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acupofqueercoffee · 5 months ago

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“Beneath the Dragon’s Eyes”

Rhaenys Targaryen x Female Reader (+Meleys)

wc : 2700+

cw : older woman x younger woman // also, they make out in front of meleys, hence the name // a touch of fluff and a sprinkle of spice

finally took matters into my own hands muahahaha 😈 i love my red queens so gotta include both of them, and ofc, rhaenys speaking high valyrian 😮‍💨

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Zephyrs in Driftmark can be unforgiving at times, especially in the break of dawn. It crawls through little gaps from the castle’s stone walls, running its frigid fingers over every part of your body that is left exposed by your thick covers. One cursed touch of it, and immediately, the shivers come in a tidal wave, iciness crashing down your frame the way waves break the sandy shore.

Peeved to be so rudely awaken, you burrow deeper into bed, pulling the covers over your head to hide in your warm, little cocoon. Still, the trembling persists as though your early morning visitor has left a piece of itself behind in the very depths of your core, for coldness continues to swell from within. On your temples, your blood throbs so fiercely in your veins to the point that you think they may pop any moment now, an awful sensation that is well-nigh torture.

A part of you is inclined to believe that such is the punishment for the sin you have committed yesternight, but even if it is to be the case, the better part of you harbour not a dot of remorse. Why should you when there still lingers traces of her presence, subtle but certainly detectable on the delicate piece of fabric that is presently held close to your chest, a keepsake. Admittedly, not willingly given. Rather, stolen in a moment of irrepressible desire. But a keepsake nonetheless. The handkerchief is simply a square piece of cotton cloth, elegantly lined with lace, as white as milk, but her initials, in blood-red cursive, are embroidered on one corner of it.

Pressing the soft material to your nose, and drowning in the faint scent of sea breeze and firewood that is uniquely and so undeniably your Princess Rhaenys’s, conjure up memories from last night. Within the secrecy of your room, one of the privileges of being the Princess’s Handmaiden, with the stolen little piece of herself nestled over your nose, your fantasies have gone uncontrollably wild. Teeth biting lips, fingers journeying south, sweat blooming into beads, body writhing in ecstasy. Suffice it to say that by the time you drift off, you are thoroughly drained. Only the sea scented breeze catches wind of the name that sweetly, thickly drips down your lips in a sacred whisper, and the moon, the sole witness to the rivulets that shimmer on the inside of your thighs beneath its silvery light.

A cascade of warmness that envelops your body at the mere thought of your lady is all it takes to fend off the cold. Cheeks rosy and ears buzzing, you suddenly feel very feverish. By the side of the bed, a window sits on the wall, the clouds beyond the frame drenched in artistic reds and oranges at the hands of the slowly rising sun, and in need to cool off, your fingers curl around the latch to push it open.

Your respite is fragile, short-lived, shattering like a glass on impact, once an eddy of wind, strong and sudden, swirls into your humble dwelling. The intruder leaves everything untouched other than your little keepsake that is stolen right under your nose. Slipping through your fingers, it flutters akin to a bird preparing for take off, before being escorted through the window, and you watch, a gasp on your lips, while the relentless breeze sends the precious piece of your lady flurrying down, and down, and further down. Your heart drops along with the handkerchief by the time you realise where it has disappeared into.

In your haste to retrieve your prized possession, you have forgone, or rather completely forgotten, the decency to slip into something more suitable for the weather. With a simple nightdress precariously hanging on your frame, your bare feet pad through the winding halls and down the grand staircases as you slip past bustling servants, too engrossed in their respective works to pay you any mind. By the time you reach the entrance to the crypt, you observe from behind a pillar. Only when you have made certain that the two dragon-keepers are locked in an animated chatter do you emerge from your hidden spot, running past them in a blur of movements.

The bowels of the castle are off-limits to many servants save a handful of guards and the dragon-keepers. It is after all home to Meleys, the Red Queen, Princess Rhaenys’s beloved dragon.

Amidst your descent into the foreboding darkness, the beast inside your chest pounds against its cage, wild and frantic. The air is thick, heavy with the scent of dragon, and there, in the shadowy depths of the cavern, you can outline the form of Meleys, her scales shimmering like rubies in the faint glow as she appears to be slumbering, coiled and relaxed. Granted, you have feasted your eyes upon the dragon from afar with no small amount of wonder whenever your Princess takes her out for a flight across the ocean, but it is only given that you will be hypnotised by such a spectacle right before your very eyes, the sheer magnitude and majesty of the Red Queen filling you with intense awe.

A sudden, swift whoosh of her tail sends something aflutter into the wind, and the sight of it spills ice along the length of your spine. Caught on a jagged stone, between you and the dragon, is your lady’s handkerchief.

You have just barely plucked the delicate fabric between your fingers when a low, rumbling growl, seeming to come from the very bowels of the earth itself, shakes you to your core. Slowly, you unstick your eyes from the ground only to find twin orbs of molten gold locked onto you, burning with such malice and ferocity that the force of it alone sends you stumbling back. She rises, hackles raised, and only when a person emerges from behind her large body do you understand why the dragon is being so alarmed.

“Daor, Meles!”

(No, Meleys!)

You are in equal parts absolutely terrified of the doom looming over you, and ridiculously enamoured of your lady’s mother tongue reaching your ears in a tentalising caress.

“Ryptēs. Lykiri.”

(Listen. Be calm.)

One colossal wing unfolds, a protective barrier shielding her rider from you who she deems a possible threat.

“It’s alright. She’s not a threat.”

You can see from where you sit in a sorry little heap, still frozen on the ground, that Princess Rhaenys’s hand has planted firmly against her dragon’s side, offering reassuring strokes that seems to effectively pacify the massive creature. Little by little, her red wing lowers to fold gracefully against her side, and in doing so, reveals to you your lady, comfortably dressed in her dragon-riding attire. There is a steely edge to her face, lips pursed, and gaze stormy when she turns to look at you.

“What, pray tell, do you think you’re doing here?”

So, she demands, and you stand before you answer, or at least, you try to, but the suddenness of it encourages a dizzy spell that has you wobbling on your feet. That has been your foolish mistake for you have offered the doom, that is silently, solemnly observing you, one wrong move, and one is plenty enough of a sign for her to finally descend upon you. With a snarl, scary and sinister, the red queen takes a step forward.

“Lykiri, Meles. Rȳbās!”

(Be calm, Meles. Focus!)

Helplessly, hopelessly, you swoon over your Princess, who has placed herself between her handmaiden and her dragon, her body a firm wall of protection before your own.

“Lykiri.”

(Be calm.)

Once again, the delicious pulse of her voice flows in the form of High Valyrian, gentleness and authority intertwined as she quells the anger of the dragon with a string of melody that effortlessly spills forth her lips, accompanied by a delicate touch of her fingers on the dragon’s impressive snout. Despite your circumstances, you cannot help but stupidly find the gesture endearing.

“Demās.”

(Sit.)

As oblivious as you are to what your lady is saying, you hang on her ever word, enthralled, and so, too, is Meleys if the way she stops her grumbling to instead sit down on the ground is anything to go by.

“Hegnīr. (Good.)” And with a press of your lady’s fingers, elegantly long and delightfully lithe, that are bestowing gentle caresses along the plane of her cheek, the dragon emits a sound, not akin to the growls from before but a happy noise, supposedly the closest thing to a purr she can manage. “Hmm…ñuhys meles darys. (Hmm…my red queen.)”

Once her dragon is settled, you become the focus of the Princess’s attention, or rather, the object of her ire. “You’re not supposed to be here.” She scolds, her stony-eyed gaze pinning you in place. “And what have you got there?”

Following her eyes, you find that they are resting on your hand, grip, white-knuckled tight as fingers curl around the handkerchief, her handkerchief, for dear life. “It’s- I- uhmm-” Silently, patiently, she studies you as you try but fail miserably to stammer out an explanation, for the words get tangled in your throat.

One footfall of her boots brings her closer to you.

One more and you will be able to feel her breath on your face.

Her gaze, although just as intense, has begun harbouring a touch of softness as those fingers, which have served as one of the focuses of your fantasies, lock around your wrist, thumb of her other hand tracing the embroidered initials. “This is mine.” She speaks matter-of-factly. “Why do you have it?”

Your eyes are cast to the ground, roaming over every bump and ridge of rock, anything but her face, and so, with her hand still fitted around your wrist like a snug bracelet, she tugs you, not unkindly, merely as a means to draw attention. “Eyes on me.”

How are you to resist a direct command from your Princess? A command to feast your eyes upon the mesmerising planes and valleys of her face no less.

It comes to you as easily as breathing, admiring the little lines bracketing her lips and the delicate crow’s feet below her eyes, and enjoying every moment of it, but not so much having your soul laid bare beneath her hot scrutiny. The brilliance of her stare gives rise to goosebumps on your body, the little hair on the back of your nape standing when you hear Meleys in the background. The dragon levels you with those twin suns of hers, pools of liquid gold that shimmer with curiosity, in return for the peek you have sneaked. Her stare is both mesmersing and terrifying. A strangled little gasp tumbles out of your lips, whereas a thrill that simmers low in her maw seems to vibrate deep within your bones.

“Fear not.” Your lady’s face gravitates towards you, but a whisker away. “Meleys wouldn’t touch a hair on your head unless I say so.”

“But me on the other hand, hmm,” Middle and fore finger touch a lock of your hair as she whispers in your ear. “I’m not quite sure.”

“I- I’m sorry, my lady. It smelt of you,” You swallow, warm and fuzzy. “-and it was so inviting, and I couldn’t help myself.”

A pad of a thumb traces the bone of your cheek, before opting to pluck your chin between forefinger and a thumb. Gingerly, she angels your face until your gazes collide. “Oh, I bet you couldn’t.”

She watches you intently, her eyes roaming over every feature on your face, and despite the cheeks that are dusted cherry red and the sorry little thing swelling painfully inside your chest, you glory in her attention, soaking every droplet of it.

Dainty and delicate in appearance, her lips call out to you, a siren’s song, and just as you are entertaining the idea of throwing all caution to the wind to chase after the forbidden temptation, they fall upon you.

No amount of wildest dreams can hold a candle to the real experience. Smooth and soft, her lips are the sweetest thing you have ever had the pleasure of consuming, but underneath it all is an addictive spiciness, you quickly discover, once a velveteen tip of a tongue licks the swell of your lips. No sooner has the delicate bud unfurled like a flower in bloom than the ravenous snake slithers inside in search of sweet nectar.

An arm has twined itself around your waist, pulling you against her body, kiss intensifying as teeth nibble and tongue tangle, and with a choked little noise, your hand descends upon your lady’s shoulder.

In the haze of it all, you cannot help but appreciate her hair, a cascade of white satin falling beautifully down her shoulders, which you braid every morning and comb every night. A knit appears between your brows. Clearly, her hair is fashioned. Although, you do not remember putting these particular braids on her head.

“You didn’t send for me to have your hair done.” Fingers toy with a lock of hair, perpetually drenched in moon glow. “Who did these, my lady?”

“I can manage a few braids myself, dear girl.”

A nip on the delicate underside of your chin proves to be a dizzying distraction.

Meanwhile, blossoms of her kisses have branched off to your neck, lips closing around the little notch on your throat. Like dewdrops blooming on leaves on a misty morning, specks of perspiration has appeared on your forehead. She sucks once, and your spine arches. Another, and with a trickle of gasps down your lips, your body curves deeper into your lady’s.

“You’re trembling.” She breathes into the hummingbird flutter of your pulse, voice throaty and hot, and you feel it on your skin more than you hear it. “Is it the cold?”

“No,” Her hand tugs one part of your chemise down, and doing so leaves your shoulder bare. “No, Princess. It is you.”

“Hmm.” Lips glide across your skin, planting firmly on the slope of your shoulder, and sucking the flesh into the hot cavern of her mouth until it is red and rosy and deliciously raw.

Then, she arises, thumb outlining the fleshy swell of your lips, dewy and kiss-swollen, before opting to cradle your face in the palm of her hand. A ghost of a smile that blossoms on her lips is such a sight for sore eyes. You drink it in like a parched man.

A beautiful mess, the Princess has left you, and she takes her sweet time relishing her masterful craft.

“Gevie.”

Her mother tongue makes a delightful reappearance, this time solely for your ears, and you are but butter in her arms, melting from the sultriness of her cadence alone.

“What does it mean, my lady.” Your gaze, doe-eyed and love-struck, finds hers. Her amused little grin is not easily discernible, but all too familiar with the nuances of the Princess’s expressions, you find it in those enchanting browns, in the soft little lines on her face that becomes just a touch vivider. “Beautiful.”

“I’ve found myself wondering what my touch would do to you-” Her gaze moves to the stolen keepsake that still resides within your grasp. “-if this flimsy, little fabric was capable of making you moan my name so reverently in bed.”

The knowledge that she is aware of your deed breeds excitement, sends tingles down your spine. A twinkle of anticipation has appeared plain as day in your eyes, and to your pleasant surprise, a chuckle spills forth her lips, deep and dizzying.

“But perhaps another time.” She drops a kiss atop the little arch of your nose, and your eyes slip shut, full of bliss. “And keep the handkerchief. I’m sure it’ll be more useful in your hands than it is in mine.”

A feather light touch has found home on your naked shoulder, a gentle flap of a butterfly’s wings against the deep purple bloom that her mouth has so exquisitely painted on your skin. With a hum, she fixes the chemise so that the evidence of her doing lies hidden beneath the fabric, away from prying eyes and gossiping servants.

“Come. Let Meleys rest. She has had enough entertainment for one day.”

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#house of the dragon #rhaenys targaryen x reader #rhaenys targaryen velaryon x reader #rhaenys velaryon x reader #rhaenys targaryen #rhaenys velaryon #rhaenys the queen who never was #character x reader #hotd s2 #hotd season 2 #fanfic #tv: hotd #hotd fanfic #meleys #meleys the red queen #dance of the dragons #eve best #high valyrian

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sunnami · 5 months ago

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the marauders as. . . whatever these love languages are (ii).

“i’m so fucking tired, please god just let me rest for five minutes.”

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐔𝐒 𝐋𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐍 sees a monster staring back at him in the mirror—you tell him that you see a kind, gentle soul deserving of all things beautiful. he wants to bury himself beneath the ground, where the earthworms burrow and the primroses bloom one day. the mornings after the full moon are always the hardest. a new scar to his growing collection and fresh blood spilt on his wretched hands. he is a monster and there is no better word to define him than that. so why do you burst into his room, much like the morning sun—without a care for the moon’s sorrow—and smile at him like you actually care?

he doesn’t believe you’re real—only a mirage sent by his darkest nightmares to torment him. yet, how can torture feel so delicate and forgiving? still, you insist on seeking him out despite knowing he is a cursed man. you see the bloodied tips of his fingers where claws have grown the night prior, the crimson smudges in the corner of his mouth, teeth stained with the lives of innocent creatures he’s taken. he is a killer, and yet you stay by his side.

don’t you see?

he’s trying to keep you safe by pushing you away. one day, you’ll tire of him just as he has grown weary of living in his own skin.

why do you look at him as though he cannot rip you apart, limb by limb, with just a flick of his hand?

“because you are remus lupin,” you say, a cruel whisper in his ear, holding his head close to your heart, and shouldering his burdens, aches, and pains. “i will be here when the sun rises, and i will be with you until the earth knows the taste of our existence, when the vines creep over our legs and arms, and until you understand that love is not strong enough to explain why my soul calls out to yours.”

ah, remus sees it now.

he needs you just as a canary needs their wings to fly. his tears soak the fabric of your shirt, and you hold him closer until he feels you—and only you. you are the reason his heart still endures, hammering inside his ribcage as though it knows you are nearby. his body is but ruined flesh—even so, if the gods think he is deserving to bear witness to the innocence in your eyes, then perhaps he is not so much of a monster as he thought.

please, he begs to all the deities listening, do not take this pure creature away from me.

he would never ask you to share the weight of his damned fate, but he grieves at the thought of losing you—for remus might know true death, then.

a/n: did i go overboard with this one? probably. . .

