rises and excuses himself with a short phrase that sounds like gibberish to his own ears.

He is eerily calm as he walks away, feet aimlessly carrying him into the wilderness.

At the top of the hill, he sees two of his grandchildren, cavorting through the meadow and laughing with each other. Their laughter echoes over the grounds of his home, endless and forever taking up a place in his heart.

A window to the past that isn't just the past anymore, but a time where Damianos has been alive.

His feet carry him right into the apricot tree grove and it will take almost the whole night until the Kyros returns home again, composed and with plans to leave for Vere in the early light of a new day.

#captive prince #damen of akielos #nikandros #short story #my writing

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cherrylng · 4 months ago

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My Chemical Romance - The Black Parade final US tour live report [ROCKIN'ON (July 2008)]

MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE

The Black Parade's ‘final’ US tour. 3 West Coast shows & finale in New York follow-up report!

Text & text photo : Yukiko Amida

13th Feb. A newsletter arrived informing us that My Chemical Romance would be touring the US from the end of March. "Before trying to make a new album, we decided to take another turn", it said, "When we started this band, we could feel you guys right in front of us. It's time to give that another go. See you soon," they wrote. I knew they would probably play one last show in the US to close it out, but I was surprised to find out that they would be travelling around the country for over a month. They had started touring the world just before the album release, starting with Summer Sonic in 2006, and had been touring without a break, with a schedule that would leave you breathless just by watching them. In the meantime, they've grown into an arena-class band thanks to the huge success of their album, and now they've dared to choose a smaller venue for the real ‘end’ of The Black Parade….. I want to see this at all costs! I want to see it too much!!! So I decided to fly to the West Coast. I decided to go to the West Coast at the beginning of April because Eddie Vedder had announced that he was going on his first solo tour around the same time, limited to 10 shows. I made the strongest dream travel plan in my history: to see Eddie twice in Vancouver, then see My Chemical Romance in San Francisco, stay at a friend's house in Bend, Oregon for a few days, see My Chemical Romance twice in Portland and return to Japan. Remembering that the Philadelphia show I was supposed to go to last May was cancelled due to food poisoning among the members, I was praying that they wouldn't eat chicken…

4th Apr. From Vancouver to San Francisco after Eddie's dense stage performance, where I had to check several times to make sure my nose wasn't bleeding. I was at the airport early in the morning at 5.30am, eating a lot of Burger King to prepare for My Chemical Romance, which was 15 hours away. I arrived at the hotel around noon and went to the front of the venue to see fans who had slept in the night before (this was the second day in San Francisco) wrapped in blankets and about 30 people already lined up. I had a reserved seat ticket that day, so I went back to the hotel and took a nap, and when I came back at the opening time, there was a long queue that surrounded the venue for one block. Every time I go to a My Chemical Romance show, especially overseas, I always think that the fans are young. And I feel they are getting younger and younger every year. While we were shivering with body warmers on, most of them were enjoying themselves in short sleeves, saying things like "Oh no, it's a bit cold…". There were a lot of kids with their parents, and I thought I must be the oldest fan who wasn't with a child, so I finally entered the venue, stood in another long queue, bought a bunch of T-shirts and took my seat. The Warfield is a historic venue where the Grateful Dead played their 15th anniversary show in 1980, and has a large theatre-like balcony with reserved seating above the standing floor. Even at the top, the steep incline gives a good view of the stage, and for a capacity of 2,000 people, it feels quite intimate. The first support act, Drive By, is already well known amongst My Chemical Romance fans (vocalist & guitarist Todd [Price]* filled in for Frank on the Japan tour last January when he had to return home to the US after a sudden illness!), and the floor was hot from early on. Billy Talent, who followed, had interrupted work on his new album to rush in and gave a performance that made you feel he was at the top of his game, with his creativity on the rise. The girls in the back were screaming so loudly that even using torn toilet paper as ear plugs hardly helped, and the double punch of Benjamin's super high-pitched vocals was already crushing my ears…….. But the next time the lights went down, I had taken out my earplugs, and when My Chemical Romance appeared on stage, the volume increased by a factor of 100 and I was surrounded by screams, but then the intro and start of ‘Thank You For The Venom’ and the huge sing-along from the start blew it all away, and I forgot about my ears.

