#the king's grey mare

[maveys-baby]

no bc the part in War Storm, right after they capture Maven and they're carrying him away and he's talking to the voice in his head saying, "I did as you said, I did as you said" breaks my heart into a million pieces every single time omg.

[lily-style]

Do you guys think we should add Maven Calore into our "hear me out"s.. He is like a guilty pleasure kind of hear me out but still..

my man is darker than other morally grey characters.. (not all of them of course, there must be much worse out there) still I kinda have a soft spot for him -I can fix him trauma of mine I believe-

Oh shit; are there any categories about hear me outs? guilty pleasure hear me out sounded very nice to me? Or is it me?

..

I think I start to yap.. ok.. bye

[planetmaven]

i fear mare barrow's aura is so big she has not one, but TWO NEW fmcs "inspired by her"

[maveys-baby]

-Maven Calore, at some point, probably.

I'm small and I have gay tendencies

[cherryheairt]

Hidden Truths pt.2

Cregan x wife!reader

named reader no description, from house Glover

masterlist

part 1

thank y'all so much for the kind words and eagerness to see this part. Please forgive me for not replying to all asks being sent to inbox, you'll understand with the chap lol. The pressure was so real I had planned to write other things between pt 1 and 2 but I dropped everything to do this between work and sleep lol

changed the og ending because so many people thought it would be more fitting and I agreed lol

anon pointed out my mistake on glover and bolton im so sorry for that confusion yall it is meant to be glover originally. i made too many mistakes im a mess rn

Ernest makes it to Cregan's solar first, Ron not far on his heels. Panting, the younger speaks up first when Cregan Stark shoots them a bewildered look whilst hunched over his oak desk.

"Was Lady Stark due for some business today, My Lord?" He asked, catching his breath as Cregan sat up in his seat, attention fully on the guards.

"Not any that I'm aware of. Where is my wife?" He asked, glancing outside of his small window to the blistering storm outside. There was no way she would be anywhere except her chambers—not after he caught her soothing Brandon to sleep. The sight had melted his heart immediately, glad to see his wife finally finding it in her to go see him, to give him a chance.

Though, he could not blame her, of course. He could still remember the day he brought the Stark babe home, and how he dreaded the meet throughout his months of journeying home to Winterfell.

Aelys had been on the forefront of his mind, even through the slimy politicking of King's Landing. The wait was only made ever longer by the fact that the party Cregan traveled North with had to wait until Brandon was old enough to travel, too. Moons went by painstakingly slow, and Cregan moved to load the carriage for the boy as soon as the Maester gave his word that Bran would not be suseptible to the outdoors during long durations on the road.

Cregan dismounted his grey mare, patting her on the neck in thanks before the stable boy guided her back to her designated place. With a tense sigh, he rolled his shoulders and opened the carriage door that held Brandon and his new wet nurse. Sara, his older sister, would join the family in a few short weeks while she continued her stay at the Blackwood's. He wished she was here to console his wife in the coming days. Gods know that he cannot, not when the news of his betrayal had to come from his own mouth. As he promised himself it should be. The sinner should say his own penance, no one else. A Stark is a slave to his oaths.

Thanking Greya kindly, Cregan picked up Bran in his arms. His onyx black curls shifted against the crook of his arm as he shifted the babe to be held better. The four moon-old babe fussed as he was removed from the woman's comforting hold. As if was, Cregan was more of a stranger to the young babe than his wet nurse was. Unfortunately, the Lord had not spent the amount of time with him as he knew he should have. The thoughts and guilt racked up in his mind and burned at the back of his throat every day, leaving Cregan to promise himself that in Winterfell he would spend more time with him.

Another promise for the list.

Cregan stepped through the courtyard's archway, holding his breath as he watched his beautiful wife standing by the Keep's doors, shivering but still insisting that she come out to meet her husband. Her smile was as lovely and bright as he remembered, a much more contented and relieved smile than she had sent him off to battle with. That day, she could hardly stifle her tears back as she hugged him 'goodbye'. He felt quite the same. Cregan would never leave for Southern business again, not in his lifetime. Once had been enough to last generations, though he was sure the Stark family would not go too long before being summoned again.

Her face shifted from joy to confusion in a matter of seconds. As Cregan continued straight towards her, Bran bundled up in so many wools and pelts that it entirely engulfed the babe. She lifted her skirts to step down to meet him. Originally, Cregan had wished to scoop her up in his arms and place a sweet kiss on her cold lips, but the bundle between them prevented such things. He could not greet her so sweetly and then present the bastard to her. Ripping the bandage off a fresh wound, Cregan would not be deceitful for longer than he had been during his moons of silence in the South.

"Husband," She smiled, reaching out to touch his chilled face, pink in the cheeks and ears from exposure. "You should come inside. A feast has been prepared for you—and your men, of course." She was antsy on her feet, eager to get inside to proper reunite with her husband, no bystanders gawking.

Speaking of bystanders—Cregan's entire party had separated and dispersed around the courtyard. They met their own wives, parents, or children as they laughed and conversed. Though, the loud and joyous clamor soon died down when whispers had been spread around by those who already knew of Cregan's boy. Wives that knew Aelys well stared in pity, clutching their shawls to their chests and shaking their heads quietly at their Lord.

He fought the urge to hang his head.

She had not yet seen the babe, only the cloth surrounding him.

"Cregan?" She whispered, tilting her head with concerned eyes. "What is wrong?" His sweet, sweet wife. Her first priority had been him over anything since the days of their honeymoon—the days she had confessed to be extremely anxious about during their courtship. She was a Northern woman herself, hardened and shaped like an ice sculpture but retaining her warm heart and spirit. Cregan had intimidated her greatly, according to her giggling confession, and she had feared he may be a cruel and selfish man since he could easily do as he wished to his Lady wife. He proved her wrong, apparently, getting to know his wife throughout their private honeymoon. They had a bond like no other, always at each other's side and filling in for the weaknesses of the other during their duties as leaders.

Cregan's brow furrowed deep, blinking away as he felt his nose start to sting.

Only then, when his glossy eyes met hers silently, did she glance down to the cloths. Slowly reaching up a shaky, gloved hand adjusted the pelts so she could peer past them. Gasping at the pale babe, Aelys' eyes sharply met his. A million thoughts raced through her head, clearly showing in her facial expressions. Not assuming the worst, as she probably should have done, Aelys asked, "has one of your men died? Is this babe an orphan?" Always so trusting of her Lord husband, something Cregan had admired and was eternally grateful for throughout their marriage.

"Aelys..." He cleared his throat when his voice came out much too quiet and hoarse. "This is my son." He declared to her, and to the onlooking crowd who did not bother hiding scandalized gasps.

Her eyes blinked in rapid succession, shaking her head lightly and smiling. "Don't jest, Cregan. We have no son."

His silence met her words. When he did not cave and admit to messing with his wife, Aelys shook her head more firmly. "No." She said, whispering. Her eyes clamped shut as she breathed in and out deeply, only opening to glance down at the babe, scrutinizing its appearing and comparing every freckle to Cregan's. "Don't do this to me, please. You would never do this to me." Her words were nearly lost to the air.

"It was one time, I swear it on my honor and Stark name." Cregan told her.

"On your name?" She harshly bit, stepping away from Cregan as if he had burned her. "Your honor? You swore on your honor the day we said our vows under the Weirwood tree. Under OUR Gods. Did that mean nothing to you? Did I—" She gasped out, covering her mouth with the back of her hand and clutching her stomach. A choking sob rippled through her, and Greya stepped forward to gingerly take Brandon from Cregan's grasp. His arms fell to his side, clenching as he stopped himself from holding his wife in comfort. She could find no solace in the man who hurt her so.

"I thought you wished to wait. You told me you wanted it, too. Was it just not me you wanted a family with?" She asked, cranking her neck up to look at her shameful husband.

"Aelys, I did—I do!" He started, stepping forward to wipe a hot tear from her cheek.

Flinching away from his touch, she looked up at him with the same mistrust and solemn acceptance that he found in a dying prey's eyes. Suddenly, Aelys looked to become aware of the crowd. Glancing around self-consciously, she straightened herself upright like the people expected of a Lady Stark. "The feast is growing cold. Enjoy it while it's warm." She loudly adressed the weary party and their families, who awkwardly moved to shuffle inside the dining hall. With a final glance past Cregan's shoulder to the wet nurse, Aelys was gone.

Seeing the shared glances of horror between the two, Cregan cleared his throat. "Where is my wife, boys?"

Ernest swallowed harshly, not daring to look him in the eye. "She—she said that she 'ad business in Winter Town. That you approved of it, I swear!"

Ron nodded so quickly that his head of curls messed about and framed his face further. The snow still on their heads and shoulders had now melted in the warmth of the Great Keep, reminding Cregan of the harsh weather the guards had to bear all day. They were trained and honed for such conditions, Aelys was not.

"Yes, Lord Stark! We couldn't disobey our Lady's words." He insisted.

"You think I'd make my wife go settle business in Winter Town during a blizzard?" He growled out, standing from his seat and storming between them to his doorway, where he turned on them and saw them both flinch in shock. "Which way did she go?"

"Uhm..." they shared another glance. "She said Winter Town, Lord Stark. What other way would she have gone?"

Cursing, Cregan grabbed Ice and lifted the great sword to his shoulder. He left without another word to anybody, knowing every second counted when it came to finding her. "Bloody fools." He scoffed to himself, mind turning and thinking of places she might head to.

Clearly, not Winter Town. She had no business there, not that he knew of, and although they had not been speaking these past moons he still oversaw all of her duties as Lady. Though, her reports of dealings and responsibilities was done through the Maester rather than her own mouth. A middleman, the poor elder had become. Cregan endured the silence without complaint, knowing his own actions brought it upon him.

His actions brought her further away from him than he perhaps estimated. He knew the babe would tear a rift in their relationship, and knew it would take a long time before they could even begin to mend it—but he never wanted it to go this far.

Back to her childhood home, to the Glovers in the Motte? Or, perhaps she found a secret lover that would meet her in the storm like a destined and tragic fairytale. He would not blame her for seeking love in another, though his never faded.

His quickened pace was only interrupted by Sara. "What is the rush for, brother?" The elder woman asked, dark brows furrowed with concern. Other the past four moons she had gained her strength back, looking the picture of health now that she was back home and recovering. Cregan could barely meet her gaze, looking between her and the doors ahead.

"My wife is gone." He told her honestly, shifting impaitiently in place. "I don't know where to, but I'm going to search for her."

Sara's dark eyes saddened, face scrunching up in grief. "This is my fault. I should have—"

Cregan stopped her immediately, taking her firmly by the shoulders and dipping his neck down to level himself. "No. It is mine alone. I made the choice to do this, I shall face the consequences of my actions."

"Cregan..." she sniffed, but did not allow tears to fall so easily.

"I'll be back." He promised. "With my wife."

Was she running away?

Cregan swung open the Great Keep's door, blinking staggardly at the wind gust that slammed into him. Not bothing to close it behind him, Cregan stormed to the stables and tacked his horse up. In a matter of minutes he was off and out of Winterfell's expansive walls.

His only option was to head towards Glover territory. It was a two days ride normally, but the storm would make it double or perhaps longer. She would not be far ahead, not even two hours ahead of Cregan and unknowing of how close he might be on her trail.

There were not even hoofprints left in her wake. The snow immediately covered all tracks and left only pristine fields of white powdery frost.

He would not know where she was until he spotted her amongst the white. Cobalt, her black stallion, was sure to stand out within close enough distance.

Until he did see her, he could only wait.

And it was exactly that; a waiting game. Cregan took only three days to reach the Deepwood Motte, faster than he anticipated. He was weary and exhausted, but still pumping with adrenaline and awake off sheer will. Here, in the safe walls of Harriston Glover's keep, his mare could finally have more than a few measly hours of rest, as well as food and water.

His fingers and toes burned with the edges of frostbite. Even in his thick protective gear, he was not entirely safe. The few, small fires that he built for himself in the cold nights gave him only a semblance of warmth. Each step felt like five as his vision blurred and weaned in and out. He steadied himself on a pole, waiting for his father-in-law to come downstairs to greet him. And, if luck be on his side, his Lady wife.

He owed more than an apology.

Harriston was a stern man, though not unreasonable. He loved his children and ensured they had only the best; education, caretakers, spouses. His eldest two children married long before Aelys was even of age to be wed, both men marrying Northern girls that they'd grown up with. When it came to his youngest and only girl, the man knew Lord Stark would be a most auspicious match. The Houses had long been friends and allies, and keeping the tradition of partnership thriving through marriage was no strange thing. He'd been even happier when Aelys wrote to him weekly, describing how enchanted she had been with her new husband and thanking him profusely for giving her a blessed match.

Now, the greyed man stood in front of Cregan with a deepset frown and a fierce look in his eyes. "Lord Stark. I thought you'd be busy in Winterfell."

Cregan cleared his throat, focusing on him intently. It made sense that the man was cross with him, especially after he assumed that Aelys had sent him a few lengthy letters telling of Cregan's infidelity. "I came to see my wife, and to bring her back home."

Harriston huffed a sarcastic laugh. "You send her back home, only to come yourself first?" He gestured around with his arms up.

Cregan tensed, "first? Is Aelys not already here?"

Lord Glover matched in his seriousness. "Aelys wrote to me three days ago, informing me that you had sent her here to be away from danger."

"I did not send her anywhere."

"You mean you do not know where my daughter is?" He asked, voice low and firm as he stepped closer. Though Harriston was a fine swordsman and a battle-worn fighter, Cregan did not fear the Lord's wrath, for he could easily best him in combat.

He did, however, have the brains to fear a furious father's vengeance.

His heart nearly beat out of his chest. "And she stated that she was on her way here?"

"I think I know what she said, boy." Lord Glover hissed. "Where is Aelys?"

"She must still be out there," Cregan murmured breathlessly, turning on his heel and running out of the fort's doors and back out to the stables. Cobalt was in none of them, confirmed to him that Lord Glover was not simply lying and hiding his wife away from him.

Cregan decided to take another horse—one well rested and ready to travel in the packed snow, unlike his own weary mare. Guiding it to the doors where Lord Glover had exited and looked at Cregan with a fear unlike the learned man usually expressed, he asked: Where are the kennels?"

When Aelys left to brave the storm alone, she had not anticipated the sheer unforgivable nature of it. Living in the North her whole life, she'd long grown used to cold weather and hunting for herself. Hunts often lasted days or weeks, being times of comraderie and companionship when out in the wilderness with your people. She had not been hunting in years, much less alone.

The snow had slowed her travel significantly and clouded her navigational judgment. North became South, and East became West after so long of walking. With the skies so darkened, it was even harder to tell the time of day. With every stop she made and every fire that burnt out too quickly for her to be fully warm, Aelys had grown desperate.

She found shelter in a half-conscious act to preserve her on life. Now, curled up with only her fur-lined dress and the pelt she had brought from Winterfell, she could not help but begin to accept that she would die in this cave.

Aelys thought of her life in a few curt thoughts.

She had only lived twenty and two years. She grew up with loving parents and two elder brothers who doted on her greatly. She married Lord Stark of Winterfell, someone who took her heart quicker than she'd ever thought possible. She would die here, alone and cold because of him.

She thought of all the things she had wanted from life. Not much, for a Lord's daughter. Aelys had always wanted love and gave love in return. Trusted perhaps too much and did not gain from it. She wished for children, eventually, and could never have them now. She wished to see the warm deserts of Dorne and the lush gardens of Old Town in her retirement.

Aelys Bolton would not see anything but the North, nothing but the cold snow and frost-tippes trees around. They had grown familiar and warm.

Warm.

She was so warm, now.

Aelys closed her eyes and fell asleep, dreaming of better days.

"You do not wish to return home to a babe in the nursery?" Aelys asked, voice low and humming as Cregan lay beneath her on their shared bed. Most men did, misliking the process of pregnacy but loving the outcome, for it could only serve to benefit them.

"We will have plenty of time for babes when I come back to you." He replied, brushing his lips over her the crown of her head. "What kind of husband would I be if I left you to deal with the struggles of pregnancy and birth all alone?"

"I won't be alone. Sara is staying, too. I will have a sister to keep me company and complain all my grievances about my missing husband to her." She said amusedly.

Cregan paused in his rhythmic stoking of her spine. "Sara has asked to come, my heart."

She paused, too, lifting her head from his chest and squinting at him. "Sara can come down to King's Landing with you, but I cannot?"

He sighed, shaking his head. "She will be staying at the Blackwood's residence at Raventree Hall, not King's Landing. I would never endanger either of you by bringing you to the capitol. She has been offered guest housing by her friend, Alysanne Blackwood, during my time down there."

She huffed, conceding to his words and dropping her head back down, listening again to his ever-steady heartbeat. "Must be nice to see the Riverlands." She said lightly. "I hear they have fields of flowers growing year-round."

"And the permanent smell of fish and mildew." Cregan added with a snort. "You're not missing anything, I swear it to you. Sara and I will be gone for a short period of time. I intend to leave as soon as things are settled and put to rest."

Aelys hummed her quiet acknowledgment. There was no argument to be had, not when Cregan was set to leave in the morning. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." She said cheekily, though there was plenty truth to the statement. Alone, she would serve as political head to Winterfell and the temporary 'Warden' while Cregan was missing in action. She had her advisors, consisting of Cregan's trusted councilmen, but the hole that she knew would sink itself into her heart already wore her into her.