#sunny's hp fics #sunny's barbe-queue!#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x y/n #marauders x reader #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin angst #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin imagine #marauders fluff #marauders imagine #marauders angst #hp drabbles #hp imagine

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lady-boketto · 2 months ago

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10.Slasher! Simon "Ghost" Riley (Call of Duty NSFW)

Summary: Ghost is a serial killer and during one of his sprees, he comes across an unsuspecting couple who are having fun in the woods.

A/n: For an easter egg I wanted this to be the unofficial part two of the Gaz one I wrote yesterday where you and Gaz are the couple in this one lol. But anyway enjoy!

The dark woods felt like home. The way the thick tree trunks groaned under the weight of the breeze. The rush of air cutting right down to the bone with its icy bite. This was where he belonged, stalking through the darkness, weaving through the forest like a shadow. With only the moon to bare witness to the sin of bloodlust.

Leaves crunched under his heavy boots, the soft plinks of blood flowing from the sickle he held tightly in hand, creating an eerie trail as he shifted through the woods aimlessly. Tonight was unlike any other, and he relished in the way the cold night embraced his masked face. He was still feeling the rush of adrenaline when he heard something unusual, in the distance he could make out a tent but that wasn't the part that caught his attention. It was the noises that could be heard coming from the tent.

Ghost made little to no sound as he stalked towards a large tree that was nearby, the roughness of the bark hitting the back of his jacket as he leaned against the oak tree. His breathing was calm as he made up his mind already to attack the unsuspecting couple in their most intimate moment, he was about to strike when was caught off guard by your voice.

“Just like that!~….M-more!”

Your voice cried out as your lover hit that special spot inside you that made your eyes roll to the back of your head. You couldn’t hold your voice back as it only spurred on your lover to grip your hips harder as they fucked you from behind. The sound of skin slapping against each other as Ghost was frozen in his place outside in the cold, he was enchanted by your moans. You sounded so desperate to be fucked, all the blood in his body rushed to his groin as something in him awoken upon hearing your pleas.

Ghost leaned his head back against the wood, letting out a deep sigh as he gently tossed his weapon to the side, letting it hit the ground with a soft thud before he started to fiddle with the zipper of his jeans. Sighing heavily as one his hands starts to rub his growing erection, while he continues to listen in on the sinful noises that were coming from a few feet away from him. His thoughts get the better of him as can’t help but fantasize that he’s the one fucking your brains out.

Instead Ghost is pushing his pants down just enough to free his cock from his boxers, shivering at the cold air that immediately hits his pale skin as he grips the base of his cock. He eagerly begins to stroke his cock to the sounds of your moans, biting his bottom lip under his mask as he uses his other hand to cup and gently squeeze his balls. His mind teases him as he pictures how you would look underneath him as he pounds into you or how good your lips would look wrapped around his cock.

“You feel so good! I-I’m close!”

His torture continues as he hears you beg for your release.

‘That’s it, take it’

His voice echoes in his mind, his movements becoming sloppier as he felt his body heat up from arousal. With a couple of final strokes Ghost cums with a groan, staining the ground with his seed. His chest rises and falls as he tries to catch his breath, taking a moment to recover and cleaning himself up the best he can before fixing his pants.

Just as Ghost leans down to pick up his weapon, he hears you cry out one last time as he figures that you’ve reached your climax. A smirk pulls at his lips under his mask, this was perfect timing as he feels his bloodlust from earlier return.

‘This is going to be fun.’

#x reader #call of duty #call of duty x reader #cod #cod x reader #cod x reader smut #cod smut #call of duty smut #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #cod mw ghost #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost smut #kinktober list #divider by tsunami-of-tears

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flos-obsessivus · 3 months ago

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What if the advisor reader was a veteran? Like a past knight or footsoldier but due to an injury (minor or major) they decided to continue their service but as an advisor?

Since young, he had been admiring you from the windows of the castle overlooking the training field. Leaned against the clear window, sighing dreamily at your sweaty body and defined muscles. Oh what he would do just to touch them. Even his old advisor nor his parents could pry him away from seeing your form overpowering your opponent, goodness, how strong you are! He wishes that it was him pinned underneath you, he would gladly let you dominate him. He would even compare you to the knight in shining armour that his books often talk about.

From time to time he would see you run around with your squad, but most of the time you are dedicated to your craft, he would often catch you at night still at the field repeatedly swinging a sword at a dummy until the moon is at it's peak. You are so devoted to being a knight that it was hard for him to catch your attention outside polite nods and a bow.

When the time comes that he is able to visit places outside the castle, it's no wonder that it's you that the general always chooses to accompany him everytime he comes to visit the town. Though, your sharpened skills isn't the only thing that convinced his parents, he also had to beg for them to choose you.

It's no secret that Lilian has many admirers, as the beloved crown prince of the Rosen kingdom, he is bound to encounter colourful personalities all across the kingdom. Of course, he is not safe from those who wants a piece of him to take back home.

That's where you step in, as the assigned knight of the prince, his knight in shining armour. You quickly grabbed the arm of the offending party, throwing him away from the both of you. However, he wasn't the only one targeting the prince. Another guy appeared behind Lilian, brandishing a knife. He swung to hit him but you quickly put yourself in between them, getting slashed on your side instead of the prince.

You swiftly disposed of the attackers, slashing their throats and spilling blood all over your skin and clothes. You look so hot drenched in blood. But you had another problem on your hands, when you turn to assess the prince's well-being, you find him hyperventilating. Worried, you of course approach to calm him down, thinking it was due to him witnessing a traumatizing shight, but a jolt of pain stopped you. He noticed your hesitation and ran up to you, dragging you to lay down as he tries to help.

He doesn't know what to do though and he hyperventilates even more when he realizes he can't help you. Your warm hand grasping onto his forearm snapped him back to reality, you had to take over and guide him into putting pressure on the wound.

'Forgive me for staining you with my blood,' you would say, and he responds with a simple 'I cannot let you die...', odd considering the wound was shallow at best. Perhaps this was due to the fear of having to see another person die in front of him, he has always been kindhearted.

Half of it is true. Yes he fears of you dying in his arms, but on the other he was glad that the person who hurt you is now dead, just to the side of him with his neck sliced open with the blood now turning cold. If it was up to him he would have let the filth live just so he can lock him up in the dungeons to get tortured everyday until he succumbs to his injuries. Lilian should have been worried when his kindness turns into cruelty once it concerns you.

Once help finally arrives, he is quickly brought back to the castle where he agonizes your recovery and laments at the fact because of him you were hurt. When the sun sets and the moon rises, he finally settled on a heartbreaking decision. He would relieve you of your duty as a knight.

And so that night, you are his knight in shining armor no more. His knight who protected him with the same sword he now hangs on the wall across his bed, the same knight who once stood alone in the field to train until they collapse in exhaustion, the same knight who... Who now stands in front if him bearing not a sword but a pen, his knight who bows politely before introducing themselves as his new advisor, his knight whose devotion to the crown he shouldn't have underestimated.

#I honestly didn't mean for this to become a fic #i dont know the word count is but I assume around 700 #Forgive me if there are errors as im using my phone and I wrote this at 3 am #I do not have the energy to proofread this #yandere male #yandere oc #yandere prince #yandere x reader #yandere x you #asks #lilian oc #yandere

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asumofwords · 1 year ago

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Smoke, Fire and Ash - EPILOGUE

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. Mentions of grief, war, blood, loss.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, Cregan Stark X Reader

Note: Whelp... Here we are.... This is it. This is the end. The end of Smoke, Fire and Ash. We are ending with this Epilogue in a five year time jump. And oh boy.... I can't believe it. I really hope that you enjoy how I finish this era lmao, with over 370k words.... someone needs to take my computer away from me. Again, I can't even begin to express my love and gratitude to you all, I just hope that you have enjoyed reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it! <3 So as always.... ENJOY!

EPILOGUE : His Song of Ice and Fire

Time jump: 5 years into the future.

There was a chill that had come early to Kings Landing that season, all those years ago. A chill that had swept across the stones of the Keep, cool air creeping into your bones through your gown.

But now, as you stood where you had many moons ago, there was no crisp breeze that sent goosebumps rising on your arms, nor was there a bite to it that came as a subtle and precursory warning for what was to come.

The courtyard of the Godswood was warmed by streams of glowing sunlight that blanketed over the cobblestones and grass.

A soft breeze rolled through as you walked forward towards the tree, having missed being in its presence over the years passed, mostly spent on Dragonstone.

It had been five years since your mother was seated upon the Iron Throne. Five years since you had been named her successor. Five years since Lords, Ladies and Heads of Houses pledged themselves to you and the Queen.

Five years since the death of Aegon and all those responsible for the usurpation.

Since you commanded dracarys and watched as Alicent was devoured by flames. Since Larys laid on the flagstones, blood seeping from his stomach.

Five years since your father had gone to Storms End and slayed Borros Baratheon for his play in it.

Five years since Baela and Rhaena flew to Oldtown and rounded up all the Hightower's who had shown support for Otto and his kin.

And five years since his death.

Five years ago, in these very walls of the Red Keep, you had plunged a dagger into your husbands neck. Your uncles neck. Your childhood companion. The man you had loved.

And not one day that had gone by did you not think of it. Did you not dream of it. Did you not see him in the corners of your eyes, or in the shadows of your chambers on Dragonstone.

Did you not see the blood that stained your hands when you would wake, or witness with bouts of anxiety.

In your hand, the old and worn cover of your favourite book, ‘Ten Thousand Ships'. A novel in which you had read under these very branches of the Godswood. On the grass your mother had sat with you, or your brothers, or your uncles and aunt.

You watched as a small head of silver raced ahead of you, shoulder length hair billowing behind him, with two tidy braids holding the sides behind his head.

“Careful, Lucerys.” You called out gently, watching as your son climbed atop the roots and settled right into your favourite spot. His black and red robes crinkling as he leant back against the root of the Weirwood tree.

The smile on your face stretched widely as you moved to sit beside him, the small boy crawling into your lap as you brushed his hair back behind his ears. Little hands reached out to play with the necklace at your neck.

Aemond’s sapphire.

Ever since Lucerys was born, he had always longed to touch or hold it, violet eyes always finding it with ease against your neck, fingers outstretched to play with it or caress it. He tapped it up and down upon his finger as he looked at it with content.

There was so much of Aemond in him, it was hard for all not to see. It was especially true with his eyes. Eyes that you had loved since you were a child, reflected on your own sons face.

His were, much like Aemond's, a way to read him almost immediately, showing so much emotion and character in them as he thought, or played, or argued. Long silver lashes blinked up at you, and you could not help the tug of your heart as you bent your head to kiss his forehead.

The young boy scrunched his nose at you in mock disgust before grabbing the book from your hand to hold it open in his lap, finding the page that you had been up to not just the day before.

The bridge of his nose was dusted with light freckles, and there was such a boyish charm to his rosy cheeks, whenever he smiled his teeth would show, bar the one he had recently just lost.

Little Lucerys was as Aemond had been as a young boy. Inquisitive, soft spoken, kind and daring. He had a longing for knowledge, and sought it out whenever he could in Dragonstone's library or by picking your brain with a continuous stream of questions and consciousness.

But then there was so much of you in him too. His nose, his sure fire temper when things did not go his way, and his utter refusal to back down, even when it brought him to tears.

You read to your son beneath the tree as you reminisced on your days before. On how you had sought solace beneath the branches many times. How your mother had read to you here. How your brothers and Helaena would sometimes join you or play. And how Aemond would sit behind the trunk and listen to you read aloud, your voice carrying enough for him to hear, but not loud enough to let him know that you knew he was there.

And as you read, you felt his presence, there on the other side of the Godswood, where he would sit as a boy, listening as you read to his son. Watching as he always did. There as he always was.

Always and forever more, would the ghost of Aemond haunt you.

You read louder, just so you could be confident that Aemond could hear, just as you had when you were young, even though you knew he was not truly there. But it felt right. It felt the way it should have been. What could have been.

Familiar.

That is where your mother found you, nestled where she used to, reading a book she had once read to you to your son, and loud as though you wished for your voice to carry to some unknown spectator.

You felt the eyes of the Queen and lifted your head, pausing your reading if only for a moment, and Lucerys, being as perceptive as he was, looked up and spotted his Grandmother, leaping from your lap all elbows and knees and ran towards her.

The Queen opened her arms widely as she chuckled, bending down slightly to catch the young boy who launched himself into her arms, crown unmoving from the top of her head.

“Grandmother Nyra!” He had cried as she lifted him into the air, sitting him atop her hip as you dusted your skirts down and made your way over.

“It feels right to see you there. I can remember how eager you used to be.” She smiled, turning her head to look at the boy in her arms, “Did you know your mother had me read to her there too?”

The boy nodded his head, silver hair bouncing atop his shoulders, “Uh huh. And father too!”

Rhaenyra’s smile softened as she looked at the boy and back to you, “She did. Your father loved her reading.”

A small smile tugged at your lips as you leaned in to kiss your mothers cheeks, son still in her arms as he played with the crown at her head.

“Are you ready for this evenings feast?” Rhaenyra asked, swaying the boy gently as she pressed another kiss to the top of his head, once, twice, three times, exaggerating the noise as she sucked air through her pursed lips.

“Of course,” You adjusted the necklace at your throat in nervous habit, “We flew all this way for this evening, didn’t we?”

“Vermithor is grumpy, Grandmother. But he lets me on his back!”

Rhaenyra opened her mouth and raised her brows, “Does he? Why, you must be the youngest rider ever!”

Lucerys beamed.

“Muña has been taking me to see Vhagar! She flies with us sometimes.” Mother.

The smile on Rhaenyra’s lips twitched, if only for a moment, before she regained her composure.

“Does she now? Vhagar must know that you’re your fathers son.”

Little Luc nodded his head, “I’m going to claim her. Muña said I shouldn’t because she is too old and grumpy and dangerous, but I know father wants me too.”

You cleared your throat, “That’s enough of that. Grandsire will have a new clutch soon, and you will have your own egg.”

“But I-“

“-Hush, my sweet.”

Turning back to you, Queen Rhaenyra lowered the boy back on to the ground, letting him run circles around the courtyard as you spoke, “Is he still having dreams?”

You bit your lip anxiously, before nodding, “He knows things he shouldn’t. He is much like Helaena in that respect.”

Your mother gave you a reassuring smile, “A gift from the Gods no doubt. A most precious one.”

You nodded in agreement, but in some ways you didn’t agree at all.

Was it really a gift if it aided in driving Helaena to madness?

Rhaenyra held one of your hands, brushing her thumb up and over your knuckles soothingly. You didn’t dare look down, knowing that they would be bloodied, “There will be allies from all the realm tonight. I cannot believe little Rhaegar is to have his first name day already.”

Rhaegar was a small boy of silver hair and tanned skin, one violet eye, and one brown. The third son of Jacaerys and Baela, with yet another on the way. Baela had told you in secret that she wished for a girl this time around, but had been surprised when the small boy had been born.

None were more surprised however, than when he had opened his eyes to peer up at your brother, besotted by his son already, staring down at the violet and brown eyes that looked back up at him.

Aelor, the eldest, was but a few moons older than your Lucerys, and the two got on more fiercely than even you and Aemond possessed. It was a beautiful bond the two boys had, full of love and loyalty.

The middle child of Jacaerys and Baela was a sweet and quiet boy named Rhaelor. He had the most beautiful of curls like his mother, who braided it closely to his scalp with clips of gold and silver dangling from each.

"I cannot believe it either.” You agreed, casting a quick glance at your son, “They grow so quickly.”

Rhaenyra took your other hand in hers and squeezed them, “You grew the fastest of all. You shot up far before your brothers. I feel like I blinked and then there you were, a woman grown.”

