#wooden balance beam

[ewartwoods]

How to Incorporate Wooden Furniture into a Modern Interior Design

Wooden furniture is a timeless addition to any home decor. Adding natural beauty and warmth to a space makes it feel cozy and welcoming. 

Incorporating wooden furniture into a modern interior wood design can seem impossible at first, but it is possible. 

Wooden furniture can blend seamlessly with a modern aesthetic with the right selection of pieces and styling. A modern interior can be enhanced by incorporating wooden furniture.

Understanding Modern Interior Design

It's all about clean lines, minimalism, and a neutral color palette. It often features materials such as metal, glass, and concrete. 

However, wooden furniture can still fit into this aesthetic by choosing pieces with simple designs and clean lines. Wooden furniture can add warmth and texture to the space when used in a modern interior design.

Benefits of Using Wooden Furniture in Modern Interior Design

Using wooden furniture in a modern interior design has many benefits. First and foremost, it adds warmth and natural beauty to the space. 

Wooden furniture is also durable and long-lasting, making it a practical investment for your home. Additionally, wooden furniture is versatile and can be used in different interior styles, from mid-century modern to rustic.

Few Ideas of Wooden Furniture That Suit Modern Interior Design

There are many types of wooden furniture that suit modern interior design. For example.

Wooden floating shelf can be used to display minimalist decor and add storage to a room.  

Wooden step stool for kids can be a functional and stylish addition to a child's bedroom. 

Balance beams for kids can add a playful element to a playroom or family room.   

A kid's clothing rack made of wood can be a charming addition to a nursery or child's bedroom. 

Even a wood toilet paper holder can add a touch of warmth and style to a bathroom.

How to Incorporate Wooden Furniture into a Modern Interior Design

When incorporating wooden furniture into a modern interior design, choosing pieces with clean lines and simple designs is essential. Avoid furniture with intricate details or carvings. 

Mixing and matching different types of wood can also add interest and depth to a space. Combining wooden furniture with other materials and textures can also create a balanced and cohesive.

For example, a wooden coffee table can be paired with a metal lamp or a plush rug. Accessorizing with wooden home decors, such as picture frames or vases, can also tie the look together.

Tips for Maintaining Wooden Furniture in Modern Interior Design

Proper cleaning and maintenance techniques are important for keeping wooden furniture looking its best. Abrasive or harsh chemicals should not be used on wood. Soft cloths and feather dusters should be used to dust wooden furniture regularly. 

Protect wooden furniture from scratches and damage by using coasters and placemats. Finally, consider refreshing and updating wooden furniture pieces with a coat of paint or stain when needed.

Conclusion

Incorporating Wooden Home Decor furniture into a modern interior design is possible with the right selection of pieces and styling. Wooden furniture adds warmth and natural beauty to a space and is a practical and versatile investment for your home. 

Remember to choose pieces with clean lines and simple designs, mix and match different types of wood, and accessorize with wooden home decor. Proper cleaning and maintenance mean your wooden furniture can last for years.

[kidodidos]

Discover the top 5 benefits of wooden slides for kids at Kido Dido. Enhance playtime with safety, durability, and natural aesthetics for your little ones.

[dark-horse76]

[pretentious-blonde]

independent

pairing: remus lupin x reader

summary: remus loves you wholeheartedly, even when you threaten to give him a heart attack

warnings: none, fluff, clumsy reader, stressed remus

a/n: short and sweet ❤️

Remus turned the key in the lock of the flat, happy to feel some relief from the autumn chill as he stepped inside the shared space. The soft thud of his shoes echoed through the hallway as he shrugged off his coat. It had been a long day and he felt a tired stiffness in his shoulders, all he wanted to do was relax and enjoy another evening with you, catch up on anything exciting he may have missed while absent. 

“Darling, I’m home!��� He called out, his voice echoing up the stairs. He was curious as to why there was no response, usually, you bounded down the stairs as soon as you heard the door open. He climbed upwards, his footsteps light on the old wooden floorboards. “Love, are you hiding again? Because I have to tell you, it’s a losing battle. I always find you in the end.”

He glanced around the living room, still waiting for an answer, his smile widening as he turned the corner to the bedroom. His eyes scanned over the room, searching for where you could have been concealed. “Dove, what are we—“

He stopped himself as he saw what was happening, heart lurching. You were precariously balanced on a wobbly ladder, one that should have been tossed months ago. He was usually tall enough to reach pretty much anything you needed in the apartment, plus he liked you asking him to. It made him feel needed. 

Your arm was stretched up towards the ceiling, clearly changing a lightbulb, your expression determined and filled with concentration.

“What are you doing?” He asked even if it was obvious, his voice was low, despite the slight panic he felt rising in his chest. 

“I am changing a lightbulb,” you told him matter-of-factly, completely calm as if you weren’t on the verge of toppling over at any second. You spoke to him like it was obvious. “It broke.”

He took a deep breath in, his lips formed a thin line as he quickly strode over to you, eyes constantly watching the unstable ladder you stood on, holding it in place. “Sweetheart,” he began, voice soft and relieved now he was offering some kind of stability. “Why didn’t you wait for me to get home? I’m tall enough to reach it without risking life and limb.”

You shrugged as you turned the bulb, looking down at him with a nonchalant smile. “Because I got it.”

No, you don’t, he thought inwardly, but he thought it would be better if he bit his tongue. Instead, he settled for resting his hands on your hips, ready to catch you in case the ladder decided to give way. 

“Whatever you say, dove,” he murmured as he watched your movements, his tone affectionate. He loved you wholeheartedly. Your independent nature was something that had drawn him to you in the first place and he wouldn’t change it for the world, even if it did give him the occasional heart attack. 

You twisted the new bulb in place, beaming down at him as the glow filled the room, clearly very pleased with yourself. “There!” You said, a triumphant grin on your lips. “All done.”

Remus let out a breath that he didn’t realise he was holding. “Brilliant,” he said, thrilled to get you off of the shaking death trap. “Now, if you don’t mind, let’s get you down before my heart gives out.”

His hands tightened around your waist as he lifted you down, hands steady as he made sure you were firmly placed on the ground. You turn around to face him, your face smug. 

“See?” You tell him, gesturing to the now-lit room. “Told you I could do it.”

He shook his head, brown hair falling over his forehead, his mouth turning into a soft smile. “Yes, darling, you did.” He placed a hand on the side of your head, pulling you forward slightly to press a soft kiss to your temple before pulling away. “But if you avoid giving me a panic attack next time, I’d be very grateful.”

“I try my best,” you say with a giggle, making him melt as the melodic sound fills the room. 

“Good,” he murmured, allowing his thumb to brush over your cheek absentmindedly. “Now, be extra good and make me a cup of tea whilst I pack up in here, hmm?”

“On it,” you say, flashing him an over-the-top grin as you spin on your heel, headed straight for the kitchen. 

He watched you practically skip out of the room, high on the idea of completing this mundane task yourself. He chuckled as he turned back to the ladder, folding it swiftly, the metal creaking under his hands. Picking it up in his arms and about to head towards the storage cupboard when he heard it—a sharp thunk followed by a yelp of pain. 

It’s a wonder your toes are still on your feet at this point. 

“Bloody hell,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, putting the ladder down and sticking his head out of the bedroom doorway. “Everything alright, dove?” 

“Yep!” Your chipper voice came from somewhere deeper in the flat, a little bit breathless but nonetheless cheerful. “All good!”

“Of course you are,” he said to himself, letting out a sigh but certainly amused. He turned back to the ladder behind him, hauling it over his shoulder and descending down the hall, a fond smile forming on his face. God, he loves you.

As he puts the ladder away, making a mental note to get rid of it the next time the bin men come, he can’t help the chuckle that escapes his lips. You were a walking disaster sometimes, but hey, you were his walking disaster. He liked to be kept on his toes. 

Making his way to the kitchen, following the sound of your soft humming, he just stood for a while. Arms crossed over his chest as he admired you, feeling his heart swell, he felt content. 

He only hoped you wouldn’t burn yourself when pouring the water…

[reidmarieprentiss]

I have a request that I know you’ll write 100% better than me! Spencer leaves his girlfriend at the altar without giving a single reason. And disappears for months. Then he comes back and it is revealed he did it because Reader's life was at risk. When he goes to apologize, Reader doesn't let him speak. Spencer crawls on his knees for forgiveness and tries to figure out how to improve the situation. The ending is up to you: angst, happy ending or not. You choose! I know you’ll do a great fic!

Sadly Ever After

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: hurt, angst

Warnings/Includes: no happy ending, being left at the altar, just general sadness after a breakup, small crime talk

Word count: 5.6k

a/n: hiii i hope this is sufficient lolol i am in a very angsty mood

main masterlist

You had never felt so beautiful in your entire life. The dress—the dress—was everything you had dreamed it would be. Layers of soft tulle cascaded down your frame, the delicate lacework etched across the bodice molding perfectly to you, almost as if it had been made for you alone. Each step you took sent the fabric swaying around you like whispers of movement, ethereal and romantic.

Penelope had outdone herself with your hair. Loose waves tumbled, glowing in the golden light of the early evening, held in place by a sparkling hairpiece that caught the glow of the string lights. Every curl seemed to be perfectly placed, not too styled but effortlessly enchanting, as if you had stepped out of a fairytale. JJ and Emily had tag-teamed your makeup, ensuring that every stroke and brush was precise and delicate. The soft blush on your cheeks, the shimmer of your eyeshadow, the perfect tint of color on your lips—it was understated perfection.

And Rossi, ever the consummate host, had given you and Spencer the most breathtaking backdrop for your wedding. His sprawling backyard had transformed into something magical. An altar of wooden beams, wrapped with soft draped fabric and overflowing with flowers—roses, peonies, and wild blooms—stood like a gateway to forever. Twinkling fairy lights criss crossed above, their soft glow turning the clearing into a dreamscape. The grass, still cool from the afternoon, added an earthy softness to the air, grounding the magic in something real.

Then there he was—Spencer.

Your heart stuttered at the sight of him standing at the altar, hands nervously clasped in front of him, the slightest smile pulling at the corners of his lips when his eyes found you. His suit was sharp and clean, a dark shade that contrasted beautifully with the delicate tones of your dress. The bowtie, a small nod to his usual style, somehow made him look even more endearing, his charm on full display. His curls fell just perfectly, framing his face and softening the seriousness of his features.

But it was his eyes that caught you—the depth of them, brimming with unspoken emotion, raw and honest. The sight of him struck you in the chest, stealing the air from your lungs. The tears you had tried to fight back began to prick the corners of your eyes.

Each step down the aisle felt slower, deliberate, as though time itself had stretched just for the two of you. You took in every detail—the warm breeze rustling the leaves above, the distant chirp of crickets, the way the light filtered through the trees, creating golden halos around your guests. As you approached Spencer, standing tall beneath the altar where Aaron Hotchner waited to officiate, your heart swelled with so much love you thought it might burst.

Aaron’s voice, steady and clear, had been a comforting hum in the background—his dry wit laced through the ceremony brought a lightheartedness that had the guests chuckling softly at all the right moments. He was a master at balancing sincerity and charm, even as the formal words of the ceremony unfurled.

The vows had been the pinnacle of it all. Spencer’s, with their perfect blend of sentimentality and poetic elegance, had left you breathless. Every word was carved with precision, so achingly him that it made your heart feel both full and fragile in the best way. Your vows, equally personal and unflinchingly honest, had drawn a few tears from the crowd. For those few minutes, it felt like it was just the two of you—completely alone in your little world, pledging yourselves to each other.

But then Aaron’s voice broke that perfect little bubble.

“Spencer, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

It was a question Spencer had to be expecting. One he should have answered without hesitation. The words hung in the air like a held breath. Waiting.

You smiled softly, fingers intertwined with his, but that silence—the silence that followed—was deafening. The longer Spencer stood there, unmoving and unspeaking, the weight of the moment became unbearable. You felt the shift in the energy around you, a sudden drop in the warmth that had enveloped the ceremony just moments ago.

The guests began shifting uncomfortably in their seats. A murmur rustled through the crowd—quiet and confused. It was subtle at first, the furrow of brows and exchanged glances, but the longer Spencer remained silent, the more palpable the tension became.

“Spencer?” you whispered faintly, trying to ground him with the sound of your voice. Your hands squeezed his gently, searching for reassurance in the way his thumb brushed against your skin. But that was the thing—his thumb wasn’t moving at all. His hands were still, stiff even, as he stared at you.

And his eyes—oh, those fucking eyes.

They weren’t full of the love you had seen all evening, that awe-struck admiration that had made your knees weak when you first stepped down the aisle. No, they were hollow now, distant, as though he was somewhere far away.

The silence stretched so long you felt it wrap around your chest like a vice, squeezing the air from your lungs.

“Spencer,” Aaron prompted gently, his calm, officiating voice now laced with quiet concern.

Finally, finally, Spencer moved. The slightest tilt of his lips into a soft, almost apologetic smile. The kind of smile that said everything and nothing at the same time.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. The words were so soft they barely reached your ears, like a secret meant just for you.

Your brows knitted together as confusion bloomed across your face. Sorry? Sorry for what?

But before you could say anything, before you could even process the sound of those three words, Spencer’s grip on your hands loosened. He let go—he let go—and turned.

One moment he was standing in front of you, your almost-husband, and the next he was running. The sound of his shoes hitting the wooden platform of the altar was jarring. Sharp.

“Spencer!” you called after him, panic rising in your voice, but it was too late.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The murmurs grew louder now, confusion turning to shock as everyone watched Spencer disappear through the open back doors of Rossi’s house.

You stood frozen, rooted to the spot where he had left you, your hands still hovering in front of you as though you could still feel the shape of his in your palms.

The string lights above twinkled innocently, the flowers framing the altar swayed in the evening breeze, and the guests remained seated, staring, waiting—hoping this was some sort of terrible joke.

But it wasn’t.

Aaron, steady as ever, took a cautious step forward, lowering his voice as he gently spoke. “Y/N… do you want to sit down?”

Sit down. Right. You felt like the earth beneath you had cracked wide open, leaving you teetering on the edge. How could he run? How could Spencer Reid—your Spencer—leave you like that?

Your lips trembled as you looked back toward the house, the place where he had vanished. You felt the eyes of everyone on you, their collective disbelief pressing down on your shoulders like an invisible weight.

You swallowed thickly, the tears you had been holding back earlier now threatening to spill for an entirely different reason.

“I don’t…” you started, but your voice faltered.

Because you didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know what had just happened or why.

All you knew was that Spencer Reid—the love of your life, your almost-husband—had left you standing alone under the twinkling lights of Rossi’s backyard, with nothing but a hollow whisper of I’m sorry lingering in his wake.

—

Months had passed, yet time felt like it moved at a crawl. The day Spencer ran from you—from your wedding—remained an echo that refused to quiet. You thought that eventually the sting would dull, that the confusion would lift, but it clung to you like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

You had packed up your life together in silence, alone in the home you once shared with him. The apartment was eerily still without the sound of his voice murmuring about a book or his soft humming while he made tea. It had felt haunted, as though every room whispered why? at you, taunting you with memories of what you thought your life would be. You didn't even see him again during those long days you spent packing—only once did Penelope call to let you know he had gone home to see his mother.

“Just so you know,” Penelope had said softly over the phone. She sounded hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if she was making things better or worse. “Spencer’s not in D.C. anymore. He went back to Vegas. I think he wanted to… I don’t know, give you space.”

You’d thanked her out of politeness, even though the words stung. Give you space. Was that what this was? Him running, abandoning you at the altar—was that his way of giving you space? You didn’t ask for space. You had asked for him. Well, actually, he had asked for you.

So you moved back into the apartment you had sublet without any real trouble. It was strange to see your things there again, familiar but foreign, as though they belonged to a different version of you. You kept most of your life in boxes for a while. Unpacking felt like admitting that this—this emptiness—was permanent, and you weren’t ready to do that yet.

The team tried to reach out in those first weeks.

JJ had sent you messages that were simple but heartfelt: “Thinking of you. I’m here if you need anything.”

Emily had tried to call you once. She left a voicemail, her voice kind and gentle: “Hey, it’s me. I know you might not want to talk right now, and that’s okay, but I just wanted you to know we’re all thinking of you. You’re not alone.”

Penelope was the most persistent. She sent texts, little gifts, even a handwritten letter because she knew how personal that would feel. But every text, every call, every kind gesture just reminded you of him. Spencer had been the thread that connected you to the team, and now every single one of them felt like a painful reminder of what you’d lost. Of the way he left.

So you shut them out, one by one.

You didn’t hate them. You couldn’t. JJ, Emily, Penelope, Derek, Hotch and Rossi—they were good people, your people once. But being around them, talking to them, made Spencer’s absence feel louder. It was as though his ghost lingered between every conversation. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t separate them from him.

Penelope’s messages stopped first. You imagined her sitting in her colorful office, fidgeting with a pen as she debated whether to text you again. She was the kindest soul you knew, and you hated the idea that you were shutting her out, but you couldn’t face her—or any of them.

Then came the loneliness. It wasn’t the kind that was born from an empty room or quiet nights alone. It was deeper, sharper. The kind of loneliness you only felt when you lost someone dear to you.

You sat on your couch one night—your couch now, not Spencer’s, not yours and his, just yours—and stared at the stack of boxes you still hadn’t unpacked. The light from the kitchen spilled into the living room, casting long shadows across the floor. It was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the clock on the wall.

You wondered if Spencer was in his childhood home now, back in Vegas, sitting with his mother. Did he talk about you? Did he think about you?

Or was he like you—alone in a room that used to feel like home, wondering how everything had unraveled so quickly?

It didn’t matter, you told yourself. You weren’t going to chase answers you might never get. If he wanted to explain himself, he would have. But he didn’t. Instead, he ran. He left you there, at the altar, in front of everyone you loved, and didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye.

You pulled your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them as you stared at the faint glow of your phone screen on the coffee table. Another message from JJ, one you wouldn’t open. You knew she would stop eventually. They all would.

You had been close with all of them, almost like family. But Spencer’s absence had burned through those bonds like fire through dry wood. And now, months later, all that was left was ash.

And the strangest part of it all? You missed them. You missed JJ’s motherly warmth, Emily’s strength, Penelope’s relentless kindness. You missed Derek teasing you, Rossi’s wise words, Hotch’s steady, grounding presence.

But missing them also meant missing him.

And missing him? That was something you couldn’t bear to feel any more than you already did.

—

The bullpen was quieter than usual that morning. The team was settled at their desks, heads ducked over files and reports, but there was no mistaking the shift in energy. Spencer was back. After months of leave, months of silence, months of wondering—he had walked through the glass doors of the BAU like nothing had happened.

Except something had happened. Something none of them could make sense of.

Spencer didn’t look any different on the outside. His suit was pressed and neat, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder in that familiar way. But there was a tightness in his jaw, a heaviness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. He had always carried the world on his back, but this time, it looked like the weight might crush him.

The air hung thick as he settled into his desk, quietly unpacking his bag. No one spoke at first, though they all exchanged glances, unsure of how to broach it—of how to demand answers.

It was Derek who cracked first. Of course it was Derek. He had been simmering with frustration for months now, trying to make sense of Spencer’s sudden disappearance and his refusal to talk about it.

“You want to tell us all what the fuck is going on?” Derek’s voice broke through the stillness, sharp and pointed.

Spencer froze, one hand halfway to his desk drawer. He didn’t turn right away, but everyone else did. All eyes turned to Derek, who sat leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His tone was accusatory, sure, but his expression—underneath the tension—was concern.

Spencer swallowed, closing the drawer with a soft click before finally turning to face the team. JJ looked at him with something between worry and hope, her brow slightly furrowed. Emily’s gaze was harder to read, but her eyes were pinned to him, waiting. Penelope, standing in the doorway with a coffee in hand, looked like she wanted to speak but thought better of it. Even Rossi, ever the patient one, had his head tilted slightly as he studied Spencer.

Spencer took a breath, his hands curling around the edge of his desk.

“I…” His voice cracked slightly, unused to addressing so much weight at once. He steadied himself and tried again. “I owe you all an explanation.”

“Damn right you do,” Derek shot back, though his tone was a little softer this time.

Spencer nodded, pressing his lips into a thin line as he gathered his thoughts. He looked down for a moment, fingers drumming idly against the wood of his desk before he spoke again.

“I left because I needed to,” he said simply. His voice was low, not quite weak, but careful—like every word was fragile, like he was afraid they might break apart. “I needed to… figure things out.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as the team sat gathered around the conference table, all of them watching Spencer intently. The blinds were drawn, the overhead lights humming faintly above them, but it did little to dispel the weight pressing down on everyone.

“Figure what out?” JJ had asked softly, her tone teetering somewhere between exasperation and hope.

Spencer had sighed then, a breath so deep it looked like it pained him. “Yeah, um… can we go to the conference room?”

No one argued. 

Once they were all seated in the conference room, Spencer remained standing, gripping the back of one of the chairs like it was the only thing holding him upright. His knuckles turned white as he stared down at the polished table, gathering the words he had spent months trying to keep buried.

“Someone was threatening me,” Spencer said finally, his voice low, steady, but carrying the weight of something dark and unspoken. “Threatening her.”

The pronoun lingered like a slap, and no one needed clarification to know who he meant. You.

JJ sucked in a sharp breath, her hand instinctively reaching for her chest as though she could feel the impact of those words. Derek leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his expression hardening as he processed what Spencer was saying.

“What do you mean, someone was threatening you?” Rossi asked, his voice calm but firm, coaxing Spencer to keep going.

“They found Y/N because of me,” Spencer continued, his voice quieter now, almost ashamed. “Because of my job. I… I put her in danger. They used her as leverage, made it clear that if I told anyone—if I told any of you—that they would kill her.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Emily glanced toward Derek, her expression darkening as she began piecing things together.

“How long did this go on?” Derek finally asked, his tone a low growl.

Spencer didn’t meet his eyes. “Months. I started getting letters, then texts. Pictures of her—ones that no one else could’ve had. They knew where she was at all times. When she went to work, when she was home, when she was with me.”

Penelope gasped softly, her hand covering her mouth as tears threatened to well in her eyes. “Spencer…” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Spencer shook his head, jaw tightening. “I couldn’t let anything happen to her. I couldn’t. So when the threats escalated—when they said they’d kill her if I stayed here and didn’t cooperate—I left.”

“And you didn’t tell us?” JJ asked, the hurt in her voice unmistakable.

“I couldn’t,” Spencer said, his voice nearly cracking. “If I told any of you, they said they’d go through with it. So I had to work the case alone. I did things I… I don’t want to talk about, but I found them. I stopped them. I made sure they could never hurt her again.”

The room fell silent again as the weight of his confession sank in. No one spoke, no one moved. Spencer’s breathing had grown uneven, like the memory alone was clawing its way back to him.

It was Rossi who finally broke the silence, his voice calm and measured but tinged with quiet curiosity. “Why did you wait until the wedding to run?”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped. He looked down at the table, his gaze unfocused, like he couldn’t bear to look at any of them. “I… I thought I could marry her. I thought if I could just get through that day, I could disappear. Take her somewhere safe. Run away with her before they could do anything. I wanted to give her something good, something beautiful, before I ruined everything.”

His voice faltered, and he shook his head, his grip tightening on the chair. “But when I saw her standing there… looking so happy, so perfect… it was like I was transported into my worst nightmare. I saw her—bloody and dead—because of me. Because of what I do, because of who I am. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand the thought of her being hurt because of me. So I ran. I thought… I thought it was better to break her heart than to get her killed.”

The room was deathly quiet now. No one knew what to say. Derek rubbed a hand over his face, trying to process it all, while JJ blinked away tears that had started to gather in her eyes. Penelope was openly crying now, her quiet sobs muffled behind her hands.

“You should’ve told us,” Emily finally said, her voice soft but firm. “We could’ve helped you, Spencer.”

Spencer looked up then, his face hollow, haunted. “And what if you couldn’t? What if I told you, and it still wasn’t enough? What if she died because of me?” His voice broke on the last word, and he quickly looked away, his shoulders trembling slightly.

No one had an answer for that.

Rossi sighed, leaning back in his chair, the understanding settling on his features. “So you’re back now because it’s over?”

Spencer nodded. “It’s over. I made sure of it.”

“And Y/N?” Derek asked quietly, though the question lingered like a punch to the gut.

Spencer’s face fell, his voice a whisper. “She doesn’t know. She just thinks I… left her.”

JJ’s brows furrowed in disbelief, her voice sharp now. “And you haven’t told her? Spencer, she deserves to know—”

“I know!” Spencer’s voice rose suddenly, a flash of frustration breaking through the cracks. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to calm down. “I know,” he repeated, softer this time, the anguish bleeding through. “But how do I explain it to her? How do I look her in the eye and tell her I let her believe I abandoned her because I thought I was saving her life?”

The room fell silent once more, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioning.

No one had an answer for that either.

—

Spencer stood outside your apartment building, his heart hammering so hard he could hear it in his ears, like a drum echoing through a cavernous void. His hands trembled at his sides as he stared up at the familiar brick, the windows glowing faintly with light from the rooms inside. You were home. He knew it, and yet his feet felt like they were glued to the pavement.

His breathing came fast, shallow, uneven—panic building like a wave rising up from his chest and crashing against his throat. He bent over slightly, hands braced on his knees, trying to steady himself, but it wasn’t enough. The air felt thin, insufficient, as if he was sucking in nothing but emptiness.

Not here, not now, he thought desperately, squeezing his eyes shut. You have to do this.

He pushed off his knees and leaned back against the cool brick wall, his spine pressing into it like it could somehow ground him. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as he tried to focus on something—anything—other than the guilt gnawing at him.

Breathe in for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

He silently counted, forcing air through his lungs, slowing the frantic rhythm of his breaths. He repeated the process over and over until the tightness in his chest began to ease, just enough for him to move again.

His legs still felt weak as he pushed away from the wall and crossed the threshold into the building, each step heavier than the last. The stairwell yawned before him like an unforgiving climb, the kind that felt insurmountable despite its simplicity. He clutched the cold metal railing as he ascended, pausing halfway up the flight to press his forehead against the wall and whisper to himself under his breath.

“You can do this. Just knock. Just say it.”

The words sounded pathetic to his ears, hollow in the stillness of the stairwell, but they were all he had. After all these months, after everything he’d done—or failed to do—it came down to this. He had to face you. He had to tell you the truth, no matter what it cost him.

When he reached your floor, Spencer stopped outside your door, staring at the familiar brass numbers that suddenly looked foreign. His heart began to race again, beating faster and faster, drowning out every rational thought. He hadn’t been here since… since before everything. Since you had been his, since he had woken up to the sound of your laughter, since he had memorized the smell of your shampoo and the feel of your hand in his.

The memories hit him all at once, clawing their way out of the recesses of his mind like ghosts—mocking him with what he had lost. What he had taken from himself.

Spencer’s hand shook as he raised it, hovering inches away from the door. He felt paralyzed again, the nausea rising in his stomach like a sick promise. He could turn back. He could leave now, before you opened the door, before you saw him standing there. Maybe you hadn’t moved on yet, maybe you still hated him, maybe you didn’t even want the answers he had brought.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose.

No. She deserves this. She deserves the truth.

His knuckles brushed against the door—softly at first, a timid, ghostly sound. Then he knocked, the noise louder than he intended, the echo of it reverberating down the hall.

Spencer froze, his breath catching in his throat as the moments stretched endlessly. The only sound he could hear was the faint buzz of the overhead lights and the blood rushing in his ears.

And then, from the other side of the door, he heard it.

Footsteps.

The shuffle of movement, the creak of a floorboard.

Spencer felt his pulse spike again, his palms growing clammy as the footsteps approached. His body tensed, and for one horrible second, he thought he might turn and run.

But then the door opened.

And there you were.

You froze in the doorway, one hand still on the knob as your eyes met his. Spencer’s heart lodged itself in his throat as he took in the sight of you—your expression shifting from surprise to something unreadable, your lips parting slightly as though words had caught there, unable to escape.

You looked the same and yet different, somehow. Your hair was a little longer, your face softer, but your eyes—those eyes that had once looked at him with so much love—now held something else entirely.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched on, so loud it was deafening.

Spencer’s throat felt dry as he finally managed to whisper, “Hi.”

It was so small, so simple, but it was all he could get out before his voice cracked.

You blinked, the mask of composure you had thrown on beginning to fracture. Your voice came out quiet, wary, almost disbelieving. “Spencer?”

He swallowed hard, trying to find the words he had been practicing for weeks, for months. They were all jumbled now, falling apart in his mind.

“I… I needed to see you,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “I need to explain.”

Your hand tightened on the doorknob, your knuckles going white as you looked at him—really looked at him—and the pain he’d left behind resurfaced in your eyes like a wave crashing over jagged rocks.

The second the words left his mouth—“I need to explain”—something inside you snapped. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal that had been simmering beneath the surface for months came roaring to life like a fire you could no longer control. Before you even realized what you were doing, your grip on the doorknob tightened, and with a force you hadn’t known you were capable of, you slammed the door.

The sound was deafening, the crack of wood against its frame echoing through the hallway. It felt final, like a gavel coming down to deliver a sentence. And for a moment, all you could hear was the rapid pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears.

On the other side of the door, you heard nothing.

No knock. No footsteps. Not a single sound.

For a long moment, you stood there, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. Your hand was still on the doorknob, fingers trembling as though the residual shock of what you’d done was finally catching up to you.

Spencer Reid.

The man who had left you, abandoned you in the cruelest way possible, standing you up at the altar without so much as a word. The man who had disappeared from your life, leaving you to pick up the pieces of a heart he had shattered. And now, now, after all these months, he had the audacity to show up at your door and say he needed to explain?

Explain what?

How he left you humiliated and broken? How he had walked away from the life you were supposed to build together, without giving you the decency of closure?

Your jaw clenched, your hands balling into fists at your sides as you turned away from the door. A bitter laugh escaped your lips—short, hollow, and humorless. You felt like screaming, like throwing something, like letting out all the pain you’d been holding in since that day.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you walked away, forcing yourself deeper into the apartment. You wanted to put as much distance between yourself and that door as possible. Your mind was racing, every thought colliding into the next, until all that was left was a whirlwind of anger and grief that threatened to consume you whole.

And yet…

You stopped in the center of your living room, your eyes drifting to the door as the silence stretched on. You wondered if he was still out there, standing on the other side, stunned into silence.

You hated that part of you cared enough to wonder.

What did he think was going to happen? That he would knock, say a few words, and everything would be okay? That you would just forgive him? He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve you.

But the thought of him still standing there, heartbroken, made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Slowly, you sank onto the couch, dropping your head into your hands as the weight of it all settled over you like a storm cloud. You took a shaky breath, then another, trying to ignore the tears that were threatening to spill.

On the other side of the door, Spencer remained frozen.

The door was still vibrating faintly from the force with which you’d slammed it, and he stood there, staring at it like it might suddenly open again if he just waited long enough. His breathing was shallow, his face pale as his mind tried to process what had just happened.

He had expected anger. He had expected hurt. But the door slamming—so final, so absolute—hit him harder than he thought possible.

His hand hovered in the air, just inches from the wood, as though he might knock again. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead, he exhaled shakily, leaning forward until his forehead rested lightly against the door. His eyes squeezed shut as a wave of nausea washed over him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, though he knew you couldn’t hear him.

After a few long moments, he forced himself to straighten. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, turned slowly, and walked away—each step heavier than the last.

And inside, you sat alone, the sound of that door slam replaying in your head over and over again, louder than any explanation he could have given.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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[sabrinasopposite]

santa doesn’t know u like i do ⋆⁺₊❅。

clark kent x fem! reader

i’ve been there through the good and bad

know how to make you laugh

kiss all your tears away, babe

only I can do that

summary °❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ : its christmas eve in smallville and y/n can’t wait till tomorrow to give her self-made gift to clark kent.

The snow fell gently, blanketing Smallville in a shimmering hush, as though the world had been tucked into a silver-white quilt. Even the stars seemed to lean closer, curious to watch the scene unfold below. Y/N tugged her scarf tighter, her breath unfurling in soft clouds as she stepped lightly through the snow. Each crunch of her boots on the frosted path felt impossibly loud in the stillness, but her heart raced faster with every step, urging her forward.

When she reached Clark’s barn, the wooden door creaked softly as she pushed it open. A faint golden glow spilled out, illuminating the snow beneath her feet. Inside, the air was warm, infused with the scent of hay, woodsmoke, and something uniquely Clark—a comforting mixture of earthiness and calm.

Her gaze lifted to the loft, where light danced across the beams. She climbed the ladder carefully, peeking over the edge. The sight that greeted her made her heart skip a beat.

Clark was sprawled on a makeshift couch by the loft window, wrapped in a knitted blanket. A steaming mug of cocoa rested in his hand, and an open book lay balanced on his lap. The soft light made his features look impossibly gentle, his messy hair haloed by the glow. He looked like a painting—perfect and timeless.

At the creak of the ladder, he glanced up, his blue eyes widening for a moment before softening into a smile that warmed her more than the stove below.

“Y/N?” he said, setting his book aside. “What are you doing out here?”

“I...” She hesitated, her cheeks blooming pink. “I wanted to see you.” Her voice was soft, almost shy. “Merry Christmas, Clark.”

“Merry Christmas,” he replied, his smile growing. “But it’s freezing outside. You could’ve waited until tomorrow.”

Y/N laughed, the sound filling the space like the chime of distant bells. She reached under her coat and pulled out a small package, its crimson wrapping crinkling in her hands. “I couldn’t wait. I wanted to give you this.”

Clark raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a teasing grin as he accepted the gift. “And here I thought Santa was the one sneaking into barns at night.”

“Santa doesn’t knit scarves,” she retorted, crossing her arms in mock indignation before breaking into a laugh.

He unwrapped the package carefully, his fingers brushing over the soft red scarf inside. His grin softened into something tender as he held it up, running his thumb along the stitches. “You made this?”

She nodded, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze. “I thought it might keep you warm up here. It’s not perfect, but—”

“It’s perfect,” he interrupted, already wrapping it around his neck. “I love it.”

Her heart swelled, and she looked down, pretending to straighten her coat to hide her smile. “I’m glad.”

Clark set his cocoa aside and walked to a small table tucked into the corner of the loft. From underneath it, he pulled out a box wrapped in silver ribbon. “Your turn,” he said, his tone a little more nervous now. “I, uh, didn’t know how to wrap this very well, but...” He trailed off, holding the box out to her.

Y/N took it, her fingers trembling slightly as she untied the ribbon. Inside, nestled against soft velvet, was a delicate necklace. The pendant was a heart, small and simple, but it seemed to shimmer with its own quiet light.

“Clark...” she whispered, her voice catching. “It’s beautiful.”

“It reminded me of you,” he said quickly, his cheeks tinged with a faint pink. “Something simple but... special. And full of love.” He scratched the back of his neck, his eyes flicking nervously to hers. “I just... wanted you to have it.”

Her eyes glistened as she looked up at him. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he interrupted gently, echoing her earlier words.

He stepped behind her, brushing her hair aside as he fastened the necklace around her neck. His fingers lingered on her skin for a moment longer than necessary, and when he stepped back, his eyes traced the way the pendant rested just above her heart.

“Something beautiful,” he said softly, “just like you.”

Y/N reached up to touch the pendant, feeling its weight, its meaning. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but they didn’t fall. Instead, she looked at him with all the love she felt, unable to find words big enough to hold it. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love it.”

Clark’s expression melted into something impossibly tender, his voice low as he replied, “I love you.” He reached for her hands, threading his fingers through hers.

For a moment, they stood there, the world outside the barn fading into nothingness. The snow whispered against the roof, the stars glittering beyond the window, but all Y/N could feel was the warmth of Clark’s presence, the steady beat of love between them.

Then, with a sudden grin, Clark reached to the side and held up a sprig of mistletoe. “I figured I’d keep this handy,” he said, his voice playful but his gaze filled with affection.

Y/N laughed, her breath misting between them. “You really planned this, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” he teased, leaning closer. “But I’d call it good planning.”

Their lips met, soft and unhurried, a kiss that felt like the first brush of sunlight after a long winter. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a promise, warm and steady, that even the coldest nights couldn’t touch.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/N rested her forehead against his, her voice a whisper. “Merry Christmas, Love.”

“Merry Christmas, Sweetheart,” he replied, his voice as steady and full of warmth as the glow in his eyes. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

And as they settled back onto the couch, wrapped in each other’s arms, the barn seemed to hold its breath around them, cradling their love like a secret too precious to let go.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆𐙚 merry (early) christmas to everyone! its my gift to u and i hope u like a clark kent!

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ taglist: @blackynsupremacy @alelo23

[bbkoolkatz]

pairing: barbarian prince! katsuki bakugo x fem! reader.

content warnings: FEMALE READER! physical fighting [training] smooching, shared bath, husband undressing wife [without permission] husband cleaning wife [literally, because you we're dirty] other than that there's nothing major... yet... sigh...

completely forgot I was supposed to upload this Saturday... so here ya go! can't wait for the next chapter *evil giggle* hope ya enjoy!