Considering that Mikey was not present at last year's Budokan concert, I was first of all moved just by the fact that all the members were there, and furthermore, they were now brimming with energy generated by the sense of accomplishment and liberation they felt after having performed The Black Parade as their second ego and shedding that, they looked dazzlingly bright. The aggressive ‘This is How I Disappear’ was like a shower of super-high water pressure, with every single note coming down from the stage with such force that it shook the entire venue with laughable catharsis, and ‘Dead!’ was the third song to bring the crowd to a climax, and I nearly fell off the balcony when I heard the guitars that started next. Hey, this is ‘Hang 'Em High'!! This song, which continues to be the most played song on my now antique iPod mini, was finally available to me live!! It's impossible, it's even cooler than the album, the guitar is so far forward and the vocals aren't muffled at all, I want to listen to it at home with this much volume… I kept thinking about it, almost letting myself go and then rushing back to consciousness, and as I kept repeating it, I realised that it was only 2 minutes and 45 seconds long to begin with. It's a short song, so it was over in no time at all.

And then, before I could even think about it, I heard the keyboards for ‘Welcome to the Black Parade’ and suddenly my head was clear. Seeing Gerard, who had mic'd the audience several times since the start of the show, listening intently to everyone's singing, I felt I understood why My Chemical Romance had decided to do this tour one last time. They are making sure. The band has grown through the experience of making this album and living through their own fears and what "The Black Parade" was for them, for their fans, and the fans who have taken in their image and message have also grown to the point where they can sing in their own voices, "We'll carry on"—I felt that they were confirming this with their own eyes and ears. This feeling was reinforced towards the end of ‘Famous Last Words’, which Gerard began by saying, "It's still the hardest song I've ever sung". Gerard seemed relieved to hear the audience singing in a firm voice, "I am not afraid to keep on living / I am not afraid to walk this world alone", as he had stated publicly that "I'll be taking a break for the next two years, so this will be my last tour for now". Another emotional moment of the day was when Gerard returned to the dark stage after the end of ‘Cancer’ and a quiet keyboard solo, and sang (just a little bit) a slow version of their first song, 'Vampires Will Never Hurt You'. From there, the band rolled into ‘Give 'Em Hell, Kid’, followed by a vertical cover of Bob Dylan's 'Desolation Row', and closed with the classic 'Helena'. The band must have been pushing forward almost non-stop for nearly seven years since they started, but the band's uncanny energy, with not the slightest hint of fatigue or weariness, left me in awe.

8th April. We took a bus from Bend to Portland early in the morning, but to our surprise, it was completely covered in snow from late at night. But we arrived not too late, about three and a half hours, and there was no snow in Portland, but a light rain. I heard that Gerard was signing copies of “The Umbrella Academy”, a comic book he wrote himself, so I stood in line at the comic book store in the occasional sleet shower. After three freezing hours, I finally made it to Mr Way's** table and was about to have him sign my copy of the March issue of Rockin'On, which featured an interview with Mikey, when he seemed to take a liking to a full-page shot of his brother and a photo of him at the Budokan in Japan. He asked me repeatedly if he could have it, so I reluctantly, but with great pleasure, gave it to him. While I was still excited, I hit it off with a girl I met on the bus back downtown (I later discovered we were close in age and felt even closer to her……), and we decided to go to the show together. The Crystal Ballroom, the venue for the show, also has a long history, and is a popular venue for its dance floor that sways as if it were floating, and the beautiful and funky interior designed by McMenamins, which operates microbrew pubs all over Oregon and beyond. The front of the stage was packed, but the side partitioned bar area, which is only open to over-20s, was relatively empty and cosy. The day started with the dramatic ‘Sleep’, which took the audience by surprise. I had no idea that this song, which is so painful on the album, could sound so powerful in their current hands. The amazing power of the band grew with each song, with Ray's dynamic guitar playing, with his afro and physique looking even stronger, Bob's acrobatic drumming, which I have never seen before, with his hair longer and (for some reason) wearing a red flannel shirt, and Mikey, also with longer hair and more beautiful features, moving around and unleashing the bass. Frank's guitar seemed not to be in good shape that day, but his passion for playing was as strong as anyone else's. Confidence could be felt from every faint note of each sound. And speaking of confidence, Gerard, who had been persistently wearing long sleeves, was proudly showing off his upper arms as he wore sleeveless for the first time in a long time (since the hot Warped Tour, I think). The confidence that they had overcome something so huge, as if they were trying to repel the demons that had possessed them, made them look one or two sizes bigger than they were on stage. The last song of the second album, ‘I Never Told You What I Do For a Living’, was a joy to hear on this day! James, now an indispensable keyboard player, sang the Motley Crue classic ‘Home Sweet Home’ and the flow to ‘Cancer’ also made me cry.

