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olsenmyolsen · 1 year ago

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Looking Forward

Part 38 of On The Inside With Elizabeth Olsen

Word Count: 11.2K

masterlist

TW: Walmart Jesus talk

A/N: This is officially the longest chapter I've made. It's got pictures, drama, and turns that I don't think you're ready for. So go to the bathroom, grab a snack and stay hydrated. Happy reading 🩵!

"Mom, you're favorite daughter is here!!" Liz takes my hand and begins dragging me through the house with a child-like smile full of glee.

Y/N POV

Oh, this is going to be a gas, I think to myself as my eyes look back from the twins to Liz to the beautiful house around me. Pictures of childhood memories line the walls of a home I can't wait to see later.

"And who might that be?" We hear an older voice call out as Liz drags me closer and closer to what I can only assume is the kitchen based on the wonderful smell radiating in the air. "Me!!" Liz yells back to her mom Jarnie as we round a corner and spot a busy kitchen with some people I've never met.

Liz drops my hand and runs past two familiar-looking men. One of them is Ash's husband, Louis, who gives me a courtesy wave, and the other is who I can only assume is her biological brother. The man looks up and shoots me a smile before leaning over to say something to the other woman in the kitchen. She quickly turns to me and wipes her hands on her blue apron as Liz finishes up her hug with her mom.

"Hi. I'm Alexis." The woman with the apron moves before me with a warm smile. "Oh, hi, I'm Y/N!" I reach my hand out and let my nerves do the shaking as the man next to her reaches his hand out. "Hi. I'm this one's boyfriend, and those two older brother. I'm Trent." I look behind me to see the twins roll their eyes at their brother. "Nice to meet you!" I say with a smile before holding back some laughter due to Mary-Kate's words, "Oh please, the only thing nice about him is his hot girlfriend." Trent scoffs at this and directs his attention to the duo behind me. "MK, you wouldn't know shit if it hit you in the face."

Without warning, Mary-Kate and Trent begin bickering. Playfully, of course.

Well, I hope it is.

"This happens every year." I turn to my right as Alexis starts leading me away from the bickering siblings, just as Ash joins in. "They love each other dearly. I'm sure you know." I nod my head along and smile as Jarnie yells at the trio to knock it off. When my eyes met Liz's, I couldn't help but laugh as Jarnie covered Liz's ears before yelling at her siblings. She looks like a little kid.

"You guys are cute together." I move my eyes back to Alexis with a raised eyebrow. "Sorry. I- It's just true. Plus, she seems happier than she did last year." Oh? "Last year?" I ask Alexis. "Oh, uh, I shouldn't have said-"

"Babe!" My attention shifts as my smiling girlfriend comes crashing into me, lacing her arm around my body and pulling me closer. "Hi, Alexis! Nice to see you!"

"You as well!" Alexis smiles back. "Is it okay if I steal Y/N? Just real quick?" Liz asks with a smile and squint of the eyes, making me internally laugh. Alexis puts her hands up, mocking defeat. "She's all yours." Oh yes, I am.

"Yes, she is."

Liz utters those three words making my jaw drop, and Alexis' face blush. Neither one of us expected to hear that. But my girlfriend just smiles and starts leading me no less than ten steps to Jarnie, who looks at me with nothing but care in her eyes. "My goodness, Lizard, look at her!"

"Mom-"

"Oh, honey!" Jarnie moves her attention from Liz back to me. "You're beautiful!" Without another moment between us, Jarnie pulls me into a hug before relenting. "Thank you for joining us this year." A smile sneaks onto my face at the sincere words and feeling of love surrounding me. "I was more than happy to come. Honestly." I say truthfully. "I was also going to bring a gift, but Liz fought me on it." I send a confident smile.

Don't get me wrong. I'm terrified to be here. Afraid that something will go wrong. Or I'll open my mouth and insert my foot. But at the same time. Liz was missing home. She tried to hide it the best she could, but I could see it. Between the uptick in calls to her mother and the amount of singing Lizzie would do about songs from her childhood

I would do anything to be here with her now.

Plus, I needed to meet more of her family at some point!

"Oh, nonsense." Jarnie waves her hand. "According to the internet and our Lizard, it appears you're quite busy." I look to Liz, who makes a locking gesture to her lips and shrugs. "Is that what our Lizard is saying?" I peel my eyes back to Liz's mom, who picks up on the looks between her daughter and I. "Yes, contracts for record companies being signed and all that! But frankly, anything to get her to stop talking about her garden all the time" Jarnie then makes a don't tell her look even though Liz very clearly heard her mom. "Mom!"

"Oh, I'm teasing, honey." Jarnie waves her hands at her youngest before grabbing me and positioning me next to her. "Yeah, we're just teasing Lizzie!" A very smug-looking Mary-Kate says as she walks past her sister to the fridge, clearly not knowing what's going on. "Oh, is it teasing Lizzie time?!" Ash chirps, much to Trent's delight and Liz's dismay.

"I say so!" Trent speaks up.

"Baby photos or high school first?!" Mary-Kate excitedly jumps and down, begging me to answer from across the kitchen, while a wide-eyed Liz runs to me and quickly places her hands on my mouth. "Do not answer them. You love me, and it will stay that way!" I can't do anything but laugh through Liz's hands. "Don't do it."

"Lizard, let her speak."

"Mom, she'll betray me! I know that look!" I glance at Jarnie, who shakes her head. "You're right." She says to me. "High school photos first!!" Jarnie says, causing the twins to shriek and run out of the kitchen, spilling water from a freshly made cup. "Mom!!" Liz turns to her mother with a betrayed tone—faking sadness and offense.

"What? Y/N's the one who said it!" I look to Jarnie with Liz's hands still on my mouth. She does nothing but smile and wink. "You'll love them, dear." Without thinking, I try speaking, but nothing but a muffled noise is heard, causing Liz to laugh in defeat before removing her hands. "Thank you, Jarnie," I say with a smile that gets returned. "I bet you look cute!" Liz rolls her eyes and hangs her head as the twins' yells are heard through the house. "Well, thanks, Mom. Let's get this over with.."

"Wait, shouldn't we help?" I look to the remaining food that still needs to be prepped. "Nonsense," Jarnie speaks up. "Alexis and I got it. You're our guest this year. But next year you'll be here next to me. Okay?"

"Yes, ma'am." I nod to Liz's mom, who gives a wink. "Now go see pictures of our Lizard."

I turn back to Liz, who happily grabs my hand and leads me past Trent and Alexis trying to hide their smiles before she turns back to her mother. "I'm still your favorite, though... right?"

This causes me to laugh and wrap my arms around my girlfriend. "Oh, come on. Yes, everyone loves you, Lizzie Olsen! Let's go." I say with a smile as I push through the entryway of the kitchen.

Liz laughs with me as we walk through the house towards the loud twins. "She loves you." I bring my attention from the house's high ceilings back to Liz. "My mom. She already loves you. Plus Trent. I'm surprised he didn't give his big brother/if you hurt her speech." Liz pauses for a moment. "Maybe that's because of what happened at the show." I'm momentarily confused but then remember what happened after my All Eyes On Me performance. "So I guess he already knows you'll do what you can to love and protect his little sister." I smile and wrap my arm around Liz. "I do love her." We slow our walk, and I let Liz's lips plant themselves on me.

"Are you doing okay?" I tilt my head at her question. "I mean, I'm the more outgoing one most of the time in this relationship, but you really turned on the charm in the kitchen. You okay?" Liz smirks while she laces her hands in my own, and I squeeze them, thanking her for her concerns. "Uh.. Don't get me wrong. I'm scared shitless right now." I chuckle. "But it's Thanksgiving. With your family! Today isn't about me. It's about us. And them." I gesture with both our hands together. "The people you love. I'd rather be scared and nervous today than to never do this at all." Liz beams at me and kisses me once again. "I love you."

"I love you too."

"And thank you." "For?" "Being you."

Liz POV

I've been embarrassed and teased, and tricked before.

Yes. Mainly by my sisters. We all know the gum in the hair story.

And I'm not saying everyone hasn't been teased, tricked, and embarrassed because everyone has. Growing up with sisters or not. It's a part of life. It happens whether we want it to or not.

But boy, oh boy, do I want it to stop now.

Because against my wishes, the photo albums and years books were pulled out. The twins started with the college photos. Most of which I'm not proud of, but my sweet Y/N loved them and secretly counted every time I had a joint or cigarette in my hand.

That was thirty minutes ago, and now we've moved on to high school photos.

"Oh, my God!" Y/N yells, snatching another photo Ashley held up to her. "Look at the smile!"

"Look at you!" I smile as Y/N flashes the picture to me before dropping it into my hands as Mary-Kate holds up another one like it's a treat. "Oh my God, You're so cute here, Lizzie!" Ash squeals before flipping the photo over.

Instantly I'm trying to cover it, but Y/N fights me off. "Oh, babe." She says with a laugh. "I can't tell if it's laundry day or you're going through a phase." The twins just about collapse with laughter, practically dying at Y/N's words, clearly hitting it on the head.

Y/N herself bites back her lip before scooting closer to me. "I can tell what phase this is." She whispers, forcing me to snatch the photo from her hands. "It's called being a teenager." Y/N just nods to me and mouths the word sure.

"Oh, look at this one!" My brother shouts from his hovering stance behind the twins. In his hand, I see my high school yearbook. "Trent." I quietly plead, but it's no use because instantly, everyone is gathered around Y/N as Trent shoves the book into her hands.

"Babe." Y/N starts as her finger brushes over the picture. "You're so fucking cute! Your hair is a little frizzy, but Jesus Christ, have you ever had a like bad one? I'm talking awful to look at bad picture taken? Has she?" Y/N looks to the twins and then to me, almost as if she's offended. I don't even get to answer before her ramblings start. "God, it's gonna be so mortifying when I take you to my mom's, and in every picture, I look like I just woke, but I'm also somehow a walking corpse." She sighs. "Meanwhile, you've looked like this for years and years?!"

The rest of her words hit me, and I laughed and smiled along like everyone else, but I focused on what she said. "when I take you to my mom's."

My heart warms up at that.

It's evident to Y/N and myself that we're in this relationship for the long haul, but explicit and fine details have never been discussed. Family visits and trips for the next year or two had never been discussed until very recently. So the fact that Y/N is already thinking and joking about the future in which I see her baby and high school photos makes me melt.

That might not seem like a big deal from the outside looking in, but to the two of us, bringing someone home means a lot, especially after what we've been through.

You all know.

"I'm sure you'll look cute," I say as I pull myself back from getting lost in her eyes. But Y/N rolls them to me. "Notice how you said cute and not gorgeous."

"Babe, stop!"

"Oooh, fight. Fight. Fight!" I look to the twins, who are eagerly looking back at Y/N and me, waiting for this to turn into something bigger. Y/N just laughs and shakes her head. "No fighting here, blondes." "Boo!" Mary-Kate speaks up before her eyes focus back on the stack of pictures while Y/N closes the yearbook. "Hey." I quickly grab her hand. "You're beautiful." And thankfully, Y/N blushes and kisses my hand.

"So are you. I have pictures to prove it." She holds up another and smiles. I gently take it from her. "You and every sapphic lover out there."

Y/N's mouth drops. "What- how- yo-" She stumbles over her words, making Trent laugh as he's quietly watched before returning to his phone. "You know. I think I have to put parental controls on your phone." Y/N squints, but I shrug and look over to Ash, who has heart eyes at what she just witnessed. I also see Ash look at Y/N, who is now helping MK try and find even younger pictures of me, before her eyes focus back to me.

"She's perfect for you." She mouths.

"I know." I mouth back.

"Oh hey guys, we should clean up. Dads is almost here." Trent bursts the bubble of memories we're locked in as he locks his phone and puts it into his pocket. I move my head to Y/N, who moves hers from Trent to me. Everyone else in the room wouldn't notice it, but I do. The strong confidence she's been exuding falters slightly.

I go to speak, but before I can even scoot myself closer to Y/N, the twins begin piling up every photo and yearbook to make it appear as if they were never here. "We can look later!" Mary-Kate tells us as she runs to put them away. Ash running behind her to head to the nearest bathroom. When I turn around to Trent, he's already gone back to the kitchen. Leaving Y/N and I.

"They wasted no time.." Y/N nervously laughs. "They.." I lean closer to my girlfriend. "Trent and the twins grew up.. a little more.. differently than I did." I watch as a quizzical look morphs onto Y/N's face. "Differently?" I nod. "More prim and proper." I husk out, which causes a smile to form on Y/N's face. "What?" I ask as the smile turns to laughter. "Well, babe. I've gathered that. But from what I just witnessed." She gestures with her hands. "You would think it was more.. militant."

I make ah sound, but don't argue with Y/N's word choice. "He's a man of respect. Give it, earn it, or don't bother." I pause and see Y/N slowly nod. "But trust me. He loves us and wants what's best for us. It just.. can take a while. Okay?" Without saying it, I'm confirming and trying to keep calm with what we both fear—the possibility of my Dad, David Olsen.. disliking.. my girlfriend Y/N Y/L/N.

"Okay." Y/N takes her hand in mine. "I remember the first day you met my mom, so if I go through the day without crying over tea. We can count it as a win." Y/N squeezes my hand as I remember that day and fall into the crook of her neck. "Oh, God."

Y/N POV

"Alright, they're pulling up!" Mary-Kate yells from the front door and acts like she isn't just peeking out the window. Ash standing right behind her, making the same look. "Girls, get over here and quit freaking Y/N out!" Jarnie yells as she exits the kitchen for the first time today. Well, she went to the dining room to drop some food off earlier, but those places are one in the same. "You two do this every year. It's just your father and siblings. No need to get so crazy about it."

"But-" MK starts but quickly stops as she and Ash step away from the door. "Come on, guys," Liz speaks up and wraps her arm around each sister. It makes me laugh because of the height difference between the three of them. "Don't." MK glares at me before Liz covers her eyes, laughing.

"Knock knock!" The front door slowly opens as a younger male opens the door. Clearly not David, so this must be... Jake! That's his name! "Come on in, hun!" Jarnie makes her way past us to greet the remaining Olsens. "Jarnie, good to see you as always!" Jarnie makes a comment back to Jake as he smiles and makes his way down the line that all of us happen to be standing in. The twins, Liz and I being last.

"Jake, I'd like you to meet Y/N. My girlfriend!" Jake extends his hand with a smile. "Nice to meet you! Court has mentioned you before and sent me your TikTok's. Very talented."

Oh? I didn't realize Courtney had seen them, much less shared them.

Jake keeps shaking my hand as he continues talking about music and how TikTok has been helping all kinds of artists find their base. So he's excited to see what I got coming up. I agree with him, but I would like my hand back at some point. It appears Liz finally catches on and speaks up. "Jake. Her hand." She says with a friendly smile causing him to look down, embarrassed. "Sorry. I was shaking your hand too long." I nod with a laugh. "That's okay. And thank you. It's nice to meet you! We can chat later."

As Jake scurries to put away the bottle of wine he brought, I glance towards the front door, and I see a tall, grey-haired man finishing up a conversation with Jarnie. Both leaving it with smiles. "Chat later?" Liz asks with a smirk. "Shh." I roll my eyes.

"Hi, Dad!" Trent greets his father with a bear hug before David moves on to the twins, who quickly chat up their dad as Liz laces her fingers in mine. "Where's Courtney?" Ash asks, catching Liz and mines attention. "Oh, she's outside talking with her.. friend," David answers with a sheepish look that I catch. "Well, we're happy everyone could make it!" MK speaks up, obviously catching the vibe. "Yes. Yes, of course." David speaks as he moves to Liz and I. "Speaking of hiya Lizard!" David goes for a bear hug like he did with Trent but only gets a half hug in return since Liz refuses to let go of my hand. This earning a look at our intertwined hands. "Dad." Liz starts. "This is Y/N. My lovely girlfriend."

For the first time since entering the house, David's eyes meet my own. He nods his head and simply speaks as if I were a business deal.

"David Olsen. Elizabeth's Father." He extends his hand directly to the one holding Liz's. I feel as if everyone's eyes are on us. Without a shared word between us, Liz loosens her hand so I can let her go too firmly. And I mean firmly shake David's hand. "Y/N Y/L/N. Lizard's girlfriend."

From the corner of my eye, I can see Jarnie, Mary-Kate, and Ashley's smiles spread.

"So I've heard." David drops my hand and adverts his attention as Jake comes back into the room with a scotch in hand. "Ah, thank you, Jake." He grasps the glass from his son's hand and steps aside. "Much needed." He says after taking a long sip. "Jarnie, could you go get Court, please," David speaks to his ex-wife, who is already waving her hands at him as she made that decision first. "Nurse, your scotch." She says, earning a laugh from the twins as they separate to freshen up. Liz is momentarily ushered away by Trent. "Okay, bye." Those two words drop with sarcasm while I wave while avoiding the burning holes in my head.

"Here." I turn to my right to see Alexis with a glass of white wine. "For the... nerves." She so kindly says. "Thank you," I reply with my own long and strong sip. "Everyone goes through it," Alexis whispers to me when she raises her glass. I give her a look to make sure we're talking about the same thing.

We are.

"Wine?" Alexis rapidly changes the subject as someone appears behind me. "Please." My Liz begs. "One minute." Alexis departs with a strong sip of her own.

"I can't believe him."

I turn to my left to see Liz with a tight jaw boring holes into the her father's head. If looks could kill. I sigh and open my mouth."Liz-" "Trent had the audacity to give me the give it time talk." Hmm. "Fuck that." Liz practically snarls. "Give me your hand." I don't even get a second before our hands are tied together once again. "These." She squeezes our hands. "Don't get separated for the rest of the day." "Liz-" I start again but get interrupted by Jarnie opening the door with a very wide smile. Courtney and her friend, as David put it.

"Hey, everyone!!" Courtney beams to all of us. "This is Ness!" She kisses her cheek and wraps an arm around a shorter dyed black-haired cardigan-wearing woman. "Not only a friend." She emphasizes. "But my girlfriend!" Ness shyly waves, clearly not expecting all of us to be gathered in one of the living rooms. "Hi." Everyone, including myself, send warm smiles as Courtney pulls Ness further into the house. Jarnie watching Ness with care, just as she did with me.

At least I'm not the only new person this holiday.

"Oh my God, Lizzie, you brought her!!" Courtney screams as she hugs her older sister. "So nice to see you again, Y/N! Ness, this is Y/N!" Ness looks me up and down, confused, before a light bulb goes off. "Oh?! The one from the show you went to?!" Courtney nods. "Wow. Courtney and I love your music so far!"

"So far?" I tease, earning a laugh from Court and Ness. "It's nice to meet you."

"You as well."

"So Ness, how long have you and Court been together?" Liz asks as everyone begins to shuffle around the house. "Couple of months. Although we can't agree on when we started dating exactly." Courtney laughs while nudging Ness. "Only because this one thinks our first night in Mexico was our first date, but it was obviously the Tuesday at Al's before we even left," Ness speaks before Court pecks her lips to get her to stop. "Mexico or some restaurant called Al's. Tell me, which one sounds more romantic?" Court asks Liz and me as we find ourselves in the kitchen. Again.

"Mexico." Liz and I say at the same time. "Unbelievable." Ness' head and shoulders drop. "Anyways." Court wraps her arms around Ness as Alexis drops off more glasses of wine. "What's new between you two."

Where do we start?

"Oh, girls, save that talk for the table. It'll only be a couple more minutes."

"Of course, Mama J," Courtney speaks for the group. "Shall we?" Liz takes my hand and leads me to the elegant dining room. Clearly, a lived in space, but no one eats here regularly. "Mom, what's up with the name plates?"

"I thought it might be fun this year. What with our new guest and all." Jarnie nods towards Ness and me, whose nameplates happen to be right next to each other. On the other side of me is Liz. Of course. "Ah, no fair!" Mary-Kate whines, finding her spot. "I always sit next to Ashley. I sit next to her every day. Can I switch? Who wants to switch?"

"No switching. Now stop it." Jarnie lightly smacks Mary-Kate's head, earning a quiet "ow" from the blonde as the rest of us begin to sit down.

Jarnie and David are at each end of the table. On either side of David is Trent and Alexis.

Next to Trent is Louis, Ashley, Mary-Kate, and Jake

Next to Alexis is Courtney, Ness, myself, and Liz.

"Alright, Y/N, would you like to say, Grace?" Mary-Kate calmly asks me. Grace? Do they do that? "Mary-Kate." Liz sighs as Ash slaps her twin. "Wow, real violence going on today!" MK rubs where she got hit.

"Serves you right." Jarnie scolds her daughter as she turns to me. "We don't do that. Feel free to do it if you want, or start piling up your plate."

"Piling up my plate sounds good." Jarnie nods back and turns to Liz and not so quietly says. "Have I mentioned that I like her?"

Liz POV

I'm glad to be back home.

I love working, and Texas has been fun, but Y/N was right. I was missing my family and home a lot more than I realized. Because of this: Mary-Kate making a mashed potato mountain while Courtney scolds her for not doing it right. Alexis sharing embarrassing stories of Trent we haven't heard before. Or Ness leaning over to Y/N and I to joke about the twins. This. This is what I love. The fun of it all. The care and joy. Family.

A real Vin Diesel moment.

Don't tell Y/N I watched Fast and Furious without her, by the way.

Anyways I wasn't kidding when I said Y/N's and mines hand were going to be tied together all day. However, if it were up to me, we'd still be doing it, but it was making grabbing the bowls of food passed around very difficult. And eating, for that matter.

"Till after we eat." Y/N convinced me.

Trust me. I know it's a little ridiculous to practically hold someone's hand hostage all day, all because of things my Dad technically hasn't even voiced yet. But I wasn't going to let my father be immediately defensive to Y/N, myself, or Court and Ness, for that matter.

"Wait, what?" Y/N's shocked and open jaw makes me hide my laugh.

"Did you not know?" Ash looks puzzled before her, and my girlfriend's eyes are looking at me. I playfully smile and shrug. "Babe... is there something you'd like to say?"