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 2; 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖒𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖓 4.3𝔨+ 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰

chapter 1

"he says, you are too stiff, frú mín!" ragna called, perched on a nearby boulder, "it makes you slow!" translating katsuki's barked criticisms.

he lunged forward, swinging the wooden blade at your feet, throwing you off your footing.

katsuki stood before you, as you stumbled, sweat glistening on his toned body with the harsh sunlight, beaming down on him, "hold your ground," he growled, lifting his sword to charge at you again. you took a breath, chest heaving as you gripped the handle of the wooden practice sword, raising your weapon to meet his.

the clashing of pine echoed through the clearing, the vibration rattling through your arms, into your chest and your knees buckled slightly under the force. but you grit your teeth, stubbornly refusing to fall.

you quickly adjust your stance, the muscles in your legs trembling as you tried to balance. katsuki's hot gaze narrowed, a smirk of sorts splayed on his face.

"again!" he barked, stepping forward a bit to launch an attack. the wooden sword came at you in an arch, the force of his strike sending a jolt up your arms, and your grip slipped, leaving you with barely any time to parry.

"too slow!" he spat, his voice hitting you like a whip as he struck again, aiming for your side.

your flesh rippled as the flat end of the training sword connected with your ribs, knocking the air out of your lungs. you stumble back, clutching your side as you gasped for breath.

"your enemies won't show you mercy," he circled you, pacing, like a predator stalking it's prey. forcing air back into your aching lungs, you straightened yourself, salty sweat dripping down your brow to sting your eyes.

ragna tilted her head, observing, lips twitching to form a smile on her beautifully sculpted face as she translates your husband's words for you.

"again," you rasped, voice hoarse but determined to make him falter just once.

katsuki raised a brow, eyes narrowing at your resolve as he charged forward without another word, sword swooshing through the air.

stepping aside, you doged his strike as you brought your weapon up, aiming for his shoulder. katsuki—obviously—blocked effortlessly, the impact reverberating through your bones, but you pushed forward, pressing your advantage as your heart pounded in your chest.

your strikes came faster, more fluid, as though the rhythm of the fight was finally clicking into place. your arms burned with every effort to move them, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps, as you kept fighting.

your husband's eyes gleamed with a vicious light, his lips curling into a wild, feral grin as he matched your pace, his movements precise and unrelenting as ever, pushing you to your limits.

every fiber of muscle in your body screamed in protest and katsuki's blade collided with yours once more, the clash nearly sending you to your knees. you grunted, planting your feet firmly in the dirt as you pushed back with all your strength.

katsuki's grin widened as he kicked you off balance, sprawling you out on the dirt field in under two seconds... you lay there for a moment, squinting up at the endless expanse of sky until the familiar, wild tuffs of blonde hair loomed over you, casting a shadow over your exhausted frame.

"get up," he ordered, offering no hand to help... you huffed a puff of breath, rolling onto your side to push yourself to your knees, the hard cracked earth grounding you as your muscles throbbed under your skin.

gods you wanted a bath right now... a nice, cold, spring water bath... wack! and you were on the ground again. "your mind isn't focused!" ragna cackled your husbands words, holding her stomach and covering her mouth in a feeble attempt to hide her amusement.

"you're getting better, my lady," she smiled, leaning over your—once again—sprawled out body on the ground. you brought a hand up to wipe the sweat off your forehead, "i'll die before the rebels get me," you laughed, a hoarse, gravelly sound scraping it's way out of your throat.

☆.｡.:*❀.｡.:*☆ 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔡𝔞𝔶

smoke curled lazily from the chimneys of the villagers homes. the smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the earthy aroma of tilled soil as the pang of the blacksmith's hammer rang in the distance, a rhythmic pulse that echoed like a heartbeat of the clan.

"are you sure about this, my lady?" ragna queried, a little skeptical as she stepped in stride beside you. you nod, assuring her of your decision, "if i'm to be part of this clan, ragna, i can't just sit at stronghold and watch," gaze sweeping over the bustling activity as you adjust your shawl around your shoulders.

ragna's plush lips cracked little smile at your determination. your first stop was the weaving circle, where several women sat on low stools, their fingers deftly threading wool into intricate patterns. their chatter hushed as you approached them.

the women exchanged awkward glances, muttering amongst themselves, before a middle aged woman with streaks of gray in her braid, gestured to an empty stool next to her, for you to sit.

the work was meticulous, the rhythm of the loom soothing your nerves as your fingers fumbled over the threads, earning quiet murmurs of disapproval from the others... the elder woman stood behind you, gently guiding your hands to correct any mistake, until she finally nodded her approval.

after weaving a few pieces of cloth, you moved to the fields, where men and women worked side by side, their hands covered in soil as they prepared the land for planting.

you knelt beside an old, wrinkled man, his gnarled hands moving with ease as he dug rows into the soil. he glanced down at you, brows furrowing as you picked up a tool and began to mimic his movements. he said nothing, slowing his movements for you to get a better look and follow.

"keep your back straight, my lady," ragna instructed, crouching beside you as she translated the old man's quiet words of advice.

sweat beaded on your brow as soil clung to your skin with each swing and dig, that sent a dull ache through your arms and back. the work was grueling, but with every row completed, you were closer to finishing and getting in your bath...

when night came, you found yourself in the kitchens, where women bustled about, preparing meals for the workers. the aroma of herbs and roasted meat overwhelmed your nostrils, as the heat of the ovens welcome you inside.

"hæ! þú ert hér! loksins hér!" a young girl beamed, running over as she saw you enter. "she says, hello, you finally made it," ragna chuckled, patting the girl on her back. "ég er celeste," the young girl introduced herself, gently taking your hand in hers to guide you over to the bubbling cauldrons. "it seems she's excited to see you, my lady."

"it seems so," you giggle softly, at the girls eagerness.

-

"don't stir too much, or you'll ruin it," one of the cooks muttered, correcting your technique as she leaned over your shoulder.

ragna smirked, her translation tinged with amusement as she leaned closer. "you've been given a passable teacher, my lady," nudging your shoulder with her elbow as you playfully rolled your eyes.

the women around you began to soften their guarded expressions as they watched you work. they shared stories of past harvests, of children born and loved ones lost, their words painting a picture of a people as complex and enduring as the mountains that sheltered them.

by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and violets, you were exhausted. the day's labour lingered in your body, but the tension that had once filled the air around you, felt lighter.

upon your return to the stronghold, you saw katsuki waiting at the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest as he glanced at the little dirt, smudged on your face and clothes, and the weariness in your steps. an almost imperceptible smirk crawled over his thin lips as you walked up to him leaning against the stronghold's walls.

ragna stepped forward, translating his words, "you look like someone buried you alive," he snickered, his tone gruff, minus the usual edge to them. you shy away, looking at the ground.

he lifted your head by your chin to look at him, eyes drifting down to your chapped lips then back up to your tired eyes.

he kneeled down in front of you and you turn to ragna, "what is he- woah!" his fingers sink into the back of your thighs as your hip bones pressed into his beefy shoulder, with your ass on display—next to his face—you prop yourself up, your hands pushing against his flexing back muscles, as he walked with you through the giant wooden doors and up the stairs to your chambers.

his eyes flickered with something as he threw you over his shoulder—pride, perhaps, or respect?—adjusting your weight with a low grunt.

katsuki shoved the heavy doors of your chambers open with his free arm, carrying you inside without so much as a struggle. he set you down on your feet with surprising gentleness, with warm palms resting comfortably on your hips, his narrow crimson eyes scanned over your dirt-smeared frame.

"þú ert skítug..." he muttered under his breath, his voice deep and laced with something you couldn't quite place. his expression was... unreadable as he motioned for you to stay put.

"what?" you whisper, softly shaking your head in confusion. he didn't respond, simply moving toward a small chest tucked away in the corner of your room. he rifled through it briefly before pulling out a clean linen cloth.

you watched him with a mix of curiosity and wariness as he stepped toward you again. he gestured at your dirtied clothing, the meaning clear even if his language wasn't.

"oh, i can do it myself," you insist, raising your hands defensively, though exhaustion made your movements sluggish. katsuki narrowed his eyes even more, with pinched brows. his patience visibly thinning...

"sitja kyrr," he commanded, firm as he gestured for you to stop resisting.

you huffed, crossing your arms in protest, legs trembling slightly under your weight, which didn't go unnoticed, his sharp gaze flicking to your unsteady stance before letting out a low grunt. without waiting for your permission, he stepped closer and began unfastening the ties of your shawl and outer layer.

"hey! i'm perfectly capable o—" you started to argue, but he silenced you with a sharp glance and growled, "kyrr."

his fingers worked quickly but carefully, his rough hands brushing against your skin as he peeled away the layers of dirt-streaked fabric. you felt your cheeks heat as he removed the last of your garments, leaving you exposed to his unwavering gaze. he didn't leer or linger, though; his movements were efficient, his focus entirely on the task at hand.

once you were bare, he reached for the cloth and dipped it into the warm water waiting in the tub. he wrung it out, motioning for you to step closer. he brought the damp cloth up to your face, carefully rubbing the dirt stains off, he moved down your arms, to your chest—where your heart pounded against your ribs—rubbing down your torso, to your soft legs all the way down to your aching calves. it felt like he was scared he'd hurt you with the softness he used to clean you off.

"farðu," he said, gesturing to the stone tub, impatiently.

you hesitated for a moment, the language barrier making his commands more intimidating than they probably were. but the promise of warm water was too tempting to resist, and you eased yourself into the tub with a sigh of relief.

the heat soothed your aching muscles immediately, and you leaned back against the smooth stone, letting your eyes flutter shut. that peace was short-lived, however, as katsuki shed his clothing and stepped into the tub with you.

"wait—what are you doing?" you stammered, your face flushing as you quickly averted your gaze.

he ignored your meaningless words, his expression neutral as he settled in behind you. his hands found your shoulders, rough palms gliding over your smooth skin.

"katsuki, i—" you started to protest, but his fingers pressed into a knot of tension in your shoulder, and you couldn't stop the sigh that escaped your lips. his hands were firm but careful, his touch surprisingly soothing as he continued his task.

"þar," he murmured, his voice low and steady as if explaining something to you. you didn't understand the words, but the tone carried a strange reassurance, as though he was telling you to let him handle this.

you relaxed slightly under his touch, the tension in your body melting away with each pass of his hands. he moved methodically, scrubbing away whatever dirt that'd been clinging to your skin and hair. when his hands found their way to your back, you leaned forward, giving him better access.

it wasn't until his fingers brushed over the curve of your waist that the atmosphere in the bath... changed... his touch lingered just a moment too long, his fingers pressing lightly against your skin as though testing your reaction.

you turned your head to glance at him over your shoulder, your breath catching when you caught the intensity in his gaze, his vermilion eyes burning with a heat that matched the warmth of the water surrounding you both.

"is something wrong?" you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

he didn't reply—not with words, at least. instead, he leaned closer, his hand moving to cup your jaw as his lips brushed against yours in a tentative but firm kiss.

your initial surprise melted away as the kiss deepened, the heat between you both growing as his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. the water lapped gently against the edges of the tub, the only sound in the quiet chamber besides your mingled breaths.

when you finally pulled away, your heart was racing, as your face flushed from more than just the warmth of the bath. katsuki's lips parted as if to speak, but the words never came. instead, he rested his forehead against yours, his breaths coming slow and steady as if grounding himself.

"ég hef eitthvað handa þér." he rasped as you leaned into him again. what on earth did he just say? you have absolutely no idea... but you'll ask ragna after your bath.

☆.｡.:*❀.｡.:*☆

katsuki had dragged you out of bed at the crack of dawn and brought you out into the forest, in the outskirts of the stronghold, which was eerily quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the occasional snaps of twigs underfoot. katsuki walked ahead, his broad frame cutting through the bramble with ease. you followed cautiously, your breath visible in the crisp morning air. he hadn't spoken much—if at all—since dragging you out of bed and motioning for you to come with.

now, the towering trees gave way to the dark mouth of a cave. its yawning entrance loomed before you, cold air seeping out like a ghostly warning. you hesitated, turning to katsuki by your side.

"komdu," he barked over his shoulder, the command abrupt but not by any means harsh.

still, unease prickled at your skin. you stepped into the cave, following him into the deepening darkness. the light from the entrance grew faint as you moved further in, swallowed by shadows that seemed to press against you.

"katsuki?" you whisper, but he offered no reply, only a grunt as he suddenly stopped, causing you to bump into his back with a mphf.

before you could question him, the ground vibrated beneath your feet, a low rumble echoing through the cavern, resonating in your chest. then, two massive orbs of glowing crimson pierced the darkness ahead, locking onto you with a huff.

your breath caught in your throat, as the rumbling grew louder, accompanied by the sound of scales shifting against each other. a massive head emerged from the shadows, scales shimmering faintly in the dim light. the dragon's maw opened, revealing rows of sharp teeth as it let out a deep, guttural growl.

"þetta er hann," katsuki said, gesturing to the creature with an almost casual wave.

you gaped at him, words escaping your brain. a dragon? you weren't sure what you had expected, but it certainly wasn't a fucking dragon.

"what is that?" your voice came out as a weak murmur, tinged with both awe and terror. you had to make sure you weren't seeing or hearing things...

"drengr minn," katsuki replied, based on the look on your face, stepping closer to the dragon and placing a hand against its massive snout, the beast huffed, as if in acknowledgment.

your legs threatened to give out as katsuki turned to you, motioning for you to come closer. you shook your head, frozen in place.

"komdu hingað," he called, his voice firm.

reluctantly, you stepped forward, your pulse thundering in your ears. the dragon's gaze followed you, unblinking and intense. when you were close enough, katsuki grabbed your hand and placed it against the warm, rough scales of the dragon's snout.

the beast rumbled again. it was almost... a purr.

"ekki hrædd," katsuki muttered, his voice softer now, though it still carried their usual edge.

katsuki pulled himself up onto the dragon's back, his movements sure and practiced. he extended a hand to you, waiting. you hesitated, but the weight of his expectation—and the dragon's unyielding stare—left you with little choice. with a deep breath, you grasped his hand and allowed him to pull you up and plop you down in front of him.

the dragon shifted beneath you, its massive body uncoiling as it prepared to take off. your hands instinctively grip katsuki's forearms, your heart hammering in your chest.

without warning, the dragon launched itself out of the cave and into the sky with an ear piercing roar, as you screamed your lungs out.

the ground fell away beneath you, the wind tearing at your hair and clothes as the beast's wings beat powerfully. for a moment, fear threatened to consume you. but then the view unfolded around you—the sprawling forest below, the endless expanse of sky above, and the distant peaks of mountains on the horizon.

your grip on katsuki tightened as the dragon banked to the left, the motion sending a thrilling jolt through your body. he turned your head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he barked something over the wind. though you didn't understand him, his tone was definitely teasing, almost amused by the expression on your face.

slowly, the fear ebbed, replaced by a tentative awe. the dragon's movements were surprisingly smooth, its powerful wings carrying you effortlessly through the sky.

"oh my gods," you murmured, your voice barely audible over the wind.

he glanced down, raising an eyebrow in question.

"this is..." you trailed off, searching for the words. "unbelievable," you grin, your mouth drying out with the wind.

he didn't reply, but his smirk widened, his chest puffing slightly with pride as though he understood you.

as the dragon soared higher, you found yourself loosening your grip just enough to look around, as katsuki snakes a strong arm around your waist to keep you from falling over. the world seemed smaller from this height, a patchwork of green and brown stitched together by rivers of silver. for a brief moment, you forgot your fear, your uncertainty, and the weight of everything that had brought you here.

when the dragon began its descent, the rush of air grew fiercer, and your grip on katsuki returned. he muttered something under his breath, seemily reassuring you of something.

by the time you landed, your legs felt like jelly, and your heart hadn't yet stopped racing. katsuki dismounted first, extending a hand to help you down.

you took it, your knees wobbling as your feet touched the ground. "þú stóðst þig vel," katsuki rasped, low and seemingly approving.

-

your body vibrated with excitement as you stood outside the stronghold, feeling the cool breeze brushing against your skin. today, is the beginning of your journey back to your kingdom.

katsuki, stoic as ever, walked with his dragon, its massive form thumping its way around. the beast moved like molten lava, each muscle rippling under crimson scales as it emerged fully into the sunlight, its fiery red eyes scanned the clearing as it's massive body cast a long shadow on the ground.

katsuki turned to you, his intense gaze holding a question.

"farðu upp," he urged, gesturing to the dragon's massive back.

you hesitated, your stomach knotting at the memory of the flight earlier. while breathtaking, it had also been utterly terrifying.

"i'm not sure i can do that again," you confessed, nervously laughing as you shook your head in refusal, "i'll stick with the tetsugami."

he frowned, his brows knitting together in mild frustration. "ekki vera veik," he snapped, though the edge in his tone softened slightly as he stepped closer. "þú lifðir það áður."

"you do know that i have not the faintest idea of what you're saying..." you counter, looking him up and down, crossing your arms.

he stared at you for a brief second, his lips fixing into a scowl. after a moment, he let out an irritated breath and muttered something to himself.

he motioned for the dragon to stay put, his sharp whistle echoing through the clearing. the beast settled onto its haunches, its wings furling tightly against its sides as it let out a snort. katsuki didn't argue further, instead taking a few purposeful steps towards you.

"ég mun horfa ofan frá." he grumbled, the words curt but resigned.

you furrowed your brow, piecing together his meaning. he wasn't thrilled, but he accepted your refusal.

hours later, preparations for the journey were complete. you stood at the edge of the stronghold, the weight of the coming trip settling over you.

in the thick of the tall trees, a sound of heavy, slow and deliberate footsteps, accompanied by a metallic scrape that sent delightful shivers up your spine, echoed.

you avert your gaze from your husband, and toward the noise coming from behind them. your eyes widened as the tetsugami emerged into view. it's rust-red carapace glinting in the sunlight like aged armor. it's body was crab-like in shape with a wide, flat shell that curved protectively over it's back.

it's seven remaining legs, each the width of a tree trunk, moved with surprising grace despite the size and weight of the creature. the absence of its front right leg didn't seem to hinder it's movements; it's gait was steady, with powerful legs sinking into the soil with each step, leaving deep impressions behind. its pinchers clacked excitedly as it shifted its weight, the sound reverberating like distant thunder as its antennae twitched, scanninng the air for potential threats, while it's small, bead-like eyes glimmered with an eerie intelligence.

strapped to it's surface were supplies for the journey—barrels of provisions, rolled up tents, and neatly stacked crates secured with thick leather straps.

"þetta er tetsugami," mitsuki stood proud, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. you turned toward her, recognizing the words enough to know she was introducing the creature. her expression softened as she gestured to the beast, inviting you to approach.

you hesitated, glancing back at katsuki, who was already climbing onto his dragon's back. his crimson eyes met yours briefly before he turned his focus to his mount, silently leaving you to make your own choice.

you stepped closer to the tetsugami, its sheer size making you feel small in comparison—as if the huge people you now live with weren't enough... its mandibles clicked rhythmically, a surprisingly soothing sound as you placed a tentative hand on the edge of its shell. the surface was rough and cool, like weathered stone, but it radiated a subtle warmth from the sunlight it absorbed.

"he's beautiful," you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else.

the tetsugami let out a low, resonant hum—a sound that rumbled deep in its body, vibrating through your fingertips, like a contented purr, and it made you smile.

ragna approached from the side, her brows arching in surprise as she took in the sight of the beast. "quite the creature, isn't it?" she said, though her tone carried an air of caution.

you turned to her with a grin, "ride with me," you offered, gesturing to the sturdy harness slung across the tetsugami's shell.

ragna hesitated, her gaze flicking between you and the creature. "the tetsugami is only brought out for important people, my lady-"

"you are important," you insisted, taking her hands in yours, your voice soft and earnest, "it's a long journey, and i'd feel better having you by my side."

ragna's lips pressed into a thin line, her expression conflicted for a moment before she nodded, "v-very well," she gave in, sighing as you clapped to yourself.

with mitsuki's help, you climbed onto the tetsugami's back, settling into the cushioned saddle fastened securely near the center. the saddle was surprisingly comfortable, with a wide padded seat, designed for stability. ragna joined you, careful as she adjusted her position beside you.

the tetsugami let out another hum, chittering as it adjusted to the added weight. its antennae twitched again, and it began to move, its legs carrying it forward with a deliberate, swaying rhythm.

as the caravan set off, the sounds of boots crunching against dirt and the occasional clang of weapons accompanied the steady thuds of the giant crab's steps, broke the silence. the missing leg added an uneven cadence to its movements, a faint scrape with every third step that served as a reminder of its battle-scarred history.

katsuki's dragon took to the skies with a powerful leap, its wings slicing through the air as it ascended, leaving the rest of you to follow below.

the journey had begun.

»»————> 𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖘𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘! <————««

"frú mín" - my lady

"hæ! þú ert hér! loksins hér!" - Hello! You're here! Finally here!

"ég er celeste" - I am Celeste

"þú ert skítug" - You're dirty

"sitja kyrr" - Stay still

"kyrr" - Still

"farðu" - Go

"þar" - There

"ég hef eitthvað handa þér" - I have something for you

"komdu" - come

"þetta er hann" - this is him

"drengr minn" - my boy

"komdu hingað" - come here

"ekki hrædd" - don't be afraid

"þú stóðst þig vel" - you did well

"farðu upp" - get up

"ekki vera veik" - don’t be weak

"þú lifðir það áður" - you survived it before

"ég mun horfa ofan frá" - I will watch from above

"þetta er tetsugami" - this is tetsugami

if you've already asked to be in the tag list and you're not there then please check your settings and fix it accordingly or ensure that you have at least one post on your blog and ask again.

»»————> 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙!

@twoplayergaymers @ch3rryjampi3 @lxdystxrdustt @selfishgucci @sleepyfxce @depressed-waffle-time @abinformyobsessions @kodzubaby @cottagedumpling @msjaeger @condy-wants-a-cookie @who-xo @naiomiwinchester @your-mum3000 @weebperson2003 @koigeidi @lanadelgarf @misaki-kira8 @lightsinmycity @kit-katsukii @the2ndl @kalulakunundrum

mlist!

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Imagine Sanji making a soup when you're not feeling well...

A recent scuffle with Buggy’s Pirates resulted in you being head-butted by the clown captain when you tried to help Luffy. The half-baked plan worked but the force had you seeing stars for a few days which is why you opted to stay back from this trip to the local village.

As you hurried to the deck to bid the crew goodbye, you bumped into the blonde-cook who chuckled and held you steady by the arms.

“Remember to keep off of your feet while we’re out, okay?” He reminded. “We can’t have you taking any more hits for us.”

He flashed you a wink and followed Usopp and Nami down the boardwalk just as Zoro approached and sighed. “If he comes back with another pan, I’m throwing his knives overboard.”

And then you were left with Luffy who was beaming with a bright smile and harping on about something positive. Suddenly, you found yourself staring at the captain's wide brown eyes under the straw hat. His mouth moved but you couldn't understand a word. A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over and drowned you in darkness.

When you came back around, it was in your cabin. The ship was absent of noise except for a pleasant scent in the air. You couldn’t remember much except the a hazy memory of Zoro’s green hair descending the wooden platform.

With some effort you stretched your muscles and slowly sat up before swinging your legs over the edge. Pushing off the bed, your feet hit the cold hardwood floors. Adjusting your balance to remain steady and then began making your way towards the source of the delicious fragrance.

You walked into the kitchen of the Going Merry and saw Sanji by the counter staring into a mixing bowl and whisking furiously.

“What's cooking chef?” You jest lightly, stepping into the room.

Sanji’s mouth-dropped when his eyes landed on you. He placed the bowl on the counter almost immediately and rushed over to where you stood.

“You’re awake.” He took your hands and quickly guided you to a seat. “You shouldn’t be on your feet, here sit.”

Thanking him, you looked around the space. “Where is everyone? What happened?”

Sanji gazed at you lovingly for a few seconds before composing himself with a deep breath. “Well, first of all, you passed out. We brought you back inside and I volunteered to keep an eye on you.”

You noticed several prepared dishes lined up on the counter with another bubbling away. “And what’s all this about?”

Sanji dipped his head bashfully and smiled. “Turns out I’m not overly patient. So the only thing I could do to channel my worry was cook.” He confessed and tilted his head to the simmering pot.

Leaning forward, you craned your neck to take a peek inside and got another whiff of its aroma. “Smells amazing.”

Beaming with pride, Sanji walked around the bench and dipped a ladle into the soup, mixing it once more. He picked up a bowl and poured in a decent amount before returning to you.

With a smaller spoon, he scooped the broth and blew on it gently before offering it to you. Shuffling closer, you opened your mouth and let him feed the savoury dish.

It was an explosion of flavour better than any soup you had tasted before. How had Zeff been ignoring this for years?

“Final thoughts?” Sanji wondered curiously as you swallowed.

You shook your head and then laughed a little. “How often do I need to be knocked in the head by a clown for you to make this?”

This earned you a bright laugh from the cook. “Never again. I’ll make this whenever you feel like it. You only have to ask.”

~ More imagines here ~

A/n: Do I have more of these? Yes, I do.

[goldsainz]

# FC43 — NAVIDAD, DULCE NAVIDAD !

MASTERLIST !

SERIES MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✯ you spend christmas with franco and his family on their farm.

002. WARNINGS !

✯ lots of argentinian food references.

003. NOTE !

✯ this has been the funnest of all the parts to write, simply because it’s the closest to my christmas experience. i kinda went overboard with all the food references, but it’s my culture and i’m proud of it yk?

word count : 1,8k

As the sun sets over the wide, open fields of the farm, the air fills with the rich aroma of the asado cooking on the grill. Smoke rises in gentle swirls, carrying the scent of sizzling chorizos and perfectly seasoned steaks. Franco moves with ease among his family, greeting relatives with cheek kisses and exchanging cheerful banter. He laughs easily, his relaxed demeanor infectious, and yet, you can’t help but notice the way his eyes find yours amidst the bustling activity. The warmth of the glowing fairy lights draped across the wooden beams of the patio matches the joy in his dark eyes whenever he looks your way.

The night hums with the sound of acoustic guitar, Franco’s cousin leads the music with lively claps, encouraging others to join in. Laughter bubbles around the long wooden table, where plates of empanadas, chimichurri-drenched meats, and bowls of creamy ensalada rusa are passed from hand to hand. Glasses of malbec and sparkling cider clink together in cheerful toasts. Franco’s family welcomes you with open arms, their warmth and humor making you feel as though you’ve been part of these celebrations forever.

“Come on, sing with me!” Franco's cousin calls out, grinning at you. “Don’t be shy—Franco’s been bragging about how good your voice is.”

You laugh nervously, glancing at Franco, who shrugs with a sheepish smile. “I might have mentioned it,” he says, his tone teasing.

Before you can respond, Franco’s mum appears, balancing a tray of freshly baked pan dulce. Her warm eyes crinkle with a smile as she sets it down on the table. “So, this is the one who’s stolen Franco’s attention,” she says, her tone playful but kind. She places a hand on your arm, her touch light and reassuring. “He talks about you all the time, you know.”

“Mamá,” Franco groans, his ears turning red as his mum chuckles.

“Don’t ‘Mamá’ me,” she says, raising an eyebrow at her son before turning back to you. “I’m glad he brought you here. It’s not easy to keep up with him, but it’s clear you’ve done a good job.”

You smile, feeling the warmth in her words. “Thank you for having me. Everyone’s been so welcoming—it’s easy to see why Franco loves it here.”

She nods, her expression softening. “Family is everything to us. And anyone Franco cares about becomes part of our family too.”

The guitar music shifts to a softer tune, and Franco’s cousin calls out again. “Alright, enough talking! Join in already!” He strums a familiar melody, and the group begins singing along, their voices weaving together like an impromptu choir.

Franco leans closer to you, his voice low. “If you sing, I’ll sing too,” he offers with a grin. “But I can’t promise I’ll be in tune.”

You laugh, nudging him lightly. “Deal. But don’t blame me if everyone starts covering their ears.”

As the evening wears on, Franco’s cousin pulls you both into the group, his energy contagious. You find yourself singing, clapping, and laughing alongside the family, the warmth of their joy wrapping around you like a cozy blanket. Even Franco, who earlier seemed content to stay in the background, joins in with an endearingly off-key enthusiasm that leaves everyone in fits of laughter. His mum watches from the side, her eyes glowing with pride as she sees her son so happy.

Later, as you sit down with a plate of dessert, Franco’s cousin plops down next to you, holding a bottle of beer. “So,” he says with a sly smile, “how’s it feel being the star of Franco’s stories? He usually doesn’t bring anyone here unless they’re pretty special.”

You glance at Franco, who’s caught mid-laugh across the table. “I think I’m still getting used to all of this,” you admit. “But it’s been amazing.”

“Good answer,” the cousin says with a wink. “We’re glad you’re here. And trust me, if you ever need embarrassing Franco stories, I’ve got plenty.”

Franco catches the last part of the conversation and groans. “Don’t you dare,” he warns, but his grin betrays the lightheartedness in his tone.

The cousin leans closer, whispering just loud enough for you to hear. “I’ll let you in on a secret—he may act cool, but he’s got a soft spot a mile wide. You’ll see.”

The evening unfolds with warmth and laughter, each moment weaving you further into Franco’s world. Amid the lively chatter and clinking glasses, you often catch Franco’s gaze, his dark eyes softening with unspoken emotion every time they meet yours.

As the guitar music shifts to a softer tune, Franco leans over, his voice low enough to be heard only by you. “Come on,” he whispers, his lips curving into a playful smile as he tilts his head toward the fields. “I want to show you something.”

He guides you past the barn, where the soft nickers of horses and the rustle of hay mingle with the symphony of crickets. The path winds through the tall grasses, their silvery edges catching the light of the moon. The warmth of his hand in yours contrasts with the cool night breeze as you approach the old oak tree at the edge of the property. Strings of twinkling Christmas lights wrapped around its trunk cast a gentle glow, their reflections dancing in the small pond nearby.

Franco stops beneath the tree, his gaze lifting to the vast expanse of stars above. “I’ve always loved how clear the sky is here,” he murmurs, his voice soft and contemplative. “It’s grounding, you know? Being here, under all this, surrounded by family.” He pauses, his smile growing warmer as he turns to you. “Christmas has always been my favorite time of year because it’s about family and love. This year, though... it’s different. Better.”

You glance up at the stars, their brilliance mirrored in his dark eyes. “It’s beautiful,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can see why you love it here. It feels... peaceful.”

He nods, his expression thoughtful. “It is. It’s the kind of place where you can just breathe, let everything else fade away. Sometimes, I forget how much I miss it until I come back.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Do you think you’ll always feel this way about it? That no matter where you go, you’ll come back here?”

His lips curve into a small smile. “I think so. There’s something about home—it stays with you. And now…” He hesitates, as though searching for the right words. “Now it’ll remind me of you too.”

Your breath catches at his confession, but before you can respond, Franco reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small box wrapped in rustic paper, tied with a sprig of holly. “For you,” he says, his voice almost shy, the faint blush on his cheeks illuminated by the golden light. Inside is a delicate bracelet, its charm shaped like a tiny star, glinting as if it holds a piece of the sky above.

“Franco, it’s beautiful,” you say, your fingers brushing over the charm. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he interjects gently. “It reminded me of you—how you light up a room, how you make everything feel brighter.” He pauses, his gaze steady. “I just wanted you to have something to remember this night. Us.”

Before you can thank him, Franco steps closer, his hands gently cupping your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, and his eyes search yours with a mix of affection and nervous vulnerability. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice tender, “for making this Christmas unforgettable.” Slowly, he leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that feels both sweet and grounding, as though the entire world has narrowed to just this moment, just the two of you beneath the vast Argentine sky.

When you finally pull back, the soft hum of his family's music drifts faintly on the breeze, mingling with the distant crackle of the asado. Franco intertwines his fingers with yours, his smile unguarded. “Ready to go back?” he asks, his voice teasing.

You shake your head, laughing softly. “Not yet. I want to stay here a little longer.”

“Good,” he replies, his grin widening as he pulls you closer. “Because I wasn’t ready to leave either.” He glances at the bracelet on your wrist, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “You know, you make me want to believe in those cheesy Christmas movie moments.”

You chuckle, nudging him lightly. “Cheesy? This moment is straight out of one.”

He laughs, a rich, warm sound that seems to fill the night. “Maybe. But I don’t mind. As long as it’s with you.”

After a while, Franco leans back against the tree, his arm gently pulling you closer. “You know,” he starts, his voice thoughtful, “when I was a kid, I used to come out here whenever I needed to think. It felt like the whole world was far away, like nothing else mattered except this place and the stars.”

You tilt your head, resting it lightly on his shoulder. “Do you still feel that way now?”

He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the sky. “Not in the same way,” he admits softly. “But tonight... being here with you... it feels like I’ve found something even better. Someone to share it with.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your heart ache in the best way, and you turn to meet his eyes. Before you can say anything, the distant sound of Franco’s mum calling out breaks the moment. “Franco! Don’t think I don’t know where you’re hiding. Bring her back before we finish the dessert without you!”

Franco laughs, the sound warm and carefree, and reluctantly straightens up. “Looks like we’ve been caught,” he says, his tone playful.

You laugh along, reaching for his hand. “We can’t let them eat all the flan without us.”

As you make your way back toward the farmhouse, Franco squeezes your hand gently. “Promise me one thing,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

“What’s that?” you ask, looking up at him.

“That this won’t be the last Christmas we spend together.”

Your heart swells at the earnestness in his words, and you nod, a smile curving your lips. “I promise.”

When you return to the patio, Franco’s mum greets you both with a knowing look, her hands on her hips. “About time,” she teases, handing you each a plate of flan with dulce de leche. “We saved you some, but only because she’s a guest,” she adds, gesturing to you with a wink.

Franco’s cousin smirks from his seat by the guitar. “And here we thought you two were rehearsing for your own Christmas movie.”

Franco rolls his eyes, but his grin remains unshaken as he pulls out a chair for you. The warmth and liveliness of his family’s celebration embrace you once more, but this time, everything feels even more magical—because now, you’re not just a guest. You’re part of it all.

[fanaticsnail]

Kind And Gentle

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 3,100+

Synopsis: Your shoulders and back ached with a pain you had attempted to cast aside as you went about your duties. The ache turned excruciating, your focus now being taken hostage between the gripping pain. Fortunately, the grip of two firm hands found your body and eased you through the torment.

Themes: Benn Beckman x reader, Friends to lovers, confessions of love, suggestive dialogue, massaging - reader receiving, pain, aching, yearning, small kiss, Shanks is a meanie, swearing, teasing, Beckman is a softie, Beckman is a gentleman, term of endearment "Darlin'" used - it's just what I associate him saying.

Notes: Pure self-indulgence fic, procrastinating while I should be going through my WIPs. My shoulder hurts, guys. Needed this to get out of my system and get through the pain. Art link.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @writingmysanity @carrotsunshine @i-am-vita @gingernut1314 @mfreedomstuff @missbeckman @tiredemomama

Pain. White and hot, swelling and encumbering. This was what you were experiencing in the middle of your spine; just a little to the right side of your body.

The ache never eased, no matter what position you slept in, nor adjusting your posture throughout the day. It was unending, the torment which knit your muscles together and cemented them in place. 

You clenched your eyes tightly shut, bracing yourself against the wooden hallway wall as you rotate your neck in a circle atop your shoulders slowly. Arching your back, you winced as the knot continued to integrate itself in a woven entanglement of painful muscle beneath your skin. 

Biting back a whimper, you tried as you might to reach the cursed divot beneath your flesh, whining quietly as your fingertips barely brushed against the surface of the painful coil. The ache called to you, the burden causing a small tremor in your lips from the electric heat of the hidden wound. 

Shaking your head, you huffed out a breath as you attempted to soldier on about your daily chores. Ignoring the tight ache beneath your skin with a deep grimace written on your lips, you finally gave into your pain and balanced your hands against the wooden beam atop the deck of the Red-Force. 

The sea breeze hit your nose, relaxing you briefly before the pain eclipsed all your senses. Brain foggy with anguish, lips parted and panting, eyes frantic and wife: you could bear it no longer. You muted a cry, muffling it within your mouth while you tried to release the elastic coil in your back by twisting your torso. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you curse in a soft whisper, your brows rising in a pain-riddled peak in your forehead. You moaned out in a soft whimper, praying nobody could hear your weakness as you tried to reach for the spot a second time.

The band was bordering on excruciating, your mind contemplating whether or not to seek out Hongo for medical attention due to the intensity of the pain. Just as you began to turn on your way, two strong hands clapped over your shoulders: thumbs moving in rough circles against your skin. 

“I got you, Darlin’,” the gruff voice Shanks’ first mate whispered in a calming rumble, “Just tell me when I'm gettin’ close to it.” 

