#tw: domestic disputes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zeciex · 9 months

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A Vow of Blood - 60

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 60: The Last Supper

AO3 - Masterlist

*TW: Hard subjects of discussion; mention of domestic violence*

“Daenera,” a voice called out, causing her to pause halfway down the dimly lit hall.

She turned to find Rhaenys approaching, her countenance marked by exhaustion. Each step of the older woman resonated through the hushed corridor, and Daenera couldn’t help but feel a flutter of uncertainty. She wondered if she would face rejection once again, much like the day before her wedding. The memory of that day in the Godswood still stung.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Rhaenys offered, her brows lifting in a genuine display of sympathy.

Daenera acknowledged the condolences, “And I yours.”

A faint smile played at the corners of Rhaenys’ lips. “No, you’re not.”

Daenera didn’t attempt to deny it. “No, I am not.”

It was a polite falsehood, one exchanged in moments like this, though deep down, she held no sympathy for Vaemond, nor was she sorry for his death. He had sealed his own fate, and while part of her had yearned to be the one to wield Dark Sister, it was Daemon who had the privilege of delivering justice and escaping its consequences.

Daenera couldn’t help but think that if Corlys hadn’t fallen ill, Vaemond wouldn’t have found cause to provoke such a futile dispute.

“I am sorry for Lord Corlys’ condition,” Daenera began, reaching out towards her grandmother. After a brief moment of hesitation, she decided to take the older woman’s hand in her own. “The Stranger will not accept him; it is not his time yet. Of that, I am sure. Corlys shall recover.”

Rhaenys accepted the comforting gesture from her granddaughter, placing her other hand above Daenera’s, her thumb caressing it.

“I wish I could be as sure as you,” Rhaenys confessed, her expression marked by a mixture of gratitude and concern. “It is bloodfever they say. It has taken many younger and stronger men than him.”

“Lord Corlys is too stubborn to let a simple bloodfever take him,” Daenera asserted confidently.

With a warm smile, Rhaenys replied, “You are too kind, Daenera,” before placing a tender kiss on her granddaughter's temple. She then made her way towards her chambers, leaving Daenera looking after her with a glimmer of hope blossoming in her chest. It was a beginning, and although Daenera suspected that her grandmother’s support for Lucerys’ claim was primarily due to the engagement of her brothers to Laena’s daughters, she couldn’t help but hope that it also signaled a recognition of them as her grandchildren.

Daenera entered the small dining room, finding that everyone had already arrived except for the King. An atmosphere of tension hung heavy in the air, almost tangible in its gloom, putting everyone on edge. It was a fragile thread, stretched taut and poised to snap at any moment. She could feel the weight of eyes upon her as she walked in, mentally preparing herself for the inevitable tension that would only grow the longer they all remained in the same company.

Her gaze locked onto Aemond, who was engaged in conversation with his brother. Aegon turned to face her with a tiring grin on his face, a sight that immediately grated on Daenera’s nerves. Aemond attempted to grab his brother’s arm, but Aegon eluded his grasp and moved towards Daenera as she approached the table. Her eyes narrowed with each step Aegon took towards her.

“Ah, Daenera,” Aegon greeted with a cheerful tone, earning a sharp glance from his mother, who observed the interaction with a tense expression. “Have you finally abandoned the pretense of mourning your late husband?”

Daenera furrowed her brows and smoothed her hands down the beaded bodice of her dress. “I’m still in black.”

She had chosen to wear a black dress adorned with a crimson dragon sprawled across her bosom. The dragon’s wingspan stretched from shoulder to shoulder, its head resting gracefully on her sternum, while its tail trailed down to reveal the red underdress beneath. It was one of her favorite dresses, matching the attire her mother had chosen for the evening.

Leaning down towards her, Aegon lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner. “Should you ever wish to escape the charade, I have no doubt that I will possess the ability to evoke genuine emotions within you.”

Daenera replied with irritation, “Oh, my annoyance with you is entirely genuine, I assure you.”

Aegon replied in a mischievous tone, “Have you been indulging in my gift, hmm?” His voice dropped to a whisper, meant only for her ears. “Especially now that my brother is unable to provide you with his company while your family remains…”

Daenera remained unamused by Aegon’s insinuations, her gaze fixed narrowly on him as he winked at her.

“You’ve got something in your eye it seems,” Daenera remarked casually, raising her hand to point at his eye. “Right there.” With a flick of her finger, she poked his eye.

Aegon let out a surprised yelp and hastily stepped back, clutching his eye as it stung. He blinked rapidly and continued to rub it as if he’d gotten a stray eyelash in there. In her peripheral vision, Daenera noticed Aemond grinning into his cup, barely containing his amusement. Jace and Luke were less discreet, sharing a chuckle between themselves.

“You could have blinded me,” Aegon protested, continuing to rub his eye with the heel of his palm.

Daenera replied with a shrug, “Then you’d match your brother. Two halves make a whole.”

Daenera continued on her path, leaving Aegon with a scowl, and approached Helaena, who seemed to be in an interesting state, somewhere between standing, sitting, and leaning heavily on the table. Her attention was wholly consumed by a small box in her hands, a gilded cage of sorts. As Daenera gently placed her hand on Helaena’s shoulder, she placed a soft kiss on her cheek in greeting.

Aegon couldn’t help but interject, his tone sour, “Why can you never greet me like that?”

Daenera shot him an impassive expression, her brows slightly raised. “Because I’m not particularly fond of you, and because you’d take advantage.”

Aegon’s response was a somewhat conceding expression, resembling an upside-down smile, accompanied by a half-hearted shrug as he stared down into his cup of wine, swirling it.

Turning her attention back to Helaena, Daenera inquired about the little box in her hand. Helaedna didn’t shift her gaze from the box, which contained a vibrant blue beetle. She rubbed its sides absentmindedly with her thumb as she spoke.

“It’s a blue broad-toothed stag beetle. They can be found in most of Westeros but this one is from Naath. And they spend anywhere from three to seven years as young beetles living in dead trees and eating rotting wood. When it’s time for mating, the male stag beetles fight each other for the females’ affections, but it’s all for show; the beetles don’t get harmed… This one is rare, with its blue iridescent body and bite that can cause serious swelling. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Daenera agreed with a nod, and Helaena’s smile widened as she looked up at her, seemingly brightening the room. Even Otto Hightower couldn’t help but smile warmly at his granddaughter, perhaps his only saving grace.

Helaena leaned closer to her and confided, in a hushed tone, “Aegon gave it to me. I think he feels bad…”

Aegon chimed in, his tone still sour, “Can’t I just do something out of the kindness of my heart.”

Daenera responded with skepticism, “You could. But it’s not in your nature.”

“And what do you know of my nature?”

“Are you sure you want to revisit this conversation, especially in this setting?” Daenera asked skeptically. If he insisted, she had no qualms about turning the evening into a spectacle by reminding him of his past transgressions against her.

Aegon shook his head and adopted a pout. “No… But you’re not so innocent either, I’m not the only one with transgressions…”

Aemond’s gaze was icy as he cautioned his brother. “Aegon.”

Aegon responded with a dismissive eye roll. “I know, I know. Let’s not dredge up old grievances today. Daenera, my sweet niece, might I trouble you for some wine?”

Daenera’s smile was a forced facade as she inhaled deeply. Grasping the wine flagon, its chill surface a stark contrast to her flushed skin, she walked back to Aegon, meticulously filling his cup while resisting the impulse to drench his doublet in the crimson liquid. The sweet smell of the wine made her stomach turn.

Aegon, sipping his wine leisurely, ventured into an unexpected personal topic. “You know, I’ve been facing quite the challenge with regularity… To put it plainly, I can’t shit.”

Daenera nearly let the flagon slip from her grasp, her eyes wide with shock at his unseemly revelation, and somewhat jarred by its suddenness. Her brows furrowed together as she looked at him in disgust.

Undeterred, Aegon elaborated. “My situation is akin to… small pebbles.”

Daenera’s gaze briefly met Aemond’s, who appeared equally perturbed and repulsed by the conversation. He stood pinching the bridge of his nose, a clear sign of his growing irritation. Her attention quickly shifted back to Aegon, deciding to keep her composure and play along. If he wanted advice, she’d give it to him.

“Perhaps buckthorn or rhubarb could ease your… ailment,” Daenera suggested. Buckthorn would irritate the intestines to induce movement, albeit uncomfortably, while rhubarb served as a mild laxative, though either could not be used long term. “For a more enduring remedy, I’d suggest slippery elm .”

Aegon’s lips curled into a teasing smirk. “And why would I take your advice? You’re more likely to poison me. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Daenera stared at him in frustration. “If you do not seek my advice, why would you share such details with me?”

“To share my discomfort,” he quipped.

“Your presence alone suffices for that,” Daenera retorted sharply. She spun around, returning the flagon of wine to its place, eager to escape Aegon’s vexing presence and rejoin her brothers.

Once again, the grand doors swung open, revealing the sight of King Viserys being transported upon a chair carried by four guards. The sheer weight of the chair appeared to surpass that of the frail king himself, making each step of the guards laborious and stiff. They moved with a somewhat synchronized precision, striving to maintain a steady pace.

As the King made his entrance, everyone in the room rose to their feet, and the heavy, somber atmosphere seemed to settle in. Daenera found herself seated between Jace and Aegon, fully aware that Alicent intended, or hoped, for her to act as a mediator, ensuring some semblance of civility between the two sides. It was a role she was reluctant to accept. Why Alicent even thought it was a good idea, she didn’t know.

Viserys sat straight across from her, his posture inclined towards his wife, although it seemed more a matter of seeking comfort than a display of affection.

“How good it is to see all of you tonight,” Viserys rasped, his breath sounding labored and strained. “ Together .”

Their presence tonight was more out of respect for Viserys’ wishes than anything else. A clear divide had formed within the room, separating the Hightowers on one side and the Targaryens on the other. Viserys wore his regal facade, concealing the decay lurking beneath with his golden mask–a gift from the Queen no doubt. He presented the gilded side to the Hightowers, while his daughter and brother saw the unvarnished reality of the man they loved, or what remained of him.

Daenera couldn’t help but suspect that the seating arrangement had been intentionally orchestrated. Alicent and Otto, shielded from view, faced with the artificial golden visage they had placed upon the King, as though they didn’t want to see his decay, and in turn Viserys had never truly seen them.

“Prayers before we begin?” Alicent asked Viserys.

“Yes,” he replied.

Daenera spared a quick glance at her mother and Daemon. Rhaenyra’s expression showed genuine astonishment, while Daemon, true to his usual demeanor, simply rolled his eyes, seemingly dismissing the entire spectacle as nothing more than theatrical performance, and Daenera had to agree. Rhaenyra had never imposed a strict religious upbringing on her children. They were familiar with the prayers and scriptures, but it had been more of a formality than a deeply ingrained faith.

This became evident as Jace and Luke made an effort to be polite, folding their hands in front of them and trying to conform to the situation.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love,” Alicent began, her hands folded in front of her face as her eyes closed in devotion. “May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long…”

Daenera, who spent a week attending sermons in the sept and participating in prayers for her dead husband, now refrained from pretending. She exchanged a glance with Daemon, raising an eyebrow and shrugging in response to the ritual. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in the gods; she simply believed that there might be more than just the gods the Faith believed in. And if gods could be thrown down and replaced by other gods, were they truly gods to begin with? If they were real, why would they rule from the heavens instead of showing themselves as the gods they were?

“And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest,” Alicent finished.

Daenera had to bite her cheek, suppressing the laughter that threatened to bubble up. She knew it would lead to nothing good. Judging by Daemon’s expression, he shared her sentiment.

In response to the sanctimonious comment about Vaemond, Viserys spoke up, diverging the mood. “This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses. A toast to the young princes, and their betrothed.”

Daenera smiled and raised her glass in acknowledgement.

“Hear, hear!” Daemon chimed in, his tone dripping with smugness as he glanced at the Hightowers.

Daenera couldn’t quite see their reactions as Aegon pushed his way between her and the table, invading her personal space with an unsettling grin aimed at her brother.

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman,” Aegon taunted, his voice low but no less penetrating.

Daenera promptly shoved him away by his face. She felt his nose bend under her palm, but was relieved to have her space back. Why must he insist on invading her personal space?

“Let us all toast as well Prince Lucerys,” Viserys continued, smiling at his grandson. “A future Lord of the Tides.”

“Hear, hear” Daenera grinned, raising her cup in a toast to her brother. She had barely taken a sip of her water when Aegon leaned back into her personal space, his hand on the back of her chair and the other on the table, his face mere inches from hers. He emitted a strong odor of wine, the sweet smell turning her stomach.

“You do know how the act is done, I assume?” The question was goading, meant to annoy and get under his skin.

Jace kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, his lips pressed tightly together as he struggled to maintain control of his rising temper. His jaw clenched.

“At least in principle?” Aegon continued his taunt, as Daenera pressed her spine to the back of her chair to get some room to breathe. “Where to put your cock and all that… If not, I’m sure your sister can provide you with some advice, after all, she knows how to handle a cock.”

“Let it be, cousin,” Baela interjected, placing a reassuring hand on Jace’s knee and giving it a comforting squeeze, all while Jace’s jaw muscles twitched with pent-up anger.

“You can play the jester if you wish,” Jace retorted sharply, his anger evident, “but hold your tongue before my betrothed and do not speak of my sister in such a manner.”

“And get out of my space,” Daenera sneered, forcefully pushing Aegon back into his seat. If he dared to invade her personal space again, she might actually consider using the prongs on him, and she made the threat clear by curling her hand around it, subtly moving it below the view of the table. “I will stab you.”

Aegon’s eyes flicked down to the prongs, and he held up his hands in surrender.

Viserys struggled to his feet, clutching the head of his cane tightly as he used it for support. “It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all of the world, yet grown so distant from each other in the past years.

Daenera’s gaze briefly locked with Aemond’s, catching his eye upon her, before he quickly shifted his focus back to his father. In response, she averted her gaze once more, feeling her heart tighten within her chest. Her thumb traced the scar on her palm.

Viserys lowered his head and began fumbling with the clasp of his mask, allowing it to slip from his face, revealing the horrifying reality beneath. The mask clunked on the table, and the sight sent a wave of sadness through Daenera. She now understood why he had worn it. While his eye socket had healed after the loss of the eye itself, some lingering irritation had eaten through the tissue, leaving a gaping hole in his face. It looked as though a chunk had been torn out of his cheek, leaving a window into the rotting orifice of his mouth.

“My own face is no longer a handsome one, if it ever was,” Viserys admitted, his words heavy and hanging tenuously in the air. “But tonight, I wish you to see me… as I am.”

Alicent tightly closed her eyes, as if she wished he had kept the mask on. Her expression conveyed both pity and shame, that of a Queen who wanted to conceal the true extent of the King’s deteriorating condition from the world. But the Queen wasn’t the only one struggling to look at the King; Aegon and Helaena, as well as Aemond, stared with varying degrees of discomfort.

Daenera refused to avert her eyes from the gruesome sight before her, even as it made her mouth go dry.

“Not just a King,” Viserys continued, then turned his attention to his firstborn. “But your father. Your brother. Your husband… and your grandsire… Who may not, it seems, walk for much longer among you.”

It was an uncomfortable truth, made glaringly obvious by his state. He breathed heavily and pushed the mask away from him, letting it clatter onto the table. “Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. Set aside your grievances.”

Viserys beat his fist against the table, causing his platter to rattle. “If not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man who loves you all, so dearly!”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the only sound being the flickering and sputtering of the candles as they burned. Everyone exchanged uneasy glances, uncertain of how to respond. Viserys slumped back into his seat, breathing heavily.

It was Rhaenyra who took the first step to bridge the divide, rising from her seat and raising her cup of water. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen.

Alicent looked at Rhaenyra in shock, her hands falling away from where they had been helping her husband fasten the mask back onto his face. There was fear in the Queen’s expression, an apprehension born of years of practice. But there was also something else, a spark that Daenera couldn’t discern.

“I love my father,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice uncertain but not wavering in her resolve. “But I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love and honor.”

Daenera pursed her lips, her fingers tapping lightly against the wooden table. Alicent might have stood by her husband’s side, but it had often been out of duty and ambition rather than genuine love. There may have been fleeting moments of tenderness, but they paled in comparison to years of indifference. Their union seemed bound more by mutual tolerance rather than love. She wasn’t entirely convinced that she agreed with her mother, but she understood the sentiments behind her words.

“And for that, she has my gratitude,” Rhaenyra acknowledged, her tone measured. “And my apology.”

“Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess,” Alicent responded, her words tinged with hesitation born of shock and apprehension, as she seemed to search for the right words. Her eyes seemed to grow wetter as Rhaenyra’s words settled around her. Rhaenyra had extended a hand, and it appeared the Queen was willing to take it.

Daemon leaned forward, peering past his wife to look at the Queen, somewhat amused and cautious.

“We are both mothers… and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow,” Alicent continued, rising from her seat to raise her cup. “I raise my cup to you… and your House.”

Alicent concluded with acknowledging Rhaenyra’s claim. “You will make a fine Queen.”

As Daenera’s gaze shifted, she noticed the sudden change in Otto’s demeanor. His eyes had snapped to his daughter when she acknowledged her mother’s claim, clearly disagreeing with her sentiments, though whatever he thought on the matter remained unvoiced.

The tension in the air grew palpable, and it wasn’t just Otto who reacted. Both Rhaenyra and Daemon displayed a mix of surprise and caution.

Daenera couldn’t quite determine whether Alicent’s words were genuine or merely another facade. If they were genuine, then it was certainly a step in the right direction and a step closer to bridging the divide.