9th Apr. Day 2 in Portland is Gerard's birthday! The mood was even more festive than usual, with a cake-shaped balloon raised by a fan at the edge of the stage. After the second song, ‘Dead!’, Gerard himself led the rendition of Happy Birthday, and even after the song, ‘This is How I Disappear’, the audience got excited with a huge chorus of “I want to listen to it one more time!” In the past two days, I've heard all three songs from "Live and Rare" that are not on the album. I was especially happy to hear ‘Kill All Your Friends’, which I had always wanted to hear live. This song was supposed to be the sixth song on The Black Parade, but was cut from the final version and released as the B-side of ‘Famous Last Words’, and when I first heard it, I thought it sounded simpler than the other songs, and I was convinced that the reason was to avoid making the album too long, but later I could see what Gerard meant when he said later, "I wish we had put it on the album". Behind the disturbing title of the song, ‘Kill All Your Friends’, there is the reality that ‘I’ am stuck in the town where I grew up, and the only time I can see ‘you’, my classmate who has left my hometown, is at someone's funeral. With the disappointment and fear that "you will leave again, and I will die here", I decided that, "I should kill my friend, because then I will see you again". It is an ironic expression of twisted feelings. And when they sing the part where they repeat "You'll never take me alive / Do what it takes to survive, 'cause I'm still here" in a live setting, they are giving each and every one of us who feels the same way the courage to stand up for ourselves. So the flow of this song and ‘I'm Not Okay’ is the strongest, and it is burned into my mind as an explosive climax that releases all the kids who are about to be torn apart by their pent-up feelings at once. I'm really glad I came to see it, thank you! I desperately suppressed the urge to get on a plane to Salt Lake City, the next venue, instead of Tokyo the next day.

Then 8th May. I was unsure about the last New York show when it was announced after I got my West Coast tickets, but after seeing this tour I became more and more determined not to miss this finale, so I flew to New York as well. Luckily, the Honda Civic Tour, headlined by Panic at the Disco, had just arrived in New York and I was able to catch the second day of the show. The stage was cute, with flower-decorated microphones and a papier-mâché set that looked like a school play, and they played their new album "Pretty. Odd." The new album's dreamy world was recreated, and it was a pleasant surprise to see the old and new songs complementing each other better than expected at the show. Can't wait to see them again at Summer Sonic!

Finally, 9th May. It has rained heavily since this morning. Passing by the entrance to the standing area of Madison Square Garden, plastic sheets, raincoats, chairs, and bags of snacks were strewn about, a testament to the large number of people queuing in the rain. In addition to being the finale of the tour, there was another reason why this show was so special, as Mikey wrote in his 25th February newsletter. 'About a year ago now, my brother brought me here to see Smashing Pumpkins. So I looked at my brother's face and said, "This is what I want to be…… We have to do this…… Someday we're going to be on that stage." We both felt exactly the same thing. And now we can announce the realisation of that dream performance.' After warming up with Drive By and Taking Back Sunday, which Adam [Lazzara] happily said was his dad's birthday, the bass line begins as if to give Mikey the leading role. When the dream performance started with 'Give 'Em Hell, Kid,' my heart was so hot that I was almost overcome with emotion. Surrounded by fans in the arena and in the stands next to the stage, the five of them looked more nervous than ever before, but this was soon swept away by the joy of having made their dream come true, and the air was filled with a sense of celebration and thanksgiving. Midway through the show, when Gerard wanted to sit everyone [the band] down to watch the Wave, Ray apparently whispered to him that they could do it standing up, but Gerard just laughed and shook his head and said, "No, we'll make it more dramatic!" and they ended up sitting down, and it was amazing to see a really dramatic huge wave of excitement rise up and flow throughout the stands. I'll never forget the smiling faces of the audience raising their hands and the members just smiling and looking on in disbelief.