Benn Beckman. It was always Benn Beckman. Any time any of the crew needed anything, no task too small, no feat too great: Beckman was the champion you had all grown accustomed to rely on. Leaning back into his touch, you hung your neck low to grant him greater access

“Oh-... mmmf-... -‘kay,'' you whimpered, curving your back down to expose more of your spine to him, “It's not-... Hhah-... It's not normally this-...fucking, shit-... -this bad.” A small click of his tongue snapped at you in empathy as his thumbs brushed against the coil of pain. 

Although your friendship with Beckman ran deep, you had never engaged with him physically before. You respected one another, adored one another, and were as close as two crewmates could be. Two sides of a coin, twin edges of a blade, the gunpowder and the spark that lit the fuse - this was how you were described by your red-headed captain. 

But as his thumbs sought out your deepest pain, all your thoughts escaped you. There was nothing else, just: Beckman, his focus and his expert touch. 

“Just a touch to the right-... ahh, Becks!” you cried out as his digits flicked over the painful swell beneath your flesh. Huffing out pants of breath, you sobbed in strained relief as he continued massaging your body. 

“Oh, fuck. It's there, isn't it?” he whispered, the thumb of his right hand pressed firmly against the tight knot as his left hand braced you against the side-beam of the boat, “There it is, Darlin’. I found it. There's the spot.” You arched your back within his broad hands, your arms stiffening in firm pillars against the deck as he prodded the painful peak in your back. 

“Oh, that's it! Right there, that's the spot,” you mewled out, crying and gasping for him as he untangled your muscles with his rough, practiced hands. Just as he pressed his strength further against you, you winced out a strangled, “Fuck, not so rough! Be kind and gentle with me, Becks!” 

“Darlin’, this is me being kind and gentle,” he bullied his thumb into your skin, stapling you to the wall of the ship by his hips and holding you steady with his hand perched on your left shoulder, “You need a bit of rough treatment. Hold still, let me coax it out of you.”

“Becks,” you whispered out his name, lulling your head back on your shoulders as he continued to pry, paw and claw the knot apart with his right hand, “Becks it hurts.”

“I know, I know,” his gruff voice reassured you, the gentle hold of his left hand against your shoulder contradicted the right hand that bruised your muscles, “It'll all be over soon. I'm nearly there, I can feel your body moving it with me. Just hold on.”

His thumb pressed an intentional swipe up, directing the pain up your back and into the peaked corner of your shoulder. His brows knit low in deep concentration, prompting him to suck in an empathetic breath in anticipation. 

“Ohh… You're gonna hate me,” he whispered in your ear, kicking your feet apart with his heavy boots before anchoring his pelvis against your glutes to hold you firmer against the ship's wooden railing, “You need an elbow.”

“No, no, no! Not an elbow!” you cried, just as his right elbow drew itself against your spongy flesh, “Becks! It's-... nnmfph-... too much! Ahh! Too much!”

Attempting to break from his grip, you shook yourself away from his hands, only for your body to immediately betray you. Bent over the railing, your back immediately became unraveled by a firm grip and a strong elbow to the point that ailed you. 

“Oh hush, you need it,” he barked in a soft tone, eclipsing your concern with an intentional rotation of his elbow against your shoulder, “Be a good little thing and take it.” He was moving the vines of the entanglement away from the source point, breaking it down beneath his body and flushing it out with heavy swipes. 

Benn Beckman was experiencing the toughest battle he had ever had the displeasure in engaging with. He was trying to tune out how good you sounded calling out his name in pants and whines, his own empathetic huffs and groans mixing harmoniously with yours as he gripped your flesh.

“Benn Beck-...fuck-... It's right there. Right there, Becks! Don't stop!” you whimpered, your voice high and your desperation showcased in the soft pants of your breath. The release of your entangled flesh was just within Beckman's grasp, prompting him to switch back to using his fingers to expel the pressure beneath your skin. 

“I got you. There ya’ go,” he confirmed again, expanding the heel of his palm against the binding presence of the last of the entanglement, “Breathe through it with me, I'm not gonna stop ‘til you're done.” 

“Oh, fuck Beckman,” your eyes glazed over, your lips parting and crying out in bliss as his skillful ministrations cast out the pressure in your shoulder as a priest would cleanse unholy ground to make their sanctuary.

“Th-That’s it. Oh m-my fuck-,” you whined back into his hands, “You're so good. Your hands feel so good.” As the last of the knot fled your shoulder, a warm chuckle rumbled from behind you. Beckman's laugh brought you comfort, his softness depicted in this small moment as he held you in his arms. 

His firm hands turned soft, caressing your shoulders in tender, gentle touches. He molded both of your shoulders within his palms, your body becoming jelly beneath his rough and calloused hands. You moaned softly as he maneuvered your body in a perfect arch against his chest, the rumble of his chuckle reverberating within your back to vibrate within your chest. 

“Better?” he whispered in the shell of your ear, easing his body back to enable you to escape his broad cage. Instead of breaking away from his body, you relaxed into his arms, sighing out a warm breath of contentment. 

“Thank you, Becks. You're bloody amazing at that,” you praised him, feeling light and free of the bonds that confined you, “Why did you offer to help me with it?” 

“There was something in your face that told me you needed it,” he shrugged, huffing a small chuckle out of his nose and leant down to rumble out a whisper in your ear, “Always wanna help you, Darlin’.”

“Oh Becks, I could kiss you,” you turned in his arms, gazing through half-hooded eyelids up at him, “Can I?”

He smirked down at you, a small pink due flushing his cheeks with a subtle dust, bobbing his head in a soft nod to grant you permission. As you circled your arms over his neck and began to draw him closer to your lips, a chorus of barked laughter and an uproar of cheers echoed along the hull of the ship. Clapping hands, whistles and hoots erupted from your crew now surrounding the two of you. 

“Oh, Beckman,” your captain cackled at you, his right hand clapping over his heart, “In public, big guy? And you,” he pointed his index finger at you, his wolfy grin painted in a drawn-out taunting smirk, “You sly little fox. Gettin’ the big man to take you right on the deck?”

“What?” you questioned your captain in a warning tone, floating your eyes between the rest of the crew gathered on the deck beside him. Shanks’ playful twinkle fluttered beneath his weighty eyelashes. 

“Be gentle with me, Becks,” he mocked in a needy moan not too dissimilar from your own, before hardening his features and deepening his voice in a grunted, “You need a bit of rough treatment,” he commented gruffly. The color drained from your face, eyes widening and lips parting once again in bashful horrification. 

“Oh right there, Becks, don't stop,” Shanks continued his performance, a small warning began to rise within Beckman's throat in a rumbled growl. Breaking out of your embrace, he grimaced at the red-head in front of him. 

“Enough, Cap’n,” Beckman snarled, reaching within his pocket and pulling out his lighter with his left hand, fishing out a cigarette to follow, “Got out a knot, s’all. You know how shit they are.” Beckman ignited the end, taking a lengthy drag and exhaling a puff away from your face. 

“Really? That's all?” Shanks cried out a laugh, the crew echoing his unashamed and carefree joy at the notion, “I thought I saw some hips moving together, Becks. You were letting some of your own groans out too, mewling like a wh-.”

“-Or should I relay half of the bullshit you curse out when Hongo releases the knots in your own shoulder?” Beckman smirked, his eyes daring his captain to say another embarrassing quip. After a pregnant pause, silent tension only momentary before another uproar of laughter barked out amongst the Red-Hair pirates. 

“Yeah, yeah. I'm done,” Shanks waved his hand in the air, shooting you a small wink before turning to face his crew, “What say we make port, huh? Resupply with some fresh drinks, a hot meal, some good company, and a comfortable sleep on dry land?”

“Aye, sir!” the crew echoed in unison, your own confirmation falling from your lips as you began maneuvering around the first-mate to resume your duties. Just as you passed Beckman's shoulder, a firm hand shot out and gripped your forearm to hold you in place. 

“Beckman?” you asked, turning to meet his eyes. You floated your own between his, hovering your attention to fixate on him completely, “Everything alright, Sir?” 

“Goin’ back to ‘Sir’ again, after all that,” he murmured, barely above comprehension. Your quizzical feeling never left you, still hovering between the lenses of his glassy orbs. 

“How you feeling?” he asked as he pressed down the filter end of the cigarette beneath the pad of his thumb, placing the butt-end in the small drawer attached to the hull of the ship, “I get it all out, or the ache still hangin’ in there?”

Humming in thought, you rotated your right arm and felt the ghost of your prior pain simmer down and flee from your form. The small pinch only remained behind in memory, but the small remnants of the ache threatened to return. 

“It's gone for now, I think,” you uttered with a small shrug, “It'll likely begin the slow journey back up my spine in a pinch.” Beckman hummed in thought, nodding along as he checked over your body for any changes. 

After a small lull, you held your ground as the atmosphere once again fell into awkwardness. You shook your head to stifle your nerves, sucking in a breath to elevate your courage. 

“Can I buy you a drink or two when we get to port?” you ask him, eyes dropping to the ground and hands laced behind you, “An expression of my gratitude for you helping me out?”

“You askin’ me out on a date?” Beckman disguised his growing smile by arching himself away from you, loosening the tie in his hair and beginning to restyle it.

“And if I am?” you ask, still avoiding his gaze by holding your eyes firmly against the floor, “What then?”

“What then, Darlin’,'' he smirked, his eyes softening as his hands found your hips, “Is that I'd accept.” He pulled you flush with him, prompting your eyes to widen and search his gray orbs in your shock, “I wouldn't mind spending an evening with you, havin’ drinks in a quiet corner for a change.”

“It would be a nice change,” you confessed, eyes again falling soft for the first mate. He leant his hips back on the wooden railing, reaching up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. His index finger lingered on your chin, holding your eyes against his. 

“What was it for you? To have you finally make a move after all this time?” he asked, his eyes turning playful as he looked down at you through half-hooded eyes, “The hands or the elbow?”

“I think it was the words,” you confessed with a small laugh, “Not used to having the Great Benn Beckman whisper: ‘be a good little thing and take it.’ Wouldn't mind hearing that again, if I'm being honest,” a small choked pause fell from Beckman's lips, your own question now posed to him.

“What made you accept a drink with me?” you searched his eyes quizzically, pursing your lips as you continued, “We've served together for so long, what made you consider it now?”

“Oh Darlin', I've always considered it. More than considered it,” he huffed out a chuckle, bringing your face closer to his with the curl of his index finger, “Just didn't know how much I wanted it ‘til you started sayin' my name like that.” He hovered his lips over yours, his breath still scented with the sour, smoky tang of his last cigarette as he beckoned you in. 

“Wouldn't mind hearing that again, if I'm bein' honest,” he parroted your words back at you before finally claiming your lips beneath his own in a chaste kiss. The attention he gave your lips was brief, ending contact almost as soon as they touched. 

He pulled away from your lips, noticing your pout and slight agitation at the hastiness the kiss ended. Chuckling, he leant over your ear and confessed his intentions further. 

“Cap’n’s watchin’,” he nodded over to where Shanks’ taunting eyes and winning smile wordlessly teased you both, “Don't wanna give him more ammunition to tease you with, Darlin'. No matter how much I really wanna kiss you.”

“I owe you more,” you hummed up at him with a soft smile, tucking the loose strand of hair away from his forehead and behind his ear, “Anything I can do to repay my growing debt to you? More than a couple drinks later, a little kiss, or taking care of your duties for you today?”

“Just the promise of your company later will do for now,” he chuckled, leaning into the heel of your palm with his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your skin.

“Aye, Sir,” you smirked at him, giving his cheek two gentle taps before returning back to duty with a newfound rejuvenation. Your limbs felt lighter, your body felt freer and your head felt less foggy with the prior pain you felt. 

Shanks sauntered over towards his first-mate, smirking and kicking up his feet all along the way in a playful dance. Beckman shook his head, reaching for another cigarette and lit the end. Shanks leaned his head against Beck’s shoulders, uttering not a single word as he fluttered his eyelashes, wiggled his eyebrows and clicked his tongue at the broody, larger man. 

“Don’t even start,” Beckman growled under his breath. Shanks smiled wider, jolting his right index finger into Beckman’s side as he hummed up a playful mock at him. 

“But you finally made a move, big man,” Shanks chuckled, nudging him with his left shoulder, “How long’s it been now? Two, maybe three years of longing, yearning and lusting from afar, hm?”

“Four,” Beckman commented gruffly, inhaling a deep breath of smoke in his mouth and holding it still behind his lips, “And I remember saying: ‘don’t even start’.”

“Alright, alright. I’m going, I’m going,” Shanks held his right hand up in defence, an extra buzz in his step at the knowledge that Beckman and you had finally allowed a small crack in the door open to engage with one another this way. A small chuckle erupted in Shanks’ voice, his own amusement adamant over his features.

“Right there Becks, don’t stop,” Shanks’ voice whined again in a needy moan, before growling out a rumbled mock of, “I’m not gonna stop ‘til you’re done,” he laughed, turning back over his shoulder, “Honestly, Beckman. Show a bit of composure, man.” 

Beckman’s blush scorched scarlet on his features, prompting him to thrust the butt of his cigarette into the drawer and begin to charge at his Captain. Shanks shrieked out a giddy cry of amusement at his first-mate.

“Be kind and gentle with me, Becks!” Shanks laughed, turning tail and began running away in glee from successfully taunting his first mate. The barrelling boot heels of the first mate almost managed to catch up to the Captain immediately, but Shanks continued successfully darting away from Beckman’s disciplinary grasp.

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[ivy-elle]

"What is wrong with you?"

Or: How they react to you being overly intoxicated aka drunk af

Feat: Xiao, Kaeya

Notes: No mentions of vomiting, do not worry

Version feat. Scaramouche and Albedo

You can’t remember the last time you felt so relieved to have finally made it back to Wangshu Inn. Your fingers clutch onto the wooden railing as you step up the small staircase to the terrace. And – oh! Is that the moon coming up between the branches of the tree?

You sigh in awe, admiring just how pretty the moon looks being gently caressed by the sun’s last kisses of the day.

As soon as your foot touches the ground of the terrace, black smoke accumulates right in front of you and the next moment Xiao’s golden eyes are running over your face, taking in your fatigued stance.

“Are you hurt? What’s wrong?”

Startled by his sudden voice you shriek and involuntarily take a step back, forgetting that there are stairs leading back down.

But before you can entirely lose your balance, Xiao beams to your side, his hand gently catching your waist to stabilise you.

Woah, that was not very much fun

“You’re hurt,” Xiao repeats, this time it’s not a question.

“Not at all.” You shake your head. “I hope you aren’t either?” You tilt your head, blinking once as you let your eyes skim over his stance.

Xiao relaxes somewhat but sustains his suspicious demeanour. “I am unhurt if that’s what you’re inquiring.” His eyes scrutinise you.

A smile spreads across your lips at his words, and you nod diligently. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

“Y/n, what is-“

You cut off his concerns when you suddenly pull him closer to you, clutching onto his shoulders.

“Xiao,” you say, suddenly very seriously, noses nearly touching.

He swallows. “Yes?”

“Have you ever… thought about the moon?”

Xiao’s face falls. “What do-“

“Have you?” You insist again. Your gaze lingers on him as you study his reaction.

He inhales slowly. Very well. It is not unusual for mortals to go through… peculiar phases.

“…Occasionally,” he replies after a moment.

You nod once more, eyes still scrunched in all seriousness. “Good. I think we should all think more about the moon.”

Xiao’s mouth opens, then closes again. Not quite sure how to react in a fitting manner. He has met a lot of intoxicated people in his lifetime. He tends to avoid them merely because he has trouble dealing with sober people as it is, let alone those who seem to forget all usual decency and manners and themselves in addition.

But now you’re gazing at him right now with those big, slightly hazy eyes, entirely mesmerised by the concept of the moon.

Then you suddenly place a hand on his cheek, tilting his head a little.  “Just look at her! Isn’t the moon beautiful tonight?”

Xiao swallows again.

For once because of your very close proximity now.

For the other, he is quite aware of the underlying significance mortals of his culture tend to append to those words.

Although – with the way you’re gazing at the moon right now, Xiao is sure that is your one and only love and reason.

He carefully clasps his fingers around your wrists, lowering them. “Y/n. You seem exhausted.”

You turn your head back around to him. “Do I? I feel quite awake,” you retort only to be hit by a yawn immediately after.

“Alright. Maybe alcohol does make you a bit tired.”

“Mhm.”

You intertwine your fingers with his. “Will you stay home tonight?”

“I’ll stay until you’ve fallen asleep.”

And then you tilt your head, eyes crinkling as you offer him a tender smile.

Xiao has to force himself to look away, his heart stumbling in a way that might convince him to stay just a while longer tonight.

“Well, well, well. Look who the wind brought into my humble home today.”

Kaeya is seated on his couch in the living room, a glass of wine in his hand he twirls around slowly as his eyes travel over your form.

You’re standing there as if you’re starring in a statue contest. Suspiciously straightened up, and suspiciously tongue-tied. Silenced. Painfully aware, the second a word leaves your mouth it’s over.

Kaeya tilts his head, a finger tabbing against the table to his right. “Don’t misunderstand me, love, I am quite happy to see you. But you see… if you’re trying to sneak a cat into my house, I would suggest using the backdoor next time.”

Cat? You frown. “Venti insisted on keeping it as far away from him as possible,” you explain in a matter-of-fact manner as if that would explain everything.

Meanwhile said cat is currently comfortably adjusted in your arms where it has been sleeping nearly the whole time you spent in Angel’s Share earlier.

“And that is the reason you brought it all the way back home?”

Your frown deepens. “Of course not. I left it outside.”

Kaeya’s eyes travel to the cat, definitely still lying in your arms, before slowly rising back up to your face.

“Really.”

You nod. Perhaps a bit too forceful as suddenly the whole room starts to nod along with you.

As if sensing your wonky stance, the cat jumps down from your embrace, quickly searching for a saver corner to continue its nap.

“My, I must say I am quite hurt,” Kaeya starts to say as he gets up, placing his glass of wine on a table and stepping towards you. “You’ve been drinking without me.”

“Liar” you mutter, though you’re not sure if your mouth followed your brain's instructions. Wasn’t he drinking the whole time too?

Doesn’t matter. All you know is his hand on your face is cool and the nausea shuts up for a second if you don’t move.

And then Kaeya’s hand settles against your forehead and your eyes fall shut on their own, leaning against the comfortable cool it provides.

“You’re quite warm, little Snowflake,” he states, a gentle look crossing his face.

Despite the heaviness of your eyes, you can’t help yourself but murmur, “You mean hot.”

Kaeya chuckles. “Of course. That too.”

Your voice falters slightly, as you try to speak. “It wasn’t even that much fun anyway. Bit boring without you.”

“Is that so? Perhaps you should’ve stayed home with me then” Kaeya muses, his voice smooth as ever. “We could’ve had our very own fun.”

You hum and lean your forehead against his shoulder. His hand settles on your waist while the other continues to brush through your hair.

“Next time then.”

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs are so appreciated <3

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[ichorai]

balance the scales ; aemond targaryen. (m)

alternatively titled soda. track six of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; aemond targaryen x strong!f!reader

synopsis ; he flinched away when your fingers brushed against his eyepatch. despite this, you reached out once more to pull it off, your touch ever so gentle—and this time, he let you. you whispered that he was beautiful as your lips grazed against the marred skin of his cheek. aemond didn’t believe you, but he let you say it nonetheless.

words ; 40.3k (my longest oneshot!)

themes ; heavy angst, action, smut (minors dni!), mild fluff, enemies to lovers back to enemies trope, slowburn, betrothed au

warnings / includes ; violence/war, several character deaths, descriptions of injury/blood, birth scenes, oral (f recieving), unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, hotd s1 spoilers, reader is fiercely team black, implications of rape (aegon), really really heavy angst, harwin is reader's older brother, helaena is the sweetest ever :( jace and luke are reader's best friends, rhaenyra is practically reader's mother, lots of Emotions in this one, asoiaf politics and references for all of you book nerds

main masterlist. read on ao3!

It was said that you came into the world silent. 

A problem with your lungs, the midwives had solemnly told your father, the Hand of the King, proclaiming you dead not three minutes after. Lyonel Strong was grief-stricken at not only having lost his dear wife to the perilous task of childbirth, but you as well. 

But you were a fighter from the very beginning. At least, that’s what Harwin had told you. Once they’d laid you in your eldest brother’s arms, your airway had miraculously cleared up and you’d let out a hoarse, shrill cry—and the rest was history. 

“I was twenty when you were born, you know,” said Harwin, voice rife with affection, reaching out to brush a lock of hair away from your face. “I was so scared that I’d lose you. Now look at you—eight years of age and healthier than ever. Are you excited to meet the new baby?”

“Yes! The babe gets a dragon egg and everything!” 

You beamed up at your eldest brother, batting away his fretful hands and turning to your friends. Though—they’d always felt more like your brothers than merely friends.

Jacaerys and Lucerys, who bore a striking resemblance to Harwin (and you’d keenly noticed that they shared your smile), were playing with a wooden carving of a dragon, blowing raspberries and running around the spacious chamber. The taller of the two, Jace, was only a few moons older than you, whilst Luke was much younger and looked up to you—quite literally and figuratively. The two young boys roped you into their little game as well, screaming with laughter when you began chasing after them with a snarl, arms outstretched. 

With a slight smile, Harwin watched over the three of you, hands comfortably rested against the hilt of his gilded longsword. Even though he was only but your older brother, he always treated you as if you were his own child—after all, you barely saw your father anyway, seeing as he was always busy serving the King as the Hand. The fact that he was a whole two decades older than you only made him all the more protective of his youngest sibling. 

His attention was pulled away from the three kids clambering on top of each other when the doors creaked open. An exhausted Rhaenyra slowly limped in, Laenor Velaryon right behind her, holding a bundle of red and gold fabric. 

“Mother!” exclaimed Jace, getting onto his feet to greet Rhaenyra. “Look!” 

He scuttled away to pull the cover off of the stone incubator, revealing a scaly dragon egg of dark emerald hue. You and Luke were hot on his trail, peering over his shoulder to marvel at the smoking egg. A large part of you was jealous that Jace and Luke and the new babe each got a dragon egg, and you never did, despite having similar physical attributes to the boys. But they were royal Princes, and you were only the youngest child of the Hand, which really meant little to nothing other than fancy titles and polite honorifics.

“We chose an egg for the baby,” Luke excitedly told his mother, who leaned against a chaise tiredly.

Harwin offered his arm to Rhaenyra, helping her slowly ease down onto the seat. 

“Ah,” she said, the beginnings of a smile to her lips. “That looks like the perfect one.”

“I let Luke choose!” chirped Jace, squaring his shoulders proudly. “But Luke couldn’t decide, so I asked Y/N.”

The purple of Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed with affection when she looked at you, nearly shrouded behind Jace’s taller stature. “Sweet girl,” she hummed, briefly glancing up at Harwin, before returning her gaze to you. “You chose wonderfully. Thank you.”

Luke reached out to graze his fingers over the egg’s ridges, but flinched back from the heat, sticking them into his mouth. You pulled a grimace but laughed anyway, lightly shoving Luke away from the incubator.

“Not every day an egg leaves the Dragonpit, Princess,” said your brother. “I thought it best to escort the lads. They insisted on Y/N coming along, as well.” 

“Laenor and I thank you, Commander,” replied Rhaenyra, dipping her head with gratitude. 

Harwin’s eyes locked on the babe in Laenor’s arms. “Another boy, I heard,” he said. 

The Princess nodded once, the corner of her lips lifting ever so slightly. 

“Might I?” asked the Commander.

“Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey,” Rhaenyra told her husband, who finally ripped his loving gaze from the babe, and handed him over to Harwin.

With flailing hands, Luke reached out to Harwin, eyes trained on Laenor. “Please, father, may I hold Joffrey?”

“Ah, ah, ah, back to the Dragonpit for you two—before they send out a search party!” ushered Laenor as he led the boys out of the chamber. “Come, Y/N, would you like to join the boys?” he asked kindly, clearly wanting to give Harwin and Rhaenyra some well-earned time alone. 

Excited at the prospect of seeing the boys’ dragons again, you scrambled out the doors after them, squeaking out, “Wait! Wait for me!” 

Once the doors were shut and the kids were gone, Rhaenyra looked upon Harwin bouncing the babe fondly.

“You’re asleep in front of the Commander of the City Watch,” he gently scolded the tiny thing. “Terrible lack of respect.”

“A certain insolence runs in the family, I’m afraid,” commented Rhaenyra, subtly hinting to the baby being of Harwin’s blood, rather than Laenor’s. 

Harwin tried his best to suppress his smile, failing miserably. He looked down at the baby once more, noting with pleased fascination that Joffrey had his nose.

The dungeons of the Dragonpit were dimly lit by sparse, flaming torches hanging by the stone walls. It stank of smoke and ash and stale blood, but you didn’t quite mind the smell. You bounced on the balls of your feet behind Jacaerys, eyes wide with anticipation as the dragonkeepers brought out Vermax.

He was a rather tempestuous beast, snarling at the lot of you as he stalked forward. The pale orange of his wings and the green of his scales warbled beneath the fire’s light. The keepers spoke in their lilting Valyrian tongues to command the dragon—foreign to your ears, but no less interesting. 

Aegon seemed not to share your disposition, however, yawning loudly and rolling his eyes to the side, clearly bored with watching Jacaerys bond with Vermax. Ever since Aegon had won mastery over his own dragon, Sunfyre, his head seemed to swell twice its size and he held no interest in anybody else’s dragon but his own. Both you and Luke glanced up at him with a scowl. The younger of the silver-headed boys kept his gaze trained to the ground, used to his brother’s antics.

You’d always been much more fond of Aemond than Aegon anyway—he was far kinder to you than his brother. Though, compared to Aegon, it was barely a competition. 

Watching on in rapt fascination, you turned your head to see one of the keepers bring out a bleating lamb for Vermax to feast upon.

“Can I say it?” asked Jacaerys, equal parts nervous and excited. He glanced at his uncles, before looking back at you, eyes gleaming. You gave him an encouraging smile. At the keepers’ hum of approval, he turned back to his dragon. “Dracarys, Vermax!” 

With a grateful hiss, Vermax turned and blew a long breath of fire straight at his prey, pupils sharpening. Even from afar, you could feel the heat of the flames kiss your skin.

Vermax happily stalked forward and began biting into the charred flesh of the lamb. The keepers clapped Jacaerys on the shoulder proudly, before heading off to round Vermax further into the darkness of the Dragonpit. 

Just as you were about to tell Jace how amazing that was, Aegon interrupted by cuffing his younger brother on the shoulder.

“Aemond, we have a surprise for you,” he glibly said.

The other two boys glanced at each mischievously. You tilted your head, feeling a bit left out. You weren’t aware of any surprises they had planned for the young Prince.

“What is it?” asked Aemond.

“Something very special!” chimed Lucerys, just before he ran off into the darkness.

Clearing his throat, Aegon continued, “You’re the only one of us without a dragon.”

Aemond frowned. “Indeed.”

“And we felt badly about it, so we found one for you!” exclaimed Aegon.

This came as a surprise to you. To your knowledge, none of the dragons had nested as of late, and there were no new eggs for Aemond to take. 

The same skepticism colored Aemond’s tone. “A dragon? How?”

Aegon didn’t even try hiding his snarky smile. “The gods provide, dear brother.”

And out came Luke from the shadows, tugging along a large, oinking pig. Tufts of dried wheat were tied around the pigs back, made to mimic a dragon’s wings. You felt your lips twist into a frown. What a terrible thing to gift Aemond.

The other boys giggled as they announced, “Behold, the Pink Dread!” 

They snickered in amusement at Aemond’s reaction—or lack thereof. 

“Be sure to mount her carefully,” cackled Aegon, prodding his brother’s side. “First flight’s always rough.” He snorted loudly into Aemond’s ear, who stood still and unflinching. 

Jace and Luke followed suit, making obscene pig noises and giggling. They turned to leave the Dragonpit.

“Come on, Y/N, let’s go see if they have any lemon cakes for supper!” said Luke, grabbing your hand. 

You kept your gaze trained on Aemond, shaking the younger boy off. “I’ll be right there… just give me a minute.”

Shrugging, Luke scampered off with Jace and Aegon, still laughing between his pig-reminiscent oinks.

Uncertain, you stood a couple feet away from Aemond, toying with the fabric of your sleeve. You sympathized with him, really. All your life, you had no dragon of your own, despite always having wanted one. You knew it wasn’t the same because it was his birthright as a Prince to have a dragon—but you could still understand the feeling.

“I’m sorry about them,” you said, moving closer. “That’s a terrible thing to gift you.”

The Prince was silent for a few moments, before rotating on his feet to fix his glare on you. You shuffled back a step.

An amalgamation of anger and embarrassment etching crystal clear across his face, he spat out, “Go away! You’re not even of royal Targaryen blood—you don’t belong here!”

It was clear that he was merely projecting his frustrations onto you—after all, he himself was of Targaryen blood and yet he always felt like an outcast in his own family. 

But you were only eight, and such complicated matters were lost to you. 

Lips twisting in a frown, you blinked at the Prince, hands curling into fists by your side. “I just wanted to help,” you quietly mumbled beneath your breath, before promptly turning on your heel and marching out of the Dragonpit.

Aemond had heard your final words before your departure, feeling a twinge of guilt coil within his stomach. But after casting another look at the pig, his thoughts about you disappeared, replaced only with hot fury. 

With a determined set of his jaw, Aemond trudged on further into the darkness of the Dragonpit. 

“Your feet,” said Harwin, tapping the edge of his sword onto your scuffed boots. “Don’t stand like a pin needle. Keep them apart—steady your stance.”

You did as he told, and he nodded in approval. With your dull, wooden practice lance, you dove forward and struck the hay sewn dummy with quick strikes.

“Good,” your older brother commended, patting your shoulder. “Just remember to move with your feet, alright? Come now, drop the sword.”

“What?” you asked, allowing the wood to go limp in your hand. “Why?”

Kneeling down before you, Harwin brushed your sweaty, damp hair away from your burning skin. “Because this world doesn’t give little girls swords when they need it. They must only rely on their wit and their hands if the situation arises. Drop the sword, darling.”

Frowning, you relinquished your hold, waiting for further instructions.

You’d been doing this with Harwin for a long while now. Every other night for the past three years, he’d been teaching you how to fight, and how to defend yourself. 

“Now, I’m going to pretend to hit you, and you have to do everything in your power to stop me. Do anything you must—hit back, bite, kick, run… just don’t give up. You promise?”

“Okay,” you told him, steeling your nerves. 

He began slowly, motioning to strike your stomach and your sides. You managed to evade those easily, moving back or rolling out of his way. The faster he got, however, the more sloppy you were. One particular jab to your shoulder made you bite back a cry of pain, and you glared up at him.

“Must you be so rough?” you growled, to which Harwin only nodded, face stoic.

“In a fight—a real and true one—do you think they’d go easy on you? No. You must be prepared for it, Y/N. I will not always be there to protect you.” 

His words made you pause. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you be there?” 

“I’ll always be there for you, little sister,” he said, large hand patting your head. “But if there comes such a time where I won’t be, for some reason unbeknownst to me, you must be ready.”

With a reluctant bob of your head, he commanded you to get into a fighting stance again. 

“Thumb outside the fist,” he gently reminded you. “Feet wider apart, knees bent—yes, that’s it.”

And without warning, he darted forward, using his foot to sweep across your legs, making you stumble back onto your arse, all the breath in your lungs rushing out.

“Harwin!” you yelled out, now fed up with him. “That’s not fair! You’re using your feet!”

“I never said I wasn’t going to use my feet. You will soon come to realize that life is not always fair,” he said, unable to help the small chuckle falling from his lips. “Up you get.”

Rubbing at your sore bottom, you mumbled out, “Why don’t I get to spar with Jace and Luke and Aemond and Aegon? I want to spar with them.” Though, as soon as the words left you, you realized that you’d really rather not spar with Aemond and Aegon. Especially not after that whole pig situation.

Surprised at your question, Harwin halted to lower himself down to your height once again. “Sweet sister… it is safer for me to train you in secret. In a fair and just world, you’d be able to train with whomever you wanted. But you are a young girl, and they are the royal Princes. The court would not find it proper if you were to spar with them.”

Tears welled up in your widened eyes. “But… that’s not fair…”

Harwin thumbed away the wetness on your cheek. “Come now, don’t cry. How about, next time the boys train, you get to watch—and I can teach you the same things they learn later in the evening? How does that sound?”

“O-Okay,” you hiccupped. “Can I have my sword back?”

With a faint smile, Harwin nodded, handing you the wooden stick. 

From the shadows where neither of you could see, Criston Cole watched, eyes narrowed and teeth gritted.

Harwin was a man of his word.

The very next day, you had shot out of your bed like someone had lit a fire beneath you, hurriedly dressing and washing yourself, much to your handmaid's shock, and scampered out to the training yard.

“There you are,” greeted your brother, ruffling your already sleep-mussed hair. “I was afraid you weren’t going to show.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” you replied, bouncing on your toes.

Harwin could only grin down at you, before returning his gaze to the four boys dully smacking their wooden practice swords against the dummies.

Aegon twisted and turned and hit with speed rather than precision, grunts of exertion falling from his lips. Lucerys was clumsy and slow, but for the most part, he hit the targeted regions accurately. Jacaerys was nearly the same as his youngest brother, only a tad faster and more agile on his feet. 

Ser Criston Cole was scrutinizing Aemond, despite him seeming to be doing the best out of the four. Fast, accurate, and strong strokes of his wooden blade thudded repeatedly against the hay.

“Soften your knees,” gruffed Criston, face betraying no expression. “Feet light. Light, Aemond.”

Training with the Dornish man seemed much different than training with your older brother. With your brother, as hard as he was on you sometimes, he was still kind and knew your limits. Cole was cold and rigidly strict, and seemed to care naught for the boys’ boundaries.

You glanced up at your brother, who watched on with a mildly distasteful expression.

Observing from the walkways above, you spotted your father with the King. Lyonel eyed you with a questionable gaze, wondering what on earth his youngest daughter was doing on the training grounds, rather than playing with Princess Helaena, whom you’d grown to be rather fond of, or entertaining Rhaenyra and the new babe, Joffrey. 

You tilted your head when Aegon grew bored of smacking his own dummy, wandering over to Jace and knocking the younger Prince’s sword out of his hands. To none of your surprise, Criston chose to turn a blind eye to the eldest boy.

You will soon come to realize that life is not always fair, you could hear your brother’s words echo in your head. Perhaps he was right. Nonetheless, you could feel anger simmer within your stomach.

“Don’t stand too upright, my Prince, you’ll get knocked down,” commanded Cole.

Aegon halted in his terrorizing as two handmaids passed by, openly gawking at the poor girls as they hurried off with baskets of soiled laundry. Only after they were long gone, did Aegon catch sight of you, tilting his head curiously, as if trying to remember your face.

“Aegon,” Criston called out, pulling Aegon’s attention away from you.

“I’ve won my first bout, Ser Criston,” boasted the white-haired Prince. “My opponent sues for mercy.”

A ghost of a smirk graced Criston’s lips. “Then you shall have a new opponent, then. Let’s see if you can touch me. You and your brother.”

With dejected expressions, Luke and Jace slunk off to the side, watching Aemond and Aegon battle against Criston. It was only then that the two boys took notice of you. Luke waved excitedly, and Jace nodded his head with a smile. You grinned back at them, clasping your hands behind your back, itching to have a practice sword gripped between them.

Criston seemed to make a fool of the Princes, easily parrying away their strikes and sending them sprawling onto the ground several times. 

“Weapons up, boys,” Harwin quietly advised Luke and Jace. “Give your enemies no quarter.”

It seemed as though his words were not quiet enough—Criston certainly overheard what he was saying, and didn’t look too pleased with it.

Your brother narrowed his eyes. “It seems the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention, Ser Criston.”

Jaw squared, Cole bit out, “You question my method of instruction, Ser?”

“I merely suggest that method be applied to all your pupils,” said Harwin. 

“My pupils? And not… your pupil?” 

This made your brother blanche uneasily. 

“Lady Y/N. Come. I want to see what Ser Harwin has taught you.”

Shocked, you looked up at your brother, lips falling open and shut, unsure of what to say or do. 

Not wanting to disobey the tall, scary man, you timidly stepped forward. From above, your father seemed to want to end this nonsense, shifting his weight from foot to foot—but as the King trusted Ser Criston Cole, he had little he could say to put a stop to this.

“Aemond. You shall spar with the Lady Strong.”

The Prince seemed to want to do anything other than that, but reluctantly ambled forward anyway. Criston roughly shoved a wooden sword against your chest, which lacked any armor whatsoever in comparison to Aemond’s full chestplate and protective metal gloves. 

“Engage.”

Desperately trying to recall what your brother had taught you, you spread your feet further apart and bent your knees, leveling your weight in preparation to move around.

Aemond was the first to attack, diving forward to strike your sides. He got one hit in at first, pain blossoming by your ribs. You winced, staggering back slightly.