Joining in raising her cup along with the others, her eyes briefly glanced towards Aemond. What would happen were there no divide at all?

Aegon wasted no time in draining his cup, placing it back on the table before glancing towards Jace with a mischievous curl to his lip. He rose from his seat, and Daenera suspected that this was precisely what Alicent had hoped to avoid by seating her there. Though, she should have considered more her son’s need for wine and should have ensured that the flagon was within easy reach of him. Instead, it provided him with an excuse to leave the table.

Daenera grimaced and exchanged a knowing glance with Aemond, who raised his eye to watch his brother prowl towards the flagon. Aegon approached Jace, squeezing himself between him and Baela to reach for the flagon.

“I, um… I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” Aegon began, a sly grin on his face. “But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

The cutlery clattered loudly as Jace slammed his hands down on the table, rising from his seat in fury. His chair scraped loudly over the floor. The silence grew taut, the tension rising.

Daenera narrowly avoided having water spilled all over her when her brother had abruptly risen, and was now scowling at him and his temper as she took another mouthful.

“Jace,” Baela murmured, her voice soft and soothing, an attempt to calm her betrothed’s temper, though she was just as likely to be furious.

Jace cleared his throat and signaled with a swipe of his hand that he was not in control of his emotions. He remained standing.

In response, Aemond rose to his feet, a spark of aggression gleaming in his eye, daring Jace to make the first move. Aegon, seemingly unconcerned about the prospect of a broken nose slid into his seat, allowing his brother to act as his protector, as he had so often done before.

Daenera couldn’t help but roll her eyes, dismissing the escalating tension, and took another sip of her water. If this was what family supper was going to be like, she was relieved that it didn’t happen very often.

As the both of them remained standing, Daenera glowered at Aemond, silently ordering him to sit down. If he noticed his glare, he willfully ignored it, his eye firmly on Jace.

Jace played it off, raising his cup and offering Aegon a stiff smile. “To Prince Aegon… and Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies.”

Curious, Daenera pursed her lips and turned her gaze back to Aemond. He remained stoic, though a hint of exasperation lurked within his silence. The corner of her lips curved up in amusement.

“To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles,” Jace finished graciously before taking his seat again, leaving Aemond to remain standing.

Aegon’s expression was one of deflation, if not outright disappointment as he replied sourly, “To you as well.”

Aemond shared the same disappointment as his brother, letting out a resigned breath and retaking his seat.

“Well done, my boy,” Viserys said, offering a slow applause for Jace, taping his cane against the floor.

“If you really must insist on measuring swords, might I suggest you go to the tiltyard?” Daenera quipped, her tone laced with sarcasm as she placed her cup back on the table with a weary sigh.

“The fight would be of little challenge,” Aemond replied, a self-satisfied smirk gracing his lips. His eye slid over her from, then back to Jace. “To make it a fair fight, we can go two against one.”

Jace’s response came with a drawl, goading almost, “Mmh, it didn’t end well the last time we went two on one.”

It was a poignant reminder of what transpired all those years ago, and Daenera realized her mistake at even suggesting them going to the tiltyard.

“That fight wasn’t fair,” Aemond retorted, his voice icy cold, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. “This one will be.”

“Stop,” Daenera interjected firmly. “There will be no fight, training or otherwise so put your swords away; they are equally nice.”

She knew all too well that any contest of swords between her brothers and Aemond would likely end in disaster, if not full on bloodshed. It would only serve to reopen old wounds and create new ones. Even with wooden swords, injuries were almost guaranteed. Aemond had already lost an eye, he could not afford to lose another, and she would not have either one of her brother’s lose any of theirs.

Aegon couldn’t resist a playful jab, “Are you saying your brother’s sword is equal to my brother’s?”

Daenera rolled her eyes.

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena murmured quietly, her eyes fixed on the encased beetle in her hand. Then, suddenly, she sprang up from her seat, her face lit up with a wide smile. “I would like to toast Baela and Rhaena. They will be married soon. It isn’t so bad, he mostly just ignores you…”

Daenera felt a surge of amusement at Helaena’s words, using her cup to shield her smile, trying not to laugh at the inadvertent dig at Aegon.

“Except sometimes when he’s drunk,” Helaena added, acknowledging the sad truth.

A small chorus of polite chuckles ripped through the room broke the tenuous silence. Helaena beamed, oblivious to the underlying emotions. Daenera couldn’t help but appreciate her for it, and pity her for her wretched marriage to her brother, who looked utterly miserable.

The melody of music began to dance through the air, weaving its way into the silence, and infusing the atmosphere with a sense of merriment to mask the underlying tension. The room came alive with it and as the music played conversation began to rise.

Daenera perused the lavish spread with a discerning eye, captivated by the array of sumptuous dishes. The braised goose, seasoned with mustard seeds and nestled among the roasted chestnuts, sent an inviting aroma wafting towards her. She couldn’t resist the tart wolfberries that accompanied the tender, brined hare chuck. The banquet also boasted an assortment of savory delights: a medley of berries, nuts, and fruits, each more tantalizing than the last.

As she popped a pomegranate seed into her mouth, Daenera took a moment to appreciate the burst of sweet, tangy juice. She delicately licked her thumb, relishing the lingering flavor on her skin.

Her attention then shifted to Jace, who gracefully rose from his seat and approached Helaena. Offering his hand, he gently guided her towards the dance floor.

Daenera couldn’t help but snort softly at the sight of Aegon’s sour expression, watching his wife be led away by another. Jace’s demeanor towards Helaena was one of genuine kindness and respect, a stark contrast to Aegon’s. Daenera mused on the what-ifs of Alicent’s decision against her daughter and Jace’s union.

Interrupting her thoughts, Aegon inquired, “Would you care for a dance, Daenera?”

“No,” Daenera answered shortly. She had no intention of being goaded into a dance where she’d have her feet stomped on solely to provoke her brother.

“Disappointed I am not the brother you were hoping would ask?” Aegon’s face contorted into a grimace. “Perhaps Aemond would be more to your liking?”

Daenera replied dryly,” If Aemond wishes to dance, I'm certain he can ask himself. However, my answer would be the same regardless of who extends the invitation. No, I do not wish to dance.”

Daenera’s eyes briefly met Aemond’s, and she subtly but firmly shook her head, her gaze sharpening. Her message was clear: if he dared to ask her to dance, she might just use her fork as a weapon.

Aemoned, seemingly reading the silent threat in her eyes, suppressed a smirk and averted his gaze back to Helaena and Jace. His lips frozen in that perpetual curl of his.

Just then, Baela approached with a radiant smile. “Would you turn me down for a dance as well, Daenera?”

“Refuse you? Impossible,” Daenera replied with a smile, accepting Baela’s hand. Together, they joined Jace and Helaena on the dance floor.

The atmosphere buzzed with the energy of a lively tune. Baela and Daenera moved closer, effortlessly syncting their steps with Helaena and Jace. The dancers mirrored each other, stepping back, arms extended in graceful arcs.

Helaena beamed, twirling into Baela’s embrace, then gracefully pivoting back to Jace. Daenera followed suit, briefly partnering with her brother before returning to Baela’s side. Their dance was not the refined, measured sheps of a grand feast but rather the joyous, carefree movements of long-time friends sharing laughter and lightness.

As they spun, partners interchanged fluidly to the rhythm, their moments a blend of hopping steps and clapping hands. In this whirl of dance, the weight of tension and resentment seemed to lift, if only for a moment.

Daenera’s smile widened, catching Aemond’s gaze on her, just as she was twirled away.

The spell of the moment broke abruptly when Viserys groaned in agony, his eye clenching shut as a sudden pain seemed to overtake him. Alicent swiftly called for the guards to escort the King to his chambers. Amidst this sudden shift, the once merry tune dwindled, the song coming to a close, mirroring the end of their brief respite.

As Vierys was assisted past Daenera, he extended a hand, gently patting hers. “You were beautiful, Daenera.”

His hand slipped away, and the guards, straining under the effort, escorted him out. A heavy sense of foreboding settled in Daenera’s stomach, heavy like a stone. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that their fragile peace might crumble without Viserys, the lone thread binding them together and keeping the hounds at bay.

Daenera and Baela returned to their seats with an elegant poise, their cheeks slightly flushed, breathing still quickened from the dance, their hearts echoing the rhythm of the music. They took a moment to relax, lightly clinking their cups in a quiet toast.

As they settled, a server brought in a platter of richly roasted pig, placing it before Aemond. Daenera’s attention was momentarily captured by this, and she absently picked a wolfberry from her plate, savoring its sweet burst of flavor and delicately licking the remaining juice from her thumb.

Her attention, however, was abruptly drawn away when she noticed Aemond’s intense stare fixed on the other end of the table. Curiously, she followed his gaze, her eyes landing on Luke, who sat chuckling quietly to himself, a playful–almost mocking, grin on his face.

The room was suddenly filled with the sharp sound of silverware clattering against the table as Aemond slammed his fist down, startling Daenera and making her jerk in her seat, her heart thumping within her chest with anxiety. She watched, her gaze narrowed as he stood up, wine cup in hand, the music abruptly stopping and leaving an eerie silence.

“Final tribute,” Aemond declared, his voice resonating in the hushed room, sharp like a drawn blade, poised for bloodshed. “To my wife , or rather, betrothed and soon-to-be wife, Daenera.”

Daenera’s lips tightened into a firm line, her eyes blazing with fury as she glared at Aemond. She could feel the weight of the room’s collective gaze on her, her cheeks burning with a mix of anger and embarrassment. Their scrutiny prickled across her skin, and she swallowed bitterly.

Daemon’s stare felt particularly piercing, as if his gaze were as sharp as the blade of Dark Sister that had so effortlessly sliced through Vaemond’s skull. Daenera wondered bitterly why Aemond had to drag her into his machinations. It felt like being thrown into a den of wolves, and yet a den of wolves would have been kinder, and a less humiliating fate.

“Wife?” Jace’s voice rang out in disbelief, and Daenera could sense his incredulous eyes boring into her.

Aemond, willfully adding to the rising tension, continued nonchalantly.

“And to the health of my nephews,” he declared, fanning the flames of discord without care for who it might burn. “Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each one handsome, wise…”

The room seemed to freeze, the delicate balance of peace stretched to its limits.

When Aemond’s gaze briefly met Daenera’s, she shook her head vehemently, her expression a silent, but furious plea for him to cease his provocations. His smile only grew sharper, and she knew then that it was futile. He would have his chaos.

“Hmm… Strong ,” Aemond mused, igniting further unrest and cutting the tread of peace to leave either side in shambles.

“Aemond,” Alicent cautioned, but her warning fell on deaf ears.

Though Aemond hadn’t explicitly uttered the word ‘bastards,’ the implication hung in the air like a heavy fog, echoing the scandalous accusation Vaemond had shouted earlier in the day.

“Come,” Aemond interrupted his mother. “Let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys.”

Aegon raised his cup, a malicious smirk playing on his lips, undoubtedly enjoying the scene unfolding before him.

“I dare you to say that again!” Jace exclaimed, seething with rage, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Why? It was only a compliment.” Aemond’s mocking tone filled the tense air. His eye shifted to Jace, who advanced towards him, his expression one of fury and defiance. “Do you not think yourself Strong? What say you, my Strong Lady? Will you take my surname in marriage, and finally become a Targaryen?”

“Aemond–” Alicent chimed reproachfully.

Luke rose swiftly, his chair clattering to the floor as he rushed to back his brother as Jace threw a punch at Aemond, fist connecting with his cheekbone. But before Luke could reach the fray, Aegon intervened, forcefully knocking Luke’s head against the table, his finger intertwined in Luke’s dark hair.

Daenera reacted instantly, rushing to intervene, seizing a handful of Aegon’s prized pale hair and yanking it fiercely, eliciting a sharp hiss from him. She held her prongs menacingly close to his throat, her resolve steely as she tightened her grip and tugged at his hair. Behind her, she heard a scuffle and she caught a glimpse of Jace on the floor, while Aemong grinned with satisfaction. At the side, Rhaena was successful in preventing Baela from joining the escalating conflict, by physically getting between her and everyone else.

Luke hissed out as Aegon tugged at his hair.

“Let him go!” Daenera demanded, her voice a sneer as she pulled his hair harder, cursing him to grimace in pain.

Aegon, desperate, threw his elbow backward, awkwardly knocking against her breast. The impact made her yelp, the pain throbbing in her chest. Nevertheless, she remained undeterred, her fingers twisted in his hair, the prongs pressing closer to his skin. “Let him go, or I swear, I will scalp you!”

Just then, Daemon’s voice cut through the chaos, calling out her name with a calm yet commanding tone.

Daenera, aware that Daemon’s command was for her to release Aegon, gave his hair one final, firm tug before relaxing her grip and stepping back. A guard swiftly moved in, escorting Luke away just as he regained his fitting, poised to rejoin the fray. Luke wasn’t alone in being restrained; Jace too was held back. When a guard reached for Daenera’s arm, she firmly pushed him away, and remained where she was. It seemed enough for him and he didn’t make the attempt to restrain her again.

Aemond’s voice, laced with more provocation, rang out, “...Mmh, though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs.”

Jace, breaking free from the guard’s hold, charged at Aemond, driven by unbridled fury. His attack was abruptly stopped by Daemon, who stepped between Jace and Aemond. With a single commanding gesture, a raised finger, Daemon silenced Jace and shot him a look of stern disapproval. “Don’t.”

Jace hesitated, his anger still evident in his glare as he fixed his doublet.

Daemon’s presence in the room was formidable, his reputation for danger and control evident. He held a commanding sway over those present, his mere presence eliciting a mix of fear and respect. Jace, acknowledging the unspoken directive from his stepfather, reluctantly stepped back.

“Go to your quarters. All of you go, now,” Rhaenyra commanded, her voice authoritative and final.

Daenera’s jaw was set firmly as she passed Aemond, throwing him a scathing look before exiting with her brothers, feeling her heart thrum within her chest, her blood rushing in her veins.

Why did he insist on ruining everything?

She understood the underlying reasons; despite any feelings he might harbor for her, they were overshadowed by the deep-seated resentment and bitterness within him. The turmoil he had caused served as a stark reminder that the scars of the past were not merely memories, but a palpable force, embodied by a man with a scar on his face and a sharp tongue, constantly reviving old wounds. She should have expected this.

In the echoing corridors, Jace's voice was laced with anger, his shoulders taut with tension.

“We should inform the King of this insult,” he fumed, even as Baela tried to hush him. “Aemond deserves to be silenced, rendered both mute and half blind for his insolence.”

Daenera, her tone laced with exasperation, interjected. “I warned you against provoking him.”

She wasn’t sure what had set him off – the pig, Luke’s laughter or whether it was his intention all along to cause a scene. Aemond seldom required a reason to unleash his disruptive nature.

“He was the one who provoked us!” In a heated response, Jace spun around to confront Daenera, his sudden movement halting her in her tracks. This abrupt stop caused Luke to bump into her from behind. Quickly regaining his balance, Luke shuffled slightly closer to Jace, his expression marked by a deep frown under the tousled canopy of his dark hair–the thing that was the reason for all of this.

“And I made it clear not to let him get under your skin!” Daenera shot back, her patience wearing thin.

“He might as well have called us bastards outright,” Luke argued, adding his voice to the rising tension.

“Viserys, the King, would not tolerate such slander! He said so himself! It will cost him his tongue,” Jace continued.

Daenera stared at her brothers in disbelief. “We’re not going to have his tongue cut out. How would that solve anything?”

Jace’s bitterness was palpable as he sneered, “Is it because he’s meant to be your betrothed? After all his insults, you still consider this marriage?”

“I have no intention of marrying him,” Daenera stated in an exasperated breath, frustration evident in her voice. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can’t you see he’s just trying to provoke you?”

Jace’s accusation was sharp, his eyes narrowed as he pointed at her with the same level of accusation Vaemond had pointed at Luke. “Ever since we arrived, you’ve sided with him. You even look at him differently–”

Daenera’s response was laced with heavy sarcasm. “Oh, so by looking at him, I must want to marry him?! Or perhaps you’d prefer I gouge my eyes out to avoid any man’s gaze and remain a widow forever?!”

Rhaenyra stepped in, her voice stern and commanding. “Enough, all of you. This quarrel is unbecoming, echoing through the halls. All of you, go to your chambers. Daenera, you’re coming with us.”

As Daenera moved past her older brother, she couldn’t resist delivering a light, admonishing slap to the back of his head. She sensed his glare boring into her back as she continued down the corridor, following her mother and Daemon towards their private chambers.

Upon entering, a suffocating silence engulfed the room, magnified by the soft click of the door shutting behind them. The tension in the air was palpable, akin to cautiously threading on thin ice, every step fraught with danger of breaking through into the icy depths beneath. Daenera felt a heavy knot form in her stomach, standing in the center of her parent’s chamber like a child awaiting reprimand. She swallowed hard, her throat tight with apprehension.

Daemon, with a posture that bespoke both ease and authority, leaned against a decorative table behind the settee, his arms folded over his chest. His gaze fixed on Daenera, sharp and piercing, as if dissecting her every thought. Across the room, Rhaenyra stood by the grand hearth, her expression composed yet troubled, absently twisting a ring on her finger.

Under Daemon’s piercing scrutiny and her mother’s evident concern, Daenera shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of their gazes like an added burden on fragile ice.

Rhaenyra broke the silence first, her voice cutting through the tension. “What is the meaning of this ‘betrothal’?”

Daenera responded quickly, her defiance sharp. “It was a proposal. And proposals can be rejected.”

Daemon, ever direct, followed with a pointed inquiry. “Did you kill your husband?”

His eyes never left hers, penetrating, as if he could see through her defenses and glimpse the truth she had tried so desperately to shield.

