Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x fem!reader
Content: fluff
a/n: Okay, so boom. I almost didn't post this because it was stupid, but I'd already written it, so I felt it needed to step into the sun. It's goofy, so please bear with me. REQUESTS AND ASKS ARE OPEN!!! (please, my internship ended, so I’m just dicking around right now) Enjoy :P
Masterlist
The Green Knight Masterlist
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Your squire comes to visit you quite often.
Every day, in fact. It made you worry that the next generation of knights might be missing crucial training if all of them had as much free time as he seemed to. Of course, you couldn't complain, as he'd become your sweet friend in the short amount of time you'd known him. You'd even go as far as admitting you harbored romantic interest in him.
He became a fixture in the bakery, coming in to lean against your counter and speak with you. He never bought anything from your case, though. Even after your first meeting, he had left without purchasing anything. He’d been apologetic, stating that it was impractical for his training attire to have pockets. You didn't mind, though, just happy that he kept coming back.
"Ah," you say as he walks in, "I was starting to worry. You're later than usual."
Gwayne gives you a kind smile as he crosses the floor to your counter, "You look forward to seeing me, then?"
You laugh. He's gotten more confident in these weeks, even sending lighthearted teases your way.
"With bated breath," you answer, "Will you finally buy something, I wonder?"
He's leaning against the counter, now, and he dips his head in a bashful chuckle. You then notice that he's holding a plain box.
"I'm a terrible customer," he teases, "But I come with a gift for you."
He holds the box out towards you, and you take it. Briefly, your fingers brush each other, and your heart flutters. You give him a look, flitting between his warm smile and the box, and then you pull the string from around it and let it fall open.
Inside sits the most beautifully crafted lemon cake that you’ve ever seen.
"I hope this isn't your way of saying that you find my baking inadequate," you tease, “You’ve never even tried it before.”
He blushes, spluttering to recover, "Of course not! It's only- well, you see- I was invited to a feast at the Hightower, and I thought you might want-"
You giggle and cover his hand with your own, which is white-knuckling the edge, "I only jest. Your gift is greatly appreciated."
"Those are my favorite," he says softly.
Gwayne's shoulders relax. You stifle a giggle and bring the treat up to taste it.
Your first thought is that it's terribly dry. It's chalky and makes it feel like you've just licked sand. Your next thought is how overpowering the icing is. It's far too much lemon and no sugar. Lastly, you notice that despite the strong taste of the icing, there's no taste in the cake itself.
You chew your bite, even mustering up the courage to swallow it. You want to spit it out and scrape your tongue. Gwayne is giving you an expectant look, and you almost spin a lie about how wonderful it tastes, if only to keep him happy. He’s dreadfully cute when he’s like that. Instead, you try to keep your reaction perfectly neutral.
"It's certainly different from the ones I make," you say, trying to conceal a grimace.
Gwayne doesn't seem to notice your inner turmoil, and for that, you're thankful. You'd hate to kill his spirits.
"I'll bring more for you to try the next time I visit," he says.
From your point of view, that sounds like a threat.
"Or," you say, trying to preserve your future palette, "We could picnic outside the city, and I'll bring some of mine for you to finally try."
He perks up even more at the mention of meeting outside of the city, "I'd love that."
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You're at the agreed meeting spot before him. The blanket is already laid out, and you're working on unpacking your pastries by the time Gwayne breaks the tree line.
He's dressed down today, and he even left his sword at home. Without all of his gear, he looks soft. He smiles upon seeing you and quickens his pace towards your little setup. You're overjoyed to see him, your sweet friend, but your mouth goes dry at the sight of the satchel at his side. You know it's full of those dreadful sand blocks the Hightower's tried to pass off as pastries.
"You've returned to me," you say as he sits down.
Gwayne blushes, "Always."
You’re starting to suspect that your romantic feelings towards Gwayne are reciprocated. Even with his heightening confidence, he’s still a little nervous around you. It’s been too long to attribute it to being unfamiliar with one another, so you like to believe that he likes you just as much as you like him.
He begins unloading his satchel, each an identical brown box marked with the corresponding pastry inside. He looks terribly pleased with himself, and like you so often do, you almost abandon your plan completely if it means he’ll stay smiling. Alas, you can't allow him to continue believing that they’re delicacies.
"Actually, Gwayne," you say, "Maybe we should sample mine first."
He quirks his brow at you, but stops his actions, "I don't see why not. It's long overdue."
The pasties that you brought are not as neatly packaged as his. Where he had brown boxes, you only had parchment paper. He doesn’t comment on it and instead gingerly takes the first one that you offer him.
You watch with a smile as he unwraps it. It's simple, not as ornately decorated as the one he inadvertently poisoned you with, but it's a lemon cake all the same.
He admires it for a second and then brings it up to his mouth. You lean forward as he takes a bite. His eyes close as he chews, and your smile grows. When he opens them again, you can't help but giggle at the pitiful look on his face.
"I can't believe this," he says.
You try to conceal your laugh behind your hand, "Whatever do you mean?"
"I've been tortured all my life, and I didn't even know it."
He takes another bite, like he's trying to double check his findings. His shoulders slump, and he frowns at you
"You lied to me," he says, "I thought you liked them."
That finally makes you burst out laughing, and you lean forward and hide your face in his shoulder. The two of you have never been that close before, but he absentmindedly settles his free hand against your lower back like he’s done it a million times before.
"I never lied," you manage to say.
"You said it was good."
You playfully scoff, "No, I said it was different. You chose to believe I said it was good."
You're sitting up, now. He still looks pitiful, but notably, he hasn't stopped taking bites from the lemon cake. You unwrap your own lemon cake and take a bite, savoring how sweet and moist it is. The Faith teaches that pride is a negative quality, but you can't help but find pride in your own abilities.
"You've ruined all feasts for me from here on," he muses, "My palette has been refined."
notes accidental pregnancy, betrayal, angst, heavy grovelling (as it should 🤨), pregnancy and birth journey, mentions of blood, trauma, and violence, dad neteyam <33, cutest baby on pandora (neteyam’s fictional babies are ALWAYS cute), smut and suggestive themes, oral (f&m receiving),
(quick message: hello, guys! 🥹 i sweaaar, i really tried to get this ready by monday or tuesday, but i totally underestimated my irl demands and overestimated how much free time i actually had. i hated missing last week’s update and posting late this week, but that is just life right now since i just started my research paper. 🥲 i am absolutely not leaving! i still have so many ideas for meteyam, + also eyeing your requests. i am still so excited to write for everyone who wants to read, so stay tuned! i love you all and i’ve read your sweet messages 🥲 i seriously miss you guys, and i hope everyone is doing well. 🥹🙏)
synopsis as a nomad who travels around eywa’eveng to learn the ways of the other clans, being accepted into the clan of toruk makto was an honor. more especially, perhaps, when you developed something beyond friendship with neteyam. little did you know, everything you thought he was... was a lie.
word count 26.8k
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You bit your lip to stifle an excited smile, forcefully trying to calm down even though you are already on the verge of spilling the secret that made your heart hammer against your ribs like a trapped forest ikran.
Yesterday, when you connected at the Tree of Souls, you had felt it. Soft and faint, but unmistakable. A heartbeat echoing inside your own body. There were no other symptoms yet, but you knew. You knew.
“Where are we going?” you asked, your eyes twinkling as Neteyam led you deeper into the woods. You were practically skipping, unable to contain the dizzying excitement bubbling up inside you.
He looked back at you over his shoulder. His golden eyes solemn, his expression obviously weighed down by something. “There is something I want to tell you,” he said, his voice thick, sounding as though he had to physically force the words past his throat.
But you were too excited to read through the subtlety of his expressions. You skipped a few quick steps to level your pace with his long strides. “Me, too!” you said, grinning up at him before a sudden wave of shy bashfulness made you pipe down. “I have something to tell you, too... Good news, I hope...” Your cheeks burned, and you looked away before you could see how he reacted.
“What is it?” he asked gently. He stopped walking, making you face him and pulling you into his space. The smell of strong spicy mint and smoky grass attacked your senses.
You bit your lip and smiled as you peered up at him through the fringe of your lashes. He groaned softly, his hand on your waist squeezing before he lowered his head down to capture your lips in a hard kiss. You hummed, pressing your palm against his chest. “Well, you were the first to say you had something to tell me. You should go first,” you mumbled against his mouth.
Neteyam stared at you. His eyes lingered on your face, caressing every single feature with an intensity that made your chest ache before he lowered his head to kiss you again. This time, it was deeper, more thorough and desperate, his hand cupping your jaw so tightly it dug onto your skin.
“We will leave, baby...” he mumbled into the kiss.
“Leave?” you echoed, pulling away just an inch to look at him with a small, bewildered smile.
He chased your lips, refusing to let the distance open between you, his hand caging your jaw. “Go anywhere... wherever you want. You’re the nomad,” he mumbled softly against your lips, a faint smile touching his mouth.
You chuckled softly, lifting your arms to wrap them around his broad shoulders. “That’s what you were going to tell me?” you asked, gazing up at him, complete trust shining in your eyes.