By the second strike, you were prepared. Though he was half a foot taller than you, you used that to your advantage. It was little effort to duck away from his arc when he was about to repeat the very same maneuver, smacking the flat of your stick to the back of his left knee, sending him buckling forward. In the short time you had to watch him, you’d noticed that he favored his right side, and often left the other side unguarded. 

The Prince was quick to recover, scrambling back up on his feet and glaring at you with the strength of a thousand suns. This time, he was smarter, waiting for you to attack next. You feigned a jab to his neck, forcing him to parry high up, before you used your feet to kick out against his exposed stomach. It was a dirty move—not a proper one in the least, but it was as your brother said the other night—life was not fair.

Aemond fell back with a muffled oomf, expression suspended into one of disbelief. He couldn’t believe he’d just been bested by a girl. Teeth clenched, you placed the tip of your sword against his chest, locking eyes with him. He stared at you with nothing but pure hatred within the deep purple of his irises. After a second, you moved it away, holding out your hand to help him up. You were willing to overlook what happened down at the Dragonpit the other day—after all, you still sympathized with him and didn't hate him in the very least. Especially not compared to his wretched older brother. 

The Prince didn’t take your hand. He shoved it away with a grumble, standing up on his own and slinking off to the side. It was embarrassing. More than that—he was angry at himself, at you, at Cole. Tears pricked the corner of Aemond’s eyes, but he willfully staved them away.

Frowning, you made your way back to Harwin, who fondly cupped your face with one large palm, patting your cheek thrice. “Well done, Y/N. I’m so proud of you.”

You smiled wearily, though it didn’t reach your eyes.

Criston’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath, clearly unhappy with Harwin’s pupil beating his own. His gaze flitted downward to lock with yours for a brief moment, before looking at the crown Prince. “Alright. Jacaerys. You spar with Aegon. Eldest son against eldest son.”

Giving the boy no warning, Cole seized the front of Jace’s armor and all but dragged him to the center of the training yard. Helplessly, Jace looked to you and Harwin.

This was by no means a fair fight, but you had to remind yourself—life is not always fair.

As if reading your thoughts, Harwin called out, “It’s hardly a fair match.”

“I know you’ve never seen true battle, Ser, but when steel is drawn, a fair match isn’t something anyone should expect.” Criston’s seething words made you shift uncomfortably. How dare he speak to your brother like that?

You glanced back up at your father and the King, still watching over. You wondered if he could hear what Criston was saying. If he cared.

“Engage,” said Cole.

And with that, Aegon roared, raining down attack after attack upon Jace. He shoved him down onto the ground, dried leaves fluttering upwards with his fall. Satisfied with himself, Aegon turned his back to Jace, bowing to you with a smirk and chuckling at his early win.

Jacaerys, however, was quick to get on his feet and charged forward with a snarl, wildly arcing the practice sword at his uncle.

In an attempt to get him to stop, Aegon shoved a dummy onto Jace, which prompted Harwin to step forward and say, “Foul play!”

“I’ll deal with him,” barked Criston, before stepping towards Aegon. “Plant your feet. You have a height advantage. Use it!”

It was becoming more and more clear that this spar was no longer an eldest son against an eldest son. It was between your brother, Commander of the City Watch, and the Queen’s kingsguard.

Whilst Criston roughly barked instructions to Aegon, Harwin moved to Jace, gripping the young boy’s chin in his palm and gently gave him advice and words of encouragement—not unsimilar to what he did with you during your training.

Once they were done, Aegon furiously stormed back to Jacaerys. “You!” he screamed, red-faced and furious at his nephew for having embarrassed him in such a way. The Prince was not at all used to not winning.

“Close with him!” yelled Criston when Aegon surged forward and hit him repeatedly. “Press him backward! Stay on the attack! Use your feet!” 

With that, Aegon placed his heel squarely against Jace’s chestplate, kicking him back onto the dirt. 

“Don’t let him get up. Stay on the attack!” 

You watched on in concern as Aegon whacked the wooden sword over and over onto Jace—to the point where you panicked and frantically tugged on Harwin’s armor, afraid he was going to do some serious damage on your friend. 

Deciding to put an end to this once and for all, Harwin finally stepped forward and ripped Aegon away from Jace. 

“Enough!” he bellowed, so loud that his voice seemed to echo back against the stone walls. 

This seemed to enrage Aegon all the more as he screeched out, “You dare put your hands on me?”

“Aegon!” yelled the King from above.

Nobody listened. 

“You forget yourself, Strong,” said Cole, voice dripping with venom. It didn’t slip by your notice that he’d dropped the honorifics with your brother. “That is the Prince.”

“This is what you teach, Cole? Cruelty to the weaker opponent?” seethed Harwin. 

Tone eerily level, Cole glibly commented, “Your interest in the princeling’s training is quite unusual, Commander. Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a cousin… or a brother… or a son.”

With that, Harwin surged forward and planted a clean punch against Criston’s face. 

Criston made no attempts to fight back. Not with the second hit, or the third, or the fourth. By the fifth, he was bleeding from the side of his temple, and red ran down a stream from his split lips.

Your hands had flown over your mouth, and you staggered back, against Jace. Luke’s small hand curled into the fabric of your tunic. A son… Criston had said. And it all made sense to you now—why Harwin loved the boys so dearly, why they looked so much like your brother, why you shared the same smile as them. 

They were your nephews. 

This only had you protectively stepping in front of them, shielding them from the sight of their true father beating up a knight.

Over and over and over again, your eldest brother struck Cole, until his own knuckles glimmered with dark ichor—belonging to both him and the man beneath him. Two gold cloaks had to rush forward and haul Harwin away from Criston.

“Say it again!” bellowed Harwin. “Say it again!”

Despite the beating he’d just undertook, Criston laughed through his blood-saturated spittle. “Thought as much,” he choked out, turning to his side to hack out a wad of red onto the dirt. 

Your father was furious. 

At you, yes, but the anger he felt towards Harwin a thousand times moreso. So much so that he had ordered Harwin be stripped of his title as Commander of the City Watch, and taken back home to Harrenhal as his heir. Though, it wasn’t a home to you, seeing as you’d never even stepped foot in the place.

Your father had also tried to resign as Hand to the King, feeling immense pressure and shame from the court. But the King insisted he stay, and to your relief, that meant that you could stay, as well.

However, that also entailed that you had to say goodbye to your beloved brother. 

When he first told you, you scoffed and retorted, “A funny joke, Harwin, but I’m not in the laughing mood.” And when his expression remained solemnly unchanged, you could feel your heart sinking to your stomach. “No… no, you can’t be serious. Harwin, you can’t leave! No! What am I to do here without you? What of our training?”

The following hour consisted of you crying your little eyes out, sobbing into Harwin’s armor, begging him not to leave. He had little to say, afraid that if he opened his mouth, he’d join you in your crying. But he stroked your hair and assured you that he’d write as often as he could to you.

Father was to be joining him to drop him off at Harrenhal and ensure everything was going smoothly for the first fortnight, before he was due to return to King's Landing. You wouldn’t be missing him too much—at least he was coming back. You hadn’t a clue when the next time you’d see your brother might be.

And there was the other unspoken elephant in the room—Rhaenyra’s sons. Your best friends—and, as you’d recently found out, your nephews.

“Be good to your mother, lads,” said Harwin, kneeling by Luke. “I’ll visit when I can. But that may be some time.”

He turned to Jace, who stood tall beside his mother, rocking Joffrey back and forth in his arms. 

“I will return,” your brother told his eldest son, lifting his chin up with the tips of his fingers. “I promise.”

Harwin and Rhaenyra locked eyes for a brief moment. Hers watered. Harwin’s softened. He bent down to press a loving kiss to the babe’s forehead. 

“I will be a stranger when we meet again,” he whispered to Joffrey, but a part of it was directed to Rhaenyra herself.

You awaited by the door for him, wiping your tears furiously with the back of your hand. 

Harwin’s final goodbye was saved for you. So much to say, with so little time. He cupped your face and kissed your forehead, nose slotted against your hairline. His first and final tear fell from his misty eyes.

“Remember what I told you. I’ll always be there for you, sweet sister. Always. Maybe not physically here,” he said, before pressing a thumb just above your duly beating heart. “But in here.” 

Much to your frustration, you began to cry again, chest thundering with sobs. 

“Goodbye, brother,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“Oh, no, don’t cry over me, darling. I want you to keep your head high, hm? By the time I see you again, you might be even stronger than me.” 

Harwin pressed another kiss to your cheek, before swiping your tears away with the pads of his thumbs, and stood up again. 

You watched as he pushed the door open and strode down the hall, disappearing from your sight. Jacaerys came to your side, threading his hand with yours in an effort to comfort you. You squeezed gratefully, releasing a shuddering breath.

“We will exchange letters by raven,” placated Rhaenyra, trying her best to alleviate both of your sorrows. “Won’t that be fun?”

Bluntly, Jace turned to look at his mother and asked, “Is Harwin Strong my father? Am I a bastard?”

Shock colored Rhaenyra’s expression. 

“You are a Targaryen,” she affirmed after recovering from her initial surprise, stroking Jace’s hair away from his face. “That’s all that matters.”

She hadn’t answered his question, but both you and Jace knew the truth.

News of your brother and father’s death spread like wildfire. It was said to be an accident—a tragic product of Harrenhal’s Curse. There were rumors flying around, however, that it was no accident.

Rumors of Daemon Targaryen wanting to rid his niece of her lover. Rumors of Corlys Velaryon exacting revenge for Harwin cuckolding his son. Rumors of your last remaining brother, Larys Strong, murdering his own blood to claim his inheritance.

You paid no mind to the rumors. It was an accident, and that was that.

Life is not fair, you could hear your brother’s voice say to you. He was right—nothing was fair. 

After their deaths, you spent days weeping in your chambers. Jacaerys and Lucerys often dropped by to check in on you, offering to take you down to the Dragonpits in hopes of cheering you up. You’d sniffled and shook your head, curling up in the center of your bed. Rhaenyra, who saw you more like a daughter than anything, took the liberty of bringing food to your chambers, urging you to eat something.

“It’s okay to cry, sweet girl,” she told you, sitting by the edge of your bed and stroking the hair away from your face. When you began to quietly sob, she wound her arms around your small frame, and held you close to her chest.

The fortnight after their deaths, everyone treated you as if you were hewn from glass. They spoke slowly and cautiously, treading on eggshells around you. Even Jace and Luke seemed hesitant to play with you anymore, afraid you’d burst into hysterical tears any second.

What made it worse was when Rhaenyra announced that she was leaving King’s Landing with her children for Dragonstone. It was devastating news—for she and her sons were the closest thing you had left to a family. 

Jace hugged you goodbye, eyes teary and nose red. Little Luke clung to your legs and begged you to come with them. Even Rhaenyra had offered you a place on the ship to join them on their journey, her voice kind but so very tired.

“You will always have a place with us, sweet girl,” she had told you, lips pressing a gentle kiss to your hairline. The Princess considered you the daughter she never had—always fiercely protective of you. With Harwin gone, that feeling only increased thricefold. You were practically her family by now.

But you couldn’t leave King’s Landing with Rhaenyra and the boys. Not with Larys Strong anchoring you to the Red Keep—and certainly not with Alicent breathing down both of your necks.

And so you watched them sail away, face drenched with your tears and hands clenched into fists by your side.

You abhorred it all, wishing everything could just go back to how they were before.

Out of all the other children at court, Princess Helaena was the only one who treated you the same as she did before, all misty-eyed and odd-of-tongue. Because of this, you found yourself glued to her side, desperate for a sense of normalcy, which you ironically found in the strangest of girls. She was a fascinating person, far more intelligent than first meets the eye—with a peculiar interest in critters and insects lurking in the shadows.

She was rather fond of you as well, though not at all used to having friends, much less other girls who took her fixations seriously and didn’t think her gross for it. Queen Alicent was mortified at having a Strong girl befriend her daughter, and yet was simultaneously relieved that she finally had someone to call a friend. Besides, having you on her side was more of an advantage than anything—especially with Larys Strong backed in her corner, as well.

“The butterfly has two large, black spots on the bottom of its wings,” said Helaena as she crouched down beside you, holding her palms up to brandish the small insect. “They are to trick the larger animals into thinking they are eyes. It is a defense tactic. The butterfly is not who the rest thinks she is.”

You smiled at her, raising a finger to touch the little insect, only for it to flutter away before you could get too close, hurrying back to the gardens. 

“They’re beautiful,” you said, watching it disappear amongst the flowers. “Masters of trickery, though.”

“Yes,” surmised Helaena, though her gaze was fixed on you. “Beautiful. Deceitful. Both equally true.”

It had been three weeks since your brother and father passed.

And yet, here you were, at someone else’s funeral in Driftmark. Laena Velaryon—the late wife to Prince Daemon Targaryen.

You’d pleaded with Larys, begged him to allow you to go back to Harrenhal to mourn your family—but he only supplied you with a crooked smile and told you that you belonged in King’s Landing. With Larys being your only kin left standing, adamant with his refusal to return home to properly grieve over Harwin and Lyonel, it seemed that you were stuck with him.

You were never very fond of Larys to begin with.

At Laena’s funeral, you made it your job to avoid him as much as you could, following behind Jacaerys and Lucerys. It was strange and pleasant under the worst circumstances seeing them again so soon after such an emotional farewell.

Rhaenyra wove through the crowd, bowing her head to you with soft eyes, before fixing her gaze on her eldest son.

“Your little cousins have lost their mother,” she said. “They could use a kind word.”

Jacaerys looked to you, then back up to his mother. “We have an equal claim to sympathy.”

Brows furrowing, Rhaenyra looked around to make sure none of the lords and ladies were listening in. “Jace—”

“We should be at Harrenhal, mourning Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin. It is not fair to Y/N,” he stressed, jaw clenched. Tears warbled over your irises, but you quickly blinked them away.

“You’re right—it’s not fair. But it would not be appropriate. The Velaryons are our kin and the Strongs are not. Look at me, Jace. Do you understand?”

Bearing a sour face, Jacaerys nodded, before trudging off to give his condolences to his little cousins. 

You watched him go, looking up at Rhaenyra with wide eyes. “Nothing in life is fair.”

The silver-haired Princess shot you a questioning look, but you turned and made your way into the shadows, where you knew her half-sister, Helaena was playing.

“Hand turns loom, spool of green, spool of black, dragons of flesh, weaving dragons of thread,” she chimed, repeating the words over and over again, cradling a spider in her palms. 

When she caught sight of you, she didn’t stop her mantra, but dipped her head in greeting. She offered you the spider, but you shook your head with a kind smile, allowing her to keep playing around with the spindly arachnid. 

From about a meter away, Aemond and Aegon watched the two of you.

“We have nothing in common,” the elder of the two bemoaned, slurping wine from a golden chalice. He was referring to the fact that he was betrothed to his sister now, something that neither of them seemed particularly pleased about.

Aemond pursed his lips. “She’s our sister.”

“You marry her, then,” Aegon shot back.

“I would perform my duty, if mother had only betrothed us.” He watched curiously as you tossed your head back with a laugh when Helaena whispered something about collecting spider webs in a jar. Come to think of it, Aemond couldn’t remember ever hearing you laugh before. Memories of you besting him in combat flashed before his eyes. 

“If only,” snorted Aegon.

“It would strengthen the family. Keep our Valyrian blood pure.” 

Pulling a disgusted face, Aegon looked to his brother. “She’s an idiot!”

“She’s your future queen,” spat Aemond.

“I’d rather take the one beside her,” said Aegon, eyes glued to you. “She is growing to be a fine girl… considering how she beat your arse to the ground.”

Aemond supplied him with no answer. He was no stranger to Aegon’s lustful ramblings.

“Actually, we do have one thing in common—we both fancy creatures with long legs!” chortled the older prince, before sauntering away, off to hunt down a maid for another cup of wine. “Wench! Another!”

This left Aemond to shake his head with revolt, observing his brother go. 

He spotted his nephew, Jacaerys, not too far. A part of him wanted to say something, offer his sympathies or apologies—but when Jace lifted his head and stared straight at him, Aemond could feel the words lodging in his throat, and he turned to walk away.

You observed the interaction from afar. Aemond caught your eye, merely for a brief moment, but it felt like an eternity.

And, much to your surprise, he made his way to you.

“I offer my condolences, Lady Strong,” he said, rigidly formal. “It is tragic what happened to your brother and father.”

You bowed your head, lips trembling. Though the two of you have certainly had your differences, Aemond was not heartless. He knew you were suffering a great loss.

“Thank you, my Prince,” you croaked. 

The two of you stood in silence.

“I… I’m sorry. For snapping at you in the Dragonpit.”

Your head shot up in surprise. There was little you could think of saying, so you gave him a small smile—one that he mirrored after a moment’s hesitation.

Somewhere in the distance, the pained roar of Vhagar echoed over the seas.

It was the dead of night.

You were already sound asleep when Luke burst into your chambers, grabbing your shoulder and shaking you awake.

“Y/N, wake up, wake up!” he whisper-yelled.

Groaning, you peered open an eye and sat up. “What?” you mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Someone stole Vhagar!” he said, tugging you off the bed and ushering your bleary form along. Jacaerys, Baela, and Rhaena were already rushing out to see who had taken the old beast of a dragon.

Not at all sleepy anymore, your eyes widened upon seeing Aemond clamber off the dragon.

“It’s him!” gasped Baela.

Aemond cocked his head. “It’s me.”

Face contorting with rage, Baela gritted out, “Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!”

“Your mother’s dead,” said Aemond. Briefly, his gaze flicked to you, before looking back at the two Targaryen girls. “Vhagar has a new rider now.”

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena gruffed.

“Then you should’ve claimed her,” retorted Aemond. “Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride. It would suit you.”

A soft gasp lodged in your throat when Rhaena strode forward with a growl, aiming a loose punch at Aemond’s face. He easily dodged, grabbing her shoulders and shoving her off to the side. Baela rushed towards him next, landing a good punch to his face. He yelled out and struck her back, a bilious crack of his fist against her skin ringing out against the stone walls.

“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” threatened Aemond. 

His words made Jace yell out and jump forward, driving Luke to attack, as well. Aemond made quick work of the boys, kicking Jace back and punching Luke so hard in the face that his nose cracked beneath the pressure.

You were hesitant to fight Aemond, you really were—especially when the two of you seemed to have just gotten over your grievances with one another. 

But he’d hurt your friends, and you wouldn’t stand for that. Harwin certainly wouldn’t have.

“Stop this!” you told him, protectively standing between Luke and Aemond. When he only set his jaw, you gave him a hard shove back. The conflict that danced within the purple of his irises was tangible—you could see it.

He didn’t want to fight you.

Your push took him by surprise, sending him sprawling onto the hard ground. Baela, Rhaena, and Jace took advantage of this, jumping forward to rain punch after hit after kick on the young Prince. He was bleeding now—red leaking from his nose, his lips, his fists.

“Stop! Stop!” you screamed at them, grabbing at Rhaena’s hand and trying to pull her back, to no avail. “Jace, stop!”

Luke pushed away from you to join the skirmish. 

To your horror, Aemond grabbed a large rock that had come loose from the cobblestone walls, curling his bloodied fingers around it. The other hand shot out to wrap around Lucerys’ throat.

“You will die screaming in flames, just as your father did! Bastards!” spat Aemond into Luke’s face. The words seemed to have fallen from his lips without thought, as if completely forgetting that you were there.

But what he said had struck a chord within you. How dare he speak of your brother in such a way? You wished to move, to hit Aemond until he was nothing but a bloodied pile of flesh and bone—but he still held Luke in his grasp, and the looming threat of the rock in his other hand. 

Confused, little Luke choked out, “My father’s still alive!”

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Aemond looked to Jace then to you, then back to Jace. “Lord Strong?”

Furious, Jace unsheathed a small dagger. 

No. 

No, if Jace were to kill Aemond… it would only make matters all the worse.

“Jace, no—!” you began, but your warning fell upon deaf ears.

Jacaerys dove forward with the dagger, but Aemond knocked him down with the rock thudding against his cheek, the blade flying. to the other side of the corridor. Aemond let go of the younger Velaryon in his haste. 

This was a mistake.

Luke crawled about in the sand, grabbing the hilt of the dagger Jace had dropped. Working in tandem, the elder brother threw sand in Aemond’s eyes, momentarily blinding him, and Luke stood up, slashing the sharp metal straight across the side of Aemond’s face with a sickening squelch. Blade slicing flesh.

Blood splattered everywhere. All over Luke’s hands, over the dagger, over the sand.

A scream erupted from Aemond’s lungs as he clutched his maimed face with his hands, falling to his knees.

Drip, drip, drip. The blood dripped through the cracks between his fingers.

You rushed forward to the Prince out of pure instinct, grabbing his shoulders and cupping the uninjured side of his face, your breathing staggered and rapid. All the hatred you’d felt for him—all the anger, the rage, the frustration—flew right out the window at the sight of him hurt so badly.

“Aemond!” you cried. The blood was too much—pouring down his tunic, onto your own sleepwear, staining your skin.

“Cease this at once!” bellowed a voice from behind you. “Get away!” 

Criston Cole ripped you away from Aemond, under the impression that you were the one that was hurting him, kneeling beside the Prince.

You began to hyperventilate, scrambling back until you hit the wall. Blood on your hands, under your nails, dampening your clothes—

Someone, you weren’t quite sure who, hauled you up, dragging you through the castle, Jace and Luke in tow.

Everyone was gathered into a large room. A maester was stitching up Aemond’s wound by the fireplace, Alicent knelt by her beloved son’s side. You stood by Jace and Luke, trembling viciously and eyes warbling with unshed tears.

“How could you allow such a thing to happen?” King Viserys asked the guards, voice cross and brows furrowed.

“The princes were supposed to be abed. Prince Aemond was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace,” replied Criston.

With a snarl, Viserys hobbled onto his feet, leaning his weight onto a cane. “You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!” 

“The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes—” began Criston.

“That is no answer!” yelled the King.

Worriedly, Alicent asked, “It will heal, will it not, maester?”

Hesitant, the maester pursed his lips. “The flesh will heal. But the eye is lost, Your Grace.”

Alicent’s expression seemed to fall at his words. She rounded to her eldest son, who stood behind her, not caring nearly enough for his brother who’d just lost his eye.

“And where were you?” screeched Alicent, rising to her feet.

“Me?” said Aegon, flabbergasted at the attention suddenly being on him.

A smack rang loud and true throughout the room as Alicent struck him across the face. 

Crying out, Aegon shrunk away from his mother. “Ow! What was that for?”

“That was nothing compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool!” she hissed. 

Just then, the doors swung open, and Corlys Velaryon strode into the room, his wife Rhaenys just behind him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, voice booming. 

“Baela, Rhaena!” gasped Rhaenys. “What happened?”

The girls rushed to their grandmother.

Rhaenyra hastily came through a different set of doors, Daemon hot on her heels. Upon seeing her sons, she hurried towards them, immediately kneeling down beside Luke.

“Show me,” she told him, gently prying his hand away from his nose to inspect the damage.

A tear slipped down your cheek. The Velaryon girls had their grandparents. Jace and Luke had their mother. Aemond had his mother, as well as his siblings.

You… who did you have to comfort you? Harwin was gone. Your mother was gone. Your father was gone.

Your lips trembled. Never before had you wished to just disappear from the face of the world. 

“Who did this?” barked Rhaenyra. 

“They attacked me!” said Aemond.

“He attacked Baela!”

“He broke Luke’s nose!”

“He stole my mother’s dragon!”

The kids all began throwing accusations, their combined voices drowning each other out. Your head began to throb with their volume. You glanced at your dear friend Helaena, who put her hands over her ears to block out the noise.

“Enough,” ordered the King.

Nobody listened.

“He was gonna kill Jace!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Enough!” said the King.

Again, nobody listened.

“It should be my son telling the tale!” Alicent yelled.

“He was choking me!”

“He called us—!”

“SILENCE!” bellowed Viserys, knocking his cane against the ground repeatedly. The crowd fell into a lulled murmur. “Aemond. I will have the truth of what happened. Now.”

Brows furrowed, Alicent shook her head, auburn curls flying every which way. “What else is there to hear? Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw clenched. “It was a regrettable accident.”

“Accident?” scoffed Alicent. “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son!”

Voice raising, Rhaenyra defended, “It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves. Vile insults were levied against them!” 

Viserys tilted his head. “What insults?”

A beat of silence. 

Rhaenyra gripped Luke’s hand in hers. “The legitimacy of my sons’ birth was put loudly to question.”

“He called us bastards,” Jacaerys said.

“My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra told her father. “This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders.”

Alicent’s fists clenched by her side. “Over an insult? My son has lost an eye.”

Viserys leaned down closer to Aemond. “You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?” 

Desperate to place the blame away from her son, Alicent cut in, “The insult was training yard bluster, nothing more—”

“Aemond,” Viserys sharply said, ignoring his wife. “I asked you a question.”

Aemond remained silent.

“Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? The boys’ father?” asked Alicent. “Perhaps he might have something to say in the matter.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw twitched with muted anger. “I do not know, Your Grace. I… could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk.”

Alicent huffed. “Entertaining his young squires, I would venture.”

Criston cracked an amused smile at her words.

“Aemond,” said Viserys. “Look at me. Your King demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”

The young Prince swallowed heavily. “It was Aegon,” he reluctantly said.

“Me?” parroted Aegon.

“Where did you hear such calumnies?” snarled Viserys to his eldest son. When Aegon refused to answer, he yelled out loud enough for you to flinch, “AEGON! Tell me the truth of it!”

The silver-haired prince refused to meet the King’s eyes. 

“We know, father,” he said. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

A tense silence folded over the crowd, only stifled by the flames of the hearth crackling. You shifted uncomfortably, stuck in the middle between Rhaenyra’s side—the side that you grew up with, the side you loved so dearly—and Alicent’s side—the side of the sweet Princess Helaena, and the Prince Aemond who’d just lost his eye. The side of your only brother left, Larys Strong. You felt stretched thin—uncertain of what to think of yourself.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” bellowed Viserys. “All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to each other. Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it!” 

Thinking the matter over and done with, Viserys began to hobble away.

Alicent’s words stopped him in his tracks.

“That is insufficient,” she said. A thin film of tears reflected the golden light of the torches hanging on the walls. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, My King. Good will cannot make him whole.”

“I know, Alicent,” Viserys placated, “but I cannot restore his eye.”

“No, because it’s been taken!”

Viserys shook his head. “What would you have me do?”

Alicent casted her gaze to Rhaenyra. “There is a debt to be paid. I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.” 

Gasps murmured through the crowd. You drew in a shaky breath, shuffling closer to Rhaenyra and her sons, until you practically stood in front of Luke. He was your friend—your kin—and you would be damned if you were to let anyone touch him.

“My dear wife…” began Viserys.

“He is your son, Viserys!” Alicent pleaded, her voice thick with emotion. “Your blood.”

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgement,” he warned. 

Frustrated beyond relief, Alicent gnashed her teeth together and said, “If the King will not see justice, the Queen will. Ser Criston… bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”

Scared, Luke grabbed onto the back of your sleeping shift, looking up at his mother with frightened eyes.

“He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son!” she gritted out.

“You will do no such thing!” hissed Rhaenyra.

Turning to Criston, Viserys ordered, “Stay your hand!”

“No, you are sworn to me!” asserted Alicent. 

Cole’s eyes darted from the Queen, to the King, to Rhaenyra. “As your protector, My Queen,” he softly said.

“Alicent, this matter is finished,” Viserys said, voice heavy with finality. “Do you understand?”

A tear fell from Alicent’s cold eyes. 

“Let it be known,” the King began, addressing the entire crowd this time, “anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons should have it removed.”

Blowing out a relieved exhale, Rhaenyra dipped her head. “Thank you, father.”

With sudden movements, Alicent unsheathed Viserys’ dagger from his belt and marched towards Rhaenyra and her sons.

Instinctively, you grabbed Luke and dragged him further back, shielding his body with your own. Luke began screaming out of fear when Alicent brought down the blade onto his mother, only barely held back by Rhaenyra’s hand wrapping around her wrist. 

The crowd erupted in pandemonium, with guards frantically pushing each other back, not knowing who to defend. The king’s wife, or the king’s daughter and heir? Daemon came forward to stop Criston in his tracks. You tightly held onto Luke, eyes wide and heart beating frantically.

“You’ve gone too far!” Rhaenyra told the Queen.

“I?” Alicent’s voice trembled. The blade was held between them, shaking and glowing with the reflections of the hearth’s fire. “What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law! While you flout all to do as you please!”

“Alicent, let her go!” commanded Viserys.

They both ignored him. 

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?” cried Alicent. “It’s trampled under your pretty foot again!”

For the first time since everyone was gathered, her father, Otto Hightower, the new King’s Hand, said, “Release the blade, Alicent.”

“And now you take my son’s eye, and to even that, you feel entitled!” said Alicent.

“Exhausting, wasn’t it?” replied Rhaenyra. “Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness! But now they see you as you are.” 

With a yell, Alicent brought down her blade and staggered back. Its sharp edge had cut through the fabric of Rhaenyra’s sleeve, carving a deep gash across the inside of her forearm.

Blood. Dripping. Thick. Red.

Luke gripped your hand tightly. The dagger in Alicent’s palm fell to the ground.

Rising from the chair, you got a good look at Aemond's wound for the first time since you entered.

It was swollen and red, the stitches extending from the top of his forehead to the side of his ear. Your heart ached—whether it was for Aemond, for Jace and Luke, or for Rhaenyra, you couldn’t at all tell.

“Do not mourn me, mother,” said Aemond. “It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye… but I gained a dragon.”

Viserys blew out a shaking breath. He was tired, and his body grew weary. “This proceeding is at an end.”

With that, the crowd began to disperse. You let Luke go, and he went rushing forth to his mother. 

You watched as Aemond leaned his head on his mother’s chest. 

A guard began ushering you out of the room and back to your chambers before you had the chance to tell him that you were sorry.

Barely a moon after Laena Velaryon’s funeral, Aegon and Helaena were getting married. It was held in haste, most likely to distract the court from the incident at Driftmark—give them something else to talk about for a change.

You sat in Helaena’s chambers as her ladies fussed over her, pulling the strings of her ivory dress, tying her hair into intricate knots, and applying rouge to her cheeks and lips. It was a much more elaborate process than what your own lady-in-waiting had done to you—all you had was a simple, ocean-hued dress with intricate patterns of deep green running down the length of the fabric. Your hair was pinned away from your face and a chain of silver pearls rested against your sternum. Though it was nice to wear such pretty things, you couldn’t help but feel as if you were just playing dress up—as if these clothes didn’t actually belong to you, like you were donning a charade for the night.

Whilst you were only nine, your name day having passed quietly a few moons ago, Helaena was at the ripe age of ten-and-three—she was barely of age to be married off—to her vile older brother, no less, but Alicent had insisted.

The young Princess’ eyes were clouded over, as if her mind was far, far away. She might’ve been here with you physically, but her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

“Three silver eggs, twisting, twisting, twisting… the blood curdles, the milk dries,” she murmured as the handmaidens finished with their final touches. Once they were done, they bowed their heads and left Helaena’s chambers. 

You moved closer to her, your fingers grazing over her the smooth green-gold cloth on her shoulder. 

“Helaena,” you whispered, heart aching for her. “I’m sorry. I wish I could whisk you away, keep you from the abomination that is your brother. If only I had a large dragon of my own to carry you off onto.”

“You will have a dragon,” she said absentmindedly. It didn’t slip your notice that she had completely disregarded the mention of her wedding, as if pushing it far and distant into the back of her mind. Perhaps if she didn’t think about it, the pain wouldn’t sting as much. 

Helaena was not one to jest, but you waved away her words as if she had.

“If… if you need me to do something—anything, Helaena, I can’t just stand by and watch you suffer. It is not honorable. You deserve someone kind and loving… Aegon is not capable of granting you such luxuries.” It was as if you were pleading with her to say something—to try and stop this accursed union. In truth, you knew that you were powerless against the might of Alicent and her loyal subjects.

You were nobody. You were well aware of that fact.

But as of that very second, you would’ve gone to the ends of the earth for the sweet, cloudy-eyed Princess.

She fixed you with a fond gaze, though still far away. 

“A dragon cannot hide the same way a butterfly can,” she whispered.

The corner of your eyes pricked with tears. “Princess, please—”

Before you could continue, the door to Helaena’s chambers swung open, and Alicent swiftly hurried in. You stepped away from your friend to give the Queen space to fuss over her. 

It was time for the wedding.

The ceremony started with the septon reciting prayers, so lengthy and repetitive that your eyes drooped with the silent threat of sleep. Aegon stood beside the septon, shoulders slumped and muffling yawns every other minute. 

Once the septon had finally wrapped up, the grand doors of the Sept swung open, and King Viserys walked in with Helaena on his left side. He parted with a gentle kiss to his second daughter’s forehead. It was no secret that Viserys very obviously favored his eldest child, Rhaenyra, but out of the four others, he had a certain muted soft spot for Helaena and her strange mysticism. You would’ve been surprised if he even remembered Aemond and Daeron’s names.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” The septon’s voice rang clear and true, echoing loudly in your head.

Looking none too pleased, Aegon all but threw the cloak over Helaena’s smaller frame, the Targaryen sigil seeming distorted from where you were standing.

“My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of the gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

Now and forever.

Your heart fell lower to your stomach.

The septon tied a knot with red ribbon around their joined hands—Aegon angrily holding onto her palm while hers was limp in his grasp.  

“Let it be known that Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, and Helaena Targaryen, are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”

With one tug, the red ribbon between them unraveled. 

The Princess bore no emotion as she began to speak in unison with Aegon, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

A lie. Aegon would never be Helaena’s.

You let your gaze travel to Alicent at the side, wiping a tear from her eyes. Anger bubbled within your chest. Right beside her was Aemond, a leather eyepatch fixed over his injury. His face betrayed no expression.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Aegon said emotionlessly, as if he were reading from an invisible script. He held Helaena’s face and planted a quick kiss on her lips. The two turned to the audience, who burst into raucous applause.

You did not clap.

The wedding feast following the ceremony was, expectedly, large and extravagant. Lords and ladies from all over the realm milled about as they ate and chattered and danced to the music. 

Helaena sat beside Aegon on the longtable, refusing to eat any of her pigeon pie, repeatedly poking holes through the chunks of meat with the prongs of the fork. Her brother—now husband—had refused to lead the first dance with her, instead choosing to crossly slump into his chair and knock back chalice after chalice of spiced wine. 

With little appetite to eat, you had taken to ghost around the expansive room, head abuzz with thoughts of Rhaenyra, Jace and Luke. A few lords had halted you in your tracks, asking for a dance, but you’d politely declined them all. You hardly paid attention during dancing lessons with the Septa and you were sure you’d trip over your own feet and make a fool of yourself. That, and you were in no mood to dance with lords thrice your age.

During your fourth cycle around the large room, bored out of your mind, you felt someone’s stare burning a hole into the back of your neck.

Aemond Targaryen. 

He was looking straight at you, unabashedly.

Memories of his blood on your hands flashed through your mind. You ripped your gaze away. 

Suddenly feeling sick, you hurriedly wove through the packed room, murmuring apologies when you accidentally trod over a few unsuspecting feet, and rushed out of the hall, just about fleeing to your chambers.

As soon as you shut the doors behind you, you began to sob uncontrollably, sliding down the wood and burying your tearful face between your knees.

The next morning, you felt terrible for leaving the feast early, and consequently, Helaena alone, as she suffered through the trauma of the bedding ceremony. The ladies of the court gossipped between bouts of laughter as they recounted Helaena’s fearful face when men began tearing at her clothes and carrying her off to Aegon’s chambers.

It was said that Helaena’s pained cries could be heard echoing across the Keep for the first few minutes, until she fell utterly silent. The creaking of the bed, however, didn’t cease for the rest of the night.

The gardens smelled of fresh morning dew and sweet clementines. You walked alongside Helaena, her hand softly resting in the crook of your arm as she dreamily chattered about how she once found a ladybug with no spots eating a small spider in under five minutes. It’d been nearly two weeks since she was wed, and she often hastily changed the subject to something else whenever you tried to bring the matter up.

“The poor spider,” you said, stopping to admire a bush of white roses. “But I suppose a ladybug must eat.”

“Yes,” Helaena hummed in agreement. 

The rest of your walk was comfortably silent when you led her to a shaded spot beneath the fruit trees, where you had a blanket laid out beforehand. 

A small millipede crawled out from the grass onto the blanket, and Helaena smiled at the critter, holding her hands out to let it climb onto her awaiting palms. The princess watched it snake along her skin with her earnest purple eyes.

“People often confuse millipedes with centipedes,” she explained. “Centipedes have one pair of legs for each body segment. Millipedes have two.”

The millipede scuttled down her fingers as she set it back down on the ground.