Daenera felt a metaphorical stone of dread drop into her stomach at the gravity of the conversation, the precarious ice beneath her seeming to crack. Resigned to honesty, she uttered a simple yet heavy, “Yes.”

“You killed Boris Baratheon?” Rhaenyra’s reaction was one of utter astonishment as her words came out in a startled gasp, her expression a blend of shock and confusion. She stared at Daenera with a look that constricted her throat with dryness, her heart hammering rapidly within her chest. It felt as if a fist wrapped around it, clutching it tightly as it beat against the hold.

Daemon’s voice cut through the tension, laden with disapproval and accusation. “She killed him to hide her affair with Aemond, correct? How long have you been fucking him this time?”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra interjected, attempting to inject a note of calm into the escalating conversation as Daemon shifted from his casual lean against the decorative table, closing the distance between himself and Daenera. His approach was calculated, his presence alone exuding an intimidating and domineering aura. He was keenly aware of the effect his proximity had, and he wielded it as effectively as the steel he carried at this hip, his every movement deliberate and commanding.

Daenera gazed up at Daemon, her eyes veiled by her lashes as her face was downturned. A sharp sting of tears threatened at the back of her throat, but she swallowed the burgeoning welling of it. Resolved not to let tears cloud her vision and stain her cheeks, she clenched her teeth, her hands balling into fists as she braced herself against the overwhelming tide of scorn and humiliation. “I did everything you’ve asked of me.”

“I asked you to secure our position in the Stormlands,” he said, his tone cutting as the cold edge of a blade. The response was measured, a blend of accusation and disappointment that was hard to swallow. “Your marriage to Boris Baratheon did that. I expected you to keep him alive and content, at least until your mother's claim on the throne was firmly established. I thought you understood that. I trusted in your capability to manage this. Clearly, I was mistaken.”

Daenera felt the sting of Daemon’s word acutely, paleing under the crushing weight of it.

Daemon’s admonishment continued. “I never expected you to love him, nor did I demand fidelity. But I did expect you to prioritize the alliance, to fulfill your duty. Instead, you choose to end your husband’s life and compromise our position by not providing an heir. An heir who could have claimed Storm’s End.”

Daenera’s frustration manifested physically, her nails digging painfully into her wrist as she held her arms behind her back. “Even if I had borne a child, it might not have mattered if Borros, himself, sired a son.”

The alliance had been a precarious one from the start, teetering on the uncertain factor of Borros’s inability to produce a male heir for himself. Boris Baratheon, as the second son, and younger brother to Borros, only held his position as heir as long as his brother did not sire a son. The situation was further complicated by the fact that if Daenera had failed to provide a male heir, Borros might have eventually opted to secure his lineage by arranging a marriage for one of his daughters, thereby choosing a different path entirely to ensure the continuation of his line.

There had been too many uncertainties, too many variables. It would have been safer to have married her to the firstborn son and heir of a house. There would have been security in that.

But Daemon had wanted the Stormlands, and Daenera understood why.

Daemon dismissed her point with cold logic. “Borros Baratheon hasn’t fathered any sons and is not like to. Regardless, your marriage to his brother was meant to solidify our alliance. But you’ve not only risked it, you’ve risked it by spreading your legs for that One-eyed Hightower cunt!”

His voice dripped with disdain. “You’ve handed the Hightowers the advantage. They can now destroy your reputation, and by extension, sully your mothers name! And for what? Hmm? What were you thinking?”

Daenera glared up at Daemon, her words sharp and strained as they passed through clenched teeth. “I’ve kept the alliance. I went to Storm’s End–”

“Empty words,” Daemon cut her off dismissively.

“As long as I am a widow, the alliance stands. Borros Baratheon assured me of that–”

His scoff was cutting, and he took a step back, regarding her with a look of profound disappointment. “And for how long will you remain unwed? You already have one suitor vying for your hand. Is that why you agreed to it?”

Daenera felt the pain of her nails digging into her wrist, grounding her as she bore the brunt of Daemon’s accusation, hanging over her like a poised blade ready for descent.

“Your widowhood for the assurance of empty words. A ploy to avoid remarrying, to maintain the pretense of an alliance with House Baratheon, while leaving you free to pursue an affair with that One-eyed cunt?” His voice was sharp, each word slicing into her.

“I agreed to this for you,” Daenera retorted, her voice wavering with emotion. “To preserve the alliance.”

Daemon’s response was dismissive and final. Empty words. The alliance died along with your husband.”

“Is this the reason she was wed to Boris Baratheon?” Rhaenyra questioned, her tone as sharp as her eyes. “I never sanctioned any of this.”

Daemon responded, his voice carrying a note of exasperation, addressing Rhaenyra as though she should have understood the importance of the alliance.

“Had she not faltered, the Stormlands would have been ours,” he stated with an almost weary sigh, then turned his gaze to Daenera, cold and exceptionally hard. “But now, we’ve lost the Stormlands.”

Daenera’s voice trembled, a mix of frustration, pain, and anger. Her efforts seemed invisible to him. She had exhausted herself in efforts to please her husband and to uphold the alliance.

“I have done everything you’ve asked of me,” she said, her voice reflecting her struggle to comprehend his utter lack of acknowledgement. “I married Boris Baratheon as you asked of me. I fulfilled my duties as his wife, and to you. I was the good, compliant wife. I endured constant indignities, relentless humiliations. I tolerated his infidelities, his escapades through Flea Bottom.”

Her voice felt raw, her eyes ablaze and stinging with tears. “I bore the insult when he fathered a child with a prostitute and considered legitimizing the bastard just to threaten me. I managed it all. I adhered to my obligations.”

“You carried on the affair with that One-eyed cunt. Is that your idea of fulfilling your duties?” He moved back, resuming his earlier stance against the table, giving her some space yet maintaining his confrontational attitude, his brow furrowed in skepticism.

Rhaenyra’s voice cut through the tension, stern and disapproving as she chided at her husband, her glare directed at him signaling a demand for restraint. “Daemon.”

Aemond wanted her. He wanted her, and she had reveled in the feeling of being desired, in the feeling of being seen.

Daenera’s response was fraught. “The affair is separate from my marriage to Boris.”

“An affair is never separate from the marriage.”

“I endured my husbands attentions–”

“You were his wife,” Daemon interjected with a weary exasperation. “That is what marriage is.”

“He hit me!” She declared, her voice ringing with a mixture of anguish and indignity. The admission had burst forth with an intensity that seemed to echo off the walls, breaking the precarious composure she had been maintaining. It felt as if the ice she had been treading on shattered completely, plunging her into the chilly depths, her skin assaulted by a sensation akin to a thousand icy needles. Water seemed to fill her longs as she confessed the painful truths she had long kept hidden. “He hit me, and I ensured it the first time, and the second. I tolerated it. For the alliance.”

A tear escaped her eye, which she quickly brushed away, her facade of composure crumbling under the weight of her parents’ shock.

Out of the two of them, she had feared Daemon’s reaction the most. She feared that he would look upon her as he had done before, with disappointment, and perhaps judgment.

“But then,” she continued, her voice breaking, “he bound me to our bed, tore my dress from my back, and lashed me with his belt.”

Her words painted a harrowing picture of the abuse she had suffered at the hands of her husband. She still remembered the sting of the belt, and how it had bitten into her ear. With shaky fingers, Daenera pushed her hair aside to expose the jagged scar marring the curve of her ear, a testament to the truth. “I still bear the scars.”

“He hit you?” Rhaenyra whispered hoarsely, moving closer to Daenera. Her reaction was one of stunned horror mixed with maternal concern. Gently, she touched the scar on her daughter’s ear and brushed her flushed cheek, her eyes filled with deep sympathy and disbelief at the revelation of her daughter's suffering. “Daenera, you should have come to us.”

Daenera steeled herself. “I defended myself because I wasn’t certain you would.”

Her eyes remained fixed on Daemon as she delivered her next words with deliberate sharpness. “Is your protection limited only to those of your own blood?”

Daemon stood up again, a weary expression on his face as he approached her. His voice was measured, each syllable seeming to imprint itself on Daenera’s consciousness.

“If I had known,” he said, “I would have dealt out the same justice to him as I did Vaemond.”

“I know I’ve disappointed you,” Daenera admitted, shallowing thickly. “I realize his death lost us the Stormlands. There’s much I could tolerate, but I couldn’t endure his abuse and disrespect. He would have killed me. I’ve done what I could to salvage the alliance, however feeble it is.”

Rhaenyra enveloped Daenera in a comforting embrace, her voice warm and filled with assurance. “Daenera, you could never disappoint me. Storm's End is inconsequential. Your safety is all that matters.”

Over her mother’s shoulder, Daenera sought Daemon. His subtle nod offered her a moment of relief, a small feature that eased some of the tightness in her chest.

Daemon, sifting the conversation’s focus, posed another inquiry. “How many are aware of your affair?”

Rhaenyra’s embrace loosened around Daenera as she turned a cautionary glance towards Daemon. Despite the warning in her look, Daemon persisted with his line of questioning. “And will they suspect you played a part in your husband’s death?”

Daenera took a measured breath, her voice slowly becoming even. “The general public is oblivious to the situation. However, I suspect the Greens are aware of it.”

Before Daemon could express his displeasure of hearing this, Daenera quickly added more context to it. “I’ve ensured that if they attempt to reveal the affair and my husband’s subsequent death, they’ll have to contend with the role Aemond played. He was with him when it happened.”

Her implication was clear; if the affair became public, she could manipulate the narrative to suggest Aemond was responsible for Boris’s death alone, to conceal their liaison. Moreover, Finan could corroborate the events in the forest that day. While Aemond’s reputation might endure the scandal of an affair, the implication of murder would be far more damaging. Yet, this move would also entangle Daenera,as Aemond would likely retaliate by accusing her of poisoning Boris and being the mind behind the murder.

It was a precarious balance, a delicate dance of mutual destruction, ensuring that neither party would emerge unscathed if the truth surfaced.

“What should we do with this proposal?” Rhaenyra asked, the question hanging in the air like the executioner's sword.

“Refuse him.” Daemon’s response was immediate and resolute, his face contorted with a mix of disbelief and distaste. After a brief exchange of looks with his wife, he detached himself from the discussion and moved towards the hearth, his gaze lost in the flames.

Daenera turned to her mother, whose gentle touch as she brushed Daenera’s hair behind her ear and cupped her cheek was meant as a small comfort. She leaned into the touch but found little in it. The touch was not the soothing balm it was meant to be.

“I cannot marry him,” Daenera answered, biting back her emotions.

A knot of anguish formed in her throat, descending painfully into her stomach. Her heart felt constricted, as if squeezed by an unyielding hand. Though part of her yearned for it, she recognized the impossibility of marriage, the idea tainted by a profound sadness and the harsh reality of their circumstances.

Rhaenyra’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, as she asked, “Do you love him?”

Daemon’s scoff from the hearth punctuated the silence that followed, though he said nothing further. He had made his position clear.

“I cannot,” she asserted, more to herself than anyone else, fortifying her resolve. The decision seemed to encase her heart in iron, a necessary but painful armor that seemed brittled even as she erected the walls. “I will not put myself in that position.”

Rhaenyra’s concern was evident in her sigh, a mix of understanding and resignation.

“Return to Dragonstone with us,” she suggested. “A respite from King’s Landing’s turmoil could benefit you. Come home.”

Daenera nodded, accepting the wisdom in her mother’s words. “Give me four days to settle my affairs. I will follow you afterward.”

Rhaenyra gently kissed her daughter’s forehead, releasing her to leave the room. She watched the empty space her daughter had just occupied, feeling a weight in her heart. Turning, her gaze fell upon her husband, Daemon, who was distantly leaning against the hearth. His eyes, deep in thought, were fixed on the dancing flames, their orange glow casting a reflective light on his face.

As Rhaenyra’s steps broke the heavy silence, approaching Daemon, she studied him intently. There was a heaviness to his shoulders, and she noted the way he bit his lip in thought, fingers dancing absentmindedly.

“Did you know?” She asked him pointedly.

Daemon responded with a weary and cautious tone, “Did I know what?”

“The true nature of Boris Baratheon,” she pressed, her patience wearing thin.

He withdrew from the hearth, his weariness visibly etched on his face. His thumbs hooked into his sword belt, as he let out a sigh. His posture was that of someone who had enough foresight to anticipate his wife’s anger.

“No, I had no knowledge of his abusive tendencies. His indiscretions, yes, they are well-known among the lords, but I never imagined he would lay a hand upon her.”

Rhaenyra’s stare intensified. “Would it have made a difference if you had known?”

His eyes narrowed at her. “What are you implying?”

“Had you been aware of the cruelty she would suffer at the hands of that man, would you still have compelled her into the marriage?” Rhaenyra’s voice was sharp with accusation as she confronted Daemon, the echoes of her fears reverberating within her. The words cut through the silence. “Knowing the suffering she’d endure, would you still insist on her staying in such a marriage to fulfill your ambition for an alliance?”

“Rhaenyra–”

“No,” she interjected, her voice vibrating with anger. “Would you have considered the same fate for your own daughters, or just mine?”

“You maneuvered my daughters as pawns to safeguard the future of your sons,” Daemon retorted, his tone imbued with frustration but maintaining a steady, unwavering intensity. “You arranged their betrothals to ensure Rhaenys’s allegiance to our cause.”

“The alliance with House Baratheon secured the Stormlands for us–” Daemon began, attempting to make her see reason, but reason was nothing in the face of an angry mother.

Rhaenyra cut him off sharply, her voice piercing the air with its intensity. “Fuck the Stormlands! I never asked for it–I never asked you to ensure an alliance with the Baratheons, or send her to King’s Landing!”

“You didn’t have to!” Daemon retorted, his voice gaining some force as his frustration rose. “Daenera was aware of the significance this union held for our cause. She understood the strategic value of an alliance and recognized that you, in your position, would never openly impose such a demand. She wanted to marry–”

“She wanted whatever you impressed upon her!” Rhaenyra interjected scornfully, her frustration palpable as she took a deep, steadying breath. The warmth from the hearth enveloped the room, brushing against her skin, yet it paled in comparison to the fiery storm raging within her. “Daemon, she adores you. She would do anything you’d ask of her, even if it's not what she wanted.”

Daemon’s expression turned scornful as he spoke. “The only reason I pushed for her marriage to Boris Baratheon was due to her indiscretion. She gave her maidenhead to that One-eyed cunt, risking her reputation and potentially ruining her prospects, all of which would reflect back on you.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze upon him was one of indignation.

Daemon pressed on, undeterred. “She lied to you, Rhaenyra. She lied straight to your face. I cannot simply forgive that.”

The revelation left a bitter taste in Rhaenyra’s mouth, her throat dry with the sting of it. As she swallowed, trying to moisten her parched throat, a bitter realization replaced the dryness. Deep down, she had sensed her daughter’s lie, yet she had clung to the notion of trust, wishing to believe her daughter in a way her own father hadn’t believed her. Her father had been justified in his skepticism, as it turned out she was, but that knowledge did little to alleviate the sting of the truth.

Daemon elaborated, his tone tinged with a mix of regret and resolve. “The marriage was meant to forge an alliance with the Baratheons, yes, but more than that, it was meant to protect her. I had hoped that it would sever whatever ties she had with Aemond, but clearly, I misjudged the situation. I do not blame her for killing her husband and consequently our alliance, but I do hold her accountable for the affair, for lowering herself with that cunt and for the precarious situation she’s put herself in.”

Rhaenyra, feeling the weight of his words, massaged her forehead wearily.

“It was a mistake sending her to King’s Landing,” Daemon admitted. “I assumed she understood her duty and the role she was to play. I was mistaken.”

“She is well aware of her role and duties, Daemon,” Rhaenyra countered sharply, her hand falling from her forehead. “She wouldn’t have married Boris Baratheon otherwise; she wouldn’t have followed your commands. But remember, she is a girl of seven and ten. She shouldn’t merely be an instrument of your desires, nor is she a tool to be used for our ambition. She is our daughter .

Daemon let out a sharp, grating scoff. “Don’t be so naive. In this game, everyone is a pawn, and she’s no exception.”

Rhaenyra sighed, attempting to mask the sadness in her voice, but knew she failed as she looked upon her husband. “I wanted them to experience a childhood unlike mine. That’s why we chose Dragonstone, why we’re raising our children there.”

“They’ll have to face this, Rhaenyra,” Daemon stated, though there was understanding in his voice. “You can’t protect them forever.”

Despite the tension, Daemon extended his hand towards her, his rough, weathered palm resting gently, lovingly, over the curve of her belly, a gesture belying the discord of their conversation.

Rhaenyra’s tone softened, yet her words carried a weight of conviction. “She should have felt safe coming to us, without any fear—she should have been able to confide in us about the abuse, secure in the knowledge that you wouldn’t have insisted on her staying in that marriage.”

Daemon moved away from the warmth of the hearth, his form sinking into the nearby chair as he let out a heavy sigh. Rhaenyra remained standing, staring at the flames as they writhed within the hearth, the wood sputtering occasionally.

“If I had any inkling he was causing her harm…” he began, his voice trailed off.

Raising his gaze to meet hers, his eyes, mirroring the fervent flames of the hearth, conveyed a depth of emotion, honest and undisguised. “I would have taken to the skies myself, flown straight to King’s Landing, and dealt with him personally. I would have spilled his guts before feeding him to Caraxes.”

Rhaenyra, absorbing his words, felt their weight and sincerity. She lightly caressed her swollen belly, a silent acknowledgement of his protective nature. She trusted him on this; Daemon had always been fiercely protective of those he considered family. He considered her children his own, as she did with Baela and Rhaena.