Chuckling, you squeezed her hand back, “Will Rhaena be joining us this evening?”

Rhaenyra turned to lead you away from the Godswood, Lucerys running up beside you to hold your other hand, “Rhaena sent word that she senses the babe to be with us any day now. It is too far to travel from the Vale to Kings Landing in her condition, but has told us we must all be ready to come see the babe once it is born.”

Rhaena, upon the death of Lucerys, had refused to wed for years. She had stayed loyal and adamant that she would not be betrothed to another, but then she had met Ser Corwyn Corbray, a knight of House Corbray one evening at a feast.

They had immediately connected, an older man with flowing black hair and deep brown eyes that almost looked black. Corwyn was a kind man, if not fierce and skilled as a swordsman, wielding an ancestral longsword of Valyrian steel named Lady Forlorn.

“A shame that I will not see my half-sister again, but I’m delighted to hear the babe should be born any day now. We shall be having many name day celebrations close together.” You smiled.

As you left the cobblestones of the courtyard, you turned your head back to gaze upon the ruby red leaves of the tree. They shimmered in the light of the sun and rustled softly with the breeze.

And there, sat beneath its branches, was Aemond.

His head was leant back against its trunk as he watched you, sapphire missing from the empty socket of his lost eye.

He had not left you.

He did not speak as Helaena and Lucerys had. Not in full sentences anyway. Not anything but the familiar name of endearment that he had called you.

Zaldrītsos.

It was whispered to you in the dead of night, or in the darkest of rooms when your hair would stand on end. Or at times, whispered to you when you were with Lucerys.

It was never malicious.

Or at least, thats what you liked to tell yourself. Though it never felt like he was there with bad intentions. It felt neutral. And you liked to tell yourself that he was there to watch and keep you safe. To keep you company. That a piece of your mind had made him up so that he could live a life with you, and watch your son grow.

There would always be a part of Aemond with you no matter where you went. Whether in your son, or in your visions, or upon your neck and scarred skin.

Your heart ached at the thought.

Rhaenyra walked you back to your chambers, entering as your four maids bowed and began to get preparations in order to ready you for the feast. The chamber doors opened as they left, held open as the tall and built body of your father entered.

“Grandsire!” Lucerys screeched, and you winced as the sound sent fear racing down you spine.

Your heart jolted, the echoes of screaming in your ears as you plastered a smile on your face, eyes twitching, watching as Daemon lifted him high into the air, throwing him up once and catching him to hold him tight against his chest.

Loud noises sometimes did that to you. Threw you back to your time in the Keep before your parents had arrived. Sparking fear into your very core, to the point where sometimes you could not breathe, as though your brain stopped functioning and you were gasping for air, clawing at your throat.

In those moments, Aemond would whisper to you.

It had been especially hard when Lucerys was first born. His cries would wake you and send you into a fit panic, racing to grab the dagger beside your bed as you would check the chamber for danger, wide eyed.

It took several months to learn to live with it, with his presence there, and you would be lying if you didn't say that looking down at Lucerys in his crib as a babe made you feel a guilt that you could not fight away with common sense. A melancholy that ate away at you viciously.

You had fallen into a state of depression, and in your confusion you had sent a letter to your mother and father via raven asking for star fruit. Your mind was so confused, so lost. You barely slept, or ate, and were in a perpetual state of fear.

Daemon came at once, and ended up spending almost an entire year on Dragonstone with you to help, before he finally convinced you to come back to Kings Landing with him so that your mother could help too.

It was months of screaming through the night, months of support, months of pacing your chambers, wondering if it was all worth it. Wondering if it was worth living, worth staying another day in such Hell.

The same thoughts had replayed in your mind over and over.

My son will hate me for what I have done.

I took his father from him.

He will never love me.

He will resent me for my sins.

The thought of climbing out the window as Helaena had done became an almost daily occurrence. And it was hard. Hard to not give in to it.

But you couldn't do it. Cowardice be damned, you could not leave you son alone. You would not abandon him. You would not do it.

So after months of the turmoil that chipped away at you day by day, you told them the truth of it, the whole truth of it, and by that time, after voicing such things aloud, little by little, you felt a bit more of yourself.

Lucerys had had his second name day when you were ready to go back to Dragonstone.

“Se skorkydoso iksis ñuha byka Dārilaros?” And how is my little Prince? Daemon grinned, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek as your son wriggled in his arms.

“Merbugon!” Hungry!

Daemon plastered mock shock upon his face, something that he would do often to you as a child, "Arlī? Yn ao sepār iprattan.” Again? But you just ate.

“Kesan ipradagon ao!” I’ll eat you! Lucerys growled, fake biting at his Grandsire’s arm.

The young boys High Valyrian was good, but nowhere near perfect.

Daemon and Rhaenyra spent ample time teaching him, as did his uncles Jacaerys and Joffrey when you'd come to visit, or them you. His other uncles, Little Viserys and Aegon the Younger were not too many years older, similar to the age gap you and your uncles had had. They often played with him and Aelor.

Daemon dropped the boy onto the floor, messing his hair with a rough hand before pushing him away to go play with his toys, Saria and Aella sitting with him on the floor. Your fathers lavender eyes landed on you and he smirked.

“Tala.” Daughter, He greeted you, voice almost playful, “Do you look forward to tonights feast?” He pried, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

“I look forward to spending time with all of you, of course.”

“Kostilus kessa ao ūndegon iā arlie valzȳrys.” Perhaps will you see a new husband, He smirked.

Rolling your eyes, you sighed, “Kepa.” Father, “Kostilus, daor bisa arlī." Please, not this again.

It was a conversation that had begun to come up more often than not. You knew the reasoning behind it. You were heir. And you would be expected to wed again, and soon. But all the Lords in Kings Landing you had met had not once sparked any sort of interest for you. And Rhaenyra had vowed to let you marry whom you wanted, when you wanted.

She had kept true to her word thus far.

Rhaenyra sighed, tilting her head up at her husband as she looked at him in exacerbation, “Henujagon zirȳla sagon.” Leave her be.

Daemon held his palms up in surrender, looking over you before he brushed your cheek with his knuckle quickly, “Ao jurnegon gevie hae va moriot. Hae aōha muña.” You look beautiful as always. Like your mother.

You smirked, “Don’t try and get in my good graces now.”

Rhaenyra grabbed Daemons hand, “We shall leave you to get ready, and see you at the feast.”

You watched as they left your chambers, Rhaenyra whispering to Daemon in your mother tongue.

You were readied by your maids, the two who had been in service for you for many years, and the two who had been your saving grace in the Keep for all those long and trying months. The four sworn to you, and almost never leaving your sight.

They dressed you in a style you were more familiar with, a style you had worn prior to the war. Tight bodice with dripping cleavage, short sleeves and dragons embroidered all over. Your hair was left in waves down your back, with braids nestled amongst them. Against your neck, the same necklace as you wore everyday.

Lucerys joined the feast for a time, eating with the other young children, Maelor and little Jaehaera included, before they were taken back to their chambers by maids.

The ale flowed heavily in the Hall, and all wore smiles on their faces, the frowns and wrinkles caused by the tension of war having been smoothed from their skin.

You sat beside your mother, Jacaerys and Baela to your other side.

Baela was glowing, stomach round with the new child and cheeks rosy from smiling. Jacaerys cheeks were rosy from ale, but parenthood suited him all the same. He had matured, that much was obvious, but his love and devotion to his family and wife had only gotten stronger.

“Little Aelor is growing so quickly.” You smiled, bringing your wine to your lips to sip as you felt nothing but joy to be where you were. To be where you always should had been. The room aglow with your mothers supporters and love. All around you joyous and bright.

“Little Aelor,” Baela leant towards you, “Is a little shit. Not once did I ever behave such a way. He bit Rhaelor this morning because he wouldn’t play with him.”

Jacaerys chuckled and Baela elbowed him in the arm.

“It's all Jacaerys, I’m afraid. He used to bite me too.” You grinned.

“I did not! Not once did I bite you.”

"You did too. I have scars to prove it. Even ask the Septa, she's the one who tore you from me like a rabid dog.”

Jacaerys turned to his wife for support, who only bit her lip to try and hide the smile that broke on her cheeks, “My sister condemns me with these lies. Do you hear her?”

Baela smirked, sipping her wine, “I believe her. You were terribly wild. I seem to recall you have bitten me on more than one occasion.”

Jacaerys blushed, tongue in cheek as he looked at his wife.

You made a teasing face of disgust, "Incorrigible, the both of you."

All three of you watched on as Lords and Ladies danced in the middle of the Hall, loud music bouncing off of the walls by the band that played in the corner, and all laughed and clapped with joy as they watched.

“It is good to be home.” Jacaerys grinned, watching the celebrations, “Driftmark, though close, feels miles away.”

“You’re both always welcome to visit me and Lucerys at Dragonstone again, perhaps a longer stay? I am sure he would love to have you and the boys more often.”

Jacaerys nodded, “We will come promptly then. If the heir beckons, we shall come.” He teased.

“You have been summoned then." You put on your most pious voice you could manage, bursting into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all.

As your eyes looked into the sea of people, a familiar face came into view.

Jacaerys and Baela, also noticing, turned to face you.

“You know,” Jacaerys began, leaning towards you, “He only comes to these things for you.” He whispered, watching the way a soft blush creeped on your cheeks.

“He comes for you, brother. You are friends after all.” You breathed, feeling your heart race in your throat as the man got closer.

“Kessa, yn ziry umbagon syt ao.” Yes, but he stays for you, Baela snickered.

“You are both as bad as each other.” You griped, finishing the rest of your wine quickly, hoping to distract yourself by pouring another.

As you reached for the goblet, the tall figure of Cregan Stark stood before you at the table, donned in brown and black leather robes, his long dark hair tied back away from his face, and stubble casting a shadow across his defined cheeks and chin.

His stormy grey eyes bored into yours, and the soft and yet polite smile of Cregan Stark greeted you.

“My Lady.” He bowed his head politely, “Jacaerys. Lady Baela.”

“Cregan.” They nodded.

Jacaerys and Baela turned their heads away, conversing with themselves in an attempt to give you mock privacy.

Though you knew they were listening.

“Cregan Stark. You have journeyed far for such an occasion.” You gazed up at him, watching as his eyes flicked downwards and then back to you.

“Of course, My Lady. It is not every day my good friend’s son has his first name day.”

“You could not have missed it, I would have never forgiven you.” Jacaerys chimed in, cheeky smirk on his lips.

Cregan chuckled, deep and heartily, “You’d burn me alive if I did not come. I think those were your words that you sent via raven.”

“Good memory, Stark.”

You smiled, loving the banter the two men had, “But to travel all the way from the North, it must be a tiresome journey, is it not?”

Cregan’s broad chest expanded as he pulled his shoulders back, hands held behind him, “Aye, a tiresome journey if on the backs of horses, and not dragons. Though I am gladdened to know I shall be well rested before my return. His Grace has offered for me to stay at the Red Keep for the month.”

You turned your head towards your father, who’s eyes were already on you, smirk on his face. Your gaze told him you would have a word with him later.

A stern word.

Turning back to Cregan you gave him a smile, "That is wonderful news that you will be here with us in Kings Landing for longer than expected. I had not imagined you to be here at all.”

“Apologies if my arrival has offended you, My lady.” Cregan jested, and you felt a blush creep across your chest.

“Please, Cregan, enough with the formalities. You may call me Y/n. I think we are well acquainted enough by now.”

Cregan smiled, showing a line of white teeth, “Y/n.” He tested the name on his tongue, as though it was the first time he had spoken it.

He stood for what felt like an eternity as you looked at him, neither of you sure of how to continue this conversation.

Jacaerys, being the meddlesome man that he was, decided that his false conversation about the weather with his wife had ended with perfect timing, looking up at his old friend with a shit eating grin.

“My sister here has been approached by many men this evening, all who call her the Beauty of the Realm. Do you find my sister to be beautiful?” He smirked.

Cregan blanched, but answered almost immediately after, “Aye. It would only be a fool who could not see it.”

You blushed, drinking half of your wine in one gulp.

“Then will you continue to do her the dishonour of not asking her to dance?” Jacaerys blinked at his friend from atop the rim of his cup, hiding his grin behind the silver.

Cregan looked as though he was ready to chastise the Prince, perhaps even hit him, but instead turned to you, bowing his head, “Might I ask for a dance, Your Grace?”

You looked at the tall man before you, dark hair that curled lightly in waves, with eyes as stormy as winter.

“If only you call me by my name, Lord Cregan.” You pushed from your seat, turning to give your brother and half-sister a furious glare that the Stark could not see as you turned away from the table, moving towards Cregan who waited diligently for you, hand held out, palm up.

Cregan was much taller than Aemond had been, broader, and when your hand slid into his, you felt your chest come alight. A rush that you had not felt in a long, long time. A sense of butterflies that fluttered about behind your ribs like a makeshift cage.

Cregan led you down to the sea of people, feeling the eyes of your family upon your back. When finally amongst the crowd you turned to face each other, dancing with the rest as your hands intermittently connected.

“I must apologise, Your Grace-”

“-Y/n.” You corrected him.

“Y/n.” He smiled, “It is not often that I dance in the North. I fear I may be a terrible partner.”

“You are yet to step on my toes. I think you are doing perfectly well, if not a little clunky.” You smirked at the tall man, watching as he looked away bashfully.

“There is still time for that I suppose.”

Each brush of his hands atop your body caused warmth to spread through you, tiny little tendrils winding their way up your flesh wherever his skin would make contact with yours. Your hands, arms, shoulders, waist. It was almost overwhelming, and the only time you had ever felt it before, was many years ago.

Five years ago, to be exact.

“Ao jurnegon gevie.” You look beautiful.

Your legs got tangled with themselves as you came to a halt, looking up at the grey eyed man who looked down at you wistfully.

“What did you say?” You breathed, uncertain if you had heard him right, or if it was your mind playing tricks upon you.

“I said you looked beautiful.” Cregan’s eyes roamed your face, brows beginning to furrow, “I apologise, Your-“

“-No.” You shook your head, “Ao ȳdragon Valyrio Eglie?” You speak High Valyrian?

A warm chuckle erupted from his chest, “No, My Lady. Just that and some other small things. Your brother has been a great teacher thus far.”

You tilted your head, trying to get your feet to unstick from the floor, blurs of people moving around you, but in that moment it felt as though they had all disappeared, and you were left alone with the man before you.

“He is a good teacher because I have taught him.”

“Then perhaps I must ask of you to teach me instead.” Cregan gazed at you hopefully.

You hummed, “Do you have need to learn it? I did not think the North had any speakers of my mother tongue.”

Cregan opened his arm towards the side, weaving you through the crowd to the edge of the table, grasping a goblet of ale and procuring a goblet of wine for yourself.

You sipped on the wine, eyed widening.

Dornish wine.

Of all the wine on the table from this realm, to the Redwyne's vineyards, from Essos, to Dorne. Cregan had given you the one wine you liked the most.

How did he...

“We do not." He replied, "The North has no need for tongues of fire, our breath is ice.”

“Indeed. I am not too fond of the cold, I am afraid.” You teased.

Cregan’s large hand moved to swipe at his chin with a thumb, stumble rubbing beneath it in thought as he looked at you, “And have you been to the North? It is far more than just ice. Winterfell has a garden that may rival the one in the Red Keep.”

The spiced Dornish wine was sharp on your tongue, “So I have heard. I have not had the Gods graces to witness it for myself. I have however, been gifted a Winter Rose.”

Dark brows pulled together as the Stark looked at you in confusion. Brown hair cascaded over his shoulder as he tilted his head at you, the earthy smell of oakmoss, ginger and pine surrounding you.

Oakmoss, ginger, pine.

Not at all, smoke, leather, and sandalwood.

It was earthy, warm despite his origins, and gentle. Like a breath of fresh air. Like a scent of safety and calm.