"Alright, I know Spanish, so what."

"You didn't think to bring that up to your girlfriend?"

"Yeah! You didn't think to bring that up to me?! Like ever!" I shrug again. Enjoying the amused and flabbergasted looks. "I don't believe you," Y/N states as she returns to shoving turkey in her mouth. "There's no way this hasn't come up!" Mary-Kate tries to reason but to no avail.

"So you've been watching me do Duolingo for months and have said nothing?" Y/N breaks after a brief moment of silence. "Nothing?!"

"You never asked for help." I tease, earning a groan. "Also, I thought you've been doing very well, mi amor."

"Gracias." Y/N tries her best to look at me upset but fails as soon as I lean into her and leave a peck.

"Mi corazón."

"Huh?"

"Oh, haven't gotten there yet, huh?" Y/N shakes her head. "Tell me." I keep my face from breaking into a wide grin at the new game I'm going to play. "No."

"Oh, come on." I shake my head. "And no one better help or tell her what it means." I direct to the table and see phones quickly being out away. "That means you, MK."

"Oh, come on." She whines exactly like Y/N. Earning a chorus of laughs around the table.

"So Y/N." My father speaks to Y/N for the first time all meal. Mind you. Enough time has elapsed that some of us are on our second plates myself, Court, Mom, and Alexis. While some are on their third. Trent and Jake. "From what some of the group here and what Courtney have told me. You're quite popular. Talented even." All conversations quiet down, and eyes divert between my father and my girlfriend.

"Oh well." I lay my left hand on Y/N's knee to let her know I'm here no matter how much charisma and confidence she's had it in herself today. "I wouldn't say popular-"

"You held a show right here in LA not too long ago, no?"

"Well, yes, but-" "That certainly sounds like someone who's popular. Talented. Not some nobody. Are you a nobody?" I squeeze Y/N's knees as the clanging of my father's silver wear hits his dish.

"No, but-"

"Do you see yourself having a future? Being somebody?" "Sir, with all due respect-" In an instant, I watch my father move on.

"How about you, Ness?" Y/N looks back at me, mouth agape. "David!" My mom speaks out while throwing her serviette to the ground. "Stop this."

"Jarnie, please."

"Dad!" The twins speak up as I squeeze Y/N's knee again. "Stop this game your playing, or listen to what these young ladies have to say."

"J, what's there to say?" A beat. Confused looks all around. "You know, Lizard." My father draws his eyes back to me. Without removing her eyes from him, Y/N lays her hand on my knee. "What happened with Robbie? I know that Robbie upset you last year-"

"Stop." I close my eyes, hoping he'll listen. "But he knew-"

"Dad, please stop." I can feel Y/N tense as she squeezes my knee again.

"Dad, stop!" Ash speaks as I begin to block out what our father is saying.

Y/N POV

I visibly watch Liz tune out what's happening around here. She's an actress, so it appears she's listening, but I see her. I know her. She's hurting, and the mood for today is ruined.

I lean into her hold and grab her chin gently in my hand, turning her to see me ignoring her father's look. "Hey. It'll be okay." Liz smiles at me and holds back the tears in her eyes. Jarnie watches this interact with a clenched jaw, not at us but at her ex-husband.

"Enough!!" Jarnie shouts out over everyone as she pulls her youngest close. Liz wrapping our hands together. "David Olsen, you've upset everyone with your yammering and condescending questions and statements. Kindly stop it and apologize or leave."

"Jarnie-" David scoffs at this, and I feel Liz tense under my hand again. "David!" Liz sighs- "Dad, stop!" She stands up and yells at her father, surprising everyone.

"What are you doing? Why are you doing this? Just stop it. Stop thinking you know everything or that you have a clue about our relationships or lives! You only know about shit that's going on if Mom tells you or Court and Jake decide to fill you in!" Jarnie places her hand on Liz's arm as Liz stops to catch her breath and wipes some tears that have begun trailing her cheeks. "For the love of God, stop saying the name Robbie. He doesn't exist to us. I don't care what you think, you know, because whatever it is. It's wrong. He and I broke up. He fucked up again and again. And before you start bringing up last year this and last year that. Just stop." Liz sways a bit as she stamps her foot. "God, Dad, do you even know why I was so upset last year?" She sniffles. "Do you even care?"

"Honey-"

Liz places her hand up. "I was upset because that morning, I had gotten my period. After days of bated breath, this was the sign that I wasn't pregnant."

W-What?

I didn't know that.

I feel time halting as my breathing slows as I look around the room. It's clear that no one knew of this except the twins. Their eyes scurrying away from my own.

"But fuck- I- I wasn't upset because I wasn't pregnant. In fact, I was happy. Ecstatic even." My girlfriend chuckles through her sore, sobbed throat. "I was happy. And it felt so wrong to be so happy th-that I twisted myself up into this knot, and I just let myself... go." Liz's lips tremble as she fights for control. "All morning, I just let my body feel. All the emotions. The anger and sadness and the-that fucking happiness that I was putting on myself!" Liz takes a deep breath and lets go of my hand to push her hair out of her face. And I don't know if it was the anger of the weight of it all, but that's when I saw how horrible her hands were shaking and shaking more than the last leaf on a snow-covered tree. I reach up and grab her hand once more. Kissing it. Letting her know I'm here.

The only indication I know that Liz is aware of everyone else in the room is the light squeeze I feel on my fingers.

"But the guilt I felt for feeling how I goddamn felt. Me. The person that would've had to carry it. The person whose body would've been forever changed. My feelings were amped up by the person everyone should live up to, apparently. Robbie Arnett." I turn my head to David for the first time since Liz stood up. Guilt and regret are apparent on his face, but his eyebrows are furrowed, and his eyes remain stoic.

"He wanted kids and that future right then and there. So imagine the hurt I felt. Imagine the look on his face when I laid out everything for him. Okay?" She sniffles again, pushing her pink nose up. "Now imagine when he says nothing. Okay? Now imagine when he starts talking, but those words turn spiteful. Okay? Can you do that? Can you fucking do that, Dad?" Liz picks up her wine glass and rapidly downs it before throwing it into the middle of the table. "I knew that something was happening to our relationship even before that moment. But last year. The same day you want to bring up Dad. That was when I stopped loving Robbie Arnett."

Liz blinks some more tears away before looking around the room. "It was going to happen. And I'm glad it did." The soft tone in which Liz speaks makes me think that it she is talking about isn't her relationship with Robbie. "Excuse me." Liz covers her mouth and bolts from my grip. Running out of the dining room before I can even grasp what transpired in the last couple of minutes. But her footsteps are upstairs and long gone.

The twins hot on her trail, leaving a coat of silence in the large dining room—the quiet air being broken up by my own movement. My body and mind racing and going into autopilot.

Find your Liz.

"Honey.." Jarnie whispers while reaching her hand out to me, forcing me to look at her. Tears fill her eyes.

Mine too.

"Why don't you go check on her. Okay?" I nod, and I don't want to, but I do it anyways. I look into the direction of what caused this eventful meal.

The heads of the side of the table follow my look.

David is leaning back into his chair at the head of the table, looking out the window into the green backyard. I force myself to hold in the scoff.

"Go, Y/N," Court says, sending me a flat-line white people smile. With that, I force my legs to walk away from this. From everything that just happened. "Check upstairs," Jarnie informs me as I walk by her. "Thank you," I reply, only earning a wave of the hand.

"Just hug my Lizard. Please."

"Of course," I answer truthfully, and just as my body leaves the room, I begin to hear the shouting of multiple people.

"She locked herself in there," Ash says to me with trembling lips. "We're pretty sure we heard her throw up, but she won't answer us," Mary-Kate adds while she comforts her sister. "She just got her so fast."

Here. A hallway with a bonus room and a bedroom are at the end of it. One-half bath in between. Where Liz is now. "Okay." I squeak out. Still reeling from EVERYTHING I just learned. "We're sorry," Mary-Kate says as she looks down ashamed. Ash nodding in agreement. "Sorry? What are you sorry for?" I shake my head, trying to focus myself. "For what Dad- David said." Ash corrects. "I swear I've never seen him act like that. Well, to that extent." Mary-Kate says and groans before trying the bathroom handle again. "Lizzie, come on. Unlock the door. Y/N's here." She rushes through her words as the guilt eats her up.

But it's not her fault. Or Ashley's. Or anyone at that table's fault whose name doesn't start with a D.

"Babe. I'm here." I clear my throat and stand next to MK. "Open up. We don't have to talk about anything. I need to know you're alright." Nothing. Followed by nothing. I press my ear against the door, and aside from the hum of the house, I can hear what sounds like whispers. Repeating whispers. I pull my head back from the door and gently try the handle again, but it's still locked. The twins look at me curiously as I examine the door.

"Babe, like I said, we don't have to talk, okay? But I'd like to say some things. It's just you and me. Okay?" I raise my arm and shoo the twins away. Obviously, earning a shaking of the head, but I persist. "It'll be okay." I mouth to the duo, who eventually agree with their heads and make themselves home at the end of the hallway. "Okay, now it's just us." I start with a slight chuckle while feeling lost, nervous, and confused about today means for the greater scheme of things.

"I love you. I love you so much, Liz... and I'm- I.." I lean my head against the door while my hands grip the frame. "I'm sorry dinner took a turn, to say the least. But it wasn't your fault." I swallow. "Nothing that happened today or yesterday, or last year was your fault. Because you're perfect, I'm not just saying that to make you feel better or to open this door." I add a small laugh. "I'm saying it because I believe it. I believe in you. I believe you all the time. I believe you when you tell me I look pretty, even when I just woke up. I believe you when you say you like my smile, even though I've always hated it. I believe you when you tell me about your nightmares, no matter how silly and plant-based they are." I press my ear against the door again, hearing a hushed giggle. "I- I also believe you when.." I sigh, still wrapping my head around this.

"I also believe you'd make a great mom someday." A smile creeps onto my face, just imagining it. "And I believe you when you say you were happy about the outcome last year because there's nothing wrong with that. Nothing. You're allowed to feel however you want to feel. No one should tell you differently. You can always choose what you want. You want to cry. You want to laugh. Say Yes. Say No. You name it. Because no matter what, Liz, at the end of the day, it's your life... your choice. I'm just so happy, and I feel so lucky to get to be a part of it. I'm sorry I wasn't sooner.. and Liz, I believe you deserve nothing but support and love all the time. So.." I lean away from the door. "So, Liz, please open the door so I can take care of you right now."

Silence.

And then click.

I'm a little stunned to hear the door being unlocked, that it takes me a second to turn the handle. But the door slowly opens to reveal my shaking girlfriend sitting atop the toilet. Makeup ruined. Her eyes void of the striking green. They've turned red from her hot tears. However, she's still beautiful. She always will be.

"Hey.." I slowly walk in and close the door behind me. Locking it so the twins don't barge in. Liz lifts her face up to me; she goes to smile, but it falters as more tears slip out. "Oh, Liz." I quickly grab the towel off the rack and wet it to wipe her face and chin. Once that's done, I kneel before her and wrap my arms around her. Muffling her cries as her head buries into the crook of my neck. "I'm here," I whisper into her head, earning a nod as she quiets down.

"Come here." I pull her into me as I maneuver my legs under me. I fall back onto my butt while Liz places her weight on top of me. So now we're both just lying on the floor up against the wall. Well, I am, and Liz has her head on my chest. Luckily I know the floor is clean. "I-I'm sorry." Liz sobs into my chest adding new cracks into my breaking heart. "Hey." I kiss her head and pull her closer. If possible. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing." I whisper. "Did you not hear me through the door?"

Liz's sniffles crawl to a stop, and after what feels like a few minutes, she speaks up. "I love your smile." She lifts her head off my chest and looks at me. "You're right. I love your smile even though you hate it." I smile at seeing hers. "There it is." Liz lightly laughs and wipes off the stray tears she has on her face.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

I rise to my feet and help Liz onto the toilet seat again. Grabbing a new rag from Underneath the sink to clean up her trail-stained red cheeks and puffy eyes. "Don't worry. You still look beautiful." I wink at my girlfriend, that looks up at me with nothing but care. "Are you okay?" Liz closes her eyes as I wipe them. "No," I answer honestly. "I'm mad and upset by your fathers' actions. They hurt you. And my feelings. Probably Courts and Ness'." I rant.

"I understand." Liz sighs as I drop the hand towel in her hands. "I hate him." She concludes. "Li-" "No. I do. He disrespected us all. I've never seen him act like that! And what was up with the vague homophobia?? He's known about Court for the last two months? We've been in the news! I don't get it." Liz grips onto the sides of the sink and hangs her head.

"Do you hate me?"

I look at Liz in the mirror as if she's turned blue and grown 7 feet. "What?" I watch her hands let go of the sink and wrap themselves around one another in front of her stomach. She's anxious.

"Why would I hate you?" I question and bring myself closer to her. Liz opens her mouth before giving up on her words and shrugging, making me shake my head.

"Liz, I know you were listening earlier, so listen again. I could never hate you. Could I be annoyed or slightly frustrated? Sure. Has that happened yet? No, never." Nice safe. "So it stands to reason that I could never hate you. I don't want that thought to ever cross your mind. Ever. You're an Angel on earth."

"Do you still want kids someday?"

I look Liz up and down, catching her hand placement this time. I move gently into her space and grab her hands to lace them in mine. "With you? Of course."

Liz lets out a relieved sigh/laugh. "I'll never forget when you blurted that question out in the New York apartment." I laugh back. "I don't know what possessed me to do that."

We stand like that for a few minutes more. But for Liz, I'd stop the world and stand here forever.

After leaving the bathroom to find the twins on the floor with tears in their eyes, claiming that they weren't listening to our private conversation (liars), we made it back to the site of the crime. To find everyone there but one person.

"He's in the study upstairs," Jarnie says before anyone of us even thinks about asking. "Why is he still here?" Mary-Kate sternly asks her mom. "We don't want him here. He ruined the day." Ash backs up her twin and returns to Louis side. They're cute. "Lizard.." Jarnie walks up to her youngest and wraps her up. "I love you. No matter what. You know this, honey." Jarnie rubs her hands up and down Liz's back. "Do you want to..."

"Y/N." I pull my attention from Liz and her mother to Courtney on my left. "Hi." She shyly looks at me. "Umm, look, we're going to talk to Lizzie as well, but Jake and myself and, uh, Trent are just horribly sorry for how our father acted. Like he's-" "Never acted like that." I finished her sentence for her. "I've heard."

"Right. We're just so so sorry. We all love you and think you're wonderful, and oh god, I had all this to say-" I look back to see the twins now joining Liz in her convo with her mom.

"The study." Court looks at me, puzzled. "The study?" She asks, and I nod. "The upstairs study. Where is it?"

The lightbulb goes off above Court. "Up the stairs. Right hallway. Second door on the left."

"Thanks." I nod at her instructions and start working my way out of the kitchen, passing my lovely girlfriend with a kiss on the head. "Babe?" I turn back to face her when she grabs my hand. "Where are you going?" She knows. "Liz-" "No." "Liz, I want to speak to him." "No." She grips me harder. "Stop, let's just leave." I shake my head to her as Liz's sisters and mother watch us. "No. I'm sorry, Liz, but I'm not letting this go without speaking to him. He doesn't get to push anyone of us like that." "But-" She loosens her grip on me. "No buts, babe. I love you and respect everyone here, but I respect myself too. Maybe not all the time," I squeak out a laugh. "Okay. I love you too. Be careful."

"Always." I kiss her head and give a nod to the twins. "Y/N?" Jarnie calls out to me just as my foot hits the bottom step. "Yes?"

"Thank you for being there for her. In more ways than one." Jarnie covers her mouth, her hand as if debating something. "The first Thanksgiving, our Lizard, brought someone home, it was a blonde hair man whose name I forget, and I didn't like him all that much. No one really did, but we played nice for her sake, and we wanted what made her happy. But he came and went... Then Robbie happened. And he was a nice change of pace for her. Kind and caring, but something was missing that David and I couldn't put a finger on. But once again. We just wanted what made her happy." Jarnie stops as she walks closer to me, taking my hands in her own. "Today." She starts. "Today, I saw her eyes shine, and her smile shine brighter than ever before. You're right for her. Everyone here can see that. Including David." I tilt my head a bit at that last word. "No, I know. That sounds ridiculous, but I think it's true. He doesn't want Lizzie to be hurt again. He's a scared old man." She laughs. "But how he treated you and Ness, for that matter, is unacceptable. So when you get done yelling or talking or knocking him a new one, find me so I can do it as well. Okay?"

I laugh and smile at Jarnie. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Oh, stop with the Ma'am. You're going to be family soon enough. Mama J is fine." She pulls me into a hug that has the warmth of a loving mother. "Family?" I question. Mama J nods. "When you and Lizard are ready, you have my wishes."

Shocked isn't a big enough word to describe how I'm feeling. "Oh wow. Thank you! Thank you. Liz and I haven't even been together that long, and we have our whole careers and everything plus-" "Dear." She stops me. "It doesn't have to be tomorrow. I just don't see you going anywhere anytime soon. You and Lizard have already been through what most people go through in a lifetime. So I have faith. No, go upstairs. He's probably brooding." She pats my shoulders and heads down the hallway towards the bathroom Liz was held up in earlier.

Sensing someone watching me, I move my gaze to them. I see Liz watching me with a smile I've missed over the last half hour. "Did you hear all that?" I asked with a hushed whisper.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She replies in the same manner. "Uh-huh." I playfully roll my eyes and head up the stairs. In less than forty steps, I'm up the stairs and down the hall in front of the study. I stand there staring at the dark oak door breathing in and out. Calming my nerves that are making their appearance once again.

"Let's fucking do it." I knock on the door and twist the handle to open it.

"Mr. Olsen?" I ask I my eyes scan the darken room. Bookshelves and paintings line the wall. Amazement and wonder fill my eyes, and I'd love this room. On some other day. Because right now, I'm here for the man sitting in the brown leather chair. What appears to be a first-edition book of some kind in his hand.

"I'd like to discuss what happened downstairs." I firmly imply as I close the door behind me and stagger my steps to behind the chair oppose of Liz's father. "How so?" He closes the book and lets it rest on the table next to him giving me his full undivided attention for the first time today. "I'd like to know why you did what you did," I state, earning a Hmm.

"What was it that I did?" He's baiting me. "Mr. Olsen, I would just like an explanation as to why what happened. Happened. Was it something I did or didn't do?" He remains silent. "Is the fact that two of your daughters and I can't believe I'm saying this are in a same-sex relationship?"

"Don't be so naive, Y/N." He leans back into his chair. "Excuse me?" I say.

"I don't care if my daughters have, as you put it, a same-sex relationship." I lean forward. "Then what was that?"

"What was what? What did I do?"

I clench my jaw as he goes to pick up his book. Fuck it.

"Okay. Sir. You want to know what you did. What you already know." He closes his book once again and looks up at me. "You just pushed and pushed Liz to embarrass and humiliate herself out there in front of the people she loves most. And whether you like it or not, as you so claim, I'm on that list of people. Now are there days where I feel as if I don't deserve it? Sure. I'm sure you love to hear that." I stand away from the chair and let my feet guide myself around the room. "But that doesn't mean I don't love and care for your daughter every goddamn day as if she created the very ground I walk on. And I know. I know you love every single one of your children. You want what's best for them, like every parent should, whether they're blonde-haired assholes or guys who give her the world only to rip it away again and again. However, how you acted downstairs makes me think otherwise." I point my finger. "I'm better than both of those guys will ever be, by the way. Oh! Also. Liz talked about how you're a man of respect. You earn it, give it, or don't bother, right? So where was my right to earn it in your eyes today? Or Ness, for that matter. She and I had today to make you see how much we love your daughters, and you couldn't bother. Everyone else could. But not you? What is this a test." Mr. Olsen stands for the first time since I walked into the room. It throws me off a little, but I don't stop.

"And just so you know, I have worked my ass off to even be where I'm at today. These last few months haven't been easy, but I'm here. I'm a fucking artist now. And no, your daughter didn't do anything for me except support me. So before you go off thinking I'm only with her for money or notoriety, that's the furthest thing from the truth. I didn't even know who she fucking was till after we slept together!"

Okay, I should've kept that last one in.

I stop myself and look at the man I've been yelling at. "I'm sorry." I freeze, realizing the words that just left my mouth. "No, wait, no, I'm not. I'm not sorry. You treated me like dirt so I could yell at you and tell you that I love your daughter and that I don't plan on going anywhere."

The silence that follows speaks for itself the longer it goes on.

"I just want what's best for Lizzie." Her father breaks the tension in the room as he leans himself against what looks to be a hundred-year-old desk. "I do too." As if that's not obvious, I want to add on but refrain from doing so. "I respect you for coming up and laying into me; however, how you did so was only because of my arrogance, and for that, I'm sorry."

I don't say anything.

"Now.." David takes a pause as he pushes himself off the desk. "I don't know if you're the one for my daughter. You appear to be so." Here we go. "You make her happier than anybody I've ever seen. I would hate for her to lose that." Implying I would do something to hurt Liz. "I understand." I extend my hand to him. He looks down at it and shakes it as I open my mouth. "However, I can't accept your apologies. You hurt your daughters' feelings and my own today. I know you're a smart man. Capable of reading the room and the emotions within it. I thought what you did knowing that was mean. So thank you for your respect and for letting me know how happy I make my own girlfriend, but I don't need your respect for myself. I only need your acceptance for Liz's sake."

"I see."

"So once you apologize to your daughters and to Ness, then I'd love to sit down with you and talk about everything under the sun. Once again, thank you." Without another word, I drop his hand and turn my body to head out the door. Mr. Olsen doesn't stop me.

Liz POV

We all look up as we hear the study room door close. Yes, all. All of us who surround the table now stand at the bottom of the stairs.

Y/N appears from the top of the stairs, not with tears in her eyes or a clenched jaw but with a look of pride? Yeah, pride. "Hey, everyone." She smiles as she descends the stairs. "So!? How'd it go." Jake speaks up. Out of everyone, he was surprisingly really nervous for Y/N and made that known to me when he noticed Y/N was missing moments ago. "Umm.." Y/N plants herself in front of me, and behind the pride on her face, I see exhaustion taking over.