Before the final song, ‘Famous Last Words’, Gerard told us an anecdote about seeing Smashing Pumpkins at this venue, and he said that Mikey brought him there. During the interlude, Gerard picked up Mikey from behind (he was still playing the bass!) and looked so happy. The song, played with such brotherly love, was filled with more joy and hope than I could ever have imagined. Countless mobile phone lights flashed during ‘Desert Song’, and a huge chorus echoed through the last song, ‘Helena’, as if they were regretting every second that passed. The final "goodbye, goodnight" turned into a scream, and amidst truly head-splitting applause and cheers, Gerard said. "Even if we never do another show, we'll keep on living—" These last words have caused a stir, with some people thinking it means the end of the band, but when I heard them there, and now that I've written them down, I can't help but feel a little more pleased to have made it this far, and less anxious about it. It was The Black Parade that opened with the song ‘The End’ and showed me that the end is the beginning. And the end of the tour, when we see where it has led us, shows us that the place is so beautiful and that we are so much stronger for going there. When My Chemical Romance comes back to us again, we want to be able to make them proud. As one of the fans from all over the world who has been given more strength than I can take, that's all I can wish for now.

Getting pumped up at Burger King in the morning

The Warfield before the storm

From Portland to Bend by prop plane

Return trip by bus through snowy landscape

A stylish sign at the Crystal Ballroom

Bought a T-shirt without thinking

A flyer for Frank's Skeleton Crew / advertisement for the Portland show

A poster for a book signing with cartoonist Way-sensei (pics by Mycki)

A very personal New York specialty pancake that was treated to our correspondent Akemi Nakamura.

The brilliant stage of PATD decorated with flowers

The poster of the fateful Smashing Pumpkins concert was found at the venue!

Translator’s Note: Sooooo I bet some of you didn't see me coming in with this translation of a MCR live report, eh? 👀

Fun fact: In Japan, My Chemical Romance’s short name isn’t called ‘MCR’, but rather shortened down as “マイケミ / Mykemi”. Just like in the western world, it’s not unusual that Japanese fans will shorten band names to make it easier to pronounce, but in this case, it was shortened based on their writing system. You can see this with Red Hot Chili Peppers / Redochiri and Smashing Pumpkins / Sumapan, for example.

*I’ve checked on who Todd Price of Drive By is and, uhhhh, yeah… other than the frankly brief Wikipedia article about the band, it turns out he had just passed away earlier this year in March. Didn’t expect that when I Googled for more information, but here we are.

**In the original text, in this particular sentence, the journalist actually referred to Gerard as ‘Way-sensei’, an honorific term of respect towards him. But this sentence was the only instance that the word ‘sensei’ was conferred onto him, so most likely this was used while he’s Gerard Way the comic book artist, not as Gerard Way of My Chemical Romance. I used ‘Mr Way’ in that sentence instead as it still conveyed a form of respect towards him.

#Gerard Way #Ray Toro #Frank Iero #Mikey Way #Bob Bryar #My Chemical Romance #The Black Parade era #my scan #translation #live report #ROCKIN'ON #ROCKIN'ON July 2008

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spicy30 · 1 month ago

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The Princess and the Queen

Pairing: Daario Naharis x Tall!Baratheon!Reader, Jon Snow x Tall!Baratheon!Reader (separate)

cw: Childbirth

Rating: 16+

tags: AFAB reader, no use of Y/N, unrequited love, angst/comfort, (Not Proofread)

“He wants you back on the small council?” Selyse questioned while her babe fed. Why on earth would Robert want Stannis back on the small council? Furthermore, now that it was proven to Selyse that she could bear children it would be best to try once more for a son. She wasn’t getting any younger and it was only proper for a family to have at least one son and one daughter, each with their own spare.

If Stannis were to stay in King’s Landing, it would vastly lessen her chances of carrying another babe.

“He wants to raise his heir alongside mine” Stannis speaks as he watches his little girl feed on her mother. She was growing quite plump these days. No matter, he’d rather be a fat child than one who was starved and malnourished.

“Will you accept?” Selyse asked, scared for the answer, though she knew it deep down.

“It is not my place to refuse the king, it is my duty to serve him. I will accept.” Stannis spoke, sitting down and intending to send a message to the servants he left behind to have them pack his and his wife’s things.

“She is too young, Stannis! How will she remember her home?” The remark annoyed Stannis. Dragonstone was not his home. Storm's End was his home, his ancestral home, his home, and the Storm lands his by right .