Cregan laughed at her words, nodding. "Aye, my love, you will do perfectly. I'm sorry to leave you alone for so long, but I have no doubt you'll do great." He said proudly, kissing her nose. She scrunched it up at the ticklish feeling, allowing a girlish giggle to leave her throat.

"Don't be gone too long, husband. Your wife needs you here." She said, tilting her head up to meet his lips.

"I would never dream of it."

The moons passed by with no reprieve for Aelys. As Winterfell's sole head, her days were busy from dawn til dusk. Letters were exchanged sporadically with her husband while he helped Aegon iii ascend to his place on the iron throne.

Until, one day, his letters ceased. It had already been a full year without Cregan Stark, and Aelys was beginning to grow used to the lack of her husband and sister by her side. Routine had grown to be instinct for her, breezing through her duties like she'd done them all her life. The only thing missing was her lover.

Concerned, Aelys checked in with the resident Maester to ensure Cregan's wellbeing.

When he paused, lips pursed and hands clutching at his cane with a stress unlike the calm elder, he rasped out his own fears. "I, too, have received no word from Lord Stark. Though, no news has come of us death in the capitol, so he must simply be occupied."

Occupied at the end of the war? When Aegon had already been named King and all the men put to trial were either declared guilty or innocent? The brunt of the work was over and done with—told by Cregan himself.

So why was he silent for an entire moon?

It was another fortnite before the Stark wrote back to her. The letter was curt and brief.

My dearest Aelys,

Forgive my abrupt silence these past weeks. Please know that you have been on my mind throughout this entire time.

Sara has grown sick in Raventree Hall, and has not been able to travel with the host of men I have sent back home to the North. We will stay behind for another few moons while she is in recovery. I will return to you soon.

With love,

Cregan Stark.

It was shorter than his other letters by many paragraphs, pages even. Cregan left out no details when describing his miserable times in the capitol. Aelys found herself much enjoying his theatrical melodramatic retelling and was rendered bemused by this letter. Still, she continued to lead with no pause for breaks.

Three more moons later, and Cregan wrote that he was mere days away from Winterfell. Without Sara Snow, unfortunately, as she was still not entirely recovered, but his party could be postponed no longer.

Aelys rushed around Winterfell's Keep in a flurry of excitement. She ordered every room to be cleaned spotless, for rations to be saved for days until a feast could be made for their arrival, for hearths to be extra tended to, and for the courtyard to be prepared to clear the way for the host.

Finally, the days of busy bodies floating around the Great Keep came to a stop. The feast was warm and ready at all available tables. The hearths were warm and ready for sleepy heads to rest within the rooms. The tubs were filled with scalding hot water that would warm by the time they were used. Lady Stark stood for hours at the Great Keep's entry stairs in the courtyard.

She wanted to be there exactly when he walked through the archway. Despite the cold biting at her nose, the Lady stood resiliant and tall.

It was nearly in the afternoon when Cregan's party arrived. He came through first, leading as head of the host as any Lord should. A wheelhouse followed, surrounded by a small league of soliders all around it. She bounced on her heels slightly, seeing Cregan dismount from his ride. Though she found herself bemused and slightly hurt when he glanced at her and made his way towards the wheelhouse instead. Had Sara recovered enough to join and perhaps wanted to surprise her good sister? She hoped so, for she had missed her greatly. After growing up with only brothers, Aelys found a best friend and sister in Sara Snow. The whispers about Lady Stark befriending the bastard of Winterfell followed her around like a dark shadow, but she never paid them any mind.

Bastardry had never bothered Aelys before. Not even when she was a woman of noble birth and was taught that bastards were born inherently lustful, evil, and made of sin.

She waited patiently at the top of the steps for Cregan to fetch Sara.

To her surprise, he only pulled out of the carriage with a bundle of clothes in his arms. Pelts and blankets, it seemed. A plainly-dressed woman from the South stepped out after him but stayed trailing behind. A maid of some sort, though she had no clue as to why a Southern maid would need to follow Cregan back to Winterfell.

As he strided towards her, a strange and unhappy look on his face, she forced her anxiety back down her throat and raced to meet him. "Husband," she greeted with a smile. "You should come inside. A feast has been prepared for you—and your men, of course." Reaching out to caress his face and simultaneously brush flecks of snow from his loose hair, she couldn't help but stop to admire her husband's handsome features. It had felt like an eternity that they were separated, and she had begun to forget the full details of his frame. Forgot his scent in the room and his side of the bed. Nearly forgot the warmth that he provided simply from standing nearby.

The very warmth he is giving to her now, in the chilly courtyard.

His eyes appeared to gloss, his nose and cheeks pinking even more so than they had already grown in the biting air. Glancing over Cregan, she assessed quickly for signs of fatigue or illness.

"Cregan?" she asked gently. "What is wrong?" She prayed he did not catch whatever Sara had caught, or hid a wound under his mass of leathers and pelts.

When he shiftly lifted the bundle in his arms to gesture for her to look at it, she finally spared a look to the mysterious ball of cloth. She had completely forgotten about it until now, noticing the maid still behind Cregan a few yards back, head tilted down and looking at her slippers. Peeking over a fur pelt, Aelys gasped at the sight. A babe, only a few moons old by the looks of it. Her mind raced with possibilities. Why would Cregan bring a babe back instead of leaving it in more temperate climates like the Riverlands that he stayed in on the way up North?

"Has one of your men died?" She asked in a hushed tone, assuming first that one of his soldiers perhaps fathered a bastard babe before perishing in a battle or falling to sickness. "Is the babe an orphan?" Cregan did always have a soft spot for younglings, showcased clearly by his time spent personally training young squires of Winterfell. He had lost his own younger brother in their youth, and the hole had never filled from that loss of kin.

"Aelys..." he started, meeting her eyes with a soft and sympathetic look. "This is my son." Was said loud and clear for any listeners to hear.

A jest. Cregan had seldom liked to be humorous in front of crowds, or anyone but herself and Sara, but he must have been in good spirits today. Briefly glancing at the surrounding people, she found only pitiful looks from the women and severe looks from the men. Shaking her head, Aelys forced a smile onto her face and a shaky laugh. "Don't jest, Cregan. We have no son." She emphasized.

He only stared at her back. No words of comfort, no sudden burst of laughter among his men to tell her that the biggest prank in the world had been pulled on her. Just shameless silence.

He had declared her second best in front of all of Winterfell. Her people and his.

"No." She said firmly, shaking her head 'no'. She breathed in and out deeply, trying to clear her blurry eyes and woozy head. Glaring down at the false babe in his arms, she found many similarities that she wished she had not. The same straight brows that Cregan had, the same scattered freckles, the same pale skin. The only difference was the hair color—black as a midnight sky or dragonglass. The mother must be beautiful.

Moving her eyes to the maid behind Cregan, she found that the girl had a mousy blonde color to her tresses. She could not have possibly bore a black-haired babe. She felt sick, like she'd throw up and choke at the same time. "Don't do this to me. You'd never do this to me." She pleaded out, voice small and hoarse.

"It was one time. I swear it on my honor and Stark name." Cregan promised. But every word was like poison, filling her heart with a heavy black liquid and drowning her from the inside out.

"On your name?" She hissed out, uncaring of the onlookers for this one moment. She was allowed to be angry, callous, and spiteful, even. Any self-respecting woman would be. And she'd be damned if she wasn't. Any Stark woman ought to be when ruling over the entire North. Any Glover woman is.

"Your honor? You swore on your honor the day we said our vows under the Weirwood tree. Under OUR Gods! Did that mean nothing to you? Did I—?" Words spilled from her mouth before she can think properly. But she did not regret any of them, knowing she was in the right. Bile rose in her throat, pushing itself past the forced down emotions. She swiftly covered her mouth, stilling herself to prevent any more embarrassing. Subconsciously, she clutched at her empty stomach with her free hand, both mourning the fact that she'd have no children and thanking the Gods for not giving her any previously. A cry finally escaped her lips, watching the plain maid take the babe into her arms again as Cregan looked on helplessly to his wife.

Aelys found her voice again, though it was ragged and tired. "I thought you wished to wait. You told me you wanted it, too." He was a liar, the worst kind of man. "Was it just not me you wanted a family with?"

She'd rather be struck with his hand than his deceitful mouth. It would hurt much less.

"I did, Aelys—I do!" He pleaded, stepping forward to console her. His arms looked like steel traps in her louded mind.

She took a lengthy step back. She would not share his warmth, nor his love. Or his bed, his room, his damned dining room. His children. Not when he had shared it with another woman. Given her his love, his attention, his son.

She could not bear to keep herself calm any longer. Adressing the entire courtyard, who had made themselves the Stark's own personal peanut gallery, she spoke firmly. "The feast is growing cold. Enjoy it while it's warm." Without a second glance back at the Stark, Aelys excused herself to her chambers, where she emptied the contents of her stomach into the chamberpot until she could only dry-heave nothingness. These chambers had not been used since she arrived in Winterfell, instead choosing to sleep and stay in their marital ones. She would not step foot into those again unless she was dragged kicking and screaming.

Aelys awoke to strong arms lifting her from the stone floor. Groggily, she was stirred from her deep and preserving sleep. How long had she been traveling? How long had she been buried under those pelts? Time was a blur when she was in a near comatose state, dead to the world. Limbs were numbed and her body felt warm after so long in the cold weather.

"I've got you, sweet girl. We're going home." A familiar voice rung in the back of her head. Even the jolting movements of a horse trotting could not fully move her to consciousness as she fell back asleep.

When she fully gained her sense of mind, she could clearly hear the sound of two men arguing. The warmth of a hearth was next to her as she lifted heavy blankets and furs off of her body. Glancing around, Aelys found herself back right where it all started. In Cregan's room, formerly their marital chambers that she had long since moved out of. A large oil painting sat over the heart, depicting a newlywed image of her and Cregan. They both smiled brightly in the photo, much to Cregan's complaint that the painting did not make him look 'serious enough'. She only laughed and tipped the painter extra gold dragons for the accuracy.

She loved that painting more than any others they kept in the Great Keep. Now, the two faces looking down at her only served to remind her of the falsehood she lived every day while Cregan was absent. Taking care of Winterfell and the North all by herself, just to come back and be thanked by his uncouth mistakes.

Shakily standing up, she winced at the feeling coming back to her limbs. Wriggling all twenty of her toes and fingers, she ensured they still all had feeling. Miraculously, she did. The numbess still felt vaguely there, and her throat was extremely dry and achy. But at least she was alive. Even if it was back in Winterfell, she could attempt her return to the Motte as soon as the storm died down.

It had been a dreadful blizzard. Not a rare sight in the North, but usually none lasted so long. Aelys could not help but feel it was the Gods punish Cregan and Aelys for their marital spat. Something like this must be so futile and useless in their eyes and the eyes of the people of the realm, but to Aelys it was her world and her life. No one could help Aelys but herself. She'd leave these spoiled halls even if the Old Gods and the New wished otherwise. If Cregan didn't have to keep oaths, why should she?

Opening the large wooden door, Aelys found the source of the faint yelling. Her eyes widened at the sight of her father in front of Cregan, in all his gruff charm with his silver hair and beard. She hadn't seen him in nearly two years. She stayed at the archway under the door, simply listening in as the men shouted further down the hall. If either turned their heads, they would spot her eavesdropping.

"—cannot even keep her safe during Winter! Am I to expect her to stay safe during a wildling attack, or worse? Or will you be prioritizing the safety of your mistress?" Harriston shouted, veins nearly popping out from his forehead and neck in his fury. Snow still gathered on his pelt coat, meaning he had just arrived recently.

"It is my mistake that she was endangered out there—but I would never let such a thing happen again under my protection. This is her home, I cannot allow her to go back to the Dreadfort. She is a Stark." Cregan emphasized, though had a defensive raised tone.

"Was she a Stark when you bed a whore in King's Landing?"

"The situation is more complicated than that." He responded, clenching his jaw.

"Nothing could ever be more complicated than losing your wit at a brothel, Stark. There is no argument to be had. She is staying with her family, where she was intending." Harriston growled out, a tone of finality to his tone. As he swung on his feet to head down the hall, face set in a worried and seething anger, he finally spotted his daughter.

"Aelys!" He yelled in relief, rushing toward her and scooping her up into his thick arms. "We're going home immediately. We will wash our hands of the Starks once and for all."

"I will not allow that." Cregan spoke from behind. As Aelys hugged her father back just as tightly, it was a battle to keep her tears from flowing in his safe arms. She missed her father more than she knew.

Before Harristone could speak, Aelys nodded. "We will settle this." She said flatly. Her father hesitantly let her go, nodding once firmly after seeing the resolve in his daughter's eyes.

"Very well. I will wait in the dining hall for you." He sighed, walking away.

Aelys shivered in the loss of warmth again. In her bare feet and night gown, she felt the cold of the cobblestone walls and floors start to seep under her skin again. "Here," Cregan murmured, gently shifting his mass of brown wolf pelt over her shoulders and clicking the direwolf emblem into place.

She allowed it, though she did not thank him with words. She took a deep breath, looking him in the eyes. "I want to separate. Divorce, I mean." She said tiredly.

Cregan flinched, jaw ticking and heavily considering her words. "That is entirely my fault. It is in your right to ask that of me." He said, voice dimmed and not nearly half of his assuredness. "But please, hear me out."

"What could I possibly hear you out with?" She asked, exhaustion clear in her tone. She'd dealt with this situation long enough.

Cregan nudged the door back open, nodding for her to enter. Reluctantly, she led the way in and watched as he gently shut it behind them. "I swore an oath, nearly nine moons ago." Cregan started.

Her brows furrowed, bemused. "To whom?"

Guiltily, he looked down at her, looking much alike to a kicked pup. "My sister."

"To Sara? What ever for?" She grew frustrated, knowing he was beating around the bush.

Taking a deep breath, he told her everything. "Sara stayed with her friend Alysanne Blackwood in Raventree hall for the entire time I was aiding King Aegon. In that time—she fell pregnant."

Aelys' heart dropped to her stomach. The same sick feeling overtaking her. She did not say a word.

"Davos Blackwood and Sara had built a bond, much like we did." He said. "When she told Davos of the news, they both went to Lord Blackwood to plea to marry each other. He refused, not allowing his heir to marry a bastard."

"And you legitimized Brandon as your own in turn?" She hissed.

"Sara begged me to. She lived her life as a bastard—she did not wish the same for her own son. I swore to her that my nephew would never be allowed the same treatment. I knew Aegon would do it." He trailed.

"So you bring him home, and humiliate me instead? You didn't even tell me, your own wife! You chose Sara over me. She is your sister, I know, but she chose to be with Davos Blackwood." She could have taken a tea, or moved to Essos or Dorne where bastards were more accepted. There were other options, but neither Sara nor Cregan used them. "That is cruel, Cregan. It is heartless." She cried.

"I never wished to hurt you, I only wanted to protect her. It was my oath." Cregan pleaded, grabbing her hands in his.

She shivered again, though unknowing if it was in chill or her own anger. Part of her was happy that he never truly took another woman to bed—never picked another other her. Though he still hid the biggest secret in the world from her for moons. Allowed her to suffer in their shared home and withstand the pitious looks of the people and court.

"I can't trust you. Not ever again. You could not trust me with your own kin's truth, and punished me for it." She stated. She could not allow herself to cave in so easily, to fall back into his arms.

"I understand, sweet girl." He muttered, softly stroking the apple of her cheek almost mindlessly. "I will sign whatever the Maester's conjure up. You will be free to marry whoever you wish—someone who will not lie to you."

The Starks were known for their loyalty and devotedness to their oaths. If Cregan Stark had lied to his wife so easily, no lesser man could ever make her happy with faithfulness and loyalty. Aelys had accepted her life to be one of loneliness from the day Brandon was allowed into the home.

"I will stay in Deepwood Motte for the time being. From there, I will see where my path leads." She said vaguely, unknowing now of what her heart desired. "Wish Sara well for me." Aelys asked of him, leaving him behind as she wiped any straying tears from her face.

"I love you, Aelys." He said, calling softly after her.

"I know." She whispered to herself.

In the dining hall, Harriston awaited her arrival. Perking up when she entered, he knowingly took her into his arms. "I'm tired, father."

"Let's go home. Your mother has missed you dearly." He said, planting a fatherly kiss to her temple.