This day ruined us.

"It was informative." She decides.

"We thought we heard yelling," Ashley says as she earns a slap on the arm from Mary-Kate. I ignore them as I wrap my arms around Y/N. "It's true," I add. "Maybe a little." Y/N turns to my mom.

"If you want to go up, you can."

"Oh, honey, I will soon enough. Before we leave."

"Leave?" Y/N questions. "We're going to my- our house." I correct myself. "Our home here. To finish the rest of this day. Dessert. Board games. Movies. Nap somewhere in all of that." I do my best to smile as Y/N doesn't say anything, but I can tell she's thinking. "Is that what you want?" She asks. I honestly want this day to be over. I would have loved to stay here curled up on the couch after stuffing my face more, but the thought of staying in this house longer than an hour after being forced to share things I never wanted to again makes me sick.

"Yeah. Family bonding."

"Okay. Then su-" The upstairs study room door closes again. "Lizard." My father calls out to me as my mother and Y/N move themselves before me. "David, how about some other time? The girls are exhausted."

"It won't take long." He argues. I wrap my hand around Y/N's and pull it as we leave the foyer to go to the kitchen. Ignoring my dad's eyes and pleads. "Did he apologize to you?" I ask Y/N as I begin packing the Tupperware full of food into a tote bag. "Yes and no." She says. "Babe, what are you doing?"

"Is he homophobic now?"

"No. Just old. Babe stop. You shouldn't be doing this. You're exhausted." She takes the bag from my hand and places it down on the counter. "I hate him." I reaffirm as Trent walks into the kitchen. "Lizzie." I hold up my hand to my brother. "Don't."

"He wants to talk to you. Apologize." Trent looks at me so seriously it makes me laugh. No, really, it makes me laugh. I cover my face with my hands to stop myself from crying as I do my best to keep my smile. "No."

"No?" Trent asks as the twins enter the kitchen now. Moving past our brother to help with the loading of the food.

"No, he doesn't get to just apologize."

"Lizzie, I don't think it's like that."

"I don't care what you think it's like, Trent." I fully turn away from the counter to look at my brother. "I don't care what Dad wants to say or do. He should've done right earlier or not shown up today. So it's too little too late." I turn back to Y/N and my sister, who each have a bag around their arms. "Let's go." I muster out as I avoid the concerned look from Y/N.

Trent moves out of our way. "You can tell Dad I don't want to speak to him. I don't want to hear from him. Tell him I said no. No is a full sentence."

Dec. 31st, 2021

Missed Calls Dad (2)

New Voicemail: Hey, kiddo. I see I missed you again. Umm. I just wanted to call and let you know that I wish you and Y/N a happy new year considering I won't be staying up. Everyone here misses you. Me included. Umm, anyways, so long. Love you, Lizard.

I drop my phone from my ear and onto the bathroom counter. As you can tell, I haven't spoken with my father since Thanksgiving. It hasn't been hard to avoid him, but it can't exactly be easy.

"In a minute!" I respond to the rapid knocking on that guest bathroom door that I'm on the other side of. "But Lizzzard, it's me!" I chuckle and put my phone away before opening the door to reveal my very drunk girlfriend. "Why, hello, beautiful!" The drunker she gets, the more of a flirt she becomes. "Hi, baby," I reply as she pulls me into a kiss. A kiss that keeps going and going from my lips to my neck and my collarbone. "Ba-aby." I fluster out. "We have to stop. Someone could see u-us."

"Let them." Y/N looks up at me with that mischievous look in her eyes. "Oh no. Not here. Not in Ivy's penthouse." Y/N bites down on my skin before removing her lips from me. "Fine. Only because you're so fucking smart." She huffs and fakes annoyance before breaking out her wide smile. "I love you." She laughs. "I love you too. Okay. Now move it." I turn her around and smack her ass, so she starts moving us back to the party.

As we whiz through people we know and don't know, Y/N locks her hand in mine. "I wish we had the party at our place." She whines, and a part of me agrees because I know Y/N is horny and would kick everyone out. Another reason is having Ivy and Max host a party was safer for us, especially after some concerning pieces of mail were dropped off at our LA place.

We alerted all who we needed to, but with the holidays, so haven't heard much back.

The pieces of mail were pictures of us. At first, we thought they were paparazzi pictures, but the closer you looked at them, they clearly were pictures a stalker would take. Photos of Y/N coming and going from her record company. Pictures of the two of us at dinner. Even a picture of us when we donated food and toys to the local animal shelter. Y/N's idea, by the way.

But to say we were freaked would be an understatement. I locked myself away in my cave for three days like a ball of anxiety before Y/N, and I discussed our next course of action. She blamed herself, while I blamed myself. But it's neither of our faults—only that assholes.

So anywho, it's been a crazy past two weeks between that and Christmas. Plus seeing Scarlett, Colin, Cosmo, and of course, little Rosie!

"Y/N! Lizzie!" Both of us turn our heads around to see Ivy. "Hey, you two! I've barely seen you since you guys got here!" "To you. Wait, you too!" Y/N stumbles as I just smile at Ivy. "What she said." I laugh and pull Y/N closer to me, not that she minds.

"Where's Max?" Y/N questions. Ivy takes Y/N's finger and points so it'll be easy for her to follow. "Ah!!!" Y/N squeals and drags the three of us over to see Max with a fashionably late Scarlett and a star-struck Sam..? Yeah! Sam, that's her name. The blonde that used to work with Y/N.

"Nice of you to join us ScarJo!" Y/N stumbles a bit as she taunts Scar. "Oh God, she's not drunk, is she?" Max intercepts only to get my nod. "She wanted to celebrate what the new year has in store for us." "Meaning?" Scarlett questions while laughing. "Multiverse of Madness, my new show, her record, us in general-" "Wait, stop!" Scar sets her drink down. "HER? New record?! She signed?!"

Apparently, this is new news to Scar. "Yeah, she did." I smile. "Oh, my God! That's amazing!" She focuses her attention on Y/N, who looks like she just won the lottery. Oh gosh, I forgot about her crush on Natasha Romanoff. "Come here!" Scarlett pulls Y/N into a hug. "Watch the hands, Y/L/N!" I yell to my girlfriend, who does nothing but gasp and pull Scarlett into her again.

Oh, she's so going to get it.

Once everyone stopped hugging one another, I not so gently and calmly pulled Y/N onto my lap once we all gathered around a table in the corner of the room. "Mine," I whispered into her ear as Max questioned Scarlett about Black Widow and The Outset. "Yours." She whispered back.

"So, will you keep the name Y/N or create a stage name?" Ivy asks as her fingers dance around on Max's neck. I hide my smile behind Y/N, knowing the name she came up with. "Stage name." She says with a wave of her hand before flopping into me. "Do we get to know it?" Sam laughs.

"Oh yeah, sure, it's-"

April 22, 2022

Twitter

Marvel Studios @MarvelStudios

The trip through the Multiverse has begun. The stars of Marvel Studios' #DoctorStrange in the Multiverse of Madness began the global tour in Berlin, Germany! - Experience the movie only in theaters May 6.

@scrunchnoselizzie @marvelstudios she was looking at me 🥰🥰

@Hole4TaylorSloane @marvelstudios THE people's princess!! 👸

@MadMaxMoore @marvelstudios oh wait till Y/N sees these. 💙 Y/N wake up!!!

@yeahitsY/N @marvelstudios omg she's so pretty she can crush me and I'd thank her. Alexa play Gorgeous by Taylor Swift! Also not joking but if you guys kill Wanda I just want to talk

@multiversemother @marvelstudios @yeahitsY/N not Lizzie's gf commenting with that picture 💀💀

@NSanders28 @marvelstudios 🥱🥱🥱 next

@witcheswhores @multiversemother they haven't publicly confirmed that they're back together. I know there's been paparazzi photos and posts about them but let's not possibly spread misinformation.

@incellonerman @witcheswhores @multiversemother 👎 as if someone like @yikesitsY/N could pull the beauty that is Elizabeth Olsen.

@happywandaplease @yikesitsY/N @incellonerman WTF are you talkin about?? They're both beautiful af and id pay for them to step on me in their highest of high stilettos!!

@yikesitsY/N Quote Tweeted @inclelonerman

Bet. L. Ratio.

"👎 as if someone like @yikesitsY/N could pull the beauty that is Elizabeth Olsen."

@user8 @yeahitsY/N lmaooooo

@OlsenMyOlsen @yeahitsY/N omg queen!!!

@y/nsgreenreptile @yeahitsY/N i love you

@yeahitsY/N @y/nsgreenreptile i love you too

A/N: We're finally well into 2022!! So I can finally start writing about things that happened more recently!!! Did you guys have a fav part? Twitter handle? Anything??? Please let me know!

Also I truly love every single one of you that takes time to read, comment, like and share this. It means the world to me. And thank you for letting me be me and write this story. 💜 See y'all soon!!

30 notes · View notes

lizzyiii · 13 days ago

Note

Hey girl hey. Hope you are still alive and life is treating you well. Just checking in.

you're so sweet for this omg. so ive graduated from high school, have this whole summer, but I can't really enjoy it since a broke girl's got to work. got my very first job and it's sooo draining, but I've got to get that bag

Sevenmas

pairing | aemond x wife!reader

word count | 9.2k words

summary | amid the haunting ruins of harrenhal, aemond's pregnant wife senses the looming threat of alys rivers, a witch whose presence fuels her nightmares and aemond's growing distance.

determined to protect her husband and unborn child, she delves into the secrets of warding magic, reclaiming her bond with aemond as she invites him back into her bed and vows to stand against the witch’s dark influence.

tags | 18+ (MDNI), smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, pregnancy, magic, fluff, soft aemond, hubby aemond

a/n | it's summer, the heat is evident, yet I've only been at work or home. I needdd to leave my house!

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

My Dearest Babe,

It has been a full moon since your father and I arrived at these dreary halls of Harrenhal. It is bleak here, cold and damp, and the walls seem to hold the whispers of the dead.

I have not known a single night’s rest since we set foot in this cursed place. My sleep grew all the more restless when your father saw fit to move me into a separate chamber.

Harrenhal weighs heavily upon him. It has changed him in ways I cannot yet understand. He walks the halls as if hunted, and I see the shadows of his unrest in his eyes.

Each night, his dreams twist into dark things—visions that wrench him from sleep, leaving him gasping as though clawing his way back to wakefulness. He grows ever more volatile, as if the very stones of Harrenhal press upon his mind, threatening to drive him to madness.

One night, he woke from a nightmare so violent, I feared for him. I reached out to calm him, but he struck out, not knowing it was I. I do not hold it against him—he was deep within whatever horror plagued him.

But he looked upon the bruise on my wrist with such anguish, fearing for my health and yours. It was then he resolved to put me in another room, to shield us both from his torments.

Yet, my sleep has only worsened since he made this change. This keep holds no comfort, only shadows and sighs, and I feel that something - someone - wicked watches us, waiting.

The sixth day of Sevenmas dawned in Harrenhal, a day to honor the Crone, she who carried the lantern of wisdom and foresight. How you longed for that guidance now, caught in the maze of cold stone walls and shadows that seemed to stretch into eternity.

The ancient keep, with its crumbling towers and halls seeped in ghosts of past horrors, gnawed at your spirit with every passing hour.

The days bled together, each as gray and listless as the last. Time itself felt suspended, and there was little to fill it but your prayers to the Seven and the slow, meticulous pull of thread and needle.

Embroidery was meant to calm the mind, but here it became another way for your thoughts to spiral into dark corners. How could you not let them when the halls echoed with whispers not your own and the air felt thick, laden with something unseen yet suffocating?

Your husband, Aemond, the prince with a fire in his blood and the shadow of the conqueror in his step, had become a stranger cloaked in duty.

Since Rhaenyra had laid siege to King's Landing, his days were consumed with strategy, flame-bright eyes scanning maps and murmuring with commanders until dawn kissed the horizon.

You would catch glimpses of him, his presence fierce and distant, a sword poised to strike. And still, there was one tether left—he would always return to break his fast with you, no matter the hour, as if the morning meal was a sacred pact he refused to break.

This shared ritual was a brief light in the gloom, a moment where his brow would smooth, and he would offer a small nod, as if to say, I am still here.

Yet even then, the weight of Harrenhal seemed to press upon him, creasing the corner of his eye and stealing the little warmth from his voice.

You wished for the strength of the Crone’s wisdom, to find words that could soothe whatever haunted him, whatever pulled him into those long, silent stretches where he barely met your gaze.

And so, with the sun’s first pale rays stretching over the stone battlements, you whispered a prayer to the Crone. Let me see what he cannot. Let me guard us in ways unseen.

There was another shadow cast over your time at Harrenhal, one that gnawed at your peace like a hound at a bone. Within the first week of your arrival, an attempt on Aemond’s life had been made, a sloppy affair that left more questions than answers.

Yet the mere notion of betrayal and blood sharpened Aemond’s already fierce nature into something perilously close to madness.

In his rage and paranoia, he swept through Harrenhal like a storm, burning and executing every male Strong—lords and bastards alike, sparing none.

The aftermath left the keep haunted by its own silence, populated mostly by women and children who dared not cross his path. Yet among the survivors, there was one who set your skin crawling like no other: Alys Rivers, the bastard daughter of Lionel Strong.

Her gaze, dark and knowing, seemed to pierce through you whenever it drifted your way. The keep’s old women, those who lingered in the kitchens and halls, were full of whispers, speaking in hushed tones about Alys and the tales that clung to her like a shroud.

They claimed she was a wet nurse with no babes of her own, that her cradle stayed empty because she offered her children to dark gods, drawing power from their sacrifices.

The word witch passed between toothless mouths with reverence and fear, a name that conjured images of blood and whispered spells in the dead of night.

You would catch Alys watching Aemond from the shadowed corners of the great hall, her green eyes glistening like the polished scales of a serpent.

There was something about the way she looked at him, a gaze that lingered too long, with a subtle curl to her lips that suggested she saw beyond what others did. Each time, a cold knot formed in your stomach, winding tighter with each day.

Aemond, for his part, seemed oblivious—or perhaps unwilling—to acknowledge her attention. He stalked the halls of Harrenhal like a restless dragon, his eyes always aflame with thoughts of war and vengeance.

But you, kept to the fringes and left with little to occupy your time, had learned to listen. You had overheard more than once the old wives’ tales, how the stones of Harrenhal bore witness to strange sights in the dark of night.

The morning light struggled to filter through the narrow, soot-streaked windows of Harrenhal’s great hall, casting long, somber shadows across the cold stone floor.

You sat at the grand table, an expanse of dark oak that seemed almost too vast with just the two of you seated at its head.

The hall’s emptiness swallowed the small noises of clinking silver and the rustle of fabric, leaving only the low crackle of a distant fire to break the silence.

You glanced at Aemond, his face severe and sharp as ever, eyes narrowed and distant as he picked at the bread before him. His hair, pale as moonlight, spilled over his shoulders, catching the dim glow of morning like polished silver.

You traced the line of his jaw with your gaze, noting the tautness there, the slight twitch that spoke of restless thoughts.

In truth, you did not know this man well—your husband, your prince, and yet a stranger in so many ways.

It had only been moons since you first met, and within days, the marriage vows were spoken, the ink on the alliance barely dry before you found yourself bound to him in name and in fate.

Your father’s fleet had been your dowry, a formidable power that the Greens could not afford to spurn. You understood your role, the politics and power that tethered you to Aemond, but understanding him was another matter entirely.

His silences were as deep and dark as the Blackwater, and he carried an anger that smoldered beneath his skin, an unquenchable flame that whispered of vengeance and old wounds.

But despite the cold armor of his demeanor, Aemond had never raised his voice nor his hand to you. He moved with a kind of carefulness in your presence, a restraint that bordered on gentleness.

He treated you with a respect that was rare among men of power, where wives were often little more than pawns on a board.

And though it was likely due to the child you carried beneath your heart, it kindled a small warmth within you to think that he had not left you behind when he marched to Harrenhal.

Instead, he had commanded that you come with him, a choice that puzzled you even as it comforted you.

Harrenhal was a desolate place, steeped in old, cracked stone and a history that groaned beneath every step. You despised it, with its drafty halls and the air that always seemed to taste of ashes.

Yet sitting here, across from Aemond as the thin light etched sharp lines across his face, you felt a reluctant flicker of gratitude.

The silence between you was not companionable, but it was not cruel either. It was a space where the two of you existed, tethered by duty and an unspoken understanding.

Your gaze lifted from your untouched plate to meet his. “You barely ate anything,” you ventured softly, the words almost swallowed by the great hall’s vastness.

Aemond’s eye flickered to you, just a moment of acknowledgment, before drifting back to the distant, unfocused point beyond the hall’s great hearth. “I have much on my mind,” he replied, his voice low and guarded, as always.

You lowered your gaze, the golden glint of your cup catching the flicker of the fire as you turned it in your hands. “Today is the day of the Crone,” you murmured, the soft words drifting into the vast emptiness of the hall.

Aemond’s eye settled on you again, this time with a sharper intensity, as if he were trying to read the thoughts that played behind your eyes. The violet of his gaze, stark and unyielding, seemed to see through flesh and bone.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks but pushed on, lifting your head with a tentative, almost sheepish smile.

“I have been holding small celebratory suppers in my chambers for each of the Seven,” you said, the words trembling on the cusp of hope. “Perhaps you would join me tonight?”

Aemond’s expression remained inscrutable, carved from the same marble as the gods whose names you spoke. He was silent, his lips pressed into a thin line as he measured the request. You held your breath, bracing for the sting of rejection, but after a moment, he inclined his head with a slow, deliberate nod.

“I shall see if I am free to attend later, wife,” he replied, each syllable precise, as if spoken under a watchful eye.

A smile unfurled across your face, a small, fragile bloom that brightened the somber air. You nodded, your gratitude silent but deeply felt, and returned your attention to the meal before you.

The hall fell back into its familiar hush, but the silence seemed gentler, softened by the promise—no matter how uncertain—that he might sit with you as the evening drew near.

Throughout the day, you moved with a purpose that had been absent for some time. Excitement flickered within you, casting a rare warmth over the bleakness of Harrenhal’s cold stone walls.

You spent more time preparing yourself than you had in weeks, choosing a gown of deep violet, the color rich and regal, one you knew would match Aemond’s eye.

Your hands worked carefully as you braided your hair, fingers weaving strands with practiced precision. You wound the braids into a half-up style, securing them with thin silver pins, and threaded small pearls between the coils, their soft luster catching the waning light that seeped through the chamber’s narrow window slits.

As the sun dipped lower, you prepared the chamber for supper, eager to cast away the dreariness of Harrenhal’s stone embrace. The table, though small, was set with care.

You placed a modest arrangement of primroses at its center, their pale petals lending a touch of softness to the somber room.

Candles, thick and tapered, were placed with a meticulous eye, their wicks waiting to be lit and offer a warm glow that would banish the shadows lurking in the corners.

Tonight was meant to honor the Crone, a day of wisdom and reflection, yet you could not help but hope for something more—a chance to share a moment, however fleeting, with the man you called husband.

The hours had been long since you’d known any touch of intimacy, any whisper of companionship. The prospect of Aemond joining you, even for a brief supper, was enough to make your heart beat with anticipation.

Time stretched on, heavy and unyielding, as you sat alone at the small table in your chambers, a solitary figure in a room filled with muted light. The food before you, once steaming and fragrant, had grown cold, the sheen of oil on the meats congealing in the chill air.

The candles you had lit earlier had burned down to stubs, their light dwindling as shadows crept up the walls.

The fire in the hearth, once crackling with warmth, had reduced itself to a bed of glowing embers, the last vestiges of heat sputtering as they surrendered to the draft that snaked through the stones.

Your heart, which had quickened with hope earlier in the day, now felt leaden with disappointment. The silence pressed in around you, each passing moment a reminder that Aemond would not come. The anticipation that had kept your spirits aloft now left a hollow ache in its absence.

Pushing your untouched plate away, you rose from the table, your movements deliberate as anger stirred in your chest. It was not the hot, reckless kind, but the slow-burning indignation that came when expectation was met with silence.

You wrapped your cloak around your shoulders and slipped into the dim corridor, determined to find him, to seek an answer rather than stew in this quiet, stinging rejection.

Harrenhal’s halls were a maze of stone and shadow, empty and vast, with only the sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the cold. The castle held a thousand whispered secrets, and tonight, it seemed eager to keep its prince among them.

You turned corners and climbed staircases, the flicker of dying torches casting your shadow long against the walls, until the familiar paths grew strange and your resolve wavered.

Finally, as you entered a lesser hall that stretched toward a wing of old chambers, you spotted movement—a maidservant carrying linens, her head bent as if afraid to be seen. Relief mixed with frustration as you quickened your step.

“Excuse me,” you called out, your voice sharper than intended.

The servant started, nearly dropping her burden before bowing her head hastily, eyes fixed to the floor. It was a common sight in Harrenhal, the way they kept their gaze averted in your presence.

Word of your husband’s fierce reputation as Prince Regent and Kinslayer had traveled swiftly, and it seemed they feared that to slight you was to invite his wrath upon them.

With a lifted chin and a tone that brooked no disobedience, you asked, “Where is my husband?”

Before the maid could stammer out an answer, another voice cut through the dim hallway—a voice that chilled the blood in your veins and haunted your sleep with its whispers.

“I fear the prince is still occupied in the council chamber, my lady,” said Alys Rivers, her tone smooth and deceptively courteous, like the edge of a blade.

You turned slowly, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, but a knowing smirk pulled at her lips as she regarded you, taking in the sight of your tense shoulders, the protective way your hand drifted instinctively to your rounded stomach.

There was no warmth in her expression, only the sly amusement of a cat toying with a bird that dared to stray too far from its nest.

Your nostrils flared, and you straightened your back, eyes narrowing as you corrected her in a low, simmering murmur, “Princess.”