He stared down at you until the silence stretched a second too long. You were just about to ask him again when, in the blink of an eye, an iron grip clamped down around your elbows, pinning them to your sides.
Your eyes widened in complete shock, your smile freezing as you looked at Neteyam. He looked frightened and in distress for a moment, before his face turned into a mask of stone, cold and unreadable.
“We’ll take care of this,” a deep, gruff voice sounded behind you.
“Neteyam?” you called out, panic instantly spiking in your throat as you felt yourself being violently jerked backward, dragged away from him. You thrash, looking around wildly, recognizing the faces of Omatikaya warriors surrounding you, harsh and unforgiving. “Neteyam!” you screamed, reaching for him.
Neteyam moved to follow, his lips parted as though he had something to say. Two older warriors immediately stepped in front of him, putting a firm hand on his chest to hold him back.
“You’ve done enough already, Neteyam,” one of the warriors said smoothly, his eyes fixed on you. “We’ll take over from here.”
Neteyam stopped then. He just stood there. He watched.
“Where are you taking me?!” you cried out, thrashing against the hands binding you. You groaned loudly in pain as they yanked your hands behind your back, tying the rough cords so carelessly that you felt a blinding pain on your shoulder.
Before you could process the agony, one of the massive warriors hoisted you like a sack of dead meat, throwing you over his broad shoulder. He was completely unbothered by your frantic wriggling and kicking.
“Neteyam! Neteyam!” you screamed into the forest, your voice cracking.
The last thing you saw before the dense jungle leaves swallowed him up was Neteyam, standing tall and silent, watching you get dragged away without doing anything.
You were so terrified of what they were going to do to you that when they finally dumped you into an under-root holding cell beneath one of the giant trees, you were almost grateful for the mercy of being left alone.
You had been thrown in without a word of explanation. Everything had happened so fast, so brutally, that your brain couldn't process the nightmare. Just moments ago, you were with Neteyam. And now, you were sitting in the dirt of a prison, awaiting judgment for something you didn't even have knowledge on.
What is happening? Why am I here? What are they going to do to Neteyam?
You were terrified for him, too. You convinced yourself that they must have tricked him. Or forced him. Surely, he would come for you. You completely dismissed the horrifying memory of him standing by, watching you get taken away without lifting a finger. Your heart, desperate to protect itself, clung to the only truth it knew: Neteyam loves me. He would never let me get hurt. He won't let me spend the night here. Let alone days.
But your hope was pulverized into dust by the grueling days that followed.
He didn't come.
The darkness of the under-root cell was maddening. You didn't see a soul for two full days, and when hunters finally appeared, it was only to stand guard outside your wooden bars, silent with hostility.
“Where is Neteyam?” you begged, crawling toward the bars, your voice hoarse from crying. “Please, where is he?”
One of the hunters barked out a cruel, bitter laugh. “She’s asking for Neteyam,” he sneered to his companion, as if you had just uttered the funniest joke in the world.
“Why? What happened to him? Is he hurt?” panic surged through you, genuinely terrified that something bad happened to Neteyam.
“He’s good. Nothing bad happened to him. You happened, though,” the hunter replied, leaning close to the bars, his eyes burning with disgust. “You brought good and bad, for sure. But Neteyam’s going to focus only on the good. You're going to bring him closer to getting justice for Priya.”
You stared at them, your breath hitching in your chest. The name sounded foreign. Priya.
“You won’t ask who Priya was?” the hunter taunted, a crooked, cruel smile stretching across his face. “The woman Neteyam loved.”
“The woman you helped kill,” the other guard spat.
Your lips parted, you wanted to ask more but no sound came out. It felt as though you had been ripped from reality and dropped into a twisted parallel world where everything that’s going on was opposite to what you know.
You had been with the Omatikaya for over five moons now. As a nomad, you never stayed in one place for long, but Neteyam had changed everything. For the first time in your life, you didn't want to leave. You wanted to build a home. You wanted to be anchored.
What you had never found in all your travels, you found in him: love. To love, and to be loved in return. He had swept you off your feet so completely. Not only was he a gallant, brave warrior, he was also the kindest, most gentle soul in the world. You had every reason to fall in love with him, and no reason not to.
...And yet, you had never heard the name Priya. You had never known he had loved someone else so fiercely that her memory still bled.
To be fair, you and Neteyam had never explicitly spoken the word 'love.' You thought it was too early, but that you both know that you were building toward it step by fragile step. You thought you were walking hand-in-hand toward a future together.
“Do you not get it? Do you know what your brother did to our people? To our family and friends?” the warrior demanded, his voice dropping into a harsh rumble. “It was Eywa’s mercy to have you falling straight into Neteyam’s lap. I knew it had taken everything in him not to strangle you on sight.”
You blinked, staring at them, your mind completely blank. You couldn't process it. Your heart refused to accept it.
“I... I don’t know what you're talking about—”
One of the warriors slammed his heavy wooden bow against the cell bars, making you flinch violently. “We’re not stupid, you evil whore! Of course you’ll say that! No criminal ever admits to their wrongdoing. But we’ll see what happens in the coming days.”
“I don't know what you're talking about!” you sobbed, clutching your aching shoulder. “I didn’t kill anyone! And my brother, for all his flaws, is not a murderer! You are mistaken—”
“No, your brother is not only a murderer. He is a mass murderer! And you are his accomplice!”
“How dare you call me that without a sliver of proof?!” you screamed back, anger briefly flaring through your sheer terror. “I did nothing wrong to you or your people! I have only ever—”
In a fraction of a second, the guard drew an arrow and loosed it. The iron tip buried itself into the dirt inches from your bare foot.
You screamed, jumping back, your heart thrashing against your ribs. The warrior smirked, thoroughly satisfied with the fear and silence he had bought. You were terrified to see that there was no remorse in his eyes, only raw, unadulterated hatred.
For the first time since you were dragged here, a genuine, paralyzing fear settled into your bones.
You didn't know these people. You were in a foreign land, surrounded by strangers who wanted you dead. And the only reason you had let down your guards, the only reason you had stayed, was because you thought you were safe in the arms of the man you loved.
A wave of icy clarity washed over you, dousing the last embers of your foolish hope.
Neteyam was not coming to save you.
He had watched you get taken. He had stood by while they bound you like an animal. He had been in on it from the very beginning.
You realized with a blinding clarity that you didn't know Neteyam at all. Everything you thought you knew about him was a lie.
That night, you lay on your side on the cold, damp ground, facing the dirt wall. You traced aimless, trembling patterns in the moss, replaying every single touch, every soft word, every kiss Neteyam had ever given you, now realizing they were all just a performance leading to this moment.
You fell asleep eventually, shivering from the cold and weak from hunger.
When morning came, the male guards were gone, replaced by two huntresses. A small, wooden tray of food sat near the bars, and the arrow on the ground inside your cell had been removed.
“I don't understand why we had to be stationed here to guard that wicked whore,” you heard one of the huntresses mutter outside. “It’s miserable down here.”
You rolled your eyes. Tell me about it, you though as you stared at the tray. You hadn't eaten in over two days, but the moment the smell of the meat hit your nose, your stomach violently churned. Nausea hit you so hard you had to swallow down a rush of bile.
“Well, you know what happened with Vankaz,” the other huntress replied. “We can't even bring weapons near her cell. How are we supposed to hurt her if she acts up?”
You ignored their voices, forcing yourself to drag your weak body to the tray. You had to eat. You were terrified of what was happening inside your body, terrified of confirming what you already knew. You know that if you were to acknowledge the reality of it while being here, unsure of your future, you would go insane. You forced the cold food down your throat, gagging with every bite, and drained the water skin in seconds.
To make matters worst, the warrior’s warning about your confidence in your innocence fading with what they'll do to you in the succeeding days has commenced. For weeks, they interrogated you.
Different warriors came down into your cell. They asked you questions about maps, about schedules, about meetings with the sky people—things you knew absolutely nothing about. But they spoke with such conviction, presented you evidence with such absolute certainty, that there were moments you felt like you were losing your mind, wondering if you had committed atrocities in your sleep.
One afternoon, a high-ranking warrior brought a glowing electronic data pad, something you recognize to be human technology, and shoved it against the wooden bars, illuminating your pale, hollow face.
“A year ago, a group of skilled warriors hit our eastern perimeter,” he spat, pointing at the glowing screen. “Many innocent Omatikaya were butchered. Tuk, the youngest daughter of the Olo’eyktan, was left unable to speak a single word from the horror of what she saw. We intercepted these logs from the Bridgehead network, and ever since then, we have been tracking this path. Your path. We knew exactly when you would arrive in our lands. And you walked right in six moons ago.”
He swiped the screen, showing a detailed map of your exact travel routes over the past season. Every river you had crossed, every village you had rested at, every tree you had slept under. It was all logged. It predicted your arrival at the Omatikaya down to the very day.