Aelys would not yet send word for a formal separation to the Citadel or to the King. For now, time apart was what she declared best for herself.

divider by - @issysh3ll

tags - @palomavz @emithefrog @karinalight @johnshelbywife @tojisrealwifey @baddielizzy @pearldaisy @brookiecookie @jessicar401 @hardkiddonut @littlelilly27-blog @nayaniasworld @just-mj-or-not @flaneurpastel @unsweetenedpeatea @blucesita09 @maxmegara @deeeeexx @masschotch @janniepark1997 @spongelistener @margaaaa30 @paracii @lovebabe18 @rey26 @damneddamsy @yunnifer @kenzcarson @glqmmywhqmmy @arizonadesert @blumin8 @its-your-girl-savy @dreamygirli3 @aemondloverr @zaranobiyuyu @nsr-15 @oxymakestheworldgoround @isansstuff @high-speed-r

so many tags dont work 🥲 will try to tell in comment sec

ending is ambiguous. Will she decide to divorce or eventually mend their relationship? Up to you!

might make an alt ending where he really is just a shitty guy but this had been my idea from the start (many guessed it and i could not reply to them because of it lmao)

sorry if those two scenes got repetitive, but I wanted to show the 'cregan bringing brandon home' from both of their more detailed perspectives. Cregan's shame and guilt and her humiliation and heartbreak.

so many people guessed so close (to the sara part at least) only saw Jace thoughts tho, but he's already dead long before Cregan's walk down to the South. Would have been much more dramatic, but I think Jace would never allow a child of his to be apart from him. Many people swayed me to lead them to separate instead of stick together, and it does make more sense to have her leave him in the end. Although he did not cheat he still lied and publicly humiliated her, even unintentionally, but he's a grown man who is smart enough to know consequences.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 15

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: One more day and I'm a homeowner

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You slow to a crawl amid the retinue of carts and horses. The sun beams down relentlessly on the summer fields. As you laze in a sheen of sweat, Bryce works to tie a swath of linen over the cart in a makeshift canopy. You thank him for his effort, his own brow slick with sweat as he tugs at his mail. 

“I admit my winter’s hide is not made well for this sun,” he utters as he reaches to pet Daisy, the loyal steed tied to his new one as he rides in step with her. “Let’s hope we might reach the tundra in due time.” 

“Mm, it is rather hot,” you murmur, exhausted from the endless blaze. It’s three days thus far and many more ahead of you. 

“Little maid, cannot complain even when you should,” he tuts. 

The cart rolls on, rocking your body as the hooves clomp down on dusty grass. As the train passes over the lands, they leave a trodden path in their stead. The progress is steady but sluggish. 

The wheels creak and lurch to a halt as Bryce reins in both horses. You sit up and peer ahead, unable to see more than horse tails and overloaded carts, the helms of soldiers shining under the sun. The knight on his dark steed sits up straighter, alert as he leans forward. 

“Eh, maid, keep watch on the mare,” he tosses the reins at you as the royal party comes to a halt. 

His horse kicks up dirty as he gallops around the edge of the train. You watch him bend over the beast’s long neck and hurdle ahead of the clog of vehicles and bodies. Something is amiss. 

You wait, nervous, as other servants cluster together and wonder aloud. Soldiers mill up and down the winding retinue, themselves sharing no more than looks. You climb out of the cart and walk on your cramped legs. You stroke Daisy’s head as she huffs through her nostrils and nuzzles your shoulder. 

“I don’t know either,” you tell her softly. 

The pause stretches on and Bryce returns, his horse in a lather. He swings off and lands solidly on his feet. He looks between you and the grey mare. 

“Some hold-up, nothing to worry for,” he explains, “enough time to find some water for these beasts.” 

He takes Daisy’s reins and hands them to you, “come, there is a river near. I can smell it.” 

You peek ahead and squint. You don’t know that you believe it is nothing though you can’t find a reason to argue. You nod and tug on Daisy’s bit. 

The soldier leads you across the grass, well away from the front of the train. Others disperse to sit in the meadow and chew on their rations. You continue into the trees and the trickle of the promised water has Bryce proudly exclaiming. He weaves his way around the trunks to come upon the bank, putting his dark brown horse to drink. As the larger stallion laps noisily, Daisy lowers her head and patiently gulps up the ripples. 

“Where did you find Chestnut?” you ask. “He must be a castle horse.” 

“Aye, he was locked away in some stall. They said he is vicious. Due to be horse pie.” 

“Horse pie? But he is fast.” 

“They did not lie. He likes to nip,” Bryce warns as you step between the horse, “watch your fingers, mouse.” 

“Perhaps he only did not like being locked up,” you suggest and gently touch the horse’s long mane, working out a tangle in the hair. He doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Chestnut?” Bryce says, “you’ve given him a name of your own.” 

“You didn’t say if he had one,” you brush your hand over the fine short hairs along the horse’s shoulder. “I thought it suited him.” 

“Mm, I might call his Hellion but Chestnut is kinder, I s’pose.” 

You chuckle. The horse lifts its head and you near the river’s edge. It turns to sniff you and Bryce reaches for your arm. The horse drips water onto you as it sniffs your neck. It lifts its lip, showing its square teeth, then touches its nose to yours, turning back to the water to nicker. 

“Mm, you do have a way of taming the wildest creatures, eh,” he muses as he lets you go. “Come, I saw some berries back in the bush.” 

You leave the horses near the water and follow the soldier between the trees. As he squats to pluck out dark blackberries, you sway on your feet and glance back toward the road. 

“Why have we stopped, sir?” You ask. 

“Told ya, no matter to worry for,” he stands and offers you a handful, “be thankful for it. We’ve found a nice horde and it will do ya good to be out of the sun. And to eat.” 

You accept the bounty and frown. You know he isn’t telling you all but you know he wouldn’t do so without reason. You stand and pick at the berries, biting in hungrily as the juices coat your mouth. The soldier eats as he picks, plucking a few into his purse as well. 

“How do ya like squirrel meat?” He stands again, “I could find us a morsel for the evening fire. Perhaps a hare if I can.” 

“If you like, sir,” you accept. You chew your lip and search the trees. “Is there truly nothing wrong?” 

“I told ya not to worry,” he growls. “So don’t trouble yerself.” 

He beckons you back towards the river. You follow, not asking any more questions. It’s expected that the road won’t be easy, something just feels awry. 

⚔️

The party makes camp at the point of the delay. You return to the road as Bryce grumbles about the evening warmth. The dry heat lingers in the air even as the sun begins its descent. 

“Come, you will need look in on the queen, I’m certain,” he ties the horses to the cart and urges you along. 

You notice less soldiers as you stride through the train. It’s not so crowded as before. The missing bodies add to your uneasiness. Still, the queen’s tent has been erected and guards keep vigil right outside. You enter and find her alone. She has a veil over her hair as she taps the brim of a cup with her fingernail. 

“Alas, a maid!” She snaps as she sees you, “I’ve been calling for wine all night and those damned soldiers only bring me water.” 

“Your highness,” you back out of the tent. The soldiers do not move. 

You go to the luggage and search for a bottle. You grab one and return to the tent. The soldier at your right extends his arm before you can enter. 

“No wine,” he snatches the bottle, “king’s orders.” 

You blanch and look ahead at the silken flap. You nod and thank the soldier as he keeps the wine under his arm. You blow out between your breath and once more push through the draped fabric. 

“Your highness, there is to be no wine. The king has commanded it,” you say meekly. 

“Pardon me? Who are you to refuse me?” She stands and snarls. “My head is on fire, I need wine.” 

“Yes, your highness, but the king--” 

“I am the queen. My order is a good as his. Bring me wine. Now. You little twit.” 

You stare at her unmoving. 

“They won’t allow it, your highness--” 

A flurry of veil and skirts rushes towards you. Before you can react, a scalding heat radiates over your cheek, the force behind the queen’s slap rattling your head. You stagger back and clutch your head between your hands. 

“You stupid girl! I am the queen! You are a dumb maid!” She strikes you again, her hand glancing off your forearm, “stupid stupid twit!” 

She continues to hammer you with blows, closing her fists as she hits your shoulders and stomach. You shrink down, curling into yourself as you keep your head shielded. She huffs, tired from her assault, and twirls away. 

“I don’t want to see you unless you have a bottle in hand,” she snarls and kicks over the stool. “Go before I have you gutted.” 

You wine and stand straight, lip quivering. You turn and hold your left shoulder as it thrums. You step into the night air, aware that the soldiers could no doubt hear the queen’s fit. They say nothing and you don’t either. 

You continue through the train of bodies. You feel your cheek pulsing and your brow swelling. You keep your head down and as you reach the cart, you relieved to find it alone but for the two dozing horses. You climb up and turn towards the wooden wall, hiding against it as you hug the cushion. 

It isn’t so different from Debray, only that you don’t have Merinda to hold you, to share in your pain. You always preferred that it was you who faced the rather of the ladies. You only hope Lady Rezlyn isn’t issuing the same displeasure upon your companion. 

⚔️

The morning comes with the tweeting of birds and a distant rumble. You sit up and look towards the sky. There are no clouds to forewarn a storm. You stare into the horizon where the thunderous noise rolls over the plains. 

You see the figures on their approach. Men on horses. As soldiers rush to confront them, their alarm is eased by the wave of a familiar banner. It is the king and his party. 

Bryce grumbles as Daisy sniffs him and the coughs into his hand. He shakes his head as you lean out of the cart, watching the specks on the tapestry of green grass. You gasp as you feel him grip your wrist. 

“Eh, mouse, what’s happened to ya?” He demands as he pulls your attention back from the distance. 

You look at him and the tenderness in your cheek reminds you of the queen’s wrath. You wiggle free of his grasp and sit back against the side of the wagon. You shake your head. 

“I went to... the bushes to relieve myself, sir. I tripped.” 

He squints at you, his square jaw gritting. He stares daggers at you. You’re not a good liar but you can’t tell him the truth. 

“Tripped?” He echoes as his thick brows furrow. 

“Yes, sir, it was dark,” you say. “I’ll be alright.” 

“Mm, you look as if you were caught by a bear.” 

“Really, sir, I am well,” you put your head down. 

He growls under his breath and turns away. He fiddles around with his saddle bag before he returns to the cart. He reaches over the top, holding a folded cloth with an acrid smell roiling off of it. 

“Put it on ya face,” he demands. “It’ll soothe ya, make you a little less puffy.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“You don’t go trippin’ no more. If ya do, ya let me know,” he scowls. 

You nod, sinking into a tense silence. You both know it’s a lie but neither of you will admit it. You put the cloth to your cheek and exhale. It cools your skin though the smell burns your nose. 

⚔️

That night you don’t return to the queen’s tent. Bryce claims there’s no need for it. She needs her sleep, as do you. It’s another lie you won’t call out. 

Several days pass in the cart. Short nights followed by sweltering days. It’s as if there is no end to the road or the heat. 

You sit on your knees, looking ahead as Bryce chews sweet leaves and spits onto the ground. Daisy’s tail sweeps behind her as she keeps a steady trot. You watch the progress with impatience, each moment feeling more and more trapped in the cart. 

“...down in Debray...” you hear a voice drift back. 

“...don’t like traitors, suppose...” another returns and you search over the carts to try to place the speakers. 

“Careful, mouse,” Bryce warns, “you’ll fall under the wheels. 

You sit back and face him, holding onto the side of the cart, “sir, what happened?” 

“What do ya mean? We’ve been riding,” he sniffs. 

“No, days ago, when we stopped. Something... in Debray?” 

He grimaces and spits out the leaves completely. He shakes his head, clearing his throat. 

“Nothing a maid needs worry about,” he girds. 

“I know, sir, my apologies. I’m only curious...” you hang your head, “I... I was raised there, is all.” 

He hums and rocks with the motion of Chestnut’s steps, “skirmish up a ways. Party on their way to the castle. Certainly, you know your former master’s deceit has bought him little good will.” 

“A skirmish?” 

“Ah, so it was, but nothing very dire. The king returned in good spirits, that rat lord—the duke with him,” Bryce explains, “course, it only suits that the lord should see to the defence of his own castle.” He chortles, “shouldn’t tell ya, maid, so ya keeps your lips sealed, but the duke meant to hide in the queen’s tent.” He shakes his head and sighs, “in the Hinterlands, them sortsa lords aren’t lords for long.” 

“Mm,” you purse your lips thoughtfully, “but... but the duke, he helped end the war.” 

“By betraying his kingdom. We didn’t come to conquer; we came to unite. Turns out, there’s more fractures than those between winter and summer. Shoulda know by Yellow Waleran’s deeds.” 

“Yellow?” You wonder. 

“Mouse, it is a lot you needn’t worry for. All I can say is a king isn’t much of one if he don’t keep his word,” he sighs, “any lord or man lacks substance if he melts like ice.”  

You look down and watch Chestnut’s legs. You slant your lips. 

“King Geralt, did he have some agreement with Waleran then?” 

Bryce snorts, “too clever. Promises. Broken promises. Deadly things.” 

You nod and hold your chin, “and King Geralt, he is a good king?” 

“Do you not know by now?” He asks with a smirk, “he is a man who keeps his word. A man who fights for his people, not for gold and a name. No good winter lord would kneel to a man built on coin. Blood, that buys crowns. It buys loyalty.” 

You lower yourself onto your bottom and draw your knees up, “for his people?” 

“You heard him say it, you summer’s blood are one with us now. Once he has his heir, it will all be set in flesh. A prince to join the realm,” Bryce says, “let us hope he comes soon. The king’s done his part, he’s fought his battles, now it is up to your queen to claim her victory.” 

[farity]

Let’s Pretend

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x you

Summary:  You suggest a pretend betrothal 

Warning:  Future Smut

.

“She is quite accomplished,” his mother was saying, listing every skill the young woman, currently pretending not to be aware of their conversation, was said to have. 

A servant took his empty dinner plate and Aemond noticed a small strip of paper left next to his wine cup.  He didn’t react, but looked around to see if anyone seemed to be expecting him to read it.  

There were visiting nobles, but other than the girl his mother clearly wanted him to speak to, he saw no one else that would pique his interest.  Pretending to be listening to his mother, he turned the little strip of paper over.

“West terrace, in grey.”

The handwriting was small and neat.  Feminine.  He crumpled the paper in his hand, felt for his dagger at his hip, and waited for a lull in the conversation to excuse himself.

“My prince?”

He turned to Ser Criston Cole, always alert for his family’s safety.  “Nothing to worry about, stay with the queen.”

He walked around the opposite side of the courtyard so he could survey the west terrace at his leisure and saw only one person sitting there.  She was writing something and not really paying attention but she was wearing a grey gown.  

* * * * * 

You saw the shadow falling over your notebook, then looked up into the face of prince Aemond Targaryen.  “Oh good, you made it.”

“Who are you and what do you want?”

You told him your name, ignoring the rudeness in his tone.  “I have an idea that may solve both our problems.”

His expression, a mixture of boredom and disdain, didn’t change, and he didn’t say anything in reply.

“I know the queen wishes for you to marry, yet you do not seem to be inclined to court anyone.  I want to be left in peace and quiet but after last month’s wedding, I am the last daughter left in my house, and soon they’ll trot me out like a prized mare at auction.”

When he still said nothing, you thought maybe this had been a bad idea.  But you’d started this conversation, and apparently you’d have to finish it.

“I suggest we form an attachment, only in pretense, of course.  Once it is known we are betrothed, the pressure will be off both our backs and we can continue our lives without the intrusion of others.”

He sat down facing you, looked from your face to the notebook where you’d been drawing.  “And why would I, a prince of the realm, in line to the throne, be betrothed to someone from a minor house, when we can gain much from a better alliance?”

You took a slow, deep breath, trying not to give into the urge to slap him.  “I am highly accomplished and learned, I excel at all the gentle arts - I embroider, weave, sing, dance, and play, I-”

“And draw,” he added, condescendingly.

You slammed your notebook shut.  “What I mean is, it is a perfect plan.  We live far apart, so it could be a long betrothal, and while I might be from a small house, we are an old lineage and have a very competent army..”

He leaned back, crossed his arms.  

Fine, if he didn’t want to go along, he didn’t have to.  “The prince wishes for his attentions to land on more exalted territory, I see.”

Aemond shrugged, not denying it.  “I am the son of the king.  Brother of the future king.”

You rolled your eyes.  “That is never going to protect you from being saddled with some obnoxious wife for the rest of your existence.”  There was nothing to it, then.  “But, I understand.  I only ask you keep this to yourself, as I have other names on my list and only two more days here to figure something out.”  You stood, gathering your pencils and eraser and took a step toward the staircase.

The prince’s hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.

* * * * * 

He remembered her now.  He had met her before, the smallest of five children, one boy and four girls.  She was usually trying to catch up to her siblings and Aegon had pulled her hair once.  

Aemond knew well he was expected to marry, and to do so for the benefit of his house.  He would do his duty, of course, but none of the ladies at court, nor the visiting nobles, had made a good impression on him.  Not to mention half of them could barely manage to look at him and keep the fear and disgust from their expressions.

Her plan was a sound one, except for the part where sooner or later they would either have to marry, which would ruin the purpose of the whole thing, or end their betrothal, which would put them back at the beginning. 

But it would buy him time.  Time to maybe find a suitable wife.  Time for Aegon to find his way.  Not that he ever expected that to happen, but time might help.

He pictured her on his arm, standing next to him, underneath him in bed, and made an impulsive decision.

She looked down at the hand around her wrist and then back at him.  “Prince Aemond?”

“You will burn your list,” he said, the sudden thought of her on anyone else’s arm making his stomach twist.  “and I will make it known I am courting you.”

“How are you going to make it-”

He pulled her to him, grabbed the back of her head with his other hand and kissed her.  Her lips were soft and sweet, and she made a little sound of surprise that went straight to his cock.  He heard her book and other things falling to the floor, as well as the whispers of people witnessing the scene.  He was still holding on to her wrist but he felt her other hand touching his face, the side with the scar.  For a moment he panicked, wondering if this was where she’d realize her mistake and run away, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping in to taste her while he could.

Instead of running away she pressed herself against him, and Aemond realized he had to stop.  He grabbed her arms and ended the kiss and saw the confusion in her eyes when he pulled back.  “Take my arm and come with me.”

“My things,” she said absently.

“I’ll send a servant.”