Alys tilted her head, feigning surprise, though her eyes betrayed nothing but a cold mirth. “Pardon me,” she said, her gaze sliding deliberately to your abdomen before flicking back up to meet yours, daring you to react.

“I am not your lady,” you hissed, “I am your princess.”

With a final, steely glare, you turned on your heel, the folds of your violet gown sweeping the floor as you made your way back through the shadowed hallways, heart pounding beneath your ribs.

The silence of Harrenhal enveloped you once more, and you did not pause until you reached the safety of your chambers, locking the door behind you and pressing your back against the cool, unyielding wood.

The echo of Alys’s smirk lingered in your mind, but you would not let her see your fear. Not tonight. Not ever.

A scream ripped from your throat, raw and primal, as the pain surged through you, tearing its way up your spine and scattering your senses. It felt as though your very body was being split apart, the agony sharper and deeper than any blade.

“Keep pushing, my princess; the babe is almost here,” urged the midwife, her voice steady but relentless.

You clenched your jaw, wanting to curse her, to scream at her to hold her tongue, but the pain stole all words from you, leaving you breathless and shaking.

It was a torment that came in relentless waves, each cresting higher than the last, only to drag you under when you thought you could surface for air. The burning, the stretching—unbearable, blinding.

“I cannot,” you sobbed, tears mingling with the sweat that drenched your brow. “Please… I can't,” you pleaded, your voice broken and desperate.

The pain surged again, stealing the air from your lungs, and then you felt it—a firm, familiar hand pressed gently to your cheek. Through the haze of pain, you turned your head, and your vision cleared just enough to see the sharp lines of Aemond’s face.

His single violet eye was intent, fierce, a rare expression of vulnerability breaking through his stoic mask. Relief, so profound it was nearly painful, swelled in your chest.

“Aemond,” you gasped, his name a lifeline, an anchor in the storm.

Husbands were not meant to be present for the birth, tradition forbade it. But he was there, and you did not care for any rule or rite that would keep him away.

“Just a few more pushes, my love,” he murmured, his voice low, a thread of steel woven through the gentleness.

You nodded weakly, mustering what remained of your strength. A deep groan escaped you as you pushed once more, the room spinning around you. The midwife’s voice rose above the roaring in your ears.

“The babe is crowning, my lady.”

But the tone was wrong. Too familiar, too cold. Alarm jolted you to consciousness, and you struggled to prop yourself on trembling elbows. Your eyes darted to the space at the foot of the birthing bed, and dread coiled tight in your gut.

There, in the dim light of the chamber, knelt Alys Rivers. Her dark hair framed eyes as green and sharp as glass, eyes that glimmered with a knowing, malevolent gleam. A smile curled at the corners of her lips as she met your gaze.

“No, no!” you screamed, panic twisting your voice. “Get away from me!”

With a surge of fear-driven strength, you tried to kick her away, your limbs thrashing wildly, but Aemond’s hands clamped down on you, firm and unyielding. “Calm yourself,” he commanded, his voice cool, steady as stone.

Alys turned her gaze up to him, a shadow of mock sympathy curving her lips. “You must choose, my prince,” she intoned, each word dripping with false solemnity. “The babe, or your wife.”

A sob wrenched from your chest as you felt your breath come in sharp, shallow gasps. “No. No!” The pain was drowned beneath the torrent of fear that flooded you.

Desperately, you looked up at Aemond, seeking the warmth, the fierce protection that once resided in his eye. But what you found was a gaze distant and unreadable, as though he stood apart, watching from some cold, unreachable place. His jaw tightened. “Save the babe.”

Time seemed to fracture around you. His words, so final, crashed over you like a wave of ice. Your eyes widened, disbelieving, as rough handmaids or shadows, you could not tell—pressed you back, holding you firm as you struggled.

“Let me go! Let me go!” you screamed, your voice raw with betrayal and terror, limbs straining against the iron grip that pinned you.

Pain cleaved through you, and you felt the weight of the babe shift within. But your focus broke as Alys moved, no longer at the foot of the bed but gliding closer, the flicker of torchlight catching on the edge of a cruel, glinting blade.

The chamber seemed to darken around her, the faint cries of the midwives fading into an ominous silence. And all you could see were those green eyes, bearing down on you like a curse whispered in the dark.

You jolted upright, heart pounding and breath ragged, the remnants of your nightmare clinging to your skin like a shroud. A trembling hand reached up to brush the tears from your cheeks, the dampness proof of the terror that had gripped you in sleep.

Your eyes drifted down, catching the soft curve of your swollen belly under the covers, rising and falling with your shallow breaths. A shaky sigh escaped your lips, a bitter mix of relief and unease.

The babe was still safe within you—at least for now. You pressed your palm over it, as if to reassure yourself of its presence.

Beyond the thin light filtering through the shuttered window, the sky remained cloaked in the indigo of night.

The stillness told you it was not yet dawn, that liminal time when dreams and waking often blurred. But sleep would not find you again; not after that vision, nor for many nights to come, you were sure.

The memory of Aemond's cold, detached gaze as he spoke words that sealed your fate in your dream clung to you. It pierced deeper than any blade, a wound festering with fear and doubt.

Yet you forced yourself to swallow the sharp sting of betrayal, directing your thoughts toward another source of your unease—Alys Rivers.

The whispers, the eyes that followed, the dark air that seemed to shift when she was near. Your fears, your husband’s torment, the sense of something wicked gnawing at Harrenhal’s bones—it all traced back to her.

Resolve steeled your spine. You pushed back the covers and rose, the weight of your pregnancy making the motion slower, more deliberate.

Wrapping yourself in a heavy fur cloak, you reached for the candelabra on the nightstand. Its small flame sputtered in protest before catching steady, casting long shadows that danced upon the walls.

The corridors of Harrenhal, once alive with whispered conversations and the hurried footfalls of servants, now loomed around you in cold, watchful silence. The draft that crept through the ancient stones nipped at your cheeks and sent a shiver down your spine.

Clutching the fur tighter against your body, you moved forward, the warm light in your grasp flickering as it met the draft.

The silence was thick, broken only by the soft rustle of your cloak and the creak of old floorboards beneath your weight.

At last, you reached the great doors of the library, their dark wood carved with sigils long forgotten and gnarled from centuries of use. Setting the candelabra down, you pushed against one of the doors, muscles straining with the effort.

It groaned open, the sound reverberating through the stillness and sending a cold gust rushing past you. Picking up the candelabra, you stepped inside and let the heavy door drift shut behind you with a thud.

The scent of old parchment and dust surrounded you, familiar and oddly comforting. Shelves stretched high, towering sentinels filled with the stories of old and the wisdom of those long gone.

On other nights, you would have lost yourself in the tales that wove through these tomes—myths and sagas that spoke of courage and triumph. But tonight, solace was not what you sought.

You moved through the rows with purpose, eyes scanning the spines until they found those few volumes that hinted at the arcane.

The lore of witches, their dark arts, the means by which they could twist men’s dreams and cloud their minds—it all lay within reach, hidden among dusty pages that no one dared speak of.

You placed the candelabra down, its light casting a golden glow that flickered across the cracked leather and faded titles.

With trembling hands, you opened the first book, its binding stiff with age. The parchment crackled as you turned the pages, your eyes drinking in the inked words.

If there was any way to guard yourself, to protect Aemond from the shadows that had seeped into your lives, you would find it here. No longer would you be haunted by that witch’s knowing gaze or the dread that coiled tight in your belly.

With each turn of the page, the flickering glow of the candelabra cast dancing shapes upon the stone walls, warding off the chill that seeped through Harrenhal’s blackened stones.

The words spoke of charms and tokens, of age-old rituals whispered by the smallfolk who feared the unseen.

Marking doors with protective sigils or crosses to ward off malevolent forces. The purifying strength of salt, said to bar dark spirits and their ilk. Rowan wood, revered for its protective properties, best used when tied with crimson thread to seal its potency.

The hours crept by, measured by the slow guttering of candle wax. You read, forgetting the passage of time as the nightmare’s claws loosened their grip on your heart.

Knowledge was your weapon now, and you wielded it with the silent promise that neither you nor Aemond would fall victim to powers unknown.

The day’s first light spilled through the high, narrow windows, a pale and hesitant glow that bled into the room and painted the bookshelves in muted gold.

It was the day of the Stranger, seldom celebrated, yet you paid it no heed. Lost in the pages, you missed the bells that tolled the hour and forgot the warmth of your usual morning meal shared with Aemond.

When at last you closed the final volume, a resolve settled in your chest, resolute and unyielding. You would need these items—symbols of protection—and that meant venturing beyond the castle’s shadowed halls and out into the market.

The fur-lined cloak wrapped snug around you, guarding against the bitter drafts that swept through the corridors as you made your way back to your chambers.

As you reached the windows, a rare sight unfolded before your eyes—snow, soft and unrelenting, blanketing the bleak spires of Harrenhal.

Snow was a rarity in King’s Landing, seldom seen during your girlhood there. For a moment, untouched by fear or doubt, you felt the stir of childish wonder rise within you.

Three knights of the Kingsguard, their white cloaks pristine even in the snow, flanked you as you ventured to the market. The square bustled despite the cold, vendors calling out their wares with voices hoarse from the chill. Your list of protective items, hastily scrawled in the early hours, guided your every step.

Surprisingly, the rowan wood was easy to find, its branches bundled tightly with red thread as per custom.

Charms of polished crystal and talismans wrought from iron and bronze were procured with little effort, their sellers eager to part with them for a handful of silver stags.

The murmured blessings from the old crones at their stalls made the hair on the back of your neck prickle, but you pressed on, their eyes shadowed with both reverence and suspicion.

By the time the sun began its descent, casting a gilded glow over the snow-draped stones of Harrenhal, your arms were laden with your newfound protections. You returned to your chambers with purpose, setting to work immediately.

With meticulous care, you bound the red thread around the twigs of rowan wood and placed them above each entrance.

Salt, precious and fine, was spread across the thresholds, each grain catching the firelight like scattered stars.

With charcoal from your writing desk, you etched intricate symbols—wards against dark magics—onto the cold, unyielding stone walls.

But it was not just your own safety you sought to secure. For Aemond, you had combed the market for a piece both practical and protective. After much haggling, you procured a leather eyepatch, supple and black, unmarred by wear.

Returning to your chamber, you carefully stitched shards of black tourmaline into its edge, each piece glinting with a subtle, protective gleam. Your needlework was steady, each pull of the thread imbued with silent prayers.

Lost in your task, you barely noted the soft knock at your door or the maidservant who entered, setting a tray of supper on the table near the hearth.

The aroma of roasted fowl and warm bread wafted through the chamber, but your focus remained fixed.

As you worked by the fire's glow, the shadows that had haunted your waking hours seemed to lessen, replaced by the steady rhythm of thread and needle, and the quiet resolve that this time, you would be ready.

You were so absorbed in your needlework, fingers deftly stitching the dark crystals onto a supple leather patch, that the sudden clearing of a throat startled you. Your gaze snapped up, eyes wide with surprise as they met the cool, familiar face of Aemond Targaryen.

“Husband,” you said, breathless as you hastily hid the finished eye patch beneath a velvet pillow. Rising to your feet, you inclined your head, though your heart thudded with residual tension.

He stood tall and imposing in the dim glow, the silver-white of his hair catching the light like a crown. For a moment, the room felt smaller, as if the walls themselves pressed in with the weight of his presence.

“What brings you here?” you asked, voice touched with confusion and a hint of sharpness. Exhaustion dulled your sense of propriety, leaving the question more pointed than intended.

Aemond’s lone violet eye narrowed, an unreadable glimmer within its depths. “To have supper with you,” he replied, as if such a thing were the most natural answer in the realm.

Your eyes flickered to the table, where two silver plates now sat, the steam rising lazily from the dishes set by the silent servant moments before.

You pressed your lips into a thin line and sighed, murmuring, “I believe my invitation was for yesterday.”

A shadow of regret crossed his face, so brief that another might have missed it, but you saw. As you moved past him to take your seat, you caught the soft murmur that slipped from his lips, “I deserved that.”

Aemond followed and took his place across from you, the creak of the chair echoing in the quiet chamber. For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearthfire. His gaze settled on you, sharp and searching.

“I have not seen you at all today,” he said at last, the words carrying a hint of something that might have been longing, tempered by pride.

Your eyes dropped to your hands, fingers fiddling absently with the edge of your gown. Remorse pricked at your heart—you had broken your shared morning ritual, the one part of the day reserved just for the two of you.

“I was very busy,” you replied softly, the excuse feeling thin on your tongue.

Aemond’s expression remained unreadable as he tilted his head slightly. “I heard. Visits to the market square,” he said.

You hesitated, holding back the details of the charms, the salt, the ancient warding sigils you had traced with trembling hands. He would only deem you foolish or worse, mad.

“I needed fresh air.”

His eye narrowed, a flicker of displeasure passing over his sharp features. “It is too dangerous for one in your condition to wander beyond these walls,” he said, the admonishment clear, though his tone held an undercurrent of concern.

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with defiance. “That is why I took three of your White Cloaks,” you retorted, the fire in your voice matching the spark in his eye.

For a heartbeat, the tension crackled between you, the weight of unsaid words pressing down like a heavy cloak. Then, Aemond’s lips quirked, almost imperceptibly, as if some silent battle had been waged and resolved within him.

“Good,” he said at last, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “You are no fool, wife.”

The tautness in the room eased, and though unspoken, an accord was reached.

Aemond leaned forward, and placed a carved wooden box on the table between you. “I’ve brought you something,” he said, his voice a measured calm, yet there was an undercurrent of something softer. “An apology for last night.”

Your brows knit together, skepticism clear in your eyes. “My forgiveness cannot be bought with trinkets, husband,” you said, your tone edged with defiance. Yet even as you spoke, curiosity stirred within you.

One of his silver brows arched at your remark, and a small smile ghosted his lips. “Let us see if it is worthy,” you murmured, reluctant to give ground but unable to hide the intrigue that tugged at you.

With a careful hand, Aemond lifted the lid of the box, revealing a necklace of silver and sapphire. The deep blue stone glimmered like the sea under moonlight, capturing the room’s faint candle glow.

Your breath stilled for a moment, eyes tracing the intricate work of the silver links, each carved to mimic dragon scales.

Your fingertips brushed over the gem, the cool surface grounding you as warmth bloomed in your chest. Unbidden, a soft smile tugged at your lips, an expression so rare that even you felt its presence.

“Thank you, husband,” you whispered, your voice softened by genuine gratitude.

Aemond’s face shifted, pride flickering across his sharp features. There was something triumphant in his half-smirk that you could not allow him to savor unchallenged. You rose from your seat, skirts rustling as you moved.

“I, too, have a gift for you,” you said, your tone now light with a note of playfulness.

“Oh?” he replied, one silver eyebrow lifting in surprise, though the glint in his lone violet eye revealed his interest.

“Mm,” you hummed, stepping to the chaise where a small cushion lay. Your fingers slipped beneath it, retrieving the item hidden there. Turning back to him, a touch of shyness colored your expression, a rare sight that softened the lines of your face.

With both hands, you presented him with an eye patch, the black leather supple and embroidered with fine strands of broken tourmaline crystals, catching the dim light with a subtle shimmer.

Aemond took it, surprise giving way to careful scrutiny. His fingers traced the delicate work, the weight of the crystals and their arrangement thoughtful.

“Black tourmaline,” you said quietly, watching his gaze flick between you and the patch. “It is said to have powerful protective qualities.”

You hesitated, unwilling to speak of how it was also believed to ward against dark energies and unseen dangers—of how it might shield him from threats both known and hidden.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words. Aemond’s mouth quirked into a faint smile, rare and genuine. “Thank you, wife. 'Tis a very thoughtful gift,” he said, voice low and sincere.

A moment passed, and you froze in silent shock as Aemond reached up to remove the eye patch he wore. Of course, you had seen what lay beneath—the striking sapphire set into the hollow of his missing eye—but Aemond was never keen on showing it.

In King’s Landing, he would only take it off moments before sleep and replace it the moment he awoke.

Before he could put on the new eye patch, you placed a hand over his arm. “You know you don’t have to wear it around me, yes? I have no issue with it, and you should not either.”

Aemond stared at you for a long moment, his nostrils flaring slightly. For a heartbeat, you feared you had overstepped, but then he nodded, leaving both eye patches on the table.

A small, victorious smile touched your lips as you felt the weight of this unspoken understanding between you. “Allow me to have the maids bring us some dessert,” you said, the tension lifting.

Aemond nodded, his gaze lingering on you as you turned to the doors.

Stepping into the corridor, you quickly found a maid and requested something sweet to be brought to your chambers. When you returned, your heart faltered at the sight before you. Aemond stood at your desk, his tall frame hunched slightly as he leaned over an open book—your journal.

Panic surged within you, and you strode forward, slamming the book shut with a sharp motion. “What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice sharper than intended, eyes wide with both shock and alarm.

Aemond straightened, holding the closed journal in his hand. His expression was unreadable, though his eye bore into you with quiet intensity. “What is this?” he asked evenly, tilting the book slightly for emphasis.

“My private journal,” you answered quickly, reaching for it, but he lifted it just out of your grasp, his superior height giving him the advantage. “Give it back, husband. It is mine.”

Aemond’s voice was steady but carried an undertone of something raw, almost fragile. “Then why,” he began, his eye fixed on you, ignoring your protests, “do you write to our babe?” There was an ache in his tone, a depth of emotion he hadn’t yet voiced.

The question caught you unprepared, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your skirts, and your shoulders sagged as you avoided his penetrating gaze. “In case,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips.

“In case of what?” he pressed, his voice low and edged with a demand for understanding.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could uncover your secrets by sheer will. Unable to face him, you closed your eyes and let out a shaky sigh. “In case I’m not there,” you admitted at last, the words barely audible, like a confession carried on the wind.

Aemond’s brows drew together, confusion shadowing his features. “What do you mean if you’re not—” He stopped mid-sentence, his breath catching as realization dawned. The tension in his posture shifted, his shoulders falling ever so slightly. “…There.”

His sharp features softened, a rare vulnerability settling over his face. “Women do survive the childbed,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, as though he feared the weight of his words might shatter you.

“Not every time,” you countered, your tone edged with resignation. “And there’s also… that choice.” Your voice broke on the last word, and you felt the tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire. Then, with a tenderness that made your heart ache, Aemond reached out and cupped your cheek.

His touch was warm, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as he tilted your face toward him, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“There can be more babes,” he said softly, his words a promise etched with fierce determination, “but there is only one you.”

His eye, a storm of violet and sapphire, held yours with such intensity that you felt as though he was laying his very soul bare. A tear escaped and traced down your cheek, but Aemond caught it with his thumb, his touch steady, grounding you in the moment.

“I would not choose otherwise,” he said firmly, the weight of his vow lingering in the air between you. “Not for all the heirs in the realm.”

Your lips trembled as you whispered, “You swear?”

“I swear it,” he replied, his voice low and resolute. “I will not lose my wife.”

The ache in your chest eased slightly, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a shield. You placed your hand over his, pressing it gently against your cheek.

With a soft breath, you tilted your head upward, letting your lips meet his in a gentle caress. The kiss was tender at first, a quiet exchange of affection that carried the weight of your unspoken fears and his unyielding promise.

Aemond responded eagerly, his lips pressing more firmly against yours as his hand slid from your cheek to cradle the nape of your neck.

His other hand found your waist, gripping you firmly as he pulled you closer, as if the mere thought of distance was unbearable. His tongue brushed against your lips, seeking entrance, and you granted it willingly.

As his tongue met yours, the kiss deepened, a slow, fervent dance that sent warmth coursing through your veins. A soft moan escaped your lips, and you felt his grip on your waist tighten in response, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown.

Your hands moved up his chest, tracing the hard planes of muscle beneath his tunic, before curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself.

The world around you faded, leaving only the press of his body against yours, the taste of him on your lips, and the heat that built between you like the fire crackling in the hearth.

When the kiss broke, it was with a reluctance that lingered in the air between you. Your breaths came in shallow pants as you gazed up at him through hooded lashes, the corners of your lips curving into a teasing smile.

“My love,” you purred, your voice sultry and laced with affection, “you’ve left me wanting… again.”

Aemond’s gaze darkened, the stormy hue of his violet eye smoldering with barely restrained desire. “Have I now?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Then it seems I must remedy that, wife.”

You guided his hands lower, to the swell of your belly, then further down to the hem of your nightgown. “Will you show me how much you desire me?” you asked, your voice a sultry whisper. “Make me forget everything but the feel of you inside me...”

A low growl rumbled in Aemond's throat as his hands moved beneath your gown, fingers tracing the curves of your swollen belly before dipping lower to find the damp heat of your core.

“You have no idea how often I dreamt of this,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “Of burying myself deep within you, feeling your walls clench around me...”

With a swift motion, he lifted the hem of your nightgown and pulled it over your head, throwing it aside, revealing your naked form.

His gaze devoured every inch of you, from the full breasts that rose and fell with each ragged breath, to the soft, rounded hips and the glistening folds of your sex.

“Tell me what you want, my queen,” he commanded, his voice husky with desire.

A shiver ran through you at Aemond's bold appraisal, your nipples hardening into tight peaks as his hungry gaze seared your skin. You reached for the fastenings of his breeches, your fingers fumbling with urgency to free his straining erection.

“I want you,” you murmured, your voice low, thick with a desire that lingered like a soft melody in the air. Your eyes never left his, the depth of your longing laid bare in the way your breath hitched.

Aemond’s violet gaze darkened, the flicker of a smirk ghosting his lips. His head tilted ever so slightly, a predator’s grace, as though savoring your words before acting upon them.

You took a step back, your movements slow and deliberate, your footsteps light against the floor as you inched toward the bed. The flicker of the firelight cast a warm glow across the room, the shadows dancing across the carved posts of the bed.

As you reached its edge, you let yourself fall gracefully onto the soft mattress, your body sinking into the luxurious furs and silks. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you gazed at him through lowered lashes, a sly smile curving your lips.