“Winter Roses do not grow in Kings Landing. How were you gifted one?”

You swallowed, looking away momentarily.

The energy around you shifted.

“My husband- late husband, had a knack for gifting me rare things in atonement for his temper.” The words came out sharp, crinkled on the edges, and tasted of iron.

Cregan nodded solemnly, “I am sorry for your loss.”

You blinked.

Not once, had a man or woman or any person who you had spoken to over the past five years, ever said they were sorry for Aemond. Not once had anyone offered condolences, except the silent stares of your family. In fact, most times, people congratulated you for your bravery, your strength, your ability to drive that dagger into his throat.

People congratulated you for killing the man you loved.

But not him.

Not Cregan.

And it intrigued you.

You finished the last of your wine, “I have not had the chance to thank you for supporting my mother after all these years.” You began, taking a glance to look up at her, as she gazed lovingly at your father in small conversation.

“Thank me not. A Stark never forgets their oath, and we made one to your mother.”

A smile wound its way on your lips, “And how cold does it get in the North, Lord Stark? How does one not freeze in the walls of Winterfell?”

Another warm chuckle floated from his chest, “There is much to be frozen in the North, but Winterfell was built atop hot springs. Brandon the Builder built it amongst giants. The hot water flows through the walls to keep us warm.”

“I thought I had read as much in a book once.” You smirked, feeling warm from the wine, “But I had never imagined such a thing to be true. Giants?” A cheeky laugh fell through your lips.

Cregan smirked down at you, goblet close to his mouth. It wasn’t a smirk that set you ablaze, nor did it create anger or contempt or suspicion. It wasn't a smirk to provoke you. Instead, it made warmth spread steadily through you, like the hot springs in Winterfell.

“Aye,” He laughed, “What is hard to believe about giants? Your blood rides upon dragons, do you not?”

“I suppose you are right. I do ride upon a dragon, a large one to be sure. I wonder if it would marvel at the size of your giants.”

“We shall never know. Perhaps you might ride upon the great beasts back to Winterfell?”

Your heart began to beat quickly in your chest, fingers tapping on the side of your cup, “My great beast would swallow you whole for calling him such a thing.” Jest on the tip of your tongue.

“It would be an honour to be devoured by a dragon.” Cregan shamelessly flirted.

Devoured.

I want to devour you, zaldrītsos.

You swallowed thickly, “And what would Lady Stark think of three dragons coming to Winterfell? My son has not seen snow or ice, I have little question if he would enjoy it.”

Cregan placed his ale upon the table, “There is no Lady Stark, unless you are referring to my Lady Mother. Winterfell would welcome you and your son with open arms, and furs to warm you.”

You felt heat in your cheeks, “Why would I need furs if Winterfell is as perfectly insulated by hot springs, as you say it is?”

Cregan Stark pushed his tongue into the side of his cheek as you gazed up at him, quick witted response ready to be fired back instantly.

“For all its warmth, there can be a biting chill that occasionally drifts through the cracks. Or if you are to be outside, say in the Godswood, you would need furs.”

“You have a Godswood?” Interest peaked.

“Aye. The Old Gods have not been replaced by the New in the North.”

“Good, I should hope so. The New Gods are an abomination in the eyes of the Old.” You paused, watching as grey eyes flitted down to your lips, if only for a moment, “And what of Dragonstone. Have the Kings of the North ventured as far?”

Cregan huffed a laugh through his nose, “No, I can say we have not.”

“Then perhaps you should see the great Dragonstone Keep. Its walls are the last of Old Valyrian stonemasonry. Fire and magic created it. Dragons live in the Dragonmont, and I am sure they would welcome the Wolf of Winterfell with open arms, and there would be no need for furs to warm you.”

“The Dragonmont sounds like the perfect place to be eaten by the dragons that live there. I may ask to be pardoned from venturing inside, a bite from a dragon would surely be the end of me.” Cregan’s eyebrows were raised, goblet to his lips again, smile peeking over the top.

There was something about this man. Something that drew you to him. Something that made you feel safe, wanted, unafraid. Like an invisible string was pulling you to him from the centre of your chest, the need to be closer to him, the want to be closer to him amplifying with each second spent in his presence.

In all your five years past, you had not wished to be in the presence of any man again, said for acquaintances and family.

But Cregan?

It was different.

It was the same pull you had felt in the throne room when he had sworn himself to you.

And that was why the next words that left your lips were playful, light, alluring. You wanted to draw him in. You wanted to taste him. You wanted to get to know the man who had helped to change the tide. The man who had stayed loyal to his oath. And a man who had travelled across the realm, just to kneel before you and swear his House to you, despite him not needing to do so.

“I will only bite if you ask me nicely.” You purred.

A blush crept across the mans face, and you felt your heart soar.

He cleared his throat, adjusting his posture, his eyes half lidded, “I will come to Dragonstone when you beckon. But I fear a wolfs bite may rival that of a dragons.”

Grinning you tilted your head, looking up to the table, to find all eyes on you both again, a large smirk on Jacaerys’ lips.

“I do not like to make commands, but I shall beckon you. If,” Your hand came to graze his arm gently, sliding down, before your finger traced along his that held the goblet of ale, “You show me these hot springs in Winterfell, and that you have furs for me and my son to be kept warm. I make no illusion to thinking there would be furs enough for Vermithor.”

Cregan’s finger twitched beneath yours as you dropped your hand back to your sides, sliding them together behind your back.

He bowed his head, “Of course, Your Grace. But there may not need to be a use of furs to keep you warm. Your blood is of fire, and I have a strange inclination that you would wish to be warmed in another manner.” Your cheeks grew hot, warmth sliding down to settle in your gut.

Cregan wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, “I will await your invitation, Princess.”

You smirked, “And I, yours. Though, you are to be here until the next turn of the moon. I am sure we will see each other more often than not in these walls.”

“I should hope that I would have the privilege of your company whenever you would wish for mine.”

“That you will, and that I do.”

With a nod of your head, you turned, walking back up to your table, spring in your step, and heart pounding against your ribs. You could feel the warmth of Cregan’s gaze on your back with each step you took to the table. Jacaerys, Daemon and Baela all watching you with knowing eyes as you moved to sit back down once again, cheeks ablaze.

You ignored them all, reaching to grasp your goblet and sipping the wine as your eyes instinctually found the pair of icy grey ones that watched you from across the room. He lifted his goblet to his own mouth, mimicking your action as you sipped in tandem.

The sound of laughter and chattering surrounded you, and it was hard to not get yourself lost in the excitement of it all.

How things had changed.

Jaehaera and Maelor, Helaena’s children, had been taken in by your mother immediately, and at first, had been terrified, and quiet, and reserved. But now they had now grown into beautiful, soft and sweet children who doted on their nephews with care and familial excitement.

Jaehaera was so much her mother, and often was woken in the night by terrors of her twin being slain before her eyes. But as time went on, the nightmares lessoned with age, but her visions grew stronger.

There was no denying that the little girl had the same gift as her mother, the same brilliance, the same intuition. And your Lucerys and Jaehaera often understood each other on level that others didn’t, an almost instant connection sparking between the two, and you watched as Jaehaera doted on your son with fierce devotion and loyalty.

Maelor, was very much like Aegon.

Loud, boisterous, terribly cheeky at times, but kind. Something that he was allowed to grow into with the nurturing of your family, the nurturing of your mother. Something that he would continue to be. Maelor was a whisper of what could have been for Aegon, if he had not been raised with the vile whisperings of the Hightower’s in his ear since birth.

He had the same round face as his father, the same round face that Alicent had. But there was no sadness in his lavender eyes, no hollowness that settled behind them. And for that, you were most thankful.

They both especially got along with Lucerys, and that gave you a greater joy like no other, and often stayed with the two of you on Dragonstone.

If you were to say that you had gotten used to being surrounded by so many people, you would be lying. But there was no doubt in your mind, that as the years went by, you would eventually find yourself again, or at least the fragments of her that had survived.

You had changed.

But so had they.

And there were some things that would never change.

Some things that would always stick.

And the visions of your brother, your aunt, and your uncle, would remain forever more.

Or at least, you hoped they would.

As a reminder.

As a punishment for your deeds.

As a comfort.

Whilst the Lords and Ladies in the court danced, and drank, and sang, and cheered, three familiar faces watched from within the crowd, unmoving, unblinking as they were.

Observing, watching, with two smiling softly.

The third face however, had not smiled in years, and would never smile again. He watched you, from across the room, hidden behind dancing bodies, long silver hair cascading down his back, an eye of violet, and a shadowed socket peering up at you.

He never left.

He was always there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Your hand came to play with the sapphire that sat heavily against your chest.

“What did you and Cregan speak about?” Jacaerys inquired, leaning towards you, breaking you from your stare at a man you missed most terribly.

“Hm?” You turned your head blinking at your brother.

“Cregan, what did he say?”

Baela leant an elbow on the table as she watched, a hand rubbing her swollen stomach in soft, gentle circles, soothing the babe inside.

“Merely asked how I have been, how I have been faring. Pleasantries is all.”

Jacaerys’ brown eyes danced with delight, “Pleasantries? Spoke of pleasures did you? You know, I wouldn’t let him speak to you if he was not a good man. He is a Stark. Dutiful, full of honour, kind, and a skilled swordsman.”

“And I have a dragon. Swordsmanship does little against fire.”

Baela snickered, “And why would he be near dragon flame? Have you promised him a ride upon Vermithor?”

A blush settled across your cheeks, “He wouldn’t.” You argued, feeling exacerbated by their prying, “I was just saying, swordsmanship does not warrant a marriage.”

“Who said anything about marriage?” Jacaerys smirked, and you felt your mouth go dry.

You gripped your goblet and tossed the rest of its contents greedily down your throat, shivering at the heat that settled in your bones, most of which not caused by the alcohol, but instead the memory of his warmth, eyes, and touch.

Sighing, you looked at the pair beside you, “You have been all but pushing us together for the past five years.”

Jacaerys snorted, “I have not. But there is no denying the pull you two have to each other. You’re allowed to be happy, sister.”

And Jacaerys was right.

There was a pull.

And no matter how hard you tried to avoid it, brush it off of you like water, close eye and look the other way, it was there, and it pulled at you.

“I am happy.” You argued, but it felt wrong. False.

Jacaerys had his chin on his fist as he gazed at you, curled brown hair looking a mess as many a hand had brushed through it. His cheeks were rosy, and pink lips plump from smiling or biting at them to keep his mouth shut. It was clear that the ale had gotten to him, but Jacaerys was never one to lie to you, especially about someone he considered a good friend.

And Cregan was his closest companion.

“It’s a perfect match,” He began, and you groaned loudly, rolling your eyes, “You being hot headed-“

“-I am not hot headed-“

“-And him being cool and patient. Blood of the North and Valyria. Perzys se Suvion.”

Fire and Ice.

A strum of recognition tickled in the back of your mind as Jacaerys continued.

“Opposites attract, even you out, and all the other nonsense some love sick fool would tell you. You would be good together, Y/n. He would calm you, and you would warm him.” Jacaerys teased.

“Don’t tell me you’re in love with Cregan, brother.” You teased back, watching as Jacaerys narrowed his eyes, “All this talk of opposites being perfect for each other, why do you not take him as your second wife? I am sure Baela would not mind sharing.”

Baela smirked, rubbing her stomach, “I wouldn’t mind a break. And Cregan looks good in-“

“-Keligon bona.” Stop that, Jacaerys chastised his wife, turning his attention back to you, “Think on it. He would be good for you.”

“I don’t need a man to make me whole or 'be good for me'. I will be Queen one day, and a husband will do naught but hold me back.”

“You will have to marry again someday, you know this as well as I do. And he would help you forward, if only you let him.”

You huffed, looking back out at the sea of people again, eyes immediately falling on him.

He was talking to a Lord, who’s gold and yellow robes shimmered in the light of the chambers. But as though he felt your gaze upon him, Cregan turned his head, and his eyes immediately met yours.

Instinct.

That pull.

“He invited me and Lucerys to Winterfell.” You told the two of them, seeing Jacaerys and Baela give each other excited looks in your periphery, as a soft smile found its way on Cregan’s as he looked at you, your own stretching your cheeks.

“Will you go?” Jacaerys’ voice hopeful.

As you watched Cregan, his gaze still on you, man beside him still talking, not having noticed his companions attention had been taken away, you felt the pull again. A sharp tug in your chest, the string having wrapped itself around a rib thrice, just below where your heart would sit.

It tugged again, and your hands curled into fists in your lap, desperate to keep yourself seated as you looked at him. Desperate to fight the urge that made you wish to go to him, stand by him, be close to him.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips as you watched him, your brother and half-sister staring at you from your periphery as you feigned thought.

But you knew your answer already.

You knew it before he had even asked, before Cregan had even spoken to you.

Instinct.

“Yes.”

Hen ñuha ānogar māzigon Kivio Dārilaros, se zȳhon kessa sagon Vāedar Suvio Perzo.

From my blood come the Prince that was promised, and his will be the song of Ice and Fire.

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maidflowery · 18 days ago

Text

POV: Hot Vampire Wanna Strike a Deal with You

Aventurine X Reader

amorous✞cross -3-

“You can have it all.”

𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

𝔗𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔣 ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱

The Deal with the Devil

“Huh...?”

The next time you woke up, you found yourself resting against an ornate red velvet chair.

“Oh, look, someone is finally awake.”

A honeyed, masculine voice prompted you to lift your face.

In front of you, all the way across the long banquet table lined with candelabras, sat a handsome, blond man donning a black coat and white shirt.

Immediately, your gaze was drawn to his gleaming, purple-cyan eyes. Despite the tallow candles' reflection, his cold, emotionless eyes remained untouched by their flame, still unfeeling.

“Well, take your time. My apologies, but the place is a bit messy right now. I don’t have time to clean up.”

His words went round and round in your head.

Messy...? This place...?

You took a look at your surroundings.

Majestic stone walls towered all around you. Rich, red curtains hung from the high windows, their velvet folds reflecting the dancing flames of the tallow candles. Old paintings lined the walls, their golden frames gilded with time.

You found yourself gasping at the splendor, overwhelmed by a beauty you were witnessing for the first time in your life.

...But then, upon closer inspection, you noticed something was amiss. Some of the curtains were torn, a few paintings misaligned, and slashes and cracks marred the walls. Beyond the echo of the past, this place bore the marks of battle.

Then, you saw an iron hoop-like thing, spiky like a tree branch, rolling on the floor. White candles scattered around it, drenched in crimson liquid.

Seeing the redness, a flood of memories rushed to your mind.

The full moon illuminating the starry skies.

A desecrated land, where not even a single blade of grass remained.

A man lying face down in the puddle of his own blood, gripping a silver crossbow.

A forlorn man exuding killing intent, with blood spilling from his hand.

The same man whose presence you now found yourself in, after trying to harm his familiar.

“Always remember this: humans are selfish and greedy creatures. They also despise those who’re different from them. Nothing good will ever come from approaching them. I won’t let any harm befall you. Of course, I’ll also punish anyone who dares lay a hand on you.”

The affectionately-spoken words that spelled your doom echoed in your head.

...!!

You shuddered, dropping your gaze to your lap—or at least, tried. You couldn’t look away from his multicolored eyes no matter what.

Then, you saw his lips curve into a smile, revealing a pair of sharp, ivory fangs.

“I take it you're fully awake now? In that case, let's skip the introduction and get straight to the case.”

What did he mean by that? Gruesome images raced through your mind. You could picture nothing but horrors.

Would the creature before you drain every single drop of your blood? Would cruel torture await you at his dungeon? At this point, you'd be fortunate to be granted a painless, quick death.

“Don’t be so scared.”

In the next second, a husky voice broke your reverie, its gentleness lulling you into a false sense of security.

“It’s going to be a bit long, so here.”

Flick!

You heard him click his fingers, and in the next moment, a lavish spread appeared before you, its rich aroma filling the air.