* * * * * 

By the time you retired to your chambers, it was all over the keep.  People were looking at you, whispering, pretending to ignore you.  The queen kept giving you appraising looks while the princess Helaena waved at you and smiled.  

“My daughter, have you something to tell me?”

Your father’s voice startled you as you finished an earlier sketch.

“Father,” you said, “it appears I have caught the attention of Prince Aemond.”

“As long as that’s all you’ve caught.”

“What?”

“What?”

Your father shook his head.  “How long has this been going on?” he sat next to you, his expression kind as always.  “He should have spoken to me before he approached you.”

“I think rules are different for the Targaryens. father,” you hated lying to your father, but you weren’t going to be married off to some strange lord who might be an abuser or worse.  “I am sure he will speak to you soon.”

He kissed your forehead, then started heading out.  “But tell me this,” he said suddenly, turning around, “do you like him?”

Oh good gods.

“Father, I do not think one likes Aemond Targaryen.  One may respect and appreciate him, and you know me, I much admire learning.”  You smiled at him, hoping he was convinced.

“Uh-huh.”

“Good night, father.”

You waited until the door closed behind him to exhale.  Two days.  You just had to get through two days and then you would be back home.  You stared down at your notebook and scratched out the drawing you’d been working on.

* * * * * 

“The Queen wishes to see you.”

You knew this was coming but to be summoned to the queen’s presence was unnerving enough that you had to take a couple of deep breaths before walking in.

The queen sat behind a desk, her father standing to one side, Aemond to the other.  Your father stood across the desk, and he nodded at you as you came in.

You curtsied deeply to queen Alicent, then took the chair next to your father’s.  

“My son has shared with me the affection and admiration he has for you,” the queen began, “something he has, clearly, managed to keep completely secret.”

“Your father has agreed to the terms and the dowry he will provide on the day of the wedding, as well as the vow to provide military support if needed.”  Ser Otto Hightower looked at your father, and continued.  “Prince Aemond wanted to present you with a betrothal gift before you depart tomorrow, and you are expected to dine with us tonight.”

Oh.

Aemond walked up to you, opened a small box that revealed a pendant with a sapphire in the center.  “May I?”

You smiled up at him, “of course.  Thank you,” you turned, lifting your hair so he could place the delicate necklace on you.  You felt his fingertips brush against the back of your neck and barely managed to contain a shiver.  

“It is beautiful,” you added, looking down to admire the sparkling jewel.

Aemond took your hand and kissed it.  “It suits you.  Will you walk with me?”

You nodded, and left the room on his arm.

Once the door closed behind you you blew out a breath and let him lead you outside the main building. 

“Do you think they believed you?”

“I do not care,” he shrugged, “all that matters is that they accepted my request and made the necessary arrangements.  You are still leaving tomorrow?”

Did he want you gone already?

“Yes, of course.”

You noticed the looks from people you passed, deferential toward Aemond, and a mixture of pity and confusion toward you.  Frankly, you didn’t care.  Your plan had worked, you could enjoy a few months of freedom, and then you would figure out what to do.

Aemond guided you around a corner and past a series of statues.  “In a few weeks I will visit you.  It would be appropriate and we can talk more about how to proceed.”

“Dear brother.”

Aemond stopped and you turned at the sound of prince Aegon’s voice.  He was leaning against one of the parapets, half shielded by the side of the wall.

“You’ve been keeping this little morsel hidden.”  His eyes went from the top of your head to the bottom of your dress, lingering on your breasts.  “I can see why.”

“Your Highness,” you said politely, your fingers tightening on Aemond’s arm.  

“This is all very sudden, isn’t it?” Aegon added, then glanced at your belly.  “Do not tell me you are in a delicate state.”

Aemond stepped forward.  “Of course not.  If you will excuse us, brother.”

You could feel Aegon’s eyes on your ass as you walked past him, resisted the urge to turn around.  Aemond pulled you closer to him.  “Is that what people think?  That I am with child?” you asked as you turned a corner onto an empty hallway.

“Does it matter?”

You stopped, letting go of Aemond’s arm.  “Well, yes, but eventually people will know it is not true,” you mused, and caught him looking down at your stomach.  “What?”

“Nothing.”  He offered his arm again and you took it.  

“I will see you at dinner, then.”

Aemond looked down at you before stopping close to your chambers.  “Wear the pendant from now on.”

“I have some other jewelry that will be more suitable-”

He stopped and pulled sharply on your arm, making you turn around to face him.  “If I say wear the pendant, then you wear the pendant.  It is a gift from your betrothed and if we are to signify that you are mine then you must be mine in every way that can be perceived.  You will wear the pendant every day, back home and here, you will write to me every other day and you will speak of the love you have for me to every person you fucking meet.”

Your eyes widened as he pressed you against the stone wall.  “You wanted this and while I agreed, I will also make sure that you do things the way I want them done.  I have done my part to ensure the news was made public-”

“By kissing me,” you said curtly, and his eye went straight to your mouth.

“Yes,” he said, lowering his voice.  “It was quick and efficient, was it not?”  He leaned in, the tip of his nose brushing against your cheek.  “The work of but a few seconds and an hour later the whole keep knew.”

He was warm, impossibly warm, his body almost covering you completely, and he began nuzzling your neck.  “They will say they one-eyed prince has found happiness at last,” he murmured, and you closed your eyes.  “The prince without a dragon now has both the greatest dragon of all and a beautiful wife.”

When he raised his head, you looked up at him and it was the most natural thing in the world to let him kiss you.  

* * * * * 

He had to stop.  He kept telling himself just a few more seconds, but it kept getting more difficult to let go of her and in the end he had to shove away from her.  Her cheeks were pink and she was breathing hard and now that he knew how she tasted he wanted more.  

“Go change for dinner,” he said sharply, and turned to leave.

Aemond made his way to his chambers, throwing his weapons down with more force than necessary as he changed clothes.

She’d be gone tomorrow and he wouldn’t have to worry about her.

He sat by the hearth, realizing he didn’t want her to go.  He threw off his jacket, disgusted with himself.  He barely knew the girl, was this really going to be a problem?  She was the fourth daughter from a barely relevant house, she wasn’t particularly beautiful or tall or graceful or had any distinctive feature that put her above other ladies.  Once she was gone he wouldn’t think about her, wouldn’t recall the sweet taste of her lips or the scent of her skin.

He sat there for a few minutes before he realized he had been rubbing his fingertips over his lips for who knew how long, and wished it was already tomorrow.

* * * * * 

Dinner was eternal, you decided later as you let the maid help you with your dress.  Aemond had stared at you as you had walked in, and you had no idea if he was pleased with how you looked or thought you looked like a nightmare.  He didn’t say anything, either, which didn’t help.

Your father seemed to enjoy himself, which at least made the whole thing just slightly worth it.  

You’d go home tomorrow, which frankly, would be a respite from all the pretense and lies and all of it.  You’d write to Aemond as he’d requested, that would be easy enough, although what you were supposed to write you had no idea because you barely knew him but you would think of something.  He hadn’t said if he would write back, though.  

As you slipped under the covers, you thought back to the kiss he’d given you this afternoon and the harsh way he’d ended it.

* * * * * 

“We will be expecting you back for Aemond’s name day,” the queen said, “it will be good for you to become familiar with court life, being from such a faraway land as you are.”

She made it sound like you were from Essos, but you smiled and curtsied and then went up to Aemond, who was standing by the carriage with your father.

He extended his hand as your father walked into the carriage and you took it.  He kissed your cheek, a chaste kiss unlike the previous two you’d shared.  “When I get back to my mother’s side I want you to stop the carriage and run up to embrace me.”  He pulled back and helped you get inside next to your father, and then began walking back.

You waved at everyone and sat back, keeping an eye on Aemond.  The carriage started and once he was almost at his mother’s side, you hit the ceiling of the carriage.  “Stop!”

You race out of the carriage toward Aemond, who catches you as you throw yourself at him and wrap your arms around him.  You hear a sound of disapproval from the queen and ignore it completely, because Aemond’s mouth is on yours and he’s holding you tightly and now you really don’t want to leave.

But he pulls back and when he looks at you, he only nods, so you smile and turn around to get back in the carriage, and wonder if what you are feeling is going to get much worse.

* * * * * 

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[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Hold Me Like A Knife (i) (ao3)

In the words of our lord and saviour Taylor Swift, it's been a long time coming but... presenting, for @nessianweek day 4, viking!Cassian 🖤

After a decisive battle forges a peace treaty between the king of the West Saxons and the leader of the viking horde, Anglo-Saxon Nesta Archeron is brought north for the first time in her life when the king’s court travels to Jorvik to settle the terms and draw up boundary lines. After centuries of bloody raids, she should be terrified of the invaders from across the sea— after all, tales abound of their violence and their brutality. And yet quickly she discovers that there are some things about the heathens that she can’t help but be drawn to… especially when a chance encounter brings her face to face with one viking in particular. 

Jorvik, 884 AD

In nomine patris, et filli et spiritus sancti.

With each step of the horses’ hooves beyond the borderlands of Wessex, the priest muttered those same words; a prayer offered at every turn, the sign of the cross made with stiff hands and a darkened brow as mile after mile gave way beneath their feet. Through the countryside and long grass, beneath the grey sky that loomed heavy above, the king’s court made its way north— and all the while, Osbert the Holy Man whispered. 

In nomine patris, et filli et spiritus sancti.

Like the ground itself was cursed, and only his prayers could save them. 

It was maddening.

With a scowl, Nesta Archeron cast her eyes to the sky, rolling her eyes as Osbert began another rotation of prayers, his fingers tripping over the rosary at his neck. 

She hadn’t ever wished to head north.

It was full of wild-men, her father used to say. Wild-men with bloodied swords and even bloodier hands, invaders who set fire to the coast and laughed as it burned. Men from across the sea, who spoke in strange tongues and worshipped strange gods, who murdered priests and monks and nuns only to revel in the violence. From the places civilisation had forgotten to reach, he said, they made their home beneath grim skies on stolen Saxon land.

Nobody wanted to head north these days.

Even the horses had slowed their pace, like after days of traveling they were reluctant, now, to reach their destination. Nesta scanned the landscape with narrowed eyes as her grey mare shook her head, the reins she’d held so loosely for the past hour becoming taut, and though Nesta hadn’t spoken to her father in two whole summers, his words came back to her now, as if carried by the wind that blew cold towards the south. Aedwulf had said many things over the years that Nesta had stopped believing in, but he had gotten one thing right. The skies were grim up here, overcast and heavy, the clouds like a swathe of slate rolling in from across the sea. The April sun was well hidden, and as the bite of the wind numbed her cheeks, it made her think of the depths of winter rather than the first breaths of spring. With another scowl aimed at the sky, Nesta pulled her fur-edged cloak more closely about her shoulders, the tips of her fingers aching as she clung to the fabric.

For what must have been the hundredth time, she cursed the day they’d left Wessex.

Ahead of her, as the sun made a rare appearance from behind the clouds, the gold of the king’s crown glinted weakly, like a spark attempting flame. She wondered if anybody else had noticed that the garnets studding the band about his temples gleamed dark like pools of fresh blood; reminiscent of the battles that had brought them here.

Their side will be known as the Danelaw, the king had announced after the last pitched battle; the one that had ended with weapons on both sides laid down, a tentative peace agreed as the Norse leader had the sign of the cross traced on his brow with holy water. They will have their own laws and customs, but their leader will be baptised a Christian.

With that hammered diadem about his brow, King Alfred led his court north now, chasing peace as they neared the city of Jorvik, where the pagan lands were to be ratified; the boundaries between their peoples hammered out like a sword fresh from the forge. The women, Alfred had insisted, were to be present too - to add ‘an air of civility’ to the proceedings, like he thought the Danes might stay their hand and sheathe their blades in the presence of ladies. 

Nesta had barely been able to suppress her snort at that.

They’d all heard the stories— gruesome ones, of the pagans and their rituals. Tomas had even taken great pleasure, once, in describing to her, in detail, the horrifying blood eagle. The way the Danes delighted in breaking a man apart, in snapping bone and twisting ribs until they spread apart like wings.

If the treaty between them wasn’t enough to ensure peace and prevent violence, Nesta doubted the presence of a handful of noblewomen would be enough to convince the Danes to behave.

And yet as the wife of the king’s right hand, Nesta had no refusal she could offer, and no reason good enough to keep her in Wessex when the king insisted that his court accompany him north— to that lawless place, where even the soil was saturated with Saxon blood.

Or so it was said, anyway. 

“We used to call it Eoforwic, you know,” Tomas muttered from the space beside her.

Her husband’s voice was a scathing rasp barely even audible above the sound of a hundred horses’ hooves. He looked ahead at the horizon, nodding to the city walls before them now, piercing the sky in a great wooden structure, stark against the grey of the countryside. Even from a distance Nesta could see that the ramparts were topped with wooden spikes, sharpened to a point that, she suspected, would be lethal if climbed. And yet, riding at her husband’s side, Nesta Archeron said nothing.

“And then the heathens took over,” he finished through gritted teeth. 

The heathens.

The word was almost enough to drive fear into the heart of any proper Saxon woman, but as they approached the gates in the long train behind the king, Nesta didn’t feel so much as an ember of it stirring in her breast. After all, for almost two full decades now the heathens had occupied the city that had been Eoforwic, and yet by all accounts the city behind those walls wasn’t lying in ashes like the monasteries scattered along the coastline.  No— it was flourishing. The men from across the sea that had raided these shores for so many years, to murder and pillage and burn, had settled. Renamed the place Jorvik, set down roots. And as the gates before them opened with the sound of creaking wooden beams, Nesta waited for all the signs of such infamous brutality to hit her— the smoke and dead silence, the smell of rotting flesh. The empty eyes of the people living behind those walls, the cruel smiles of the men from across the sea.

Without pause her horse crossed the threshold. She looked up— saw the symbols carved into the gate posts, the sharp lines of an alphabet she didn’t recognise. 

And still, she waited.

There were no screams, no rivers of blood pooling in the streets.

Instead, Jorvik stretched ahead of them, the roads wide enough for carts to pass two abreast.

Wattle and daub houses lined the roads, old Roman tiles decorating the walls of a select few— as well as old bricks and white stone, repurposed and used again, like the Danes hadn’t destroyed the city at all, merely… expanded on what they had already found. Woven fences separated buildings, clothes hung on lines strung in the narrow alleys between houses, and all around them the air was filled with languages that landed strangely on the ear, tongues both harsh and soft that Nesta had never heard before. Not the Saxon she was used to nor the Latin she heard in church, but something else, something that felt richer, somehow. And as she watched with a slackened jaw and widened eyes, her attention followed the sound of those voices, her focus dragged towards the river where the ships came in, laden with goods imported from all over the continent and beyond. 

Nesta had only ever seen her corner of Wessex before, but here— here it seemed like the entire world opened up before her. 

And though she knew she shouldn’t…

She wanted to see more of it.

With her eyes fixed on that river, on the horizon that seemed to hold so much in the way of promise, a kind of longing rose within her, and suddenly Nesta thought she understood just a little of why the Danes chased their home on the seas. 

Beneath it all, in the distance, there was the tell-tale sound of a forge at work too, the clatter of a hammer against an anvil. As it rang through the winding streets, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of blade the smithy was beating into shape. Would it be great and heavy when it was done— as grand as the king’s own sword, kept in its sheath until battle called? Or would it be practical and small, light enough for even her own hands to wield—

“Nesta,” Tomas hissed at her side, little more than a scold as he leaned over and took the reins of her horse in his gloved hand. The horse whinnied, like even the mare couldn’t stand his closeness. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

“No,” Nesta shrugged, her eyes drifting back to the river, to the lines of ships gathered there. Ships that sat low in the water, heavy with stock. Ships that were wide and flat-bottomed, so unusual she couldn’t look away.

“I said, the pagans are too brazen. This was a Christian city.” 

He pulled away, shoving the reins back into her hands as he sat back in his saddle, his lip curling in disgust. His features twisted into a grimace; a sneer that held as his eyes roved over Jorvik’s streets. 

“Barbarous,” Osbert muttered, scowling as he rubbed a thumb over the cross he wore at his neck. “A violent and brutish people.”

Tomas hummed his agreement. The priests’s white robes fluttered in the wind, and Nesta glanced at the mud-spattered hem as the priest ran a thin hand over his tonsured head. His face was stark, all bloodless cheeks and dark eyes, and though she hadn’t ever been able to put a finger on it, there was something about the holy man that unnerved her, made her shudder whenever she found herself too close to him.

And she had been too close to him for days now.

Osbert had been by the king’s side almost as long as Tomas, and had struck up a companionship with her husband that meant the priest was frequently lingering in their rooms at court, never too far from the side of either the king or her husband. Both men rode directly behind King Alfred now, in a position of prominence that spoke to their influence, and as the streets of Jorvik grew even wider, leading them easily to an open courtyard close to the centre of the city, Nesta wondered how easy it might be to slip from her horse and disappear through those streets, never to see either of those men again.

Before she could let the thought take root, the king stopped his horse.

Ahead of them a great hall loomed; a towering wooden structure with two floors, its thatched roof a meeting of two large, carved wooden beams at the front— two serpents twining at the apex where they crossed.

The lord’s hall.

They could get no closer— the door was closed, the windows of the ground floor shuttered. Nesta frowned, taking in the crowd that had gathered before that closed door, assembled in a circle to leave a great space empty in the centre of the courtyard. At least fifty Danes she counted, all of them waiting, she thought, for the arrival of the King of Wessex.