“We knew what you were here for,” the warrior sneered. “You were here to finish what your brother failed to do, kill Toruk Makto. Getting Neteyam assigned to guard you was meant to stall you. But he had you fooled, didn't he? Even a murderous whore like yourself still had aspirations for love with a gallant warrior. But that will never happen. Neteyam’s heart died two years ago with my daughter when your brother slaughtered her. Everything Neteyam showed you was nothing but a lie to get you to confess.”
“I didn’t even know that Priya!” you screamed, your voice breaking. Tears streamed down your filthy cheeks. “I have never been to these lands before! How can you think—”
The warrior backhanded you, causing you to fall back to the ground. “You scouted these paths and provided your brother with the intelligence!” he roared back.
“I haven't talked to my brother in years!”
He stared at you. “You are an evil woman and seeing you so happy, thinking you had found love with the man my daughter loved her entire life sickened me. You stole her life and for that, you will pay with your life, too.”
You breathing hitched in your throat, your eyes wide as you stared back at the warrior. It was useless. They didn't want the truth, they wanted a culprit. They wanted someone to burn for their grief, and Neteyam had delivered you to them on a silver platter.
The mental torture was unbearable. One evening, when you refused to eat, a guard reached through the bars and violently slapped you across the face. The impact cracked your lip, spraying blood across your chin. But the physical pain was nothing. It couldn't touch the monstrous, yawning void inside your chest.
Neteyam had never come. Not once.
Your mind, trapped in that dark cell, obsessively pieced together the gruesome reality. When you first arrived six moons ago, you hadn't thought it strange that the heir to the Omatikaya leadership was assigned to guide you, to teach you their ways. After all, you are a sister of an Olo’eyktan. It was only fitting that a warrior of his social stature would be assigned to you.
Neteyam was charismatic right from the start. He made you want to put your guards down, trust him... and be real to him more than you had ever been before. You remembered how irritable he had been sometimes in the beginning. The way his jaw would clench when he looked at you. You had thought he was just annoyed at being assigned to play tour guide to a nomad.
But now, you know that it was because he loathed you. He could barely stand you then, you remembered. He would arrive at and leave the sessions on the dot. He looked at you and saw the monster who helped kill the woman he loved. You lied on the dirt, sobbing in the dark as you recollected every moment you spent with him.
Ever smile he gave you. Every time he held your hand. Every time he took you in his arms, held you against his chest, and made love to you in the little grotto you two found whe you were wandering in the forest.
It was all a lie. A calculated, cruel, sickening ploy to make you drop your guard. He had forced himself to touch you, to kiss you, to lie with you, all while secretly despising the very sight of you. He did it all for her. For Priya.
Your hand trembled violently as it slid down your thin frame, resting on your flat, hollow stomach.
You sobbed, a ragged, broken sound tearing from your throat. “Oh, Great Mother...” you whispered into the dark.
You felt sick with guilt for even thinking it, but in that dark cell, you wished with all your shattered heart that you were not with child. You see no future. It is only a matter of time until they kill you for the crimes they believe you committed. Only you would know of the life inside you and it would kill you twice, knowing that such a fragile life would never see the beauty of this world.
Days bled together until you lost count.
You developed a burning fever. Your body, weak from starvation and fear, began to give out. You lay in the dirt, shivering violently, your consciousness slipping in and out. Through the haze of your fever, you felt a cool, impossibly gentle touch on your forehead.
In your delirium, your brain conjured an image. You opened your heavy eyes and saw your mother hovering over you. She was just as you remembered, as if frozen in time. Her face twisted in deep, unbearable agony as her eyes tracked your body.
“Mother...?” you rasped out, your throat raw.
She let out a sharp, choked breath, reaching down and pulling your weak body up into her arms. You burst into hysterical sobs, clinging to her shoulders with desperate strength, burying your face into the crook of her neck just like you used to when you were a small child. She didn't smell like your mother. She smelled like spicy mind... and smokey grass. But you held on for dear life, drowning in the feeling of safety.
“You need to get away from here...” she whispered, pulling back just enough to frantically smooth your matted, messy braids, her hands trembling against your face.
“Mama... I missed you so much. I’m so scared...” you sobbed, trying to press back into her embrace, but she held you firmly by the shoulders.
Her pale yellow eyes, the exact shade you had inherited, were wide with terrifying realization. “Y/N...” she called, her voice shaking.
You looked around the cell in a daze. “There are guards outside... I can't escape... they'll kill me...” you whispered.
She stared at you, looking so defeated, heartbroken, and scared. “They won’t,” she said, her tone suddenly turning hard and unbreakable. She cupped your bruised face in her hands, tears flooding her eyes. “Y/N, I love you...”
You smiled weakly, nodding as fresh tears blinded you. “I love you, too, Mama... I missed you so much.”
She pulled you into one last, suffocating hug, kissing your temple so hard it felt like her lips would mark your skin. “I love you. I love you. I’m so sorry...” her voice broke completely.
After a moment, she stood up, gently pulling you up onto your feet. Your legs were like water, completely unable to support your weight. Before you could collapse, she hoisted you easily, carrying your limp body out of the cell and into the cool night air.
You looked around frantically, finding that there were no guards. Just a waiting direhorse tethered near the tree roots.
She threw a thick, hooded cloak over your shivering shoulders and easily lifted you onto the beast's back. She tied your waist firmly to the saddle so you wouldn't fall off.
You looked down at her in a feverish blur, convinced this was nothing more than a merciful hallucination before death took you.
“Go north and never stop riding,” she commanded, squeezing your cold hand tightly. “I will find you.”
You nodded numbly. Connecting your kuru to the direhorse, you commanded the beast to run. The animal took off into the dark, speeding away from the Omatikaya lands like an arrow shot from a bow.
As the wind whipped past your face, you turned your head to catch one last glimpse of your mother standing by the roots.
In the moonlight, the fever haze cleared for just a second. The figure standing in the shadows wasn't your mother, it wasn’t small or female. It was tall, broad-shouldered, and imposing, holding a longbow tightly in its hand. Your breathing hitched, snapping your head back around, and burying your face in the direhorse's head.
You rode and rode, only stopping to rest when you know you were well away. You slept in a cave you found, letting your direhorse rest, drink, and eat. It was when you woke up the next day that you realized you were truly, finally free. You remembered the night before... The memory of your mother... And the familiar figure you had seen in the shadows.
You shook your head, dipping yourself in the cold river water and trying to wrench your attention off your unrealiable memory. You refused to acknowledge what you saw. You refused to give anyone the credit. Your mother saved you. It was your mother. It had to be.
You rode for two more agonizing days, surviving on the waterskins and dried fruit tied to the saddle.
And on the third morning, you finally came face to face with the familiar, towering stone terraces of your home clan for the first time in two years. The clan your brother, Antulo, had led since your father's death.
The village erupted in joy when you rode in. Friends and clan members swarmed you, welcoming you home after years of your travels.
Antulo descended from the main pavilion, a wide, easy grin on his face. “What brings the nomad back to the fold?” he called out, his tone light and humored.
You slid off the direhorse, your knees buckling slightly, and eyed him with guarded, cautious eyes.
Looking at your brother, the boy who had teased and protected you as a child, the son who had wept at your parents’ pyres, you tried to reconcile him with the monster the Omatikaya had described. A mass murderer. A traitor who allied with the sky people.
They had spoken with such hatred. Extremely sure of their accusations. But if they had been wrong about you, could they have been wrong about your brother, too? Could Antulo be an innocent man framed by someone else? Or had your brother truly brought death upon innocent Omatikaya, leaving a little girl mute with trauma?
“Truly, Y/N,” Antulo continued, his sharp eyes scanning your exhausted face and the bare, dirty direhorse. “I am happy to see you, but this is sudden even you can say so. You have no gear, no packs. Did something happen out there?”
You forced your expression to remain flat, shaking your head. “I simply grew tired of traveling,” you said quietly, looking past him toward the familiar huts in the high terraces. “I wished to be home for the mean time.”
He stared at you for a moment, sensing the deep, hollow wall you had built around yourself, but he nodded. “Your hut is just as you left it. I had it cleaned regularly. Go on up.”
“Thank you,” you rasped, taking a step up the stairs toward the high terraces.
“I’ll have a feast prepared for tonight to celebrate your return—”
“No,” you cut in quickly, not wanting to be surrounded by noise and laughter. “No feast, Antulo. I am exhausted. I just need to sleep.”
He paused, studying your pale face, before nodding slowly. “Alright. I’ll have your evening meal sent up to your hut. That good to you?”
You didn't answer him. You just turned and began the climb up the stairs to your secluded hut high on the terraces.
When you finally stepped inside the dark, cool space, the quiet had you sinking to your knees on the woven mats, burying your face in your hands, and finally letting the sob tear through your chest.
You were home. You were safe.
But as you curled into a ball, cradling your flat stomach in the dark, you knew the truth that would haunt you for the rest of your days:
The man you fell in love with had never existed. And the child growing inside you was fathered by a fraud.
Back in the Omatikaya, Neteyam walked toward the council longhouse, fully aware that he had betrayed his people. It still felt as if they hadn’t been suspecting him for moons now, watching him fall into what they believed was a trap, shaking their heads as they watched in real time as let himself be fooled by you.