“It will do her well to be raised in court, her husband one day, I don’t doubt will live in King’s Landing serving the king. She should be raised with the southern costumes of ladies here in King’s Landing.” Stannis paid no mind to his wife as she stood next to him.

“What about me?” Selyse’s voice was filled with urgency. This was her child, her first healthy child. “You cannot possibly hope to take her from me just yet! She is only a summer old!” Selyse trembled, her child could not be taken away from her, not yet! No, she was not the son she had hoped for but he would come in due time. “Tell me you will not take her from me! Not yet!”

Stannis put down the quill and stood towering over his wife. “You and my daughter will stay here in King’s Landing. Then on her seventh name-day, you will return to being lady of DragonStone as is your role.” He spoke in an absolute tone and left no room to argue.

“What if I have more children within those seven years?” Selyse asked as she held her daughter close as she fed, ignoring the conversation between her parents.

“Then you will have them and they will be raised on Dragon Stone till they are of age to return to King’s Landing.” Turning away from her, he sealed his message and left for the cages of birds so that he may send the message.

…

Cersei watched as the child stared up at her as she ate. She has little patience for it. She was on her eighth moon and soon she would give Robert an heir to the throne. Yet here she was, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms seated next to a child who had followed her around for the past eight months. She watched as the child looked at her and then her swollen belly. The child reached to touch her. The child’s hands were slobbered with saliva from eating her food with her hands. Cersei quickly held the child’s arm before speaking a firm no.

The child obliged and kept her hands to herself. She was obedient, she’d give her that much credit.

“Babe?” The child pointed at her. Cersei rolled her eyes internally. “Yes, there is a babe inside,” Cersei responded as she drank from her cup. “You’re hungry?” The child asked. Cersei resisted making a face. “Yes I am hungry, that is why we are eating.”

Cersi watched as the girl looked at her plate and then back at her. She watched as the child wiped her hands and then picked up a piece of meat and extended her hand towards Cersei. Cersei looked around the table looking at the faces that surrounded her. The faces of her siblings and Lady Baratheon looked back. She forced a smile and put out her hand expecting the child to give her the meat.

So when Cersei watched as the child opened her mouth and drew her hand back to eat it herself, annoyance was not the word she was saying she was feeling for the child. Her bastard of a brother, Tyrion, barked out a laugh while Jaime smiled. Lady Baratheon looked appalled that her daughter would do such a thing.

“Your food,” The child spoke and pointed to Cersei’s plate. “Eat.” The child finished going back to stuffing her face.

Cersei watched as her mother gave the child a stern talking to. Cersei ignored most of it and soon excused herself as she walked out she saw the girl’s two hounds gifted to her by Robert playing and slobbering. Much too like their owner for her liking and dogs as such belonged in the kennels.

The little girl was insistent. Day and night she would find traces of her scattered all throughout the castle. From her future baby's nursery room to her bedroom to the maids, to even her dresses! She soiled everything touched! How the little minx managed to mark everything that belonged to Cersei was beyond her. She never even gave the girl the time of day! How could such a girl find her way into her chambers?

Stopping, Cersei looked back and saw that little girl playing with a knight cape feigning innocence. “What are you doing?” Cersei asked, unamused by the child’s antics. The child flinched before dashing behind the guard and peaking out smiling. Rolling her eyes she commanded the guard to take the little girl back to her mother or the Septa.

In her room Cersei sat, resting, there was not much a woman could do when she was due soon.

The Maester had advised her to stay in her room so that it would make things easier for the birthing process. She could not wait to meet her child, her first child. Made between her and Robert. Cersei hoped that this child would prompt him to forget about the Stark girl and help her forget that disastrous wedding night when he called that Stark woman’s name. It infuriated her to unknown ends. A dead woman, to think she would have such an impact not only on her but her child's life. Cersei would not permit it.

A crash sounded on the opposite side of her room. Her head turned and her face contorted to disbelief and disgust. It was the Baratheon girl, Stannis’s daughter. When and how did she get in here? The girl looked up at Cersei from the floor through her hair before looking back and grinding. Cersei stood up and walked to the girl to examine where she had come from.

“Where did you come from?” Cersei questioned as she looked down. She watched as the child stood up and walked to her bed.