But then there was the sound of steel ringing out upon steel, and as the crowd before them parted to let the horses through, Alfred’s trail of Saxons caught their first glimpse of the spectacle taking place just a stone’s throw from the lord’s hall and it’s resolutely closed door. As the spectators closed the circle behind them, she realised that the Danes weren’t there for Alfred at all. 

At the centre of that circle, two Danes prowled around one another like wolves. Nesta felt her eyes widen— her knuckles tighten on her horse’s reins. 

The nearest Dane towered above the rest, his skin like burnished bronze even in the dim grey light. In one hand he held a great steel sword— in the other, a short-handled axe. A seax. He wore a thin tunic, already clinging to his skin, and his hair curled haphazardly to his shoulders. Around his neck a silver pendant hung in the shape of a hammer, and when he lunged it danced, catching the thin light as much as his sword. The second Dane was similarly built, yet lighter on his feet and a touch more lithe, and as a manic grin split across the face of the first, a whisper rippling along the gathered crowd as coins exchanged hands, Nesta realised that the crowd had gathered to place their bets— to watch the fight like one might listen to a minstrel. 

The second Dane tilted his head, his raven hair cut short, and when he turned Nesta saw the smile that pulled at his mouth, like the fight… excited him.

Like there was no malice in it.

Like it was… fun.

The first was handsome in a rugged kind of way, a single scar splitting through his eyebrow and a hundred more littering the arms laid bare by his rolled-up sleeves. Tattoos snaked their way across his skin, shifting with each flex of muscle, and it was an effort to tear her eyes away from him, like somehow she needed to discover just how he’d earned each and every one of those scars. 

As the second Dane moved into her line of vision, she noticed that he had scars too— far more brutal ones that consumed both his hands, like he’d been caught in a fire. Like perhaps he’d started the kind of fire his people were so infamous for, burning down monasteries up and down the eastern coast. 

Nesta blinked once. Twice.

The first Dane dropped his sword to the ground, letting it clatter against the packed earth. He flipped his axe, clever fingers wrapping around the hilt as he crooked the fingers of his other hand in invitation. He murmured something in his native tongue, and Nesta tilted her head as he grinned again, shifting his weight and readying himself to make the next strike. The second smiled grimly, and even though both were already marred with blood - and a thin cut left a trail of blood weeping along the arm of the first - neither seemed particularly concerned. Like a little bloodshed was nothing.

The first wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned as that, too, came away smeared with blood. 

“Barbarous,” the priest muttered again.

“Brutish,” Tomas agreed, an echo. 

The sun broke from behind the clouds, briefly illuminating the fighters in gold. They wore no armour, and Nesta’s mouth felt dry as she watched the first one fight, his arms corded with muscle that she suspected could break a man’s neck with ease. And he did make it lookeasy, the way he lifted his axe. The way he swept forward, dipping low enough to the ground to pluck up his discarded sword. 

The second warrior held his own, just as adept, but when the first landed a kick to his thigh that sent him stumbling—

Within a breath, the first Dane had his blade levelled at the neck of the second.

For a moment, Nesta’s heart was in her throat.

Here was the bloodshed— the easy violence that made the Danes so fearsome.

Would the first one cut the second’s throat with that smile still plastered on his face? Would he make that look easy too, when he opened his fellow countryman’s neck? 

Nesta held her breath.

Waited.

But after a moment, the first tossed his head back and laughed, grinning at his victory as his curls spilled across his shoulders. Then he extended a hand, helping the second to his feet even as the latter muttered something under his breath that Nesta couldn’t understand— something she suspected might have been good-natured grumbling after a fight lost between friends. 

Their hands clasped; all blood-stained skin and scars. 

“Next time,” she heard the second warrior say darkly, his chest rising and falling rapidly after the exertion of the fight. “Next time, It’ll be you on the floor.”

The first grinned, his victory lining his face with mirth. He opened his mouth, his dark eyes shining, but before he could speak, the doors to the hall behind them opened. Silence fell as a figure filled the doorway, dressed in deep black that almost made him one with the shadows of the hall behind, and as the warriors sheathed their blades, Nesta noted how the smile on the mouth of the first refused to fade, even in the presence of what was surely his lord.

“King Alfred.” The figure in the doorway stepped further into the grey light, his voice smooth and lilting beneath his accent, and as the weak sunlight glanced off the sharp planes of his face and illuminated the angular cut of his jaw, he looked like a man entirely content with command. His hair was smooth and black, kept short, and the deep black of his tunic was interrupted only by the silver rings on each of his fingers and the silver torc about his wrist.

“Lord Rhysand,” Alfred answered, his voice tight even as they met under the banner of peace. Tension wove through them like a breeze; the treaty between them hardly stronger than a reed in the river. Animosity was buried too deep, mistrust a currency of its own between their peoples. No matter what peace their leaders had agreed, Nesta hardly thought any of them were fooled.

Peace was a powder keg, just waiting for a spark.

Still, the leader of the Danes made a show of flashing a smile towards the Saxons. 

“Ignore my brothers,” he said, flicking a hand towards the two warriors they had witnessed sparring. “As Danes, the fight is embedded in our blood. We train for hours against one another,” he continued as he moved with purpose down the three steps that led up to the hall’s imposing door. His eyes glinted with something like arrogance as he canted his head, slowly, to the side. “To achieve the kind of prowess that wins our battles.”

Unease whispered through the gathered crowd, the smile on the first warrior’s face dropping to a darkened smirk as he looked up at the assembled Saxons from beneath his eyelashes. His hand shifted— fingers twitching towards the handle of his seax.

There was a threat there, Nesta thought, left so thinly veiled by Rhysand’s words. 

Alfred said nothing, only nodded sagely before glancing back, briefly, at his priest. Osbert’s scowl had deepened, his lips pressed so thin they were almost entirely invisible, and yet with a nod, both men’s horses stepped forwards anyway. The King of Wessex slid to his feet when his horse stopped in the centre of the courtyard, opening his arms in a show of perfect companionship as he walked towards the Danish lord.

It was a display Rhysand echoed, clasping Alfred’s hand as they embraced. The silver of his rings contrasted the gold of Alfred’s, and though no crown encircled Rhysand’s brow, authority rippled from him in waves. The warriors he had called his brothers took up a position on either side of their lord, like dark shadows that threatened violence, and as the rest of the crowd dispersed and serving men stepped forward to take their horses, they watched.

Smoothly, Nesta dismounted and handed her reins to a waiting groom. Beside her, Tomas still scowled, like just breathing the same air as the northmen was an affront to him. But then again, Nesta thought silently, most things proved an affront to Tomas Mandray. Even being one of the king’s right-hand men wasn’t enough for him. That scowl was permanently etched across his brow, like nothing and nobody was ever truly good enough.

Lifting her chin, Nesta straightened the silver rings that wound around her fingers. A sure sign of wealth— as sure as the belt at her waist decorated with gold, and the gold and garnet-inlaid brooches that held her cloak together at her collarbone. Tomas’ proximity to the king might not have given him land or a real title, but at least it had given him some wealth, and if gold and garnets were the only thing Nesta was to get out of this godforsaken marriage… well. 

She smoothed a hand down her cloak. 

So be it.

He left her standing alone as he drifted towards the king, a Saxon in a Norse stronghold. His gait was heavy as he stormed forwards, his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip, and as their leaders spoke together with heads bowed, voices too low for Nesta to hear, all she could do was clasp her hands and wait for somebody - anybody - to show her to their lodgings. It took effort, sometimes, to keep her tongue behind her teeth. To keep from screaming as the rest of the king’s court moved to make way for the men, whilst the women lingered in the dust. 

She looked forward, cast her eyes over the Danes that remained standing before the lord’s hall. The warrior with the curling hair and scar-split brow glanced up, a soft breeze shifting those loose curls back to reveal both the high cut of his cheekbones and the curve of his ear, studded at several points with silver rings. His arms were folded over his broad chest, and when his eyes flicked to hers, Nesta felt his attention as sharply as the blade of the seax he had tucked into his belt. 

He was from another world— one so foreign to her that she didn’t know what to do when their eyes met, and yet there was something warm in it when he smirked again, a base heat that gathered at the bottom of her spine, constricting her lungs as she kept her head high. With a jolt that sent lightning forking down her spine, that mouth of his split into a grin as he inclined his head towards her in greeting.

“Come,” Rhysand announced, his voice echoing through the courtyard as he drew away from Alfred. With a sweep of one arm, he motioned broadly to the open door of the hall. “Let us get the business over with. The sooner it is done, the sooner we can drink.”

Several of the Danes let out a low cheer at that, more than one of them lifting an arm into the air as if to appease their gods. Skol, one of them proclaimed loudly, hammering a fist against his chest. 

Nesta didn’t pretend to understand, but as Rhysand led Alfred through that door, Osbert and Tomas in tow, she lingered in that courtyard, even as the cold air nipped at her skin. And as Tomas looked back over his shoulder and called her name with irritation lining each syllable, she looked back to the Dane that had snared her attention and watched as his lips kicked up at one corner, his head tilted as he looked at her with the full force of that determined gaze.

And as she watched, the Dane winked.

“Skol,” he echoed. 

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[phyx-m]

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 18: Snake Den

Content warning: description of corpses, mass death, implications of rape, misogyny

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

I Am Stretched On Your Grave - Johnny Hollow Kassidat El Hakka - SEXWITCH

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Chapter 17 | Chapter 19

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“My Lady, please, don’t do this.”

Ren hovers anxiously beside you in the stables, her voice tightening as she watches you prepare to leave the shrine.

The mare gifted to you by the King of Curses—whom you've named Ayana after your mother—stands ready, her tack fitted. Your small travelling trunk, containing only a few essentials, rests near her flank, secured to the saddle with several straps. Inside, there’s just enough food for the journey and a thin cotton blanket from your wardrobe.

“I’ll only be gone for a few days,” you say, attempting to soothe your attendant’s fraying nerves while fastening the bridle to Ayana’s slender head.

The mare’s ears swivel at your touch. Her skittishness is apparent. You know forming a stronger bond with her will be crucial in the coming days, lest she act unpredictably while riding.

Stepping to the side, you bring her a bucket of water. She drinks, and you tangle a gloved hand in the silver-grey tendrils of her mane. Unlike the silk gloves you usually wear, today, you’ve opted for leather ones to steady your grip for the ride ahead. The material feels rough against your skin, but it’s necessary.

“Please, my Lady. Master Sukuna will be furious if anything happens to you,” Ren urges again.

Isn’t he always furious?

You glance over your shoulder at her, patting Ayana’s dappled coat once more before setting the bucket down.

Ren had caught you just as you left your chambers to change into something more suitable. She’s been trying to persuade you to stay, but your mind is already set. Your sister is the priority—she always has been. You only plan to ride to the Kasai clan compound to lay eyes on her. Then you’ll turn around and return before Sukuna even notices you’ve been gone.

You shake your head, and your hair, tied back at the nape, sways lightly with the movement.

“I need to see my sister, Ren,” you say firmly.

With your back turned to her, your hands move to the saddle’s leather straps, double-checking that everything is secure and ready to mount.

“But my Lady, the road can be dangerous.”

Yes, as a woman, you know this all too well—especially leaving without an escort.

Still, you're not overly concerned about the journey itself. Ren doesn’t know, but if anyone comes too close, you can easily press your fingertips to their skin and watch them rot into nothing but viscous flesh. Although you'd prefer to use your ability from a distance, you're not entirely sure if it's even possible to have long-range control.

“I’ll be fine, I promise.” You pull the last strap tight. “Just keep yourself occupied. I’ll be back before you realize.” 

Peeking over your shoulder, you find your attendant has already gone.

You huff at her persistence, but a small sense of relief curls around you. It’s comforting to know that someone like Ren cares enough to worry.

Which, in turn, is nice to feel every once in a while.

After making the final preparations, you mount the mare and guide her out of the stables into the afternoon light. As you cross the shrine’s grounds, a figure steps down from the stone entrance—dressed in white with a dark haori. Uraume.

Well, shit.

They cross towards you, slow their pace, and stop before you.

“My Lady,” they say, tucking their hands comfortably into their sleeves.

You nod.

“Uraume.”

They incline their head slightly, studying you from where you sit atop the horse. Though you are about the same height, the elevated position gives you the advantage.

“Ren tells me you’re heading home.” They study your mare, the saddle, your trunk. “I wasn’t aware that Master Sukuna had permitted this.”

You swallow. There’s an accusation in their words.

“He didn’t... But he’s not here.” You tighten your grip on the reins. “If I leave now, he’ll never know.”

Uraume cocks their chin, considering you.

“That’s if you leave.”

A breeze tousles their pristine white hair, lifting the red streak that stains it from back to side.

You inhale sharply.

“Please,” you murmur, “just this once. I’ve asked for so little since I arrived here.”

Silence.

They take one, small step.

Something stirs in their expression.

“Are you asking me to be disloyal?” They take another step forward. The air begins to chill, stabbing at your skin. “To betray Master Sukuna’s trust?”

“No... but you know better than anyone that I’ve had no word from my family.” Your teeth begin to chatter. “I’ll come back here. I promise.”

At the word "promise," a whisper of chill rolls up from your feet to your skull, prickling your skin.

​​A distant, unnatural cold cracks the ground as frost begins to form in the mud. The ice snakes upward, invading the fabric of your hakama, winding beneath your kimono, and seeping into your bones. Your mare shifts uneasily, hooves striking the ground, her breath coming out in visible puffs as the temperature plummets.

Uraume stands serene. Still, their deep pink eyes fixed on you, seeing far more than you'd like.

This is their doing.

While the King of Curses is heat and chaos, Uraume is his opposite—cold and calm.

Your throat works to swallow, knowing their strength far exceeds your own—a power you can’t challenge and win.

“Please, Uraume,” you croak, breath turning to mist, swirling in the frigid air like spectres. Ayana whinnies, and you place a hand on her trembling neck to gentle her. “I just need to see my sister.”

The squall surges, and your eyelashes stick together.

“Please…”

The cold snaps and vanishes, retreating swiftly. Uraume pulls their hands from their sleeves.

“Then I shall accompany you, my Lady.”

“What?” Your voice rises in surprise.

They move toward the mare, and Ayana chuffs with anxiety, tossing her head and stamping her feet. Uraume quickly steps back, clearly cautious.

“Easy, girl,” you soothe, then glance at the pale-haired subordinate. “I will return, I promise. You don’t need to come with me.”

Yet, a troubling thought forms in your mind.

If something has happened to your sister—fuck, what if something has—what will become of you? Would your father force you back to the shrine or break this union with Sukuna? Would he even allow it? Or if Uraume comes along and something terrible has happened, will they drag you back here against your will?

There are too many ifs and too many questions.

“I made a vow to Master Sukuna to ensure you’re taken care of,” Uraume states, circling you. “If you’re determined to leave, I will accompany you.” They step closer but remain wary of Ayana. “I cannot allow you to go alone.”

Is that why Uraume has been so attentive? A damn vow? You run a hand through your hair, another realization hitting you. There have been too many of those lately, and you despise it.

“Fine,” you concede, extending a gloved hand toward them. They eye it before reaching out to take it and, with a swift motion, swing their leg over the mare, settling in behind you. There’s a moment of hesitation before they wrap their lithe arms around your waist, a chill falls over your back. You grit your teeth at the contact.

“It will take a three-day ride to travel north.” You peer over your shoulder at them, and they nod.

“I’m aware, my Lady.”

“You’ve been before?” you ask, curling the reins around your hands into a tight fist.

They pause for a moment, their eyes steady.

"Only once."

You fling them a faint smile. But their pink eyes shift away, signalling the end of the conversation.

Turning your attention forward, you give Ayana a gentle nudge. She begins to move, first at a walk, then a trot, before breaking into a full gallop along the dirt-packed road. The faster she moves, the more the trees blur past you.

Faster.

You must get home and back quickly—quick enough to outride Sukuna before he knows you’ve even left.

“My Lady,” Uraume speaks up, their voice almost swallowed by the wind. “Once we leave the shrine’s road, it’s wise to stay off the main paths. If anyone discovers who you are… they won’t hesitate to use that against you.”

Your fingers curl tighter into a fist around the reins.

Right.

The King of Curses’ wife.

It’s not lost on you, not for a second. Everyone in Japan likely wants Ryomen Sukuna destroyed—his name, his legacy, his very existence wiped from the world. Death. Death to the one who has many names and two faces. His presence is a blight on this earth, and as his wife, this stigma will likely extend to you now, whether you like it or not.

If only they knew that you, just like them, need him dead.

Besides, he is a blight on this earth...

Isn’t he?

With that, your mind wanders to too many things.

Has anyone ever truly wanted or cared for him outside of duty, obligation, or fear? Was he always this way, or did the world push him into this pit of cruelty?

Questions that you wish to leave unanswered crawl into your head. They bother you. The enigma that is Sukuna bothers you.

Why has he protected you if he’s nothing more than what others deem him to be? A monster

A sudden dip in the road pulls you from these spinning questions. You suck in a breath as the wind picks up, stinging your face.

With a glance, you look over your shoulder at Uraume.

“All right,” you say, “I understand.”