Reflecting on her daughter’s demeanor at the funeral, Rhaenyra recalled the uneasy sensation that had gnawed at her. Initially, she attributed it to grief, dismissing her instincts. She now realized the error in her judgment. It wasn’t just Daemon who bore responsibility; she too had played a part. Rhaenyra had accepted the marriage, ignoring her gut feeling that something was amiss, that it was not what her daughter truly wanted. She had listened to her daughter’s spoken assurances while overlooking the unspoken words that had lingered in her eyes.

“I should do the same with that One-eyed cunt,” Daemon declared, his voice heavy with contempt.

“But that wouldn’t resolve anything,” Rhaenyra remaked, turning to face her husband fully, noticing the intense loathing in his gaze. She found a sliver of amusement in it.

“Why not? It solved our problem with Vaemond,” Daemon argued, leaning back in his chair with a defiant posture. It was easy to win when everyone opposed was dead.

“Killing Aemond would only exacerbate our division,” Rhaenyra warned, only to see Daemon dismiss this with the roll of his eyes. She understood his inclination toward aggressive measures, but she knew that violence and bloodshed weren’t the answers they needed.

“He insulted your sons, called them bastards,” Daemon reminded her. “And he has wormed his way into your daughter’s life, debasing her. That alone should warrant his head placed on a spike on the wall.”

Rhaenyra couldn’t help but feel slightly amused at this reaction as she replied, “I recall similar accusations being made about you in the past.”

“It is not the same,” Daemon said, his tone forceful as he refused to be put in the same light as the likes of Aemond Targaryen.

“Are you suggesting history isn’t repeating itself?”

Daemon, his frustration evident, pressed her further. “Aren’t you worried about this?”

“Of course, I am,” Rhaenyra responded, stepping towards him. “The matter of succession has been settled and Daenera is coming home.”

Rhaenyra stood before him, head tilting as he leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against the curve of her stomach. Rhaenyra’s hands found their way to the back of his head, tenderly stroking his hair as he exhaled deeply. She closed her eyes, feeling a heavy weariness envelop her body, her feet pounding.

“Let’s retire to bed,” she suggested softly. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

#A Vow of Blood #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #hotd fanart #hotd #aemond one eye #aemond x oc

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skylarsblue · 1 year

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✦New Life from Old Battlegrounds✦

(SoapGhost Content based purely on a piece of fanart by a Twitter mutual. Will I make more than one chapter? Perhaps) ✧TW; References to past abuse(Simon), implied death during childbirth(Simon), reference to a domestic dispute(Johnny) ✧Fluff, Mild Angst, Single Dad!AU✧

★Link to Ao3 Ver : ★Link to fanart that inspired it

✧Meeting✧

John hummed to himself as he walked down the street, dodging people passing him and contemplating what to make for dinner. At the same time, he noted the things around him, thoughts bouncing from subject to subject as it always did. His mother used to joke that if he didn’t learn to contain his thoughts, one day, his brain would be sick of being in his skull and it’d escape. Bounce all over the room like he did. He gave a quick snort at the memory, making a quick note that he’d need to call her again, since it’d been about a week since he’d spoken to her last. It was still very odd being far from her. It’d been such a change from his original plan as a teen, though, he supposed his entire life at that point was far from his young plans for his life.

For starters, he’d been certain he’d be more in the military for longer than he was. He wasn’t completely free from government work, but he wasn’t a constant on-call soldier anymore either. Most of his job was paperwork now. Was it his preferred job? Admittedly, no. He often missed the days on base, the training, the adrenaline rush of battle. Not that he liked to complain, he had it good regardless, he felt so anyway. He’d always been the optimistic type. The way his job was now kept him home more, it was safer, the pay was good, and it was honestly nice to have access to food outside of MREs. He most certainly did not miss the MREs. While his teenage self, and himself in his younger twenties, flourished in the aggressive environment of war, he couldn’t keep that life. Thanks to another curveball from the universe.

John had never considered himself to be fitting of the definition “playboy”, though some of his extended family and exes disagreed. He had no issue with being tied down, though it always seemed it never lasted very long. Be it due to personal differences or the way the military kept him away. He always did his best to be a good partner, not perfect, but good. Still, the longest committed relationship he’d had lasted about two years and a couple months, and that had been when he was fresh out of his teens. All the poor experiences and seeming inability to keep a partner, he didn’t fear the prospect at all. He still looked forward to having a partner permanently one day, getting settled down and such. But that didn’t stop him from casual fun either. He never saw any reason why two adults couldn’t have fun for a night, and leave it there. The problem was really the risk that came with that kind of fun, specifically when his partner had the biological equipment for pregnancy. He’d had one scare when he was sixteen, but that also turned out to be his first experience with a cheating partner. Aside from that, he skated through his pleasureful escapades without problems. He was clean and childless.

Until he wasn’t.

He’d gotten a little too cocky with an apartment neighbor turned casual fuck-buddy, and he came home from a mission to a rather pissed off expression on her face and a DNA test in her hand. It wasn’t ideal by any means, both had agreed on that. It scared him to all death. But his mother had carried many children, and his father sunk in the lesson that it was a woman’s choice completely. He wasn’t carrying anything, his body wouldn’t be changing, so he left the decision up to her. She wasn’t happy with the reality but a heavily religious upbringing made the idea of an abortion out of her options, even if she was rebelling from the eye of God. He’d only nodded when she had said the thought of getting one made her sick. At first, the plan was to try at an actual relationship. They liked each other enough to have sex, he made her laugh plenty, she had a lot of sweet qualities John admired. But by the eighth month, whether it was hormones or the reality of a child weighing heavy on her mind, she’d turned into quite the she-beast, to put it lightly. To the point Johnny sported a new scar on the palm of his hand from a lamp being thrown at his skull.

It became very apparent a relationship wouldn’t work. However, John also couldn’t shake the attachment he’d grown to the child he’d helped create. The last month of her pregnancy was hell on his psyche, but he stuck it out in the hope he’d get to see the baby, even if he’d have to fight it out in a court. Something his eldest sister, Edith, promised to help him with, should it be messy. Thankfully for him, however, the mother really hadn’t been too keen on staying that way. It admittedly stung when she’d responded so poorly after delivering the child, even the nurse winced at her coldness. John got one hundred percent of the parental rights, however, without a court case or a fight. Even if the prospect of being a single father scared him halfway into an early grave. He had many nights where he stayed up on the phone with either his mother or his sister, needing both advice and pep talks. And he still held a pill of guilt from the one night he considered giving his new daughter up for adoption, truly worried he wasn’t cut out for it.

Though, much to the joy of his current self, he’d stuck it out. He had to change and sacrifice a lot, and every now and then, he had the wonder of what would’ve happened had he not taken responsibility. But the thought was often rocketed out of his brain by the simple image of his daughter’s excited face when he came to pick her up from school. A very small, old building, situated in Leek, England. When the baby had just been born and the situation was still fresh, he wanted to give the woman who’d given birth to his daughter to change her mind. So he’d stayed in England, albeit a completely different town. He wasn’t so open to the idea now that he’d raised her, but the town had charmed him, and he wasn’t hugely fond of the concept of taking his daughter out of her hometown. Even if he missed Scotland often. Though he did everything he could to ensure his daughter wouldn’t end up with an English accent. Had it taken a decent chunk of money to get a cable package that included Scottish channels with Scottish cartoons? Yes. Did he regret it? Not at all. Visiting his family for holidays also helped. His daughter, named Maisie, was very fond of her visits to the country. Part of him hoped it could set up for her being open to moving there when she was older, though he didn’t cling to that idea very tightly. He had plenty of time before her teen years. Or, at least he told himself that, even if she turned five at the speed of light. Much like his second oldest sister, Davina, warned him.

John jogged when he spotted the school just ahead. He occasionally drove the distance, but it often wasn’t worth the gas it wasted, not when he could walk the distance with ease. Children filed out to their parents, the sound of little laughter never failed to make John grin. He’d always loved kids, even before being a parent to one. Likely because of the large family he came from. After all, he was the fifth kid born out of seven. His mother was a triplet, and his father had six sisters. The family events were more like circuses with the amount of kids. Sometimes it was hard to get any attention at all. It didn’t affect his adoration for his bloodline though…excluding the occasional prick of an aunt or step-uncle.

The blue-eyed man walked up to the school, whistling a tune as his hands came to rest on his jean-clad hips. It was warm for once, without a layer of overcast in the sky. John tapped the rhythm of a song stuck in his head on this hip, eyes scanning through kids, parents, and teachers. Stopping once to give an awkward nod and strained smile to a mom he’d met at a school event once. He averted his eyes quickly however. Not to throw a woman under the bus, but John wasn’t too fond of her less-than-subtle flirting she’d chuck his way whenever he went to an event for his daughter. He hadn’t dated since Maisie’s mother, for his own sake and hers. And even if that wasn’t a factor, he was about ninety-nine percent sure the woman was married. John was a lot of things, but a homewrecker certainly wasn’t one.

His brain flicked back on when he heard a familiar little voice shout a goodbye. With a genuine grin this time, John turned and spotted his little girl waving to someone. He let out a sharp whistle, something he’d picked up from when his father owned horses. Quickly, Maisie turned and searched for her father, breaking out into a look of pure joy. Little Mary-Janes clacked on the stone as she sprinted to him. John crouched down and held open his arms, ready to receive. As soon as she reached him, he hoisted her up high with a laugh, reveling in her joyous giggle. He brought her down and set her on his hip, supported by his arm.

“Didn’t you have a bow in yer hair when I sent ya here?” John questioned, and Maisie looked away. “Uhhh noooo?” She lied, making him snort. “Ya lil’ bugger, you yelled at me all mornin’ for not tying it right!” He playfully scolded, making her laugh as he pinched at her side, having her curl away from the ticklish feeling. “I kept the piggies in though!” Maisie retorted, touching the tiny brunette pigtails in her hair. They were a bit messy now, but to her word, they were intact. John sighed with a head shake. “‘Suppose you got a point there. Where’d the ribbon go then?” He asked, subconsciously taking her rucksack when she took it off and held it away from her.

With the pink strap over his shoulder, looking hilariously small against his frame, he watched her eyes grow with excitement. “I gave it to my new friend! I tied it around her wrist and told her to wear it until I could make her a bracelet.” The little girl explained proudly. The ex-soldier tilted his head with a little chuckle. “A bracelet huh? For a new friend? You must like her a lot. That’s a high honor, lass.” He commented. Maisie bobbed her head aggressively, showing she agreed quite intensely. “She’s my best friend now. She’s new to town too! She said she lived in Manchester before, but her dad didn’t like the school she was in, so they came here.”

John hummed with a quick nod, showing he was listening. He adjusted her on his hip and opened his mouth to speak, ready to suggest a treat before they went home, seeing as how it was such a nice day out. But he paused when his gaze caught on a figure near the front of the school. There wasn’t really anything amiss at first. Just another parent picking up their child it seemed, based on the little blonde girl that was being cautiously lifted off the ground. But it was Maisie’s outburst that made his eyes stick. She pointed with a smile. “That’s my friend! Her name is Ellie!” The information barely registered as John took in the stranger.

Tall, broad, with an aura he’d only attributed to an animal before. A doberman-like intimidating energy. Dressed in almost all black with a black surgical mask across the lower half of his face. An image of intensity only broken by the soft, chubby features of Maisie’s new friend. Round and rosy cheeks with big eyes. John couldn’t look away from the man’s face though, noting a noticeable scar that ran to the stranger’s temple, barely clipping the end of his eyebrow and leaving a subtle indent in the short blond hair at his temple. Just as John was about to force his eyes away, the man turned slightly, and their gazes locked. Cliche and beyond cheesy, but John was suddenly stunned by just how pretty this man's eyes were. Instead of holding the borderline scary aura the rest of him did, they held a gentleness. Light eyelashes in contrast to cinnamon brown. There was a purple tint under the man’s eyes, adding to the naturally tired slope of his eye shape. John always liked eyes, he always found them his favorite thing to look at on people’s faces. Although here, he was suddenly very acutely aware that he had been straight up deadpan staring at a man he didn’t know for God knows how long. The man also clearly noticed, given the uncomfortable shift in his shoulders and the almost anxious glance away, only to connect back with John’s eyes. Obviously, double checking if he was meaning to stare at him. Thankfully, Maisie’s voice helped break John’s train of thought and pull him from his own head.

“Can Ellie come over?” Maisie questioned. “Huh? Oh, uh. We would need to ask her pa, bò.” Her father stammered a bit, looking down at her, although he was certain he could feel the other man’s stare still on him. Internally, he worried he’d already sealed in a bad impression. There was nothing more awkward than accidentally staring at a stranger for seemingly no reason, and then getting caught. “Well he’s over there, let’s go ask!” Maisie tugged at the collar of John’s shirt. He sighed quietly and took a second to prepare how he’d manage that. He debated if he should open with his name or just boldly state an apology. When he decided he’d figure it out once in front of the man, he took in a breath and readied himself to charm his way out of the awkward tension he’d just built.

However, when he looked up, fully prepared to walk toward the man, he was startled by the masked stranger being suddenly closer. A safe distance away but close enough for a conversation. Maisie didn’t miss a beat, waving happily at Ellie who returned the gesture albeit with less enthusiasm. John blinked before he coughed, rolling his shoulders and smiling. Needing to look up was something new. He wasn’t short by any means, and he’d met plenty of tall people, but there was something about the rest of his man’s energy that made his height seem all the more intense. “Afternoon, ‘m John, Maisie’s dad. Uh…sorry about the staring. Wasn’t intentional, was meant to be more of a glance and I forgot to move my eyes.” The Scot said with far less grace than he’d hoped for, he was even using his hand to talk, a habit he always had but that often worsened when he was nervous. The man blinked slowly at him before holding out a hand, which John noted was gloved, despite the warm weather. The gloves had bone detailing on them.

“Simon.” Ellie’s father answered through a gravelly voice and thick accent. John silently hoped his relief wasn’t too visible as he reached to shake the extended hand, shoulders less tense. “Pleasure to meet’cha, Simon.” He said genuinely, letting his hand come to rest on the strap of Maisie’s bag. He inhaled to speak again, only for his daughter to cut in. “Can Ellie come over to play?” She asked quite loudly. John sighed and patted her on the arm. “It’s “may”, lass. Also say please, and don’t interrupt.” He said, voice soft as he reminded her. Though his tone was gentle, she straightened her back and quickly addressed him with an apology before looking back at Simon. “I’m sorry. May Ellie come over to play, please?” She asked, slower this time. Simon hummed and shifted his weight a bit. He looked down at his daughter, asking silently for her opinion. Ellie nodded with a shy grin. Simon looked to John again. “I’m not too keen on her being at stranger’s houses.” He said calmly. His blunt tone made Maisie deflate, taking it as a complete no. John did as well, but he was quick to offer a solution. “Well that’s alright. There’s a park near a shopping center nearby, Maisie goes there every weekend. If you have the time, maybe we could meet there instead. Let the girls play without havin’ to be at one of our houses.”

Simon tilted his head back down to his daughter once more, Ellie nodded up at him again, this time her eyes wider and her head shook more intently. “That’ll do.” Simon replied calmly. Maisie perked up again, swinging her legs with excitement as John gained a smile of his own. He struggled to bring out his phone and unlock it with only one hand. Simon rose an eyebrow curiously until the brunet held out his phone, open to a new contact page. “We can work out the details whenever ya have a second.” John explained. Simon took the device carefully. He adjusted Ellie so she could wrap her short arms around his neck. John bit back a snicker when the little girl hung from her father’s neck, allowing him to have both hands free. With the freedom, he slipped off a glove so he could type in his number and his first name into the contact. Once it was done, he handed the phone back and let Ellie rest back on his arm.

“Alright then! That’s solved, just let me know when you get an opening in your schedule.” John nodded. Maisie was silently climbing up his form to get on his shoulders, something he adjusted to seamlessly while keeping Simon’s gaze. His legs turned and ready to leave. Simon tilted his head subtly. “What ‘bout your schedule?” He questioned lightheartedly. John chuckled. With one hand holding Maisie’s ankle, he gently bumped Simon’s shoulder with his fist. “I’ll save you a spot, sir.” He said cheerfully. Simon blinked and followed the Scot with his shocked eyes as John started to walk away. Maisie waved to Ellie and shouted a loud goodbye. Simon could feel the gentle touch through the fabric of his jumper long after it was gone, and it stunned him a bit. He blinked before sighing. “Bloody hell…” He mumbled before turning to walk in the opposite direction, keeping his daughter tucked in his arm. . ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Simon bounced his leg as the train shook on the tracks. He kept his gaze either in his lap or out the window, although acutely aware of his surroundings. He always was very observant, no matter where he went. He knew there were a total of twelve other people in his cab and he’d clocked one as an alcoholic off the bat. Spotting a hidden brown bag in the suited man’s bag, amongst various business documents and folders. The pristine suit and silk tie meant nothing. Simon was sure to sit furthest from that stranger, even if he’d been occupied with a meeting on his laptop. It wasn’t his business and he didn’t care to hear the stranger’s sob story, he didn’t really care. The detail-oriented system his brain operated under was built from training.

Simon needed to spot subtle dangers, it was the only reason he was alive to see anything at all. If his childhood strife wasn’t enough to train his subconscious on how to spot the incoming dangers before they occurred, allowing him time to prepare for the fallout or prevent the situation entirely. The years he spent in the SAS certainly did. If anything escaped his line of sight, people would be dead, his own life included. All it took was a single blindspot taken advantage of to send blood splattering to the ground. He’d seen it, he’d caused it. It wasn’t something to take lightly and it was a habit he knew he’d never get rid of. Not that it was a bad skill to have, it kept him alive, although there were days he yearned for a life more peaceful.