“I asked you a question!” Cersei spoke louder with annoyance in her voice. How dare this child ignore her!? “Girl!” She called out once more before walking over to the girl and sitting down on the bed once more. She watched the girl struggle to get on the bed, the bed sheets falling as she climbed and climbed, her short stubby legs struggling and for a moment Cersei envisioned her own child like this girl. Finally, the girl was on the bed but on the very edge. Cersei rolled her eyes as the child kneeled and smiled.

“You’re going to” Cersei spoke before she saw her lose her balance on the edge of the bed the girl made a face while attempting to grab onto the pillow before falling on the ground. Something about the face she made while falling made Cersei laugh. It was the first time she had ever laughed at the girl's antics. Everyone else always laughed at the girl but that was because it was at Cersei’s own expense. She watched as the child sat up looking at her with a confused and angry face, almost as if she was questioning why she laughed at her. It made Cersei laugh more. Cersei thinks this is the most she has laughed since being married to Robert.

From that day Cersei let the child follow her. The child’s antics did not stop, only now did Cersei realize just how clumsy this girl was. She was always falling or getting hurt. It made Cersei laugh, so she kept the girl around, not that the girl would follow her wishes if she sent her off.

“Don’t write on that!” Cersei stated as she watched the girl flinch as written on the paper instead of on the walls. It had only been a couple of weeks and the child’s behavior had significantly improved. Along with having her dogs where they belonged. She was much more well-behaved than she would’ve been if her mother actually paid attention to her and Septa was more strict with the girl.

There wouldn’t be a day when Cersei didn’t have the girl by her side. They would share their meals together, go out together and Cersei would walk her to her own room before retiring to her own bed chambers. Being with this girl had many perks Cersei discovered. Those in court seemed more eager to earn her favor and opinions turned for the better. Robert would even talk to her slightly more often asking about his niece whom he has taken a keen interest in upon learning what she did to her brother. Though Cersei believes that story is only something to cover the maester’s mistake.

It was an idea so foreign to her. Cersei looked at the girl she had in her lap, how could a girl do something so horrid, to her own twin nonetheless? Cersei loves herself more than anything and Jamie is an extension of herself; Cersei would never harm herself, and this child is like her, she doesn’t think this child is stupid enough to harm herself either.

A knock sounded on the door, she let them enter. It was her brother, Jaime.

“Sister,” Jaime spoke, looking at her and the girl she had on her lap curiously. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you behave this way with any child, nor do I think opinions of you have ever been higher in court.” Cersei was smart, she read between the lines, and she knew what her brother implied though she ignored it.

Cersei sliced off a piece of cake with her fork and slowly brought it to the girl till she opened her mouth, Cersei smiled and brought the piece of cake for herself and ate it looking at the reaction of the girl. She smiled as the girl stayed with her mouth open looking at Cersei disbelieving.

“It’s not so fun when I do it now is it?” Cersei questioned the girl while Jaime raised a brow at his sister's antics.

Finally, Cersei lifted her head to look at Jaime. “She will grow to be like me, Jaime, I can see it. She is not my blood yet she mirrors me and my every action.”

Jaime stalked closer to look at the child. She looked exactly how every Baratheon should look like. “This child? The child who earned herself the name ‘The Devourer’ by your lord husband before even turning a summer old?”

Cersei rolled her eyes at her twin. “You believe the tale? It is surely something their incapable maester made up to cover his own idiotic mistake. If the tale were true she would soil everything she touches.” She smiled down as the child waited for her turn of cake instead of crying as any other uneducated child would.

“I still see your soiled dresses she touched” Jaime retired. “That was before she got a proper education from me. Her Septa and that Baratheon woman have no clue how to raise a child properly.” Cersei spoke as she fed the girl a small piece of cake. Cersei had also taken it upon herself to start weaning off the child of her mother’s milk and reduce her portion sizes. A proper southern lady that she was raising could not afford to not have a good figure. Though the girl still yearned for milk. Cersei would never tell a soul but occasionally she’d let the girl nurse off her own milk when she was fussy.

“You raise this Baratheon as your own?” Jaime gave her a mocking smile.

“The babe I carry is Baratheon as well, what is one more? This girl Jaime, I will see it that she becomes a Lannister in all but name, then I shall see it that she marries into the Lannister name. I see myself in her.” Cersei looked at Jaime as he still stared at the girl in her arms.