He had denied all of it, eve to himself but he knew in his core, that they were right. He’d like to think that he entered this with his guards built high and out of indestructible stone. But getting to know you, deeper than he had ever intended, had melted those walls into dust. He didn’t know, and hadn’t tracked, where the pretense ended and where his true feelings began.
When the council, his fellow warriors, and the grieving families of those killed by your brother backed him into a corner and called out his closeness to you, his first instinct had been to deny it. He was not a weak-willed man who would be ensnared simply because the enemy threw a woman in his path. He was not a traitor who forgot the spilled blood of his people just because a woman looked up at him with starry, trusting eyes. He had been so fiercely defensive of his honor and resolve that he convinced himself he wouldn't bat an eye if they dragged you out for interrogation.
He had been lying to himself.
He had fallen into your trap. He was a traitor, because ultimately, now that he was forced to choose between his people and you, he will choose you. He had fallen so deeply in love with you that he could not allow you to be punished even for things you probably might have done.
“You have grown comfortable with this woman, Neteyam,” Yantuk, Priya’s father, pointed out in the warrior’s council a week before you were rounded up. “I understand that you are a virile young man, and she is indeed enticeful, but this matter involves the lives of our people. Of my daughter, your good friend. Their lives are not worth the warmth of that woman’s cunt, and I will not have you failing them simply because you have forgotten what she did—”
“I have not forgotten our dead brothers and sisters, Elder Yantuk,” Neteyam interrupted, leveling the man with a dark, steady gaze. “But it seems to me that you have forgotten your honor as a warrior.”
The older man huffed. “I simply wish to know if this is still a mission to you, warrior... Or if you have allowed yourself to be fooled by her?”
Neteyam stared at Yantuk, his expression softening ever so slightly as an image of you smiling flashed in his mind. He couldn't lie through his teeth and say he hadn't fallen, because merely remembering your laugh and your soft smile made his knees go weak. He had fallen, completely and utterly, though he didn't know if that made him a fool.
“It is still a mission,” he lied, sounding like a coward even to himself.
He is a coward. Used to be, he never had to think twice between duty and love. He thought, confidently, that he was his brother’s opposite. Where Lo’ak would have easily chosen love, Neteyam would go for duty. His duty to the people easily comes for him first and foremost. But standing there before the warriors, he didn’t know which duty his heart wanted to answer to.
His duty to the people... or his duty to you? He is a traitor to his people. He knew his heart had long since deserted the Omatikaya. His true loyalty belonged wherever you were.
His only regret was not acting on it sooner. If he was going to betray them for you anyway, why hadn't he broken you out the moment they took you from him? He consider this his primary flaw. He was not like his brother who acted on instinct, followed his heart, and answered to no one. Neteyam had spent his whole life trying to put everyone else’s interests before his own. He thought choosing loyalty to his clan was the honorable thing to do, even if it destroyed him or hurt you in the process.
And what had that cost him? You. He had lost you.
He closed his eyes, shuddering as he remembered how disoriented you were the night he pulled you from the cell. You hadn't even recognized him. Your broken mind had conjured your dead mother to take his place, desperate to feel safe. You had been completely shattered after weeks of relentless questioning. He choked on air, balling his hands into tight fists to stave off the panic attack clawing at his chest. A sickening tremor ran down his spine, making his kuru quiver.
When Neteyam walked into the council longhouse, the elders were already discussing your disappearance. The huntresses guarding you swore you had been there moments prior, speculating that you had used dark magic to escape. Neteyam knew better, he had studied their guarding rotations for days, waiting for the exact moment they left their post.
Before the council could speculate further, Neteyam spoke up, “It was me.” The elders and the seniors warriors all looked at him. Jake merely angled his head toward him, eyeing him with both brows raised. “Further interrogation is pointless. Y/N knows nothing about what we are accusing her of.” he said flatly
Instantly, the room erupted into angered shouts. Yantuk slammed a hand on the wooden table. “I knew it! She got to you!”
Neteyam stood firm. “None of you know her. The only evidence you have against her is that she is Antulo's sister and that she arrived on the day we all expected. But we knew her travel route! We knew her patterns, so of course we could predict her arrival. Beyond that, we have no proof—”
“And we have no proof she wasn't in on it!” Yantuk countered harshly. “Her brother is the murderer!”
“Should we not listen when she maintains her innocence?” Neteyam demanded, stepping forward. “It has been weeks, and her answer has never changed. If she were guilty, she would have broken under interrogation by now. Are you not afraid, even for a moment, that we are crucifying an innocent woman?”
Yantuk sneered, looking at him as though he couldn't believe everything he was spouting. “And are you only saying this because she opened her thighs for you? Neteyam, she is a whore. That tight warmth getting your head all messed up right can be found in any woman—”
“Enough!“ Jake said from the head of the table, but Neteyam had already launched himself toward the older warrior.
He slammed Yantuk against the wooden support pillar, his hands gripping the elder's shoulders so tightly the wood groaned. His lips peeled back over his fangs, a low, guttural hiss vibrating in his throat.
“Speak of her with that filthy mouth again,” Neteyam snarled through gritted teeth, “and I will beat you senseless in front of this council.”
Yantuk’s eyes widened in sudden, stark shock. He shoved against Neteyam’s chest, but the young warrior remained unyielding, built like a wall of solid stone. He quickly realized it wouldn’t be smart to challenge him. Yantuk spat, “You have lost your mind, boy.”
Neteyam released him with a rough shove.
Around him, three elders rosez deeply offended by his violent outburst and his blatant betrayal to the people. They look down at Neteyam not as an heir, but as a threat.
“This is an outrage!” One of them said with indignation. He pointed a gnarled finger directly at the young warrior.
Beside him, Eytukan's old advisor refused to even look at Neteyam, looking straight at the chief. “He must face the highest discipline of the clan,” the old man demands. “The law is clear. No one stands above the people. Not even the son of the Toruk Makto.”
Neytiri’s face fell at the elder’s judgment, looking at her son with both fear and worry. In contrast, Jake Sully turned to his eldest son calmly, waiting for Neteyam to object, to defend himself, to give any excuse.
Instead, Neteyam simply huffed a breath through his nose as if he couldn’t wait for things to be over. “I will accept any punishment.”
The retribution for a warrior disobeying orders was brutal, and never in his life had Neteyam imagined he would stand on the receiving end of it. Yet, he had never felt more alive. If anyone would ever want to beat him up for what he had allowed to happen to you, he would gladly take every strike. But no one in this clan would punish him for his betrayal of you. So he would welcome every pain and every punishment, knowing it is only a tiny fraction of what he truly deserved.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
You sat near the entrance of your hut, relishing the dappled sunlight seeping through the canopy and illuminating the soft plant fibers resting in your lap as you wove a baby blanket.
Your bump was not that obvious to others yet, but the soft, distinct swell of your belly was undeniable to people who know you. You have told no one yet, not your brother, not your grandmother, the Tsahik. You tried desperately not to let the trauma of what happened moons ago ruin your life, but there were just days when the grief dragged you back into the shadows of your mind.
You had cried more over the past few moons than in your entire life. Sometimes they were tears of profound longing for the life you thought you were building. You hated yourself for remembering moments with Neteyam that you thought were real in a favorable light. You missed the man you thought he was. The kind, gentle, and gallant warrior you had envisioned spending your life with. You had loved him. And you had truly believed he loved you back.
Then came the bitter, furious tears. You raged at your own naivety, disgusted by how easily you had been played and how little he had cared for you. He had stood by while they broke you. And then you would turn that anger inward, how could you have expected anything else? As the old warrior had taunted, Neteyam’s heart died the day that woman Priya was killed. How dare you assume there was any room left in him for you? For all you knew, he had wished for your death all along.
You sighed, resting a soft hand over your middle and looking up toward the light breaking through the leaves.
“We will be alright...” you whispered to the tiny life within you.
Tears pricked at your eyes as you remembered how, in those terrifying early days, you had desperately wished you weren't pregnant. Now, you couldn't imagine life without this little ember of hope. I will fill you with so much love, you promised silently, stroking your belly. You will never feel like anything is missing.
“Is that why you came home?”
You jolted, spinning around at the deep voice. Takzur, one of your brother’s closest friends, was leaning against the wooden doorframe.
You scowled, instantly defensive. “Is what why?”
Takzur’s eyes traveled down to your lap, resting squarely on your rounded stomach. “You are with child?” he asked flatly.
You rolled your eyes, pulling your shawl over your lap. “You have no right to ask me that.”
“Does Antulo know?”
“Why are you here?” you demanded, cutting him off.
“Your brother sent me to fetch you for a council meeting.”
“I have no interest in council meetings.”
You turned back to your loom, listening to his footsteps retreating. Most of your days were spent isolated like this. If not for your childhood friends forcing their way into your hut, you likely would have withered away in your own sorrow. They had been the first ones you had reveealed your pregnancy to.
Granted, only Enya had the courage and the loose mouth to dare ask you about the swell in your belly.