He’d never been free from pain or trauma, if he wanted that, he’d have to reincarnate completely. Something he doubted God, if the being even existed, would be willing to give him. His father’s torment, however the most damaging on his mind when at its most malleable, seemed like the least of his mental struggles. Even if he still had nightmares where the feeling of a reptile’s dangerous and scaled lips touched his own. They paled in comparison to other images that would keep him up at night. The feeling of unwanted hands or the scent of earth mixed with a body’s decaying organs were by far the worst ones, though even those had gotten better. Mostly with time. They weren’t as frequent, thankfully. He had more recent agonies, ones that still stung like fresh. The loss of his entire family but the one man he’d disowned weighed on him heavily, the bruising ache of betrayals from people he considered friends. All these things only kept at bay from keeping himself busy, or, when they were at their worst, an uncharacteristically vulnerable discussion with his coworker and past superior. But all these things were years in the past. His most recent internal gash was only five years behind him, and while he’d begun to walk away from it, he still felt it burn under his skin.

Simon very rarely got close to anyone. Every time he did, it seemed they either died, grew to hate him, eventually betrayed him, or merely vanished. Sometimes he’d ask himself what he’d done to deserve it, occasionally he’d brood in a fit of emotional anger over what those who’d wronged him had done. Usually though, he’d bared with it, even expected it. Every individual he met, he readied himself for something to go wrong. It hadn’t been any different when he’d accidentally bumped into a woman at a library, almost knocking the poor thing over. He was exhausted and a bit woozy from some pain meds he’d been prescribed, thanks to a bullet wound that knocked him in his lower ribs.

She’d been nothing but benevolent, and to call her anything but beautiful would’ve been a crime. Simon had a brand new urge when she’d smiled at him, the urge to run, sprint as far as possible. Her dimpled cheeks, wavy & glowing honey-blonde hair, and kindhearted eyes squeezed the oxygen from his lungs, almost taking out his knees. She even helped him find a book he’d actually enjoy, which he did. It would’ve been bad enough with that one encounter, but then he bumped into her again in a cafe. This time, it was her who knocked into him, promptly covering his hoodie in tea, much to her horror. Simon felt nauseous when his heart stuttered, watching her apologize frantically and ask if he was okay, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, even when he assured her it was fine.

It was the third time, at a pub, that he learned her name. It was also that time that she’d graced him with her number. He didn’t contact her for a month. Even in the current day, he wasn’t sure what prompted him to call her. His apartment had just been so quiet, the rain so loud, and his heart heavy. Something about her sleep-addled voice must’ve flicked a hidden switch in his brain, because that phone call spurred a relationship. Not a whirlwind romance like in the movies by any means. He didn’t know how to treat her, and he pulled away from her frequently. She’d broken down in tears once when he’d gone a month avoiding her, having assumed she’d done something wrong. That night had ended with him held tightly to her body, earning a kiss with more emotion than he thought he was capable of.

It was the longest relationship he’d had. Technically speaking, given he didn’t really count the on & off situationship he’d battled with from the ages of fourteen to sixteen. All that had done was tell him he wasn’t straight, he hated disco music, and he wasn’t fond of the constant anxiety of his father’s heavy hand over a relationship that wasn’t even exclusive. It also was the kindest relationship he’d had, perhaps even on a platonic level. He could never wrap his head around how someone so gentle could exist. How a voice could feel like a blanket’s warmth on shivering skin, how a touch could feel so safe, or how perfume could be so intoxicating. He’d been so disarmed so fast it baffled him.

He’d known her for four months, dated her for two, and admitted he loved her the entire time on the third month. Coincidentally, the same month she’d shyly placed a positive pregnancy test in his hand. She’d been terrified to tell him, clearly. Probably because he’d been very avoidant on the topic of family, while she’d mentioned her dream of motherhood early on. Simon almost ran again, he’d gotten on a bus in the middle of the night when she’d gone to sleep. He wasn’t sure where, it was his apartment she was sleeping in. He was never sure how he’d ended up at the cemetery his mother was buried in, but it shocked him into going back home. His father was a stain on his DNA, a coward and a bastard. He already resembled the man, the last thing he needed to do was fall into the pit of spineless decisions the man had.

It didn’t scare him any less. Even when the idea of being responsible for a newborn had begun to lighten up, the worry something bad would happen only got heavier. He prayed for it to be paranoia as her stomach grew. He’d even asked whatever god that would listen to put the weight of anything awful to fall on himself, not her or the baby. And he cursed whatever God existed when her water broke far too early, and when it sent the sweetest woman he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting into utter agony. He always hated hospitals, and that hatred worsened when he had to carry her into the ER. He’d paced for hours. There was a risk of losing the baby, something that made his stomach twist. There was a risk of losing her, something that made his chest tighten. There was a risk of losing both, something that actually made him vomit in a trashcan near the waiting room. He couldn’t decide which was worse.

Simon didn’t get to decide either. He’d been handed a tiny, fragile baby girl swaddled in blankets. She was beautiful, but the moment wasn’t sweet. When he made eye contact with the nurse, the woman’s face said enough, and for the first time in a long time, Simon sobbed. Enough for his entire body to shake. His coworker had to hold him that night, it was the only way to keep him together. “I’m sorry, Simon.” was all the bearded man could say, in a voice gruff from years of ordering soldiers and smoking, but filled with genuine heartache for the man broken once again.

His daughter, Ellie, came out fine. She was small and fragile, sure, but alive. Simon had to ask his friend if babies ever remembered their newborn phase, purely in fear that his child would remember him crying while keeping her swaddled up on his chest. He couldn’t even use the nursery he’d help make, he moved the crib into his room, right by his bed. Though, for the first month he didn’t even use it. He slept with the newborn on his chest, hands rested on her small form, just to make sure she wouldn’t vanish. He even became on a first name basis with the pediatrician because he visited so often, constantly burning with anxiety. The doctor told him to go to his own care physician and get a prescription for Xanax, lest he collapse from the stress. Having such a dramatic change wasn’t good for his health. His friend took it upon himself to make everything as easy for Simon as physically possible. From a shift in careers to watching the baby so Simon could finally sleep, even if he needed a mountain of melatonin to do it.

He pulled himself together. Even if the time he’d spent with the angel he’d met at the library was cut short, something he somehow managed to blame himself for, up until his daughter Ellie was three. She was the spitting image of himself aside from two things, two things he treasured about her the most. In her brown eyes, the left held a split of color, bright green, the color her mother had. The other feature was a singular mole on her tiny shoulder, just adjacent to her neck, exactly where her mother had one. He always found himself softening when he was reminded of these two tiny details about his child. Even if Ellie didn’t truly understand why. It seemed the features she favored about herself were the ones that she shared with her father. Something Simon managed to find a bittersweetness in.

He’d been so hesitant to send her to school when she became the right age. To the point he started her on half days, to get her acclimated slowly, but admittedly more for himself. It was fine at first. She had the occasional bad day, but she always attributed it to loud noises or lots of stimuli. It was when she turned four that she started coming home and telling him about the occasional mean comment. It wasn’t too bad, in her words. But the day he was called to pick her up because she was brought into a hysterical meltdown, a combination of some kids teasing her and a substitute teacher’s rough handling of her emotions, Simon had just about lost it. If looks could kill, his eyes would’ve been the equivalent of an air strike. He’d been ready to tear the old woman’s head off, and he’d never been closer to kicking actual children into the sun than that moment.��

The school had a habit of not helping when kids were bullied, and when Simon really looked at it, he realized the environment Ellie was always in. His apartment was cramped and dark, not to mention old. His downstairs neighbor was always yelling at his roommates, the upstairs one was a drunk, and the old lady across the hall never failed to make a comment when she caught Simon in the lift. The traffic was hell and the closest park needed a train to get to, since he didn’t like to drive. He had plenty of money saved, and when he asked Ellie if she would miss anything, her only answer was the birds that nested in one of the windows.

So, he found a small home, packed everything, and took Ellie out of Manchester. He liked the ability to add more security immediately. No longer relying on a lazy landlord and a chain lock. He could secure every window and door and install a proper security system. Ellie was most fond of the dogs she’d seen being walked in the neighborhood, as well as the large window seat her new room had. The only one who knew about the address change was Simon’s coworker, the only one with a spare key too. In case of an emergency. He’d waited a full month before enrolling his daughter in school again, and he honestly would’ve waited longer, had Ellie not complained about the cabin fever.

It was fairly close, but just a bit too far to walk to, hence why Simon took the train. The bus was also an option, but it was far too crowded for his liking when he’d seen the stop. He adjusted his mask when walking from the station to the school, the hand in his hoodie pocket held a small back of sweets. Something he grabbed for Ellie as a prize for going to her new school. He silently missed his balaclava. He would’ve worn it if Ellie didn’t remind him other kids would probably be scared of it, and he was intimidating enough on his own. As usual, he scanned the area as he approached. Counting every child and adult he could see. He slowed to a stop on the sidewalk, waiting patiently to see a head of blonde tresses tied in a bun with a white scrunchy, one with little ghosts on it. She’d begged for it when she saw it, and it was easy to pick out of a crowd. He relaxed when she came into sight, noting how she waved at a little brunette girl that ran away.

Ellie walked to him briskly. Simon zeroed in on a red ribbon tied loosely around her right arm in an uneven bow. “Hi daddy.” Ellie said softly as she reached him. “Hi, squeaker. How was your first day?” He asked. He bent to pick her up when she raised her arms. “Good. I didn’t talk to many kids, but there was this one girl who was really nice.” She explained, then held up her ribbon-decorated arm. “She gave me her hair bow, said it was a placeholder until she could make me a bracelet. Her name’s Maisie, but the others called her MayMay.” Simon hummed in acknowledgment, face softening as she described it with a smile. It’d been the first time another kid had made an effort to befriend her, something that brought Simon a lot of relief. “So, I assume you had fun then?” He asked.

Ellie nodded again. “She taught me Scottish words. Her dad’s Scottish, she said.” Simon listened and nodded. He turned, ready to head to the train station again. He only stopped when he felt the shiver up his spine, a sixth sense he developed when in the sights of a sniper. He even looked at the builds first, checking the roofs. It was only when he looked ahead of himself that he saw who was staring. A brunet stranger with blue eyes and a messy mohawk. Simon blinked as the man gazed at him, noting the little girl in his arms. He looked around at his sides. Maybe the stranger was looking past him? No, no he was certainly staring at him.

Simon felt Ellie tap him. “It’s okay, daddy. That’s MayMay, that man’s her dad.” She whispered. He looked at the man once more, seeing him now distracted by Maisie. He sighed slowly and looked at Ellie. “You want me to say hello, don’t you.” It was less a question, since he knew the answer, and more a statement. Reaffirmed by Ellie’s gentle nod. Simon let out a defeated sigh, and his daughter patted his shoulder in sympathy. She was well aware of her father’s introversion. Still, Simon walked up, though not too close. He could hear the little girl’s accent, mostly Scottish with a British twang of sorts. Maisie’s father let out a sigh and looked up, though clearly startled by Simon’s now closer proximity. A few seconds passed as the man took Simon’s form in, before he coughed and introduced himself, quickly followed by an awkward apology.

The man’s shoulders were tense, that was the first thing Simon noticed. He also noticed a scar on his chin, and along his right eye. And, a bit shamefully, he noted how tightly the man’s shirt hugged his well-built chest and arms. Simon wasn’t one to gawk but even he had to admit those biceps were impressive. He blinked, then held out his hand. “Simon.” He stated calmly. John relaxed and shook his hand. He looked ready to say something before Maisie cut him off, too caught up in her own excitement to remember manners. “Can Ellie come over to play?” She exclaimed. Ellie smiled at the enthusiasm and Simon could hear her stifled giggle.

John’s voice was gentle when he corrected his daughter, and Simon admired how Maisie immediately responded. Maisie asked again, and while Simon wouldn’t have any problem saying yes, he wasn’t going to agree without his daughter’s confirmation. He never liked the idea of forcing her to do anything she didn’t want to, if unnecessary. But she nodded when he looked down at her. He paused. The idea of letting his daughter go to a stranger’s house made anxiety pump into his veins, and while this man seemed nice, he didn’t want to give out his address. “ “I’m not too keen on her being at stranger’s houses.” He admitted. Honestly, he felt a pang of guilt when John’s daughter deflated. John seemed to as well, if only for a second, Simon caught the look akin to a dejected puppy. Really, the man had serious puppy eyes.

John bounced back quickly though, grinning once more with white teeth and a sparkle in his eye. …or maybe that was just the sun. Yeah, just the sun. “Well that’s alright. There’s a park near a shopping center nearby, Maisie goes there every weekend. If you have the time, maybe we could meet there instead. Let the girls play without havin’ to be at one of our houses.” The Scot suggested. Simon glanced at Ellie again, her nod was intense. He exhaled, she wanted to see the park anyway, better to do it with someone she was friends with. He remembered going to the park alone, it was not a fun experience. “That’ll do.” He answered, following the movement of John struggling to pull his phone out, and he was admittedly confused at first when it was held out to him.

Simon looked at the cracked screen protector as a new contact page stared back at him. John said something about working out the details. Simon bit back his apprehension and took the phone, adjusting Ellie. A silent code they developed, one of many, when he needed both his hands free for a moment. She secured herself around his neck and he let her hang off him so he could take off a glove. He tapped in his number and his name, all in lowercase. John’s grin was sunshine bright as he took the device back. Simon wondered if his cheeks hurt at this point while Ellie settled back on his arm. Maisie climbed over her father, something the man seemed unphased by, helping her adjust to be on his shoulders. “Alright then! That’s solved, just let me know when you get an opening in your schedule.” John said cheerfully. The longer he spoke, the more Simon could see this man spiritually being a dog. Probably a terrier of some kind. He was way too happy. Though, really, it was an endearing quality. Certainly more pleasant than the bitter old lady across the hall.

Simon had the faintest of smiles behind his mask as he jokingly asked the man about his own schedule, seeing him ready to leave. John chuckled and gently connected his fist to Simon’s shoulder. “I’ll save you a spot, sir.” He said. Fire radiated over the blond’s skin from where John had tapped him, and he felt the air suddenly vanish from his lungs, leaving him stunned. Even after John began to leave. “Bye-bye, Ellie!” Maisie shouted back, making the little girl wave back. Simon swallowed as the urge to high tail it back home filled his nerves. He pushed it down, not for the sake of seeming brave, but quite the opposite. He wasn’t going to feel that way again, he refused. Not so soon. But as he turned to leave, and he settled on the memory of a puppy-eyed gaze and bold grin, he was worried. Very worried.

"Bloody hell.” He whispered, hugging Ellie closer. The little girl rested her head on his shoulder, eyes shut. He let himself exhale a puff of anxious breath, feeling himself settle at the sight of her peaceful form. He’d be fine. They’d be fine.

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nichenarratives · 1 year

Text

Hurricane Heller 15

A Niche Narratives Fanficiton.

last | first | next

[tw for: period typical anti-semitism, anti-semitic terrorism, mentions of ww1]

15. Chag Sameach

Of all the months in the year, Mordecai despises December. Not only is it unbearably cold for a short haired feline, but it's also the time of year that complete strangers feel the need to wish one another holiday greetings for a celebration he does not acknowledge, bid for charity, or generally put their noses where they don't belong. While such behaviour does lead to an increased interrogator workload, the anticipated flush of funds is swiftly swallowed by increased electricity or coal and wood costs, leaving him exhausted and miserable, with very little to show for his efforts.

However, with the United States' continued involvement with ongoing disputes in Eurasia, such restrictions would worsen swiftly; food, electric and fuel shortages plague the poorer sectors of the city, while continued contractions in economic growth and massive inflation raise domestic prices for what remains available. Despite hating the cold, Mordecai stops purchasing coal for the fire and rations what he has left, his home practically an icebox that wilts his plants and tests his immune system on a daily basis.

All high calorie or shelf-stable food, especially wheat, meat and fatty foods, are harshly rationed so excess can be sent to the frontline. Kosher meat in particular gets increasingly more difficult to source, leading to a restricted diet of soups or broths that do little to warm or fill his stomach. He loses weight and has to layer numerous blankets to sleep at night, though often nods off in the warmer launderette back room due to restless nights as frost gathered along the windowsill.

Despite being willing to do his duty for a country that openly despises his people, Mordecai is swiftly removed from the conscription pool due to severe myopathy, instead watching his neighbourhood become almost a ghost town overnight. As one of the few remaining men, a cluster of those deemed too sickly or disabled to serve, he's highly aware glares and quiet remarks questioning his patriotism follow him down the street, but that's the least of his concerns.

It's never been more dangerous to walk the streets openly sporting a kippah or tallit, as rumours from the frontline of an Semitic conspiracy to transform Europe into a Jewish haven begin to infiltrate the city. While known to the family, most in his area of the city aren't aware of his religious affiliation, but that doesn't prevent his concerns regarding his mother; she still takes his sisters to Sabbath services each Sunday even as reports of arson attacks during prayer, rising assault cases and even false arrests hit the papers.

He's still not spoken to them since his brief interaction with Esther, but that doesn't abate his concern; estranged he may be, but he's far from distant. He still slips their - recently thinned - allowance under the door, but adds an afternoon walk past his childhood home to his schedule, to ensure smoke rises from the chimney as mother makes the evening meal.

It's a reassurance they made it home safe, one he clings to until before his next walk.

By the seventh of December and the United States' official declaration of war on Austria-Hungary, Mordecai is forced to shut down the two least profitable enterprise's, the races and the launderette, and moves his base of operations to the most stable business; the Casino.