A perfectly seared, juicy steak. Beside it, clusters of deep purple grapes sat in abundance, sparkling like jewels. Crystal wine glasses stood tall, filled with ruby-red wine that shimmered in the light, the rich fragrance of aged oak and berries rising from the glass. Wheels of fragrance cheeses, mixed with crushed herbs.

You could tell every bite was going to be delicious just by looking at it.

If not for the almost maddening pang of hunger in your stomach, you’d have believed you had died and were now in Goddess Katica’s embrace. The only reason you didn’t succumb to your base instincts was because you were in the presence of an aristocrat.

From the moment you saw his dashing appearance, elegant mannerism, and eloquent words, you already knew that he was a noble.

Then, you spotted the silverware next to you. Unlike the wooden ones you’d usually use, their polished surface reflected you like a mirror. But above all, there were about... twelve of them, each with a different shape. You recognized the spoon and the fork, but you had no idea about the rest.

Once again, you were reminded of the disparity in status between you and the master of the house.

Wouldn’t he be offended if you ate in a messy way?

Then, while you were pondering which utensil to use...

“Why don’t we make a deal?”

You lifted your gaze, meeting the eyes that seemed to capture your soul.

“...A-a deal?”

“You won’t have to starve again.”

As he spoke, his tone was both entrancing and reassuring.

Immediately, the memories of the days when you had to fight tooth and nail to stave off your hunger revived in your mind.

Those days when you had to work yourself to the bone just for scraps. Those nights when you couldn’t sleep after going without food.

Is he saying... that I don’t have to go through that anymore?

Perhaps sensing something from your expression, he continued.

“—In exchange,” he slid something toward you. “I'll be expecting some compensation."

A dagger and a small, transparent vial—half the size of your little finger.

“These are...?”

You stared at them, feeling at a loss.

Thus, the vampire kindly explained to you. “Every day, you’ll fill that vial with your blood.”

When it finally dawned on you, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the cold gleam of the dagger before you.

“T-then, I’m supposed to... With this dagger...?”

“Yes, that’s right. No way, do you expect me to suck your blood directly?”

Even though he spoke in a cheerful, joking tone, you didn’t fail to notice the glint in his eyes—the same glint the villagers would direct your way: repulsion.

Then, he went on explaining.

“There’s been a bit of a drought lately. I can't possibly put the forest animals at risk. So, it’s fortunate that you're here.”

“...”

You went quiet after you heard that.

“What’s the matter? Dissatisfied with something?”

He asked you, narrowing his eyes.

“...No.”

As you spoke, you pictured the cute squirrels that you’d sometimes encounter in the forest entrance. You didn’t want any harm to befall them, either.

“I just thought that you’re unexpectedly kind.” You stared at him and smiled.

“...”

This time, it was his turn to go quiet.

Then, after a brief silence...

“—Anyway, here’s the contract. I’ll renew it as our negotiations proceed.”

A few sheets of paper and a quill floated in front of you, steadily writing as he spoke.

This time, you were truly flustered.

“Uhm...”

“What’s wrong.”

“...I can’t read.” You shamefully admitted.

Will he get mad?

Your palms started to get sweaty.

“We can always revisit.”

However, instead of scolding you, he simply let it go.

The papers and quill quietly fell in front of you, returning to their inanimate state.

“Moving on, food and shelter are the basics I can provide. You can always ask for more.”

A life free of hunger was all you had ever hoped for. And now he was saying he could offer you more? You were astonished, so much so that you parroted him.

“...More?”

“For example, infinite wealth that would last until the end of your life and beyond. No longer would you need to struggle so hard. You’d dine on the finest meals, wear the most splendid dresses, and adorn yourself with the daintiest jewels.”

You tried to imagine it—a luxurious life beyond your wildest dreams.

“But... there’s a price to pay, right?”

From an early age, you knew that everything came with a price.

“Naturally! You’re quick on the uptake. I like people like that. Alright, for the price, let’s see...”

The dashing, blond man raised one finger.

“One sacrifice.”

Your blood ran cold.

“One sacrifice every month, and it must be from the people of your village.”

With a smile, the beguiling creature of the night suggested that you turned against your own kin for wealth.

“Why? They aren’t exactly kind to you, either. No, if anything, they seem eager to get rid of you.”

He had truly seen everything.

The other presence you sensed while dreaming wasn’t merely an illusion.

“...But...” You muttered.

“In fact, here’s something else I can offer you: power. You’ll be able to get your revenge on them and eliminate anyone who stands in your way from now on. You can carve your own path and rise to the top, free of obstacles.”

“...”

You couldn’t even begin to imagine how much that would cost. Would you even want to know?

There was no way he couldn’t see the obvious nervousness on your face.

“You can have it all.”

“Huh?”

Baffled, you instinctively looked up, but he was gone.

“Kill me, and you won’t have to pay the price.”

In the next moment, you heard his voice right behind you.

When you turned around, all that awaited you was a purple-blue lunacy.

The tall vampire leaned over to you, smiling as he matched your eye level.

Madness was all that you saw.

“W-what do you mean...?”

“It’s been so long since I had any visitor, and today, I’m lucky enough to have two. As an act of courtesy, I always invite them to a game.”

The you reflected within the purple-blue abyss shrank.

“A-a game...?”

Then, metallic coldness greeted your palm, prompting you to look around.

Since when...?!

Within your grasp was one of the pristine silverwares, its curved, sharp tip gleaming eerily.

Before you could set it down, a gloved hand covered yours, forcing you to grip it and pull it toward his chest.

“!!”

Despite the icy coldness of the forest, the blond vampire wore a thin shirt that revealed his bare chest. His smooth, bare skin exuded a faint glow, reminiscent of moonlight.

Seeing the knife's tip pointed directly at his chest, you tried to pull your hand away, but he used his other hand to hold it in place.

You could vaguely feel the tip pressing against his skin, nearly sinking in.

“Yes, a game. In fact, I did just that with the previous guest. Of course, I’ll make it so that it’s fair to you too."

The blond vampire showed you a replica of a kind, courteous smile.

“Let’s see, for someone of your stature...” His gaze swept over your arm, covered in old scars and fresh cuts. “Well, it doesn’t seem like you’ll be able to put up much of a fight.” He remarked nonchalantly.

Then, a bright idea seemed to have occurred to him.

“Alright, how about this? I’ll give you one chance. Drive it in as deep and forcefully as you can—stab me straight in the heart. Then, you can have it all.”

A hint of rutilant glow, unmistakably madness, glimmered deep within his purple-blue eyes.

At the end, he added.

“The choice is yours.”

To be a vampire's livestock.

Infinite wealth at the cost of one of your kin every month.

Unlimited power, but at an insurmountable price.

Facing this, you...

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

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fanficapologist · 5 months ago

Text

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Eighty-Seven

She was unsure how long it had been. Hours? Days? Maera had seen both the sun and the moon whilst she was confined in her chambers. One thing was consistent though: the presence of pain. At first, it was bearable, akin to really bad cramps during Moons Blood, happening every few minutes. She remembered this pain from when she had first flowered, a dull, relentless ache that spread from her lower abdomen and tightened her muscles. Each wave of pain rolled through her body, forcing her to breathe deeply and steadily, focusing on staying in control.

Maera had dismissed her husband from attending the labours. She had seen enough of them occur at Rain House to know that they were not a pretty sight. The women who laboured were very vulnerable in that state, and Aemond had already coaxed her vulnerability out of her a few days prior. Maera did not wish to allow her walls to come down again so soon. The thought of him seeing her in such a state, of hearing her cries and witnessing her struggle, was unbearable.

Even though she just wished to labour with the support of her midwives, Maera was not cruel. She promised to send someone to provide Aemond with updates regularly. The thought of him pacing outside her chambers, anxious and restless, brought her a small measure of comfort amidst the pain. She imagined him standing there, his brow furrowed in concern, his fists clenched in helpless frustration. It was a strange solace, knowing he cared enough to worry.

During the early stages, Maera coped well. A tub was brought in, and while the water was not the temperature she would have liked for fear of scalding the babe if it came out, the water soothed her temporarily. She even managed to eat some oatmeal, its warmth settling her stomach, and slept for a few hours.

As she lay in her bed, the midwives standing vigil, her thoughts drifted back to her husband. Was he still waiting for her? Or had he been forced to attend other matters? After all, he was now the… No, she couldn’t think about that now. She pushed the thought aside, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of her breaths, trying to maintain her composure.

She was awoken by a feeling of a pop from within, followed by the consistent flow of warm water between her legs. The suddenness of it startled her, and as the midwives hurried to her side, their experienced hands assessing the situation, Maera's heart raced. After that had happened, her tolerance for the pain became nonexistent. Each contraction was a wave of agony, crashing over her with relentless force, leaving her breathless and trembling. She gripped the sheets, her knuckles white, as the pain intensified, her body no longer able to find respite.

The hours stretched on interminably, marked by the rhythmic waves of agony that washed over her. Her midwives attended her with care, whispering words of encouragement and administering soothing balms. Yet, the pain remained a constant companion, unwavering and intense.

Unable to cope, Maera screamed at the midwives, her voice raw with desperation. "How long is this going to take?" she demanded, her breath coming in ragged gasps. One of the younger midwives attempted to reassure her, her voice soothing yet firm. "You can do this. You are strong, my Queen."

My Queen?! Hearing that title made Maera want to vomit. "Don't fucking call me that!" she yelled at the women, her anger and fear melding into a powerful outburst. As she changed position, landing on all fours on the cold stone floor, the senior midwife performed another examination, her experienced hands moving quickly and efficiently.

The elder midwife concluded that there was not long left to go, that there would be a baby by the end of the day. But that did not bring Maera much comfort as the minutes of the contractions seemed to last forever. Each wave of pain stretched time into an unending torment, making every moment feel like an eternity.

Milk of the poppy helped slightly, but instead of dulling the pain, it made her more delirious and nauseous. There were several bouts of vomiting, the bitter taste lingering in her mouth, and no rest from the contractions. The relentless agony left her trembling and weak, each contraction a cruel reminder of her vulnerability.

As night encompassed the castle, Maera burst into tears, her sobs echoing against the cold stone walls. She stood against the wall, looking out of the window, her tears streaming down her face as she clutched onto her swollen stomach. "I can’t do this for much longer," she choked out, her voice breaking with despair. "I think I may die." Her fear was genuine, born of experience and history. Many women had died in their labors, including her own mother.

Through her tears, Maera focused on the sight outside the window. The night was so dark that she couldn't tell where the sea ended or the sky began. The endless blackness mirrored her own hopelessness. Alongside the relentless sound of the sea, she could hear Ēbrion calling to her, his roars agonizing to hear and a stark reminder of the life she fought for.

The eldest midwife approached gently, her voice steady and calm. “Allow me to examine you again, my Que- erm, Princess. It shan’t be long now.” Maera nodded, her tears still flowing, and sat on the edge of the bed. The younger midwives held her hands, their touch providing a fragile anchor as the senior midwife lifted her nightgown and completed her duties with practiced ease.

When the examination was done, the senior midwife looked up, her face lit with a mixture of relief and urgency. “Marvellous! I can feel the head,” she announced. "It’s time to start pushing."

Maera’s eyes widened in a mixture of fear and hope. "Is it nearly over?" she asked, her voice trembling.

One of the younger midwives nodded eagerly, squeezing Maera’s hand reassuringly. “Yes! You have done wonderfully!”

The words brought a flicker of strength back to Maera. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the final effort, determined to see the end of her torment and hold her child in her arms.

The midwives helped Maera to a birthing chair, an ancient wooden seat with a wide, curved bottom and sturdy armrests. Maera settled into it, her legs apart and feet braced against the footrests. One midwife stood on either side of her, holding her hands for support, while the senior midwife knelt before her, ready to deliver the child.

With a steady voice, the older midwife instructed, “Now with the next pain, I want you to push.” Maera nodded, feeling the pain building like a wave. "It's coming," she gasped, and the midwife responded, "Push, now."

The agony of pushing the child out was like nothing Maera had ever experienced. The burning, stinging, and immense pressure were overwhelming. She gripped the other midwives' hands for dear life, her knuckles turning white. As she pushed, she could feel the body of the babe moving down, but when she stopped, it seemed to retreat back up. It felt impossible, like an unending cycle of pain and effort.

Maera threw her head back, tears streaming down her face as she cried out, "I can’t do it! I can’t!"

One of the younger midwives leaned in close, her voice gentle yet firm. “Yes you can! You just need to push past that pain.”

The older midwife directed the other midwives to grab Maera’s legs and hold them higher than her hips, positioning her for a more effective push. They complied quickly, each movement practiced and efficient. “You can do this, the Mother is with you!” the senior midwife reassured her. "Now, push again."

With a deep breath, Maera summoned every ounce of strength she had left and pushed, screaming as she did. The pain was searing, but she pushed through it, driven by a primal urge to bring her child into the world. The room felt stifling, the air thick with the scent of burning herbs and the metallic tang of blood. Candles flickered, casting long shadows on the stone walls, creating a haunting dance of light and darkness.

The midwives continued to encourage Maera, their voices blending into a symphony of support. “That’s it, that’s it! Amazing,” one said. "Almost there," another added. Maera pushed through the pain, every muscle in her body straining with the effort. Then, the senior midwife's voice broke through the cacophony. "Stop for a moment, my dear. The head is out."

Maera breathed a sigh of relief, her body trembling with exhaustion. She remembered from childhood that once the head was out, most of the hard work was done. One of the younger midwives gently held a cold flannel to her forehead, wiping away the sweat that had formed. The coolness was a small comfort amidst the heat of her labor.

"The child is almost here," the older midwife explained, her hands steady and sure. "I'm going to move the child down the birth canal to get the shoulders out. This part will sting a bit." Maera felt the stinging sensation and blew short, quick breaths, like blowing out the candles in her room. The senior midwife smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "The Gods have blessed you with a very big child."

The other midwives laughed, and even Maera managed to muster a smile. One of the kind midwives leaned in close, her eyes shining with warmth. "Are you ready to meet your child?" she asked softly.

Maera's heart swelled with anticipation and joy. Her child? She was so close. She nodded eagerly, tears of relief and happiness mingling with the sweat on her face. The senior midwife looked at her with a reassuring smile. "One last push.”

Summoning courage, Maera braced herself for one last intense push. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and gathered every ounce of strength she had left. The effort was monumental, causing her to feel lightheaded and sick, but she bore down with all her might. Her whole body trembled with the strain, muscles burning and heart pounding furiously. She felt as if she were being torn apart, the stinging pain almost unbearable.

Then, suddenly, she felt a weight drop from her, a rush of relief flooding her body. The pain, though still present, began to ebb away, replaced by a strange sense of emptiness and lightness. The room fell silent for a moment, everyone holding their breath. Maera looked down between her legs, her heart in her throat, and saw the older midwife beaming up at her. The midwife raised her arms, and there, cradled in her hands, was a tiny, squirming creature. The baby opened its mouth and let out a loud, piercing wail, the sound filling the room. Maera stared in disbelief, her vision blurring with tears.

She joined in, crying her eyes out in relief, gratitude, tears streaming down her face as she reached out, her fingers trembling, to touch her newborn child. In that moment, everything else faded away—the war, the pain, the fear. All that mattered was this new life she had brought into the world. She had done it. She was a mother.

Two little eyes peered up at Maera, dark grey at first glance but already revealing a subtle lilac hue that hinted at the Targaryen lineage. The baby's nose had a delicate, slender bridge, leading to tiny lips that, when pouted, mirrored Maera’s own. A fine dusting of hair, as silver as the moon, crowned the child’s head. Perfect. She was perfect.

Maera could not stop staring at her daughter, a tired yet radiant smile on her face. She pressed a tender kiss to the child's forehead, inhaling her sweet, newborn scent. The baby's skin was unbelievably soft, like the finest silk, and her cheeks were adorably chubby.