“It is because I am pregnant,” you admitted casually, stifling a smile as you continued your weaving.
“What?! With whose baby? Are you serious?!” Enya had shrieked.
“And where? W-Who? Y/N!“ Penxi called, almost as if she’s gearing up to scold you.
Enya gasped, “Oh, you need to tell me the details!” she said in a sing-song voice. “How was it? Did it hurt? Was it actually ticklish? Does it really feel like you are going to explode—”
“Enya!” Scandalized, Penxi stopped her and turned to you.
“Why? These are legitimate questions! Y/N broke our childhood oath. I need to know some details at least!” Enya faced you. “Did you get pregnant the first time?”
Your lips parted. You didn’t know whether to say that pregnancy doesn’t always happen the first time... But that would be admitting that Neteyam had you a countless times before it led to this.
Heat rushed up to your face but you have to clear Enya’s misconceptions. “It... It doesn’t always happen... the first time,” you admitted.
Enya gasped. “Oooh,” she squealed. “So it happened more than once?”
“Enya!” Penxi protested again, palming her increasingly darkening face.
Enya brought her palms together. “Y/N, please!” she begged. “Just a few details!”
You sighed, “Yes, it did happen more than once...” you mumbled and a few snapshots flashed in your treasonous mind that you had to close your eyes for a moment.
“This man must have been something for the resident snob to lose her mind!” Enya teased.
Your face fell for a moment. You knew Enya meant well, she didn’t know what happened, but her words hit you like an arrow to the chest. He was something. He fooled you so well and you did lost your mind.
Penxi gently nudged Enya, her expression softening with genuine concern. “But... Where is he, Y/N? Who is he, and why didn't he come back with you? Is this... the reason you returned?”
You looked up at them with a firmer resolve, your chest tightening. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
They exchanged a quick look, instantly understanding what had prompted you to say that.
“Of course,” Penxi said softly, reaching out to squeeze your hand. “We are only worried for you. But if you want to leave it in the past, we support you. You have us.”
Enya nodded vigorously. “I always thought I’d be the first to have a baby among us! I mean, I had plenty of crushes in the past and I had that rebellious streak with Krikhir, but now we are getting a mini Y/N! I’m going to spoil this baby so much!”
You let out a soft laugh then, pressing a hand to your stomach. “I never imagined this for myself either... but now, I can't imagine my life without this little pea.”
“Motherhood suits you,” Penxi smiled. “And remember. This baby will be raised by all of us. You will never be alone, and you will never need that man.”
Tears welled in your eyes, moving to pull them both in a warm embrace. You all stayed at the lake until sundown before walking back to the village. The sight of Antulo standing at the base of the stone terraces, deep in conversation with an elder warrior welcomed you. His eyes locked onto you as you approached.
You watched your brother. You knew what the Omatikaya had accused him of, but in all the moons since your return, he had shown no signs of the cold-blooded murderer they claimed he was. Still, you knew that to get answers from him, you had to offer something in return.
“You two go ahead,” you told Penxi and Enya, who were walking alongside you. “I need to speak with my brother.”
Enya took the fiber basket from your arms, giving you an encouraging smile before walking away with Penxi. As you walked toward Antulo, the elder warrior he was speaking with knew he’d have to excuse himself. Your brother’s eyes tracked you up and down, his gaze lingering on your stomach with a mixture of disbelief, frustration, and sharp concern.
“Was our clan food generally just that good, or is there something you aren't telling me?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light despite his tense jaw.
“I am pregnant,” you said flatly, not in the mood for jokes.
You saw his nostrils flared for a fraction.He closed his eyes for a brief second, taking a slow breath before looking at you directly. “Who is the bastard? Where is he? Why did he let you travel back to our lands alone in that condition? And what clan is he from?”
Under different circumstances, his rapid-fire questions might have made you laugh. Today, it only made your chest ache.
“I do not wish to discuss him,” you said firmly. “My child does not need a father.”
Antulo searched your face, reading the cold finality in your eyes. He nodded slowly. “It did not end well, then.”
“It did not,” you agreed, raising your chin. “So tell me now... Are you going to support me, or cast me out for bearing a child outside the mating bond?”
Antulo scoffed. “You are my sister, Y/N. I would never cast out any woman of our clan for this, let alone you. You never have to ask for my protection. It has been yours since the day you were born.” He took a step forward and pulled you into a firm, one-armed embrace
Buried against your brother’s shoulder, the weight of the past few moons finally broke through your defenses. A sob tore from your throat, and you wept openly into his chest. Hearing his unconditional fierce love made you realize how impossible the Omatikaya's claims are. Your brother could not have done it... he just couldn't.
“Stop crying,” Antulo grumbled gently, though his own voice sounded thick with emotion. “Or I will be forced to hunt that man down and break every bone in his body.”
You let out a breathless laugh against his shoulder. “I might just let you...”
As it turned out, Antulo didn't need to hunt him down.
Because a moon later, that man brought himself directly to your lands.
You were returning from the nearby lake, carrying a woven basket filled with washed baby blankets, when you saw him.
He was standing so comfortably near the edge of the lower village commons, looking so surreal that for a split second, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you again. But then his head turned. His golden eyes locked onto yours, and your heart plummeted straight into your stomach.
You froze, a sharp gasp catching in your throat.
The fear lingering in your veins quickly flared into white-hot anger when you saw the expression on his face: a look of profound, agonizing relief. You hated him for it. You hated that he had the nerve to look relieved, as if he had any right to care whether you were alive or dead. He was a good pretender, after all, of course he could fake relief.
You stood rooted to the spot, your mind reeling. You hated how much power his presence still held over you, hated how your pulse raced and your hands trembled despite all the moons you had spent trying to scrub his memory from your mind.
“Y/N...” Neteyam breathed, taking a hesitant step forward.
Instinctively, you took a step back, your posture stiffening into a defensive stance.
Neteyam halted instantly, his heart breaking at the fear on your face but it was when his eyes swept over you that his very own breath choked him. He caught the unmistakable swell of your stomach. He swallowed, feeling like time had stopped and momentarily paralyzed him.
He tore his eyes away, looking up to your face instead, only to see fear in it, your ears pinning back to the sides of your head and your eyes looking at him with, devoid of all the warmth, joy, and pure innocence that were always there when you looked at him.
He had broken you. He had handed you over to your tormentors. So what does he expect? He had spent countless sleepless nights agonizing over what would happen when he saw you again, consumed by a guilt so suffocating he could barely function. He knew there was no forgiveness for what he had done. He had betrayed your trust when he should have listened to his instincts and fought for you.
For the first time in his life, Neteyam wished he were like Lo’ak. He wished he had his brother’s reckless courage to defy everyone, to abandon duty, and to choose love without second-guessing himself. He wished, with all of him, that he had any courage in him at all... to choose love over duty. His duty shouldn't have been to the council's blind pursuit of vengeance. The moment he fell in love with you, his ultimate duty should have been to protect you.
The weight of his regret was made a thousand times worse by the truth they had recently uncovered. Further intelligence had led him to the actual truth. One that not only proves your innocence, but that of your brother’s as well. The truth was that the Omatikaya had been feeding on the crumbs of a third-party that was framing your brother for whatever reason. You and your brother had been nothing but innocent.
You, most especially. The pain, regret, and guilt that had engulfed him for moons had only intensified so much, sometimes he could barely breathe.
He had wished to see you again. He had wanted to apologize to you but nothing he thought of doing felt right or sufficient. He hurt you so much and he couldn't see you forgiving him at all, and he doesn't think he would like you to forgive him. He doesn't deserve it, but he desperately needed to see you, to ensure you were safe. He wanted to be near you.
And... he didn't know if he was even allowed to have such a favor and luxury.
They had been communicating with your brother since the last moons, informing him about what they know, and how he was being framed for things he didn't commit. They had a good lead that the culrprit was in your clan, and that they are going to help him find out who it was. You would have known all of these, if only you would talk to your brother about the council meetings he’s been having in the last moons.
Now, you have completely no idea about what was going on.
Neteyam’s small delegation of warriors arrived just hours ago, and you weren't home because you were out by the lake, and now you were confronted with the sight of him here.
The last thing you would have expected.
“Y/N!”
A loud, familiar voice shattered the tension hanging between you two. Takzur jogged up from the path behind Neteyam, carrying a bundle of hunting gear.
Relief flooded your chest at the sight of a familiar face. As Takzur reached you, you instinctively stepped closer to him, using his tall frame as a shield to block Neteyam from your sight.
“Where have you been, hm?” Takzur asked smoothly, taking the heavy basket of blankets from your hands.
Takzur glanced over at Neteyam, offering a respectful nod before turning back to you.
“A delegation of Omatikaya warriors arrived for trade and security talks a while ago. This is Neteyam, son of Toruk Makto.”
You kept your eyes fixed on Takzur, refusing to glance at Neteyam. “I feel dizzy,” you lied, placing a hand on Takzur’s forearm.
Takzur chuckled warmly, resting a hand briefly on top of your head in a comforting gesture. “Do you want me to carry you?”
“No. I can walk,” you muttered, already turning away.