A week before Christmas, the seasonal celebration most of the city has preoccupied itself with to feed their sullen souls, Mordecai gets an unexpected visit from Gabriel in his office at Casino Royale. Since they usually only converse at the old quarry - their new interrogation site, after the factory was reopened to manufacture artillery for the war effort - the tom is wary when the man is shown in. Offered a drink, Gabriel gladly accepts before sitting down in a plush chair opposite Mordecai with his usual broad, toothy grin.

Working closely with the family for a year allowed Mordecai to gather more intelligence on his coworkers, and Gabriel is no exception. The pure white persian is Mr Savage's most trusted Cleaner, a man who finds, secures and after an interrogator is done with them, disposes of the loose ends that running a shady business tends to produce. He's also technically the monochrome tom's direct manager, paid enough to give Mordecai a third of it after his work is complete, a lucrative arrangement for the cheerful feline.

"Afternoon, Kosher," he states, taking off his hat and placing it on the desk before getting comfortable, slinging a calf onto the opposite knee and leaning back in his chair. Sharp eyes scale around a room far larger and more appealing than the Launderette store room before returning to bored emeralds, the cheerful feline digging in his breast pocket for a smoke. "Nice digs. Who'd you have to kill for this pretty piece?"

"Fiores," the monochrome tuxedo responds blandly, closing his ledger with a sigh as the persian cracks up with laughter, an ear flickering in irritation as he waits for him to settle. It takes an enforcer placing a scotch on the rocks before him for Gabriel to quiet down, though he chuckles even through sipping the liquor. Mordecai sits back and regards him with narrowed eyes, unamused. "Why are you here, Gabriel? I'm exceptionally busy."

The man hums through a mouthful of whiskey and swallows with a gulp, lowering the glass slightly to point at Mordecai with his index finger. "You're always busy," he observes, not at all perturbed by the other, as he's grown accustomed to Isaiah Fitzgerald's direct style of communication. When he deepens his glare, Gabriel dips his spare hand into a pocket and withdraws a Christmas card, offering it across the table. "The boss asked me to deliver this in person."

Mordecai sighs softly before he leans over to take the card, placing it face down on the table, without looking inside, his gaze remaining on Gabriel. While unoffended by the gaudy, decorated tree and snow-surrounded robin on the front, he's had enough of the imagery already; the city seems to have gone mad with it this year. "Jewish practices don't observe Christmas," he states. "But I can send a return card, if that is customary."

Gabriel pauses to light up, apparently not put off by the lack of an ashtray. Mordecai wrinkles his nose as he sucks on the offensive stick, the scent of burning tobacco permeating the small office before he even exhales.

"Open it," the persian feline instructs, leaning back with that same irritating smile still plastered across his face. Mordecai begrudgingly opens it flat on the table and finds no seasonal greetings.or message besides the name 'Kosher', above a date and time, scrawled in the bottom left corner. Mordecai frowns and glances up. "It's an invitation," Gabriel clarifies. "To the boss' annual poker game; a Christmas thing, but I don't know anyone brave enough to refuse an invitation. I don't think you're fool enough to be the first, either."

He pauses to down the rest of his whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass, before placing the empty tumbler down and retrieving his hat. "Be outside and ready to go," Gabriel elaborates as he replaces his hat, wide smile not leaving his muzzle. "And bring a gift. We usually aim for about half a month's wage. Just don't try giving him money; if he wanted cash, he'd cut your wage."

The persian stands, laughs at his own joke and sees himself out of the office. Once he's gone, Mordecai frowns at the invitation again, holding the card open with a splayed palm. December 24th; 1300 hours. With no prior plans and certain a refusal will see him floating in the bay Christmas morning, Mordecai is forced to think on what gift he could source in six days for the head of New York's largest crime syndicate.

What do people even give for Christmas?

oOo

Unfamiliar with Christian traditions and without the energy or time to conduct sufficient research, Mordecai falls back on Passover tradition and purchases a bespoke Seder plate; a simple white ceramic with a gold leaf trim, and a central tree of life motif. The branches of the tree link to six shallow, gold trim bowls set into indents on the plate, as another gold tree motif adorns the interior of each bowl to match.

While a traditional Seder plate may possess inscriptions to denote intended contents of bowls, Mordecai is painfully aware Mr Savage doesn't care for Passover traditions, so forgoes the inscription to allow free use of the ceramic plate as a serving dish for any occasion. He even fills the bowls with dried fruits and nuts before boxing up the bastardized Seder, securing a simple card inscribed with the traditional chag sameach on top.

He waits outside on Christmas Eve in heavy winter gear; his coat collar popped against the cold, a deep red scarf tucked into his overcoat and thick leather gloves. Standing under the awning over his front door to avoid the wind, he still shivers, so is thankful when his ride is punctual. At exactly one, the usual estate car pulls up to the curb, and Mordecai wastes no time getting in if only to get out of the cold.

Placing the gift down on the left hand seat, Mordecai sits far to the right, diagonal to the driver, who only glances over his shoulder before they pull away. No words are exchanged, which isn't unusual, so Mordecai spends the time blowing into his palms or briskly rubbing his hands together in his gloves, shoulders hunched and coat pulled high around his neck, until he's sufficiently warmed up.

The drive downtown is short. They turn into a neighborhood the tuxedo isn't familiar with, though the tall, narrow homes, boarded windows where shattered glass would otherwise let in the cold and flaking exterior plaster is familiar enough as they pass through.

Soon enough, they leave the slums and pass into a middle class area, before slipping into the entertainment district.

Mordecai has never been this far into the city before. Bright neon lights glimmer and shine outside every restaurant and bar, denoting cocktails, liquor or burlesque shows, all a stark contrast to the dim storefronts of his own neighbourhoods. In addition to the visual clutter, muted music thrums around the car, swelling and abating as they pass establishments in a constant tide against the dark.

Despite it being new and mildly overwhelming, he takes it all in through narrowed eyes, no change in expression besides folding ears back at the cacophony of conflicting sounds or squinting against the glare reflecting off his pince nez. Silently, he hopes he has no reason to return to this area of the city besides forcibly attend another of Savage's parties; it's abhorrent to tolerate.

A short while later, they pull up outside a diner deep in the heart of it all. Mordecai thanks the driver, tips him fifty cents and slides out of the cab with the gift box in hand, pausing to study his destination as the cab pulls off. Stanley's sports a cursive neon proclaiming its existence for miles, though its green and red words flicker as the power grid fluctuates and stabilizes, likely due to the egregious electrical consumption of the surrounding area.

The diner is double fronted, with large windows either side of an equally large door covered by drapes, reducing those inside to simple, dark shapes set to a blinding backdrop. A raucous racket escapes through windows, left ajar to vent cigarette smoke. Classic music rounds out the affronting mixture; one of a dozen Christmas songs on repeat all over the city, drawing guests into screeching along, many already half-drunk anr celebrating their half day off work.

Dark ears folding back, Mordecai grimaces. Establishments like these are a personal nightmare, usually filled with drunk patrons getting too handsy in dark corners, deafeningly loud conversation and a considerable lack of personal space. Yet I have no choice, do I? He thinks bitterly, his personal invite to this shindig tucked into a breast pocket. If I don't partake, I may as well sign my own death certificate.

With that sobering thought, he takes a steadying breath and stepping forward, pushes the door open to step inside.

The decor is excessively bright; chairs, tables and even wall decor of bright red is offset by plain white wall tiles, a single black accent tile periodically set in walls and floors. Booths line the walls, while metallic folding chairs and tables line up to create walkways between the booths and the counter, at which a number of red leather stools reside facing an open kitchen, the chef stressed and hot, sweat running down his face to the towel around his neck.

Classic Christmas music, jovial laughter and off-key singing assaults the tom's senses, accented by the clang of kitchen utensils and conversations being shouted over the noise of it all. Unable to spot Gabriel in the diner, Mordecai flattens his ears to his skull and carefully approaches the bar.

He's briefly interrupted by a drunken construction worker tripping over his own feet, reaching for Mordecai to catch him; the monochrome swiftly pivots out of reach, present held away, and the man lands face-first in someone's side salad, the momentum of his fall dragging it to the floor with him. There's a heartbeat of mostly silence before the worker sits up and languidly licks mayonnaise and lettuce off his face, to which the whole dinner bursts out laughing, many a drunkard raising their glass in cheers to a fallen comrade.

Mordecai backs away from the scene, turning around only when his back hits the bar. A young woman behind the bar giggles as the construction worker tries to get back up, slips on a sliced tomato and falls right back down on his behind. The tom clears his throat, placing the gift box down on the counter once 'Kendall' meets his gaze. "My presence was requested by Mr Savage," he states, cringing as he's forced to raise his voice to be heard above the ruckus. "However, I cannot locate him. Please hand him this with my regards."

She looks him up and down, chewing gum with her mouth open, then Kendall smiles and leans her elbow on the bar, resting her chin in a palm to meet his gaze. "Well, ain't you a sight for sore eyes," she drawls, blonde ringlets framing her face having escaped the messy bun on her head. Mordecai wrinkles his nose as she leans closer and bats her lashes "You goin' home with somebody tonigh', sugar? 'Cause I'd sure like t'open you up after midnigh'."

Unable to decide if he finds her proposition or her incessant gum chewing more abhorrent, Mordecai is blunt, though the current political climate forces him to reconsider the obvious 'I'm Jewish' response. "I'm not interested," he states after a moment of consideration, pushing the present towards her across the counter. His own expression stays disinterested as her own smile sours. "But as previously stated, I'd appreciate it if this could be handed to Mr Savage. Tonight, if possible."

"You got an invite?" Kendall asks sharply as she straightens behind the bar, still obnoxiously chewing the wad of gum as she taps her claws on the counter top. She regards the tom with a slight glare, all semblances of friendliness gone. "Savage always sends 'em invites for private par'ies. Ya got one, ya can hand it to 'im ya'self. Otherwise it's goin' out that there door with ya."

With a tired sigh, he reaches into his coat and produces the invitation, holding it between his index and middle fingers as he offers it to her. Kendall takes the card and flips it open, then glares at Mordecai through thick lashes. "Should'a guessed you was the Yid, with them manners." White brows knit into a scowl, but Kendall only rolls her eyes, unlatches a hinged countertop and raises it, beckoning him through with a curled finger. "C'mon. The boss' waitin' on ya. This way."

#niche narratives #hurricane heller #fanfic #mordecai heller #lackadaisy #fanfiction #lackadaisy cats #lackadaisy mordecai #tracy j butler #no beta we die like atlas may

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pinkhairswagtourney · 11 months

Text

tw // physical , mental , verbal abuse + self harm + drug use

it's a very long story . january 2021 , i thought i was at the lowest point in my life -- i had just lost my job , i was cutting myself and taking xanax every day , i could barely find the motivation to get out of bed . my father always put so much pressure on me to be perfect and to do everything just right but didn't hold any of my other siblings to that same standard . i couldn't take it anymore . he was hovering over me and screaming at me while i was unloading the dishes one day and i snapped , i grabbed our biggest knife , and cut my forearm wide open . and he just stood there and laughed at me , straight up laughed in my face .

he called me psychotic and then he called the police on me and told them i was brandishing a knife at him . my mother was right there and saw that i very clearly did not threaten him at all . but when the cops got there , she didn't say anything to dispute it . and i was outside trying to calm down and stop the bleeding . and they arrested me for domestic violence . when i literally did not do a single thing to him . i had a mental breakdown , hurt myself and only myself , and went to jail for it .

i stayed in the isolation block for about a week before my bail was crowdfunded . my public defender told me to take the plea deal because there was a good chance i would've gone back to jail if i tried to fight the charges . i don't know if that was true or not . but i took the plea which lowered the charge from DV to just assault , i was put on two years of probation , i had to do community service , and i needed to pay $1k of fines .

over half a year passed with me being homeless , couchsurfing , and doing sex work to survive . i thought i had hit rock bottom before , but these months were actually my lowest point in my entire life . my parents ended up contacting me and telling me that they felt so bad for what happened and they wish it didn't have to be like this , they asked me to move back home . and it genuinely felt like the lesser of two evils at the time , so i did . and here we are now .

my living situation has never been stable or healthy . and i don't know exactly what happened to make my dad stop hitting us . he still yells at us , and he doesn't do anything to stop my youngest brother from hitting and hurting me . but . it's like . the tiniest bit better than it used to be . in my opinion . maybe i'm just grasping at straws , idk

TL;DR: misdemeanor domestic violence charge , lowered to a misdemeanor assault charge , when i literally did neither of those things 👍

#abuse mention /#self harm mention /#drug use mention /#ask to tag

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gottawhump · 2 years

Text

Argument

Year 11

CW/TW: a slap, misogynistic language, it as a derogative/dehumanization. Domestic abuse? I don’t think there’s actual whump here (lady or otherwise). But this is a marital dispute about a whumpy situation.

My cheek rocks back, stinging from Julia’s slap.

“How are you bring that-that thing into our home!”

“Please, Julia. I couldn’t leave Ryssa there. Not after ten years—“

“It doesn’t belong here. A slut and a whore. I don’t want our daughter exposed to that.”

I don’t know where I found the calm, or the audacity. “She is the mother of our child.”

“I am the mother of our child, Thomas.” Angry color flushes her cheeks, and she sets her jaw. “I am your wife, and the Lady of House Declan, and you didn’t even think to ask me!”

“There wasn’t time. Please, Julia.” Please understand. Please be kind. “You found a place for me. Can’t we find a place for her?”

“Such as in your bed?”

It’s another slap. “No! Julia, I haven’t touched her.”

Her mouth flattens. “I know what those things are for.”

That’s over now. “I did not bring her here for that, Julia.”

“Fine.” Her lips turn up in a small not-smile. “Then Father can have it, if he wants. It can take a servant’s place.”

Ryssa. Her name is Ryssa. But she doesn’t want to hear that.

Taglist: @distinctlywhumpthing @newbornwhumperfly

#whump?#dehumanization #domestic dispute #it as a pronoun #thomas #Julia #the eiran artha #slapping

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dxkk1104 · 2 years

Text

part one:

(⁃childhood friends to lovers, with drama

⁃angst

⁃non-massacre au

⁃tw: emotional abuse, mature content, domestic abuse)

Dinners at Sasuke's house were always enjoyable.

Mikoto was in charge of preparing the food, assisted by Sakura. Sasuke laid out the cutlery, while Naruto ran around the table with Shisui.

Only Itachi and his father were sitting on the couch, watching TV. Sasuke's brother had

been having a lot of coughing fits lately and couldn't strain himself, and Fugaku was spending all day at work.

"Will you finally calm down?" Sakura heard Sasuke's angry voice.

He was clearly fed up with Naruto interfering with his duties.

"Oi, don't be so indignant anymore, Teme."

Stirring the salad, out of the corner of her eye she noticed the same expression on Sasuke's face that said: One more word and you're dead. She laughed in spirit.

Recently, Sakura noticed that her friend had a problem expressing his emotions. The pressure his father was putting on him, and as a result, he began to as well, was too much. Sasuke complained that he was insufficient, and treated every failure as a curse. Outbursts of aggression or silence were caused by his father's inability to express his own

feelings, as well as Sasuke’s mother, who always tried to justify his father and his frequent recent absence.

"Sakura, please put this platter on the table."

"Okay, Auntie."

Having placed the dish in the center of the countertop, Sakura returned to the kitchen. They quickly tackled the rest of the food and after just a moment, the table could be seated.

Pumpkin soup was served by Shisui with the help of Naruto. Next came the main course brought by Sasuke, and finally dessert.

They ate appetizers, putting tomatoes, olives and other snacks on their plates.

"Do you think if we fail the mission again, Kakashi will suspend us?" asked Naruto with his mouth full.

Sakura turned her head to the left to look at Sasuke. Uchiha made a disgusted face.

"Me and Sakura didn't do anything wrong. You're the one who fucked up."

They felt Mikoto's burning gaze. Sakura sent the woman a fake smile, trying to control the situation. Mikoto shied away from cursing at home.

"It was an accident!"

"You are an accident."

"Sasuke-kun.", she hissed.

The boys looked at each other disdainfully. Sakura had long since grown accustomed to their disputes. She cut off a piece of salmon for her plate, deeming the discussion closed.

She handed a quarter of the fish to Sasuke. Sakura enjoyed sharing the food she prepared herself. Uchiha scooped a piece onto a fork. Before he put it in his mouth, he spoke to Fugaku, who had only been talking to Itachi and Shisui since lunch began.

"I was the best of the group last time, father," he waited a moment. Fugaku took his eyes off his eldest son and waved the hand.

"Congratulations." Sasuke squeezed his fork tighter, "And you didn't have trouble with one mission recently?"

Sakura noticed how his hand began to tremble slightly. Sasuke did not answer his father. Tense with anger, he looked down at the plate. Sakura grabbed his thighs, adding support. The boy's muscles relaxed, but after a moment, as if realizing what he had allowed his friend to do, he moved his leg away.

"It could be saltier." he said deliberately, wanting to defuse the anger he got from his father's attitude, but not paying attention to who he was hurting.

Sakura went back to eating with a heavier heart.

…

It was a hot afternoon. Sun was shining fully, providing not a bit of shade. Sakura had finished her day at the hospital and was heading home.

Stomach admonished her for missing a meal. Sakura turned right, finally deciding on ramen. In the distance, she spotted Sasuke with Naruto. They stood and talked, and the blond laughed, patting his friend on the shoulder.

"Are you finished yet?" she asked, appearing right next to them.

"Aa."

"Great!" Sakura clapped her hands "I was going to go for ramen alone, but since you two are free now we can walk together."

Naruto threw his arm around Sasuke's neck and looked at Sakura with amusement.

"I'm sorry, Sakura-chan, but I'm the only one who can go. Teme is meeting a girl."