“You beckon me so boldly,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet drawl, the faintest edge of amusement laced within it. “Have a care, wife, for I am not a man to resist such temptation.”

Aemond watched, transfixed, as you sank onto the bed, the mattress creaking under your weight. His cock throbbed in time with his racing heart, the tip already glistening with precum.

He shed his clothes the rest of the way, letting them fall carelessly to the floor as he stalked towards you, muscles rippling with each step. By the time he reached the bed, he was fully erect, his shaft jutting proudly from a nest of silver curls.

Lying beside you, he reached out to cup your breast, thumbing the sensitive peak before leaning in to capture your mouth in another searing kiss.

His free hand trailed over your round stomach, pausing to tease the edge of your slit before delving deeper, fingers probing your slick folds.

“You're so wet for me already.”

You gasped into the kiss as Aemond's fingers found your entrance, your hips bucking instinctively to meet his touch. “Please,” you whimpered, breaking away from his mouth to gaze up at him with pleading eyes. “I need you inside me. Fill me up, make me yours again.”

As if sensing your desperation, Aemond positioned himself between your thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging insistently at your opening. With a deep groan, he thrust forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

You cried out at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure-pain crashed over you. It took a moment for your body to adjust, to relax and welcome the thick length filling you so completely.

Aemond's breath hitched as he bottomed out inside you, your velvety walls gripping him like a vice. For a moment, he simply savored the exquisite sensation, reveling in the tight heat enveloping his throbbing cock.

Then, with a slow, deliberate withdrawal, he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, setting a relentless pace.

The bed frame creaked ominously beneath the force of his thrusts, but Aemond paid it no mind, lost in the primal rhythm of rutting his mate.

“Yes, just like that,” he growled, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. “Take my cock, my queen.”

You wrapped your legs around Aemond's waist, heels digging into his firm behind as he pounded into you with wild abandon.

Each brutal thrust sent shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your veins, your inner walls fluttering wildly around his pistoning shaft.

“Aemond!” You wailed, your nails raking down his back as you met his ferocious pace.

The obscene slap of flesh against flesh filled the room, punctuated by my wanton cries and Aemond's guttural grunts. You could feel the pressure building within you, coiling tighter and tighter like a spring ready to snap.

Suddenly, you were hurtling over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name as your cunt clenched rhythmically around him, milking his cock for all it was worth.

Aemond's eye rolled back in his head as your velvet sheath spasmed around him, your climax triggering his own. With a hoarse groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came undone, his seed erupting in thick, pulsing jets.

He continued to thrust through the aftershocks, prolonging your shared bliss until he was spent, collapsing beside you with a grunt. For a long moment, the two of you lay entwined, chests heaving as you struggled to catch your breath.

The chamber was awash with the warmth of the firelight and the quiet hum of your contentment. As you lay entwined, your bodies barely a breath apart, your gaze lingered on Aemond’s face.

His sharp features, so often hardened by duty and war, were softened now, his violet eye fixed on you with a tenderness rarely seen.

Your noses brushed lightly, a quiet intimacy, as his hand rested possessively over your waist while yours splayed across his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.

Almost as if drawn by a spell, he leaned forward, pressing a feather-light kiss to your lips, a gesture so gentle it felt like a whispered promise. When he pulled away, he settled back onto the pillow beside you, his arm still wrapped protectively around you.

You shifted, nestling closer, your head finding solace in the crook of his neck. Your hand lay over his heart, its steady rise and fall a soothing cadence that began to lull you into slumber.

His breathing slowed, each exhale a soft brush against your hair, and soon, the quiet comfort of his presence drew you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

But the peace did not last.

You jolted awake, startled by the sudden thrashing of Aemond’s body beside you. His face, so serene moments ago, was now contorted in anguish, his brow slick with sweat.

His breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps, and his hands clenched the sheets as if warding off some unseen terror.

Your heart clenched at the sight. He had spoken little of his nightmares, but you knew they haunted him—a torment born of battles fought, losses endured, and burdens carried.

Pushing yourself up, you moved with as much haste as your swollen belly would allow, the weight of your pregnancy slowing you only slightly.

Grabbing the robe draped over the chair, you wrapped it around yourself, its soft fabric barely warding off the chill of the room as you padded toward the small table where you had placed your new goods.

Your hands rummaged through the items with purpose, your fingers finally curling around a small vial. You held it up, peering at its contents even in the dim light. The faint, familiar scent already began to calm your racing heart.

Lavender oil.

You returned to the bed, the vial clutched firmly in your grasp. As you sat beside him, Aemond's thrashing began to subside, though his breaths were still ragged, and his jaw clenched tightly.

Carefully, you uncorked the vial, the soothing aroma of lavender wafting into the room. You poured a small amount onto your hands, warming the oil between your palms before leaning over him.

With gentle, deliberate movements, you began to anoint his temples, your touch light yet firm as you traced small, calming circles.

The oil left a faint sheen on his skin, its scent filling the space between you. "Aemond," you whispered softly, your voice low and steady, a tether pulling him back from the depths of his nightmare.

His breathing began to slow, the tension in his body easing under your ministrations. You moved to his wrists, massaging the oil into his pulse points, your hands steady despite the ache blooming in your lower back.

“You are safe,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his ear. “I am here.”

You whispered a silent prayer under your breath, invoking the gods for protection and peace. Your gaze stayed fixed on him, your heart clenching as you watched his features begin to soften, the tension melting away.

You held your breath, waiting. When his form finally stilled, his breathing evening out, you let out a soft sigh of relief. The lavender and your quiet vigil had worked.

Exhaustion weighed heavily upon you, and you slid back into bed beside him, pulling the covers over the both of you. But just as you were about to lay your head against Aemond’s chest, you froze.

A chill ran down your spine, and the hairs on your arms stood on end as an inexplicable sensation swept over you.

You were being watched.

Your eyes darted to the chamber doors, which you now noticed were slightly ajar. Beyond them, barely visible in the darkness, you caught the faint glimmer of glowing green eyes.

Your heart raced, a primal fear coursing through you. The air seemed to thicken, heavy with an unseen presence.

But you steadied yourself, your breathing slowing as you reminded yourself of the protections you had set in place earlier that day.

You had taken every precaution, warding the chamber with runes and incantations, ensuring that no ill intent could cross its threshold. Alys Rivers might wield her strange gifts, but she would not claim Aemond—not without a fight.

With a courage you hadn’t known you possessed, you tightened your arms around Aemond’s sleeping form, drawing strength from the warmth of his body against yours. Lifting your chin, you stared directly into the glowing eyes, refusing to show weakness.

“I won’t let you have him,” you whispered fiercely, your voice a low, steady vow. “Not without a fight, witch.”

For a moment, the air seemed to hold its breath. The green eyes lingered for a moment longer, unblinking and cold, before retreating into the darkness.

Only when the oppressive feeling lifted did you allow yourself to exhale. A trembling sigh escaped your lips as you lowered your head, nestling into Aemond’s chest. His heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear, became a soothing rhythm, lulling you out of your fear.

As the night enveloped you once more, you clung to him, your resolve unshaken. Whatever forces sought to disturb your peace, you would face them.

For Aemond, for your babe, for the family you were building together—you would fight.

Hope You Enjoyed!

#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x you #aemond targaryen smut

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gghostwriter · 2 months ago

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Time is a Fickle Thing

Girl Dad!Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer realizes how important it is to occupy the present and be active in the little things Trope: Fluff & Comfort w.c: 1.48k a/n: this was inspired by an essay I read over the week titled ‘Learning to Measure time in Love & Loss’ by Chris Huntington. It’s very profound so I would suggest you go read it—Andrew Garfield also read it on the podcast called ‘Modern Love’ so go listen to that too. Not proofread. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

There was still an array of paperwork to be done in his desk at Quantico. Case files that needed to be written down and reviewed by his unit chief, Emily.

The past Dr. Spencer Reid—the one who was still wet behind the ears and green in the eyes of his team members, would have found the droll of filling out forms therapeutic. But now at his age of 40, everything else—typing out information and grading essays, were chores that demanded his every waking attention. He had found himself agitated with the looming workload that seemed never ending.

“Daddy,” a sweet voice murmured beside him. The source—a small body nestling closer to his side.

He hummed in reply, absentmindedly as his brain was preoccupied with estimating how many hours he needed to finish checking submissions in lieu of sleep.

Tiny hands patted his cheeks. “Daddy,” the sweet voice now coated with a hint of urgency.

Spencer’s hazel eyes locked with a pair of replicas. “Yes, Aurora?”

“What happens next?”

Shaking his head, he glanced down at her choice for a bedtime story, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and realized it was the end of a chapter. Reading together was a sacred ritual he formed ever since he had found out you were pregnant.

It made you giggle when you pointed out that she, still a fetus cocooned safely in your body, would not understand the works of The Giving Tree or The Rainbow Fish. He rattled of statistics that although she couldn’t understand the meaning, she could still hear quite well.

In truth, he wanted her to know him—his voice, his presence. Her father who was quite scared to bring in an innocent into the world.

Still, scared even.

Her pink bottom lip jutting out into a frown, reminiscent of the ‘look’ his wife gives to him that renders him speechless and pliable to demands.

It was fascinating how you and him created such a perfect combination—a seven year old daughter who was into reading, as he was, and confident, as you were.

“Daddy, what happens next?”

The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. The look of exasperation on her tiny face was adorable.

Everything about her was captivating.

“Well, sweet pea,” he began to close the book. “That would be a story for another night.”

“But—”

“Remember what we promised?”

She sighed, gripping her white bunny—a gift from Aunt Penelope, closer. “One chapter only.”

“That’s right,” tucking the stray tendrils away from her angelic face.

As he started to stand up from his precarious lying position on her gingham patterned bed, Aurora’s tiny warm hands gave his sleeves a double tug.

“You’re forgetting something, Daddy.”

He leaned in to give her forehead a kiss.

“Is that it?” He teased.

She giggled, her feet kicking under the covers. “No!”

Brushing his fingers behind her neck—her tickle spot that matched yours. “What about this one?”

Aurora squealed, her infectious happy energy warming his heart. She was a treasure and he felt blessed to be considered her father.

“Stop Daddy, stop!” She sat up, hands crossing over her chest to state she meant business.

Spencer conceded, showing his hands in front of him—a sign of surrender. If she was standing, he could just imagine her little foot stomping on the ground and taking in a wide stance she learned from observing Uncle Morgan.

“Mommy always said you never forget anything,” she argued. “She said you have an ei-eid—perfect memory.”

“Eidetic memory, Aurora, and yes, mommy is right.”

She tilted her head then, her wavy hazel hair swaying behind her. “Then how come you don’t remember?”

“How about giving me a clue then?”

She huffed. “Best part, worst part, Daddy! You forgot to ask me!”

Oh.

That was another ritual he added when Aurora started to learn how to string words along. Although there were nights away from a case that he could not read to her, he always made it a point to ask her via call the best and worst part of her day. It made him feel connected with her even though he was miles away.

“Oh how could I forget, sweet pea,” Spencer sat back on the bed, tucking her back as he went. “Now, can I know what your worst part is?”

She went silent for a moment. Deep in thought, brows scrunching together.

“When Mommy didn’t allow me to wear my new rain boots to school. She said it’s because it wasn’t raining but I really wanted to wear them.”

He laughed, having heard of the small disagreement you had which made you late for work. “We only wear rain boots when the weather is sad, remember?”

Aurora nodded.

“And what about the best part?”

She smiled, the answer quickly spilling out of her. “This is, Daddy.”

Spencer could feel the effect her simple words had to his system. It warmed his heart that expanded for two when she came into the world. It put a halt to any train of thought in his brain.

“Want to know a secret?” He whispered. “This is mine too.”

Tiny hands rubbed her drooping eyes before further nestling in her bed. “Good night, Daddy. I love you.”

He slowly crept out of the room.

“I love you too,” he flicked the light off and closed the door behind him.

Spencer found himself repeating those words and slowly lamenting over missed milestones in her burgeoning life.

Her first steps.

Her first tooth falling out.

Her latest family presentation in school in which you recorded her explaining where he was and what he does for a living—catching bad guys.

In his focused dedication in trying to make the country a better place for her future, Spencer had forgotten to appreciate the present, her growth, and the very notion that time could not be reversed to live the mundane things that make everyday worth living.

Aristotle once said ‘time crumbles things; everything grows old under the power of time and is forgotten through the lapse of time.’

It was a concept he was familiar with by the ripe age of nine, having spent his early youth in isolation and soaking up every thinking thought from the great minds that had roamed this planet before him.

He never forgot the words—not that his memory would allow him to.

And yet, as he found himself sitting on his desk, a cup of fresh tea in front of him, the phrase came to surface like a forgotten pair of lucky socks hidden within the depths of a cabinet.

Perhaps it was his heart that kept it hidden or better yet forgotten, a feat on its own. Perhaps during his tender age, he had yet sculpted the capacity to digest what it meant to his very soul.

Or perhaps, it was a sign from the unknown to focus and live in the present.

She was growing and becoming her very own person right before his unfocused eyes.

Spencer sighed, feeling a pair of arms glide to wrap around his shoulders.

“What’s got you so down, handsome?” You left a kiss on his cheek.

He intertwined your hands together. “It’s just—I missed out on so many milestones. Does that make me an absentee father?”

You walked around him before propping yourself on his lap. “I don’t think so, Spence. Why? What brought this on?”

“I found myself thinking about work when I should be focused on spending time—reading to Aurora. It made me feel sad that she was looking forward to our nightly routine and there I was, thinking about paperwork.”

There was a flash of sadness in your eyes as you caressed his cheek. “That’s alright. We all have our moments, Spence. You just got caught up with life and the responsibilities it has given you,” a lithe finger twisted a loose tendril blocking hos vision. “I know—we know, Aurora and I, that you being busy doesn’t mean you love us any less.”

“I just wish I wouldn’t miss anymore, love.”

You trailed kisses all over his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, before landing perfectly on his awaiting lips. “And I know you’d try your best moving forward.”

“Have I told you I love you?” He teased, arms securely on your waist. “Because I do and I feel lucky to have an understanding partner as you.”

“I love you too, Spence, and Aurora loves you too,” you giggled. “And between you and me, I think you’re still her favorite parent.”

Head thrown back, he laughed, thighs shaking from your admission. “It’s because I cave more to her whims more than you do.”

“Well, there’s that too.”

You gave him another kiss.

“We can try to be more present next time—together. I won’t let you doubt yourself. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

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emeritusemeritus · 4 months ago

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Charming Witches [Fred Weasley]

Title: Charming Witches [Fred Weasley]

Pairing: PregnantWife!Reader x Fred Weasley, background Hermione X Ron.

Timeline: Set after canon (Fred lives!)

Summary: Ron has an embarrassing issue and unluckily for him, Fred is the only one that can help.

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, babies, established relationships. Sexual references throughout. Fred has a bit of a breeding kink- shock. Just a silly little drabble I couldn’t get out of my mind. Fred is a bit mean and sarcastic to Ron.

Word count: 1.6k

"You're, you know... well, sort of, um."

"You'll get there eventually Ronald," Fred jokes with a straight face, half listening to his brother's whispered fumbles whilst he pours himself and his wife a drink, not bothering to offer his youngest brother one. If Fred had even bothered to look at Ron's face, he'd have seen he was as pink in the cheeks as a bottle of love potion, his blush so vivid that he looked ready to erupt with a face full of dragon pox any moment.

Ron clears his throat, trying again, as he casts a nervous glance around the Burrow's kitchen, checking no one was hearing this. He didn't know why he'd chosen Fred of all people to have this conversation with, in theory George would have been a much better choice but he didn't have the same 'qualifications' as his twin, seeing that you and Fred had been together for absolutely years.

"Well, umm," he freezes under Fred's quick but glance, silently telling him to spit it out. "Well you and y/n, you're in sync aren't you... Sexually?"

Whatever Fred was expecting to hear eventually tumble out of his brother's mouth was not even close to the reality and he can't stop his eyebrows from shooting halfway up his forehead instinctively in disbelief.

"Did my very pregnant wife give it away?" He snarks, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of the beer he'd poured, openly enjoying the discomfort his brother was radiating. "That might have been your first clue."

Ron somehow looks paler underneath all the blushing and Fred is revelling in his ability to make his brother squirm.

"Well, yeah I suppose," Ron mumbles, beginning to get defensive and deeply regretting opening up to the trickier twin.

"Calm down Ronald," Fred says, "you and Granger having bedroom troubles?"

"No!" Ron bites back a little too quickly but his resolve breaks under a few seconds of Fred's probing gaze, arms folded in an unconscious power stance. "Maybe."

He's quiet again for a few moments and Fred is uncharacteristically patient whilst he waits for Ron to collect his thoughts.

"How many times would you say is normal, like in a week?"

"Don't know if there's a 'normal' Ronniekins," Fred says with a shrug. "Most days and twice on a Sunday?"

Though he hides it this time, Fred revels in the look of utter horror Ron's eyes convey and it's like he can see the cogs in his brain working on overdrive, emitting smoke as they crumble and break. Evidently, his answer was light years away from what Ron had hoped for. He knows that his wife being ready to pop at any second only helps Ron believe his words and he mentally thanks Godric Gryffindor himself for the overly fortunate timing.

"Don't think it matters mate really; as long as you're both expecting about the same." This time, Fred actually thinks he's being reassuring.

"She just wants to read all the bloody time, even in bed! It's like I'm a bloody afterthought."

"Have you even met your girlfriend?"

This time it's Fred who pauses when he meets the icy glare of his younger brother. He sighs and a slightly awkward silence falls between the pair as they both try to think of how to fix whatever was going on in Ron's mind, hoping that two head were better than one.

"You two alright?"

Ron jumps out of his skin when he hears your slightly concerned greeting upon seeing the two brothers, Fred especially, in near silence.

"Don't tell me you forgot I was here," you joke to Ron, walking over to Fred as he holds out your waiting drink. "Been your sister in law for five years! Plus the bump makes me pretty memorable," you add with a smile.

"I'll say," Fred says with a wink, the cheeky glint in his eyes ever more sparkling as he looks at your bulging tummy, unashamedly ogling your pregnant form. You gently nudged him, silently telling him to be quiet but as you do so, you catch a slightly glare aimed at your husband from Ron.

"Am I interrupting? " You ask outright, sensing tension.

"No," says Fred almost immediately.

"A bit," Ron admits, cringing slightly before he lets out a loud yelp, having been smacked upside the back of the head by his older brother for his disrespect. He grumbles slightly under his breath, absently rubbing the back of his head where Fred's hand had connected to him and let's put a deep sigh.

"You're a girl," he says, averting his eyes anywhere except directly on your own.

Fred snickers at Ron's feeble and clumsy attempt at starting the conversation but opts to take a long swig of his beverage to avoid anymore laughter spilling out, though his delight still shines through his eyes.

"Only when it's not a full moon," you jest, trying to slice through the awkwardness Ron is emitting.

"Forget it, you're as bad as he is."

"Firstly I'm offended," you say, reaching out for his arm gently as you feel his begin to pull away, ignoring your husband's opposition. "Secondly, yes I'm a girl... go on."

"Well," he pauses, gathering courage, long ginger lashes covering his shy eyes that still raise no further than your ankles, "say Fred suddenly didn't want sex."

"Wouldn't happen."

"Fred shush."

"Well... say suddenly he wanted to read at nighttime over having sex."

"Again, wouldn't happen."

"Fred!" You hush him again, this time more firmly.

"How would you go about trying to, you know, fix it."

You were certain you'd never seen Ron this vividly pink in the cheeks before, he looked like he'd been decorated up to display in Umbridge's office.

"That's the problem? Hermione wants to read instead of sex?" You ask, not really seeing the big issue, but trying to say it gently so that you didn't spook him.

He nods, "but it's all the time," he adds, justifying his gripe.

"Well," you say, lowering yourself into Arthur's seat at the head of the kitchen table only a few feet away, unable to stand much longer. "Play her at her own game."

"Eh?" The brothers ask in sync, their faces scrunched into an almost identical confused expression. You simply shrug.

"Make yourself less available to her, pull back a bit," you say, taking a sip of your drink to wet your lips. "Start reading in bed just like she does, act like you're not interested in just sex."

"So I act like I'm not bothered even though I am?" He asks, still not following what you're saying.

"Sort of," you say, trying to find a better way of wording it.

"Reading's always been her favourite thing to do hasn't it? Join in on it. I'd bet on my life that she has a fantasy of you in bed shirtless reading beside her. Stop making advances, let her come to you."

"That's actually quite clever," he says after a few moments of consideration.

"It's been known."

"Shirtless?" He asks with a frown, seemingly fixating on that point.

You chuckle nodding, "well you have to still appeal to her, you don't want it to just be a study session do you?"

"Right, right," he says with a nod, a slight smile returning to his face before it dramatically falls away in an almost comedic move.

"I don't have a book."

"What do you mean you don't have a book?" Fred says in a flabbergasted manner, earning a slight but unconscious raise of your eyebrow. Though you didn't comment on the irony of his words considering you couldn't remember the last time you'd seen him so much as skim the daily prophet.

"I don't really have one," Ron mumbles quietly, "unless my quidditch annual counts."

"It doesn't," you say firmly.

"So I need a book," Ron says firmly, as if he was cementing the plan in his mind, nodding along with his thoughts until he finally makes eye contact. "Thanks y/n," he says with a smile and a nod of his head before he walks away, a bounce in his step.

"Think it's actually gonna work?" Fred asks as you pry yourself out of the chair and walk to stand next to him as you place your empty cup in the sink.

You let out a little chortle and shrug, "well if it doesn't, at least Hermione can read in peace."

Laughter bursts out of Fred and he pulls you close, bump nestled between you as he delights in your words, realising you had absolutely no idea if the plan would work.

Later that evening when everyone was preparing to leave the Burrow after another wonderful family dinner, Ron pulls you and Fred to one side before he left, away from the eyes and ears of everyone else.