* * * * *

Later on, hours into your ride, you and Uraume have yet to speak a word. They might as well have been a rock with how lifeless they are behind you. The only time they finally seem to stir is when you direct the mare out of a wooded valley and up a narrow ridge.

In the distance, thick plumes of smoke choke the sky as dark tendrils coil against a fiery sunset. You slow to a trot as you reach the edge of a village, one closest to the shrine. It’s not until a breeze drifts in that—

God, the stink.

The stench of burnt flesh curls into your nose, coating the roof of your mouth with a foul tang. Your tongue swells as if blanketed in blood-soaked fabric.

Guiding the mare a bit further is when you see the first corpse—charred, leathery skin steaming in the setting sun. You press a gloved hand to your nose and mouth, stifling a gag. But a glance up reveals an even fouler sight. More bodies, hills of them. Men, women, and children lie in a mound, with flies and other insects crawling into the warm remains. Some bodies have been bludgeoned to death, soft skulls caved in, and pink insides spilling out. Above, crows circle, eager to peel flesh from bone.

The sight is so gruesome you’ve forgotten to breathe.

As you direct Ayana forward, you notice corpses dotting the village like blemishes covering the ground. A cluster of women have been dragged away to the edges, where they lay brutalized. Their garments torn open. Paths of blood drip between their bare thighs, signs of a struggle, signs that their bodies had been violated.

“What the hell is this?” you murmur, hands shaking as you scan the madness.

Ayana lets out a low, nervous chuff.

“My Lady, we must go.” Uraume's voice pulls your gaze away.

You blink.

“This is the outskirts of the shrine,” you utter, ignoring their urgency. “Sukuna controls this area… doesn’t he?”

Uraume nods sharply.

“He does.”

Bile slicks the inside of your throat.

“Did he… do this?”

Smoke thickens the air. It stings your eyes until they water.

“No, my Lady.” They speak firmly, and hardness cuts over their face. “He’s elsewhere.” Where? Northeast? Further? Uraume adjusts their grip around your waist. “We need to move on. Whoever did this could still be nearby.”

This village is one of many that he subjugated. What would he have done if they pleaded for his aid? Help them?

You can’t help but feel doubtful.

And otherwise, then, who? Who’s attacking his domain?

Your mare whines again, suddenly prancing sideways, her hooves stumbling over rocks and scorched earth.

“Easy, easy,” you whisper to her.

She stops but lifts her head, ears pricking. She senses something out there.

A heaviness clots the air—a pressure stirs. You glance at the bodies strewn across the ground.

“Uraume… where is Lord Sukuna?”

A faint high-pitched howl rises, echoing nearby. The hair on your body pulls up. Uraume swivels their head.

“He’s further north,” they murmur, eyes scanning the surroundings.

“Is more of his territory being—”

“Rider!” A disembodied voice shouts.

Your eyes dart in search of danger—a second howl shrieks.

From your left, an arrow screams through the air, narrowly missing Ayana. She rears, almost throwing you and Uraume.

“We must leave!” Uraume urges as a chill sinks into your back. “I cannot protect you if there are many.”

Another arrow streaks by, closer this time. Your mare tosses her head, the reins slipping from your grasp as you struggle to hold on.

“Shit!” You yank them, wheeling Ayana around as a third arrow buries itself in the spot you stood moments ago.

Squeezing your thighs, you steer her into a tight turn, urging her into a gallop. In an instant, she erupts from the village, dodging debris and bodies.

Behind you, voices shout and the thrumming of more arrows striking earth sound, but it quickly drowns out by the pounding of hooves and the blood rushing in your ears.

“Over there!” Uraume narrows a pale finger toward a forest that rises from the ridge ahead.

Without looking back, you direct Ayana toward it, not slowing until the swarm of dense trees swallows you.

That evening, you and Uraume share a simple meal—rice balls and dried fish—while sitting in the saddle. When the moon rises and fat clouds obscure its light, you set up camp by a river, away from the main roads. After what happened earlier in the day, Uraume stands guard as you sleep on the cold ground, wrapped in your thin cotton blanket.

The nightmare of your mother’s death comes for you through the night, waking you several times, drenching you in sweat, making you gasp for breath. Perhaps the thought of returning home stirs the memory. Perhaps it is something else. Sukuna, too, makes his strange appearance in the dream—watchful, waiting, just out of sight.

The next day, the routine remains the same: you ride, eat, and rest. Uraume sleeps in the saddle, always vigilant at night. The following days are no different. Though you encounter no more trouble, the aftermath of the massacre you came across lingers in your mind.

On the third day, the landscape changes. The ground rises, and the air becomes colder. 

North.

You’re close now.

A little further, and the air sharpens.

The massive estate comes into view, the Kasai clan compound sprawling ahead. Its towering outer walls are unnecessarily ornate, carved with serpentine creatures coiled in masses of scales and teeth. Giant yew trees line the limestone barrier, dotting the expanse like ancient sentries. Beyond that, the estate opens up, leading you into a barren courtyard. It feels as though the land itself rejects any attempt to soften it. Unlike the lush gardens of the shrine, there’s no greenery or vibrant blooms—only neatly trimmed shrubs and stony paths leading to the heart of the compound.

Dismounting, you and Uraume lead Ayana to the stables. You water her and leave her in an empty stall. There’s not a soul in sight. Not one. But after living here for twenty-five years, you know better than to trust that. You know what lies inside. 

Climbing the steps toward the grand oak doors, the air in your lungs begins to empty. Standing before them, you pause to glance at the white-haired monk.

“Uraume… thank you for escorting me here, and—” You pause, curling your fingers until the leather of your gloves creaks in a satisfying way. “For how you’ve treated me this past month. Truly.”

You dip your head.

“I do what is asked of me,” they say coolly.

You nod, reaching for the intricately gilded bronze handles.

“I know you’ll be anxious to return to the shrine. So I won’t be long.”

“I’m coming inside, my Lady,” they state firmly.

You stare at one another, your hand poised for entry.

There is no other way around this.

“All right...”

With that, you push open the doors.

The difference between Sukuna's shrine and the Kasai clan compound is the sound.

The shrine is wrapped in stillness, with its shrine maidens shuffling through corridors, robes whispering, doors rustling. Now and then, the lack of sound is shattered by the King of Curses—the screams of slaughter and death.

But here, there's constant noise and movement—people everywhere, men everywhere, attendants everywhere, concubines everywhere, crowds everywhere. Booming voices, raucous conversations loud and jarring, weapons always sheathed but never out of reach. A cesspool, a breeding ground for powerful families and allies to play.

Stepping into the grand hall, every eye swivels toward you—the room reeks—sweat, alcohol, musk.

Disdain.

The problem with the task your father has demanded of you is that only two people know of it: your father and Onishi. Your sister doesn’t, though she is aware of your gift, and once, so was your mother. Those are the only people. The rest of your clan remain blissfully unaware. And for most of your life, you've been kept relatively isolated, your existence largely tucked away. It's fortunate, really—if the King of Curses knew what you were capable of, you'd lose any advantage you have over him.

As you take a small step inside, it’s only a partial surprise when frenzied whispers ripple through the room. The men make little effort to lower their voices as you catch, "The demon's whore is here." Even though you’re the reason they no longer have to fight that demon, to them, that’s all you are now.

His whore.

Inhaling deeply, you force your feet to move toward a private chamber at the back of the compound. It’s mid-day, and your father is predictable. He’s usually there at this time—either mulling over territory, drinking himself into a debauched stupor before harassing the female attendants, or strategizing with Oinishi.

Either way, that’s where you need to go first. If he learns that you arrived and went looking for Yuna immediately, there might be hell to pay.

As you walk, bodies shift, leaving an empty path.

Keeping your chin up, you notice how the space is filled with strangers, people you’ve not seen before. Robes with unfamiliar crests embroidered into the fabric—symbols not your own. Their attire is richly adorned but styled in ways that set them apart—other clans.

Your father has been quite busy because it appears new alliances have been formed in the last month.

You keep walking.

Heads tilt as you pass, gawking toward you as if you’re nothing more than an animal on display.

“...oni bitch…”

You hear the first of many barbs. They keep coming. Raised eyebrows, twitching mouths, muttered insults, followed by boisterous laughter.

Your heart lurches and falls into your stomach. This place feels little like home anymore. Where is home if not here?

Your skin flushes with heat as a clan member steps forward from a pack of idling men and spits, the glob of saliva splattering just shy of your kimono’s hem.

“Welcome home, cunt,” he sneers, mouth rolling back in a smile.

You want to scream at them, to tell them the truth: your union is nothing more than a ruse, that you’re doing this for a damn good reason.

Without making eye contact, you circle him. With another step, you press down the corridor. The private chamber comes into view.

Nearly there.

You keep walking, almost at the doors, when a man jostles you from behind, grabbing your elbow. You whip around, and Uraume steps in closer.

“Keep your distance,” they hiss.

You yank your arm free, and the man lets go, snickering as he walks away.

You inhale deeply.

“Are you all right, my Lady?” Uraume asks.

“Yes,” you breathe, exhaling and turning, you—

Come face to face with a man whose dark grey eyes and sharp cheekbones stand out beneath a trim of raven-black hair. His lean, muscular frame suggests he's a warrior, and one calloused hand rests on the hilt of an eccentric-looking katana sheathed at his side.

Anyone might find him handsome—once, perhaps, you might have too—but now, he does nothing for you.

Odd. Frustrating.

Straining your neck, you notice he’s tall, towering, but not as tall as Sukuna. 

No one is.

“My Lady.” He bows, though his gaze lingers a moment too long on your face, appraising you. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet the second Kasai girl. And just as equally enjoyable to look at.”

Your skin crawls at his compliment, but you manage a smile.

Be obedient, be charming.

“And you are?”

“An acquaintance of your father’s.” He waves the question away.

You nod.

“But you’ve met my sister?” you ask, maintaining a courteous tone.

Lip curling, he steps closer.

“I have. Charming little thing. I can see the resemblance between you two.” He gestures up and down the length of your body. “Your sister has quite a gentle touch and a way with words, too.” He plucks a loose lock of hair from your shoulder, rubbing it absently between his fingers. Your stomach tangles at the unfamiliar gesture from a stranger—not someone else you try not to think about, especially now that you’re realizing only four hands are the ones you might ever long to touch you. Stupid. “The family heirloom turned out surprisingly delicate.”

You have no idea what he’s rambling about, but you nod politely.

“Yes, my sister is lovely.”

His gaze flicks past you, over your shoulder, then back.

“Where’s your husband? Shouldn’t the infamous Sukuna Ryomen be here to protect his newly betrothed wife?”

“He’s…” You’re unsure where the monster is. Further north? “...occupied.”

The stranger clicks his tongue, and a frown draws across a defined mouth.

“That’s a shame.” His hand tightens at the hilt of his weapon, his fingers stroking the small tuft of animal-like hair, wrapped tightly around where the steel emerges. “I would have thoroughly enjoyed meeting him.”

You sense Uraume shifting behind you.

“I’m sorry, perhaps another time.” You step to one side, gesturing to the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to see my fath—”

With brutal speed, he seizes your forearm and yanks you toward him. Your head snaps back, body flinching at the sudden, unwanted contact.

“It must be very lonesome without the demon present,” he hisses. “You’re vulnerable, my Lady. I’d be more than happy to offer you protection… among—” His eyes drift downward, lingering on your chest, then lower to where your obi cinches your waist. “—other things.” His broad shoulders sag as if disappointed in what he sees, but a full grin curls at his mouth nonetheless.

Uraume steps in beside you, crowding close.

“You should watch your tongue when addressing Lord Sukuna’s property,” they snap.

His property.

His possession.

His wife.

Your teeth grind at that.

The dark-haired man blasts a humourless laugh, leaning back to gauge Uraume. He looks unimpressed.

"And you must be the King of Curses' most devoted dog.” He cocks his head. "Or should I say bitch? I’m not quite sure what to make of you.” He chuckles at his own crude words.

Your eyes narrow. Your hands prickling beneath your gloves.

“My Lord, or whoever you are,” you say, sweetness dripping from your voice, “as much as I appreciate your offer of protection, what I need right now is for you to kindly fuck off,” you snarl, trying to shake his tightening grip.

His nostrils flare, and his sharp nose wrinkles as if you've just spoken gibberish.

“Oh! Feisty!” He shouts, leaning into your face. “I appreciate eager women. But you should save it for when it really fucking matters.” Somehow, his features darken, brow dropping, eyes slitting until they twitch uncontrollably. “I wouldn’t want you to wear yourself out before the fun begi—”

“Zen'in!” a voice calls from behind. Onishi. “Enough playing. Leave her alone.”

Your eyes dart over your shoulder, surprised to see your father’s chief advisor stepping in. This brute of a man feels cut from the same cloth as him.

The dark-haired man, Zen’in, finally releases your arm, taking a step back, though the look in his eye suggests he’s far from finished with his games.

“My Lady, it was wonderful meeting you.” He glances at Uraume, jaw clenching. “I look forward to seeing you again. And perhaps, meeting your Master someday.”

Zen'in strides toward your father's advisor, and the two step aside together.

Asshole.

Onishi glances at you, beady eyes sharp, as if silently questioning what you're doing here. He doesn’t dare mention your task in front of Uraume, so instead, he claps Zen’in on the shoulder and walks away.

You watch them go.

Finally, able to breathe again, you exhale.

The fact that Onishi gave you that look, not something else, suggests that…

Whirling around, you grip the doors to the private chamber and throw them open.

Yuna’s lashes flutter as she looks up from the map she’s hovering over with your father.

Your heart leaps in your chest.

She’s safe. 

She’s alive. 

She’s safe. 

“Yuna,” you breathe her name with a desperate gasp, as though you’ve finally come up for air after being submerged for too long.

Her head jerks up, eyes rounding before a radiant smile spreads across her face.

“Sister?”

That smile. You’d gladly defy Sukuna a hundred times just to see it.

Only fourteen months separate you and her, with you being the younger. Your father had hoped for a boy the second time, but instead, he got you. Despite that, it only strengthened the bond between you and your sister. You remember rolling in the grass together as children, sneaking into your mother's chambers to try on her kimonos.

But it didn’t take long for everything to start falling apart.

And the fact that you were the one who took your mother away makes you feel like you’ve stolen something important from her. It’s something you’ll always try to mend, to piece back together and make up for what you took.

Yuna circles the table, kimono fluttering around her ankles. You cross the room in a heartbeat. Arms outstretched, you meet her halfway, your gloved hands reaching for her. Her arms come around your shoulders. You crash into each other.

The embrace is warm, grounding.

Safe.

“What are you doing here?” she sighs, leaning back slightly as she gently smooths your hair. “And where’s my brother-in-law?” Her gaze flashes over your shoulder, her teasing smile widening. “I’ve been eager to see him again.”

When you break apart, a laugh swells from your chest—wet and strangled, barely held together. It’s almost a sob.

“He’s... not here.” You lower your voice so only she can hear. The soft smile that stretches across your face is bittersweet, fighting against the sting of tears. “Honestly? I have no idea where the hell he is.”

She cocks an eyebrow.

You laugh a little harder this time, and a tear slips down your cheek from the relief you feel. Your leather gloves creak as you hastily wipe them away.

“You came here alone?” Yuna watches you, her smile gentle, mirroring your own.

You shake your head.

“Uraume escorted me,” you say.

Yuna shifts, peering at the white-haired monk.

“Hello.”

You don’t look back, but you hear Uraume utter a soft “Lady Yuna.”

Over your sister’s shoulder, your father glares at you. You pull your sister in close again. With only so much time to spare, you have questions to ask.

“Yuna,” you murmur, “why haven’t I heard from you since I left? It’s been a month. Have you not received any of my letters?”

Her brows pinch together in surprise.

“I have,” she replies, confused. “And I’ve sent many in return. Father, too.”

Your stomach tightens. So they’ve been writing to you all along. Why haven’t any of their letters arrived? 

Tentatively, you glance over your shoulder at Uraume, standing stoically at the doorway, hands tucked into their haori. Their face betrays nothing, but you know they’ve been truthful about the lack of communication. That leaves only one possible explanation: someone back at the shrine is sabotaging your correspondence.

You turn back to Yuna, smiling.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m just happy to see you.”

Yuna’s lip twitches, and her hands slide up to your wrists, fingertips gliding over the tops of your gloves to your skin. She might be one, if not the only person whose touch you tolerate.

“Are you here for long?” She holds on for a moment longer. “We’ll find some time to talk together—alone,” she whispers, her eyes cutting to the side as if indicating your father.

You don’t exactly have time to spare. You’ve laid eyes on her; she’s safe, and now you need to return to the shrine. But your mouth moves.

“Yes, we’ll do that.”

Her face lights up.

“Good. Then you can tell me all about how Lord Sukuna has been treating you.” Her tone turns playful, and you snort.

“Yes. I suppose.”

Absolutely not.

“Daughter.” Your father’s voice breaks the moment, dragging you from this pocket of security. He finally moves from where he’s been lurking in the background. “I’ve missed you.” Liar. “Yuna, darling.” His tone turns smoother than it has any right to be. “Why don’t you take your sister’s escort here and keep them occupied? I’d like to speak with her privately.”

Yuna’s fingers uncurl from you. Releasing her hold, she steps back and nods obediently.

“Of course, Father.”

She steps toward Uraume, but they refuse to budge.

“I’d prefer to wait in the stables, Lord Kasai,” they say, bowing their head.

Your father waves them off, unconcerned.