You blew out a pleased sigh, turning your head up to the sky and shutting your eyes, letting yourself bask in the warmth of the late morning sun. 

“You are a fascinating person indeed, Helaena,” you told her, a laugh to your tone. “No other in the entirety of Westeros can speak of bug legs and make it interesting.”

The princess smiled, all wide and toothy. It fell the next moment when she began speaking again.

“I am with child, I think,” she whispered.

Startled at the sudden confession, you snapped your head her way, eyes wide, searching her face for any sign of insincerity. But again, Helaena was never one to jest.

You gathered her hands between yours. “Are you certain, my Princess?”

Grey seemed to cloud over her vision. “Quite. I saw it in my dreams. Two pairs of legs for each body segment.”

Your brows furrowed. Was she speaking of babies or of millipedes?

Blinking in confusion, you shook your head, allowing for a small, fond smile to replace your miffed expression. “You will make a wonderful mother, Helaena. I’m sure of it. I will be there for you every step of the way.” 

Wary that she wasn’t too keen on prolonged physical touch, you loosely tugged her into an embrace. She smelled of honey cakes and rich soil. Her cheek rested against your shoulder and she shut her eyes, grateful for your friendship. 

“Two pairs of legs for each body segment,” she mumbled again, voice low. “A millipede regrows limbs that are cut off. A dragon cannot.”

Training without Harwin proved to be a challenge on its own—but you were nothing if not determined. 

You often snuck out to a secluded part of the yard when the pale moon was high in the sky and the sun had hours until it was due to rise. At first, you weren’t entirely sure how to go about teaching yourself how to fight. But you worked on honing the same skills Harwin had taught you for three years. Speed, agility, accuracy, strength—all were important. Though, not as important as keeping a sharp mind. 

You frequented the library often, reading voluminous tomes on the history of blades and the art of battle. The faded words on the parchment told you secrets to fighting that you had a feeling not even the most seasoned of knights knew. One that had certainly caught your attention was the fact that there were certain points in a man’s body you could strike that would render them temporarily paralyzed. You wished you had an excess of detestable men lying around to practice your newfound knowledge on.

As Aegon and Aemond continued their sparring with Ser Criston Cole, you watched from the shadows, observing their technique and creating mental notes on their habitual weaknesses. Ever since Aemond had lost his eye, he worked twice as hard to better himself. He wasn’t going to let the loss of an eye hinder him from becoming a warrior.

But that didn’t make him invincible. Aemond was still greatly disadvantaged with such a large part of his peripheral vision gone.

It wasn’t until a few moons later, when you were ten and Aemond was twelve, did he confront you again. 

You were testing the accuracy of your knife-throwing, two small blades you had nicked from the armory gripped in your hands. Pulling your hand back, you narrowed your eyes at the target, and let it fly forward. It sank into the ringed wood with a dull thud, but had veered slightly off course when you released, resulting in a less-than-satisfactory result. 

With a frustrated huff, you tried again, this time changing the way you had thrown it. 

The blade whistled as it carved through the air, but strayed even farther from the center. 

Before you could react to your disappointing performance, a voice resounded from right beside you, making you let out a small shriek and flinch away with surprise.

It was the Prince. 

“You’re holding the knife wrong,” he said, voice not unkind, single eye observing your defensive stance. In three strides, he tugged the blades out of the wood, making his way back to you. “You use your thumb to neutralize the blade’s rotation. Like this.”

He demonstrated, and you watched in silence. 

When he returned the blades back to you, you attempted to mimic what he had shown, glancing up at him for approval.

“Move your grip lower,” he said, lifting his hands to gently shift the knife in your palm. His touch was cold, but you didn’t quite mind. 

“Thank you, my Prince.” Your voice was but a hoarse whisper. Aemond nodded once, stepping back to give you space to try again.

This time, when you flung it to the target, it was far closer to the center, only barely grazing the white marker of the inner circle.

You grinned, proud of the drastic improvement. 

“I’ve seen you sneak out to train nearly every night by now. Why?” the silver-haired boy asked, almost suspiciously. He didn’t forget the way you had shoved him just before he lost his eye. 

The memory of Harwin telling you that you had to be prepared for a real fight briefly flashed in the back of your mind. You swallowed down the lump in your throat.

“I want to be ready,” you replied, pointedly avoiding his burning stare. You thought back to Helaena’s wedding, when he hadn’t taken his gaze off of you the entire night. 

“What are you readying yourself for?”

Squaring your jaw and straightening your posture, you quietly told the one-eyed prince, “Life is unfair, Aemond. I am merely preparing to balance the scales.”

Before he could think of a response to your cryptic words, a rivulet of electrifying pain struck his empty eye socket behind the patch, ricocheting into waves throughout the rest of his skull. Aemond let out a soft cry as he doubled over in agony, hands flying to his face. It reminded you eerily of when Luke had first slashed the eye out, a memory that haunted your nightmares far more often than it should have. 

Panicked, you shuffled closer to him, one of your hands grazing his back, unsure of what to do.

“Aemond! Are you alright? Should I summon the maester?” you hurriedly queried, feet already moving away, getting ready to dash off as you waited for his answer. 

“No,” he gritted out through the pain, glancing up at you with his features twisted with misery. It was humiliating—Aemond felt ashamed of himself for showing his pain, for revealing a crack through his usually stoic demeanor. He felt ugly. He felt vile. He felt weak. 

A restless protest was on the tip of your tongue. “My Prince, you’re clearly hurting, please—”

“No!” he repeated himself, a sharp edge of finality to his tone. “They’ll just give me more milk of the poppy—!” 

Again, he doubled over, a muted roar rumbling within his chest. Not knowing what else to do, you clutched his shoulders, eyes frantically searching his single one. 

After a second, Aemond seemed to snap back into his senses, flinching from your touch and just about ripping himself away from you. Mortification flooded his quickly-paling features. He turned on his heel and ran off without another word.

Plumes of dust flew up from the covers of the heavy book when you set it down on a table. Grimacing and waving a hand in front of your face, you flipped the tome open. It was an old, lengthy volume on medicinal alchemy—a genre that you seldom read and knew little to nothing about. 

But for Aemond, you supposed you’d give it a shot.

The chapter you began to read was on remedies for severe wounds, such as fallen limbs or shattered bones. You were learning far too much about the grotesque nature of the human body than you had initially bargained for. Illustrations of cauterizations, sanitizations, and all sorts of diagrams of nude men filled the large pages. For your young eyes, you couldn’t quite comprehend most of what you were seeing. 

However, once you fell upon the optics chapter, you perked up, reading through the small text word by word. You were hoping that by reading more about problems with the eye, you’d be able to help Aemond out with his pain in some way. If there even was a way.

And as you read on, you found a small section on the near-magical works of a plant native to Dorne—a Sabar root. It was said to be all-curing and was often used to heal outer wounds. The footnote even detailed historical accounts of the root’s juices restoring the vision of those born blind. Though you doubted that to be true, you couldn’t help but hold onto the hope that it could help Aemond with the pain, even just a little bit.

You scampered out of the library with the thick book clutched to your chest, hurrying down the Red Keep’s stairs, scrambling towards the rookery, where they kept the messenger ravens. Beneath the rookery was where the Grand Maester resided.

You were but a small thing compared to the large wooden slab of a door. Knocking thrice, the door creaked open not two seconds later, revealing Maester Mellos, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Lady Strong…? What are you doing here? The hour is late, child, you should be in bed!” he scolded, fixing you with a narrowed gaze.

You shoved the book up into his face, a pleading expression on your face. “Maester Mellos, I have found something that might help Aemond’s condition!”

“Condition…?” he began, looking startled. It was late at night, and a ten year old was at his doorstep proposing a remedy to an issue he hadn’t even known existed. To his knowledge, Prince Aemond was healing just fine and had little to no complications since he had taken the stitches out. “Forgive me, my Lady, but I am rather busy at the moment and would really prefer to have this conversation with you when the sun rises. Sleep well, Lady Strong.”

Before you could get another word in, the large door croaked shut in your face, and you were left staring at the dark wood. With a dejected huff, you turned and marched straight back into the Keep. Up the stairs you climbed, arms growing weary with how long you’d been lugging around the heavy tome. 

You came to a stop in front of Aemond’s chambers, right beside Princess Helaena’s old bedroom from before she was married to Aegon. A room you used to frequent to visit your dear friend, which resulted in several awkward, and silent passes with the Prince.

It didn’t occur to you just how improper this was—knocking on the door of the Prince in the dead of night when you should’ve been in your own chambers, fast asleep. But this was important, and you needed to let Aemond know since the Maester wouldn’t listen to a word you said.

The door barely opened, revealing only a small sliver of space, where Aemond peered through to check who it was. In his hand was a dagger he kept beneath his pillow in case of emergencies. His grip slackened when he saw you behind the door, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes fiery with determination. He opened the door slightly wider, both curious and confused as to what you were doing in front of his chambers at such a late time.

“Prince Aemond,” you breathlessly said. His gaze drew down to the large book you held, nearly larger than your small, ten-year-old form. “I found something that might help your pain. It’s a plant root that only grows in Dorne, you see, but I’m sure they can have some imported to King’s Landing upon your request. I believe it can be used to relieve you of your suffering.”

Shock dawned upon his features. You’d done all this research… for him? For an issue that he never spoke of to anyone? Even after he had rudely scampered away from you with his tail between his legs like a wounded hound? 

He struggled to find the right words. Should he thank you? Tell you he was sorry?

Instead, Aemond found himself saying, “Why are you doing this?”

A moment of silence. Outside the Keep, the winds howled with the threat of a coming storm.

“I told you,” you whispered to the Prince, features softening. “I’m balancing the scales.”

The months passed by in a blur. You corresponded with Jace and Luke in the form of letters via raven quite often, always visiting the rookery with a bright smile and an excited bounce to your step at the prospect of learning about the boys’ stay at Dragonstone. It seemed that Jacaerys was struggling with learning Valyrian, and little Luke was growing like a beanstalk. Princess Rhaenyra had already birthed two new sons on Dragonstone with her uncle-husband, Daemon—respectively named Aegon the Younger and Viserys, after the King. In his writings, Luke took care to detail that both babes had silver hair and purple eyes, traits that he and his elder brother both lacked. It was his way of saying that he knew you were his kin—his true blood.

They always signed off with a promise of visiting soon. 

Soon truly couldn’t come soon enough.

Your training continued as normal, and more often than not, Aemond would be there with you, offering tips and gentle words of advice. He was not strict in the way that Criston Cole was, leaving you the choice of whether to listen or not, taking no offense if you decided to forgo his teachings. The two of you sparsely spoke outside of that, but you sometimes caught his eye during mealtimes, in which you’d offer him a small, grateful smile. He didn’t return them, but would dip his head in acknowledgement instead.

Helaena’s belly grew large—larger than most pregnancies—and the maesters had concluded that she was bearing twins. It was shocking news, one that elated Alicent and Helaena to no end. This only sent you into a spiral of worry, however, knowing that births were but the gods’ dangerous gambles. Having twins only doubled the risk of complications during the labor.

Thankfully, when the time came around for Helaena to give birth, everything had gone smoothly with very few bumps in the road. She had begged you to stay by her side the entire time, and you were more than happy to comply. It filled you with a sense of pride that she asked you to be there with her over her own Queen mother. 

The first twin to come out was a screaming boy with tufts of silvery hair and large purple eyes. He was the spitting image of his father, and you could only pray that he wouldn’t turn out like him in the future. More interestingly, however, the little boy had six toes on each foot and six fingers on his left hand. The midwives had shrieked in partial-surprise, partial-disgust upon their discovery, but you had swept the boy into your awaiting arms, gently rocking him up and down with a wide grin. 

The second twin, a girl, came out mute. Your heart lurched in your chest—you had come out silent when you were a babe, as well. She was noticeably much smaller, and bore the same hair and eye color as her twin. Her features, however, matched that of Helaena’s, to your delight. The small girl was eased into Helaena’s arms, seeming perfectly healthy, other than the fact that she was strangely quiet. 

“You did so well, Helaena,” you told her, kneeling down by the birthing bed to show her her son. Your dear friend grinned tiredly, murmuring a quiet hello to her eldest child. “They’re beautiful.”

Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, their names were. You could already feel a protective love blossom inside of you, swearing to guard them with every fiber of your being. It occurred to you that this was what Harwin must’ve felt when you were born, though you were far younger than he had been.

The thought only had you clutching the wailing babe closer to your chest.

Helaena’s children grew at an exponential rate. The twins had quickly become your favorite part of the day—it was a rare sight to see you without one of the children clinging to your legs, or you without the Princess by your side. 

Little Jaehaerys was loud and boisterous, being the first to crawl, to speak, and to run. He was a strong little boy, but often cried when not given what he wanted. His sister, on the other hand, was always quiet and much less active. She often took to staring aimlessly at random points of the chambers instead of playing with her brother, purple eyes scarcely blinking. You loved both of them despite their drastically different personalities.

You were well into your eighteenth year when the babes had their eighth nameday. During the later half of those eight years, Helaena had fallen pregnant again, and had a third child—a son named Maelor. He was a large baby, with a head of pale white hair and eyes a darker shade of mauve than his older siblings.

“Jaehaerys, don’t be so rough with your brother!” you lightly scolded when the boy began yanking at his baby brother’s cheeks with no restrain. A laugh slipped past your lips as you held Maelor out of his reach, which made Jaehaerys whine, as if you had taken away his most favorite playtoy. Helaena, sitting on the chaise on the other side of the room, glanced away from her embroidery to smile at her children, before returning her gaze back down to the needle and thread. Jaehaera sat beside her mother, staring into the fire with her lips parted.

Both you and Jaehaerys began playing a game of chase, where he was a fierce and mighty dragon whilst you enacted the role of a helpless knight. You had set down Maelor into his crib, where he suckled on a milk-soaked cloth.

The little boy roared, his face scrunching up with the action, before sprinting after you with outstretched hands. You were fast on your feet as you scampered away from him, but decided to slow down and let the little boy catch up to you, knowing he’d burst into tears if the game had gone on for too long without him winning. You shrieked in surprise when he grabbed at the ends of your tunic, yanking hard and yelling, “Dracarys, dracarys! I got you!”

“Indeed, you have,” you told the little boy, bending down to sweep him up into your arms with a grin.

From afar, Aemond lurked in the shadows, watching you play with his sister’s children. He watched the way you smiled with them, the way you laughed, the way you pressed chaste kisses into their chubby cheeks. It surprised him to find an inkling of jealousy for his nephews—how they had so freely enraptured your affections, whilst he was offered very little of them. No bother—all things came with due time. Besides, Aemond was not yet ready to admit his growing feelings with you.

The two of you had become considerably close over the past few years. You often frequented the library with him, the two of you sitting in comfortable silence as you read together. You trained together, dined together, and took walks together. Hardly a day ever passed by without you spending some time with the young prince.

Aemond would scarcely speak when he was with you, preferring to listen to you instead. The times he did speak, it was quiet and thoughtful and rife with endearment. It was no secret that Aemond was growing quite fond of the youngest Strong. 

A tourney was held in honor of the twins’ eighth nameday.

You sat beside Helaena in the high platforms on the elongated arena, hands twisting in your lap. Tourneys usually bored you to no end—watching men hurt themselves over little else than theatrical show and bragging rights was not something you were very keen on. It felt like a waste of time to you—you’d much rather be reading, or writing to Luke and Jace, or playing with the twins. To your other side was Prince Aemond, looking equally disinterested in the event. You couldn’t help but notice his long fingers tapping impatiently against his knee, as if he were itching to leave. His older brother Aegon was nowhere to be seen, most likely somewhere in the bowels of the Street of Silk. 

Round after round of jousting went by, until Harley Piper—a young, handsome lord with soft ginger curls and bright green eyes and freckled, sun-kissed skin, urged his horse closer to the platform, gaze trained on you. Draped over his armor were the colors of House Piper—gentle pink and silken white against a striking shade of blue.

“Might I be honored with your favor, my lady?” he asked, voice sweet and mellifluous.

At first, you’d thought that he had been speaking to Princess Helaena, finding it rather odd for him to ask a married woman for her favor. But when she made no move to hand him a favor, it dawned on you that he was asking you. Flustered, having never really received any sort of romantic attention before, you rose to your feet and dropped a crown of woven flowers down his long jousting lance.

You noted with muted curiosity that Aemond’s tapping fingers had curled into a tight fist.

Off Harley Piper went with your favor swaying by the lance’s handle, the metal grating of his helmet pulled down over his grinning features. You found yourself holding your breath as his joust began against another knight you couldn’t care to know the name of, eyes intently following his movements. 

The crowd burst into raucous applause when the nameless knight easily unseated the young man—Harley flew off his horse with a grunt. They proceeded into hand-to-hand combat, where the larger knight leapt off his horse, grabbed a mace and swung it straight at Harley. A gasp lodged in your throat when the young man was struck cleanly in the back with a sickening thud, and he crumpled to the ground.

“I yield!” relented Harley, raising a hand.

From beside you, a ghost of a leering smile appeared on Aemond’s lips.

It disappeared when Harley struggled back onto his feet, clapping his opponent on the shoulder good-naturedly, and began limping back to your direction. You subconsciously straightened your spine, which made Helaena hide a knowing grin behind her hand.

“I’ve dishonored you, my lady,” winced the man with a head of flames. “A beauty such as yours deserves much better than I.”

“Nonsense, Lord Piper,” you replied, finding his humility rather endearing. “You are more than enough.”

Aemond’s shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched at your words. You didn’t spare him a glance.

Harley Piper beamed, as bright as the sun, bowing his head before you. “I shall take my leave, Lady Strong. Perhaps I’ll see you at supper?”

Before you could reply, Aemond coldly spat out, “I’m afraid Lady Strong will be dining with me tonight, Lord Piper. Take your leave.”

Shocked at his sudden hostility, you swung an incredulous, confused glare at the prince. Harley, equally bewildered, glanced between the two of you with narrowed lids, before bowing his head and striding away. 

“Aemond, what the seven hells was that about?” you hissed, hand reaching out to grasp his forearm. His one eye darted between your touch and your furious expression—how you managed to become even more beautiful whilst angry was beyond him. “I liked him.”

The prince scoffed. “You have poor taste.”

“I thought he was sweet!”

“He lost his joust in a matter of minutes.”

“Losing a joust is nothing but a temporary blemish to one’s ego. Perhaps you could do with losing something, for a change,” you retorted, nose wrinkling at him.

The purple of his eye seemed to darken. “Mind your tongue, Strong,” he murmured, voice low. It didn’t slip your notice when he briefly glanced at your lips, parted and raw-bitten.

“Or what?” you shot back, leaning closer to him until your nose was but a hair’s breadth from his. “Will you take it from me? Will you take my tongue, My Prince?”

Before he could reply, Helaena cleared her throat, announcing that she would like to retire to her chambers. The noise was starting to get overwhelming for her. You practically ripped yourself out of your chair, eager to put some well-needed distance between yourself and the one-eyed prince. The skin on your cheeks and neck burned with heat—whether it was from Harley’s unadulterated attention, or from Aemond’s prickly behavior, you couldn’t quite tell.

His gaze burned into the back of your head as you left the arena to return into the Red Keep.

Larys Strong’s cane knocked against the uneven stone floor with each lurching step he took. The Master of Whisperers hobbled up to the Queen’s side, where she stood in front of the Weirwood tree, reminiscing her now long-ago childhood with Rhaenyra.

Hearing the echoing stamps of his cane, Alicent dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Lord Strong. Any word of Rhaenyra?”

There was an eerie smile to Larys’ face that didn’t quite reach his dark irises. “My sources tell me she has fallen pregnant again. Her third child with Daemon.”

A scowl flitted across Alicent’s wary features. “Certainly hasn’t wasted any time, I see.”

Larys spared her no response, merely humming thoughtfully.

The Queen gave him a sidelong glance, hastily deciding to change the subject. “Word has it your sister has taken an interest in the young Piper boy during a tourney.”

This time, it was Larys’ turn to frown. “Y/N is young and impressionable. She will take a liking to anyone who spares her an inkling of attention.”

Alicent tilted her head. “My children are rather fond of her—for reasons unbeknownst to me.”

“Hm. Indeed.” The Queen’s words seemed to get the cogs in Larys’ brain churning. “I am the Lord of Harrenhal—and I will sire no children. Harrenhal will go to Y/N once I have passed. Marriages are of political currency, these days, Your Grace.”

Eyebrows cinched, Alicent turned to fully face the man. “What is it you are speaking of, Larys?”

“I am suggesting… a marriage of alliance. Between my young sister and your second son, Aemond. They are already quite fond of each other, as you have mentioned before. This will do good for not only them, but the both of us and our houses, as well. Once I pass, Harrenhal will go to Y/N and Aemond and any of their children they have together. If a civil war breaks out… Harrenhal would be sworn to Aemond—and thereby you, as well, Your Grace. Not Rhaenyra.”

Shock colored the Queen’s expression. For years, she had been trying to figure out the entire picture behind Larys Strong, and his true intentions. He hated Rhaenyra so much for dishonoring his house that he had murdered his own family for it to gain inheritance of Harrenhal. And now he was willing to bargain away his young sister, practically Rhaenyra’s daughter, to Alicent’s son.

A sick feeling twisted within Alicent’s gut.

She considered the thought of Aemond marrying you. The two of you were together more often than not, anyway, and you were her daughter’s best and only friend. Not only that, but the political advantage of having Harrenhal truly backed to her family’s side was something she just couldn’t pass up, no matter how vile it made her feel.

“That is a splendid proposal, Lord Strong. I shall inform the King and my son with haste,” she told him, lips pursed.

A twisted grin etched into the corner of his mouth. “And I will break the wonderful news to my sweet sister. Good night, My Queen. I shall see you on the morrow.”

Alicent watched as Larys began limping away. It was only until his figure disappeared into the Keep’s walls that she buried her tired face into her hands.

When you were younger, Larys was but a scarce figure in your life. You practically only knew of him by word of mouth—he was only your family in blood and name—he certainly didn’t feel like your brother. Not in the same way that Harwin did, at least. 

As you grew older, however, you began to notice Larys always lurking in the shadows, watching your every move like a vulture would a rotting carcass. Your second brother bore no love for you, that was glaringly obvious. Instead, he saw you as a pawn in his little game of thrones—a piece of the board he owned and was free to move around as he wished.

The Clubfoot leaned his weight on his cane as he studied you reshelving around half a dozen books you had borrowed from the library.

“Sweet sister,” he crooned, roping your attention away from the fraying spines of the tomes.

A disgusted shiver spidered down your form.

“What is it, Larys?” you sighed, already wanting the conversation to be over and done with. Later that night, you had planned to take the twins stargazing from the Keep's highest tower with Helaena, and you were hoping to squeeze in a quick bath before doing so. “I’m busy.”

“As you often are,” your older brother glibly murmured. “Forgive me for being so brazen… I couldn’t help but notice how close you and the young Prince Aemond have become.”

You blinked, the sudden mention of Aemond taking you by surprise. A pregnant silence fell over the both of you, heavy and tense. You were stiff as you waited for him to continue, but Larys was as relaxed as ever, a coy grin playing at the corner of his lips.

“You are ten-and-eight years old. Prince Aemond is twenty. Both of you have been of age to marry for quite some time. I have arranged a betrothal for you, Y/N.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

“What?” you whispered, taking half a step back. “Larys… what did you do?”

The shelves seemed too close together, and you found the air within your throat thinning away. You fixed your brother with an incredulous glare, heated with the fire of a thousand summers. 

“The Queen has agreed to this—you will be wed to Aemond Targaryen. The Strong bloodline will continue on through you and the Prince.”

“No…” you whispered, a sharp, betrayed edge to your tone. “How dare you? How dare you do this to me?” 

The calm, nonchalant expression on your brother’s features remained unchanged. “I am helping you, dear sister. You are fond of Aemond—you cannot deny this, for it would be a plain lie. He is a prince—this is the best sort of marriage you can possibly get.”

“I am no sister of yours,” you spat, lurching forward to shove him back, caught up in a fit of rage. All you could see was red. Larys stumbled into a bookshelf, yet still appeared unfazed. “You took away my choice to marry whomever I wished. My freedom. When I asked—no, I begged—to return to Harrenhal to mourn Harwin and father, you simply brushed me to the side as if I were dirt on your shoe! All these years, and you’ve hardly acknowledged me as a person, much less your family! And now you… you use me for your political gain—to appease the Queen you are so desperate for, to further drive me away from Rhaenyra… you are vile, Larys. You are everything Harwin is not. Your very existence is a filthy stain on the memory of our family… of House Strong!”

The space between the two of you crackled as you stared at him, chest rising and falling in staggered motions from your anger-fueled tirade. 

“Aemond will treat you well,” was all Larys said, completely disregarding your harsh words with not a care in the world. “The Queen has informed him of the arrangement… along with the King. There is no going back now, sister-mine.”

Rage clawed through your chest, scratching down your ribs and twisting within your lungs. With not another word, you stormed past him, your shoulder roughly knocking into his on your way out of the library.

You had been so angry that night, you completely forgot about your promise to Helaena and the twins, and they were left waiting in the towers for you for hours on end. Little Jaehaerys didn’t mind, occupying his time by chasing a moth and tripping over the edges of carpets, with his little sister staring at him with her large, unblinking gaze. 

The sky was starless that night.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

You spun around the hay-sewn dummy, driving your sword into its motionless form over and over again in rapid succession, until the dried wheat began to cave in beneath the force of your hits. The poor dummy was taking the brunt of your frustrations—with Larys, with the arranged marriage, with Aemond. Grunts of exertion rumbled from your lungs and cold beads of sweat dotted your hairline.

Sure, it could be worse, you had initially thought, trying your best to see the silver linings. But the more you thought about it—the idea of being tied down against your will to a Prince, almost permanently anchoring you to your wretched brother’s side…

That was no future for you. You deserved better than that.

Just as you lifted your sword to strike the dummy again, you could feel a familiar, infuriating stare burn into your skin. With precise movements, you pivoted on your heel and swung your sword around, slanting the sharp blade right up against Aemond’s throat. The cold metal kissed his skin, but didn’t press deep enough to draw blood. It was a threat of sorts. You’d been training for more than a decade of your life by now—and you were more than capable of knocking him onto his arse, just as you had all those years ago during your first spar with him.

The silver-haired prince cocked his head, single purple eye blazing with an unreadable intensity you couldn’t exactly place. Ever so slow, he raised both hands. 

A beat of silence. Somewhere in the distance, a raven cawed.

You lowered your sword. 

“Go away, Aemond,” you spat, tone heavy with betrayal.

Sensing this, he stayed rooted to his spot. “It is not I who arranged the marriage,” he whispered, in an almost conciliating manner. It hadn’t yet occurred to you that Aemond might’ve been just as upset as you were—after all, the choice had been taken away from him, as well.

You spared him no response, turning your back to him and raising your sword to stab the dummy once more.

His next words made you freeze. “I know not why you are so upset about this. Am I that detestable, Lady Strong? Or is it because you’ve already fallen in love with that oaf from House Piper? You do know that their sigil is one of a naked maiden, do you not? It is no wonder he lost his tourney so quickly.” 

With a choked yell, you rounded to face him again, lifting your sword and bringing it down with staggering speed. Aemond, however, had anticipated this, easily rolling to the side and grabbing a discarded sword from the yard’s ground, parrying away with ease. Unrelenting, you pulled back to land another blow on him. His sword met yours halfway, the blades singing against one another. You gritted your teeth, practically snarling at your betrothed. 

The hostility was quick to wane away the longer you stared at him. He was your friend—the boy you had grown so fond of over the course of the last half a decade. Your vision began to blur with unshed tears as you started to physically shake. A hot droplet meandered down your cheek. You let the sword fall limp in your grasp. 

Furious with yourself and embarrassed beyond relief, you swiped away the tears with the back of your palm, lifting your gaze to meet Aemond’s.

Something had changed within his features. It had softened considerably, pale and glowing beneath the moonlight. His lips were parted, as if deliberating between words and action.

He chose action.

With no warning, Prince Aemond surged forward, sword clattering to his feet as his hands came forth to cradle your face within his palms. His fingers were cold against the sweltering skin of your face, but neither of you cared. His nose bumped against yours, foreheads knocking into one another. Your eyes locked with his, intense and tumultuous and molten with yearning. His lips were but a hair’s breadth from yours—tantalizingly close. 

When you made no move to pull away, he kissed you. 

It was a desperate embrace, needy and clawing and furious. It made your heart lurch within your chest, your breath crystallized to the sides of your throat, your eyes wrenching shut. Aemond stepped even closer, chest pressed up against yours, his knee slotting between your legs in a way that made your neck flush with heat. The grip he had on your face tightened, as if he were ensuring that you were real.

This was real.

You just about melted into his touch, one of your hands lifting to hold onto his bicep, the other still clutching onto your sword, not daring to let go. 

It was only when his lips left yours for a second of air, did your eyes snap open, and the trance you had so easily fallen into began to thin away. 

You placed both palms on his chest and shoved the prince away, breathing heavily and eyes wild. Frustrated and so very conflicted about how you felt for him, you wiped the back of your mouth with your hand and shot him an offended look, before storming away angrily.

The sword clattered to the ground with your departure. Aemond found himself staring at his own warped reflection within the blade. He loathed what stared back at him—a taunting of his own tarnished image, and wrenched his gaze away.

He would talk to you on the morrow, he decided. For now, he would let you go, knowing full and well that he would not be able to find you even if he tried.

After all, a dragon cannot hide the same way a butterfly can.

Aemond didn’t talk to you the next day, or the day after that. The two of you didn’t speak to one another for weeks on end. You were quite good at hiding from him, always turning the corner and hurrying away when you could feel his attentive stare begin to blaze into you, or relocating your training to the darkest nooks and crannies of the Keep just so he wouldn’t be able to find you. Even Helaena and her three lovely children you adored so much had barely seen you as of late, because you knew that being around her would make it easier for Aemond to come and speak to you.

You hadn’t meant to avoid him for this long, you really hadn’t. By now, you’d expected the two of you to talk things out, clear the air between you, and return back to how the way things were before. But the more you waited, the more conflicted you became about the kiss and your own feelings for him, thus prolonging your inevitable confrontation with the Prince. 

The two of you had keenly noticed that the longer this game of silence had drawn out, the less it became one of true avoidance, and the more it grew to be like a round of cat-and-mouse. Sometimes, you’d even find yourself waiting in places you knew the prince would pass by, only to scurry away just as soon as he came. Aemond himself was enjoying watching you dance away from his grasp, just as much as he was frustrated with it. He’d get you eventually, he oft told himself. You’d come around.

Alicent had pushed back anything related to their wedding the sicker King Viserys grew—wanting to prioritize her husband’s health first and foremost above all else. It was yet another example of Aemond being pushed to the side in favor of another. 

Around you, however, he never felt second. Sure, you also loved Helaena and her children, but he did not feel as if they were competition for your affections. It was why he enjoyed drawing out this game of chase with you so much—having your attention constantly devoted entirely to him made his pride swell and a fire kindle within his lower abdomen. He wanted you more than ever before.

It was why the news of his nephews and his half-sister returning to King’s Landing to rebuttal the challenge to the heir of Driftmark soured his mood so badly. 

Upon their arrival, your game of chase had come to an end—effectively stealing away any and all of your addictive attention. He saw you far more often than before, but you hardly ever paid any mind to him, instead focusing on the plain-featured boys. 

It’d been nearly a decade since you last saw them. 

You were the only one to greet them when they arrived at King's Landing. It was a rather sad affair, with no one to welcome Rhaenyra and her sons but a young Strong—practically a nobody in a den of dragons. It was an insult on Alicent’s part—as if she were indirectly saying she had more important matters to attend to than Rhaenyra.

You didn’t quite care for their little rivalry—all you really wanted was to see your nephews. 

The boys had grown so big. It startled you to see that Jace was practically a man grown now, with a sharp face and eyes exactly the same as your late older brother, brown hair straight and neatly groomed. Luke, on the other hand, had softer features like that of Rhaenyra, but bore his true father’s nose and mouth, with a head of dark, messy curls. 

You ran forward to greet them, excitedly shouting their names with a permanent smile etched over your lips. Little Luke—you made a mental note not to call him that anymore, seeing as he was no longer little—was the first to embrace you, yelling your name and barreling forward to squeeze you into a hug so tight that all the air was pushed from your lungs. Jace was gentler with his approach, but you gripped onto him tightly all the same, pressing kisses to both of your nephew’s foreheads. Then, you kneeled down and took little Joffrey’s hand within yours, kissing his palm, and his chubby little cheeks. The little boy looked mildly confused as to who you were, since they’d left for Dragonstone when he was only but a tiny little baby. You stood back up to face the three of them.

“My, how you’ve grown,” you told the boys, patting Jace and Luke’s cheeks affectionately. “Feels like just yesterday we were little children together. I haven’t seen you since…”

Since Aemond lost his eye.

“You haven’t changed one bit,” commented Luke, a wide smile to his face. “It’s nice to see you, Y/N. We’ve missed you dearly on Dragonstone. Exchanging letters just isn’t the same.”

“It really isn’t,” you hummed in agreement. “But you’re here now—and I couldn’t be more happy.”

It was then that Rhaenyra and Daemon joined you, each holding a white-haired babe in their arms. They must’ve been Aegon and Viserys. Lips parting, you dipped your head in greeting, a bright, watery smile painting your complexion golden.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” you said.

“Oh, sweet girl,” she murmured, shaking her head and using her free hand to rope you into an embrace. “You’ve grown into a beautiful woman. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to watch you flourish into one.” Tears welled up in your eyes when she leaned forward and whispered into your ear, “Your brother Harwin would be so very proud of you.”

Your breath caught within your throat. “Thank you,” you told her, voice cracking with emotion. The purple of her eyes gleamed with gentle affection. You glanced, down eyes widening upon seeing her swollen belly. “Congratulations, Your Grace. Let’s hope the next one is a girl. You’ve had enough sons as it is.”

Your words made Rhaenyra huff out an amused laugh. “Yes, a daughter would be lovely. Though, you’ve filled that position for long enough, I would be happy with yet another son.”

A bright beam pulled your lips impossibly wider. After a few more minutes of exchanging pleasantries and catching up, you said hello to little Aegon and Viserys, before urging them into the Keep, not wanting to keep them waiting after such a long journey. Luke had talked your ear off about how he had puked thrice over the side of the ship from his relentless seasickness. 

The entire time, you pointedly avoided making any mention of your betrothal to Aemond, wanting to remain in blissful ignorance for just a bit longer.

The Red Keep was almost unrecognizable to the young boys. As the years passed without Rhaenyra there to watch over the kingdom in Viserys’ stead, the Targaryen heraldry was taken down, slowly replaced by symbols of the Seven in the form of erected stone statues and carvings of seven-pointed stars. The change had been so gradual that you’d barely noticed, but to Jace and Luke, it was a shock to see their home completely different to how it used to be.

You took them on a guide throughout the expansive castle, exchanging stories of their times throughout the years. They asked you how you’ve fared here, and you hesitated to tell them about everything going on with Larys, with Harley Piper, with… with Aemond…

Instead, you chirped on about Helaena and her children, and how they were always the brightest part of your day. 

“Have you still been training on your own?” Jacaerys asked just as you rounded the corner to lead them to the training yard. 

You paused, thinking back to all the late nights you spent clashing swords with Aemond.

“Yes,” you replied cautiously. “My brother Harwin would’ve wanted me to keep honing my skills, even after he’s passed.”

A grim look passed over the two boys’ faces.

Once they began descending the stone stairwell to the yard, Luke’s nose wrinkled in disdain. The court was full of training men, a cacophony of steel against steel, of thuds against dummies, and exerted grunts all echoing across the expansive grounds.

“It’s much smaller than I remember,” said Luke.

You spared the younger Velaryon a sweet smile. “Perhaps that’s only because you’ve grown much larger since last you were here.”

“It looks exactly the same to me,” Jace said, bounding down the last few steps to hurry to the rack of weapons. “Come on!” 

Though Jace was willfully oblivious to the stares of the guards and the handmaids and all the rest that were in the yard, keeping his head held up high, Luke was aware of everybody’s eyes on him. Glaring, judging, and piercing every which way. He shifted uncomfortably beside you.

Jacaerys patted one of the large dents in a while, a wide grin to his handsome features. “See? I told you this would still be here! And you thought you could swing Criston’s morningstar. You almost took your own head off!”

Luke gave him a half-hearted grin, but it was quick to melt away when he whispered beneath his breath, “Everyone’s staring at us.”

The older brother pulled a sword from the rack and playfully lowered down into an attack position, Lucerys’ words largely going ignored.

“Of course they’re staring,” you stated matter-of-factly. “You are the Princess’ sons.”

Luke shook his head, dark curls flying about his forehead. “That is not why they’re staring, and you know it. No one would question me being heir to Driftmark if… if I looked more like Ser Laenor Velaryon than Ser Harwin Strong.”

Releasing a deep sigh, Jacaerys hung his head. “It doesn’t matter what they think, little brother,” he asserted. 