Takzur offered Neteyam an apologetic, awkward grin. “Apologies, warrior. She’s not in the best mood today. Pregnant women, you know how it is,” he joked lightly, guiding you up the stone path toward the village.
Neteyam remained rooted to the spot, watching you walk away. His eyes lingered on the way Takzur held your arm, guiding you with an easy, practiced familiarity.
Five moons, Neteyam thought, his mind racing. You two had been separated for only five moons. But looking at the size of your belly, it looked small... As if new, like a bloom that had only recently begun to show. A heavy, crushing realization settled into his chest, shattering whatever remained of his heart.
He had never felt entirely defeated. He had told himself not to hope, told himself he would accept whatever hatred you threw at him, but seeing you walk away with another man was worst than drowning. He was here to help your brother, but deep down, a selfish part of him had hoped he could somehow earn a second chance. But now, he realized that if it were impossible then, it is even more impossible now.
Meanwhile, instead of returning to your hut, you headed straight for the longhouse, your dizziness act forgotten in a surge of defensive anger. You pushed past the woven entrance flaps, interrupting Antulo in the middle of a discussion with two clan elders.
“Antulo,” you demanded, your voice cold and sharp.
Recognizing your tone, the elders quickly excused themselves, leaving the two of you alone.
“What is it?” Antulo asked.
“Why are there outsiders in our lands?” you replied in a biting tone.
Antulo sighed, leaning back against a carved pillar. “If you actually attended council meetings, Y/N, you wouldn't look so surprised. The Omatikaya are here on an important matter. A third party has been using my name to cover their crimes, framing our clan for the murders off our borders. The son of Toruk Makto is here because they believe the actual traitor is hiding among our people.”
You let out a harsh, bitter laugh. An Omatikaya 'hunch', you thought bitterly. “Yeah, they could be trusted,” you said sarcastically. “You opened our borders to them. You don’t even know them..How do you know this isn't a ploy to infiltrate our lands?”
Antulo stared at you, genuinely taken aback by your hostility. “Y/N, I know you’ve been through a difficult time, but I have never seen you this paranoid. You used to be welcoming. I need your trust on this. My honor and our clan’s safety are at stake. If there is a traitor among us, I will not rest until they are brought to justice.”
You stared at your brother, a cold realization washing over you. He really was innocent. The Omatikaya had been wrong all along.
The trauma, the isolation, the agony you had endured in that dark cell, it had all been for nothing. Based on baseless suspicions, Neteyam had allowed them to break you. A fresh wave of rage and betrayal burned through your veins.
“Fine,” you spat, turning toward the exit. “Just keep them away from the upper terraces. I do not want them anywhere near my home.”
“I’ll make sure they stay in the lower quarters,” Antulo agreed easily.
You turned and marched out of the longhouse, only to nearly collide with Neteyam, who was standing just outside the longhouse.
Your eyes narrowed into furious slits. “What are you doing here? Eavesdropping? Looking for more false evidence to use against my brothe—”
“Y/N!” Antulo hurried out behind you, horrified by you confronting Neteyam. “Y/N, control yourself! I apologize for my sister, Neteyam te Suli. She is not usually like this.”
You aggressively shoved Antulo’s hand off your elbow, throwing one last glare at Neteyam before turning on your heel and heading up the stone steps toward the upper terraces. You hated that you had to look over your shoulder now, hated that his presence invaded your home. But then you reminded yourself: You belonged here. He was the outsider. He should look out so you two won’t run into each other. He should be careful of his moves.
In the days and weeks that followed, you did everything in your power to avoid him. But living in a terrace village made total avoidance nearly impossible.
One afternoon, while walking back from the weaving looms, Neteyam stepped into your path. He kept his distance, his posture stiff, but the profound sorrow in his golden eyes was impossible to hide and it only annoyed you.
“How are you faring?” he asked quietly when you actually stopped to face him.
You stared at him, a biting sneer curling your lips as you stepped closer to him. “What gives you the right to ask me that? You really have no shame, do you? After what you and your people did to me based on nothing but blind assumptions, you have the audacity to stand here and act concerned?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, his hands clenching into tight fists at his sides, but he remained silent, taking every word.
“The only thing I am grateful for,” you said, leaning in, your voice dropping into a whisper, “is that my child is not fathered by a man so comfortable with cruelty. My child will never know a people as vile as yours.”
Neteyam’s head reared back a little as though you clawed him, his gaze shifting away as he forced himself to swallow the sharp pain in his throat.
“I will do you a favor and not tell my brother what you and your people did to me,” you continued. “In return, you will stay away from me. You will not speak to me. You will not look at me. If you see me walking down a path, you will turn around and take another. Do your job here quietly, and when you are finished, leave.”
You brushed past him, leaving him standing alone on the stone path.
Once you rounded the corner and out of his sight, your knees buckled slightly. You leaned against the cool wall, gasping for breath as a painful knot tightened in your chest. You hated that saying those cruel words hadn't brought you any satisfaction. You hated that a part of you still cared, still wondered if your harsh words had hurt him, or if he was simply too cold to care.
Despite your strict warning, Neteyam could not bring himself to stay away entirely.
Unable to speak to you, he began helping you from the shadows. You had no idea that he was the one refilling the heavy water barrels outside your hut every morning, or the person behind your infinitely softer bedding and the perfectly split, dry firewood stacked neatly by your door was him. He tracked your daily routines from afar. Whenever you left a heavy basket of woven goods to rest, he would quietly move it closer to your destination when you weren't looking.
He hunted relentlessly, seeking out iron-dense preys and rare river fish known to be nourishing for pregnant women. He befriended a cook to ensure the prime cuts were always included in your daily meals. And though Omatikaya warriors were forbidden from entering the upper terraces, Neteyam spent his nights perched high in the branches of the massive tree overlooking the village, his longbow in hand, watching over your hut while you slept.
To people who are not paying attention, which are most of them, these acts are not very obvious. But for Enya, whose wandering eyes have followed the outsiders for moons now, it warranted bringing up a very important matter.
“I’m telling you, Y/N, that Omatikaya warrior is completely taken with you!” Enya squealed, leaning in close. “I’ve been watching him and I have observed that he is extremely attentive of you. Remember dinner the other night? You found it hard to sit on the hard mat, and then by breakfast the next day… There was a soft cushion left at your usual spot.”
She looked at you expectedly, waiting for you to connect the dots but you merely looked at her. You knew she was talking about Neteyam... But you do not wish to acknowledge it, nor feed her imagination that you knew what she was talking about.
“I saw him put that on your seat when I was preparing at the kitchens!” she said. “And… I learned that he is friends with Krikhir. I used some charms to get Krikhir to tell me stuff and he told me this warrior has been supplying the kitchens with the largest games he's ever seen,” she told you with wide eyes, nodding.
“And so this warrior… is a good hunter?” Penxi trailed.
Enya sighed. “No… Krikhir told me the warrior was specifically asking him to cook the best parts of every meat he brings for Y/N. The best part for pregnant women, anyway…” she shrugs, stifling a huge smile as she looks at you.
Penxi frowned slightly, looking up from her thread. “Wait... isn't that a little creepy? What is his deal? Which warrior are we talking about?”
Enya giggled. “Oh, Great Mother! There he is…” she squealed through her slightly parted lips. “One thing I also noticed, Y/N,” she leaned forward. “Is that he is everywhere you are. Just yesterday, when you walked down the lake, I saw him follow you!”
You turned your head, already knowing who you would see. Neteyam was sitting on a high rock, adjusting the fletching on his arrows but with a practiced, and sneaky move, his head angled toward where you are and your eyes met. He quickly looked away and focused intently on his bow.
“He is reputable and handsome, certainly,” Penxi said slowly, her sharp eyes scanning Neteyam's tense posture from afar. “But don't you find this behavior concerning? He doesn't know you, Y/N, and you are clearly pregnant—”
“So what?” Enya argued playfully. “Some men find pregnant women attractive!”
“That isn't my point,” Penxi countered, her tone growing serious as she looked at you. “What if he has ulterior motives? What if he’s watching you for a reason?”
Her words struck a chord of interest in your chest. Your ears perked up. “You think so?” you asked softly, glancing back toward Neteyam and catching him looking your way again. He quickly looked away though. “Does he have that aura?”
You trust Penxi’s judgment, of course. She was always the most observant of your group. Hearing her express doubt about Neteyam’s intentions reinforced the cold wall you had built around your heart. You had been foolish enough to trust him once. You wouldn't make that mistake again.
“Not really. I mean, based only on his actions. But it could also be that he simply has a soft spot for expectant mothers,” she said. “Maybe he has a pregnant mate back home?”
A sudden, sharp sting of heat rushed to your face and ears. The mental image of Neteyam returning home to a loving, pregnant woman sent an unexpected wave of bitter irritation crashing through you. You hated how much the thought bothered you. You should not care, yet the idea of him offering another woman the love and gentleness he had fake-offered you made your blood boil.