Shortly after the child was born, a wet nurse entered the room, offering her services. Maera, overwhelmed by an instinctive protectiveness, couldn't bear the thought of handing her child to another woman. She gently dismissed the wet nurse and, with trembling hands, removed her own nightgown. She pressed the baby to her bare breast, and to her amazement, the baby latched on immediately, instinctively knowing what to do.

Another wave of love and warmth surged through Maera as the babe suckled. She watched, captivated, as her daughter fed, feeling a profound connection and an immense sense of fulfillment. This tiny being was hers, and the depth of her love was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

As Maera rocked the child in her arms, she couldn't help but think of her mother, the late Lady Gael. Her mother had fed all her children herself, much to the dismay of Maera’s father. He had insisted that a noblewoman's duty was to produce heirs, and breastfeeding interfered with that. Maera smiled at the memory of how her mother had retorted that Lord Jasper had enough heirs and would need to be patient. Her father had smiled and relented, unable to argue further with Lady Gael’s determined stance.

Maera gazed lovingly at her daughter, unable to bear the thought of ever parting from her. Her birth had infused Maera’s life with even greater meaning, a higher purpose. This tiny, precious being was now her reason to keep going, to find some way to win this war. All for her.

Once Maera and the baby were cleaned of the blood, sweat, and other fluids of birth, Aemond was permitted to enter. The doors opened slowly, and Maera looked up from her daughter to see her husband cautiously walking towards her. She smiled at him, a bright and cheery smile, letting him know that all was well.

Aemond, usually so stern and composed, looked visibly relieved. His single eye, usually hard and calculating, softened as he took in the sight of Maera and their daughter. As he approached, his steps were tentative, almost hesitant, as if afraid that he might disrupt the fragile peace of the moment.

Maera watched him closely, her heart swelling with love and pride. She knew that beneath his tough exterior, Aemond had a tender side that few ever saw. As he reached her, he sat by her side on the bed, his gaze locked on their child. The baby, sensing his presence, stirred slightly, and Aemond’s expression softened even more.

As Aemond gently stroked the child’s hair, his touch was delicate, as if afraid she might break. Maera, sensing his hesitation, lifted the baby and gestured for him to take her. At first, Aemond seemed unsure, almost nervous, which Maera found endearing. With a reassuring grin, Maera gently placed their daughter in Aemond’s arms. He took a deep breath, holding onto the child securely in her blankets. Slowly, he began to rock her, his expression softening as he smiled at the tiny noises she made.

Maera chuckled softly, breaking the tender silence. "Dermot was right," she announced, looking at Aemond with a playful gleam in her eye. Aemond raised an eyebrow, curiosity evident in his expression. Maera laughed, explaining, "She’s big, just like I was when I was born."

Aemond let out a chuckle, the sound filling the room with warmth. Maera looked at him, her heart swelling with love. Despite the turmoil of the realm and the challenges they faced, in this moment, all she saw was her family. A family they had created together, a testament to their love and resilience.

They sat together in peaceful silence, watching their daughter. The soft flicker of candlelight danced across their faces, casting gentle shadows in the dimly lit chamber. For Maera, it was a moment of pure happiness amidst the chaos of their lives—a moment she would cherish forever.

A thought suddenly occurred to Maera, shattering the tender moment. It brought the gravity of their new situation and stations crashing to the forefront of her mind. She looked at Aemond, her eyes clouded with worry, and apologized softly, "I’m sorry I have given you a daughter."

Aemond looked at her, bewildered by her statement. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice tinged with confusion.

Maera couldn’t help but worry. After all, Maelor was gone. And Aegon, ever prideful, would not have named Jaehaera as his heir if something were to befall Maelor. That would be hypocritical of everything the Greens stood for, no matter how ridiculous. No. Aemond was now the King, something he had wanted all his life. And as King, he needed an heir, something their daughter could not be.

Her husband shook his head firmly, dispelling her concerns. “You give me the greatest gift anyone has ever given me and you apologize?” He then reached out and cupped Maera’s face, his large palm pressing gently against her cheek. Maera leaned into it, desperate for the touch to take away her worries.

“Tis I that should apologize to you. For all I have put you through,” he muttered, his voice filled with a sincerity she had rarely heard from him. He had done unspeakable things to secure her to him, but those things had led to the birth of their daughter.

And yet, Maera's worries continued to gnaw at her. She could not shake the horrible feeling within her. As much as Aemond's words and touch provided comfort, the shadow of their uncertain future loomed over her, as well as the shadow of their past.

A great dynasty will be born from the blood of Aemond Targaryen. The words echoed in Maera’s mind. My son… and your daughter will return the House of the Dragon to its proper glory. From their union will come the Prince that was promised.

Maera squirmed against the pillows on the bed, her dark brown and silver hair still tangled from the labors. She picked at her fingers nervously, glancing up at Aemond. “I can’t help but think about Alys,” she confessed.

Aemond shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the witch’s name, a witch who had caused much turmoil in their marriage. Her presence, and the prophecies she had whispered, and the fact that Aemond had listened, lingered like a storm cloud.

Maera sighed deeply. “She was right; I did have a girl after all. If the witch was right about that, what else might she have been right about? What did I prevent by killing her?” She took the child from Aemond’s arms, holding the babe close. “The King of Kings? The Prince that was…”

Aemond cut her off, his voice firm. “She is gone,” he said, looking down at their babe, who was now snoozing soundly. “All that there is now is...” He glanced up at his wife, his expression softening. “Well? What should we call her?”

Maera hummed, a small smile playing on her lips. “I never decided on a one. I wanted to see what she looked like first.” She gazed down at their daughter, her eyes brimming with love and wonder. The baby stirred slightly, her tiny face scrunching up before settling back into peaceful slumber.

Aemond reached out, gently stroking the baby’s soft hair. “What about after your mother?”

Maera tilted her head, analyzing the sleeping baby’s face. She traced the delicate features with her eyes, noting the tiny nose, the soft tufts of silver hair, and the slightly parted lips. After a moment, she shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “She doesn’t look like a Gael,” she murmured. Turning to Aemond, she asked, “What do you think?”

Aemond studied the child’s face intently. He saw the way her nose crinkled slightly, the delicate arch of her eyebrows, and the serene expression she wore in sleep. “What about Alysanne?” he suggested after a pause. “After our great-grandmother, the Good Queen.”

Maera's face twisted in displeasure, the name evoking memories of the witch of Harrenhall. The similarity was too stark, too haunting. Aemond saw her reaction immediately and nodded, conceding, “Maybe not.”

The baby made sweet little noises in her sleep, a soft cooing that made Maera’s heart swell with love. She beamed down at her, and Aemond let out a deep sigh, the weight of their new reality pressing upon them both. As she gazed at her child, she felt Aemond lean against her shoulder, and she let him, their shared warmth a small comfort.

He asked gently, “What do you see when you look at our daughter?”

Maera stared intently at the child's face, tracing the shape of her eyes, the curve of her ears, the line of her nose, and the color of her hair. Each feature seemed to echo Aemond’s own. It became clear to her. She turned to Aemond and said softly, “All I can see is you.”

Her husband rocked the child slightly, shushing her as she stirred, tiny fists clenching and unclenching. Maera looked at Aemond once more, her eyes shimmering with a mix of exhaustion and joy. “What about… Aemara?” she suggested, a tender smile on her lips. “Named after you.”

“You’re sure?” Aemond's eyes softened, a rare and genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. As his wife nodded, he rolled the name over in his mind, savoring it. “Aemara,” he repeated, the name carrying a certain reverence, a promise. He leaned in closer, pressing a gentle kiss to Maera’s forehead. “It’s perfect.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the only sound the gentle breathing of their newborn daughter. Maera felt a profound sense of peace wash over her, despite the turmoil and uncertainty that lay beyond their chamber doors.

The days following Aemara's birth seemed to meld into one continuous, blissful stretch of time for Maera. Life could have been made easier if Maera had allowed the assistance of the castle staff, but in truth, she was so in love with her daughter that she couldn’t bear to part with her, even for a second.

The crib was brought right next to Maera’s bed, an intricately carved piece of furniture draped in soft linens. The child would sleep there when not in Maera’s arms, a place of safety and warmth. Next to the child in the crib lay the giant black and green dragon egg, its surface shimmering with a mysterious light, as was the custom for Valyrian children. It was a symbol of her heritage, a link to her powerful lineage.

The nights were the longest, with the quiet castle echoing the soft murmurs and cries of the newborn. After a feed and a change of napkin, Aemara would be content to doze back to sleep, her tiny fingers curling around Maera's own. These moments, though exhausting, were also filled with an indescribable joy.

Aemond visited daily, his presence a constant source of support and comfort. He would spend hours in silence, simply looking at his daughter as he held her. He would stroke the bridge of her nose or press his nose into her hair, brushing his lips against her little forehead. His eye, often cold and calculating, softened in these moments, revealing a depth of love and tenderness that he seldom showed.

When Aemara cried, Aemond would rock her gently, whispering sweet words of High Valyrian to soothe her. His voice, usually commanding and firm, took on a lilting, musical quality as he spoke to the babe. When his words and rocking did not calm her, he would gladly pass her to Maera, their skin brushing as he placed the child in her arms. The touch was brief but filled with shared understanding and love.

Neither Maera nor Aemond had broached the subject of Maelor's fate or what the future might hold. The silence surrounding that dark event and the uncertain future hung heavy, but it was a silence Maera was thankful for. She wished to remain in her bubble of early motherhood for just a little while longer before her life would undoubtedly change forever.

The newborn stage was surprisingly easy for Maera, and she recalled from her childhood how, when her little brothers and sisters were born, she would often complain to her stepmothers about how boring babies were in the first few months. They did not really do anything—move, rarely looked at you, and mostly cried. However, now as a mother, she felt serene and at peace with Aemara’s quietness. Each soft breath, each tiny movement, brought her joy and a sense of fulfillment.

Between feeds and napping, Maera decided to make use of the paints Aemond had brought her, setting up a canvas near the window. She carefully positioned Aemara’s crib beside her, ensuring the child was close enough to be watched over while she painted at the easel. The natural light from the window illuminated her workspace, casting a warm glow over the scene.

Maera began to paint from her imagination, her brush moving gracefully over the canvas. She started with the horizon, blending soft hues of pink and lavender, capturing the gentle transition from night to day. The sky above was a symphony of colors—delicate blues mingling with hints of gold, as the first light of dawn broke through the darkness. Each stroke was deliberate, filled with the emotion she felt for her daughter and the new chapter of her life. The sun itself was a radiant sphere, painted with vibrant yellows and oranges that seemed to burst forth with life. She added fine details, the rays of sunlight extending outward, touching everything in their path.

Aemond entered the room, and Maera turned to bid him a small smile before turning back to her painting, grabbing a sponge to smooth out the edges of the clouds. The soft, rhythmic motions of the sponge created delicate wisps that added depth and realism to the sky.

Her husband approached the crib, smiling down at their daughter, who lay snuggled next to the dragon egg. The sight of Aemara, so tiny and serene, filled him with a profound sense of wonder and pride. Just as he reached into the crib, Maera turned and stopped him, her voice gentle but firm. “Please, don’t disturb her. She’s just fallen asleep.”

Aemond nodded, withdrawing his hand before approaching Maera’s side. He looked at her with his single violet eye, taking in her relaxed appearance. Maera’s hair had been braided away from her face, and she continued to wear comfortable black robes as they were easy to nurse in. She wore an apron to prevent the paint from splashing on her clothes and skin, but her hands were still stained with various shades of purple and orange paints.

As she worked, she could feel his gaze on her, causing her hair to stand on end. Aemara had certainly brought them closer, but Maera still did not know where she stood with Aemond. The intensity of his presence, even in these quiet moments, was something she was still getting used to.

Aemond eventually broke the silence, asking, “What are you painting?”

Maera paused, placing her brushes and sponges down on the easel. “It’s been a while since I painted, so I wanted to start with something simple,” she explained. She attempted to reach behind her to undo the knot in her apron but struggled to loosen it.

She then felt two strong hands settle on her hips from behind, freezing her in place. Aemond’s presence was overwhelming. As he began to undo the knot, Maera let out a shaky breath, swallowing nervously. “A sunrise,” she said softly. When the knot was undone, she quickly lifted the apron over her head and stepped away from him, setting it aside.

“Hmm.” Aemond stood silently, staring at the painting. After a moment, he asked, “What would you say to those who interpreted it as a sunset?”

Maera was intrigued by his question and simply shrugged. “I don’t know,” she replied, taking a moment to look at the painting herself, analyzing the blend of colors and the composition.

“Art is meant to be subjective,” she continued, “and to prompt conversation.”

Aemond glanced at her, a raised brow highlighting his sharp features in the daylight. “Indeed,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “A sunrise or a sunset, it marks the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.”

Maera looked at him, seeing the weight of his words reflected in his eye. She wondered if he was thinking about their new roles, the uncertainty of their future, or simply the beauty of the moment they shared now.

The moment was interrupted by the sound of loud rustling coming from Aemara’s cot. The babe began to cry, flailing her arms about. Maera quickly approached, shushing her daughter.

“Shhh, sweet girl, it’s alrigh- what the fuck?!”

As she reached into the cot, she let out a scream, jumping backward in shock. Instinctively, she scooped Aemara into her arms and held her close, staring into the cot with wide, bewildered eyes.

“Aemond…”

Her husband immediately moved to their side, placing a reassuring hand on Aemara while peering into the crib. Both Maera and Aemond stood frozen, their faces reflecting sheer astonishment as they beheld the sight before them.

There, amongst the blankets and shattered pieces of shell, lay a tiny black dragon. Its scales were glossy and dark as coal, with an almost iridescent sheen under the soft light filtering through the window. The creature had piercing green eyes that shone with an unsettling intelligence, and its wings were folded neatly against its body, displaying a faint webbing that hinted at its nascent ability to fly. The dragon was no larger than a kitten, its small claws and teeth barely visible, yet it exuded an aura of raw power and ancient magic.

The little dragon let out a soft, curious chirp, shifting slightly among the remnants of its egg. Maera clutched Aemara tighter, her heart pounding in her chest as she looked to Aemond for reassurance, both of them processing the gravity and wonder of the scene before them.

“Incredible.” Aemond reached into the crib, his movements slow and deliberate. The hatchling growled, its tiny body stiffening into a defensive stance, wings twitching slightly. Aemond withdrew his hand momentarily and looked to Maera, who held Aemara close to her chest, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and anxiety.

Steeling himself, Aemond reached in again, this time flattening his palm and beckoning the dragon to step into his hand with a gentle, coaxing motion. “Ynot.” To me.

The young dragon chirped hesitantly, eyeing him warily before finally stepping into his hand with a delicate, cautious gait. Aemond turned, showing the hatchling to Maera. He lifted it, analyzing the tiny creature before declaring, "I believe it's a female." Maera nodded, her nervousness clearly apparent, driven by her fierce maternal instinct. Aemond, sensing her apprehension, reassured her, "Do not fret. She will not harm her.”

Maera hesitated for a moment, her gaze shifting from Aemond to the baby in her arms. She looked down at Aemara, swaddled in her blankets, her tiny face peaceful despite the earlier cry. Finally, she nodded to Aemond, her resolve firming. With a gentle kiss to Aemara's forehead, she placed the babe back in her crib.

Aemond carefully placed the dragon beside the child, both parents watching with bated breath as the young creatures interacted. The little dragon circled the babe, its head tilting and trilling softly as it inspected Aemara. The child, sensing the dragon’s presence, reached out with her tiny hands, her fingers grasping the air. The dragon responded by lowering its head and licking Aemara's fingers, a surprisingly tender gesture from such a fierce-looking creature.

Maera's heart swelled with a mixture of relief and wonder as she observed the bond forming between her daughter and the hatchling. Aemond stood close beside her, his hand resting reassuringly on her shoulder, both of them silently acknowledging the significance of this moment.