“Fine. Yuna, leave. Take them with you.”

Yuna glances at you again before leading the white-haired monk toward the door. Uraume hesitates briefly, giving you a long, steady look.

You give a slight nod of reassurance. Only then do they follow Yuna out, leaving you alone with your father and the door sliding shut.

Quietly, your bastard of a father circles you like a hawk, scrutinizing everything—your clothing, hair, face, gloves, the way you can’t seem to make eye contact with him.

While he busies himself with nitpicking your very existence, your eyes dance over to the table where he had been standing earlier, examining a map of parchment.

Stones of various sizes and colours are scattered across it. At first glance, you don’t fully understand what they signify, but your eyes are drawn to the lighter stones—they rest on familiar territories. Northern strongholds. Your father’s land. That much is clear.

Then, your gaze moves to the southern side of the map, where red stones—jasper—cluster, pressing against the borders. Sukuna. There are so many of them, more than you imagined. Some are placed, winding up within the north, then moving deeper. He’s been busy these last seven years.

But what strikes you are the black stones, fewer in number. They rest in strange, isolated areas, mingling amongst both the Kasai clan and the King of Curses’ domain. You notice one lying exactly where that massacre you and Uraume rode through three days ago.

Troubling.

Why the hell was it signified here?

“So—” Your eyes cut back to your father, who has circled you and comes to stand before you. “After a month, here you are. In one piece, I see.”

He sounds displeased by this.

“Yes,” you murmur. 

“And the filthy cannibal still seems to be alive.”

It aches deep in the cavity of your chest.

“Yes.”

“Hmph,” he sniffs, “useless as usual.”

You jerk up your chin.

“I’ve made four attempts to kill him, Father,” you say, forcing your voice to be flat and emotionless. “Like I said before. He’s tricky to pin down and get close to.” You lie. “That hasn’t changed.”

The numerous times you’ve hesitated to end Sukuna feels crushing now.

Your father steps closer.

“Is he now?”

There’s no need to answer.

His eyes narrow.

Your hair had come loose during the ride, but his fingers move to gather the last stray strands, pushing them over your left shoulder. You tense, sensing that he's noticed something you’ve missed while scrutinizing you.

With your hair pushed back, neck exposed, he hums.

And then you realize. 

The scar. The scar that wasn’t there a month ago. The scar Sukuna bit into your neck the first time he touched you, when he had you writhing beneath him, your hands on him, his hands on you. And now, it stands as confirmation that you got close to him—but failed to take his life.

Sweat gathers at the base of your spine and slithers down.

“It seems.” Your father tilts his head, birdlike. “That you’ve gotten closer to him than you claim.”

Your throat tightens.

“I—”

“Has he fucked you? Charmed you, daughter?”

“W-what? No.”

The unbearable need to cower into yourself grows.

Your father’s mouth widens viciously, and his hand lingers near your neck for a moment longer before pulling away. 

“Do your sister a favour.” He walks across the room. “Kill him before it’s too late.”

Silence.

Your heart, no longer steady in your chest, beats louder.

You step forward and stop.

“I need more time.”

Your face numbs as you say the words.

He stops and turns.

“What did you just say to me?”

You clear your throat.

“I said I need more time,” you repeat firmly. “Two months won’t be enough. Lord Sukuna is constantly leaving. There’s unrest in his territories.”

Your father moves to the map, peering down at the scattered stones.

“Yes, I’m well aware,” he mutters, picking up a jasper stone and rolling it between his fingers. “I’ll tell you what.” His tone lightens as he steps toward you. “I’ll give you an extra month.”

What?

You eye him as though this is some kind of trap. It has to be.

You stare at him.

He stares at you, waiting for a response.

You nod, grateful.

“Thank you, Father, I apprec—”

“On one condition.” He steps closer again. “Bring him here for the harvest festival in two weeks.”

You still.

“What?” Convincing Sukuna to set foot on the Kasai compound seems impossible. He’ll outright refuse. “There’s no way he’ll agree to that.”

Your father smiles, gaze sweeping over you.

“Oh, something tells me you can convince him.”

Your mouth twitches at the insinuation.

“Why bring him here?” you ask. “What are you planning?”

Why do you care?

He shrugs and takes hold of your wrist before pulling it towards him.

“I’m not sure it’s safe to divulge that, my daughter.” He places the stone in your hand. “Not when your tongue might wag... or worse.” Your stomach churns. “Unless, of course, you have a reason not to bring him. But… your sister is looking lovelier by the day. And I know there are men here eager to make her a better acquaintance.”

“I’ll do it,” you say quickly. “I’ll find a way to bring him here.”

He smiles, eyes drifting off as he grips your wrists.

“Your mother would be so proud of you.” He squeezes harder until it hurts. “Of both her daughters.”

Fucking bastard.

You fight the urge to scream at him.

He pulls his hands away, leaving the red stone in your palm. It's small, but it feels as though its weight could sink you, burdened by what and who it represents.

“Now run along. Make the most of your time with your sister before you leave.”

You bow, then turn on your heel and leave the room.

Plans are in motion—whatever your father is plotting, bringing Sukuna here is part of it.

Walking down the corridor, you squeeze the small stone into your hand. The smooth red surface reminds you of his eyes.

His eyes.

You turn it over in your hand once.

A long passage leads toward your immediate family’s quarters. You take it.

The stone turns in your palm a second time.

“You must stay…” The stone turns again. “You have to do this…”

Your old mantra dies as you whisper it to yourself. You’re starting to wonder why your body, but more importantly, the space where your heart might sit, feels so incredibly heavy.

* * * * *

🔗 Chapter 19

[atomic--peach]

Her Grace's Handmaiden

Imagine being Queen Cersei's favorite handmaiden Pt.2

AO3 VERSION: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48276340

(Cersei x fem reader, slight Sandor x fem reader if you like it like that. I've decided this is going to be a series that will go into smutty territory eventually, but it'll definitely be a slow burn)

The ride north was an unforgiving one. Being lowborn, you had only admired horses from afar before being expected to ride in the Queen's entourage. Side saddle riding protected your modesty and spared your thighs the chafing that the Male riders suffered, but your lower back and shoulders ached all the same.

The queen rode in a lavish carriage with her three children, guarded closely on either side by Ser Jaime and Sandor Clegane.

Due to your inexperience riding and your new found favor with her grace, you were instructed to ride along side The Hound, who was under orders to keep any eye on you and intervene if the mare beneath you proved too rowdy.

It was clear that The Hound resented this duty, already having to keep an eye on the young Prince Joffery, who alternated between riding in the carriage and mounting his own steed. A bright white and rowdy gelding that was the torment of the other horses in the party. It nipped and whinied, trotting circles around the group in a foppish, showy manner.

The Hound, on the other hand, mounted a broad bodied horse that was black as midnight with a coal grey mane named Stranger.

As the prince took another lap, the white gelding nipped at the hindquarters of your mare for what must have been the fifth or sixth time that day. The mare, tired and frustrated with this harassment, finally decided to voice her displeasure by baying loudly and bouncing her back legs enough to bounce you around.

"No, no Girl. Whoa, stop stop stop" you squealed, pulling at the reins with as much force as you dared but the horse was too fed up to mind.

"Stop! Stop the carriage" a firm and regal voice put a halt to the party as Clegane snatched the reigns from your grasp and managed to settle the mare back into submission.

"Mother's Mercy!" A gruff voice growled, accompanied by the heavy trot of hooves. King Robert's face was red as a cherry from drink and frustration as he glared at the queen. "If you keep holding us up, Winterfell will be snowed in before we even get there!"

"I apologize, Your Grace" You bowed your head, face flushed with embarrassment. "It was my fault, I failed to control my mount. My deepest apologies."

Robert's eyes rolled nearly back to his skull with a begrudging sigh before flinging a finger at Clegane.

"You, Hound, let the girl ride with you and have that beast tethered to a wagon"

He tossed a glare back at the queen, a look which said 'you just had to bring her, didn't you?' Before returning to his place in the party.

"I'm sorry" you nearly whispered, tailing the gargantuan man as he tether the horse in brooding silence.

Heading back to Stranger, you nearly cried out as Clegane snatched the softness of your arm and all but dragged you up onto the horse in front of him. His grip was bruising and you had to force yourself not to rub the part where he snatched you like a hawk snatches a rabbit.

"Not one word" he growled "or I'll toss you from this horse and let you walk to Winterfell."

You rode until dusk, and your body didn't relax until you were safely once again on solid ground.

Once again, The Hound dismounted first before he gripped you by the waist, hard fingers pressing into the soft flesh under your riding clothes, and all but dragged you off the horse where you landed with a wobble of your knees.

"Y/N, To me" your mistress called and you rushed to her side immediately.

"Yes, Your Grace" your curtsey suffered from the weakness in your legs, but the Queen hardly seemed to notice.

"You had us worried there" She looked down at you with unreadable eyes, "You'll have to improve your riding if you wish to keep up"

"I will, Your Grace. Thank you"

"Take my things inside" she motioned vaguely to the inn at which you had stopped for the night. "Just follow King Robert's squire, he'll show you. Then come back for the children's things"

"Immediately, Your Grace"

The work was arduous, and by the time you finished it was past dark. The inn provided food and housing for the higher members of the entourage, but at The Queen's insistence you were to sleep at the foot of her bed as you did in The Red Keep.

Robert was apathetic to this. Ser Jaime, to your surprise, seemed genuinely disappointed by this and approached the queen when they thought they had a moment in private, not knowing you were settling the queen in as they spoke

"Don't worry" Cersei assured him "I'll just send her out"

-----------

After dinner, you tended to your queen with great care. Standing behind her as she sat on the edge of the plush feather bed, you gently pulled a comb through her golden locks, picking out any snags with extreme tenderness.

"Y/N, tonight my brother will be coming by to discuss some family matters and I want you out of the way."

"Of course, your grace." You complied, satisfied with this explanation. Of course she wouldn't want you around when they discussed Lannister matters.

"And..." She turned slightly, looking up at you through her lashes in a way that made your breath catch in your chest. "Be a good girl, and don't mention this to anyone. It's my business, and I expect you to keep it that way"

"Not a word, Your Grace" Your face began to flush as her long, slender hand grasped your small, common one.

"Not even to The King"

"The King?" You paused, confused why the king would inquire about such a thing in the first place. "Yes, your grace. Not even to the King. I swear it"

Cersei's face softened at this and, to your great shock, raised your hand to her face and allowed it to stroke her cheek gently.

"What would I do without you?" She breathed before letting your hand drop back to your side and turning back around so you could finish combing out her hair.

You carried the high of her touch through the evening and even when she sent you away. You curtisied to Jaime primly before slipping outside back to the wagons.

Aimless, you went to the stables where the horses had been bedded down for the night, glancing into each stall curiously until you found the mare you had ridden earlier.

Her tawny coat had been brushed and her white snout was buried in a pail of oats.

"Hello" you greeted her in a small voice. "I'm sorry about before, it wasn't your fault"

The horse snorted at you in an apathetic manner, flicking the flies off with her tail.

"Don't talk to horses" a gruff voice scolded you from down the stable hall.

You jumped, having believed you were alone, before craning you head to see who spoke.

"Why not?" You eyed The Hound with flushed cheeks, embarrassed to have been caught.

"Because it makes you look mad" he grumbled. "No one wants a mad handmaid"

"Well" you sputtered as he approached you from Stranger's stall, "It wasnt her fault. It was that gelding that kept biting her"

"It wasn't her fault, you're right" he stopped, towering over you like a shadow. "It was your fault"

"What?"

"That mare is the most patient thing in this barn, trained to handle children and unskilled little fools like you." He leaned against the wood of the stall with his arms crossed firmly. "If you'd just kept your calm like any person with half a brain would, she would have listened to you"

"I do so have a brain" You raged. Where did he get off being so disrespectful when all you'd been was polite?

"Doubt it" The hound scoffed "The queen does all your thinking for you, she's got your brain tucked away in all those trunks somewhere."

"Why I-" you gasped "All I have ever done is my very best for Her Grace's comfort and happiness. If My Lady has any issue with the way I serve her, she will not hesitate to let me know"

"I'll bet" a cruel smirk spread across Sandor's face. "And they call me the hound. What a well trained little bitch she has in you."

The slap came on reflex, fueled by indignant rage that fled your body as quickly as it came. The blood drained from your face as the Hound's gaze trained on you with a low growl.

"You get one of those. Only one. Next time you even think about raising hand to me, I'll tear it off and beat you with it"

You nodded slowly, closing your eyes as if bracing for a strike until Clegane let out a slow exhale.

"Run back to your mistress, little girl. And don't let me see your face until morning."

You did exactly that, hovering in the hallway of your lady's room until Ser Jaime slipped out quietly and tried to sneakily return to his own before stopping in his tracks at the sight of you.

You curtisied and kept your head down until your chin was jerked up suddenly, making you flinch. Jaime's eyes studied your face, smoothing his thumb over your cheek to wipe away a stream of tears. You'd been crying and didn't even realize it.

"Do I need to do something about this?" The head of the kingsgaurd asked, knowing you fully got his meaning.

"No" you shook you head and wiped away what was left of your tears with your palm. "No Ser, I am fine. Thank you'

Jaime nodded. "My sister is waiting for you"

"Yes, Ser" you breathed, trying to right yourself before letting your lady see you. "Thank you, Ser"

You watched him go, steadying your breath and wiping your eyes one last time before returning to your post

[maveys-baby]

Cal b like: I tried to find a newblood who could fix him..

dawg he didn't need a newblood, he needed a damn therapist lmao

[smolvenger]

Also, I can't say no to blurbs and especially not to something extraordinarily fluffy like "Touch her and you die", tehehe... Perhaps with Henry V? 🤭

Hiiii bestie! I'm going to make the blurbs shorter and simpler if you don't mind!

His Queen (Henry V x fem! Reader blurb)

Your boat docked right on the shores of France. So while your husband, the king, was determined to fight there- you had to see him.

Henry had waited with his whole army on the shore of a cliff. Then he dismounted his horse and ran up. It was a reminder of his youth- the young, firey, springy king. He easily bounded through the little beach and the plank right as you stepped up to get off the boat. Before his army and the guards, he embraced you passionately and you back.

"How are you, my sweet wife?"

"Weary from the journey though it was smooth," you confessed.

"For such a lady as you, even the seas and winds themselves would still and become gentle for you to cross," he said.

He hugged you again, peppering a kiss onto your cheek as you laughed, feeling the tickle of his facial hair and re-acquainting yourself with his lips.

He gestured to one of the lords. The Lord of York brought forth a beautiful white mare and you gasped.

"A gift for you, my lady," he offered.

You thanked him and he helped you to mount her. She accepted you- gentle was her demeanor and what a good companion she would make here in France.

"Why, the seas were quite misty- I should call her Mist, for she reminds me a little of it," you cooed, petting her mane.

"A noble, strong, yet sweet and beautiful thing, much like my dearest queen and lady," Henry said.

"My, what words roll off your tongue now! They shall call you a poet, not a ruler," you teased.

"Then it means I am an artist, and you are the muse then for such words. And if I must continue my pen, then my muse shouldn't be kept too long from me," he bantered back lightly.

He got up on his own horse- a white stallion quoting yours. You felt like a fairy queen, not a mortal one, as she trotted over the grass.

And you were led to ride and sit on your horse before the army. Dressed in their greys and blacks and scraps of leather, their eyes were big.

"This here, is Her Majesty, the Queen of England," announced Henry.

You smiled, though part of you went stiff. A few looks seemed to be borderline leers. How long have these men been deprived of a woman's presence?

Henry noticed, and his voice turned a darker tone, a fiercer one.

"She is both your ruler and a lady, and you must respect her as you do both. She is also my wife, I must remind you..."

His eyes darkened. The army stiffened, turning pale and attentive like naughty schoolboys caught by their teacher.

"You must guard her and listen to and follow her as you do Harry of England. She is England's Woman and it's most precious jewel. And should any miscreant or bully among you dare lay a finger on that precious jewel, I shall condemn you at once to hang. Remember the fate of Bardolph- one of your own who greedily robbed a poor church of its dearest sacraments- and she here is the greatest sacrament of England. And if none of you want to share worse than his fate, then cool your lust elsewhere...or I shall execute you myself." Henry threatened all of them.

The soldiers bowed their heads and complied. You gave him a smile. Though the only woman there, you were unafraid.

You were ready to join your husband and support him without fear.

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter @mischief2sarawr

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Promises Five: The Hunt

Dark!Morpheus x (female)reader, fantasy/medieval AU, 18+

Master List

Dream of the Endless had been promised a bride.

A/N: I'll offer song recs to folks who are interested in asks! Still dealing with some mental health issues, but pushing through. HOLY SHIT THE NEXT CHAPTER. 0,0 Liking is sweet, commenting is divine. Talk to the lonely hermit, people. Her dog is tired of her shit.

The hounds sang after the hinds, and their masters followed them under the trees.

In the distance, the high castle sat like a toy house from which all the dolls had escaped, spreading their games and pageantry through the forest with bells and horns to warn away the deer and fox. Huntsmen released other deer, fox, and fowl from prearranged cages out of sight of the king and his swarm of courtiers, so the dolls could play pretend at feats of skill.