You watched as Luke turned to you, as if silently asking you to back him. “Oh, Luke,” you murmured, unsure of what to say. “As I said before, you are Rhaenyra’s son, first and foremost—”

Before you could finish your sentence, a crowd from across the yard burst into raucous applause. Curious, Jace grabbed your hand, dragging you along to see what was going on.

It was Aemond—sparring against Criston.

Your heart sunk into your stomach. You hadn’t prepared yourself nearly enough to face him just yet.

At the sight of their uncle, Luke and Jace visibly tensed beside you.

He was beautiful—spinning around with ease and grace. Criston swung his morningstar at the prince, only for Aemond to duck, blocking the heavy weapon with a wooden shield. It splintered beneath the force, and he shirked it away to the side. Aemond used his speed to his advantage, dancing away from each of Criston’s swings, tactfully tiring him out. Seeing his opportunity when Criston’s arm dropped for but a millisecond, Aemond skidded around the ball-and-chain, pointing the tip of his sword right at his mentor’s throat.

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slowly slipped from your lungs just as the audience began clapping again. 

“Well done, my Prince,” said Criston, setting down his weapon to yield. “You’ll be winning tourneys in no time.”

The purple of Aemond’s eye blazed as he turned his head away from Cole to face you. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys,” he murmured, taking great pleasure in the way you physically stepped back. “Lady Strong, my sweet betrothed… have you come to train?”

Heat snaked up the skin of your neck and seeped into your cheeks at his words. My sweet betrothed. Jace and Luke both sent you deeply puzzled, almost affronted looks.

“Aemond, no, I—” you began, but he strode forward in no more than three steps, grabbing your forearm and pulling you to the center of the circle, much to Jace and Luke’s dismay.

The Prince paid no mind to your protests. “Criston. Give her a sword.”

The knight, none too fond of you ever since the first incident when you were only a child, thrusted a dull blade into your arms. 

With your jaw set, you huffed out a curse beneath your breath, and stabilized yourself into a defensive position. If a fight was what Aemond wanted, then a fight was what he was going to get.

He struck first, darting forward to arc his sword into your side. You took half a step back and parried, guiding his arm up over your head and ducking beneath his swing. Using this to your advantage, you kicked at the back of his knee, sending him buckling down to the ground. A growl rumbled within his chest. Aemond was quick to react, twisting around to sweep his sword between your legs, knocking you back as well.

Winded and caught off guard, you desperately parried away his continuous strikes, the tip of his sword getting closer and closer and closer to your face. You scrambled to get back up on your feet, but Aemond was unrelenting, pressing on with no restraint. Aemond was practically on top of you at this point, his knee pressing nearly painfully into your thigh. 

“Yield,” he hissed, breath hot against your ear.

You glared up at him. Briefly, you allowed your eyes to slip past Aemond, to the two young boys behind him, worryingly watching you.

Humiliated, you huffed out a shaking breath, wishing to just end this here and now. “I yield.”

The crowd began clapping for Aemond again, though, this time much more hesitant and sparse. Scandalous murmurs rippled through the audience. From the side, Criston smirked at your defeat.

Satisfied, Aemond stepped back, offering you his hand. You let him help you up, dusting your trousers off with a huff. 

He briefly let go of your hand to wind his arm about your waist, tugging you closer. An internal part of you screamed in embarrassment, not wanting him to behave in such a way when Jace and Luke were right there—watching the two of you with bewilderment. He smelled of smoke and steel and leather, and you couldn’t bring it in yourself to push away. “You are skilled, Lady Strong—but your arrogance betrays you.”

“Arrogance?” you whispered back, eyes roaming over his expressionless features, your brows knitting together. “I let you win. Release me, Aemond. People are watching.”

The prince’s eye momentarily flitted down to your parted lips, then back up to meet your tumultuous gaze. He hummed in thought, before relinquishing his hold on you completely, swiftly turning to Jace and Luke.

“Nephews… have you come to train, as well?” he asked them, straightening himself, practically oozing with intimidation.

Jace’s mouth parted, still stupefied. 

Before anyone could utter another word, a guard bellowed out, “Open the gates!”

The large metal gratings groaned as they were pulled open. Velaryon banners filled the training yard—and in the center of all of them, stood Vaemond Velaryon. Corlys’ brother, and, according to him, the rightful heir to Driftmark.

You swallowed down the bile that rose in your throat.

Fear splattered clear as day over Luke’s features. Aemond only grinned at that.

The gardens were much more intimidating in the nighttime. Large statues of the Seven hid behind the rose bushes in a menacing fashion, and the fountain bore a seven-pointed star in the center that looked sharp enough to cut. You never frequented the place after sunset, deliberately taking Helaena and the children out on walks when it was still light out.

Nonetheless, it was one of the only few quiet places in the Keep where you could be sure curious ears wouldn’t be able to hear your whispers over the gushing of the water fountain. Though, you couldn’t be too certain that your brother wasn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows. 

Jace and Luke were standing across from you, both of their arms crossed expectedly.

The older of the two seemed disappointed, as if he’d expected better from you. Luke, on the other hand, looked crestfallen, feeling as if you’d betrayed him.

“I’m sorry for not telling the two of you earlier,” you quietly said. “I couldn’t find a way to break the news.” 

The silence stretched thin between the three of you.

“I don’t want it,” you said, wringing your hands nervously. “My brother, Larys, and the Queen are forcing this upon me. I had no choice in the matter. Aemond is my friend, as much as I know you two mislike him… he’s my friend. He had no say in the matter, either. I don’t know—perhaps I should just be grateful I’m betrothed to him rather than a pure stranger. He would not hurt me, I’m sure of it.”

Jacaerys’ expression seemed to soften upon your confession. It was no wonder you were so afraid to tell them. You must’ve been so confused and scared. Silent, the taller boy reached out to pull you into a hug, gently patting your back. Tears of relief began to well in your eyes—you’d truly been expecting them to turn their back on you.

“I… I feel as though my control of my own life is slipping right through the cracks between my fingers,” you whispered, voice crumbling with emotion. 

You began to softly cry into Jacaerys’ shoulder. Luke joined in the embrace, wrapping his arms around you from behind. 

The three of you stood in the eerie garden, each of you equally upset and uncertain for the future to come.

“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds…” Otto Hightower began, descending an instantaneous hush upon the throng of lords and ladies in front of the Iron Throne, “we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice in this—and all other matters.”

Otto’s last sentence made bile climb up your throat. Not too long ago, your own father held the position as Hand, and held it in a just, and unbiased manner. You were afraid you couldn’t say the same for Otto Hightower.

You stood a couple steps away from Rhaenyra and her sons, hands tightly clasped behind your back. To the right of the Iron Throne was Alicent and her children—Aegon with rumpled hair as if he had just rolled out of bed, Aemond with his gaze flickering back and forth between his nephew and his betrothed, and Helaena, who was staring at the warbling light of the torches on the wall. All you wanted to do was get this over and done with—the succession of Driftmark was not a subject you cared for, seeing as you strongly believed it should go to Luke. Bastard or not, it mattered little to you—he was Laenor’s son regardless of blood and deserved his own inheritance. 

“The crown will now hear the petitions. Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”

The man stepped forward, head held high. 

“My Queen. My Lord Hand. The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies… House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebears came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name. I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin—his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”

Tongue as sharp as ever, Rhaenyra interjected, “As it does in my sons, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No—you only speak for yourself and for your own ambition.”

Looking down at the Princess, Alicent raised her brows. “You will have a chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra. Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing him to be heard.”

From the side, Aegon hid a snicker behind his palm.

Vaemond turned to Rhaenyra. “What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you—and you still wouldn’t recognize it. This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours.” Luke took a small shuffle back when Vaemond rounded his scalding glare on the younger boy. “My Queen, Lord Hand. This is a matter of blood. Not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above it all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor—the Lord of Driftmark, and Lord of the Tides.”

Satisfied, Otto nodded once. “Thank you, Ser Vaemond.”

Smug and confident he had swayed the decision in his favor, Vaemond stepped back to his respective side.

“Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon.”

The white-haired woman took three steps to the center, one hand holding her large, pregnant belly. 

“If I am to grace this farce with some sort of answer,” she began, already exhausted of the entire ordeal, “I will start by reminding the court that nearly twenty years ago, in this very—”

Before she could finish, the doors swung open. Everybody turned their heads back. Your breath caught in your throat.

It was King Viserys. 

The last time you’d seen him… was most probably longer than a year ago. 

And how the tall and mighty fall from such grace. He was practically rotting away, skin patched and peeling, teeth gnarled and black, figure fragile and bent. The white of his hair fell in but sparse strands from his scalp where the crown sat, lopsided but gleaming nonetheless. A gilded mask was placed on one half of his face, hiding the decaying flesh on right cheek, and the pulsing cavern where his eye used to be. He hobbled forth on his cane, one of his feet dragging along behind him, not unlike your brother Larys, shoulders heavy with his cloak. He was in a great deal of pain—that was made abundantly clear with his wincing and groaning. But he pushed forth nonetheless, determined to voice his support for his daughter, Rhaenyra.

The guard by the door announced his presence: “King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Shock fell upon the court at the sight of the King up and out of his chambers, much less walking on his own. It did not slip past you when Vaemond and Otto exchanged concerned looks. You bowed your head as Viserys passed by, biting down on your tongue. 

The royal family seemed to have different reactions to the King’s presence. Rhaenyra was stunned into silence, which was quick to meld into one of subtle gratitude. Rhaenys turned her head away at the sight of her brother in such a pained state. Helaena smiled faintly, though you weren’t quite sure what she was smiling for. And Alicent appeared the most conflicted out of all.

“I will sit the throne today,” he told his Hand. Otto looked none too pleased, but dipped his head, stepping away to the side for Viserys to pass.

He began to lose his breath as he climbed up the steps, leaning forth on his cane. The crown slid from his head and clattered onto the stone floor. Prince Daemon—his brother—was the one to pick it up for him, and patiently helped him up the rest of the steps to his seat. He gently placed the crown back on Viserys’ head, before stepping back down to stand beside his wife.

“I must… admit… my confusion,” said Viserys, breathless. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes, is the Princess Rhaenys.”

His older sister lifted her head. “Indeed, Your Grace.” With cautious strides, she made her way forward. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son… Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

Your lips parted in surprise. The two boys… betrothed? Just two minutes ago they were both barely tall enough to reach for supper in the middle of the dining table, and now they were already going to get married? Though, you supposed you were speaking rather hypocritical, as you had just gotten betrothed not too long ago yourself.

Muted frustration befell Alicent’s expression.

“Well… the matter is settled. Again.” The King blew out a sigh. “I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.”

Clear disdain painted itself green across Vaemond’s face. 

“You break law… and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it.”

Confused, Viserys’ brows drew together. “Allow it?” he echoed. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

Suddenly raising his voice, Vaemond turned and jabbed a finger straight in Luke’s direction. “That is no true Velaryon! And certainly no nephew of mine.”

Desperate to keep the accusations at bay, Rhaenyra pushed Luke behind her. “Go to your chambers, boys. Vaemond, you have said enough!”

Taking great offense to his words, the King said, “Lucerys is my true-born grandson. And you… are no more than the second son of Driftmark.”

The man shook his head. “You… may run your house as you see fit… but you will not decide the future of mine.”

Gasps rang out across the court. What Vaemond had just said to the King was treason.

Despite this, on Vaemond continued, “My house survived the Doom—and a thousand tribulations more! And gods be damned… I will not see it ended on the account of this…”

Prince Daemon cocked his head, challenging, “Say it.”

“Her children… are…” said Vaemond. “BASTARDS!”

The audience murmured scandalously. Your brows raised in shock, gaze wildly swinging from Luke to the King.

Vaemond was not yet done, having one final blow to serve. “And she… is… a whore.”

Disgust coiled within your stomach. It made you even angrier to see a smirk toy with the corners of Aemond’s lips.

Viserys angrily limped onto his feet, unsheathing his dagger. “I… will have your tongue for that!”

In a blur of black and red, Daemon swung his sword as quick as a bolt of lightning, cleaving it clean through Vaemond’s head. A sick squelch of flesh and blood and steel rang across the court, quickly blending into the startled shrieks of Lords and Ladies. You had flinched back, hands raising to cover your mouth. 

Helaena had gasped the loudest, her hands flying to rest over her ears and hurriedly turning her face away from the grotesque sight. From all the years you had been her dearest friend, you knew blood was one of the few things she could not handle.

Right beside her, Aemond had stepped back, hand defensively falling to his sword. His purple eye was wide and trained onto the body, but quickly flicked up to look at you, as if ensuring that you were alright. 

Though you couldn’t see Luke’s expression, you could see the way his shoulders flinched and his feet began to panickedly shuffle away.

Vaemond’s body fell to the ground, dark red blood dripping over the stones and meandering into the cracks and crevices. 

Satisfied, Daemon observed the blood begin to graze the bottom of his shoe. “He can keep his tongue,” he commented nonchalantly.

“DISARM HIM!” screamed Otto. Half a dozen guards drew out their swords, pointing it straight at Daemon.

“No need,” said the Prince, cleaning his sword with the bottom of his shirt, uncaring of Vaemond’s blood getting all over him. He sheathed the steel and backed away with a small, victorious grin.

It was then that Viserys collapsed back onto the throne, groaning in pain.

“Call the maesters!” Alicent yelled, rushing up the steps to her husband. “Please, my love, you must take something for the pain!”

“I will not cloud my mind…” said the King. “I must… put things right…”

The King commanded a supper—with all of his family to attend, as this was the first time they were all gathered in the Keep since nearly a decade ago. Seeing as you were now betrothed to his second son, you supposed you were officially considered part of the family now. Though, you had considered yourself one of Rhaenyra’s daughters ever since childhood. 

Your handmaidens had washed you in a tub full of flower petals, the warm water heaven to your tense muscles. They scrubbed you with soap that smelled of honey and milk, a sweet scent that pleasantly burrowed beneath your skin. 

Afterwards, they laid out a dress for you. It was a beautiful, dark green garment with golden linings, no doubt a gift from Queen Alicent. The dress fit you perfectly, falling over your form like a stream of water over a stony bank. The collar was modest enough, but dipped down just beneath your clavicle bone, where a necklace of gleaming silver pearls rested against your sternum. As you stared at your reflection in the mirror, you couldn’t help but notice that the dress looked nearly black in certain lighting.

It was strange to be so dressed up—you weren’t quite fond of skirts and dresses in the first place, finding it much easier and practical to don trousers for everyday use, uncaring of its impropriety. People of the court often joked that House Strong no longer had a Lady, as you were often seen doing traditionally male activities, such as sparring and educating yourself. You paid them no mind—fighting and reading made you no less of a Lady than all the other women in court. 

There was a knock to your door just as the handmaidens finished with pinning up your hair. They rushed to swing it open, Princess Helaena stepping in with a mild grin to her lips, though it was not enough to mask the sadness in her face.

“Helaena,” you said, surprised at her sudden visit, grasping her hands within yours. “It’s lovely to see you. It feels as if we’ve hardly spoken as of late.”

The memory of Vaemond’s blood and Helaena’s distraught flashed at the forefront of your mind. If only you had the chance to speak with her afterwards—but Alicent was adamant on sending her daughter straight to her chambers that instant.

“Are you… are you alright?” you gently asked, not wanting to pry. “After all that happened earlier today… I know how much you mislike blood.”

“I’ll be fine,” the Princess wispily replied, carefully sidestepping the subject that made her queasy. “I miss you. The children miss you.”

A lump formed in your throat. “Oh, how are the little terrors? I promise to take them out on a promenade soon.”

“They are well. Jaehaerys never ceases asking about you,” she replied, before allowing her gaze to roam over your attire. “You look wonderful, Y/N. It is surely a rare sight to see you so dressed up.”

A laugh bubbled in your throat. “Well, I’ve certainly never had to go to a supper as important as this one. I’ve hardly ever had a reason to dress up in such a way before. Thank you, though. You’re looking radiant as ever, as well.”

Helaena smiled at you, wide and genuine. It disappeared after a brief moment, and her plum-hued eyes seemed to mist over.

“A storm is on the horizon,” she murmured. “A dance of dragons. They will keep dancing, even once the music has stopped. They care naught for when their feet begin to bleed.”

The Princess’ strange words echoed in your head for the next few hours. What had she meant by that? Before you had the chance to ask her what she was talking about, Helaena had excused herself to go check on the kids before dinnertime, floating out of your room as if she hadn’t just spoken the most mystifying words to you.

Overwhelmed and desperate for fresh air, you made your way back out into the gardens. The sun was just barely beginning to set, spilling soft clementine and dark tangerine hues across the canvas of the sky. 

You stood in front of the water fountain, watching the clear water burble over the stone and fall into the pool below. 

It was not long until your betrothed came to join you, his hands neatly clasped behind his back. 

“Lady Strong,” he greeted with a dip of his head. “You are more beautiful than ever before, which says much as you were already beguiling enough to begin with.”

Firmly, you shook your head. You were still angry at him for humiliating you in front of Jace and Luke earlier that day. “Stop it, Aemond. Do not speak your sweet lies to me. I have no taste for your saccharine words.”

“Tis not a lie, Y/N,” he whispered your name, all soft and heavenly on his tongue. “You are beautiful.”

You blew out a frustrated breath. The two of you stood in a precarious silence for a moment longer.

The muttering of your question shattered the quiet between you. “Are you not upset, Aemond? About the betrothal?”

The Prince hummed, and took a few seconds to consider what you were asking. Finally, he replied, keeping his eye trained on the fountain. “I’m glad it’s you,” he simply said.

Your breath hitched within your throat.

Rotating on his heel, Aemond was now fully facing you, lifting his hands up. Cold fingers grazed over your jaw, before he cradled your face in its entirety, the pads of his thumbs smoothing over your flushed cheekbones. It was not unlike the first time he had kissed you—but there was something softer about this atmosphere.

Acceptance. Affection. Yearning.

His purple iris darkened, the orange light of the setting sun bathing him in a warm glow. Shadows arched over his face, only highlighting his most handsome, sharp features. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander to his lips, curled with fondness, lax with temptation.

Aemond could see the conflict dance about your visage. 

He dipped forward to press a kiss to your forehead, lips grazing against your hairline. 

“I shall see you at supper,” he whispered into your skin.

With that, he stepped back, dipping his head respectfully, and left you in the garden, completely alone with only your tumultuous thoughts to accompany you.

Candles were lit everywhere, the flames warbling in the air, melted wax dripping down the sides. The servants were still placing down dozens upon dozens of dishes—ranging from grilled cod, to seared mutton chops, to creamed potatoes, to various platters of fresh fruits and cheeses. Chalices of wine and honeyed cider were passed around, all full to the brim.

You were seated with Helaena to your right, and Aemond to your left, at the end of the table. From across the room, Rhaenyra had flickered her gaze from you to your betrothed. She had only received the news from her sons moments ago, and was still processing the shock of it all.

From the center of the expansive feast, Viserys began to speak. “How good it is… to see you all tonight… together.”

“Prayer before we begin?” asked Alicent, ever the religious figure.

Viserys agreed, nodding his head weakly.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

Daemon rolled his eyes in exasperation at the Queen’s last sentence. You clasped your hands together as she prayed, but kept your eyes open. Luke mirrored you, shooting you a look as if to say, “Do you do this every day?” 

With small movements you shook your head, and the younger boy could only suppress a smile in response. Aemond kept his head down and his eyes closed as he listened to his mother’s prayers. He’d always been the more devoted out of the two of you.

Once Alicent was done, Viserys said, “This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons… Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena. The daughter of my former Hand, Y/N Strong… will marry my second son, Aemond. These marriages will further strengthen the bond between our great houses. A toast to the young princes… and their betrothed.”

Chalices raised, everybody took a sip. You exchanged a look with Aemond, offering him a small smile as you drank from your cup. Tentative, you reached beneath the table to take his hand—a truce of sorts. It was your silent way of telling him that you were willing to move forth with the marriage—that you were glad it was him, as well. Aemond showed little reaction, other than a small twitch of the corner of his lips, nearly reminiscent to that of a grin. 

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman,” said Aegon to the dark-haired prince, somehow already quite drunk. Jacaerys set his jaw but paid him no mind other than that.

Again, King Viserys spoke, “Let us toast as well Prince Lucerys. The future Lord of the Tides.”

Luke’s betrothed, Rhaena, clinked her cup against his. “You’ll be great,” she told him kindly, eyes gleaming with warmth.

Unrelenting, Aegon bent to the side to lean closer to Jacaerys. “You do know how the act is done, I assume? At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that…”

With a sharp tongue, Baela whispered, “Let it be, cousin.”

Jace scowled. “You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.”

Aegon rolled his eyes, grabbing another cup of wine and knocking it back in no less than a few seconds. “Aemond is well versed in the art of bedding—are you not, brother?” Before giving him a chance to respond, Aegon continued on with his rambling. “I took him to the Streets of Silk when he came of age. Didn’t even see him come out! Must have been enjoying himself. At least Y/N will be in good hands… though I am always willing to show him the ropes lest he forgets how to man the ship.”

The eldest prince’s words made your skin flare with heat. Aemond’s grip grew tighter around his own cup, but he remained silent as ever. You were only grateful that the adults at the other side of the table were too busy chattering amongst themselves to hear the obscenities the children were speaking of.

With great difficulty, Viserys made to stand up. He nearly buckled under his own weight, but a gnarled hand shot out to rest against the table, steadying himself before he could fall forward into a bowl of soup. The mask that was tied to the rotten side of his face gleamed with the warped reflections of the candlelight.

“It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.” With trembling fingers, the King began to untie his mask, revealing the decaying flesh in all its glory for everyone to see. His empty eye socket was sunken and dry. “My own face… is no longer a handsome one—if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a King, but your father. Your brother. Your husband. And your grandsire. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer amongst you. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. Set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man, who loves you all so dearly.”

Tired, the King settled back down into his seat with the help of his wife. Alicent’s eyes were pained and misted over with unshed tears.

With pursed lips, Rhaenyra suddenly stood up, holding her chalice up high. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude… and my apology.”

As if wounded, Alicent reared back slightly and blinked away her tears. She refused to meet Rhaenyra’s eyes. “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers… and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow.” Surprising you, Alicent stood up, holding her goblet in her hand. “I raise my cup to you and to your house. You will make a fine Queen.”

The rest of you drank to the toasts, an amicable atmosphere settling over the family. 

Always one to ruin the mood, Aegon stood up, making his way over to Baela, pouring himself another glass of wine. He leaned down close to her, murmuring, “I, uhm… I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

At his limit, Jacaerys slammed his fists against the table, rising to his feet and glaring at Aegon. The white-haired Prince slunk back to his seat, a salacious grin toying at his mouth. Startled by the sudden noise, Alicent and Rhaenyra looked to Jace, who was now awkwardly standing up. 

It surprised you when Aemond let go of your hand to stand up himself, as if challenging Jace, his single eye blazing with an unreadable expression. Your gaze bounced back and forth between the two, unsure of what was going to transpire between them.

Jacaerys pursed his lips, patting Aegon on the shoulder, with a bit more force than necessary. “To Princes Aegon and Aemond, and the Lady Strong. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. To my uncles, as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles.” 

Aegon cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the formalities thrust upon him. “To you as well,” he begrudgingly grunted out once his mother shot him a warning glare.

Reluctant, Aemond sat back down, and reached underneath the table to take your hand once again. He sought your touch to console the bitter green wildfire that roared within his chest. 

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” muttered Helaena as she fidgeted with a wooden carving of a cockroach. Suddenly, the Princess stood up, a dazed glimmer to her expression. “I would like to toast Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad… mostly, he just ignores you. Except sometimes when he’s drunk.” With a sweet smile, she sank back down into her seat. The rest of the table glanced at each other awkwardly, whilst Aegon just pulled at his face in exasperation.

In an effort to save the atmosphere, you stood up with your chalice in hand. “There have been many toasts this evening,” you murmured, a bit intimidated. It suddenly occurred to you that this was the first time you had the King’s undivided attention. “But I’d like to direct one to Princesses Rhaenyra and Helaena. The former, I owe the deepest of my gratitudes for treating me with kindness throughout my childhood, and taking me in as if I were her own. The latter, sweet Helaena, for being my dearest friend for years, and hopefully for many more to come. As I am to be married to Aemond soon, I look forward to being both of your sister-by-laws.”

Rhaenyra smiled at you kindly, raising her glass to drink to your toast. Helaena did the same, beaming into the rim of her chalice. The Queen, however, was far more reluctant to touch her goblet at your toast—which had pointedly avoided any mention of her. 

“Good,” said the King, weakly nodding at you. “Let us have some music. Please, eat, everyone.”

A soft symphony of strings and bells and drums began chiming away, and you contentedly began digging into your food, nearly ravenous after all that waiting.

A few minutes into the feast, Jacaerys bent towards his betrothed, murmuring a polite, “Excuse me.”

He then made his way around Aegon, to Helaena, offering his hand for a dance. Surprised, the Princess took his arm and Jace led her away to the dance floor. You watched with a warm smile gracing your expression, happy that your friends from opposite sides seemed to be mending bridges together. 

The table began engaging in amicable chatter—Luke and Rhaena were excitedly speaking about dragons and their eating habits, Rhaenyra and her husband began quietly laughing at how he already managed to splatter crab sauce all over his tunic, and Alicent spoke with her father about the gradual changes in weather. 

“You and my brother will make a fine pair,” slurred Aegon, his eyes fixed on you as he lounged back on his chair. “He’s had his gaze set on you ever since childhood.”

“Is that so?” you responded, casting a fond gaze to Aemond, who only shook his head with amusement. “I can’t say I wasn’t the same. After all, how could I take my eyes off the handsome Prince who rode the largest dragon in the world?” 

A ghost of a smile graced Aemond’s face. He was never one to take compliments well—for they were sparsely ever given to him.

Aegon, always one to spoil the mood, quipped, “I heard rumors that red-headed Piper idiot stole your maidenhood.”

Aemond’s head snapped towards his brother. You gritted your teeth, narrowing your eyes at him. “Lord Harley Piper was a friend. There was no romance between us, sexual or otherwise,” you hissed, lowering your voice to a whisper.

“Really? And here I thought my brother was marrying a whore,” snorted Aegon. 

Before either you or Aemond could react, Helaena flounced back to the table with a joyful beam, taking your arm. “Come dance with us, Y/N!” she exclaimed, breathless and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Jace stood behind her, grin equally wide and hands clasped behind his back.

You shot a look at Aemond, as if telling him not to lash out at his brother during such an important supper, and stood up to join Helaena and Jace in their dance.

None of you were really that good—you hadn’t danced in years—but it was great fun, nonetheless. You twirled Helaena in your arms until she grew delightfully dizzy, and Jacaerys accidentally trod on your feet thrice, but you only laughed harder each time, cuffing his shoulder affectionately.

Amidst your dance, Alicent called for the guards to take the King away, for he was tired and aching. He departed the room with one last look to his family—all united, together as one. 

It was surely a beautiful, rare sight to behold.

One that was destined not to last.

The dance came to an abrupt halt when Aemond suddenly slammed his fists against the table, so hard that the platters of food clattered with the sudden force. The music suddenly stopped, and all the conversations ceased. You turned your head away from your dance partners to see what was going on.

Oh. 

In front of Aemond was a roasted pig, still sizzling with oil. And all the way across the table, Luke was not-so-discreetly hiding a laugh behind his palm.

Oh, no.

“Final tribute,” said your betrothed, lifting his glass. There was a dangerous fire to his eye. “To the health of my nephews. Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…”

No, Aemond, you silently begged. The Prince kept his gaze trained on Luke, refusing to meet your desperate stare.

“... Strong,” he finished, after an extensive pause.

“Aemond—” Alicent began.

“Come,” her son quickly said, cutting her off. “Let us drain our cups to these three Strong boys.”

From right next to you, Jace gnashed his teeth together. “I dare you to say that again.”

“Why?” asked Aemond, feigning innocence, pushing away from the table to step closer to Jace. “‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?”

A gasp lodged in your throat when Jacaerys dove forward, landing a punch right into Aemond’s face. 

“Jace!” yelled Rhaenyra.

It did little effect on the taller man, and Aemond’s head merely snapped to the side but his body remained rooted to the same position. A smug smile etched across his features. Simultaneously, Aegon rose to his feet and grabbed Luke by the scruff of his collar, shoving his face straight into a searing hot platter of fish. 

“A gift for the new Lord of the Tides!” Aegon cackled with glee, indulging in the chaos.

“THAT IS ENOUGH!” commanded Alicent to her sons, but neither of them listened to her.

Scrambling forward, you tried to stop Aemond from retaliating, but he shoved Jace so hard the younger boy went sprawling against the dance floor. Jace was quick to get back up on his feet, an angry growl erupting from his throat. Before he could reach Aemond, two guards sprung forward and held him back, another pulling Luke away from Aegon as well.

You found yourself torn between the two sides, resulting in an indecisive dance between Jace and Luke struggling against the guards, and your betrothed smiling into his cups.

Queen Alicent got to him before you could, grabbing her son’s arms roughly. “Why would you say such a thing before these people?” she hissed.

“I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother. Mmh, though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs. It wounds me so, seeing as my sweet betrothed is soon to be my family, as well,” said Aemond, ripping his hand away from Alicent. 

Breaking free of the guard’s hold, Jace made a charge at Aemond again.

“Wait,” Daemon ordered his stepson, striding in between the two boys before they could bash heads with one another once again. Jacaerys immediately halted in his motions, though not without great restraint. 

Stern, Rhaenyra turned to her sons. “Go to your quarters. All of you, go. Now.”

The two boys were reluctantly led away by the guards, shoulders drooping with both embarrassment and anger.

Daemon released a sigh, fixing his gaze upon Aemond. They stared at each other for a moment longer, before Aemond huffed out a small, discontented hum, and began walking away.

“I’m sorry, Rhaenyra,” you told the Princess, so very tired of the ceaseless fighting and the constant torn feeling within you. 

The stern expression she held softened when she looked at you. Her hand came away from her pregnant belly to rest gentle upon your cheek. “It is not your fault, sweet girl. Go on… get some rest. I shall have the servants send up food to your chambers since you didn’t get to finish your supper.”

With a grateful bow of your head, you took your leave, bidding Helaena and the Queen a quiet good night, before hastening out of the dining hall, and up the stairs to your chambers.

Your feet ached and your head pounded with stress. What a day it’s been.

Imagine your utter shock when you gently opened the doors to your bedroom, and slowly shut them behind you—only to turn and see your betrothed standing by your desk, scattered with quills and stained bottles of charcoal ink and stacks upon stacks of unopened letters you had yet to read or send off.

“Aemond,” you whispered, brows furrowing. “What are you doing here?” 

The Prince remained silent, watching you keenly as you strode forward, until you were nearly nose-to-nose with him.

“What is wrong with you?” you murmured. Just moments ago, you were ready to forgive him, move on with all your grievances and accept your betrothal with not another thought. And he went and ruined it—all because his hatred for Jace and Luke were greater than his affections for you. “Are Rhaenyra’s sons that much of a bane that you must go out of your way to insult them?”

“And why do you care so much for them? For two little boys that you knew a lifetime ago? It is I who stayed by your side your entire life. It is my sister Helaena who never strayed from you. They have done nothing but leave you in their dust, retreating to Dragonstone with their tails tucked between their legs at the first sign of danger,” murmured Aemond, hands coming forth to grip your forearms, drawing you nearer to him. 

“Because they are family,” you choked out. “And I love them. They are like brothers to me.”

A tantalizing hum fell from Aemond’s lips. He dipped forward, running the tip of his nose along the curve of your exposed neck, inhaling the addictive honey-lavender scent wafting from your skin. “Oh, but they are not your brothers, are they? Say it, my love. They are not only my nephews… they are yours, as well.”

“No…” you said, breathless when he began laying kisses along your heated skin. You couldn’t resist his deliberately light touches, melting against him for more. It was humiliating, how easily you caved for him. “What you are saying is treason, my Prince. Please, just think about what you—”

“There is no one else in the room but us,” he murmured, gently biting into the junction between your shoulder and neck. “Just us, jorrāelagon. You need not hide your true thoughts from me.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you shook your head. “I can’t. I just can’t. Aemond, please… put this to rest. They are Rhaenyra’s sons, without question. That is all that matters.” You lifted a hand to grip his chin, forcing him to look straight at you. “If you have but a shred of affection for me… you will stop this relentless fighting. Do it for me, Aemond. It pains me that the most important people in my life are constantly at odds with one another.”

A beat of silence stretched thin between you. He dipped his head once more.

“Yes, my love,” he whispered, leaning forward until his nose was slotted against yours. “For you.”

For that moment, you let yourself believe him. And you allowed yourself to love him, unconditionally and without restraint—for it was only you and him in your chambers, and no other was there to waver your opinion.

You released your hold on his chin to wind your arms around his neck instead, tugging him close and melding his lips over yours. A soft sigh fell from your lungs. He tasted of fresh fruit and earthy smoke, something you wished to drown yourself into. 

You began blindly walking in the general direction of your bed with Aemond’s guidance, falling against the feather-stuffed mattress once it hit the back of your knees. The entire time, you refused to separate from his kiss, willing to suffocate from lack of air if it meant you got to continue kissing him.

It briefly occurred to you how improper this was—you were not yet married to Aemond, after all. But you couldn’t find it within yourself to care, and neither did Aemond. He wanted you now—and judging by the look in your eye, he knew you craved him equally so.

He began reaching behind you, unlacing your dress and yanking the dark green fabric off your shoulders, shoving it down your chest and abdomen and hips, kicking the nuisance material away once it bunched to the bottom of your legs. As he began to expertly undo your shift beneath it, you hurriedly tugged his tunic off, a button ripping loose in your haste. Aemond could only smile at your desperation. You swallowed heavily upon seeing his toned chest, seasoned with training.

“It is a shame,” he gruffed once he finally got your thin shift off, admiring you in all of your nude glory, shamelessly allowing his eyes to roam over your breasts and arched back. “The dress looks so much prettier on your floor.”

You groaned at his words, yanking him back down to meet him for another kiss. It grew more frantic as more time lapsed—all tongue and teeth and bites and moans. A throbbing ache flowered between your legs—not a foreign sensation, but certainly the first time it was to be vanquished by something other than your own hand.

“Aemond, please,” you pleaded, unsure of what you were asking for. “I need you, please.”

“My sweet betrothed,” said the Prince, hands wandering up and down your sides, occasionally moving to squeeze your breasts and pinch your stiffened nipples, before moving further down, purposefully avoiding the sensitive parts between your thighs. “I’ll give you everything.”

With one final kiss to your lips, Aemond shifted himself further down your body, trailing his hot tongue along your skin in his wake. He met your gaze once he gently pried your legs open, his pretty hands gripping your thighs tightly. 

The sight he was met with made his cock twitch angrily within his briefs. Your cunt was drenched and glistening with your arousal—and it was all for him. A greedy sense of possessiveness consumed him whole. You were his, and his alone.

He blew a stream of cold air right against your clit, which made you suck in a sharp breath, unconsciously bucking your hips closer to his face in a desperate seek for relief.

A pleasured cry—verging on a sob—tumbled from your lungs when Aemond surged forward, lips wrapping around your sensitive button, his tongue curling in the most devilish of ways over the bundle of nerves. Wailing his name, you fisted the sheets beneath you, unsure of what to do with yourself. Aemond just about moaned into you, one hand letting go of your thigh to prod your slick hole, slowly pushing in two fingers.

“Oh, please—Aemond!” you groaned, simultaneously trying to pull away from his touch and pushing yourself closer to his face. 

“My good girl,” he praised, the vibrations of his words against your cunt making you keen with undulated pleasure, as he began pumping his fingers in and out of you. “You taste heavenly, jorrāelagon.”

A gasp hitched within your throat once Aemond yanked your hips closer, practically burying himself within your thighs. 

“Aemond, my darling,” you sobbed, one hand falling into his hair, tugging at the long, pale strands, and the other squeezing your breast. “I’m going to…”

“Cum for me,” your betrothed said, unrelenting as he circled his wicked tongue along your clit.

And who were you to disobey the Prince?

With a breathy shout, you were pushed over the edge, clenching viciously around his still-thrusting fingers. Your orgasm slammed into you like a tidal wave, leaving you winded with green stars dancing about your vision. 

“That’s it,” murmured Aemond, gently pulling away once you came down from your high, the lower half of his face gleaming with your arousal. He crawled back up your form, shirking his trousers off, leaving him just as nude as you, save for his leather eyepatch still fixed over his scar. His cock—long and hard and angrily weeping with pearly beads of precum, slapped against his lower abdomen.

You pulled him down again, kissing him with wild abandon, sighing when you realized that you were tasting yourself on his tongue.

He flinched away when your fingers brushed against his eyepatch. Despite this, you reached out once more to pull it off, your touch ever so gentle—and this time, he let you. You whispered that he was beautiful as your lips grazed against the marred skin of his cheek. Aemond didn’t believe you, but he let you say it nonetheless.