Aemond tilted his head at the sight, his expression thoughtful. “It’s strange to bear witness to this bond,” he remarked. Maera raised an eyebrow in confusion, prompting him to elaborate. “You and I bonded with dragons as adults, and neither of us had an egg in our crib. But Aemara… as she grows, her little dragon will follow her everywhere, guarding her.”

Maera chuckled in agreement, a soft smile spreading across her face. “She’ll be like a little shadow,” she said, reaching into the cot to stroke her daughter’s cheek with her thumb. The baby stirred slightly, her tiny hand reaching out reflexively.

Maera then ran her finger across the little dragon’s head, feeling the smooth, warm scales under her touch. The dragon chirped in response, its eyes bright and curious. “Sȳndor,” Maera decided, the name rolling off her tongue with a sense of finality. Aemond nodded in agreement, the name fitting perfectly for their new companion.

Maera sighed deeply, her gaze lingering on the small dragon and her daughter. The dragon, like the sunrise in her painting, symbolized a new beginning, a brighter future filled with hope and possibility. It was a reminder that even amidst darkness and uncertainty, there could be moments of beauty and joy. However, the future remained unclear, shadowed by the recent upheavals and the weight of their new responsibilities. The bubble of early motherhood, though blissful, was not sustainable. Reality would soon encroach upon their haven, demanding attention and action.

As Maera looked back at Aemond, she revealed her inner thoughts. “As I look in the cot, I see a future worth fighting for,” she said, her voice steady despite the underlying tension. She met his gaze, her eyes searching his for reassurance. “As King, how are you prepared to do that?”

Aemond nodded, understanding the gravity of her question. He gestured for her to sit down, to which she complied, settling into a nearby chair. The room was quiet, the only sounds being the gentle breaths of their sleeping daughter and the occasional chirp from the little black dragon. It was time to determine the path forward, to forge a future that would ensure the safety and prosperity of their family and realm.

Notes: Right I know I didn’t pick the name for the baby from the poll, but I have a good reason. My friend gave birth to a baby girl called Imara and that sparked a lightbulb moment 💡 also, ridiculously, I got very emotional writing this. What you’re reading is my actual birth experience, which took 50 hours! It was a very medical birth, but I didn’t see it as traumatic at all (my pregnancy was horrendous so I was glad for it to be over 🤣) The doctor delivered my son, but my husband and midwife were my birthing support. And during covid too! I remember all those feelings so vividly so I hope I represented them well in this chapter. AND we have a new little dragon 🖤

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

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prettydeaddes · 1 year ago

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Witness The Blood Moon’s Rise.

When its red glow shines upon the land...

Prints

#legend of zelda #legend of zelda tears of the kingdom #totk #art #my art #digital art #link #legend of zelda link #des art tag #totk art #zelda art #loz art #legend of zelda art

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moonlight-prose · 27 days ago

Text

BLOOD ALONG THE MOON

➛ 04. ECHOES OF MADNESS

a/n: for some unknown reason, this man has decided to invade my thoughts again. between watching the batman again with @soulores and just fall making me long for this man again, this was bound to happen. i've been working on this chapter for months now, having started it well into april. but i'm actually feeling good about continuing. i've created a graphic for this story which i will add at the end of this chapter. hopefully this inspo sticks around for a bit because i'm excited for what's to come.

summary: funerals were a rarity in gotham, yet there you were at the most notable event of the year. few could truly get in...yet everyone was invited.

word count: 6.2k+

pairing: bruce wayne x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, cussing, violence, blood, angst, rescue mission, canon compliant sorta, danger, tensions running high, bruce doesn't know how to interact socially, our favorite reporter is an idiot when it comes to safety.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

Death seemed to shape the city of Gotham as the currents of a river would a stone. Wherever you looked, in every alleyway and around each street corner there was the stench of it. The way it seeped up from the cracked asphalt, spilled into the gutters, and leaked into the sewer lines. Tainting what good might have remained.

You couldn't remember the last time you attended a funeral. Yet people still kept dying. The call came early in the morning; Henry informing you—with a hoarse whisper of someone suffering a hangover—that you were to attend the biggest event in Gotham. Few could truly get in, yet everyone was invited.

The irony of the situation lingered like shitty burnt coffee on the back of your tongue.

From what Bruce Wayne told you briefly in his short but right to the point interview, this city once aspired to be something great. A beacon of hope for all those who needed it. But the only hint of that you could see echoed in the symbol that hung in the sky. You watched last night, a glass of wine in front of you and a scowl painted across your face, as dawn began to rise and the signal flicked off. Bringing another night of petty crime to a close.

Of course, you believed in what The Bat was doing; what he stood for. A call of vengeance to any piece of shit who tried to go against him. But at the end of the day you still witnessed the disaster that was left behind. The tarnished cold aftermath of all that he could not save.

The madness that stirred beneath the surface.

The click of your boots on the damp pavement was drowned out by the nonsensical chatter of the crowd. Reporters, photographers, anyone to capture this moment were corralled like cattle behind varying gates of different sizes. You almost wished you had a camera to solidify this moment in Gotham's history books. There you were, standing on the steps of a cathedral, a funeral for the mayor about to occur, and all people wanted was to see who attended. Who was on his personal friends list.

The bile slid up the back of your throat, burning your esophagus on the way. There had to be some irony to this situation. Some dark humor yet to be exposed. Maybe if you dug far enough...you'd find it.

"Daywalker!" You jumped at the nickname, your body on edge after the past two nights reporting. Flicking your gaze to the side, you caught sight of Martinez waving at you with a grin plastered across his face.

He took your grin as an invitation to join you on the steps.

"Quite an event huh."

Tugging your coat closer, you did what you could to wash away the chill of the morning air. "Anyone who's anyone is here."

He chuckled, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Who'd have thought they all knew the mayor."

"I guess he had friends in low places," you muttered, the wry smile on your face seemed to be all you could muster at this point.

The idea of the mayor being involved with Gotham's crime bosses didn't surprise you. In fact you probably would have been shocked if they didn't turn up. Dressed to the nines, dripping in jewels, and wearing grief as if it were stripped right off the runway.

Citizens lined the streets, their heads bowed in respect and in your mind's eye, they were the embodiment of a Baroque painting. Except they weren't worshiping the mayor as king. No, their eyes were cast to the cars that just pulled up. Mouths gaping in awe as none other than Carmine Falcone stepped out of his car, suit pressed and glasses hiding the truth.

You almost wanted to laugh.

A sleek black car pulled up to the line of cars, the rumble of the engine familiar to your ears. You turned, the collar of your coat blocking half your face against the cold air. Only to meet the gaze of Gotham's very own Prince. Bruce Wayne was dressed in a perfectly pressed suit with not a single hair out of place. Yet you could see the way he hid beneath the facade of wealth, how his eyes refused to meet anyone else's other than yours. His lips curled into a small hint of a smile, but people were starting to block you from sight, pulling his attention away to something far more important.

"I've got to help Gordon inside," Martinez said, pressing a soft hand to your arm. "Let's get out of the cold, yeah?"

Nodding, you climbed the remainder of the steps and followed him into the cathedral. The high ceilings casted shadows amongst them of people on the balcony level. Gotham's very own ghosts attending the funeral of a man who promised to save them. The architecture reminded you of prisons, of cells built specifically to drive men insane.

Maybe that was the point of Gotham to begin with.

To drive the people within it mad.

"Miss Day," Gordon greeted you with a gruff murmur, the exhaustion painted clear across his face.

As usual the detective who had The Bat in his pocket refused to find time to sleep. Especially on days like today.

"Detective." You glanced up, eyes tracing the silhouettes of Gotham's people as they gathered to the edge. Hungry for what might happen next—for the demise of those in power. "Busy day?"

He scoffed. "You got no idea."

"Trust me. I think I do," you murmured.

"Where's the big guy?"

Your eyes caught his briefly. "Henry Goldfinch doesn't attend the funerals of men he didn't believe in."

For the first time that morning, Gordon cracked a smile. "Harsh review."

You shrugged. "Or honest."

"Henry isn't one to make brash statements unless he knows something." Gordon's eyes narrowed slightly and suddenly you felt like you were the one being interviewed. "Does he know something?"

The familiar figure of a man you couldn't seem to dispel from your mind creeped past slowly, his head bowed and eyes cast to the floor. Yet he seemed to grow in height as he heard your voice. Even completely lost within his own mind, Bruce Wayne still searched for you wherever he went. How he managed to get under your skin alluded you. But the same could surprisingly be said for him as well.

"If he knew something he wouldn't tell me." You shifted the second Bruce's head rose, blue eyes fixing directly on you. "But you can't honestly stand there and tell me The Riddler or whatever the fuck he calls himself didn't target our mayor for a reason."

"You think the mayor was dirty?"

You scoffed. "I'm not saying that, but given the audience that's accrued in this building today...it wouldn't surprise me if he was."

"Day–" Gordon's words were cut off as Martinez loudly greeted someone behind you.

"Detective."

You were nearly ashamed of yourself at how quickly you recognized his raspy voice. The time you spent in the diner together played on a loop in the back of your mind. Admitting it weighed on your heart, but denying the truth felt inconceivable.

For that small amount of time as rain pelted the windows and music played softly in the background, you felt like a person again. Not a reporter sent out into the fray of Gotham, but you. The person buried beneath the trench coat you wore; the person who only seemed to come out on days when the sun shone over this dark city.

"Mr. Wayne." Gordon's eyes widened slightly, disbelief smeared across his face. It seemed the funeral dragged out even the most reclusive of souls. "I didn't expect..."

"Could I steal Miss. Day from you for a moment?" Even you could tell he was fighting against the uncomfortable nature of being out in public.

The thought nearly made you smile.

"Of course."

Gordon's attention was called away as Bruce's hand brushed your arm. You wondered if you were in a private setting, would he act differently? Would he touch you? Lead you himself? Or would he remain detached?

"I saw you arrive," you said, clasping your hands together and glancing at the throng of people that meandered through the doors. "Sorry I didn't say hello."

His mouth curled, eyes lighter than you'd seen them. If you squinted you might have seen the small glint of delight hidden in the blue of his iris. He hid the sight of joy well—a secret you weren't allowed to view yet. But for a split second...his mask slipped. You caught what might have been the Bruce Wayne of the past; the man that could still exist to this day.

"Quite an event to run into each other again."

You bit on the inside of your cheek to stop your grin. Flirting at a funeral reeked of inappropriate behavior. And yet you couldn't find it in your heart to care much, given the audience.

"And here I thought I'd have to pry you out of your tower to see you again," you joked, wishing he might gift you another small glimpse of that smile you knew existed.

His head ducked, lips pulling up, and your heart effectively stopped. "Am I that difficult?"

"Oh no," you said, breathing out a laugh. "Difficult is too generous. Now arduous or laborious or onerous–" He laughed, his eyes crinkling and oh how you longed to kiss him, to taste him on your tongue. "Those are a better fit in your case."

"Noted." He stepped closer as people shifted behind him, squeezing through the crowd for a seat. "Some days I'm more shadow than man. I'll make sure to be more available to you."

There were no rules or regulations about dating someone you'd interviewed. Henry seemed all for it—Alfred even more so—but you felt the nausea begin to eat at your stomach. The wariness of something to come. The truth wasn't out yet about all of this, why the mayor was killed, and until you felt comfortable again in Gotham...you weren't sure you wanted to start something with Bruce Wayne.

A relationship with him would bring you into the spotlight.

For a reporter, that was dangerous enough. For the ones you loved...it was lethal.

"Bruce...I–"

His eyes went blank, body moving away as he caught the conflict that flashed across your face. You didn't want him to get hurt. Refused to be the reason that the Wayne family no longer had someone to carry the name forward. Perhaps that's why you cut off your feelings and stowed them away in your heart. Or maybe you were simply terrified of someone finally knowing you.

After all...it had been awhile.

You longed to say all of this and more out loud, but whether or not he'd listen was a different story entirely.

"Were you at the scene?"

His question caught you off guard. "What? Oh...um...yes. I was."

He nodded. "Are you okay?"

If you had to count on one hand how many times Bruce Wayne left you speechless, floundering for coherent words, you'd run out of fingers. Rather than seek information and dig out every detail from your mind as others already had. He wanted to know if what you saw, the horror that still stuck to your skin, left scars of their own.

He wanted to make sure every part of you remained safe. Not simply your ability to do your job.

"Yes," you breathed, the rip in your chest—that inconsolable ache—suddenly too much to bear. "Thank you."

The conversation came to a natural conclusion when the procession began, the soft tinkle of a piano echoing off the stone walls. His lips parted, words on the tip of his tongue, but the sound of his name caused him to stiffen. Within seconds you watched the man you'd come to know vanish. Until the recluse Gotham recognized resurfaced.

"It was nice to see you," you said softly with a smile, leaving him to speak with others as you sought your standing place beside Martinez.

People diverted their attention as Falcone stepped into the building, his aura enough to fill the cathedral with fear and the distant tang of blood. You wondered if he ever felt it on his skin. The phantom warmth of someone else's life slipping through his fingers. Did the ghosts of his past haunt him as they did others? Or was he immune to their effect?

A villain with the eyes of a friend.

"Gordon would love to put that asshole behind bars," Martinez muttered, leaning on the wall beside you. "Walks in here like he owns the fuckin' place."

You sighed, unable to ignore the way Gordon glared at the man from across the room. The promise of death—or a fate worse—alight in his eyes.

Months ago, when rumors about Falcone began to spill into the Gazette's back doors, you attempted to write a story. To put a face of truth to the man pulling all the strings. Before you could even blink, Henry killed it with ease. Practically burning your files right in front of you and barring you from returning for a whole week.

You never understood what power Carmine Falcone held over people before that day. Only when you saw true fear in Henry's eyes at the thought of reporting your death, did you finally grasp the scope of this man's hold.

The reality of Gotham's darkness.

"Maybe he does," you mused, sipping on the coffee he brought you. "Maybe he owns every person in this room. We just don't know it yet."

"Wouldn't that be something," Martinez scoffed, tucking a hand into his front pocket. "Definitely somethin' to make the front page."

You grinned although no ounce of humor could be found in your otherwise solemn facade. The mayor was dirty. Everyone within a five foot radius could see that with a clarity that rarely befell a gloomy Gotham. But saying it out loud felt as if you were partaking in a misdeed that would get you burnt at the stake; no doubt turning you into the first killed witch in this damn city.

Of course news like that would make the front page. It would be slapped on every newspaper and magazine that was published only to seep through the streets and find the path to other cities beyond the outskirts. The blood of Gotham wouldn't merely affect the people here. It would lead to catastrophic downfalls in places you'd never been to, spots that would take this as a lesson to learn from—to do what this city could not.

You lost yourself in the chatter. The monotonous conversations of people attempting to pry at the personal life of a man no one truly knew. Although if you were the one being asked you wouldn't say that exactly.

There was only one man in this cathedral who truly knew the mayor and he was currently being regarded as the King of Gotham.

Disgust simmered low in your belly, mixing brutally with the tepid coffee you still sipped at. Carmine Falcone always knew when to stick his hand in something that might bring him power. Fucking with the mayor was a one way ticket into an office of some prestige.

Not even you would put it past him.

The choir began to sing while the remainder of the crowd shuffled inside, swarming their way to what chairs still remained. You leaned against the wall, feet crossed at the ankles and eyes tracking every slight movement over the rim of your cup. Martinez chatted with a cop to his right, giving you the space he so obviously thought you needed. Maybe he believed you were actually mourning the man in the coffin. The savior of Gotham.

You didn't have the heart to tell you were stuck in a long line of people waiting to speak their truth about who that man really was.

An alto reached a pitch that grated on your ears. The cold air from outside brushing across your face and stinging your nose. This would be a long procession. You could tell from the way people never quite sat down—ambling between rows of chairs, each of them clamoring to talk to the next. You spotted Bruce stuck in a conversation of his own, head ducked and back stiff. It wouldn't take a genius to figure that he loathed being out in the open—a feral animal who continuously looked to see if someone was attempting to back him into a corner.