The bard kept to the back, holding a tight rein on her grey mare – who didn’t understand why she couldn’t stop and graze if the bard insisted on moving so slowly – in the company of the ladies Alder. Eilwyn, who’d visited the bard’s chamber two nights past, glimmered and glowed, illuminated like a piece of art in the dappled sunlight and the eyes of a few dozen would-be suitors. Officially, no one could pay court until the Endless had his pick. Unofficially, Eilwyn had received six declarations of love, five bad poems about her eyes, one good poem about her hair, and an uninspired puzzle box containing a gaudy necklace without a single gem of value.

Eilwyn loved it all, of course.

But as the younger woman amused herself snaring hearts for her collection, the bard conversed with the Dowager Alder, Eilwyn’s grandmother.

“The city lights are unbearable,” the elder Alder insisted. “My eyes are bad enough as it is, but when every street and tavern glows like the moon, I can hardly make out the planets with my telescope, let alone the fainter stars. With the travel time, I’ll lose whole weeks of work, and gods know if I’ll be alive to note my calculations this time next year.”

Manly shouts and howling dogs suggested something ahead had died, or was about to. The bard wondered how many of these fools in their fine furs would discover the material cost of bloodsport when they couldn’t scrub the stains from their velvets in the morning.

“You say that every year.”

The Elder Alder, on her aged palfrey, squinted at the green canopy shielding her beloved sky and tutted.

“And one year I’ll be right, like I always am in the end.”

The woman was an astronomer, a mathematical magician, and the idea of death hadn’t scared her since the bard first met her as a young maid. The wheel of the heavens moved before her, and it would move after, and that was well enough if she could just understand the damn thing before she shuffled off this mortal coil. She’d written books, and papers, and more books, and the bard wondered if Death would really hold off until the universe held no more mysteries. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Of course, Lady Alder.”

Arthritis had long-since gnarled the lady’s hands, and they twisted over the saddle pommel and a hank of her horse’s main like knobby cypress knees, straining with the roll and sway of her palfrey’s gait.

“How far is the damned camp?”

Another lady – one of the fools hoping to wed her daughter to the Endless riding very far ahead near the king – seized the reins of her precious child’s horse and passed the odd trio. She did not look to the side. She did not look at anything. She lifted her nose far too high. And she nearly trotted over her own servants in passing.

The bard waved, and the daughter gawked with wide eyes as she was spirited away from poor influences and dangerous words. Really, any damage was already done, and fleeing the scene of battle only showed weakness. What kind of lesson would the girl really learn besides the fact that her mother enjoyed making a spectacle of her piety? Parents really had the strangest ideas about children.

“Grandmother!” Eilwyn exclaimed, clearly delighted.

The bard, equally delighted, couldn’t help herself. “Such language from so fair a lady. Shocking.”

The Dowager shifted in her saddle, face puckered in discomfort. “Hush, the both of you.”

Oh, if only she could. She laughed to imagine how much pain and trouble might’ve been saved. And how many adventures missed. They never would’ve been friends at all if the bard kept her own counsel.

“You expect a bard to hold her tongue?”

“The sun will freeze first.” The Dowager made a point of staring down her granddaughter, though, and her granddaughter made a point of smiling very prettily in reply. A lord several lengths ahead called for Lady Eilwyn’s attention, and she brokered an armistice by riding out of her grandmother’s line of sight entirely, leaving the two old companions to fight their own wars.

“My old bones are not made for riding.”

A jolt of pity seared the bard’s belly like the pain after eating a rotten fish. She’d rather purge it and be done, but the prickling discomfort would only grow with age. There was no course but to swallow it down and imagine it hurt much less than it would in time.

“Why didn’t you take the coach then? It could’ve brought you in comfort.”

Swollen knuckles flexing, the lady scoffed. “With the rest of the invalids? Don’t insult me.”

“But it’s so much fun, old friend.”

“Old,” Lady Alder muttered. “Yes. I am that.”

The bard shifted in her own saddle, wondering if she could stomach any of the inevitable banquet awaiting them.

“That wasn’t the word I’d hoped you’d echo.”

An eye sharper than any hawk’s pinned her from the side, and she felt like a child caught sulking. “If you need reassurance as to that, then you are not half so clever as you make yourself out to be.”

She seized on the opportunity for levity and smiled with all her teeth. “You’ve known me for a fool many years, have you not?”

“Aye, but a clever one.” The lady considered. “Most days.”

“Such praise you give me.”

“You fished for it so often the lake is empty.”

“Unfair but not untrue.”

The lady hummed her affirmation, welcoming in a moment of calm as they road in the wake of the hunt’s chaos.

Ahead, those most eager to prove themselves brought down smaller prey on their way to the day’s camp. Once all had a chance to refresh themselves with wine as their horses grazed, most would sally out again in the name of dead beasts. Dusk would bring them back, and they’d spend the night drinking, feasting, and debauching one another just outside the safe ring of torchlight, pretending to be very daring and wild for fucking someone in a bush.  A bit more hunting in the morning for those who could still sit straight in the saddle, and then all would return bloody and victorious to the castle.

The bard struggled to understand those who found the prospect of a royal hunt… thrilling. None worried to go home hungry, and the creatures they met in the wood came hobbled, with teeth filed and tusks blunted.

Rushing down a winding stair risked greater peril.

Bored by the day’s excitement, she let her thoughts spin out in wider and wider passes, circling the crux of the drama.

What did the King of Dreams dream of?

Revenge, she suspected. Vengeance on the king that may boil over on the land he ruled, and she must guide her favorites out of the flood’s path. Those practical answers satisfied the part of her that always craved a direction, a purpose, the next challenge to conquer, but the Dream King’s retribution sat like a wax seal over a longer letter. She would very much like to read that letter, even if it was dangerous, and unwise, and entirely reckless.

The Prince of Stories must have depths unfathomable, millennia upon eon of secrets and experiences carved into his bones. She wanted to dismiss her curiosity as nothing but interest in a vision of her future. Would she be like him in another thousand years? No. She’d still be human, and he was Endless. All the lifetimes of the Earth couldn’t teach her to understand one such as him.

But that didn’t mean she had no desire to try.

From farther up the line, a runner came jogging, peering up at the faces of the mounted company. He looked from one to another, seeking the right address to receive his message. The bard paused, recognizing the Everard house colors on servant’s tabard. Her horse stamped, whickering around the bit as her rider leaned out of the saddle to catch the young man’s eye. He saw her and darted to her side quick as an arrow.

“Is all well?” the bard asked.

“My lady Alis Everard and my lord Tomas Everard request you ride with them.”

The bard looked to Lady Alder. She hardly needed her friend’s permission, and none of the Alders were the sort to cherish grudges over perceived slights. But the bard didn’t want to leave her to ride alone, either. She needed good conversation and someone who cared enough to notice if she swayed on her horse.

“Oh, go tend to your nervous foal.” Lady Alder waved her off. “My own proud filly will see you pass and return to keep me amused. We favor different arts, but she has a sharp enough eye to see trouble riding by.”

“Thank you.” The bard pulled out of the column of riders, careful to avoid the servant at her side. “I’ll see you at the camp.”

Whatever Lady Alder replied was lost to the wind. Finally given her head, the bard’s mare leapt into a canter, her hooves thumping a second heartbeat that rattled up and through her rider. Old loam and the sharp green scent of freshly broken twigs gathered around her like a cloak as she moved just left of the path, removed from the rock and dust of the road.

The bard knew what colors to look for, and she let all definition blur as she moved past lords, ladies, knights, and their scores of attendants. They all looked so strange and out of place in the tunnel of green woods, dressed to stand out in a part of the world where blending in more often preserved life.

Near the front of the cavalcade, she found the Everards. Alis stared with wide eyes as the bard pulled even with her, mare prancing and snorting in frustration as her run came to an end. Her dramatic entrance pulled other eyes, and the king – only a few riders ahead – glanced back with frustrated disgust. Perhaps she should apologize that she wasn’t a stag. For all of the ruckus she’d heard from afar, she saw precious few carcasses dangling from the hunters’ belts.

“Thank you for coming in such haste,” Lord Everard said. Stifled amusement plucked at his lips, trying to lift them into a broad, laughing gale. It would be bad manners to laugh too loudly too near the king over a jest to which he wasn’t party, but Everard clearly struggled.

She answered with the grin he’d tried to school away. “Best way to travel. Now, what is the matter?”

Lord Everard gestured to his daughter, and she in turn tried to sink into the mud of the forest track. She hunched low, like she could melt into her boots. Her complexion had gone pale, despite the flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck, and her gloves creaked as her dainty hands squeezed into fists. The bard let the merriment fade, looking and listening beyond the girl’s silence.

Alis’s doe eyes flicked towards the shadow who rode beside her king, and the bard understood.

Dream of the Endless wore his customary black, with the blood-red ruby shining on his breast like a heart he’d ripped from his prey. His nightmare mount had teeth where it ought to have eyes, and it laughed with a man’s voice. He carried a raven on his shoulder rather than a hawk on his glove, and anyone who hadn’t met his sister may mistake him for an aspect of Death. Or something worse, perhaps.

Lord of Nightmares indeed.

“He frightens me,” Alis whispered, leaning close. “I’ve had nothing but bad dreams since I came to the castle.”

As she should. A glance at her father confirmed he thought the same. Just because he’d been forced to bring his child to this storm didn’t mean he didn’t fear the lightning. He had too much sense for this farce and too big a heart to let the girl suffer. If his wife were not busy running the estate, she’d be here to shelter and comfort their little girl, but in her absence, he must ask the bard to fill the role, and she gladly pulled Alis’s attention from bad dreams to simpler truths.

“And you’ve never had a nightmare before?” She didn’t chide. She reminded. Even in the security of her own bed in her own home, the girl had touched the darker shores of the Dreaming. Its king would not reach out to swallow her now, even though he prowled so near in the Waking. “Alis, believe me, you are safe.”

Alis pulled her spine straight, taking a deep, intentional breath that shuddered on the way in and trembled on the way out.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise that if I’m wrong, I’ll find a convenient sword to fall on, and you can say you told me so. Does that make you feel better?”

“A little.” Realizing what she’d said, Alis blanched and rushed to add, “But only because I know you’d come back!”

This time her father did laugh, and the bard reached to reassure her with an honest to gods giggle, when chaos erupted at the front. The king and his companions came to a dead stop, and without warning or order, those who rode behind struggled to halt in time. Rearing horses and shouts of alarm rolled down the line like a breaker, and in the wave of confusion that followed, the bard once again left the road to circle forward.

They’d reached the camp.

A glory of golden stitching over swaths of emerald, the vast tents might cover an entire town, and smoke rising with the smells of rosemary and stewed venison hinted at the delights within.

The display paled behind the entity waiting at the edge of the woods, however.

Golden eyes like licks of flame from the sun’s heart smiled over ruby lips. Welcoming and menacing and all-too pleased with themselves.

Power perfumed the air, like honeysuckle and ambergris, clashing with the winter-cold snap of Dream’s clear displeasure. The King of Dreams had lost the veneer of humanity, and he set himself against the intruder like the deepest hour of the night resisting the dawn.

Few creatures could stand up to the king’s guest. Even fewer commanded the presence of function beyond personification. The bard did not know who the stranger was, but she knew what they were.

Another fucking Endless.

Every inch screamed of passion, romance, obsession. Golden hair and loose-fit silks that flowed like water into a garment that was neither tunic nor gown inspired sensual curiosities. They rode a unicorn, a bay mount with cloven hooves, a lion’s tail, and a goat’s beard. The russet horn glinted with flecks of gold, like treasure winking through a smear of blood.

The King of Dreams sneered, lip curling as he shared a frigid greeting.

“Sibling.”

The Endless in their path laughed, bright as bells and smooth brandy. It sounded to the bard’s ears like trouble. “I hope you don’t mind if I join in your hunt. Big brother.”

[theaskew]

Lyrics

Spent my days with a woman unkind Smoked my stuff and drank all my wine Made up my mind to make a new start Going to California with an aching in my heart Someone told me there's a girl out there With love in her eyes and flowers in her hair

[Verse 2] Took my chances on a big jet plane Never let 'em tell you that they're all the same Oh, the sea was red, and the sky was grey Wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today The mountains and the canyons start to tremble and shake The children of the sun began to awake (watch out)

[Verse 3] Seems that the wrath of the gods Got a punch on the nose, and it started to flow I think I might be sinking Throw me a line, if I reach it in time I'll meet you up there where the path runs straight and high

[Verse 4] To find a queen without a king They say she plays guitar and cries and sings… La la la la Ride a white mare in the footsteps of dawn Tryin' to find a woman who's never, never, never been born Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems, mm…

Songwriters: Jimmy Page/Robert Plant

[iomalatesta]

Spent my days with a woman unkind Smoked my stuff and drank all my wine Made up my mind to make a new start Going to California with an aching in my heart Someone told me there's a girl out there With love in her eyes and flowers in her hair

Took my chances on a big jet plane Never let 'em tell you that they're all the same Oh, the sea was red and the sky was grey Wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today The mountains and the canyons start to tremble and shake The children of the Sun began to awake (watch out)

Seems that the wrath of the gods got a punch on the nose And it started to flow, I think I might be sinking Throw me a line, if I reach it in time I'll meet you up there where the path runs straight and high

To find a queen without a king They say she plays guitar and cries and sings: La-la-la-la Ride a white mare in the footsteps of dawn Trying to find a woman who's never, never, never been born Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems

[garden-0f-eden]

FREE I • DR King Schultz

• ☆ •

The niece of Calvin Candie finds herself in desperate need of saving, when two men approach her uncles farm looking for fighters, she see's them as a prefect opportunity.

Warnings: Mentions of abuse and slavery, fem!reader

°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°•.•°

You sigh as you lay hidden within the overgrown, green grass, far away from the house, the plantation, your family. Far away from every part of you that you hated.

You open your eyes and stare up at the summer sky, clouds drifting aimlessly overhead, birds singing distantly. For once, you felt at peace.

You hear slow, gentle footsteps behind you, before the gate squeaks open. "Miss Candie?" You hear Estie say softly, you sit up and look over your shoulder at her, "Your uncle wants you back at the big house, some guests are here." You nod at her, smiling half heartedly. You push yourself up off the grass, straightening out your skirt.

You stumble through the overgrown greenery and slowly head back to the plantation, following closely behind Estie.

Estie was your friend, a relationship disliked by your family, not that you cared, you would protect her from your Uncle and his workers punishments. She was a young, short girl, maybe around late teens. You enjoyed her company more then anyone elses on the plantation, youd always sneak her food and old clothing. She was your only friend.

As you approach the big house you catch the tail end of an argument between Steven and Uncle Calvin, "In the damned big house..." he mutters angrily as he heads inside. You walk up the steps and stand beside your mother.

You look up at the men before you, an older looking man with a short graying beard, wearing a matching grey suit and hat, beside him, a darker man on horseback. The other man wore a green shirt tucked into brown trousers, he wore black sunglasses and a brown cowboy hat. Both men held their reigns with black leather gloves.

"Dr Schultz," Uncle Calvin addressed, "This attractive southern belle is my widowed sister, may I present to you Lara Lee Candie-Fitzwilly." You mother does a southern bow, smiling at the doctor. Calvin then places a hand on your waist, pulling you towards him making you jump slightly. Schultz frowned. "And this beautiful, young mare, is my niece, Y/N Candie-Fitzwilly." He pulled his hand away from your waist, the doctor lifts his hat to you, his gaze lingering prehaps a little too long, he then clears his throat.

"I am Dr. King Schultz, this is my second here, Django." The man on horseback beside him tips his hat, Schultz then gestures to the two horses, "And these are our horses, Tony and Fritz." The horses bow, making you and afew other women coo and giggle.

Your mother was staring at the doctor, a blush on her face, you roll your eyes as she batts her eyelashes. "Well arent you gentlemen charming. You're not from around here are you?" She asks with a grin.

"Actually, I'm from a far off land, Dusseldorf to be excact." Ah. That explained the accent.

"Ah! This smart, beautiful lady here can speak some German herself!" You uncle exclaims proudly, squeezing your shoulder roughly, you flinch and move out of his grip discreetly. Schultz looks at you with a raised eyebrow, before looking back to Calvin.

You zone out as your mother, Uncle Calvin and Schultz engage in boring conversation. Something about fighters...

You refocus when the door squeaks open, Stephen now joining the conversation, "Actually Monsieur Candie... Theres somethin I ain't tole you yet..." Stephen says guilty.

"What?"

"Hildis in the hotbox."

You notice how Schultz and Djangos head now snap up.

"Well what's she doing In there?!"

"What 'cha think shes doin in there? Shes bein punished."

"What she do?"

"She ran away again."

You watch as Djangos hand moves towards his gun holster, resting on his thigh, he notices your gaze yet dosent move.

"Lucky for her the dogs were busy huntin some other slave, she only a little beat up, but she did that to herself runnin through all them bushes."

His hand now moves away from his pistol, and back to his reigns, you sigh, heading inside towards your room. You walk up the stairs, passing past afew women in the corridor before pushing open your door.

You run yourself a bath, laying in the hot water for what felt like hours, the warmth putting your aching muscles at ease. The scent of cherry and coconut filling the room.

You open your eyes as you hear a soft knock on the door, you sigh, moving the bubbles to cover yourself up, "Yes?" The door opens slightly, your mother pears around the corner, smiling gently at you, "You uncle wants you to get ready for dinner in an hour..." You nod, a sigh leaving your lips. She leaves, closing the door behind her.