"Thanks again for earlier," he says, clearly feeling more at ease about his issue. You smile warmly in reply, happy to help.

"No problem little brother," Fred beams, as if it was him that had offered any advice.

"Oi Ron," you call out quietly to get his attention as he turns to leave. With a smile, you reach down into the bag on your shoulder and pull out an item you'd gleefully searched for in Fred and George's old bedroom after the conversation. "Just incase my advice doesn't work."

Ron frowns reaching for the item you were handing him, a frown that only deepens as he reads the title of the book he was now holding. Fred's laughter is sudden and booming as his eyes land on the once familiar item that had him cracking up laughing, realising instantly what it was.

Twelve fail-safe ways to charm witches.

"Oh piss off."

Taglist part 1

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#emeritusemeritus #emeritusemerituswrites #harry potter #fred weasley #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley masterlist

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aliesbienish · 3 months ago

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Hi!! I was wondering if you could please write a Paul x reader where the reader is super pregnant and is hungry all the time and eats the most random stuff and the pack teases her about it until Paul puts his foot down and tells them to back off

Thank you! I’m really enjoying the study of wolves🤍

Hi lovely anon, thank you for this sweet request - I had a lot of fun writing it. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do x

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Recipe for Pack

There was no doubt who this baby belonged to, even in the womb. Since a few months into your pregnancy you’d been insatiably hungry, snacking continuously. Paul had always been the same, of course his excuse was his shifting. Unfairly that meant he got super hearing and strength while you needed to pee constantly and had nausea that rudely didn’t limit itself to the morning. So constant eating wasn’t an issue, it was the cravings that were becoming a hassle.

Paul, being a secret softie, had tried to cater to your every whim. Whether it was chocolate covered zucchini’s or melted cheese topped ice cream, he kept the judgement to a minimum. However these odd cravings did often lead to late night trips to the nearest 24 hour store located in Forks, a forty minute round trip. One particularly bad evening had him chauffeuring you 70 miles at 3am to Port Angeles, purely for a a chocolate milkshake and fries that got dipped into it. It was a miracle the machine wasn't broken.

But while Paul was nothing but accomodating, it couldn't always be said for the rest of his pack mates. Eating a hot dog with raspberry jam caused Jared to make vomiting noises. Adding leftover mash potato to a smore prompted Quil to question whether you needed a visit to a psychologist. Even sweetheart Seth made a quip that your cravings seemed like ingredients to a witches potion. Which was probably fair, as you munched on a buttered bread covered with rosemary.

But one comment, made sitting around Emily and Sam's dinning table took it too far.

Sitting with what to you seemed like a delightful combination of peanut butter and hot sauce bagels topped with orange slices, it was enough to elicit a groan.

"This seems to be getting way beyond normal now. I'm beginning to wonder if you are actually having these cravings or if you just like to make everyone else uncomfortable!" Jacob declared jokingly, but with your out of control emotions it was enough to stop you mid bite and feel shame.

"Right? I think next she'll just eat straight from the trash, it's not like she is far off!" Laughed Quil, causing laughter around the table.

Your eyes watered as you choked out "I'm sorry,"

"No, don't you dare apologise." Paul stated, gently placing his hands on your shoulders. "It's these morons who have no right to be teasing you." Turning to address the pack he gave them a hard stare. "You are all being absolute dicks. She's trying to survive extreme changes to her body, something we should be particularly understanding about, but instead your being rude and judgemental. If you all don't get your shit together and start being supportive then I will absolutely see if beating some sense into you in wolf form will help the process,"

The next evening you were all once again sitting around the dining table. The pack, showing their support, were all eating your newest and rather tame craving - chocolate covered bacon.

Sam got everyones attention and raised his fork in a toast "To our newest pack member,". The rest of the pack raised their own cutlery and echoed the sentiment.

This time the tears in your eyes were from happiness.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

#twilight x reader #twilight fanfiction #twilight #twilight imagine #paul lahote x reader #paul x reader #paul lahote imagine #paul lahote fanfic #paul lahote

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fandomnerd9602 · 9 months ago

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Y/N cuddles with Wanda on their bed…

Y/N: can I touch your belly?

Wanda: (giggles) it’s your baby too, detka

Y/N: I know. But you’re your own person and I didn’t want to infringe on your space

Wanda: I’d be more insulted if you didn’t touch my belly (giggles)

Y/N: oh alright

Y/N gently caresses Wanda’s pregnant belly. The babies kick…

Y/N nuzzles Wanda, conveying every ounce of love they can give…

#marvel #marvel imagine #marvel fluff #mcu #mcu imagine #mcu fandom #marvel incorrect quotes #incorrect marvel quotes #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #the scarlet witch #scarlet witch #wanda maximoff incorrect quotes #pregnant wanda #wandavision #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda x y/n

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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 6 months ago

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What is Broken IV (Aemond Targaryen x Pregnant Wife!Reader) FINALE

The war, the "Dance of the Dragons," as they have come to call it, is over. And yet, you are not celebrating. You have just learned that your husband, Prince Aemond, spent the last months of the war with another woman in his bed. Not only that, but his mistress is pregnant. Just like you...

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N), side Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers

Warnings: traumatic childbirth, blood, semi-suicidal thoughts, Aemond is fantasizing about murder again, all the angst

Point of View: Limited third person omniscient

Author's Note: I don't understand why, but thanks so much for all the support I've gotten from this horribly angsty fic! This is my first go at angst so I really appreciate it. I'm gonna work on two happy-ish fic chapters before I get started on When It Breaks, but it's coming...

And a huge, enourmous thanks to @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ripdragonbeans for being my betas for this! I was so anxious about getting this absolutely right and they were so kind and encouraging. Love yall forever 💜💜💜

Taglist is done via reblogs

Series Masterlist

What is Broken

She was so light, his ābrazȳrītsos.

Even while carrying their children – their sons – Aemond swore she was lighter than when he left. He held her close to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder and her legs draped over his forearm. With every step, he could feel more of the liquid that had spilled from her womb - now mixed with small, hateful tendrils of blood - dampening his sleeve.

Gods, how much blood had he seen in the past year? How much had he spilled himself? There had even been times when he reveled in its metallic tang. But the sight of her blood was nothing less than abhorrent.

He ran faster, until he could not make out the faces of those he passed, shouting for a Maester to be sent to their chambers immediately. One of them must be a servant. With luck, the Maester would already be there when they arrived.

She cried out as he began to ascend the stairs, wincing with each step, her weak grip on him tightening. “It hurts, Aemond.”

“I know, my love.” He slowed down, though his pounding heart urged him to do just the opposite. “I’m so sorry. The maester will be here soon, and he’ll help you feel better, hmm?”

“He has to stop it. It’s too early,” her voice cracked, and Aemond’s heart with it. “They’re not ready!”

But it couldn’t be stopped, not by man or gods. Their children would be born today. The only question was whether they would survive. If their mother would survive. Her poor body was so weak, and her heart… he had broken that, too.

If any of them died today, that blood would be on his hands, and he would gladly accept his damnation to the worst of the seven hells.

“Come now,” he chided gently as they reached the corridor to their chambers. “Our sons are dragons – they will be strong. And so will you, ābrazȳrītsos.”

“Sons?” She lifted her head, her entire body trembling with the effort it took. Her eyes – those beautiful eyes now gilded by the setting sun outside the windows – locked with his. “How… you sound so sure.”

Just one more lie. One more, and then he would never lie to her again.

Besides, this lie was small, nearly inconsequential. Many fathers insisted that their children would be sons until the child itself proved them wrong. It would be so easy for her to believe. The truth would hurt her – perhaps weaken her further. Aemond did not want her to hear Alys’ name. She should never have to even think of that witch ever again.

But he could not bring himself to do it. He could not sully the birth of his sons with yet another lie. He pushed their door open with a shoulder, never breaking her gaze. “Alys told me after you left. Before… she had a vision of us holding our sons. I’m so sorry, love.”

She slumped again, her face dropping into the curve of his neck. Once, she kissed him there, slept with her head tucked there. Now, it was simply where her head lolled. “I’m glad it’s sons. You’ll have two heirs…”

Her words were cut short by a gasp of pain, but Aemond heard it clearly. It echoed in his very bones. So if I live, you’ll have no more need of me. The gods had just crumbled the ground beneath him, his heart and soul with it. He was falling, falling, falling…

“I am glad, too.” He set her down gently in the bed, brushing away several tangles of hair stuck to her sweaty brow before arranging the pillows around her, hoping he was adequately managing to hide his devastation. For he could not bear to be without her, could not bear to love her only from a distance. He would go mad. Yet he would happily accept that horrible fate if it meant he would not lose her to the Stranger. “Mother will be, as well.”

“Mother!” She tried to rise, but he held her softly to the bed. “I can’t do this without Mother, Aemond. We must return home immediately!”

“I am afraid that is not an option, Princess.” Maester Artos stood just within the doorway, maids and Septas streaming in behind him. He was a mountain of a man, better suited to the battlefield than the birthing bed. But he was good at what he did – very good. Aemond had seen him work miracles on men who should have never survived their injuries.

The moment the women began attending to his wife, he approached the Maester, speaking quietly so as not to frighten her. “Something is wrong, Artos, she is bleeding. And she’s very weak.”

Artos hardly acknowledged him, looking only at the princess lying in the bed. “The blood is not the problem. She is distressed and too thin.” He stated, as cold and clinical as all other Maesters.

“Yes, I know that already.” Aemond took a shaky, calming breath. He did not like the way Artos observed her, as if she was a thing to be studied rather than a woman – a princess. Perhaps when it was all over, he’d kill the man for it. “I fear she is not strong enough to survive this.”

She cried out behind them. Two maids were pressing damp cloths to her forehead. Another was hastily braiding her hair back. A Septa had begun cutting away her dress, leaving her only in her chemise as two more maids removed her slippers and stockings. Two other Septas knelt by the windows, praying, while one woman who seemed to be neither maid nor Septa laid metal and wood instruments atop a tall, thin table.

It took every ounce of Aemond’s self-control not to go to her. To shove away each woman because it should be him – and him alone – to touch his wife while she was so vulnerable. He should be the one to protect her, but he couldn’t. He could only hurt her, it seemed.

“Artos!” Aemond hissed.

“Is her spirit weak as well?” There was suspicion in his dark eyes. The same he’d shown when he confirmed Alys was carrying a child. If he hadn’t been so proficient a healer, Aemond might have killed him then.

But for now, Aemond was glad Artos was alive. He swallowed, avoiding looking back at the bed as his wife continued to whimper and moan. “Yes.” The maester just hummed before approaching the bed. Aemond followed, kneeling at the bedside, the maids immediately clearing away.

“This is Maester Artos, ābrazȳrītsos.” She stared wide-eyed at the hulking mass of the man who now knelt between her legs. Aemond tugged on her hand, her gaze snapping back to him. “I know him well. He’s going to take very good care of you, I promise.”

She shuddered, her eyes closed tight as she squeezed Aemond’s hand so hard he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. He delighted in it. She was not as weak as he thought, thank the gods. If she needed to break every bone in his hand – in his body – to live through this, he would let her do so without complaint.

“Are you going to stay with me?” she asked, her voice already ravaged by screaming.

Aemond blinked. When they first learned they were to have a child, he swore he would. But now, it seemed impossible for her to want him there. Not after what he’d done. “Do you… want me to stay?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out but another moan of pain. Her eyes darted all over his face. The longer she stayed silent, the further Aemond’s stomach dropped, and his heart ached.

“I believe it wise to have the prince wait outside,” Artos said decisively.

Aemond felt her hand slide out of his, the sensation the same as if he were falling from Vhagar’s back—her answer.

He nodded, and though he knew he shouldn’t, he leaned over her and kissed her forehead, trailing a hand down her cheek. “I love you.”

As he walked to the door, he still held a little shred of hope in his heart, waiting to hear her say it back.

It never came.

The moment the door shut behind Aemond, she regretted sending him away. She wanted to call him back so she wouldn’t be alone with so many strangers. But panic began to set in as the maids pulled her gently down the bed, and her voice failed her.

“It won’t be long now, princess,” the maester said, but she found no comfort in it. She couldn’t even remember his name. Alton? Alyn? Amos? Aemond had said he trusted him, but…

But that meant he had been here when Aemond was with Alys. And that glint of pity in his eyes, not just for her conditions, but for what he knew. He knew. Seven Hells, he’d probably been the one to care for Alys and her pregnancy.

Alys. Alys, Alys, fucking Alys!

She did not know what to think of the woman who had stolen so much from her. Had she stolen it, or had Aemond given it? She could hardly make sense of what she’d learned in that dreary little room.

Alys was not the evil, scheming witch she had first imagined. But neither was she innocent in the affair, not wholly. She was not remorseful for her actions, but she apologized for hurting her. She had been kind.

Blinding pain shot through her, and she screamed. Wordless and desperate, her only outlet for release. She needed to scream, needed to roar, needed to breathe fire. Anything to distract from this. Gods, she even wished for a moment for Alys to be there, holding her hand. At least then, she could return some of that pain.

“Princess,” the maester said, though he sounded far away. Though it was more likely that her shouting was drowning him out. “Very soon, I will ask that you push. Do you know how, your highness?”

Push. That’s what the septas had instructed Helaena to do at the birth of her twins and for Maelor. She even had vague memories of the word from when she peeked through the open door to her mother’s chambers when Daeron was born. But what it meant and how to do it?

Her confusion must have been apparent, for the maester continued. His voice was frustratingly calm and steady. “It is fine if you do not, princess. You must simply follow your instincts. When you feel the urge, push the child outward with all your might.”

“I have no might.” She heard herself laughing through tears and only then realized she was crying. Someone took her hand – she didn’t know who. But the feeling of another’s skin on hers was heavenly.

“You have carried these babes for months,” the maester – Artos! that was his name – said gently, “while your husband and the realm were at war. In my estimation, you are the mightiest woman in Westeros.”

She felt nearly every muscle she had tense, turning her answering grateful smile into a grimace. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have weathered her pregnancy as well as a paper boat in a storm. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not still love her husband after he betrayed her. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have let her emotions weaken her or put her children’s lives in danger.

She was far from the mightiest woman in Westeros, and she could not do this. She wasn’t strong enough. She was only a weak and broken little girl.

A maid approached, a fresh cool, damp cloth in her hands. The princess had not looked at any of their faces, too absorbed in her pain and panic. But now, she caught the eyes of this girl—deep, rich brown, so similar to her own – to her mother’s.

“I want my mother,” she whispered to the maid, even knowing it was impossible. “I can’t do this without her.”

The maid gaped at her as if she could not fathom a princess ever speaking to her. She looked to her companions for guidance, but the princess only looked into the maid’s eyes and thought of her mother—the scent of the rosemary oil she used in her hair, the warmth of her embrace, and the soothing tones of her voice.

“Please, I want my mother,” she begged. A new surge of pain gripped her, radiating into her legs. They were coming faster now; she barely had time to breathe between each wave. “Please.”

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness.” The maid’s voice was high and breathy, nothing like her mother’s. “The queen is not here.”

She cried, turning away from those false eyes. She was alone – entirely and utterly alone.

“Princess, I need you to be strong now.” Artos’ sweaty brow was furrowed with half a dozen creases, his eyes wide and mouth a firm line. He looked more like a commander on a battlefield than a maester. The Grand Maester would have smiled at her, but he was not here, either. “Your labors are progressing quickly. It is nearly time to push.”

“I don’t know how,” she cried. She refused to open her eyes. If she kept them closed, she could almost imagine she was home.

Artos wrapped his hands around her ankles, pushing them upwards and further apart. “You do, princess. The Mother wove the knowledge into your body. Listen to it, and all will be well.”

“I – ”

Her next scream rattled the room, the keep, the entirety of the Riverlands.

Fire, ice, steel, and claw seemed to rake down her spine to her thighs. But Artos was right; her body reacted to the pain, her muscles moving near-unconsciously to force the babe out of her womb. She followed the instinct, pushing it harder, harder, harder.

“Very good, princess!” Was that Artos or Orwyle? She couldn’t tell anymore.

It was never-ending.

Pain, pushing, and a brief moment of reprieve.

Again.

It lasted hours, days, perhaps even years.

Was a child – a son – even worth this pain? How could she love someone who had tortured her so? Would she ever be able to look at him without remembering how she suffered?

Pain.

PAIN.

Then –

“Stop, princess!”

She went limp, vaguely beginning to feel other sensations creep in: the coolness of the water on her forehead, the slight scratching of the sheets beneath her, and the hushed whispers of the maids and midwives.

The pain was still there, but softer. Less insistent.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice nearly unrecognizable, even to her.

Artos emerged from between her legs, relief painted over his harsh face. “Nothing is wrong, princess. It is simply time to be gentle and allow your body to do its work.” He smiled, chuckling under his breath. “I can see your babe’s white hair – quite a bit of it.”

Laughter bubbled up in her throat. Deep, joyous laughter. Another slight wave of pain passed through her, but she didn’t care at all. She was thinking about her niece and nephew, how Jaehaerys was born with nearly a full mane of silver frizz while Jaehaera had not a single hair on her head until she was over a year old. “He has hair?”

“Yes, although I do not know yet whether it is a boy, princess.”

“It is. He is.”

There was one more brief surge of pain, and then she heard her son cry.

It was torture to wait outside while his ābrazȳrītsos screamed with pain. At first, Aemond stood leaning against the wall, as Aegon did when Helaena began her labors, but his knees failed him when he heard a scream that rattled the world.

He’d been on the floor since, resisting the urge to cover his ears. But he had caused her this pain, so he must listen.

He would be in that room with her if he hadn’t been a weak, damnable fool. He would have held her hand, letting her release her pain onto him. She had only squeezed his hand once, yet he still felt the ghost of her touch on his skin. He would savor that pain for the rest of his life.

It seemed to be never-ending, the torture his son was inflicting upon her. How could he ever forgive the child for doing this to his own mother?

Then, it stopped.

Aemond leaped to his feet, panic infecting his blood like a disease. Why had she gone quiet? What was wrong? Was she dead? He couldn’t face –

A babe cried—his first cry, with his first breath.

Their son.

He tried to push the door open, but it was locked.

“Let me in!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the door. “Artos, let me in!”

There was no answer, but he could hear soft voices inside. None sounded like hers. Oh gods, had she brought their son into the world at the cost of her own life?

Aemond slammed himself against the door again and again, not caring for the damage he was doing to his own body. “Open the door now, Artos!”

He threw himself against the wood again and again. At some point, it had to yield. Either it would, or his body would.

It opened just before he launched himself at it again—not all the way, but it was open. Then, Artos stared at him through the gap with his hateful, disapproving gaze.

“Let me in,” he growled. Trying to force the door open was useless, as the maester was practically a giant and, apparently, throwing all his strength into holding it closed. “If you don’t let me see my wife, I swear I’ll – ”

“Your wife has not finished her labors yet, my prince.” Damn him, the mountainous bastard. “But I am pleased to inform you that she has borne you a son.”

Though he knew it was to be a son, the words still shot through him. A son. His son. Their son.

“Is he healthy? Is she?” There was no more fight in his voice. The warrior prince had vanished, replaced only by the husband and father. By all the gods, he was a father.

Artos nodded. “The boy is small but healthy. Your maester may have miscalculated the date of conception. He is remarkably healthy for being born so early.”

“And my wife?”

“She is tired, but well. The second babe is not quite ready to emerge, so she is resting.”

The weight of all the world was lifted from his shoulders. He felt like the little boy he had once been on Driftmark, wanting nothing more than to see his zaldrīzītsos and take comfort in her embrace. “May I see her? Please.”

“I’m afraid not, my prince.” Artos at least had the decency to sound genuinely apologetic. “She needs this rest. With the first birth, she was wonderfully strong, more than I could have ever imagined. But I fear she has depleted her strength. She fell asleep the moment it was done.”

“Is… is it bad that she fell asleep?”

Artos sighed, his eyes turning to the floor. “Ordinarily, no, but with how thin she is, how weak… it worries me.”

No. No, no, no. “Is there anything you can do? To help strengthen her?”

“I am afraid not, my prince.”

“Well, do something. Do whatever you can.”

A soft moan came from behind the door. Ābrazȳrītsos. Aemond pushed against the door, opening it as far as he could to try and catch the barest glimpse of her.

Her eyes were nearly closed, her reddened cheeks making them appear as dark as night. Her chemise was soaked through with sweat and whatever other fluids came out with their child. But no blood beyond what he already knew to be there.

“Ābrazȳrītsos! I’m here!” He shouted. It took a moment for her to look his way. He could have sworn she smiled. “I’m with you! You must be strong, my love. I know you can be. I love you! I love you so much, ñuha zaldrīzītsos!”

Artos pushed against the door, forcing Aemond back. “That is enough, my prince. Upsetting her will only drain her strength.”

Aemond knew it was true, that his presence would likely upset her rather than comfort her. So, he stopped resisting and allowed the maester to close the door. Just before it closed, he whispered one final command, “Take care of her, Artos. She is my world.”

The pain returned, worse than before. The lightning crept down her spine again, but it was now accompanied by a great force set on tearing her body apart at the seams. Pushing brought no relief, nor did it seem to move her son any closer to the world.

Artos came to her bedside, resting the back of his hand against her brow.

“It’s worse this time,” she confided in the maester when it finally ebbed. “It’s so much worse. Why?”

He sighed and sat on the bedside, his massive hand nearly eclipsing her head as he stroked her hair. It made her feel remarkably like a kitten. “I cannot say, princess. There are many possibilities. This child could be larger, in a slightly different position, or…” He hesitated. “As I said, there are too many possibilities for me to be sure.”

His pause unsettled her, but it soon faded away when another wave went through her. “Is he nearly ready? I can’t do this much longer.” At least she knew what to do this time, so surely it would be better.

“Ah, another son, is it?” Artos stood from the bed to examine her spread legs. Several maids gently moved her to replace the sheets beneath her. “Not yet, but soon. Your motherly instincts will tell you when.”