That night, the bitter thoughts kept you tossing and turning
You groaned in frustration, struggling to push yourself up into a sitting position as your heavy belly weighed you down. You are eight moons along, with a remaining four moons to go and you’re feeling it more than ever now that your belly had ballooned twice as large as it used to be in the beginning. Seeking fresh air to clear your head, you stepped out onto the wooden platform outside your hut.
Your eyes instinctively darted toward the high branches of the tree, the spot Enya had mentioned she saw the warrior on.
Your breath hitched.
He was actually there. Neteyam was perched comfortably on a high branch overlooking your hut, a half-eaten piece of fruit in one hand and his bow resting on his lap. The moment he sensed movement in your hut, his head snapped in your direction, his golden eyes wide and instantly alert, scanning you to see if you were in distress.
He made no move to approach, remaining motionless in the canopy, waiting silently to see if you needed anything.
You stared up at him for a long, heavy moment, your heart hammering against your ribs. Then, with a furious huff, you turned around, stomped back into the safety of your hut, and let the heavy woven flap snap shut behind you.
You stood inside your hut, your hand resting over the firm curve of your belly as you stared down at the sliver of moonlight on the floor. Your mind was a storm, wild and relentless. Driven by a surge of frustration you couldn't control, you turned and stepped back out onto the platform.
This time, Neteyam didn't wait.
The moment he saw your shadow, he moved. He dropped down from the high canopy with unmatched grace. He walked forward until he reached the base of your terrace steps, stopping precisely as though an invisible barrier stood between you, one he set and dared not cross.
“Is there anything you need?” he asked quietly, his eyes searching your face in the dim light.
Your jaw clenched tight. “Yes,” you hissed, your voice laced with venom. “I need you to remember what I told you the last time we spoke. I told you to stay away from me. I told you that if you saw me, you were to turn around and take a different path. I told you never to speak to me, and never to look at me.”
His breathing hitched. “I cannot do that, Y/N,” he said. His tone was firm, but laced with plea, as though protesting your words without daring to push against your boundary. “You can ask for anything else, and I will give it to you without question. But do not ask me to blind myself to you. Looking at you... it is the only thing I have left.”
You stared at him. The quiet vulnerability did not soften you at all. It only ignited your fury.
“What makes you think you have the right to have anything from me?” you snapped, taking a sharp step toward the edge of the platform. “If you were not here on my brother's business, I would have had you driven from our lands the moment you arrived! I know what you are, I know how dangerous you are!”
You leaned over the railing, your eyes blazing into his. “So do as I said. Stop following me around like a foolish pet, stop hovering in the trees, and finish whatever work you came here to do!”
Neteyam’s gaze dropped to the ground, his posture settling into that of a disciplined warrior accepting a harsh reprimand. You saw the tight bulge of a muscle in his jaw as he gritted his teeth against the pain of your words.
You tilted your head, sneering. “Or are you even doing your job at all? You have been here for moons, yet you have brought my brother no closer to the traitor. Are you truly this incompetent, or are you simply lying again?”
Neteyam swallowed hard, looking up just enough to meet your eyes. “I am working with your brother every day. The traitor has buried their tracks, but we are closing in. I am moving as quickly as I can.”
You wanted him gone. You wanted him far away from your clan, far away from you... Or so you kept telling yourself. Yet, as his words sank in, a traitorous pang struck your chest. You crushed the feeling instantly, hardening your face into a mask of cold indifference.
“Good,” you said sharply. “The sooner you finish, the sooner you can return to whoever is waiting for you back home.”
Neteyam’s eyes snapped up, catching the familiar tone lacing your voice. A sudden flash of realization hit him, and he spoke quickly, desperate to clear the air.
“There is no one waiting for me back home,” he said, his voice dropping into an earnest, urgent murmur. “I mean... aside from my family. My parents and my siblings.”
You scowled, wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders. “I did not ask,” you cut in coldly. “And I do not care. So remember what I told you.”
Without waiting for his reply, you turned on your heel and retreated into your hut.
Outside, Neteyam stood alone in the dark. He let out a long, heavy breath, shifting his weight as he stared at the closed woven flap. The weight of your words settled over him like vines. He couldn't even look at you anymore without driving you further away.
So he obeyed your strict command. He stayed out of your sight, he found a higher branch on the tree directly above your hut, and he watched your activities from afar, putting more stealth in his actions. He knew your daily routine better than anyone. He knew that by mid-morning, your lower back began to ache terribly from the weight of your belly, forcing you to sit frequently while carrying out your weaving. He knew that the stone benches near the upper weaving terrace were cold, hard, and lacked support.
Before the sun even rose, while the village was still draped in dawn mist, Neteyam climbed the upper terraces to take a hand-carved wooden frame he had spent the previous nights crafting in secret. He padded it with thick, layered pelts of hexapede hide, the softest, warmest fur known to retain heat. He bound it securely to the stone bench where you always sat, angling the backrest precisely to support the curve of your spine.
When you arrived at the looms hours later, you stopped in your tracks, your eyes catching sight of the the bench tailored so meticulously for your comfort that even Penxi gasped in quiet approval.
“Well,” Enya murmured, running a hand over the plush, impossibly soft fur. “Whoever made this certainly knows how much your back has been hurting...”
You stared at the seat, your mouth setting into a tight line. You knew immediately who had done it. You wanted to refuse it out of spite, to sit on the cold stone instead, but a sudden kick brought a sharp ache down your spine. You whimpered, caressing your belly and sighing.
Alright, little one, you thought. I’m not going to ignore your father’s handiwork.
You sat down and the relief was instantaneous, supporting your belly and easing the pressure on your lower back so thoroughly that a quiet, involuntary sigh slipped past your lips.
Yards away, hidden deep within the foliage of a high watch-ridge, Neteyam leaned against a tree trunk, watching. A faint, sad semblance of a smile touched his lips when he saw you settle back into the cushions and caress your round belly. His face crumpled a little, his hand balling into fist. He had no one to blame but himself. This is exactly why he doesn’t deserve you. He can’t even heed what you asked him to... In the end, he is still selfish, as selfish as he was when he fell in love with you and took you to bed knowing what his people wanted him to do.
To take his mind away from his thoughts, he spends his late afternoons in the lower village with Krikhir and the village cooks, preparing specialized broths. He brought the meat and spent hours rendering down bone marrows. He steep-brewed rare mountain herbs that the Omatikaya healers used to ease late-stage pregnancy swelling, and hand-filtered the liquid until it was smooth and rich.
“Heat this up and give it to her with her evening meal,” Neteyam told Krikhir flatly, offering the cook a fine obsidian blade as payment for his silence.
Krikhir nodded, smirking as he watched the serious, towering warrior. “I am puzzled, my friend,“ he said. “Do you know Y/N before you came here? I mean, you’re so nice to her. Well, not that you shouldn’t be. She’s really kind. I used to get bullied in the past, but because she was kind to me, the kids saw me differently.”
Neteyam stared at him. “How was she like? When she was younger,” he asked quietly.
Krikhir busied himself with chopping the meat. “She’s a snob,“ he said. “But never in a bad way. She’s a snob mostly to obnoxious boys. I’m one of the exceptions, simply because I’m smaller for my age and was usually the...” he shrugs. “Victim of the bigger boys.”
Neteyam nodded, stifling a smile. You do have that in you... Defending the defenseless.
Krikhir shook his head. “I just don’t know what type of man got to know someone like Y/N and decided... she’s not worth being with. So, I’m glad you’re doing this for her,” he said.
Neteyam gritted his teeth, nodding silently. He wanted to tell Krikhir it was him, that he was facing the very man he was talking about. But he didn’t want to risk Krikhir getting mad at him and refusing to do his biddings.
“Thank you, Krikhir...” he said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You are a good friend.”
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
As more moons passed, you found yourself more and more drawn to the sight and sound of children laughing and playing in the lower grounds. You sit under the afternoon sun, surrounded by a small circle of young mothers and wide-eyed children. The little ones giggled as you traced figures in the dirt, telling them ancient fables of the forest, but as the children eventually scattered to play, the conversation shifted.
The mothers began sharing quiet stories about late-night feedings, of struggles with a newborn, and of how their mates had carried them through the overwhelming early days of newborn life.
“I do not know what I would have done without Vatru in those first few weeks,” one of the women murmured, gently bouncing her infant. She looked at you with eyes full of genuine, aching sympathy. “It breaks my heart that you must navigate this alone, Y/N. New motherhood is a heavy path to walk without a mate to share the load.”
You offered a practiced, quiet smile and assured them you would manage. After all, you had your brother, your grandmother, and your fiercely loyal friends.
Yet, when you finally returned to the solitude of your hut that evening, the heavy silence pressed into your chest. The armor you wore all day fractured, and tears escaped, rolling down your cheeks.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
When you had given yourself to Neteyam, you had truly believed in the future you were building. You had loved him with every fiber of your being. And none of it was real. He was doing it for the woman he loved. He was enduring you for her. Just as the warrior said, it indeed must have taken great patience to not strangle you on sight.