“You do not remember yourself at this age Cersei, no one does.” Jaime laughed. Cersei was going to retort when she felt a wetness sliding down her legs and then abdominal pain. She groaned and lurched forward holding her belly. Jaime rushed to his sister’s side.

“Maester!” Jaime yelled. He yelled as he held his sister as she groaned in pain. Picking her up he took her to the bed and turned to the baratheon girl. He narrowed his eyes on the girl. He did not like her. As much as Cersei claims to see herself within her, she is a Baratheon through and through, a mutt related to the king who treats his sister as whore. She was more like the king than any Lannister.

“Get out girl!” He yelled at her. He watched as her already scared expression furthered into deeper concern and soon she began to cry.

“Bring her here!” Cersei cried out. Jaime looked at his sister disbelieving.

“She is Baratheon, Cersei, she is nothing more than that.” Jaime urged his sister as the little girl cried and turned to run out.

“Just bring her here!” Cersei yelled. Jaime grunted and let go of her before scooping the child while she thrashed in his arms. He yelled at her to quiet and be still. The girl listened in fear of him as she was put by Cersei.

“She should learn, learn here and now what it is to be a woman.” Cersei groaned.

“She is only a summer-old Cersei, she will not remember.” Jaime pressed as the girl trembled before him looking at him with wide eyes. It wasn’t soon before the Maester entered and urged for the Baratheon girl to be shown out as well. Cersei refused it. It would be hours before Cersei went into labor.

…

The thick curtains of Cersei’s chamber are drawn tight, blocking out the cold night air, but she still feels a chill deep within her. Cersei is queen, queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but here, she feels like only a woman. She had been changed out from her dress to a silken nightgown. It clung to her sweat-drenched skin, her long blonde hair tangled damp strands. The smell of burning incense was strong and it mingled with fear she felt within her.

Around her, she was surrounded by ladies of her court, their faces tight with worry. The maester and midwives hovered over her, their hands firm on her belly as if they were coaxing the child to come into the world. But the child will not come. Hours have passed. Cersei’s body screams with the strain of each contraction, but it feels as though the babe is trapped within her.

The midwife has tried everything—rubbing oils on her skin, pressing her fingers in places that make her cry out, and muttering prayers to the seven whose names she barely remembers in her haze. She hopes they take pity on her, she has never been religious, but perhaps they would make an exception just this once. She cannot die. She has not had her three children yet as the witch said she would.

The room feels suffocating. Her throat is raw from shouting, but she is queen, Cersei thinks, and she must endure.

Every moment that passes, if the baby does not come soon, the consequences may be dire. For her. For her child. For the kingdom.

The Maester looks at her with a face of calm, though she can read between the lines. He approaches cautiously, his face pale beneath his heavy beard "Your Grace," he murmurs, "the child is stuck."

Those words are death, Cersei knows it, everyone knows it. Queens may be royal, but death does not care for crowns.

“I will not die,” Cersei whispers.

The maester kneels beside her and takes a tool from his bag. Metal glints in the firelight, cold and sharp. He looks at her, waiting for permission, though she can barely understand what he means to do.

She nods weakly. There is no other choice.

Time seems to slow as he works. The pain is unbearable to Cersei now, beyond anything she could have imagined. Her vision darkens at the edges, and she hears the women murmuring prayers, calling upon the Seven to intercede. Cersei only focuses on one thing—the life inside her, the child she must bring into this world. Her heir. Her legacy.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, there is a great pressure and then release. A wail fills the chamber—high and piercing, the sound of life. Her child. The midwife wraps the babe and brings him to her, a small, squirming bundle. She smiles as she looks at her son with a black tuft of hair and his eyes shut as he wails.

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Note: When I was naming this chapter it was originally just “A Princess’s Chronicles" but I didn’t think that fit very well, so I changed it. It seemed a bit bland for it to just be “The Princess and the Queen", so I looked for something else, but I discovered that George R. R. Martin actually wrote a book called “The Princess and The Queen” so I thought that was a pretty cool coincidence. Also, I used vines for the majority of scenes, though I don’t think I can translate humor very well into words. Along with that, it is very strange having to write Cersei getting along with a Baratheon, so I do think it is a bit OOC, sorry.

To be added on Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑

#game of the thrones x you #game of thrones x y/n #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #jon snow x you #jon snow x reader #jon snow #daario naharis #daario naharis x you #cersei lannister

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