Sakura's heart froze. Sasuke had never been the type of person to go out somewhere with others, much less girls.

"I'm only supposed to help her." he rolled his eyes "You make a big deal out of it."

"You rarely help anyone." Naruto commented.

He laughed at his friend’s irritated face. Sakura, for her part, stood and couldn't gather her thoughts. Naruto was right, Sasuke practically never does favors for others. Not once, at least, did he help her.

"Maybe you would also like to help me? I've been having a little problem lately" she fired out. Out of jealousy? Did she want to see if he would agree? Why did she do that?

Sakura felt herself blushing. After all, she didn't even have a problem with anything.

"I'm out of time this week."

"Ah, yes. It’s okey."

Her stomach rumbled again. "Then shall we go?" Naruto poked Sakura in the side.

"Yes, yes," she smiled sadly at Sasuke. Oh stop making an idiot of yourself, she scolded herself in her mind, "In that case, I'll see you on my birthday."

"Aa." he mumbled and set them down alone. Naruto took Sakura's hand.

"Do you know that I'm just laughing at him? If Sasuke were to be with anyone, it would be you, Sakura-chan."

"You've been telling me that for almost six years."

Naruto didn't speak up. They walked three blocks, silently heading to the restaurant. Suddenly, a boy ran out from around the corner. He bumped into Sakura, scattering cards on the ground.

"I'm so sorry." he raised the head, and blue eyes bore into her green ones.

"It's all right." she said kindly. The gray-haired man picked up the cards and, apologizing once again, ran on.

…

There was barely room on the table. Chips, drinks, jelly beans and crisps took up the entire countertop. In the kitchen, Sakura had set out alcohol and pizza.

Naruto and Ino arrived early and helped her open the door for guests. Sakura didn't invite many people. She wanted her 18th birthday party to be held in quiet company.

The guest list included Sasuke along with his brother and cousin, as well as the rest of the people from Konoha's eleven.

"Where should I put it, Sakura?" Itachi appeared in the kitchen

He carried two nets with, of course, food from his mother. Mikoto took too much care of everything. Sakura would have to return the favor by stopping by for dinner after her birthday.

"Here." she pointed to the vacant kitchen counter "And where is Sasuke?"

"He'll be here in a minute. He was still getting ready when we left."

Shisui suddenly ran into the room. In his arms rested a large pink teddy bear. He hugged Sakura, handing her the gift.

"I thought of you when I saw this," he said. "Am I still a child to you?" she laughed.

"That's a silly question. You will always be that twelve-year-old Sakura-chan to me." he stroked her head, mussing her hair.

The doorbell sounded in the apartment. Sakura looked at Itachi, and when he nodded, she moved to open it herself this time.

Sasuke looked nice in a black shirt and belted pants. He combed his hair back, though a few strands still fell over his face. He handed Sakura a small box.

"Thank you." she opened the contents and a beautiful gold necklace appeared before her eyes. From the chain dangled a small daffodil "It is.... beautiful."

"I'll tell my mother you liked it." Sakura only now noticed the second package held by Sasuke, "It's from me."

She put the box down on the table next to her and picked up a small bag. A bottle of alcohol, a new pair of gloves and a greeting card - 'Happy Birthday, Sakura' - lay at the bottom.

"Thank you." she put down the gift "There is food and drink. Help yourself."

Sasuke directed his steps to the kitchen. Sakura felt a small sting in her heart. When had he changed so much? She had known Sasuke for a long time, and until she was sixteen, he had always been a much more open person toward her, despite the difficult relationship at home.

They were friends, and as friends do, he often told Sakura things he wouldn't reveal to anyone else.

So what changed their relationship?

"Show me how you move that good ass of yours, Sakura!" shouted Ino, who from a distance could be seen that she was already a little drunk.

The girl spun to the rhythm of the music, and with her the rest. Only Itachi and Sasuke were sitting in the kitchen. Sakura wasted no time, she let herself be swept up in the fun.

Alcohol was pouring, music was ringing in the ears, singing was drowning out the tunes.

It was approaching three in the morning. Three people had left Sakura's apartment, heading to bed before tomorrow's work. Itachi was among them. Two others had gone to sleep in the guest room, while Ino and Shikamaru had disappeared somewhere. Shisui, for his part, sat over a vomiting Naruto.

Sakura, sipping the last of her drink, sat on the countertop. Sasuke was standing next to her. He was wandering somewhere with his thoughts.

"What are you thinking about, Sasuke-kun?" she didn't know what had tempted her to ask the question.

"About Itachi," he replied automatically. Sakura then took the conversation further.

"He's somehow been more pale lately. What's wrong with him?"

Itachi's illness was not a taboo subject, but the boy's deteriorating condition was conspicuous.

"He's dying." Sasuke drank sake all at once "And I can't do anything about it. No one can."

"I can. In two months, I'll finish training with Lady Tsunade, and I'll be able to take care of Itachi. I will keep him alive as long as I can, I promise."

Sakura jumped down from the countertop, grabbed the sake bottle in her hand and poured herself and Sasuke a full one. They shouldn't drink any more. Their speech was slowly becoming difficult to understand, and their gait was becoming more and more twisted.

She laughed, sipping. Even on Sasuke's face dawned a gentle, barely visible smile. His face had not been so relaxed in a long time.

"It's late. There's a spare room upstairs." Sakura drank the sake all at once, croaking.

Sasuke did not resist, just followed the girl. They entered the room, the air thickened.

They knew they would regret it. It was as if they could intuitively predict the future.

#sasusaku #sakura haruno #sakura uchiha #sasuke x sakura #uchihasasuke

2 notes · View notes

weepingpussywillowtree · 3 months

Text

TW references to gun violence, domestic abuse

To my neighbor who was loudly talking in the hallway earlier:

it is not cool or dope that your boyfriend shot at someone over a stupid argument two feet in front of my apartment door. In fact, it's incredibly fortunate that no one got hurt. Nor is it surprising that the police found out (though I didn't call them) when he fired a weapon indoors at 1pm on a Sunday when most people are at home. Also, the size of a gun does not impact its discoverability. Just because it's a "baby glock" does not mean they can't figure out the kind of gun when the maintenance guy literally pulled the bullet out of the wall the next day.

Also, please dump your boyfriend. From your weekly loud shouting matches (that I listen in on from my living room to make sure he doesn't hurt you) I know he doesn't pay rent, and that he's a rampant misogynist who doesn't respect you. He also owns a gun and seems perfectly willing to risk innocent people's lives with it and use it to settle petty disputes.

Best,

Your concerned neighbor

#shouting into the void

1 note · View note

truecrimeandtrials · 6 months

Text

Trigger and content warnings: infuriating yet amusing incompetence, death, physical abuse, general cringe, repeated disrespect for the judge, prosecution, and others, swear words (fuck, bitch), child death, physical injuries, possible terrorism

Disclaimer: I have done my best to summarize the testimony from the Darrell Brooks trial. I linked a playlist for the trial so you can go watch it if you wish to get all of the information and form your own opinion.

Defendant Darrell (pronounced Duh-rell) Brooks was charged with killing 8-year-old Jackson Sparks, 52-year-old Tamara Durand, 52-year-old Jane Kulich, 71-year-old LeAnna “Lee” Owen, 79-year-old Virginia “Ginny” Sorenson, and 81-year-old Wilhelm Hospel and injuring over sixty other individuals during the Waukesha Christmas Parade in 2021. The incident allegedly followed a domestic dispute. Mr. Brooks decided to represent himself during the trial and claimed sovereign citizenship.

State’s Opening Statement

District Attorneys Sue Opper, Lesli Boese, and Zachary Wittchow represented the State of Wisconsin. Attorney Wittchow gave the opening statement. The Waukesha Christmas parade started off normally on November 21st, 2021. There was joy all along the parade route. However, Darrell Brooks killed that joy and replaced it with trauma and terror. He was fleeing from another crime scene when he decided to drive through the parade. He repeatedly used his red Ford Escape as a battering ram, ultimately killing six people and injuring dozens more. Attorney Wittchow said that him and his colleagues intended to “avoid undue hardships” for the victims. He went through what they expected to present and what witness testimony would be.

Sergeant David Wanner’s Testimony

Sergeant David Wanner has been a patrol sergeant at the Waukesha County Police Department (WCPD) for eighteen years. He was working on the day of the attack and described how the parade was prepared and the route they were supposed to take. His job was to make sure that the other officers were where they were supposed to be and that everything was in order. Sergeant Wanner heard that squads not assigned to the parade were responding to a knife fight. He didn’t hear about any vehicles that were associated with that incident. He then saw a red SUV traveling toward him at “a high rate of speed”. He estimated that the vehicle was going over 40 miles per hour, which is approximately 64 kilometers per hour. The speed limit on the street the parade route was on was 25 miles per hour or approximately 40 kilometers per hour. Sergeant Wanner waved his hands over his head to get the driver’s attention but to no avail. The driver didn’t stop and entered the parade route. He used his radio to notify other officers along the route. He later heard “horrible sounds” and requests for backup.

Kori Runkle’s Testimony

Kori Runkle met Erika Patterson at the Waukesha women’s shelter in October or November of 2021. She couldn’t remember which month. Miss Runkle and Miss Patterson, along with a man named Nick, hung out together at a park on the day of the attack. They later split up. Miss Patterson went to meet up with Darrell Brooks. She had mentioned her ex-boyfriend to Miss Runkle before. She later got a call from Miss Patterson, who said that Mr. Brooks was beating and following her. She and Nick ran to help their friend out. This all happened right before Mr. Brooks ran through the parade.

Erika Patterson’s Testimony

Erika Patterson was Mr. Brooks’ ex-girlfriend and the mother of his fifteen-year-old daughter. The two had met when she was fifteen. Miss Patterson said that she was testifying on her 32nd birthday. She identified the defendant as her ex-boyfriend. She described what she remembered happened on the day of the attack. Mr. Brooks was angry and punched Miss Patterson’s left eye, leaving a black eye. Miss Runkle was mad at her for meeting up with him, but they still returned to the women’s shelter together. She talked to the police after the parade attack.

Detective Steven Guth’s Testimony

Detective Steven Guth has been a detective at WCPD for seven out of his twenty years at the department. He had questioned Miss Patterson about her fight with Mr. Brooks. She showed him where the two of them went. Detective Guth was unaware if Miss Patterson talked to any other officers.

Officer Jeremy Philipps’ Testimony

Officer Jeremy Philipps has been an officer at WCPD for fourteen years. He was not assigned to the parade, so he was on general patrol. He was dispatched to Frame Park at approximately 4:52 p.m. to an alleged knife fight. Officer Philipps looked around the area for potential victims and perpetrators. He was talking to Miss Patterson and her friends when he heard the requests for backup over his radio. He decided that the requests were more serious, so he responded to them. Officer Philipps attempted to render as much aid as he possibly could to those who were hit by Mr. Brooks.

Kyle Edwards’ Testimony

Kyle Edwards attended the Christmas parade with his wife and two kids. They were on their way when they first encountered Mr. Brooks in his red SUV. He later saw the defendant enter the parade route. Mr. Edwards has basic medical training after serving in the military for seventeen years. He made sure his wife and kids were safely on their way home before returning to the route to help. Later that night, he called the non-emergency line to report the possible connection between the SUV that rammed through the parade and the SUV he almost collided with. He was 95 percent sure they were the same vehicle. Mr. Edwards gave his statement to the police several days later.

Holly Berg’s Testimony

Holly Berg attended the Christmas parade on November 21st, 2021. Beforehand, she had dropped her boyfriend’s daughter off at the staging area so she could get ready for the parade. On her way to rejoin her boyfriend, Miss Berg witnessed the same thing that Mr. Edwards did. Later on, at the parade, she saw people “fly” when Mr. Brooks hit them. It clicked in her mind that he was the same man from the gas station incident. Miss Berg’s boyfriend tried to render help to people, but she told him to go find his daughter.

Detective Thomas Casey’s Testimony

Detective Thomas Casey has been a detective at WCPD for twenty-five years. He was assigned to help control traffic during the parade. Eight of the sixty-seven units that took part in the parade were impacted. Detective Casey was 1,000 percent sure that Mr. Brooks was driving the SUV.

Officer Bryce Butryn’s Testimony

Officer Bryce Butryn has been an officer at WCPD for approximately five years. He was assigned to the parade on the day of the tragedy. He heard a driver honk his car horn several times. Officer Butryn tried to stop the vehicle before running after it on foot, trying to stop the vehicle. He never saw the driver pull over and check on the person they hit.

Officer Sonia Schneider’s Testimony

Officer Sonia Schneider has been an officer at WCPD for two years. She was assigned to the parade at the same location as Officer Butryn. Unlike him, she never heard a car horn. She unsuccessfully tried to direct the vehicle off the parade route. Officer Schneider then guarded one of the deceased Dancing Grannies.

Battalion Chief Tim Haakenson’s Testimony

Battalion Chief Tim Haakenson has been the chief at the Waukesha Fire Department for six out of his twenty-two years there. He was on duty on November 21st, 2021. He received an alert at 4:39 p.m. regarding a vehicle versus pedestrian incident. At first, only Battalion Chief Haakenson’s station was dispatched, but eventually, every other station in Waukesha was sent to the scene. The last of the seventy-three total patients was in transit to the hospital by 5:35 p.m.

Nicole White’s Testimony

Nicole White was walking with the Re/max group when she was struck from behind. This was the first time she knew something was wrong. She never saw the vehicle stop and never heard a car horn, either before or after being struck. Several people helped Miss White get to safety before later being transported to the hospital by a police officer. She suffered a torn ligament in her right knee, two compressed vertebrae, and a tailbone injury. Miss White approximated that the vehicle was going about twenty miles per hour or thirty-two kilometers per hour.

Sarah Wehmeier-Aparicio’s Testimony

Sarah Wehmeier-Aparicio has been the band director at Waukesha South High School on and off for ten years. She was walking with the school band when Mr. Brooks drove through the parade. At first, Miss Wehmeier-Aparicio thought that it was an emergency vehicle until she saw people flying. Then she thought it was an accident until she saw the driver’s face. He was attentive and wasn’t looking for a way to exit the route. Miss Wehmeier-Aparicio didn’t hear a car horn, but she believed that she would have. It would’ve been an unexpected sound and would stand out. She didn’t notice anything amiss beforehand.

Kyle Jewell’s Testimony

Kyle Jewell attended the Christmas parade. The high school band was going by when he saw the red SUV strike and run over people. He didn’t hear a car horn and didn’t see the driver stop. Mr. Jewell wasn’t comfortable making a police report, but did anyway after being advised to.

Thomas Greene’s Testimony

Thomas Greene attended the parade with his wife and three children, two of whom were hit and injured. They were nine and eleven at the time.

Kelly Grabow’s Testimony

Kelly Grabow and her daughter Adelia were both walking with Burst Logistics when they were hit. Like any good mother, Miss Grabow made sure her daughter was taken care of before getting treatment for herself.

Jeff Rogers’ Testimony

Jeff Rogers is the president and a coach for the Waukesha Blazers Youth Baseball Program, of which Jackson Sparks was a member. He was walking with the group with three of his four children. He pulled his daughter Maya out of the way but was unable to get to his other two children before they were hit. Mr. Rogers’ son Cayden had a bruised right elbow, while his daughter Riley had cuts, bruises, and scrapes on both legs.

Joshua Kraner’s Testimony

Joshua Kraner was also a coach for the Blazers Youth Baseball Program. He was struck but didn’t see anyone else get struck. He looked for his son, who was luckily uninjured.

Alyssa Gajewski’s Testimony

Alyssa Gajewski used to teach the elite group at Xtreme Dance Group, which she was walking with. Several of her girls were hit and she described the injuries that she observed on them. Miss Gajewski had blacked out, saying that she heard people getting struck but wasn’t able to see it happening.

Jaimie Sutton’s Testimony

Jamie Sutton also taught at the Xtreme Dance Group and walked with the girls. She gathered the girls who had not been hit and reunited some of them with their parents. She took those who weren’t reunited into Chef Pam’s Kitchen when she heard about an active shooting. Miss Sutton thought the vehicle was experiencing brake failure due to how fast it was going. However, she didn’t see any physical damage to the vehicle.

Detective Mike Carpenter’s Testimony

Detective Mike Carpenter has been a detective in the computer forensics unit at WCPD for twelve out of twenty years. He reviewed a surveillance video from Bosco’s to conduct a speed analysis. Detective Carpenter found that the red SUV was going between thirty-three point-seven and thirty-four point-six miles per hour. That equates to fifty-four point twenty-three and fifty-five point sixty-eight kilometers per hour.

Debora Ramirez’s Testimony

Debora Ramirez attended the parade with her family. Both she and her son Isaac were hit. The two went to Urgent Care in Pewaukee the next day, as they didn’t need immediate attention like others did.

Stefanie Bonesteel’s Testimony

Stefanie Bonesteel is the head of marketing at Citizen’s Bank. She was tasked with assembling her co-workers to march in the parade, one of whom was Jane Kulich. She was walking with her kids when she saw the red SUV coming for her. She wasn’t hit since the SUV had swerved. However, Mrs. Bonesteel did see it strike someone. She found her kids, who were luckily uninjured. Despite it being three to five feet away from her, the fear and shock kept her from identifying the color of the SUV.

Adam Bonesteel’s Testimony

Adam Bonesteel volunteered to drive the float for Citizen’s Bank. The six-year-old daughter of one of his wife’s co-workers was next to him in the passenger’s seat. He saw Jane Kulich get hit by the SUV. At first, Mr. Bonesteel didn’t know who it was but knew that she was part of the Citizen’s Bank unit. He later checked on Jane and immediately knew she was gone.