Motherly instincts. Gods, she was a mother now. There was a child on the other side of the room that she had given birth to, that she had grown within her. A son who would depend on her for his entire life. Her, and his father.

Aemond would be a good father, she knew, even if he were decidedly lacking as a husband. But as a father, he would be attentive, kind, and loving. He would give their sons all the love he was denied by their own father.

They would not repeat the mistakes of the past. They would love their sons. They would not ignore them, speaking to them only to scold them. They would teach them the language of their ancestors themselves instead of relying on tutors. As soon as they were old enough, they would teach them how to be compassionate and fair rulers. They would not force them to marry for political advantage or the continuation of the bloodline but let them fall in love, as they had.

She could see them now. Both with white hair and unruly curls. Bright lilac eyes. The elder would take after her, but with Aemond’s determination. The younger would take after their father but with her gentle temperament.

As if the vision was summoning her second son, she felt her body constricting, muscles tightening. Without fear, she began to push.

“Princess, stop!”

Artos screamed as if someone was holding a sword to his throat, desperate and panicked. His eyes were wide and bulging as he looked from her face to where her second son should be emerging. “You mustn’t push now, princess. Not once. I…”

He stood, pulling one of the Septas aside. Others followed, and their frantic, poorly hushed whispers grew louder. She knew the sight should frighten her, but she forced herself to remain calm. Aemond said he trusted this man and had seen him work miracles. Whatever was wrong, Artos would fix it.

She was sure.

Artos burst out of the door without warning. Aemond pushed away from the wall. “Is it over?”

The maester sighed.

Shit. Seven Hells and all the Gods.

“Your wife is strong, my prince,” he began. Holy gods, he sounded as if he would cry. “Enough so that I would have little doubt that she could deliver your second child, but…”

“What’s wrong?” Aemond felt his heart race, his blood surge, his finger twitching for his sword. He was going into battle, but this was not a battle he could fight with steel or fire. This was not a battle he could fight at all. “Artos?”

“The babe is not in the right position.” He moved his hands as if it would somehow make Aemond understand what he was saying.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the babe cannot be born, your highness.”

No. This couldn’t be happening. Not after everything she had suffered and survived.

“If she were to continue her labors, neither she nor the child would live.” Artos put a hand on his shoulder, an attempt at comfort. “I can save only one. Who survives… that is your decision, my prince.”

The gods were cruel to force this upon him – the very choice that had damned their family decades ago when Viserys chose to sacrifice his wife and queen for the chance at a son. That was where the seeds of destruction had been sown.

Aemond could not repeat the mistakes of the past. He would not be like his father. He had his son and heir. A second would be preferred, but not at the cost of his ābrazȳrītsos.

His ābrazȳrītsos, whose heart would break to lose her son. Who would never forgive him if he decided to –

He couldn’t choose. He couldn’t let her die, and he couldn’t let their son die.

He couldn't live without her, and he couldn’t take away her will to live.

He tore himself out of Artos’ grasp and stormed into the room.

Aemond threw open the door, his eyes wide and wet, and suddenly, she was not so sure that Maester Artos would fix whatever was wrong.

He ran to the bed, not sparing a glance at their new son. She burst into sobs the moment he took her in his arms. “Oh, ābrazȳrītsos,” he whispered into her hair as he kissed her temples. She entwined her fingers with his, desperately squeezing. “I’m here now. Everything is going to be fine.”

Liar. Sweet Liar. Beloved Liar.

“I want Mother. I want Helaena.” Her voice crackled with tears and exhaustion. Everything hurt. Someone – most likely her – was crying, though it sounded distant. And if Aemond was here, not waiting outside…

If Aemond was here, holding her hand and stroking her hair, it meant something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“Mother is not here right now,” he said, squeezing her hand tighter. He wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t meet her gaze. “And Helaena… she can’t be here. I’m so sorry.”

“She told me she would hold my hand like I did for her. She promised!”

“I know. I know, my love, but it is not possible.”

Because Helaena was dead. So were Daeron, and Jaehaerys, and Jaehaera, and Maelor, and Otto, and Ser Criston, and nearly every other person she loved. Aegon would be dead soon, too, then she would only have her mother and her husband.

Her mother, who had begged her to forgive the husband who betrayed her and broken her heart.

“I can’t do this alone, Aemond. I can’t.”

“You can, I know it. You are so strong, dearest.” Yet there was no confidence in his voice.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear his hair out just to make him hurt, too. “I can’t! I’ll die if you make me, Aemond, I know it. I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.”

He pursed his lips, eyes narrowed. “My love, I…” his voice faded, leaving them in total silence, save for that distant crying.

Then, he kissed her—not the soft kisses on the temple or head of the past fortnight, but the way he had kissed her when he said goodbye all those months ago. His lips slotted against hers perfectly, and she opened for him on instinct. She knew she should stop, push him away, and scold him, but she couldn’t.

Everything felt wrong—her entire body felt wrong. But this, kissing Aemond, felt right. Her desperation for comfort far overpowered her anger and resentment. Her trembling hand rested on his shoulder, her fingers bunching in his shirt. She pulled him closer, wanting more—more rightness, more connection, more feeling.

More Aemond.

But he pulled away, resting his brow against hers as she chased his lips again. He placed a hand on either side of her face, holding her still. “I’m going to fix this,” he rasped, his voice shredded by fear and desperation. “I will fix this, I swear.”

Then, he let go.

He stood from the bed and turned away from his wife.

He was leaving. He was fucking leaving her.

She screamed his name, cursed him, begged him to come back, hurled insults, and cried for him. He couldn’t do this to her, not after everything he’d already done.

This was not love. The heat that burned in her chest was not love.

It was hate.

For the first time in her life, she truly hated Aemond.

“Alys!” Aemond bellowed as he descended the stairs to the servant’s quarters, taking the steps two, three at a time. No one dared approach him. Not even Artos had tried to stop him as he ran away from his ābrazȳrītsos.

She may hate him forever for this, for leaving her when she was so weak and scared.

Fine. It would be worth it.

“ALYS!” The door snapped from its upper hinge as he tore it open. The witch was precisely where she’d been when Aemond left, her hand on her chin as she looked into the fire. What vile hell did she see in her visions now? “Alys!”

“I heard you, Aemond.” She did not look at him, only staring at the flames, those green eyes flitting around as if she were reading a book. “The entire continent heard you.” There was no humor in her voice, no hint of a smile on her face.

He swallowed, panting. He was crying – weeping like a little boy. That didn’t matter now. Very little mattered now.

Aemond fell to his knees before the witch with whom he had destroyed his life. He would do whatever she asked, destroy what little was left of his pride if necessary. “I need your help, Alys. Please.”

“She’s dying?”

“Yes. The maester said I had to… that I had to choose who to save.”

“And you can’t choose between her and the child.”

“No, I – ” he swallowed as his voice shattered. He was going to vomit. “I can’t, Alys. I can’t. Please.”

“What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?” She was colder than the Wall, than the entirety of the lands beyond it.

“Save them, both of them.”

Alys’ eyes narrowed. Her face was painted with an expression he had never seen. He had no clue what it meant. “What would you sacrifice,” she asked flatly, “to ensure your wife and her children – your true heirs – live?”

“Anything,” Aemond croaked, “Everything.”

One corner of her sinful mouth lifted in a way that did not bring him comfort. She sighed as if taking the time to thoroughly consider his plea. The wicked bitch was gleefully stalling when the lives of his wife and child could end at any moment.

“Please, Alys,” he begged again, desperation crawling through his veins like spreading ice. “I cannot live without her, and she will never recover from her grief if she loses the babe.”

Something passed over her face, and she smiled fully. “You have always been a man of loyalty and nobility, Aemond.” Her grin sharpened as she laid one delicate hand upon her belly. “Almost always, at least.”

“Alys,” he growled in warning.

“Oh, don’t be a beast about it,” she scoffed. “I will do it – save them. If only in memory of our time together.”

Aemond sagged as relief swept through him, but it did not last long. She was still dying. The babe was still dying. Whatever Alys would do, she needed to do it now. He opened his mouth to command her to start, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“I promise it will be done.” She flung her hand to the door in dismissal. “You should be there for her. She is still so very frightened.”

He needed nothing more to run back to his wife.

She was alone. Even with Maester Artos and the dozen women hovering around her, even with her son cooing softly from the cradle by the window, she had never felt so alone.

Aemond was gone.

He’d left her. Without even a goodbye, he’d left her. He had not even stopped to meet his son.

Artos murmured something to one of the Septas, who quickly gathered the other women on the far side of the room. He approached the bed, again seating himself upon the edge, and pressed the back of his fingers to her brow briefly before petting her hair. “How are you feeling, princess?”

“Am I going to die?”

He hesitated in answering. “I cannot say for certain…”

“I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.” Her heart constricted as his fingers brushed against a spot where Aemond had kissed her. “You told him, now tell me.”

“Very well,” he sighed. His harsh face fell, and she swore she could see his eyes glistening. “The babe is breech. It should emerge head-first, but it is not. It’s… the way it is attempting to come out is nearly impossible. Should I not intervene, one or both of you will die.”

No. No, no, no, it wasn’t fair. To suffer for this long, to endure what she endured, only for her child to enter the world wrong? In a way that would kill them? She had always been good and devout. She prayed and studied holy texts, listened to her Septas and the Maesters, and avoided sin at all costs. Then why was she being punished?

Unless… the gods had not sent this to punish her.

Aemond had abandoned her and their marriage – their holy union – when he slept with Alys. It would be fitting, and very like the gods, for him to lose that which he had forsaken. She and her second son were merely instruments of punishment. But it wasn’t fair.

“There is nothing you can do?” She felt hollow as Artos continued to look at her in pity.

The warrior-maester looked as if he were about to cry, as well. “In these situations, it is usually asked of the father whom he would rather save.”

So that was why Artos left the room – to ask Aemond whether to save her or the child.

“Who did he choose?” Either answer would devastate her. He would either prove the fragility of his love for her, or he would willingly break her heart by killing their son. Whatever he chose, he would become a kinslayer thrice over.

“He… he did not, your highness.”

“What?”

“I explained the situation, and he stormed in here – to you. When he left, he said nothing. He just ran. I presumed he had…” But he hadn’t. Had not said a word about the peril she and their son were now in.

A coward. Too frightened to maintain his vows of marriage. Too weak to admit his wrongdoing. Too cowardly to even make this most crucial of decisions. The gods damn him.

If they hadn’t already.

“So… what will you do?” If she had to be the one to make the decision, so be it.

“There are three options.” None of them were very good, she knew, simply by looking at his forlorn face. She had thought him a grave man when she first saw him. Now, he looked mournful – a reluctant harbinger of death. “I can forcibly remove the child, more than likely killing it in the process. I can attempt to save it and, in so doing, certainly kill you. Or we can proceed with the birth, risking killing both of you and pray that the gods may be merciful.”

Such a choice – a decision of life and death – should be difficult. It should tear away at the soul to condemn another. It should be far beyond the limits of the heart or mind.

But it was easy.

“Save him,” she whispered. “Let me die.”

Artos frowned deeply, shook his head, and said something in return, but she did not listen – she could not and would not hear his words. She only vaguely saw him move to the end bed, ripping away the sleeve of his robes as he barked orders at the maid and midwives. Perhaps the gods were merciful to dull her senses now so she could pass peacefully.

What did it matter if she died now?

She will have fulfilled her duty and given her husband his heirs. Finding a new wife would be easy – what woman would not want to marry him? Even if news of Alys spread beyond the walls of Harrenhal, surely it was nothing in exchange for a crown. Aemond would have everything he needed to be king.

If she lived, what sort of life would it be? To raise one son while constantly mourning the other. To be the wife of a man she could no longer trust. To remain empty, a shell of her former self. She would be alive, but she would still be a ghost.

“Save him,” she said again, her voice fading.

It was easier this way. Hadn’t she already learned that it was easier not to fight? Letting Aemond take care of her was easier than fighting him. Perhaps it would be easier to let him care for the children, too. He would love them enough that they would not feel her absence.

Distantly, she felt pressure between her legs, then heard her firstborn son cry out to echo her own screams.

Her son.

Oh, he had no name.

She couldn’t leave him motherless and without a name.

Months ago, she had decided on names, but they were hard to remember now. What was it? She could grant him this one last gift. She just needed to remember…

“Daeron.”

Yes. It had been her brother’s name. Her kind, brave, daring brother. He died some months ago. There had been a battle. Why was her little brother fighting? He was too young for that.

Tendrils of pale mist crept into the edges of her vision, playfully willing her to sleep.

Once she was gone, Daeron—her Daeron—would have a little brother, too. He would need a name as well—a strong name, a courageous name. When she was dead, he would need courage.

“Aenar.”

A strong name. With courage enough to forge a new beginning.

There. Names for her sons, the little princes.

With that last parting gift, she could close her eyes at last.

Goodbye, she tried to say.

I love you, my children.

Be kind to each other.

Love each other always.

Goodbye.

The mist filled her vision, illuminated by a distant light. It was cool, like a late spring morning. She did not hurt anymore. Did not feel anything but an overwhelming sense of peace.

The distant light faded.

The mist darkened.

Through it, she swore she could see grass-green eyes and hear the faraway cry of a babe.

She was still screaming. Good.

Screaming meant she was still alive. Screaming meant Alys was fulfilling her promise. Screaming meant that Aemond was racing back to his wife – his living, breathing, beloved wife – and not her corpse.

The door was still locked when he arrived—one final obstacle between him and his family.

No, not final. Far from it. The door was the only tangible thing keeping him from his wife and children, yes, but there was far more beyond it. The pain he caused her, the hatred his ābrazȳrītsos now surely felt for him, and the third child that would soon be born still kept them as far apart as the earth and stars.

They would get past it. They had to. They were siblings, husband and wife, now destined to become King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They were meant for each other. The gods or fate or whatever else had made her for him and him for her.

They were two parts of the same whole, cleaved.

“Prince Aemond.”

Cregan Stark, the man who humiliated him and his wife mere hours ago, stood behind him. Aemond snarled. “Leave. Now.”

Stark stood strong and still. “You have been my enemy. You may be still, I have not decided. I have no admiration nor respect for you, my prince. In short, I do not like you.”

“Do you want me to kill you?” Aemond asked. He did not wish to greet his sons with blood-soaked hands, but if Stark didn’t close his fucking mouth –

“To lose the woman you love so dearly in this way… it is a pain I know all too well and one I would not wish on anyone. I have instructed all my men to pray for the Princess and the child, and I will join them soon. Negotiations will be postponed indefinitely.”

“I…” Perhaps Aemond had underestimated the brute, if he was a brute at all. And though he knew the prayers were unnecessary, gratitude still dulled his rage. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

He simply inclined his head and walked away, leaving Aemond leaning against that godsdamned door, listening to nothing but the sound of his own panting breath.

Oh gods.

He froze.

The screaming was gone.

It was silent.

Was she dead?

Had Alys betrayed him?

He would kill her. He would tear her apart with his own hands and –

A child cried.

Then…

Oh, thank each and every god a thousand times over.

For then, Aemond heard his wife laughing.

“Princess?”

She always expected that the voice of the Father would be deep and smooth, but shouldn’t it be the Mother to greet her, given how she died? And shouldn’t the gods greet her by name, not her title?

“Princess, it is time to wake up,” the voice said again. “Open your eyes for me.”

Oh, her eyes were closed. She should open them.

The Heavens were not as bright as she imagined, nor as golden. They were dark and sparsely decorated and looked very much like –

“I am not dead?”

Maester Artos looked down at her and smiled. It reminded her of the few times she had seen her father smile at her, sparking a warmth in her chest she had not felt for years. She had not known she still remembered those smiles. “I am very happy to say you are not, your highness.”

“But, my son – ”

“He lives, too.”

It couldn’t be. After all the suffering of the past year, she could not believe it could be true. Loss had become a certainty, as sure as the sun rising each morning.

A babe cried, and she turned toward the sound. A young maid was wrapping an infant boy with a shock of white curls in a cobalt blue blanket. Daeron.

A different, softer cry came from the other end of the room. There, another boy with only a smattering of silver wisps atop his head was being gently cleaned by a Septa. Aenar.

Her sons – alive and well and here.

She threw her head back against the pillows and laughed.

She laughed with joy and relief, with eight months of eager waiting and sickness. She laughed with a body nearly dead, saved only by some miracle she did not understand. And she laughed with a heart that was both shattered and overflowing.

This was the moment she had dreamed of since she learned she was pregnant, since the moment she married Aemond. She had dreamed of this all her life. It was her destiny, even if it was vastly different from how she had dreamed it. For she was not at home in the Red Keep but within the cursed stones of Harrenhal. Her mother was not by her side but miles away. The family that was supposed to crowd around her and coo over the children were nearly all dead. And her husband…

“Let me in!” he shouted through the door, the wood pounding against stone as he threw himself against it. He had been doing that before, but she did not notice until now. It was so like him, the impatience and need to act, that she laughed again. “Ābrazȳrītsos! Is that you? Tell me you are safe!”

Taking her laughter as permission, Artos opened the door. It was mere heartbeats later that Aemond was upon the bed, his eye flitting over every inch of her, his hands roaming to try and locate something wrong, to stem blood that did not flow or relieve pain that did not exist.

“I’m fine,” she said, breathless. “I did it, lēkia, and I’m fine.”

“You did it?” He looked down at her in utter disbelief and joy before his eye drifted to the Maester. Tears slipped from his eye and caught the light of the setting sun. “She did it…”

Her gaze went to the maid that held her firstborn – the girl with eyes like her mother’s. Fitting, for her to be the one to hold him. But it was her turn. “Bring Daeron to me,” she ordered,” some strength at last returning to her voice. “I want to hold him.”

Aemond stared at her. “Daeron?”

Was he angry that she named their sons without him? She couldn’t quite tell. Her mind was still fuzzy, like the mist she had seen still lay over her, casting everything in a sweet, happy light. She shrugged. “There are already too many Aegons, so…”

He laughed. She had missed that sound – she loved it so dearly. He settled into the bed next to her, their bodies fitting together perfectly, like two halves of a broken plate. So many familiar feelings – the warmth of his arm around her, the rhythm of his heart, his lips kissing her temple in the gentle way that always sent shivers down her spine. Hadn’t her spine hurt not long ago? “Daeron is perfect.”

Indeed, he was absolutely perfect. So tiny and precious as he was put in her arms, looking up at his parents with wide lilac eyes. Neither she nor Aemond said anything as they beheld him, taking in each tiny, perfect detail. The wild curls of his silver hair. Each and every eyelash framing his bright eyes. The pink of his lips. Fingers and toes so wonderfully soft and small. A toothless smile that lit the world.

“He’s going to be king someday,” she realized aloud. How could someone so tiny rule an entire kingdom? He had a lot of growing to do before the Conqueror’s Crown would fit.

“A great king, I think,” Aemond mused. He held out a finger, and Daeron instinctively wrapped his hand around it. “Wise and strong. Daring, like his namesake.”

“He must be kind, too.”

“He will be,” Aemond assured, brushing out her damp, tangled hair with his fingers. The feeling was so familiar, but each touch had her flinching slightly. “We will raise him to be kind. His brother, too.”

“Aenar.”

Aemond stiffened. Had he forgotten they had another son, or did he not like the name she gave him? He pulled his finger back from his son’s fist to touch the babe’s hair. “The Exile?”

“I just thought…” Perhaps it had been a foolish name. But it had felt right when it came to her, when she was on the brink of death. “Our family needs a new beginning.”

“Yes… I suppose it does.” He kissed her again with slightly too much pressure. “Another fine name.”

She looked at the Septa that had been cleaning him. Maester Artos stood with her now, along with several other women, crowding so much she could not see the babe. “I want to hold him, too. Bring him to me.”

None of them moved. The room fell silent.

“Allow me just a moment longer, princess,” Artos said. His voice shook, and he would not look at her or Aemond. “I am still finishing my assessment of the boy.”

He’s dead, her mind insisted. They saved your life at the cost of his. He died because of you.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

Daeron began fussing in her arms, disturbed by how she began to tremble. She failed one son by killing him, and now she was already failing as a mother to the one who survived. Aemond tightened his arm on her shoulders, pulling her closer as his free arm gently lifted their son into his own grasp.

He hushed her, ducking his head to press his cheek to hers. “Lykirī, ābrazȳrītsos. Izūgō daor īlo bēvili gō.” Calm, little wife. Do not panic before we have reason to.

“Kostan daor,” she whimpered. If Aenar was dead…

“Is he alive?” Aemond’s hand moved to shelter Daeron’s head as if to shield him from whatever danger or heartbreak lurked. She turned to press herself into him – into the safety of his arms.

Brother. Husband. Protector.

Why did the feel and scent of him no longer make her feel safe?

“Yes, my prince,” Artos answered.

“Will he remain that way?”

“Yes…”

“You could tell me he’s green-skinned and winged for all I care.” His arm curled protectively around her, but it did not comfort her. Rather, she bristled against it, the possessiveness of it. He did not notice. “He’s alive, and that’s enough. Bring him.”

Artos hesitated but obeyed, hastily wrapping the babe in a dark blanket.

He looked whole – unbroken. Aenar’s eyes were closed as the Maester placed him in her arms, but she could feel his warmth, his little heart beating, and the faint rise and fall of his chest. He only woke when a tear fell from her cheek onto his.

Even then, he did not cry. He only looked at his mother with bright eyes – the same shade of violet as his father's and brother’s. “Ñuha trēso,” she whispered, and he smiled. My son.

“Taobosa sylvȳse,” Aemond added. “He already recognizes the language of his ancestors. He will serve his brother well. Dārys sepār Ondoso zȳhon.” Wise boy. The King and his Hand.

They had two perfect sons. So why did Artos still look like that?

The Maester’s frown deepened. “I am afraid…” he cleared his throat. “It appears that the younger prince was injured during the birth.”

She examined him again but could find nothing wrong. He was perfect. Surely, Artos was mistaken.

“May I?” His large hand hovered over the edge of the blanket.