He was a monster—and no amount of sweet talk would be able to change his mind from such a cemented fact. Not even from you, whose opinion he valued the most in the world.

“I love you,” he whispered, nose brushing down your jaw, still appreciative of your efforts nonetheless. “You are my everything. My heart, my soul, my life. I only wish for nothing but your happiness.”

You wrapped your legs around him, his throbbing cock pressed right against your fluttering cunt, clenching around nothing in anticipation. Lowering your voice to a whisper, you gently bit at the outer shell of his ear. “And I love you, my darling Aemond. All I wish for right now… is your cock inside me.”

Your lewd words made his length throb impossibly harder. “Your wish is my command,” he softly replied.

And with that, he eased himself inside of you. Your warm, pulsating cunt was gripping him like a vice, a shuddering groan choked out from his lungs. You mirrored his reaction, squeezing your eyes shut and holding onto him for dear life as he began to rock into you. 

With each snap of his hips into yours, you found yourself murmuring his name like a mantra, pressing sloppy kisses to his bare shoulder. One particularly hard thrust had you scratching angry red lines down the expanse of his back. Aemond didn’t seem to mind—in fact, this only seemed to spur him on further, as he growled an obscenity, grabbing your ankle to throw over his shoulder and slamming his length back into you with no abandon.

Your eyes rolled in the back of your head once he snaked one of hands down to thumb at your clit, eliciting a lewd moan from your kiss-swollen lips.

“So good, Aemond,” you cried, cunt spasming around his cock once the beginnings of your second orgasm began creeping up on you. “Cum inside… oh—make me yours, darling, please!”

A near animalistic noise tore through Aemond’s chest and he began to pound his cock deeper into you, the thought of you growing round with his child filling his thoughts as he desperately sought his own release. You tightened around him one last time when your orgasm surged forth, so hard that it had Aemond’s quick rhythm faltering. With a broken groan and a mutter of your name, he spilled his seed into you, thick spurts of white coating your slick walls.

A content hum danced between you once you kissed him again, easing into a wince when he slowly pulled out of your overstimulated cunt. He drew back to watch his seed drip out of you, hot and thick and so very arousing, it nearly made his cock hard all over again.

“You did so well for me,” Aemond murmured into your sweaty skin, freckling kisses over the bridge of your nose and over your eyelids, hooded with exhaust. “Are you alright?”

“Quite,” you replied, smiling at him kindly. “I suppose Aegon was right. I certainly am in good hands.”

The Prince hung his head, shaking it fondly, mildly embarrassed by your praise. “Do not speak of my brother while we are in bed, dear betrothed. It is unseemly,” he said, though his words lacked any true bite.

“Forgive me, Aemond. I seem to forget my manners when I am with you,” you said, a laugh dancing alongside your words. “You make for a grand distraction.”

“Mmh, do I, now? I am glad to be of service.” Your betrothed gathered you in his arms, easing you down amongst your pillows and brushing away loose strands of hair that stuck to your damp skin. “Rest, my love.”

You let yourself acquiesce to his words, sinking into the comfort of your bed. 

“Stay,” you whispered sleepily, pressing a light kiss to the back of his palm. “Stay with me.”

And Aemond did so, with little protest. His eye was soft and his touch was loving as he laid down beside you, holding you close to his chest, nose buried within your hair.

You fell asleep hopeful that night. Hopeful that your soon-to-be husband loved you more than he hated your nephews. Hopeful that perhaps marrying Aemond was the best thing for you. Hopeful that things would be alright, eventually.

Hopeful that a war was not on the horizon.

There was a cold stillness to the air the next day. Jace and Luke left early in the morning back to Dragonstone before the sun had a chance to rise, with solemn goodbyes and grim faces. You knew not when you were going to see them again.

It weighed heavy on your shoulders as you sat beside Helaena, sharpening one of your daggers with a small whetstone. There was a certain uncomfortable feeling twisting about your stomach—but you couldn’t quite tell what was wrong.

You had tried distracting yourself by playing with the twins, gifting them new wooden dragons you had bought from a carver in town, but it was not enough to take your mind off of the unsettled feeling within you. When the twins hadn’t worked, you thought about Aemond, and the time you shared last night… along with the early morning following, with his touch sweltering and his voice gruff from slumber.

It still didn’t work. Perhaps you were just having an off day.

“It is our fate, I think, to crave always what is given to another,” said Helaena, working on her embroidery of a spindly black spider with a red abdomen, seeming impervious to your nervous state. “If one possesses a thing, the other will take it away.”

“Balancing the scales,” you murmured. The princess hummed in agreement. 

All of a sudden, Alicent burst into the room, strides quick and fists clenched into the fabric of her emerald-hued dress. Otto was hot on her heels, though his expression did not betray nearly as much as that of his daughter’s. 

“Where is Aegon?” she asked, eyes wild. 

The two of you exchanged worried, yet curious glances. Lifting her shoulders, Helaena stoically replied, “Not here.”

“He’s not in his room?” clarified Otto, as if angry at the two of you for not having kept an eye on the Prince.

You had to fight the scowl threatening to make an appearance across your face. Helaena dipped her head to avoid eye contact with her grandfather, but you held his gaze with a squared jaw. 

Gnashing his teeth together, Otto turned on his heel and marched right out of the room. 

“Father—” Alicent said, but he was already long gone.

The Queen glanced at the twins—Jaehaerys, babbling his father’s name and clapping his hands together, whilst Jaehaera only tightened her small grip around the wooden dragon you gave her. 

“What has happened?” whispered Helaena, addressing her mother directly, something she sparsely ever did.

A morose expression folded over her features. Alicent sat beside Helaena, a film of tears misting over her eyes.

“Your father…”

Helaena’s usually calm features twisted into one of anger. Viserys was hardly a father to her. “There is a beast beneath the boards,” she hissed, repeating her whispered words from yesterday’s dinner. 

Alicent’s conflicted eyes searched her daughter’s distraught form. “Oh, my dearest love…” She reached out to hold Helaena, but the Princess frantically flinched closer to you, smacking the Queen’s palms away.

“No, no,” she whispered, crossing her arms across her chest, as if to shield herself from her mother. 

Crestfallen, the Queen shifted her stare onto you, her fists clenching even harder around her dress. It did not escape your notice when her pupils darted down to glance at the freshly-sharpened dagger in your lap.

“What has happened to the King, Your Grace?” you asked, tone cautious and wary not to overstep any bounds.

Before she could reply, Aemond stepped from the shadows out of seemingly nowhere, a jaded, nearly haunted look of realization befalling his features.

The King was dead.

Aemond’s hand tightly clasped yours as you sat in front of the crackling fire pit. The dagger you had sharpened was clutched in your other palm, having not left your side for even a second. These were dangerous times—the scales had never been this lopsided before.

Alicent paced in front of the chairs a few feet away, murmuring incoherently under her breath at the puzzling disappearance of her eldest son.

Not too long after, Ser Criston Cole made his way into the chambers, shutting the door behind him. “Prince Aegon is not to be found within the castle walls, Your Grace. Your father has sent Ser Erryk into the city to find him.”

The Queen hung her head. “Ser Erryk knows Aegon… he has the advantage.”

Both your and Aemond’s heads turned at her words. There were treasonous schemes brewing within the Keep, that was made abundantly clear. If Alicent was not the one who sent Erryk after Aegon… it must’ve been Otto Hightower. Known to show little remorse, you could only guess that the Hand wanted his own grandson on the Iron Throne rather than Princess Rhaenyra. A sinking feeling twisted your guts upon realizing that he not only intended to usurp Rhaenyra with Aegon, but to be rid of her entirely, knowing full and well the Princess would never bend the knee to her younger brother. 

Criston glanced at you with an obvious disdainful suspicion painted crystal clear over his face. For once, however, you were on Alicent’s side on finding Aegon before Ser Erryk did. You would rather Aegon be crowned King than Rhaenyra be executed.

“I trust again to you, Ser Criston, and to your loyalty. Aegon must be found, and he must be brought to me. The very fate of the Seven Kingdoms depends on it.” She stepped closer to the knight, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Everything you feel for me… as your Queen.” 

The Dornish man bowed his head. “I will not fail you.”

Surprising you, Aemond declared, “We shall come with you.”

Head snapping towards the two of you, Alicent strode away from Criston to her son. Aemond’s hand fell away from yours to hold his mother’s forearms in a placating fashion. 

“That would not be my desire, Aemond. If anything has happened—”

“Cole needs us, Mother. Ser Erryk isn’t the only one who knows Aegon’s doings. Y/N has spent many a night prowling the streets outside the Keep. She knows much about the nooks and crannies Aegon might be hiding within.”

It was no secret that you often used to sneak out of the castle during your childhood, eager to see King’s Landing outside of the Red Keep. The habit continued on during your teenage years, where you would often explore trade markets and smithies. By now, you knew the town as if it were the back of your hand. 

Though reluctant, Criston bobbed his head in agreement. A quiet sigh slipped past Alicent’s lips, and she let go of her son. You brushed past her, following after your betrothed straight out the door.

You may have hated Aegon, but you’d do anything to keep him away from Otto and his treasonous hands. 

As Helaena had mystically informed you yesterday—a storm was on the horizon. A dance of dragons.

“Aegon brought me to the Street of Silk on my thirteenth name day,” said the Prince, dark grey cowl pulled over his long, silver hair. You and Criston both had matching cloaks draped over your shoulders. The cobbled steps of King’s Landing were uneven and often damp with an unknown substance. People milled about, chattering loudly and without care. None of them had a clue that war was upon them. “It was his duty as my brother, he said, to ensure I was as educated as he was. At least that’s what I understood him to mean.”

“How pleasant,” you replied, voice dripping with contempt for his older brother, and your soon to be brother-in-law.

“I don’t follow,” Criston said, brows furrowing.

The Prince leaned forward. “He said, time to get it wet.”

Criston recoiled ever so slightly in disgust. “Every woman is an image of the Mother, to be spoken of with reverence.”

You scoffed at that, rolling your eyes to the side. 

Humming, Aemond tilted his head. “He paid half a dozen whores and thrust them upon me, then left the room. Two of the girls there were younger than I, barely ten years of age and trembling like leaves… never before had I been more revolted by my brother. I crawled out of the window and ran back to the Keep.”

You glanced appreciatively to your betrothed, finding yourself once again glad that it was him you were to be married to. 

Leading the two men in front of a wooden door, you gestured for them to knock, stepping back to give them space. It was a pleasure house—one of the most popular in all of King’s Landing. Aemond’s single eye roamed the building, a spark of recognition dancing within the mauve of his iris. This was where Aegon had taken him all those years ago.

The door creaked open, revealing a woman draped in a sheer assortment of yellow silks and dozens upon dozens of golden jewelry littered across her skin. She narrowed her kohl-lined eyes at Ser Criston, glancing at you and Aemond right behind him.

“Sometime last night, we… misplaced our drinking companion,” said the knight. “Knowing that he has been, in the past, a patron of your fine establishment, we thought to inquire here as to his whereabouts.”

“Describe him,” replied the woman, bracelets clinking loudly against one another with every small movement. 

Cole shifted his weight from foot to foot, before quieting his voice to a mere whisper, nearly lost to the crowd. “That is… a delicate matter. You see, the man we seek is the young Prince Aegon. I may trust, I hope, in the discretion of your trade.”

The woman let out an amused chuckle. “The Prince is not here,” she told him. 

“Has he been here as of late?” you asked.

Curious, she laid her eyes upon you, roaming over your cloaked form. “Not as of late. Years ago, yes.”

“But more recently?” pressed Criston.

She shook her head. “He does not frequent the Street of Silk any longer. His tastes are known to be… less discriminating.”

“Meaning what?” Criston queried.

The woman smiled, wisely keeping her cards close to her chest. “I wish you luck, good Ser. And my best to your friend.” She swiveled her intense gaze to Aemond, who had bowed his head. “How you’ve grown,” she told him.

Aemond’s jaw clenched. With a hum, he took your hand, and began leading you away from the whorehouse, Criston in tow.

“It seems you were mistaken to Aegon’s habits,” said the knight. 

“He could be in the hands of mercenaries, on a ship to Yi Ti. He could be dead, for all we know,” Aemond replied, nonchalantly speaking of his brother’s death as if he were discussing tomorrow’s dinner. 

You allowed a hollow, humorless laugh to bubble within your throat. “It would be a cause for celebration, would it not?”

Criston sent you a sharp glare. “Let us hope, for your Queen mother’s sake, that is not the case.”

On you strode, twisting and turning through the narrow streets. The further into King’s Landing you walked, the dirtier the roads became, and the more poor, homeless folk were seen scrounging through trash for food and drinking out of barrels of muddy water. The air was humid and stank of rotten flesh. 

“Here I am, trawling the city, ever the good soldier in search of a wastrel who’s never taken half an interest in his birthright,” spat Aemond, growing frustrated at the fruitless search for his wretched brother. “‘Tis I, the younger brother who studies history and philosophy, it is I who trains with the sword, and I who rides the largest dragon in the world. It is I who should be…”

Aemond bit down on the inside of his cheek, effectively stopping himself from continuing his sentence. 

It upset you that he was behaving this way—just yesterday he had whispered his promise into your ear that he would halt his treacherous tongue. Had his words meant nothing to him? The death of his father had surely spun his mind into one of frantic chaos, despite his calm outer demeanor.

Pursing your lips, you could only gently reply, “There is no doubt that you are the better brother, Aemond. It does not deter the fact that we have to find him—lest your half-sister, Princess Rhaenyra, be murdered by his command under the influence of the Hand.” 

Your betrothed parted his lips, as if he wanted to say something, but wisely kept his thoughts to himself. 

“I know what it is to toil for what others are freely given,” Criston told Aemond, stepping closer to the younger man.

Aemond quietly grunted in frustration. “We can’t find him, Cole. You are a decent man with no taste for depravity. His secrets are his own, and he’s welcome to them. I’m next in line to the throne—should they come looking for me… I intend to be found.”

Your lips trembled as you staved away the burning within your nose, threatening tears pricking the corners of your eyes. It seemed that Aemond was truly far gone in his thirst for revenge, for power—you were a fool to believe his promise, even for a short second. 

It was growing more and more dangerous for you to stay in King’s Landing, surrounded by venomous Greens. You had to hold your Black-biased tongue, for it could now result in treason of the highest orders, and, consequently, your death. You were to pose as a Green now, for the sake of your own safety.

Helaena’s words from all those years ago rang in your head. “They are to trick the larger animals into thinking they are eyes. It is a defense tactic. The butterfly is not who the rest thinks she is.” Masters of trickery—beautiful and deceitful, both equally true.

The Prince could feel the slightest of regrets once you pulled away from him, surging several feet ahead with angry steps. Your loyalty to Rhaenyra and her sons knew no bounds, and Aemond was well aware that if it came down to it, you would've chosen them over him. He loved you, truly, more than anything in the world—but his deep-rooted hatred for the Blacks had festered strong for the majority of his life. That was something that not even you could remedy, no matter how much you tried.

It was by pure luck the three of you happened upon Sers Erryk and Arryk, along with Otto Hightower, speaking to the infamous White Worm by a spice market. You followed the twins in front of a great Sept—where Mysaria had hidden away Aegon for safekeeping. 

Not five minutes later, a familiar voice began shouting out obscenities and colorful curses to his captor, Ser Arryk. Criston brandished his sword, and you unsheathed your dagger beneath the protection of your cloak.

“I do regret this, friend,” said Cole, blocking their path. 

Seeing this as a chance to flee, Aegon kicked at Arryk’s foot and sprinted away, down the Sept’s wide stairwell. Criston engaged Arryk in combat while you and Aemond darted away to chase after Aegon.

Quick on your feet, you were the first to tackle Aegon to the ground, shoving the Prince’s face into the uneven stone of the ground. He choked out a yell, flailing about beneath you like a fish out of water. 

“No! Stop, you wretched woman! Stop!” he cried once you grabbed his arm to yank him up. Aemond came to the other side of his brother, helping you drag him up. The older Prince began to laugh maniacally when he punched you across the face, sending you reeling back with stars dancing about your vision.

A growl caught in Aemond’s throat and he grabbed at the lapels of his brother’s tunic, hauling him closer. “I was hoping you disappeared,” he said, voice dripping with venom.

Purple eyes gleaming, Aegon asked, “Is our father truly dead?”

“Yes,” replied Aemond, “and they’re going to make you King.”

A sick feeling twisted within your stomach. 

Equally angry at his brother’s words, Aegon spat a thick glob of saliva right into Aemond’s only eye, trying his best to escape the two of you, to no avail.

“Let me go!” he screamed when the both of you grabbed his arms. “Let me go! Brother! I have no wish to rule! No taste for duty—I’m not suited!”

Aemond barked out a dry laugh. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

With surprising strength, Aegon shoved you away, gripping his brother’s face in his filthy hands. “You let me go—and I will find a ship and sail away.”

His proposal was most certainly a tempting one—even Aemond had given pause to his words, freezing in place. If Aegon were to be presumed dead… he would be crowned King, and you would be his Queen.

“The Queen awaits,” said Criston, pulling Aegon away from Aemond, having bested Ser Arryk in combat. 

You let out a soft sigh of relief. At least, with Aegon by his mother’s side, there was no way he would order the execution of Rhaenyra. The battle has been won, but the war was still lost. 

Aegon was still to be crowned King.

Once you returned to the Keep, you had locked yourself in your chambers, refusing supper. You had little appetite, and hadn’t the heart to face any of the Greens. Aemond had stopped by to check on you, knocking on your door.

You opened it reluctantly, face streaked with reflective tear tracks and eyes red-rimmed. 

“Aemond, my love,” you whispered, allowing him to step into your chambers. “I fear I am no longer safe in King’s Landing.”

It broke your heart when your betrothed had no words of comfort to spare you—for you were right to worry. As a supporter of Rhaenyra, you weren’t safe here. 

The Prince remained silent, cupping your cheeks in his hands, and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

And though the two of you were enemies on rival sides of the war—you still loved him for the man underneath all that. And Aemond would never stop loving you, no matter how much he hated his nephews, and his half-sister.

For just a couple hours, the two of you allowed yourselves to be free of thought. No Blacks and Greens, no Princes and Ladies, no violence and hatred. 

Only you and him.

The butterfly and the dragon.

Aegon’s crowning was witnessed by thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people. You were forced into a bright green dress by Alicent’s ladies-in-waiting, your hair done up and silver jewelry pinned around your neck, and to your ears. You stood beside Aemond, playing your role as the faithful wife-to-be. On your other side was Helaena, in a dress of sweet blue, and her watering eyes trained to the ground. In front of you was Alicent, in a dark dress of viridescent hue, a golden seven-pointed star resting on her chest, her face grim.

“People of King’s Landing!” announced Otto Hightower. “Today is the saddest of days. Our beloved King, Viserys the Peaceful… is dead.”

The crowd murmured in surprise upon the announcement.

“But it is also the most joyous of days! For as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish: that his firstborn son, Aegon, should succeed him.”

Shock spread across the audience. After a few moments, they began to cheer and clap. Your insides roiled with disgust at their blatant disregard for Princess—now rightfully Queen Rhaenyra.

Not too long after, trumpets were sounding, and Aegon began walking down a pathway cleared for him by Goldcloaks. His silver-white hair shone, standing out starkly from the crowd. His expression was stony, and the corners of his eyes were red with unshed tears.

“It is your good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this! A new day for this city—a new day for our realm! A new King to lead us!” announced Otto.

Queen Alicent pressed a kiss to her eldest child’s head and led him forward to the Septon. Aegon knelt down before him. Helaena stared at her brother-husband, purple eyes misting over.

“May the Warrior give him courage. May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need. May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light his way to wisdom.” With each sentence, the Septon dipped his thumb in blessed water and dragged the finger across Aegon’s brow.

The crown was then given to Ser Criston Cole, to place upon Aegon’s head.

“The crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations,” he proclaimed, resting the heavy silver ring against Aegon’s silver locks. “Let the Seven bear witness: Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

Aegon rose to his feet. Criston and Alicent bowed their heads before their new King. Helaena set her jaw, looking none too pleased that her monster of a husband was now the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, but bowed slightly nonetheless. You were next, dipping your head ever so slightly—a deceitful butterfly. 

“All hail his Grace, Aegon, Second of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!” said the Septon.

“Aegon the King!” bellowed Criston.

The crowd burst into raucous applause.

The newly crowned Targaryen let his eyes roam over the audience. They were all cheering… for him. All his life he’d been searching for praise, for validation, and now they were all giving to him on a silver platter. 

“Aegon the King!” they all screamed. “Long live Aegon!”

He unsheathed his Valyrian steel longsword, Blackfyre, and held it up with a victorious smile. The crowd cheered loudly with every thrust of his sword into the air, and he spread his arms out, feeling powerful for once in his life. A ghost of a smile crossed Alicent’s lips. Helaena shut her eyes tightly.

A beast beneath the boards.

The ground shook as the stone of the floor gave way. Plumes of dust and smoke filled the air. Screams of terror erupted from the throng of common folk and they scattered every which way.

The shrill roar of a dragon echoed loud and true. It was Meleys, the Red Queen of dragons, her scarlet scales rippling with each movement, having burst out from the Dragonpit below. Dozens of onlookers were trampled beneath her large copper-hued claws as she snarled out an ear-splitting screech. 

Out of pure instinct, Aemond had grabbed your arm, pushing you behind him protectively, placing himself in between you and the large dragon. You gripped his shoulder tightly.

Once the smoke and debris had vaguely settled, you could start to make out her rider—Rhaenys Targaryen. The Queen who never was.

Alicent grabbed her eldest son, standing in front of him, terror painted across her features. She shoved Criston towards Helaena, ordering him to protect her.

The large dragon growled as she prowled closer to the royal family—smoke falling from behind her bared teeth and golden eyes blazing. Rhaenys watched you from above, eyes narrowed. For a moment, she caught your stare, bowing her head ever so slightly in your direction. 

It was as if she were offering you a way out. She was well aware of your strong allegiance to Rhaenyra, and your fondness for her granddaughters’ betrotheds.

You glanced at Helaena, then to Aemond, and swallowed the lump in your throat. How could you find it in yourself to leave them both?

The Princess met your eyes, her purple ones softening ever so slightly. “Go,” she mouthed silently, nodding once. Tears blurred your gaze.

Ever so slow and trembling slightly, you stepped out from behind Aemond, much to the rest of the family’s shock. Aemond held onto your wrist, unwilling to let you go—how could he? How could he let go of you, the person he was meant to marry? The woman he loved with the entirety of his being? 

You turned to your betrothed just as a hot tear slipped down your cheek.

“Goodbye, my love,” you murmured, voice cracking with emotion as your free hand lifted to cradle his cheek. You surged forward to kiss him, one last time, uncaring of the onlookers. It was quick and chaste and you could only wish for it to last longer. Raw despair and anguish and muted fury flickered across his pale visage all at once. “Let me go, Aemond. I love you, darling, please, let me go.”

Not so long ago, you were begging him to stay. And now you were asking him to let you go.

You were the only thing he had left to himself—for everything else in his life was not truly his. The two of you belonged to each other, Aemond knew this to be true… and yet you were still leaving. He refused to cry, but could feel his throat burning with restraint. If he didn’t let you go, he feared the dragon would burn his entire family alive. His wretched brother, he would’ve been alright with, but his sweet sister and mother deserved a better fate. Aemond set his jaw, and loosened his grip on you.

You rotated away just as the second tear fell, and strode towards the terrifying creature that was Meleys. The rest of the Greens remained rooted in their spots, deathly afraid of the beast in front of them. She lowered herself for you to climb on behind Rhaenys—your green dress ripped loudly in your haste. The dragon’s scales were warm, nearly burning to the touch.

Alicent shut her eyes, accepting what she thought to be her fiery death.

No dracarys ever came.

Instead, the dragon only planted her feet and bellowed out another loud, ear-splitting shriek—a warning of sorts. 

With that, Rhaenys urged her dragon to turn and fly over the terrified citizens, away from King’s Landing. Cold wind blew against your face, drying your tears, and undid the intricate hairstyle your ladies-in-waiting had worked so hard on. The two of you were going to Dragonstone, where Rhaenys was to inform Princess Rhaenyra that her father passed away and her half-brother had just been crowned King. 

A clashing symphony of sorrow and relief buried deep within your chest.

You craned your head back as Meleys soared away, hoping to look upon Aemond and Helaena one last time—but they were too small to see, growing into blurred figures in the distance.

Lucerys could not take his eyes off of the map of Westeros, intricately carved into stone. His hand reached out to graze over that of Driftmark—which was to be his, when Lord Corlys Velaryon passed away. It felt as if there was a heavy stone sinking within his stomach.

“There you are,” said his mother, which made Luke’s gaze snap upwards.

Rhaenyra strode towards her son, both her hands rested on her pregnant belly.

“The Sea Snake is going to die, isn’t he?” asked Luke.

Shocked at his sudden words, Rhaenyra began to say, “Luke—”

“I can’t be Lord of the Tides! Grandsire was the greatest sailor who ever lived. I get greensick before the ship even leaves the harbor! I’ll just ruin everything, mother. I don’t want Driftmark. It should’ve passed on to Ser Vaemond,” the young boy said, brows furrowed.

Rhaenyra shook her head, long silver hair swaying over her shoulder. “We don’t choose our destiny, Luke. It chooses us.”

“Grandsire let you choose whether you’d be his heir. You told us so, Mother. Grant me the same mercy—I do not want Driftmark.”

Her features softened, understanding her son’s turmoil. 

“Do you want to know the truth of it?” she asked, voice quieter. “I was frightened. I was four-and-ten… same as you are now. I wasn’t ready to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—but it was my duty nonetheless. And, in time, I came to understand I had to earn my inheritance.”

Luke swallowed the lump in his throat, casting his gaze to the side. “I’m not like you,” he murmured.

His mother tilted her head. “In what way, sweet boy?”

“I’m not so… perfect.” 

Rhaenyra could only smile at that, stepping closer to her second son and cupping his face, kissing the skin right beside his dark brown eyes. “I am anything but,” she whispered. “My father looked after me and helped to prepare me for my duties. Your mother will do the same for you.”

A small, accepting smile danced over Lucerys’ expression. He nodded, before noticing the guard approaching the two of them from behind.

“Good morrow, Princess,” said the guard, making his mother turn to face him. “Princess Rhaenys has just arrived on dragonback, with Lady Y/N Strong accompanying her. She urgently requests an audience with you and Prince Daemon.”

Shock flashed across Luke and Rhaenyra’s features. They hadn’t received any news of either of your plans to visit. Though he had just seen you a few days ago, Luke was excited to see you once again—you had never been to Dragonstone before.

“She urgently requests an audience with you and Prince Daemon,” the guard added. 

Luke’s shoulders slumped. It seemed he’d have to wait a bit longer before he could greet you.

Your legs were sore from the long ride, and wobbled as you began walking into the large castle, hot on Rhaenys’ heels. It was not long until the guards led you into a large, expansive room, where Rhaenyra and Daemon awaited the two of you.

“Princess Rhaenys. Might we hope for news of Lord Corlys’ recovery?” she acknowledged as soon as she spotted the older woman, with not a clue about her father’s passing. Her purple eyes lit up when she saw you, but her expression quickly melded into one of unfiltered concern. You were a mess—dress ripped, cheeks still-damp with tears, lips bleeding with how hard you’ve bitten them in the midst of your anxiety. “Y/N, sweet girl, what is the matter? Are you alright—?”

Princess Rhaenys’ sharp words cut Rhaenyra off, loud and echoing. “Viserys is dead.”

There was a long moment of silence.

Daemon turned upon the unexpected news, eyes wide.

“I grieve this loss with you, Rhaenyra. My cousin… your father, possessed a kind heart.”

Rhaenyra’s expression faltered.

“There is more,” continued Rhaenys. “Aegon has been crowned as his successor.”

A sudden jolt of pain struck within Rhaenyra’s belly. “They crowned him?” she murmured, eyes darting between you and Rhaenys in disbelief. The green dress you were wearing finally made sense.

“How did Viserys die?” asked Daemon, heartbroken over his lost brother.

“I could not say,” said Rhaenys. You remained silent, hands clenching and unclenching into fists.

Pain lacing her tone, Rhaenyra asked, “How long ago?”

“A day ago, perhaps two,” said the older woman. “I was made a prisoner in my quarters while the Queen made her preparations. Y/N tracked down Aegon in an effort to keep him away from Otto Hightower, so as to not order your execution.”

If it were under any other circumstance, Rhaenyra would have smiled at you gratefully. But she couldn’t, doubling over in agony as more rivulets of pain struck her stomach.

“Viserys has been slain,” said Daemon, anger rising within his voice. 

Affronted, Rhaenyra spat out, “Alicent demanded you declare for Aegon?”

“She did. I refused her,” replied Rhaenys.

“And yet you are still alive,” hissed Daemon, gaze suspicious and sharp.

Rhaenys cocked her head. “The High Septon crowned Aegon in the Dragonpit. I witnessed it myself just before I fled on Meleys.”

For the first time you arrived, you spoke, voice hoarse. “There were thousands of people there, all bearing witness to Aegon’s coronation.”

“They crowned him before the masses,” Rhaenyra said, horrified at the news.

Rhaenys nodded. “They will see him as their rightful king.” 

Accusingly, Daemon gritted out, “That whore of a Queen murdered my brother and stole his throne and you could have burned them all for it.”

Rhaenys stood her ground, remaining endlessly calm and patient. “A war is likely to be fought over this treachery—but that war is not mine to begin. I only rushed this warning to you out of loyalty to my husband and to my house. The Greens are coming for you, Rhaenyra. And for your children. You should leave Dragonstone at once.”

Tears glossed over Rhaenyra’s eyes. She glanced at you, practically her daughter in every way but blood and name—aware that your life was in danger now that you had run away from the Greens. 

Another wave of pain. She cried out, hands splaying out over the table in front of her. With frantic motions, Rhaenyra reached under her dress.

Her hand came out from beneath the fabric bloody.

“The babe is coming.”

Rhaenyra had stripped down to her shift, walking around her chambers with her hands on her hips and breathing irregularly. She was sweating profusely, skin a blistering shade of red and silver hair sticking to her sticky flesh.

The midwives were all murmuring to themselves, unsure of what to do and how to help her, especially when Rhaenyra kept waving them away, telling them, “Just fuck off!”

Even the maester appeared worried, murmuring low beneath his breath to the eldest midwife, “Her term is far from complete… this should not be happening.”

Rhaenyra had stormed up to them, growling out behind gritted teeth, “It is fucking happening!” 

“Keep your head about you, Princess,” the midwife crooned. “We’ve done this five times before—just keep your spirit and the sixth will be no different.”

“Get off, get off, get off me!” Rhaenyra hissed, yanking herself away from the fussing midwives. “Ow, ow, oh…”

Salt pricked the corners of her eyes when she turned her head in a frustrated manner, gaze landing on you. You were in the corner of the room, having been the one who ushered her here, hands shaking and cheeks damp with a constant stream of worried tears. Your mother had died giving birth to you—and you couldn’t imagine what it would be like if Rhaenyra died in front of your eyes, as well.

“Sweet girl, darling, fetch me some water, please,” she gasped, breathless, reaching out to you with a wince. 

With a frantic nod, you scrambled to the bedside table to pour Rhaenyra a cold cup, rushing to the woman who had taken to leaning against a stone pillar, chest heaving. A cry left her throat as she felt another wave of pain overtake her body.

She collapsed into you as she screamed through the pain, and you braced yourself with her weight, clutching her close to your chest.

“Drink, Princess,” you urged her, holding the rim of the cup to her chapped lips. Rhaenyra tipped her head back and swallowed a few mouthfuls to quench her dry throat, nearly choking as agony struck her belly once more.

Ten minutes later, Jacaerys and Lucerys were summoned, descending down the stairs to their mother’s chambers with confused and concerned expressions.

“Mother?” asked Jace, mouth parting upon seeing you by Rhaenyra’s side. 

“Fuck!” groaned Rhaenyra, huffing out a warbling breath. She turned to look at her two boys, both their brows furrowed and worry splayed plainly over both their faces. “Your grandsire, King Viserys, has passed.” 

Both the boys straightened at the news, their eyes widening with shock.

“The Greens have repudiated the succession and claimed the Iron Throne. Aegon has been crowned King,” Rhaenyra said, through bouts of intense pain.

Jacaerys’ jaw set. “What is to be done about it?”

“Nothing yet,” she replied. 

“Where is Daemon?” asked her eldest son.

“I don’t know. Gone to madness—gone to plot his war,” she bit out, lips trembling.

Furious that his stepfather wasn’t by his mother’s side, Jacaerys turned and began striding back up the stairs. “Leave Daemon with me,” he said.

“Jace!” called Rhaenyra. “Jacaerys!”

Jace halted in his strides.

“Whatever claim remains to me, you are now its heir. Naught is to be done but by my command. Do you understand?”

The young man dipped his head in a nod, and he disappeared out of the room.

Her purple eyes landed on Luke, appearing frightened beyond belief. 

“Are you going to be alright, mother?” he whispered.

“Yes, sweet boy,” she replied, the lie falling off her tongue easy. “Go. You mustn’t see this.”

Hesitating once more, Luke caught your eye, and you gestured for him to leave, a reassuring warmth to your gaze. The boy scampered away, leaving you to Rhaenyra once more. 

As soon as her boys left, she bent at the waist and began screaming again, nails digging into her thighs. You were the only one she allowed close to her, barking at the midwives to stay away anytime one of them tried to get near her. But there was little you could do, and so you just pressed a cold, soaked cloth to her head, wiping away her sweat and drew her hair away from her face. 

The seconds blurred into minutes.

Blood stained her shift.

The minutes blurred into hours.

 “Get out, get out!” she screamed at the babe within her, voice breaking, teeth clenched so hard it was a wonder they didn’t crack beneath the pressure.

The hours blurred into half a day.

Her agonized yells rang so loud it echoed across the entirety of Dragonstone. After a long while of strenuous pushing, blood pooled out from beneath her shift—and a minute later, a sick squelch befell the chambers as the stillborn baby came out of her. Its small, undeveloped body fell to the stone floors.

The babe was a girl.

And she was silent. Unmoving.

The midwives all turned away with tears in their eyes. 

With tired, shaking, bloodied hands, Rhaenyra fell to her knees and picked up her baby, wrapping her shift around its tiny form. Red soaked through the fabric, drenching her skin, her hair, her face.

You wanted to cry some more—but you forced the burning urge away, steeling yourself to stay strong for Rhaenyra. And so you sat beside her, with a hand resting upon her shoulder, face stoically set.

The two of you stayed that way for the rest of the day, long after the sun had set, with Rhaenyra rocking her dead daughter in her arms and her other daughter dutifully by her side, swallowing down her tears.

Sparse few attended the funeral.

Visenya, the babe’s name was. Rhaenyra had whispered it to you right before she had gotten up to wrap up her daughter in linens for the burning.

It was a dreary event, the sky covered with grey clouds and the oceans quietly lapping at the shores of Dragonstone. You stood beside Luke, his hand held tightly within yours. Rhaenyra did not cry, for she had done so for hours on end and had no tears left to spare.

A familiar figure passing through the thin crowd made your brows raise in surprise.

“I mean no harm, brothers,” Ser Erryk Cargyll said when two guards drew their swords upon him. The man took off his helmet, kneeling down before Rhaenyra and Daemon. He then pulled out a golden crown from his satchel, presenting it to the two. “I swear to ward the Queen with all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”

It was, by no means, a lavish coronation. After all, it was unexpected and sudden, and took place during the funeral of her stillborn daughter.

But it was better than any amount of gold could ever buy for Aegon.

Daemon took the crown from Erryk and placed it upon Rhaenyra’s head. He was the first to kneel. “My Queen.”

The rest of her people followed suit, bending the knee towards the true Queen.

“Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” announced Daemon, standing at the head of the stone-carved table of Westeros. “Your Grace.”

Rhaena Velaryon offered the Queen wine, and Rhaenyra graciously took the chalice, beckoning for her to come closer to the war table, along with her sister Baela.

You stood beside Jacaerys, staring at the glowing markers on the table, eyes fixed upon King’s Landing—where Helaena and her darling children were. Where Aemond was.

“What is our standing?” asked Rhaenyra.

Swiftly, Daemon replied, “We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms. Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves a lot to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch—I’ll have some support there, but I cannot speak to the numbers.”

A maester chimed in, “We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, along with Massey, Darklyn, and Bar Emmon.”

Rhaenyra nodded. “My lady mother was an Arryn. The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”

“Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace,” said the maester. “With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”

“Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed,” Rhaenyra said. “He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position, and that we will support him, should it come to war.”