Matthew Harris’s Testimony

Matthew Harris attended the parade with his family. The Dancing Grannies just went by when the SUV went through. He would’ve run after it, but he noticed that his seven-year-old daughter was injured.

Heather Ricciotti’s Testimony

Heather Ricciotti was attending the parade with her three children when a maroonish-red SUV passed them. Her five-year-old son Owen was hit. After dropping her other two kids off at home, Miss Ricciotti took Owen to Waukesha Memorial Hospital. He had a gash above his right eyebrow, which required six stitches.

Daniel Knapp’s Testimony

Daniel Knapp attended the parade with his family and three other families, totaling nineteen people. His three kids were eleven, seven, and three. He saw an SUV driving toward them and striking his three-year-old daughter Kelsey (approximate spelling). He saw no one else struck, as his daughter was his sole focus. He ran to her side and noticed all of the blood on her face. Kelsey was conscious but didn’t understand what was going on. Mr. Knapp made sure the rest of his group was okay before taking her to the hospital. She had a broken nose, a torn spleen, a road rash, and cuts to her face. He only saw the driver inside the vehicle, who he described as a black male whose “eyes were completely wide open”. He identified the defendant as the driver.

Laura Thein’s Testimony

Laura Thein is part of the Dancing Grannies. She didn’t hear anything unusual because the music vehicle was right behind her. She was not struck but went into shock when she saw all of the bodies. Miss Thein went over who else was a part of the Dancing Grannies and who all was hit. Two of the grannies and someone who was helping them were killed. She said that she thought that she was in a war because of how many bodies there were.

Hope Evans-Jansen’s Testimony

Hope Evans-Jansen attended the parade with her family. Her ten-year-old daughter recorded the parade on her iPhone and captured the Dancing Grannies getting struck. Mrs. Evans-Jansen sent this video to the police.

Trooper Michael Smith’s Testimony

Trooper Michael Smith has been a reconstructionist with the TCU at Wisconsin State Patrol since 2004. He has been with the State Patrol as a whole since 2000. Trooper Smith recreated the scene in a controlled environment and subsequently created a scale diagram.

Doctor Amy Sheil’s Testimony

Doctor Amy Sheil has been the associate medical examiner at the Waukesha County Medical Examiner’s Officer for seven and a half years. She autopsied Leanna Owens, Virginia Sorenson, and Jackson Sparks. Doctor Sheil went over their injuries and causes of death.

Doctor Lynda Biedryzycki’s Testimony

Doctor Lynda Biedryzycki has been the medical examiner at the Waukesha County Medical Examiner’s Officer for twenty-five years. She autopsied Tamara Durand, Wilhelm Hospel, and Jane Kulich. Doctor Biedryzycki went over their injuries and causes of death.

Matthew Widder’s Testimony

Matthew Widder is a Catholic pastor and walked in the parade with the Catholic community. He went over who in their group was struck.

Detective Lukas Hallmark’s Testimony

Detective Lukas Hallmark has been a detective at WCPD for approximately fifteen years. He was walking with the Catholic community. He initially thought the red SUV was a lost motorist until he saw how fast it was going. Detective Hallmark approximated the speed to be between thirty and forty miles per hour or forty-eight to sixty-four kilometers per hour. He and his two sons Elliot and Benjamin were hit.

Craig Liermann’s Testimony

Craig Liermann attended the parade with his family. He got a good look at the driver, who he described as a light-skinned black male in his mid to late thirties with facial hair and long dreadlocks. Mr. Liermann saw the driver stick his head out of the window and look back, seemingly excited. He made sure his family was okay before checking on others.

Ralph Salyers’ Testimony

Ralph Salyers attended the parade with his family. On his way home, he saw the defendant get out and examine his car. He allegedly yelled “fuck” before grabbing items from the car and running. Mr. Salyers estimated this to have happened between ten and twenty seconds.

Bryce Scholten’s Testimony

Officer Bryce Scholten has been an officer at WCPD for approximately seven and a half years. He is currently assigned to the criminal investigations department but was a police officer at the time. Officer Scholten was assigned to the end of the parade route. He shot at Mr. Brooks three times but missed all three times.

Christopher Moss’ Testimony

Officer Christopher Moss has worked at WCPD for fourteen years. He was a part of the color guard for the WCPD unit. He clocked into work after he finished walking in the parade when he heard requests for backup. Officer Moss quickly finished getting dressed and responded back to the parade. He was attempting to help two elderly women when Officer Scholten approached and told him what he did. He was then told by a Hispanic man where the suspected vehicle was, which he secured, and found that it was registered to Dawn Woods, who is Mr. Brooks’ mother. Officer Moss helped write the search warrant that allowed the police to search the vehicle.

Carlos Arechiga Nolasco’s Testimony

Carlos Arechiga Nolasco was at home when he heard a screech from outside. He looked out his window and saw someone jump over the hood of an unknown damaged car and run away. Mr. Nolasco asked his downstairs neighbors if they knew anything about the car. They didn’t and were also confused.

Sean Backler’s Testimony

Sean Backler was working outside his house around 4:49 p.m. when he heard noises around his garage. He found the defendant and asked who he was. The defendant asked Mr. Backler to call him an Uber, but he refused and asked him to leave his property. Mr. Brooks hesitantly complied. Mr. Backler called the non-emergency line and described what the defendant was wearing when they met.

Domanic Caproon’s Testimony

Domanic Caproon was putting water jugs into his truck when he was approached by Mr. Brooks. He allowed him to use his phone to call an Uber.

Erin Cordes’s Testimony

Erin Cordes attended the parade with her husband and two children. They saw Officer Scholten fire at the red SUV. Mrs. Cordes and her family were on their way to their car when they were approached by Mr. Brooks, who she said wasn’t dressed appropriately for the weather. She hesitantly let him use her phone to call his mom.

Anthony Winters’ Testimony

Anthony Winters was driving for Lyft, which is a similar service to Uber. He got a ride request from someone named Dawn at 550 Elizabeth Street, the address of Aries Industries. Mr. Winters was told by the person who requested the ride that it was for someone else and was given a description. No one showed up, so he left the address.

Daniel Rider’s Testimony

Daniel Rider lives across the street from Aries Industries and was home alone when Mr. Brooks rang his doorbell around five p.m. He said that was homeless and needed to check on where his Uber was. Mr. Rider allowed him inside to use his phone and warm up. He also made Mr. Brooks a sandwich, seeing how he was under the impression that he was homeless. Mr. Brooks was thankful for Mr. Rider’s kindness and willingly left when he was asked to. He was arrested on the porch. Mr. Rider gave footage from his ring camera over to police.

Officer Rebecca Carpenter’s Testimony

Officer Rebecca Carpenter is an officer at Big Bend PD, a patrol officer in East Troy, and an assistant chief in Eagle. She was on duty but was not assigned to the parade. She was one of the officers who arrested Mr. Brooks. Several items were found in his pockets, including the sandwich that Mr. Rider made for him. Officer Carpenter found the sandwich while a different officer found the other items.

Officer Garrett Luling’s Testimony

Officer Garrett Luling is an officer at WCPD and was one of the officers who arrested Mr. Brooks.

Officer Draelon Leija’s Testimony

Officer Draelon Leija has been an officer at WCPD for two years. He reported to Memorial Hospital, where he met with Detectives Jay Carpenter and Stern. Officer Leija was tasked with transporting Mr. Brooks to the Muskego Police Department from the hospital.

Detective Jay Carpenter’s Testimony

Detective Jay Carpenter has been a detective at WPF for five of his eighteen years. He was a part of the color guard as well. He reported to Elizabeth Street after going on duty. Detective Carpenter interrogated Mr. Brooks twice. The FBI was present during the first interrogation, as it wasn’t clear if the attack involved terrorism. The recordings for both interrogations were played with prior bad acts excluded pursuant to a prior ruling made by the judge.

Juan Marquez’s Testimony

Juan Marquez was a defense witness who was called out of turn due to the scheduling of the translator that he needed. His testimony interrupted Detective Carpenter’s testimony because of this. Mr. Marquez was walking in the parade with his wife and son in the Catholic community. He heard no horn, so he didn’t see anything unusual when he was hit from behind. He was interviewed by an FBI agent.

Detective Jay Carpenter’s Continued Testimony

Detective Jay Carpenter resumed his testimony after Mr. Marquez. The first interrogation he had with Mr. Brooks happened at Memorial Hospital. The second happened at the Muskego Police Department, which was their temporary base while the main building was under construction.

Steven Schlomann’s Testimony

Steven Schlomann is the IT director for the Waukesha school district. He reviewed and handed surveillance over to the police.

Robert Stone II’s Testimony

Robert Stone II lives in Waukesha. He has security cameras on his house that caught Mr. Brooks go by. He provided the footage to police.

Andrew Amerson’s Testimony

Andrew Amerson lives in Waukesha. He has security cameras on his house that caught Mr. Brooks go by. He provided the footage to police.

Leonard Miller’s Testimony

Leonard Miller lives in Waukesha. He has security cameras on his house that caught Mr. Brooks go by. He provided the footage to police via email. He was on his way to look at Christmas lights when he saw a SWAT team in front of his home.

Kyle Becker’s Testimony

Kyle Becker is a specialist at WCPD, but I didn’t hear what he specializes in. He was part of the team that searched for Mr. Brooks’ discarded items, which were his sandals and hoodie.

After Mr. Becker’s testimony, the jury went to view the red SUV before they were released for lunch.

Justin Rowe’s Testimony

Detective Justin Rowe was also part of the search for Mr. Brooks’ items. He also obtained surveillance videos.

Ryan Schultz’s Testimony

Ryan Schultz is a reconstructionist with the Wisconsin State Patrol. He examined the red SUV.

Chris Johnson’s Testimony

Chris Johnson is a crime scene analyst at the state crime lab. He also examined the red SUV.

Trevor Naleid’s Testimony

Trevor Naleid was the senior forensic scientist in the DNA analysis unit at the state crime lab. He tested the DNA from the car.

The State rested.

Defense’s Opening Statement

Mr. Brooks deferred his opening statement until the beginning of his case. He said that there are always two sides to a story and that it’s easy to forget the other side of the coin. Although tragic, this attack wasn’t planned or intentional and there was a lot of suffering because of it.

State of Wisconsin’s Testimony

Mr. Brooks attempted to call the State of Wisconsin to the stand, which was quickly shut down.

Nicholas Kirby’s Testimony

Nicholas Kirby was the second witness Mr. Brooks called during his case, or the third witness if you include Mr. Marquez. He was walking with Miss Runkle and Miss Patterson, whom he advised not to meet up with Mr. Brooks. He said that he had a bad feeling that something would happen if they did. And he was right. Both Miss Runkle and Mr. Kirby ran to help her. He informed an officer they ran into on their way to help. He believed that the involvement of a knife was a miscommunication, as he had a knife injury from a previous incident that was unrelated to Mr. Brooks.

Heather Riemer’s Testimony

Heather Riemer attended the parade with her husband and three of their friends. She heard honking, but she wasn’t sure if it came from the red SUV or another vehicle. No one in Mrs. Riemer’s group was injured.

Douglas Kolar’s Testimony

Douglas Kolar attended the parade with his daughter, who was in the parade. He grabbed his daughter after Mr. Brooks drove through and hurried her to their car. Neither was injured.

Detective Steven Guth’s Testimony

Detective Steven Guth was recalled as a defense witness. He said that he was originally off duty on November 21st, 2021.

Erika Patterson’s Testimony

Erika Patterson was recalled as a defense witness. She said that she first met Mr. Brooks in Reno, Nevada. She said that she called Mr. Kirby’s phone because Miss Runkle’s phone kept going to voicemail.

Deanna Aldrich’s Testimony

Deanna Aldrich was home when she heard a noise. She saw a car that was “smashed to smithereens” when she looked outside. She saw someone running away but was unable to get a clear description since she didn’t have her glasses on.

Christopher Bertram’s Testimony

Christopher Bertram was taking his mother’s car to a mechanic friend when he saw a smashed-up car and the driver. He didn’t remember the description of the driver he provided to law enforcement.

Jason Hayes’s Testimony

Jason Hayes attended the parade with his daughter. He heard a horn, but didn’t see anyone get struck.

Abel Lazcano’s Testimony

Abel Lazcano attended the parade with his wife and daughter. He was the Hispanic male who reported the location the SUV was found.

Kathleen Yourell’s Testimony

Kathleen Yourell’s four children participated in the parade, all of whom were hit. She thankfully never saw them get hit. Mrs. Yourell described the injuries that her children had.

Katrice Babiasz’s Testimony

Katrice Babiasz has been a law enforcement dispatch supervisor for sixteen years. She attended the parade with her family. They were set up near the beginning and saw the SUV enter the parade route. Mrs. Babiasz heard the driver honking the horn and gesturing. She said that he seemed to look “through” her, which was very frightening for her. She was struck, but she didn’t tell anyone since no one asked. Although Mrs. Babiasz never saw anyone get struck, it seemed to her that the driver was trying to strike people.

Judge Dorrow closed Mr. Brooks’ defense case for him.

State’s Closing Argument

District Attorney Sue Opper delivered the closing argument for the State. She expressed gratitude towards the jury from the prosecution team. Because Mr. Brooks kept asking witnesses about it, she said that they represent the plaintiff, which was/is the State of Wisconsin. Attorney Opper said that it is their job to enforce when the laws that people set up are violated. She asked them to obey Judge Dorrow’s instructions before going over the charges, evidence, and witness testimony. They only included those who were hit by the defendant in the charges to keep things more efficient.

Defense’s Closing Argument

Despite being told not to, Mr. Brooks immediately tried to bring up jury nullification, which, according to FindLaw, is the jury’s power to acquit a defendant despite finding them guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. He reiterated from his opening that this wasn’t intentional. Mr. Brooks then tried to sympathize with the jury, saying that he never got to meet his newborn grandson and that he believes in Jesus. He implored the jury to “do what’s right”.

State’s Rebuttal Closing Arguments

Attorney Opper called Mr. Brooks out during her rebuttal arguments, saying that it doesn’t matter that he “profess[es] to be the finest man under God that you can be” after he ran over children.

Mr. Brooks’ Conduct During the Trial

Mr. Brooks interrupted Judge Jennifer Dorrow several times during the trial. Judge Dorrow was very calm and patient with him. She gave him several chances on multiple occasions throughout the trial to get his act together before having him removed to another courtroom. He appeared over video conference, where Judge Dorrow could mute him if need be. During one of these times on the first day, Mr. Brooks had a tantrum and took his shirt off. When questioning the witnesses, Mr. Brooks would ask them about the plaintiff and who they were. It came across as if he didn’t understand how the state of Wisconsin could be the plaintiff in his case. However, according to Wikipedia, it is a tactic sovereign citizens use during trial. Judge Dorrow admonished Mr. Brooks on day three, saying that his not understanding of the law was no longer an excuse now that they were at trial. Mr. Brooks seemed to be more intimidated by the male witnesses than the female witnesses. This seems to be deep-rooted misogyny. Something he said that might prove this is “Remember, non-response is consent”. This doesn’t necessarily pertain to Mr. Brooks’ conduct during the trial, but there was a tornado warning on the fifth day, so Judge Dorrow stopped his cross-examination of Daniel Knapp to take an early lunch break so that everyone could stay safe during the warning. He was able to continue afterward, then court went into recess for the day so everyone who lived in the area could make sure their properties and loved ones were safe. On day thirteen, while he was in the other courtroom, Mr. Brooks kept making box forts with his evidence boxes and at one point could be heard yelling, despite being muted. He kept mispronouncing words. I know that some of it was African American Vernacular English or AAVE, but there were some words that he just plain old butchered. The most common was the word “tacit”. It is pronounced “Tas-it”, but he kept saying “tack-it”. He also kept saying “substain” instead of “sustain”. He said it so much that I caught myself writing “substain” while I was taking notes. On day six, Mr. Brooks went on a fifty-minute rant about some SovCit BS. He brought up that Judge Dorrow knew someone who was involved with this case and asked her why she would have their phone number if they had a “strictly professional relationship”. There are several reasons as to why co-workers may exchange phone numbers. The first thing that comes to mind for me is maybe one of them got into a car accident and needs a ride to work or something. During sentencing, Judge Dorrow disclosed that Mr. Brooks had previously been diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder, which is commonly associated with psychopathy and sociopathy. A doctor wrote in her report from a pre-trial evaluation that she found nothing that could corroborate that he was exhibiting “signs of impaired reality” before the incident. Mr. Brooks said “grounds” seven hundred and forty-four times, “lawful law” twenty-one times, “objection” one thousand five hundred and twenty-one times, and brought up subject matter jurisdiction eighty-three times.

Verdict and Sentencing

1st Degree Intentional Homicide (6 counts): guilty

1st Degree Recklessly Endangering Safety (61 counts): guilty

Hit and Run–Involve Death (6 counts): guilty

Bail Jumping–Felony (2 counts): guilty

Battery (1 count): guilty

Battery (1 count): dismissed

Homicide by Veh. Use–Control. Substance (6 counts): dismissed

Darrell Brooks was sentenced to six consecutive life sentences plus seven hundred sixty-eight and a half years. He was also ordered to pay restitution.

Personal Opinions

These are just my opinions. Feel free to disagree, but keep it as respectful as possible. I believe Darrell kept objecting just as an excuse to disrupt and/or stall the proceedings. However, for someone who had no knowledge of the law, I’m surprised that a few of his objections were sustained. In my opinion, Officer Moss kinda looks like Lin Manuel Miranda. Also, Daniel Rider was very kind to let Darrell into his house, even though it was under false pretenses. I also believe that he inadvertently stalled him long enough for the police to find and arrest him.

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