Her instinct was to pull away, to not let this man touch her son. Yes, he had saved both their lives, but he must be wrong now. Why should she let him make a problem where there was none?

She suppressed that instinct and allowed him to uncover Aenar’s right arm. Artos’ demeanor had made it seem as though something was horribly wrong – that the arm would be missing or deformed. But it was just an arm, small and plump and pale, with a splotch of reddish-purple covering the shoulder like a pauldron.

“It… is it a birthmark?” She brushed a thumb over it, the skin smooth but slightly raised. A birthmark wasn’t an injury, nor was it exceedingly unusual. There were several families where such a mark appeared on nearly every child born.

“Explain yourself, Artos,” Aemond hissed. He looked ready to tear the man to pieces. If he did, he would likely do so without even setting Daeron down.

With a sigh, Artos ran a finger down the length of Aenar’s arm. “Note how he gives no reaction.”

“So he is calm,” Aemond spat. “I fail to see the injury.”

“Do the same to the elder.” He repeated the touch. “Gently, my prince.”

Aemond obeyed with a scowl. The moment he touched the babe, Daeron squirmed and flailed his arm.

“But he looks fine.” She looked down at her second son, her wise boy, and held out a finger, as Aemond had with Daeron. Aenar’s left arm squirmed within its wrappings, but the right was still. She touched the arm, silently pleading with the gods for it to move, for that tiny hand to reach for her.

It remained still. A desperate noise escaped her. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aemond and Artos said in unison. Her husband attempted to pull her into his chest, but she pushed him away. An embrace could not fix this. Nothing could. He did not pursue her again.

“It is not uncommon among children born breech.” the Maester explained. “I have seen many such injuries and many even worse.”

Artos offered no sympathy or apologies, and she was thankful for it. There was nothing he could say to ease the pain of knowing that her son would never be whole, just like his father. But unlike Aemond, he was never even given the chance, wounded from his first breath. What would the people call him? ‘Prince Aenar One-Arm, son of King Aemond One-Eye?’

“What do we do?” She asked her husband, the Maester, the gods. Anyone who may have an answer.

Aemond’s face was drawn with grief – for his son and for himself. “He will adapt, as I did. I will ensure it. He will be stronger for this. I promise.”

I cannot trust your promises.

The thought was a sudden gale of icy wind scattering the lovely mist coating her mind into oblivion, leaving her with only stark, wicked reality and the faint memory of green eyes.

“How did I survive?”

Too quickly, Aemond turned to her, taking hold of her chin and pulling her close to him. “It does not matter, ābrazȳrītsos. All that does is that you are still with me. You and Aenar.”

If he wasn’t holding her firstborn, she would have shoved him from the bed.Liar. Liar. Liar.

I will fix this. he’d said before he left her. The pure, unrelenting anger she felt as she watched him leave had prevented her from considering what those words meant. Now, she could think of nothing else. What could he do? He was no midwife nor Maester. He had no knowledge of childbirth, beyond the few questions he’d asked of Orwyle months ago. What could he have done for her and Aenar except beg the help of another?

Of Alys.

Alys, who had eyes the color of fresh grass and possessed a dark magic that allowed her visions of the future. Was she also able to influence that future?

How?

At what cost?

What had Aemond promised her in exchange for their lives?

“No Maester wants to admit to ignorance,” Artos smiled sadly as Aenar continued to try to wriggle his left arm free of his blanket, “but I cannot explain it. All I can think is that the gods are kind to you, princess, and for that, I am glad.”

She could not look at him or any of the others in the room who watched her as if they could see the Mother’s hand upon her shoulder.

The gods weren’t kind. They were cruel to allow her to now owe her very life, and that of her son’s, to the two people who had destroyed her. Would she ever be able to look upon Aenar and not remember? To not feel her soul torn between unyielding hatred and infinite gratitude?

Yet, she had her life – and her sons. Surely anything was worth that.

Wasn’t it?

“I’m tired,” she said. The day had seemed to last a year, and the sun had not even set. “I want to rest now.”

After what she endured, no one argued.

His ābrazȳrītsos fell asleep mere moments after Daeron and Aenar were settled into their cradles. She did not even wake when Aemond lifted her so the servants could replace the soiled bedding. Just as she had so many times before, she tucked her face into his neck as they sat in the window, sighing contentedly. Now, he lay beside her in the bed, trying to memorize how it felt to have her in his arms.

When she woke, he knew she would never allow him to hold her like this again.

She knew. Somehow, his wife knew what he had done to ensure she and Aenar survived, and she would never forgive him for it for as long as she lived.

But she would live.

Aenar would live. Though he would bear the wounds of his father’s sins forever.

After his wife had fallen asleep, Maester Artos had told him that it would likely be necessary to amputate Aenar’s arm. The purple mark on his shoulder had grown, apparently indicating further bleeding within the limb. If it grew much more before morning, the arm would be removed before midday.

It was his fault, Aemond knew.

Alys had told him that in her visions, both boys had been healthy. But that was before his ābrazȳrītsos knew that he betrayed her. Before he brought her to this cursed place. Before he failed to stop her from meeting Alys and learning the full extent of his sins.

He only hoped Aenar would not grow to hate him for it.

For now, the boy slept in his crib, limp arm hidden beneath the dark blanket he was swaddled in. Aemond rose from the bed, moving closer to his son.

How peaceful he looked now, with the redness of his skin finally faded. He did not have as much hair as his older brother, but his was wilder - more reminiscent of his mother’s curls than his father’s straight locks. At least he had that part of her, if not the warm brown eyes Aemond had hoped for.

In the other cradle, Daeron fussed slightly, though he did not wake. It seemed he resented being confined within the tight swaddle of his blanket. The thought made Aemond smile, remembering how his younger brother once did the same. It faded quickly.

He had to go to Alys. To thank her for giving him his family - a kindness he did not deserve. To say goodbye to the child he would never meet. Another cost he would force himself to pay.

He had to go now, while his ābrazȳrītsos slept.

“Before our wedding,” he whispered, careful not to wake her as he approached, “I promised to hold you every night I could, that I would do anything to return to you when I was away. I have failed to uphold that promise, and for that, I am so sorry.”

When he stroked her cheek, she turned into his touch, a small smile upon her lips. Seeing that some unconscious part of her still reacted to him with love warmed his heart, even as the knowledge that her conscious mind would never allow her to do so felt like a dagger buried in his gut.

Aemond knelt at her side, basking in her beauty, memorizing her peaceful face. “Now, I swear my devotion again. I know you no longer wish for me to hold you, and I promise I will not try to persuade you otherwise. But I swear I will always be with you, to love and protect you, even if I must do it from a distance. I will never fail you again.”

It did not matter that she could not hear his vow. Even if she did, she would not believe him. But he made it anyway, for his own sake, and so the gods, wherever they may be, would hear him. It was to them he spoke next.

“Should I ever harm you again, I pray that the gods will strike me down where I stand. And if they do not, I shall do so myself.” He kissed her brow - the sealing of a promise and a farewell - and left.

A maid shrunk away as she passed Aemond in a corridor deep beneath Harrenhal, cradling the bundle of cloth she carried closer to her chest. It was one of the same maids who had tended to his wife—the young girl with deep brown eyes. She did not wear the clothing of a midwife, but the colors of her linen dress were similar. Perhaps a midwife in training.

Strange, then, for her to be here. Stranger still for her to be seemingly performing the duties of a laundress.

He glanced down at the bundle of cloth she carried and froze.

There was blood. Too much blood.

A young midwife, carrying bedlinens soaked with blood.

What would you sacrifice? Alys had asked.

Aemond ran.

He knew what he would find. There was no other explanation. Yet he still hoped and prayed he was wrong. Loss had followed him like a loyal dog for so long, but today it was banished. It must be.

Alys stood in front of her fire. One hand rested on a stomach that was not as distended as it had been only hours ago.

His wife’s stomach now looked very much the same.

“What did you do?” His voice shook with fear and guilt and shame. Gods, he felt so weak.

Her eyes, cold and distant, slid to his. “What you asked.”

“I didn’t ask you to…” This blood was on his hands - the blood of his child.

The word that had haunted him for more than a year - the word that had nearly led to the death of every person he ever loved - echoed in his mind.

Kinslayer.

Killer of his nephew. His uncle. His child.

Aemond looked back into the corridor, hoping to see the young midwife again. Had he not looked closely enough? Had she been carrying the body of his child within those bloody linens?

“I only wanted you to save my wife and son.” His words were a justification, a plea. It fell on the deaf ears of the gods and the dead child’s mother.

“And you thought there would be no cost?” Alys laughed, cruel and cackling. “No god in the world is so generous as to save a life and ask for nothing in exchange, boy.”

“I didn’t think – ”

“You never do.”

Grief morphed into anger. Reckless, aimless, dangerous rage. “You should have told me!”

“What would you have done?” She faced him fully now, her hand falling to her side. There was no trace of the woman who had once comforted and reassured him - who had kept him sane amidst the insanity of war. There was only annoyance and derision. It reminded Aemond of his dead half-sister and her bastard sons. “If I had told you?”

“I –”

“Would you have left your wife to die? Let her son die?” Alys’ lip curled in a hateful sneer. “You could not choose between wife and son, yet you believe you could have chosen between two sons?”

The world stopped. Only Alys’ flickering fire and burning eyes remained.

“I… it was a boy?” Aemond leaned against the wall, sliding down to his knees, savoring the scrape of the rough stone against his back. He deserved every bit of pain. More.

Alys let a single hint of sorrow slip through her cold façade. “It was. Three sons within a year. What your father would have given to have had the same.”

The last thing Aemond wanted to do was to think about his father. The king who had nearly destroyed his throne by choosing one child over another.

Gods, was he any better?

Did his ignorance of his son’s sacrifice absolve him of blame? The guilt?

It certainly didn’t feel like it.

Alys sighed. “Better for his death to mean something than for his life to be spent destitute and fatherless.”

“I would not have allowed that to happen,” Aemond said. It was a reflex, a reassurance he’d grown used to giving since he learned he seeded a bastard.

“Wouldn’t you? Perhaps if my visions had not changed. But now…” She shook her head, more exasperated than sorrowful. Did she mourn the child at all? “No. You’d have wanted us as far away as possible and done anything you could to not think of us.”

“I would have ensured your comfort.” The words felt as hollow as his chest.

“Your wife would, yes.” Alys smiled fondly, just as she had when his ābrazȳrītsos sat across from her earlier that very day. She had never smiled that way for Aemond. Never truly cared for him. He should have known. “She is kind-hearted. But not you. Your resentment of me, of us, would have festered until you found some way to be rid of us.”

He wanted to deny it. To say that there was nothing that could drive him to do what she insinuated. Once, it would have been true. But now, with the man he’d become in the war and how close he’d come to losing his heart itself, it would be a lie.

If he had killed Alys along with the rest of her cursed family, would he have become this man? Would he have learned to cherish the metallic tang of blood and its warmth as it coated his hands? Would he have become so proficient a liar that false words rolled off his tongue like a Valyrian lullaby? Would he have grown so accustomed to violence that it now came as naturally to him as loving his wife?

Would he have broken his ābrazȳrītsos’s heart?

He’d trusted her visions. It had been a mistake.

One mistake that led to thousands more, and it was all her fault.

Alys was the one who lied, who deceived him. Who had pulled his strings as if he were no more than a puppet, knowing that he was married and his wife was lonely and infirm.

His failure as a husband. His wife’s pain. The death of his third son.

Her fault. Her fault. Her fault.

Aemond’s heart slowed, his breathing becoming deep and steady. No longer the heart of a broken boy or a desperate husband. Now, it was the blackened heart that had carried him through countless battles and raging rivers of blood.

“I will be rid of you now,” he hissed as he stood. “And I will be rid of you forever.”

The bitch had enough sense to look scared.

“In memory of the son you killed, I will allow you to live. But no more than that.” She didn’t even deserve that, this woman who did not mourn her own child. Perhaps it was good that the babe was gone, for surely he would have suffered with a witch as his mother.

He approached Alys, sneering down at her and the false bravery on her wicked face. “As Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I banish you from these lands forever. You have ten days to leave Westeros. After that, if you are ever seen here again…” He reached out and grabbed her by the throat, holding just tight enough to steal a bit of her breath - just enough to make her fight for it.

“I will kill you myself,” he promised. “Without hesitation or remorse, I will kill you. Slowly. And I will savor every moment, for it will bring me far greater pleasure than that withered cunt of yours ever did.”

She fell to her knees when he released her, clutching at her throat as she coughed and gulped for air. He didn’t care. He only turned on his heel and left, not sparing a single glance at the woman who had only hours ago been carrying his bastard child.

Only one woman mattered now, had ever truly mattered to him.

His ābrazȳrītsos was still asleep when he returned to their chamber, as were their sons. They had no idea where he had gone - that he had even left at all. No inkling of the fact that a moment ago, he had again become the man who wiped an entire bloodline from the earth, slaughtered tens of thousands, and delighted in the suffering he had wrought.

Now, as he leaned down to gently kiss his sons’ brows and muss their soft hair, he was a mere man of twenty, his heart bursting with love and affection for his family. How could a heart overflow with such love at the same moment it was fracturing with grief and regret?

It was a question far beyond him at that moment. Perhaps forever beyond his reach.

He was so tired. Too tired to consider the heartbreak that would come when he woke in the morning and his wife pulled out of his grasp. He could face that pain when it came. But now, he needed to feel whole, if only for a few hours.

So, Aemond climbed into bed with his wife, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her into his chest. He remained awake only long enough to kiss the top of her head and whisper, “Jāla tetan, ābrazȳrītsos. Īlon lentot selagon kosti.” It is over, ābrazȳrītsos. We can go home.

She woke to the sound of Daeron fussing. Strange how quickly she was able to tell them apart, even just by their little noises of discontentment. Although, considering she had been with them every moment of the last seven - near eight - months, it may not be strange at all. Perhaps that was why she felt so sure that it had been Daeron who occupied the top of her belly, constantly pestering her with his tiny fists pounding against her at the most inopportune times.

“Hush, little prince,” a soft voice said. “You’ll wake up your mother, and after what you and your brother put her through, I dare say she needs her rest.” A maid was speaking to him, a slight, old woman leaning over his crib. She had not seen the maid before, and somehow, it comforted her.

Daeron continued to grumble. She moved to stand but found Aemond’s arms wrapped around her waist. Thankfully, he was still asleep. Quite deeply asleep, apparently, for when she untangled herself from him, he did not wake.

The maid curtsied when she saw the princess approaching and stepped away from Daeron’s cradle. His fussing had now roused Aenar, but the younger prince made no sound, only glaring at his brother in what seemed to be intense displeasure at his sleep being interrupted.

“Is something wrong with him?” she asked the old maid. Daeron quieted slightly upon seeing his mother but still fussed.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, princess.” The old maid had a kind, soothing voice - that of a wise grandmother. She looked at the babes with fondness and a hint of apology. “They are simply hungry.”

“Where is the wetnurse?” She immediately regretted asking. In her sleepy haze, she had forgotten that Alys was the wetnurse at Harrenhal. Why wasn’t she here? Did she even want Alys here? No, of course she didn’t. Had Aemond requested another be found so she would not have to see Alys again?

The old maid looked away, sighing. “I’m afraid she’s left us. No wonder why, poor thing lost her babe again. Such a shame. We all thought she’d had a miracle with this one. But not to worry, Maester Artos sent some men to find another girl from the closest village.” She shook her head and again leaned over Daeron’s crib. “You’ll be fed soon, darling prince, don’t you worry.”

Alys’ child - Aemond’s child - was dead?

It was a good thing, wasn’t it? There would be no bastard son of the new king, no living reminder of what he’d done. This was good news. She should be happy, shouldn’t she?

But she wanted to cry.

“Mother, forgive me,” the old maid looked horrified as she clutched her pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star. “I should not have said that, princess. Not when you’ve only just finished your own labors. Please, forgive me.”

She glanced at Aenar, now peacefully asleep once more. How close she had come to losing him. It had devastated her. Made her willing to forfeit her own life if only he could live. If she had lost him and had to live with that loss… it would have driven her mad.

“How…” she licked her lips. “How many children has she lost?”

The old maid dropped her pendant. “I do not know, exactly. Enough that we all stopped counting.”

Oh gods. She blinked to clear her eyes, wiping away an errant tear with her thumb. “You said she’s gone?”

“Yes, princess. She left in the night. Didn’t say where she was going, to my knowledge.”

It made no sense. If Aemond had struck a bargain with Alys to save her and Aenar’s lives, why would she leave? Had whatever he offered her not been enough to keep her in the place where she’d lost so many children?

Daeron cried again, his face reddened and wrinkled. He was so hungry, she could nearly feel it herself. She… she could feel it. When she looked down at herself, she saw two dark stains on her chemise right above her breasts. Her milk had finally come in, which meant -

“I can feed them.”

The old maid looked aghast. “Princess, there is no need - ”

“I want to do it.” She was their mother, why shouldn’t she be the one to feed them? It was her body that made them, that brought them into the world. It made sense that it would continue to care for them even now. “Can you show me how?”

It took a moment for the maid to close her mouth before she smiled gently. “I’ve raised nine children myself, princess. I think I know a few tricks.”

The maid had gone by the time Aemond woke.

Daeron was still suckling at her left breast while Aenar had fallen asleep using the right as his pillow. She had not realized how heavy and uncomfortable they had felt until the boys had drunk from her, easing the pressure that she’d become accustomed to.

“You should not be doing that yourself,” Aemond muttered as he raised himself on an elbow. His eye darted from son to son, only ever glancing over her exposed breasts. Once, he loved to worship them, quite similarly to how his sons fed from her now. “Where is the wetnurse?”

Did he not know that Alys had left? Had no one told him of the death of his child?

No. Those were the faint remnants of tear tracks lining his cheeks, and there was a deep sadness in his eye that was not there when he held his sons for the first time. He knew. He knew, and he was grieving, though he was fighting to hide it. She still saw it.

Perhaps that was the real reason he never returned to King’s Landing during the war - he knew she would be able to see the guilt on his face.

“There is no other wetnurse,” she explained gently. “Alys left. They’re looking for another woman now.”

Aemond froze, his gaze growing distant. She could not decipher his expression. Rage? Guilt? Sorrow? Grief?

“I’m sorry, Aemond.” He frowned and shook his head, but she continued. “Truly, I am.”

“It’s better this way,” he whispered. He didn’t believe it. Neither did she.

He reached out to her. No, not to her, but to Aenar, gently stroking his hair. She allowed him to take the babe and hold him against his own chest.

Aenar opened his eyes and looked up at his father. Then, he smiled.

Aemond took in a deep breath. “That boy should never have existed,” he said, letting Aenar take hold of his thumb and mouth at it. “I already had what I needed. And wanted.”

So it was a boy. Another son. A brother for her own. Would he have had his father’s nose, as Daeron did? Or his stern brow, like Aenar? Gods, why did she care?

“You are allowed to mourn him. He was innocent. I bear him no ill will.” Bastard or no, a babe was a babe, blameless of his parents’ sins. Deep in her heart, she mourned him, as well.

Again, Aemond shook his head. “I cannot mourn what never should have been.” He turned his head to face her, face open and pleading. “And I am mourning too much already.”

“I am alive. Aenar is alive. There is nothing to mourn.”

“You know that is not what I mean, ābrazȳrītsos.”

She did. He mourned not for the loss of a life, but for the loss of their life. The life they should have shared, and would have, had Aemond not strayed. In truth, she mourned for it, too.

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment as Daeron finally finished feeding, stretching his little arms to push her breast away. She pulled her robe closed again to combat the chill.

Aemond raised a hand to help her. She flinched away. He winced in response.

“Ābrazȳrītsos, please.” His voice was already breaking, his eye watering. The sight should have tugged at her heart. His begging should have fanned the flames of her anger. But looking at him, she felt very little of anything, save a small seed of pity. “Alys is gone. My… the bastard is gone. Can we not return to the way we were? Pretend none of this ever happened? Can’t you forgive me at last?”

The answer came without hesitation.

“No, Aemond.”

Within her, there was no longer a grassland, barren with loneliness and despair. The never-ending field of raging fire had also vanished. In its place was a small, lush garden, safely contained within tall stone walls draped with flowers and a polished iron gate – locked firmly, but perhaps not sealed forever.

“I shall always be your sister, your blood, and the mother of your children.” Daeron cooed, as if he knew she was talking about him, and she could not help but smile down at him. “I will remain your wife in the eyes of gods and men. And when Aegon dies, I will be your faithful queen.”

Aemond shook as his breath quickened, failing to keep the heartbreak. “You will be a wonderful queen, ābrazȳrītsos. I know it.”

She pulled away, taking Aenar from him and into her empty arm. “But I will never again be your ābrazȳrītsos.” She forced herself to ignore the whimpering, broken cry that escaped him, the breath that carried it echoing like a death rattle. “I will not share your bed. And I will no longer allow you to hold my heart.”

Between desperate sobs, Aemond raised his head to face her. Utter devastation lay in his eye, but so too did acceptance. Anguished surrender. “My heart is and always shall be yours.”

I don’t want it, her mind told her, even as her heart cried, I will cherish it forever.

But her decision was made. In all but name, their marriage – their once legendary romance – was finished. A few fragments of love remained but would never be repaired. Could never be.

Slowly, she rose from the bed, her sons still in her arms. Aemond began to reach for her, but when she did not even acknowledge him, he covered his face with his hands and wept. Though it tugged at her heart, it was the same she would feel for any man weeping so, no longer the instinctive pull of a wife. She did not comfort him.

The soft, pitiful sounds of Aemond’s grief faded as she walked toward the eastern window, settling herself in the cushioned seat just beneath it.

Daeron smiled, watching the trembling branches of an oak tree dotted with the first tight green buds of the season. Aenar angled his head just so, until the sun warmed every bit of his fat, pink face, then promptly fell asleep. She sighed, taking in the sweet scent of spring on the wind, and realized she had not breathed so easily in months.

It was a lovely morning in Harrenhal.

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