One day he might snap, bite the hand of Gotham for the shitty circumstances it gave him.

For now he seemed desperate to slip away and hide in the shadows just as you were doing.

The echo of music came to an abrupt halt, people stopping instantaneously as a roar sounded from outside. You heard the screams before you saw the car. The piercing wail of someone getting hurt, of others running for their lives. Your coffee tumbled out of your hands, splattering to the ground as someone shoved past you in an attempt to get to the front of the cathedral.

The situation at hand isn't what surprised you; it was the horror on their face at the thought they might die.

How strange that you chose to fixate on something so minimal when you should have feared for your own safety too.

"Day!" Martinez shouted, his arms wrapping around your waist and body pinning you to the wall when the other shoe finally dropped.

The car breached the entrance like a bullet being fired from a pistol. With enough speed to kill those close by with a swift and executing blow. People screamed while they ran. Some heading for the entrance, others cowering in fear along the wall. You tried to suck in a breath, but the impact of too many people crowded around became a punch to your lungs with each movement.

You never thought you were claustrophobic, but suddenly you began to consider the prospect as Martinez mumbled into your shoulder asking if you were okay. His hands pressed flat to the wall to keep the others from crushing you.

"We gotta get everyone out of here," he muttered under his breath.

You sucked in a breath despite the weight. "Where's Gordon?"

"By the front."

"Get over there. I'm fine here."

Another shove and your head rammed into the stone wall, splitting pain cresting over your right eye as you clamped down hard on the inside of your cheek to stifle the groan. That would come to bite you in the ass later—destroying any sense of calm you could harbor in your body. But at this very moment worrying about a small injury was the least of your worries.

"Are you sure?" The hesitation practically bled into his voice. Which only served to piss you off despite his courteous manners of sticking close to keep you safe.

"Go," you snapped.

Through the bustle of people clamoring to get out, you made a choice. One that placed your date of death higher up on a list than you might have liked. Sliding along the wall, you crept towards the barred staircase—the balcony cleared of anyone that crammed their way in to watch the funeral procession. Gordon's voice echoed above the disarray, directing the flow of panic as you sunk into the shadows bathed along the far right side.

No one would bother to check for civilians up here. Not after everyone sprinted for the exit; safety the only thing on their minds. Your boots were silent against the stone staircase, body hunched to avoid detection from the mountain of cops spilling in through the front. A man stood by the car door, hands raised and mouth taped over to muffle the sounds of his cries for help.

"Shit," you breathed, chancing a quick moment to lean over the railing. "That's the fucking D.A."

"Everyone out!" Gordon shouted.

He was the last one through the doors. You fished the black notebook out of your pocket and scribbled down two words.

D.A.

Corrupt

The two most notable suspects in a case gone wrong stared you directly in the face. The Riddler. The man who orchestrated this entire affair was finally making his presence known to the people of this disfigured city. Whoever hid behind that mask seemed desperate enough to string along as many corrupt men as possible. Which only made your suspicions grow—the list of people you often figured were too clean, too good, now falling to the forefront of your mind.

He wanted to unearth the truth.

He wanted to bring Gotham to its knees.

You ducked into a corner of the balcony, pen scratching along the page in a stream of consciousness that you'd later dissect for the paper. Henry would demand every finite detail you were able to collect. Which made staying up here your top priority.

A familiar thump resounded in the cathedral, bouncing off stone walls and filling the large vacant space. He walked in with purpose, bleeding a tremor of dominance in the still air that rumbled at the base of your chest. You shrunk against the small pillars, eyes trained on the figure in black as he moved towards the D.A. unafraid of the contraption strapped to the man's chest.

Even you had to hand it to The Bat. He clearly didn't fear what consequences might one day befall his own being.

He wasn't scared of the one thing all humankind shared amongst themselves. Death.

The shrill ring of a phone forced terror to claw up your throat. Whatever breath existed in your lungs vanished within a second. The Bat held himself in his usual tall stature of resilience. A man who looked like he could take the blast from whatever explosion The Riddler set out for him. That didn't stop the fear from nearly crippling whatever bravery you managed to cling to.

He could die today.

You didn't want to be the only one to witness this loss.

Their voices rang in the air, riddles spewing from the phone with a rancid air of madness you tasted at the back of your throat. And you wrote down each one. You put pen to the page and let the ink bleed the truth—your job taking precedence over your life. The people of this city had to know what happened, they deserved this much given the hell they fought through day and night.

"He's asking how much it costs for you to turn your back."

The pen nearly slipped from your hand at the gruff echo of his voice spilling what everyone wanted to know. Your head shot up, attention solely focused on what might very well be the biggest story The Gotham Gazette would ever see slapped across their front page.

"Ten G's a month. Ten grand. That's my answer."

You sucked in a shaky breath, fingers clutching the pen tight enough for pain to flare up your wrist.

"Please...tell us which vermin you're paid to protect."

"Holy shit," you whispered, sweat prickling along the back of your neck.

"The rat. The informant you're all protecting from the Salvatore Maroni case," The Bat urged, his voice thick with urgency. "What's his name?"

"No."

You scrambled to your feet, The Riddler's voice counting the seconds down in glee as The Batman did what he could to save a corrupt man's life. Your chest heaved with each breath, silence flooding the space until you had to lean over the railing just to hear their voices above your own heart beat.

"You're talking to a dead man," he whispered, eyes wide with a terror you'd never seen before.

"What's the name?"

He shook his head, trembling where he stood. "It's so much bigger than you could imagine. It's the whole system."

Your pen barely scratched the surface of the crinkled paper before the time ran out. The blast ricocheted off the walls, slamming into you with a force that crushed everything inside to the very back of your body. You cried out as it flung you into the wall with a loud crack, your skull hitting stone. Pain filled every sense, a faint high pitched ring overwhelmed whatever you could hear and suddenly you were back on that street as your blood stained the sidewalk.

Gasping wetly for a steady breath, you felt warmth trickle down your forehead, spilling onto the cold skin of your cheek. You reached for it in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Only for your vision to blur—the steady beat of your heart now pounding heavily within your chest.

"No," you breathed, rolling onto your back. "Not again."

Everything else cut out—each means of escape vanishing within a moment—and suddenly...the world went dark.

"You could have at least pulled that punch, man." The squeak of the elevator broke through the smoggy air atop the building as Gordon stepped out with a wince.

"I did."

"Bock put out an APB on you." Gordon sighed, his brows furrowed and his patience wore thin. "You really think he's in on this?"

"I don't trust any of 'em. Do you?"

Gordon shook his head subtly. "I only trust you."

The information was strewn about, traded in hoarse whispers as the city lights flickered on, night taking over Gotham once more. Pain lingered in his chest from the explosion but he could ignore it for the time being. This remained the most important thing in his life. The vital piece of a puzzle that slowly unfurled before his very eyes—reasons why The Riddler felt it necessary to target certain corrupt men.

"You got hit by the blast dead on. I don't know how you're still standing," Gordon stated plainly, his eyes flickering to the center of the plated armor on his chest—the symbol of a bat staring back.

"I'll live."

He nodded. "We felt it from outside. Had people dropping to the floor from the echoes."

Something burrowed its way to the front of his mind, trickling down into fear receptors that rarely triggered the longer he remained in his position. The people there were put in danger. They were hurt by what game The Riddler chose to play. But that's not what concerned him the most.

You were there amidst the crowd, lost to a sea of madness the second that car broke through the front gates.

"There's a reporter," he said, voice catching on the back of his throat. "Goes by Daywalker."

Gordon hummed. "Yeah I saw her there. One of the only good ones in the city if I'm honest."

"Did she make it out?"

The pause of silence gripped his heart in a way he didn't like. It filled his stomach with bile, sent it careening up his throat, and suddenly he was a child again in that alleyway. His eyes fixed on the only two people who were placed on this Earth to love him. To give him a life of joy and days overflowing with laughter. Not a bitter heartache that clung to the inside of his chest—digging claws into soft tissue simply to watch him bleed.

Gordon mulled over the question, racking his mind for the answer. "I didn't see her in the crowd." Was all he could come up with.

"You know anyone who can contact her?"

"She an informant?" When he was faced with a wall of hollow air, he dug for the phone in his jacket pocket, slamming down the number of the only man in Gotham who could locate a reporter. "Henry. Need a lead on one of your reporters. Goes by Daywalker."

A mumble of information filtered through the phone's speaker, barely loud enough for him to hear through the mask, but one word caught his attention like lightning cracking across the night sky. Missing. You were gone. Unheard of. His teeth clenched, fingers curling into fists as the patter of his heart quickened the longer he stood there unable to help.

"Thanks." Gordon pocketed his phone, rubbing a hand across his face. "No one's heard from her. Henry called it into the station, but they've pushed it off for now."

"What about Martinez?" He recalled the bitterness that soured his stomach at the sight of your smile given to someone who could offer you a sense of normalcy. "They seem friendly."

"He's been with me since the attack."

Prying the memories from his mind, he tried to place where he'd last seen you. Only to come up with an image of you leaning against the wall—a coffee in your hand and a frown painted across your lips. The wall...closest to the staircase. No other person would have made that choice—put themselves in that kind of danger. But the best reporter in Gotham wouldn't hesitate—they'd barely give themselves time to mull over the consequences.

"She never left," he muttered.

"What?"

He was striding towards the elevator before a response could leave his mouth. Gordon trailed after him, yanking the keys out of his coat with an urgency that nearly dropped them to the floor. You were still trapped within the walls of that cathedral, but that's not what made a cold chill curl at the base of his spine. Wherever you were remained within the blast radius of that explosion.

Which meant you were hurt.

The car roared to life with an anger that blasted in the night air. He slammed on the gas, swerving onto the street as Gordon drove behind—their urgency bleeding into every action. The state you were in is what gnawed at him the most.

The balcony wasn't far enough away, but he would have seen you standing there when he entered the building. He would have known you were there by your presence alone, even if his eyes were unable to pinpoint where exactly that happened to be.

He sucked in a breath, stopping in the alleyway beside the cathedral, before rushing towards the side entrance. The acrid scent of burnt flesh still permeated the air when he swung open the door. It slammed into his chest like before, marring his otherwise cool exterior. Anger seared up his chest, forcing itself to be known as he took the stairs two at a time.

Only to see a limp figure curled in on itself by the wall—a pool of dried crimson beneath them.

"No," he breathed, dropping to his knees. "C'mon. Wake up."

Your face was coated in a thick layer of dried blood, matting down your hair against your forehead. The shallow rise and fall of your chest gave him an indication on how long you'd been up here. Several hours without help. Hours spent alone floating between the states of conscious and unconscious. Your body had gone into shock long before he woke up in the police station, the injuries sustained far too much for your system to handle.

"Day," he muttered, cupping your face with a gloved hand. "Day wake up. Don't do this to me."

A weak gasp slipped past your chapped lips—eyes weakly fluttering against tear stained cheeks. "V-Vengeance?"

"Gordon!" Lifting you to his chest, he rose on his knees. "I'm here. I've got you."

"He's dead," you coughed, fingers scrambling to clutch onto his cape. "T-The D.A. he's–"

"I know."

"Victim," you mumbled, eyes rolling back as he got you to the stairs.

Knocking his forehead on yours softly, he dragged in another harsh breath. "Wake up. You hear me Day? Stay awake."

"F-Falcone–" A cough rattled your chest, body shivering at the harsh physical exertion. He clutched you tighter, hand gripping the back of your neck to raise your head. "Thomas...Wayne."

He froze, boots nearly tripping on the last step. "What did you say?"

The dead weight against his arms was all you offered in response. The fatigue and blood loss finally taking its toll on a body that had endured far too much—the explosion ripping everything from you. He held you close enough to feel the beat of your heart through your back, the soft breaths you managed became a warm wash of air along his chin. If this were a different time, if he was Bruce instead of The Bat he might have chanced an embrace like this.

But that amount of luck would never remain in the cards for a man like himself.

He'd forever be the savior, the man this city needed. Never the man you wanted.

"She's lost a lot of blood," he stated, laying you in the backseat of Gordon's car with a gentleness that startled him to his very core. "Trauma to the head from the blast."

"I'll get her to the hospital."

He chanced one last look at your peaceful face—fingers trailing lightly along your chin before retreating with a sigh. "Ask for Elain."

"And you?"

"The Penguin," he replied calmly. "We need to have a talk."

Chaos erupted in the hallway of the hospital, shouts heard left and right as two men were dragged out by security, their voices loud enough to rouse you from an excruciating sleep. Jolting in the shitty bed, you felt the prick of needles against the juncture of your forearm, a cold wash of liquid spreading up into your veins. The light pierced your eyes, blinding you for a moment as you came to with a searing headache.

A soft monotonous beep echoed beside you monitoring your heart rate—the hills and bumps of your life mapped out for you to see on a screen for the first time. You hated the hospital. Loathed the antiseptic smell that burned your nose, struggled to maintain a grasp on what the fuck happened to land you here.

And only when you fought to sit up—a pained shout wrenching from your chest—did it all come rushing back to you. The explosion. The D.A. The Ridder's whole reason for striking the way he did. He wanted to know about the rat, the man who every higher up in Gotham vowed to protect with their lives. You just never thought you would be included in that list—yet another victim to the grief that plagued this godforsaken city.

"You're awake." The door shut with a soft thud, Elain clicking her pen as she flipped through the keyboard at the end of the bed. "You suffered a blow to the head. Concussion. A detective brought you in, told me a mutual friend found you in the cathedral."

"Elain–" Your voice cracked in the small attempt of words, but her fury clamped your jaw shut instantly.

"Are you fucking insane? Or are you simply trying to die?" She huffed, setting the board back in its rightful spot. "I patch you up in your apartment while your shadow glares at me the whole time. But this? Found at the very scene where the D.A. just got blown to pieces. What the fuck Day?"

"I know–"

She sucked in a breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. "No you don't know. I've got people here who would love to know why you're here. People who don't work for Gotham P.D."

"I'm sorry," you mumbled.

"I'm not about to attend a funeral for you Day. That can't happen."

Shame hung heavy atop your shoulders. "I made a mistake. I shouldn't have stayed."

"Yeah. You did a whole lot more than that." Settling in the chair propped beside your bed, she clasped her hands together tight enough to turn her knuckles white. "There were witnesses when that detective brought you in. People who are now walking the halls outside this room because of it."

"They don't know anything."

"And if they do?"

You sucked in a shaky breath. "He wouldn't let that happen."

Her eyes sunk into the depths of your soul, prying out what you weren't telling her—what you kept close to your chest. "What's going on between you two?"

"Nothing–"

She grinned, lifeless and full of mirth—her eyes echoing with a dull exhaustion that came with working long hours in a ruthless city. "He cares about you Day."

"He doesn't care–"

"Yes. He does." Rising to her feet, she dug out your phone. "He wouldn't have searched for you if he didn't care."

The brightness of your screen burned your still bleary eyes—the notifications rolling in as the power started back up. Elain mumbled about grabbing food in the cafeteria, her body hunched forward when she left—head ducked to avoid the sight of whoever paced the halls. You couldn't stay here long if that was the case. Especially given the notes housed in your small notebook tucked into your hospital gown.

A message from Gordon caught your attention, the words short and simple. Yet filled with enough to send a flutter through your chest.

Hope you're okay. With your guy. Will be in touch soon.

–Gordon

You glanced at the message beneath it. A myriad of questions from Henry asking if you were at the funeral, if you caught any good interviews, if you were alive. You swallowed thickly at the last one—fingers clenching around your phone as the words blurred in front of you.

BRUCE WAYNE: OUT OF THE SHADOWS is a front page story set for publication in two days. Congrats kid.

–Henry Goldfinch

#bruce wayne x f!reader #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x y/n #bruce wayne #battinson x reader #battinson x you #my writing

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