Seeing as Grover was the head of the overlord house of Harrenhal, you knew much about the man, and were also aware that he was not one to put trust in. Feeling the need to speak up, you cleared your throat. “If I may, Your Grace—Lord Grover is old and sickly. He is bedridden, and far too aged to act with haste. It would do us well to address his grandson and heir, Elmo Tully, instead. Ser Elmo is sensible and loyal to a fault. He would surely support your cause.”

A ghost of a proud smile traced Rhaenyra’s expression. “That would be wise, Lady Strong. Maester, see to it that you do as she says.”

“What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?” asked Ser Erryk.

“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath,” said the maester. “With House Stark, the entirety of the North will follow.”

Rhaenyra toyed with the ring about her finger. “We cannot speak to Storm’s End with surety—Lord Borros Baratheon will have to be reminded of his father’s promises first.”

Finally, the Queen turned to face Rhaenys. “What news from Driftmark?”

“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone,” said Rhaenys.

Still ever so suspicious of her, Daemon narrowed his eyes. “To declare for his Queen?”

Rhaenys did not wither beneath his glare. “The Velaryon fleet is in my husband’s yoke. He decides where they sail.”

“We shall pray for both you and your husband’s support, then,” said Rhaenyra, “just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health. There’s no port on the Narrow Sea that would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet. What of our enemies?”

Fingers flexing against the hilt of his sword, Daemon replied with a venomous tongue, “We have no friends amongst the Lannisters. Tyland has served Otto Hightower too long to turn against him… and he needs the Lannister fleet.”

“Without the Lannisters, we are not likely to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth,” said Rhaenyra.

Daemon huffed out a breath. “The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace.”

One of the lords began speaking from the other end of the table. “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth slackened. “The Greens have dragons as well—”

“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer,” said Daemon, counting off on his fingers.

“Daemon, none of our dragons have been to war,” replied Rhaenyra, tone sharpening. 

Unrelenting, Daemon pressed on, “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless. Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here.”

“And who is to ride them?” asked Rhaenyra, baffled. 

“It does not matter. A dragon needs no rider to be an asset. We have thirteen to their four. I have another score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont. Now, we need a place to gather—a toehold large enough to house a sizable host.” Daemon stepped around the table to place a marker on the map. “Here, at Harrenhal. And Lady Strong is our key to that—she is its rightful heir, after her older brother Larys Strong—and he is not a favorable man. The people there are more likely to bend the knee if they know we have their Lady’s support. We’d cut off the west, surround King’s Landing with the dragons, and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”

Surprise filled your expression at the mention of your hometown. Though you’d never been to Harrenhal, you knew Harwin and your father were well-liked. Perhaps they could be swayed in your favor instead of slimy old Larys, as well.

Before anyone could respond to Daemon’s hot tongue, a guard ran up to Rhaenyra. “Your Grace, a ship has been sighted offshore. A lone galleon, flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.”

Your heart leapt to your throat. Could it possibly be Aemond?

“Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies,” said Daemon, already making his way out of the room. 

Fully expecting to be sent to your private quarters, you were shocked when Rhaenyra laid a hand on your forearm. “Y/N, my sweet girl, you are of great value in this war. You are quick-witted in the political tongues of battle and a good fighter. You shall come with me.”

You blinked in surprise, before bowing your head. “Yes, My Queen.”

Otto Hightower was most certainly not a sight for sore eyes. His face was set in stone, powerful and commanding and pretentious all at once. This was the most power he’s held in his entire life, and he was relishing in it.

“I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of his Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms,” he uttered, somehow managing to look down upon Daemon despite him being taller than Otto. “Where is the Princess?”

From the skies, Syrax’s roar rumbled the very clouds with its piercing volume. She descended upon the bridge you were standing on, yellow scales rippling as she lowered herself for Rhaenyra to climb down.

The knights Otto had come with cowered at the sight of the golden beast.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Otto greeted, not even bothering to bow in the slightest.

“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now,” she coldly replied. “And you all are traitors to the realm.”

The older man narrowed his eyes. “King Aegon Targaryen, Second of his Name… in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms.” After a beat of silence, Otto took it as his cue to continue talking, despite Daemon’s restless fiddling with his sword. “Acknowledge Aegon as King and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. Return Lady Y/N Strong to her husband-to-be, the King’s younger brother, Aemond. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be reaffirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark, and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon. Your sons by Prince Daemon will also be given places of high honor at court—Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, and Viserys as his cupbearer. Y/N will be treated well and married to Prince Aemond, after which she can choose to live with you on Dragonstone if she so pleases, until it is time for her to collect her inheritance of Harrenhal with Aemond. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.”

Otto Hightower was a clever man, with a sharp tongue of persuasive influence. 

But Daemon saw right through him, scowling deeply. “I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a King.”

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne,” Otto reaffirmed. “He wears the Conqueror's crown, wields the Conqueror's sword, and has the Conqueror's name. He was anointed by a septon of the Faith before the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him. And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon—houses that have also received and are at present, considering generous terms from their King.”

Rhaenyra clasped her hands together. “Stark, Tully, and Baratheon all swore to me, when King Viserys named me his heir. Has that perhaps slipped from your mind, Lord Hightower?”

“Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess,” reminded Otto. “The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”

With deliberate steps forward, Rhaenyra marched towards Otto, grabbing the Hand of the King’s pin on the front of his coat, tossing it somewhere over the stone bridge. “You are no more Hand than Aegon is King. Fucking traitor.”

Otto seemed unmoved by this.

“Grand maester,” he said, holding out an awaiting hand.

“What the fuck is this?” Daemon muttered under his breath from beside you, fingers clenching and unclenching around the hilt of his sword.

The maester gave Otto a worn piece of paper—one that Rhaenyra seemed to recognize from her childhood growing up with Alicent.

“Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other,” he said. “No blood need be spilled, so the realm can carry on in peace. Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.”

“She can have her answer now, stuffed in her father’s mouth, along with his withered cock!” spat Daemon. “Let’s end this mummer’s farce.”

With that, he drew his shield, prompting every knight present to also pull out their swords. You wrapped your hand around the hilt of your dagger, hidden within your cloak, but you made no move to unsheath it just yet.

“Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself,”  growled the white-haired Prince, ever the impulsive hothead. 

A tear slipped down Rhaenyra’s cheek as she stared down at the page. From behind Otto, Syrax gave an outraged growl upon seeing her rider upset.

“No,” Rhaenyra said, glancing back at her husband with a warning stare. Daemon put his sword down and hung his head with a sigh, deeply frustrated he was denied the pleasure of cutting off Otto’s head. “King’s Landing will have my answer on the morrow.” 

With that, Rhaenyra turned to leave. Daemon followed close behind.

“Lord Hightower,” you said, drawing his attention to you. “Tell Prince Aemond he is on the wrong end of the scales. Tell him I will be forced to balance them, whether or not he is on my side. He will understand what this means.”

With not another word further, you turned on your heel, striding away from the former Hand, hurrying to catch up to Rhaenyra.

The next morning was much busier than last night. More lords had keener insight to offer, and plans were starting to roll into place. 

“The Lord of the Tides,” announced Erryk Cargyll, “and his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”

You paused in your conversation with Jacaerys to watch the Velaryons descend the staircase. Baela came to Jacaerys’ side, the two of them nodding at each other stoutly. Rhaena strode over to Luke, a bright smile to her face, which was equally mirrored by the young boy.

Corlys’ cane echoed loudly as it stamped against the floor. There was a slight limp to his step, but there seemed to be nothing else dire in terms of his condition. 

“Lord Corlys,” greeted Rhaenyra. “It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again.”

The Sea Snake leveled her with a calculating gaze. “I’m very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man.” He hobbled closer to the stone-carved map. “Your declared allies?” he asked, glancing at the markers strewn across the table.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra said.

“Too few to win a war for the throne,” surmised Corlys.

Rhaenyra hesitated, before saying, “Well, we would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.”

“Hope is the fools’ ally,” the Sea Snake said.

The Queen drew herself to her full height. “Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house. But all of them swore oaths to me.”

Corlys cocked his head. “As did House Hightower, if I can recall correctly.”

Tone sharp, Rhaenyra responded, “As did you, Lord Corlys.”

The Lord of the Tides found himself at an impasse for a reply. He glanced back at his grandchildren—Jace and Baela, along with Luke and Rhaena. 

“Your father’s realm was one of justice and honor,” said Corlys. “Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand. You have the full support of our fleet and house, Your Grace.” He bowed his head low to his Queen.

Gratitude shone through Rhaenyra’s expression. “You honor me, Lord Corlys. Princess Rhaenys. But, as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united. If war’s first stroke is to fall, it shall not be by my hand.”

Surprised, Corlys’ brows shot up. “You do not mean to act?”

“Taking caution does not mean standing fast,” said Rhaenyra. “I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war.”

Allowing yourself to play the fool for once, hope clutched at your ribcage. Rhaenyra would make for a good Queen.

“The consequence of my near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them. I took care to fully garrison the territory, this time. A total blockade of the shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already,” Corlys told Rhaenyra with a firm nod. “The triarchy has been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours. If we further seal the gullet, we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to King’s Landing.”

Stepping forward, Rhaenys offered, “I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.”

You studied the positions of the Blacks on the map before voicing your input, “With the Narrow Sea obstructed by the Velaryon fleet, King’s Landing can be easily surrounded, and a bloodless siege could be levied onto the Red Keep. It is a strong castle, but more than vulnerable, given the right number of knights and extensive knowledge of the inside. I know the castle like it’s the back of my hand—along with the secret tunnels to smuggle people in and out unseen. Once the Keep is impregnated, the Greens’ would be forced to surrender.”

Rhaenyra smiled at you, perhaps the first time she’s genuinely smiled since the death of her daughter. “If we are to have enough swords to surround King’s Landing, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm’s End.”

The maester bowed his head. “I’ll prepare the ravens, Your Grace.”

From beside you, Jacaerys spoke, “We should bear those messages. Dragons can fly faster than ravens—and they’re more convincing. Send us.”

Corlys regarded his grandson with an impressed look. “The Prince is right, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra nodded her head once after a moment of thought. “Very well. Prince Jacaerys will fly north—first to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm’s End to treat with Lord Borros Baratheon. Lady Y/N will go with you, Luke. She is quick-of-tongue, has been trained in the art of combat, can bargain against Lord Borros’ temper if need be, and is around the same age as his four daughters. Hopefully that will make for some common interest.”

Surprise rippled around the room, but you determinedly bobbed your head once.

“I’ll do my best, Your Grace,” you said, earning you a warm dip of her head.

“We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore,” Rhaenyra proclaimed. “And… the cost of breaking them.”

The waters lapped voraciously against the tall, stony cliffs, the sea’s waves crashing loudly against them. You turned your gaze up to the sky, watching the dark, heavy clouds slowly shift with the whistling winds. 

There was a storm on the horizon.

And it’d be your second time mounting a dragon.

“It’s been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men,” Rhaenyra said to her sons. “And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But, if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms… we must answer to their gods. If you take this errand, you go as messengers—not as warriors.”

Luke sent a worried gaze to his brother and then to you. He was frightened and terribly nervous, of course he was—this was the first time he’s been sent off for something this high of importance—but he was immensely relieved that you were to go with him. He knew you were a formidable fighter, even if they were avoiding violence, it was comforting to know that he wasn’t going to be alone.

“You must take no part in any fighting,” Rhaenyra told them, expression solemn. “Swear it to me now, under the eyes of the Seven.”

“I swear it,” said Luke without hesitation.

Jacaerys took a moment longer to follow after his brother. “I swear it,” he parroted.

“You as well, sweet girl,” Rhaenyra said, turning her dark purple gaze to you. “I need this ordeal to be bloodless.”

“I swear it, Your Grace,” you whispered, bowing your head. “I’m honored you trust me with such a task.”

A smile traced Rhaenyra’s lips. The rolled up pieces of parchment in her hands shifted as she held one out to Jace. “Cregan Stark is closer to your age than is mine. I would hope that as young men, the two of you can take a mutual liking to one another.”

Jacaerys nodded determinedly. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra regarded her eldest son fondly, before turning to the younger boy. She noted the unadulterated worry in his eyes.

“Storm’s End is a short flight from here. You have Baratheon blood from your grandmother, Rhaenys. And… Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honored to host a prince of the realm—and his dragon. I expect the both of you will receive a very warm welcome.” The Queen smoothed down his cloak, and brushed his curls away from his face. 

“Yes, Mother. I mean, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra shook her head, an affection glint to her eyes. Her sweet boy… grown far too quickly.

Finally, she turned to you, handing you the parchment. “Lord Borros is a temperamental man, but you are smart—smarter than most your age—I have faith you will easily persuade him for support. Let us hope he will see his daughters within you… you and his eldest, Cassandra, are of the same age.”

“I will not fail you, Your Grace,” you said.

Rhaenyra cupped your face, dipping forward to slant a chaste kiss upon your temples. “I will see you soon, daughter. Get to it, then.”

A warm smile brushed across your features. You pulled away, bidding Jacaerys a warm goodbye, before walking away with Luke.

“Are you ready?” he asked you.

“No. Are you?”

“No.”

The two of you grinned at each other, nervous.

You placed a comforting hand on his shoulder before he could mount his pearlescent dragon, Arrax. “Luke… everything’s going to be okay. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The younger boy rolled his eyes. “I should be the one saying that to you—I’m the one with a dragon.”

With that, he mounted the small beast, commanding Arrax to bend down so you could climb on, as well. The dragon seemed to purr contentedly when you stroked his pale scales.

And to the dark skies the both of you took, the howling warnings of the wind falling upon deaf ears.

Storm’s End was cold and dreary and grey all over. Pinpricks of frigid rain stung your skin.

The flight was short but uncomfortable, as the winds made for a difficult journey and the saddle was really only made for one person, since Arrax was still a young dragon. Nonetheless, Luke helped you down, and the two of you made for the castle. 

A shrill roar in the distance made the two of you flinch, looking west to see Vhagar in the distance, shrouded with cold fog and smoke, more than five times the size of Arrax. The two of you exchanged worried glances.

Aemond was here.

Fear clutched at your chest.

Determined, Luke stepped forward to the guards manning the castle doors.

“I am Prince Lucerys Velaryon. I bring a message to Lord Borros from the Queen.”

The guards nodded, turning to lead him through the massive stone archway.

Thunder rumbled angrily through the sky, rivulets of white lightning carving pathways between clouds.

Somehow colder inside than out, you drew your blue cloak closer to you, sticking close behind Luke.

The guards brought the two of you into the castle’s great hall, where Lord Borros was seated upon a stone throne. He was a burly man, with a mane of black curls and a thick beard shadowing his jaw. To his left were his four daughters, each tall and dark-haired and fair of skin.

To his right was your betrothed.

He was calm as ever, hands clasped behind his back, foot tapping rhythmically against the ground. His purple eye was fixed on you, expression unreadable. You could feel your heart stutter within your chest—despite everything, you missed him terribly.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon, son of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen,” announced the guard. “Lady Y/N, of House Strong.”

Luke shifted uncomfortably at the sight of his uncle.

“Lord Borros,” he started, voice trembling. “I brought you a message from my mother, the Queen.”

The Baratheon lord showed little interest in the young princeling. “Yet earlier this day, I received an envoy from the King. Which is it? King or Queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it.” He began laughing to himself, loud and hollow, bouncing off the cold stone walls of the castle. “What’s your mother’s message?”

With your head held up high, you stepped forward to hand the Lord the bound scroll. He eyed you with disdain, a sigh falling from his lips.

“Where’s the bloody maester?!” he yelled, his patience growing thin. Borros was not a man of words, and could not read for himself.

Aemond’s stare pierced into Luke, nearly scalding. Subconsciously, Luke rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The maester stepped forward to read for him, before bending down to whisper the message into Borros’ ear.

Fury painted itself golden across his grizzled features.

“Remind me of my father’s oath?” he echoed, voice booming with anger. “King Aegon at least came with an offer! My swords and banners in exchange for a marriage pact!”

Your eyes widened, and you chanced a glance to Aemond. Had he offered his hand to one of the Baratheon girls? Had he already cast you to the side as if you were nothing?

“Aegon’s youngest brother, Daeron, is to wed one of my daughters. Prince Aemond was just negotiating dates and dowries,” said Borros in a boastful manner.

A strange sense of relief befell you, one that you didn’t quite understand.

“If I do as your mother bids… which one of my daughters will you wed, boy?”

Voice quaking, Luke shook his head. “My lord… I am not free to marry. I’m already betrothed.”

“So you come with empty hands,” said Borros, an incredulous scoff following his words.

A slight smile crossed Aemond’s features. You gritted your teeth.

“My Lord, if I may,” you began, holding the Baratheon’s graze strongly. “It matters not what we offer. This is a warning to you, from the Queen. The might of the Velaryon fleet has already sworn fealty to Queen Rhaenyra’s cause. Winterfell has never forgotten their oaths and will support Her claim, along with the entirety of the North. The Tullys and the Arryns and dozens more great houses are also to be loyal to the Queen’s cause. Will you be willing to risk your own noble house against the strength of the Blacks if war is to come?”

Borros Baratheon was stunned into silence. He wasn’t a man easily swayed, stubborn to a fault—but your words had struck a chord within him. The threat of the entirety of the North was not one he could hold defense against, not to mention the Velaryon fleet, the Vale, and the Riverlands.

A grumble resounded in his chest. Borros was not one to back down. “Rhaenyra has taken House Baratheon for granted far too long. A son—a male heir—is of higher order than a daughter. Aegon is the true King.”

You pressed forth, “Lord Borros, I beg you to think about the future of your house—”

“NOT ANOTHER WORD FROM YOU!” he shouted, effectively cutting you off, thick brows drawing together. You fell silent, angrily biting down on your tongue. The burly man drew out a heavy sigh, addressing Prince Lucerys once more. “Go home, pup. Tell your bitch of a mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not a dog she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”

The both of you stiffened at his blatant disrespect.

“I shall take your answer to the Queen, my lord,” said Luke.

The two of you turned to take your leave of the blasted place. 

“Wait.”

You froze in place, turning only your head to see Aemond staring straight at his nephew.

“Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm with my dear betrothed… trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he said, words as sharp as knives. 

Luke straightened himself, remembering what he swore to his mother. “I will not fight you,” he told his uncle. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge,” said the one-eyed prince. You protectively moved to stand in front of Luke. Aemond hummed at this, regarding you with a heated stare. He reached behind his head to pull off his leather eyepatch—where a gleaming sapphire was placed within the scarred socket. Memories of when he had bared himself to you fully and wholly that one fateful night flashed across the forefront of your mind. You yearned for that time back. “No… I want you to put out your eye. As payment for mine. Just one will serve. I would not blind you. Hm… I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

With that, he reached down into his coat, brandishing a curved dagger. He tossed it down to the ground in between you, the blade glowing with the light of the torches lining the walls.

Revenge was consuming him. He was angry—infuriated that the Blacks had stolen his wife-to-be, and now they were parading about the realm, falsely claiming Rhaenyra to be the rightful Queen.

“Aemond, stop this madness,” you hissed, stepping closer to him, your hand resting over your own dagger hidden within your cloak. “He will do no such thing.”

“Mmh, then he is craven as well as a traitor,” said Aemond.

“Not here!” bellowed Borros.

The prince paid him no mind, surging forward with quick steps. “Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!” 

You met him halfway, just as he scooped up the dagger he had tossed. One of your hands found his chest and you shoved him back, the other coming forth to slant your dagger right against Aemond’s stomach. The prince met your eyes briefly, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn you saw regret dancing amongst the mauve of his iris. But it was gone just as quickly as it came.

“Touch my nephew and I will cut you open from head to toe,” you threatened in a hushed whisper, lips grazing his ear.

Aemond found himself chuckling lowly at your slip up. “So you finally admit it, my love. He is a Strong, just as you are, hm? Look at this sad creature, my sweet betrothed… little Luke Strong, the bastard. He is drenched. Is it raining outside or has he pissed himself in fear?”

With a growl, you shoved at him again, which only barely made him take a step back.

Luke had drawn his sword, hands trembling around the hilt.

“NOT IN MY HALL!” yelled Borros. “The boy came as an envoy. I’ll not have bloodshed beneath my roof! Escort Prince Lucerys and Lady Y/N back to his dragon. Now.”

Luke sheathed his sword, and Aemond twirled the dagger in his grasp, before doing the same. You were the last to put your weapon away, glaring at your betrothed with the might of a thousand suns.

“For what it’s worth, Aemond,” you told him as a lump formed in your throat, “I’ve missed you. Or, at least—I miss the man you used to be.”

You did not wait to see his reaction. 

Instead, you turned to tell Lucerys, “Go, Luke. I will stay and try to barter with Lord Borros. With time, I think I can convince him.”

The princeling shook his head, wet curls flying. “No, Y/N, you must come home with me. We can tell mother together!”

You brushed his damp hair away from his face. “I can do this, Luke. Go. I will see you at Dragonstone—I shall take a ship back.”

Reluctant, Luke nodded once, before rotating on his heel and heading out the door. 

When you looked back, Aemond was already gone. Unease settled within your chest.

The storm seemed to have worsened—the rains were far heavier and the gusts of wind were stronger. You made your way out of the castle to watch Luke go on his young dragon.

Vhagar was nowhere to be seen.

Your eyes widened. Aemond must have already taken her to the skies—no doubt to torment his nephew further.

Or… or worse than torment…

You ran out into the muddy clearing, screaming Luke’s name. Your voice was lost to the storm. Frantic, you made your way out of Storm End’s walls, desperately trying to see through the thick fog.

“LUKE!” you screamed. “AEMOND! No, no, no…”

Vhagar’s rumbling roars echoed loud and true over the stormy seas of Shipbreaker’s Bay. 

Raw terror sank its dark hands around your ribcage, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing—

In the faint distance, you could see parts of a pale dragon streak from the sky.

A fluttering wing membrane.

A spined tail.

A gnarled talon.

A dragon head.

And along with it, the corpse of your nephew, falling down, down, down, into the waters below…

You screamed your throat bloody until your voice gave out. 

In three days' time, you would find yourself back in Dragonstone, and be the one to tell Rhaenyra that her son was dead. You were weathered and broken, and had to write the words out for your own voice had failed you.

Daemon was enraged upon hearing the news.

“An eye for an eye, a son for a son,” he had said. “Lucerys shall be avenged.”

[shiftermia]

— Swimming Realizations

jj maybank x reader

pouges x reader ( pre-season one )

where the Pogues just had a peaceful lake day and your boyfriend came to the realization that you’re it for him.

a/n: It’s been so long since I’ve written anything. But I went a different route and wrote a maybank blurb since us obx fans need a pick me up. And A told me that there’s no fluff, just smut of jj on this damn app. So you’re welcome.

“Oh my god, JJ, be careful!” You exasperatedly shouted to your idiot of a boyfriend, watching as he balanced himself on one leg on a wooden beam of the dock of the chateau.

“He’s fine,” John B argued with a grin, gesturing to him.

“He’s one hundred percent going to fall,” Pope immediately disagreed with a dry nod.

Kiara, from beside you looked up at the blonde, squinting from the setting sun, “I hope you fall backward!”

The four of you were in the lake behind the Chateau, simply hanging out, having some beers that Kiara stole from The Wreck. It was relatively peaceful until JJ came bounding from the kitchen with a sandwich in hand and declared himself a ‘Multitalented King.’

JJ scoffed, mouth full of bread. “You guys have no faith in me. I’m like—” he fought to balance himself, making you watch carefully. “The most balanced guy ever.”

John B chuckled, brushing his wet hair off his forehead and shooting a weary glance at you. It was a well-known fact amongst, well, everyone, that you were very protective of the blonde. And also someone to stand on edge— all the time.

You couldn’t help but be easily stressed by something so mediocre as JJ balancing himself over water. But what if he fell backward and hurt himself? What if he fell wrong and hit his head on the dock? If no one else would worry, you would. Let’s say it was your official job.

“Did you not fall out of a moving van two days ago?” Pope remarked, skin glowing as he swam to lay on his back.

“Okay, that was like— a complete accident.” JJ poorly excused, eating the last of his sandwich. His blue eyes were squinting down at you all, water dripping off his lean frame. “Kie pushed me.”

“Wha—” Kiara’s mouth dropped open and she looked at you. “That wasn’t me! It was probably John B and his iron foot!”

John B’s grin dropped, “You serious?”

“J, you were hanging out of the van,” You interrupted their blaming fest. “Now, get down, I’m not gonna help you if you get hurt.”

He laughed, a warm, heart-full sound that made you want to hear it again. “As if you wouldn’t be the one to fish me out of water.” He switched legs, stretching his arms out to balance himself.

You rolled your eyes, suppressing your own smile. “Okay, fine. Stay up there, I don’t care.”

“Oh, you don’t care?” He raised his brows before doing a front flip into the water, making you exclaim and outstretch your arms.

The pouges laughed at you, making fun of how you acted like you could catch him as JJ resurfaced, shaking his head in your direction like a dog.

You sighed, shaking your head and swimming over to him. You wrapped your arms around his neck as one of his clasped your waist, the other holding you both afloat. “You make my heartbeat rise way too much.”

“You make something else rise,” he bluntly commented.

The pouges groaned, “C’mon, man seriously?”

“I don’t need to hear about that.”

“Disgusting.”

Meanwhile, you smiled wildly and avoided all eye contact. “Shut up.”

He ignored everyone, who honestly should’ve been used to it by now, and pressed a wet kiss against your jaw. “Pretty baby.”

John B splashed water at him, igniting a splash war for a little too long for your and Kiara’s liking before everyone had settled down, simply floating as the sun disappeared and the moon rose into the sky.

Until Pope cursed, “Shit, I gotta go home.” He swam to the ladder, ignoring everyone’s groans of displeasure. “My pops is gonna kill me, I got curfew!”

“Ugh, that reminds me,” Kiara rolled her eyes, heading to the ladder. “My parents are making me help out at the restaurant tomorrow.”

John B closed his eyes, floating starfish in the water. “Well, see you guys tomorrow, I guess.”

You tilted your head, feeling JJ hold you bridal style in the water. “Um, hello? You have to drive them?”

From where you were, you could see his face drop and could visibly see him about to consider a swim further down the lake before he loudly groaned. “You guys are the worst.”

“You drove ‘em here, B.” JJ retorted, chuckling at his best friend.

Though, John B ignored him. “How is it that the rich one doesn’t have a car and me, the poor one does?”

Kiara curled her lips, blinking down at him. “Um, because my parents don’t trust me and you guys are bad influences.”

“You’re the one stealing beer from their cooler,” you retorted back with a chuckle, earning a quick obscene gesture from the girl.

The trio waved to you both, John B shooting a quick wink to JJ that none of you noticed before it was just the two of you.

You let out a content sigh and detached yourself from JJ. Quickly, you dunked yourself in the water, but when you resurfaced he was gone too.

You looked around confusedly, sniffling from the warm water. Not a second later, though, hands grappled at your legs and settled them on a pair of shoulders.

You giggled as JJ lifted himself out of the water with a gasp and you helped move his wet hair from his forehead as he wiped his eyes.

“What’re you doing?” You giggled softly, leaning down to try to meet his eyes.

“Nothin’,” he shrugged, tilting his head back on your thigh to look up at you. “Swimming.”

“Well, I can see that,” you bounced your brows, grabbing his hands that were on your legs and holding them up.

He began spinning around in the water and you let out a small squeal before he abruptly threw you off his shoulders and into the water.

JJ laughed, sniffling and watching you sputter out of the now lit-up water from the makeshift dock lights.

You splashed water at him, “you dick!”

He covered himself but didn’t throw any water at you like you expected him to. Instead, he let out a deep breath, staring at you, eyes so dilated that you could barely see the blue you adored so much. And if you hadn’t spent the entire day with him, you would’ve thought he was high.

“What?” You asked breathlessly, bobbing in the water in front of him.

JJ shook his head, he never was good with words. Just something so minuscule as this, messing around and laughing with each other… it was so natural— domestic.

He’s never felt anything like this. He blinked adoringly at you, “I just—” he cut himself off with another shake of his head. Breathing heavily, he could feel it deep in his chest. In his soul.

You swam a little closer to him, feeling him grasp your waist and pull you closer.

JJ looked into your eyes and grinned— softly, lovingly, intensely— it made your heart stutter and had you feeling awfully shy.

“What?” You asked again, quietly.

His fingers trailed upward, innocently gliding over your body until they pushed your wet hair back and cupped your cheeks. He then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead— as if to steady himself, before he pecked your cheek, jaw, and the corner of your lip before he littered kisses over your face.

You giggled, eventually tucking your face to hide in his neck.

But he didn’t let you, pulling your head up to finally kiss your lips. It was soft at first, conveying what he wanted to say— I love you, I’ll never let you go, I love you, only you.

You felt your closed eyes tear up, he’s never kissed you like this.

Then it got a tad harder and he let out a breath, whether of relief or utter devotion, neither of you knew. But you rubbed your thumbs on his face, wrapping your legs around his waist.

You parted, mainly for air, and JJ tucked his face in your shoulder, wrapping his arms around you, somehow keeping you both afloat.

You tenderly ran your hands through his blonde strands, “J?”

He sharply inhaled, but didn’t reply. Instead, pressing more kisses on your neck and shoulder, fingers gripping you like you were about to leave, though you would never.

“Are you okay?” You mumbled, lifting his head to look into his eyes, tracing his features with your light touch.

For a long moment, he simply stared into yours, then clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “ ‘m gonna marry you.”

A wide smile stretched across your face and you let out an incredulous laugh. Not because his words were unfathomable, but because he said it like it was a fact. There was nothing you could do about it, he was going to spend the rest of his life with you.

You pressed your face against his, “Really?”

Honestly, the way you asked made his heart squeeze in his chest. So tenderly, so sweetly. JJ nodded, one hand coming to cup your cheek again. “Yeah, baby.”

You laughed again and pressed a hard kiss on his cheek and lips. “Well, I can’t wait.”

“Me neither.” He kissed your jaw once more and hugged you, the two of you floating in the warm water, orange and blue lighting up the sky and soft lighting in the water.

It was a promise. And he would hold himself to it.

[darylssunshine]

Ride a Cowboy

genre: almost smut but like technically not

non-apocalypse au

can be imagined as any era!

word count: 1.4k

summary: Daryl has fun with you on a bar date.

Glasses clinking and joyous conversation filled the air of the club while you eyed Daryl down his fourth shot of vodka, barely grimacing as it went down his throat.

“How can you do that? I've only had two shots and my mouth tastes literally disgusting right now.” You chuckled at the tolerance of your boyfriend, sipping your sweet tea to get the taste out of your mouth.

“Years of practice, sweetheart.” He retorted, leaning his elbows on the bar in front of him and flicking a piece of hair out of his eyes.

Daryl had been wanting to take you on a date for a while, and it was his choice for the location this time. So, of course, you and him had ended up at a southern style club a couple miles into town. It was very old-fashioned, with all wooden furniture and brick walls, adorned with framed photos of the owners, along with iconic landmarks of the surrounding area. The lights, however, were colorful and energetic, flashing along with the beat of the music at times. The bar area took up half of the building, while the other half housed a mechanical bull that was currently inactive.

With your attire being black skinny jeans, a band tank, and a black cowboy hat you stole from Daryl, the regulars could tell that this wasn't your scene. Juxtaposed with Daryl's rugged dark red flannel that fit his biceps just right thrown over a v-neck and blue jeans, you two were a sight to see.

You were broken out of your thoughts by a man over by the bull with a microphone, his voice loud enough to be heard over Low blaring over the speakers. You snapped your head over to his direction, your boyfriend's head moving slightly slower than yours.

“Alright, y'all! Bessie over here is finally up ‘n runnin’ and ready for a ridin'! Any of you folks wanna give ‘er a ride? Show ‘er a good time?” The man in the beige cowboy hat gave a wink and a few women sitting at surrounding tables shouted and whistled.

“Oh my God, Dar, can we? Please??” You gasped, eyes gradually lighting up as you shook his bicep, signaling your excitement.

He chuckled in response. “(Y/N). Really? Ya wanna ride the bull?”

“Yeah it'll be fun!!”

A raised eyebrow was all you got in response.

“If you do it with me, I'll pay for your tab.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and chuckled lightly. He then suddenly downed his fifth shot and placed it down on the bar harshly. “Aight. Fuck it. Le’s go.”

You immediately beamed and jumped off your barstool and basically pulled Daryl off of his, stumbling slightly from inebriation and the sudden incoordination. Daryl could only kind of keep up with the pace of your speed walking.

“Us! Us! We will!” You shouted, dodging a few groups of casually dancing club goers.

“Oh, we've got some volunteers!” A few patrons that were paying attention whooped and applauded your bravery. “Step right up!” He announced, motioning to an opening in the inflatable, cushiony material that surrounded the bull to avoid injury. “You better hold on, little lady.” the announcer said quietly to you, followed by a wink. You smiled and rolled your eyes while walking across the inflatable floor to the bull.

The bull was slightly elevated, so you were having trouble mounting it, and Daryl could tell. He let you try and struggle for a few moments before lifting you by the waist and placing you on the bull, the sudden gesture causing you to giggle and grip one of the bulls ears for balance. You felt the bull jostle and then settle, signaling that Daryl had hopped on behind you. You blushed at the feeling of his hands holding your hips.

“Y’all ready?!” The announcer shouted, talking to you and Daryl, but also everyone else in the bar, including the small crowd that surrounded the bull. You grinned and gave a thumbs up in the announcer's direction. “Alright! Hold on, you two!”

The bull then whirred to life and rose a couple inches higher than it already was. You kept both hands secured to it’s ears in front of you, thanking whatever deity that was listening that Daryl had agreed to go on with you.

Then, it began to move.

Startled, you gasped and moved your hands to the handle in front of you for more balance. You slowly got used to the up and down diagonal movement, even taking one of your hands off the handle to raise it above your head, only to return it a couple seconds on a particularly deep downward slope. Meanwhile, Daryl was calm, barely reacting to the movement at all, instead choosing to keep his hands firmly planted on your waist to ensure your security. He softly chuckled in your ear at your inexperience.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll make sure ya don’t fall off.”

You felt your blush grow impossibly bigger. What does that mean?

He started by stealing back his hat, placing it on his head and returning his hand to your shoulder and squeezing it. His hand then snaked to your throat, engulfing it with his large fingers and making your head lean back. Your eyes widened and your breath hitched.

“Dar we’re… we’re in public.”

He bit your ear lobe in retaliation. “Ya think I care?” Your airflow was then slightly restricted, and you sighed in pleasure.

“Yeah. Ya like it, ya dirty little slut.”

He then took a hold of your hair and pulled, continuing to leave your neck exposed, and cockily put the other hand in the air. Your eyes had closed and your hands had migrated to his knees.

The patrons surrounding the bull cheered and whooped at Daryl’s action, a few women squealing.

“Everyone's gonna know who ya belong to.”

Your head was then tugged to the side and his lips were hungrily latched to your neck, sucking hard and adding a good amount of teeth so that when he pulled away, there was a decent sized purple mark left in its wake, growing deeper by the minute. You let a small moan escape your lips and Daryl huffed.

He then had an idea.

The brunette let you and the crowd calm down a bit, riding the bucking bronco how it was intended. He waited until the bull moved diagonally downward, then he strategically flung himself to the front of the bull and moved his legs on top of yours, earning another cheer from the crowd. You, on the other hand, were absolutely stunned, staring at him with your mouth agape. Your heart was going a million miles a minute, and he could tell. He loved it.

“Wha’d I say, darlin’? Years of practice.”

The sporadic thrusts of the bull now had a new intensity to them, Daryl’s bulge clearly being felt through your thin jeans. You steadied yourself by gripping Daryl’s shoulders and looking at him with half-lidded, lust-filled eyes. Daryl smirked, leaned down to your ear, and grumbled, “What’s wrong, sunshine? Thought ya was worried ‘bout bein’ in public.” He bit your cartilage for extra measure and continued to smirk down at you, proud of the needy little fuck doll his actions have created.

Daryl’s lustful gaze along with the thrusts of the bull and the cheers of the bull were all too much to handle, so you shamelessly latched your lips with his with intensity, something that he gladly returned. Both of you barely even registered the roar of the crowd while your hands were tangled in his hair and his hands firmly held your torso.

Right after Daryl had drunkenly and fervently introduced tongue into the mix and was already winning the battle of dominance, an especially quick jolt of the bull had you falling off the side. You tried to stabilize yourself by gripping Daryl’s shoulders again, but that just caused him to fall as well, ironically, right on top of you.

You both gazed at each other longingly for a few moments before finally registering your surroundings. He stood up first and held out a hand to help you stand as well. The crowd was wild, some of them waving their cowboy hats in the air in excitement. Daryl snicked. He wrapped a heavy arm around your shoulders and used his other hand to take his hat off and return it to your head. Almost like he was showing off a shiny gold trophy that he had just won for his performance.

The announcer beamed. “Holy shit! We haven’t seen that level of ridin’ in a while, literally.”

Daryl looked over at you and winked.

You and him will definitely be returning soon.