Now, it suffocates you to think that this overwhelming care he is showing you now is simply an attempt to scrub the blood of guilt from his conscience. You stroked the heavy roundness of your belly, sobbing quietly into the dimness. You wished, with a desperate ache, that you had met him under ordinary circumstances. Without clans at war, without blood debts, and without his devastating betrayal. You hated that even given the choice to erase him entirely to spare yourself this agony, your heart still wished for him... just in a world where everything happened differently.
But perhaps even then, it would be a fool's dream. Because he still wouldn't love you enough for things to go the way you want it to.
The weight of all your thoughts woke you up before dawn and you were thankful for that. Over the moons he had been in your village, you had quietly mapped his routine. You knew he would come before sunrise to replenish your firewood today, and you decided it had to end. You did not want his penance. You did not want him working himself to exhaustion just to buy a quiet conscience.
Standing near the woven flap, you waited. Neteyam was a good warrior, he had mastered stealth, his movements were so ghostly you were not even sure if he was already there when you threw the flap open. You saw Neteyam froze, a towering stack of freshly split logs held effortlessly in his arms. The moment his eyes met yours, he instinctively looked away, honoring your command even while caught in the act.
Your jaw clenched, white-hot frustration flaring in your veins. “From now on, you will stop doing this,” you said, your tone dropping into a quiet coldness.
Neteyam’s head snapped back, his eyes pleading. “Y/N, please. I cannot. The wood is damp from the valley fog, and you need these for the—”
“Stop. Doing. It,” you cut in, emphasizing every word. “I do not want your pity. I do not want your hollow guilt. I do not want you easing your restless mind just because you chopped some wood and lifted a few water barrels. I suggest you keep every bit of that guilt, let it burn in you so you make better choices the next time you decide to hurt someone.“
Neteyam stood entirely still, watching you and feeling the beginning of a tremor starting in his gut. He wanted to throw up from fear. It feels like the universe is taking from him everything he could possibly do to make it up to you. He knew he would never be with you again, but it feels like he keeps getting kicked to the ground. So just this once, he wants to speak.
“I am not doing this out of pity, Y/N. I love you. I love you so much and if I could rip my heart out to show you how—”
“I do not believe you,” you cut him off, even though your heart staggered and soared at his words. You knew it is all the more you needed to reject this. “I will never believe you again, Neteyam.”
Before he could say another word, you let the flap fall shut, cutting him off completely.
The next two moons bled into one another in a haze of quiet isolation within your grandmother’s hut. Since you are alone in your hut, your grandmother didn’t think it safe for you to spend the crucial moons of your pregnancy alone. You are thankful to be in her company, though she doesn’t talk much and spends most of the day in the healing pavilion.
The Tsahik knew far too much for a woman of her years, yet she possessed a rare, merciful silence. Unlike the rest of the village, she never pried about the man who had left his mark on your soul and your swell, nor did she press you for the reason you chose to stay. You had never cared for the healing arts before, always preferring stories about travelling and the other clans, but sitting beside her and watching her aged hands work herbs while your mind drifted toward the man you ordered to stay away from you was better than sitting alone in your hut.
Based on your brother’s words in passing, you knew the hunt for the traitor was nearing its end. You rarely see Neteyam these days... And because you live with your grandmother now, firewood and water are things you no longer need. Though you had demanded for him to stop his labors, you found yourself hypocritically yearning for the specialized meals he commissions Krikhir for you.
You missed him. The truth burned like bile in your throat, but you could not scrub him from your mind.
You passed a thread of fiber through a loop, sighing as laying out the tiny loincloth properly on your lap. You were seated on a flat stone by the lake, killing time before you go to the healing pavilion for your back massage, when the silent was shattered by Tarzuk who came tearing through the reeds, his face a twisted mask of panic.
“Y/N! You must come. It is your brother and Neteyam!” Tarzuk gasped, his breath ragged. “They were ambushed near the northern border! They are gravely wounded!”
Panic seized your chest, completely drowning out the heavy, dull ache in your lower back. “The healers, call the elders at the pavilion!”
“I already did! But you need to see him now” Tarzuk grabbed your wrist, pulling you up. “Antulo might not make the night!”
Disoriented and terrified, you stumbled after him, your hands desperately cradling your heavy belly as the sharp terrain tore at your feet. “What happened, Tarzuk? Who attacked them?”
“A rogue Omatikaya squad came and asked to speak with Neteyam,” he said, guiding you deeper into the dense brush. “But they attacked us. They shot Neteyam and they shot your brother when he tried to fight back.”
You gasped, his fear affecting you so much that your mind began to create brutal images that made your knees weak. You felt your belly tightened, feeling a sharp pain start between your legs.
“Their leader wore an orange-dyed chest piece—”
“Yantuk...” the name slipped from your lips in a horrified whisper.
Tarzuk nodded frantically, pulling you into a secluded clearing near the ridge line. You expected to see your bloodied brother and Neteyam, but there were no wounded warriors bleeding on the moss.
The only ones standing in the shadow were the rogue Omatikaya warriors he spoke of. In the middle was Yantuk himself, flanked by six armed Omatikaya men. You froze, the blood running cold in your veins as Yantuk’s eyes landed squarely on the high curve of your stomach, filled of hatred.
“Is that Neteyam’s?” Yantuk growled, his fangs bared in a snarl. “You truly took everything from my daughter, you wretched little whore.”
“I didn’t take anything from your daughter!” you snapped back. “I am not the reason she’s dead—”
You gasped when an arrow struck near your foot. You stepped back, your knuckles turning white against your belly, but Tarzuk’s firm grip on your shoulder blocked your retreat.
“I suggest you take this mini reunion on the road back. We don’t have the luxury of time,” Tarzuk said behind you, his voice devoid of any previous panic. “
I delivered her as promised. Now fulfill your end of the bargain. Get Antulo and Neteyam off my back. Kill them, and leave the leadership of this clan to me.”
Your head swiveled to Tarzuk in absolute horror. “Tarzuk... why are you doing this?” your voice broke at the betrayal.
Tarzuk scoffed. “Because your brother is weak and lacks the vision to make our clan powerful,” he answered. “I would have taken you as my mate once Antulo was gone, but you had to go and get yourself knocked up like a common whore.”
“My brother will kill you for this,” you whispered, trembling.
Tarzuk offered a dark, lopsided grin. “I’ll beat him to—”
A heavy whistling sound sliced through the air, and a massive arrow struck Tarzuk clean through the side of the neck. He choked, blood spurting from his lips as he collapsed like a felled tree. You gasped, stepping back and ducking without thinking. You protected your bump with both your arms, your eyes widening when you saw Yantuk fell on the ground, a large arrow cleanly pierced on his chest.
From the surrounding canopy, your clan’s warriors descended, quickly overwhelming Yantuk’s remaining men. Before you could process the Omatikaya falling one by one, strong, familiar arms wrapped around you: Rushed, frantic, yet impossibly gentle.
“Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?” Neteyam’s voice was a ragged murmur against your hair as his hands hovered over your body, frantically checking for wounds.
You shook your head, staring up at him in dazed shock, your own eyes sweeping his frame to ensure he wasn't bleeding out as Tarzuk had claimed. “I... I am unhurt.”
He let out a shaky, shuddering breath, his touch lingering on your arms for a split second before he yanked his hands back as if burned, stepping away as he remembered your orders. You lifted your eyes up to look at him, but Antulo rushed in, pulling you into a fierce embrace. Over your brother's shoulder, your eyes locked with Neteyam’s who were watching your intently.
The moment your gazes met though, he immediately looked away, his jaw clenching as he retreated into the background. The mission was over. The traitor was dead. He had no reason to stay anymore.
That night, as you sat on your wooden platform, leaning against the fur-padded backrest Neteyam had built, Antulo walked up the steps to your hut.
“The Omatikaya will leave at dawn,” Antulo said quietly, rubbing his tired face. “Tarzuk played us all. He worked with Yantuk to manufacture a war so he could seize power.”
You stared at nothing. You remembered his genuine hatred toward you and how it nearly made you believe you did everything they were telling you you did. He pinned his own daughter's death on you, even when he knows that his own doing caused her death. It takes a different level of evil to achieve that.
You tried to take a deep breath, but a sudden, terrifyingly sharp cramp seized your lower abdomen. You gasped, doubling over as your hand slammed onto your stomach.
Antulo’s eyes widened in panic. “What is it?”
“Contraction again, I think...” you gasped out, sweat instantly breaking on your forehead.
“Again?” Antulo echoed in horror.
You nodded, and without another word, Antulo scooped you into his arms so fast you weren’t even able to stop him. He raced toward the Tsahik’s pavilion in record time.
You might not think it too grave, but the stress of the ambush had shattered your body’s delicate balance. Labor hit you quickly and violently, that for hours, you hung onto the thick fiber ropes suspended from the ceiling, screaming through contractions that felt as though your pelvis was being ground into dust. The elder healers held your knees wide, shouting at you to push, warning that the child was massive and you need to push properly so there wouldn’t be complications.
You didn't care about the pain. You only cared about the fear clawing at your throat. You hadn’t thought about complications at all throughout your pregnancy and you feared that you had been too comfortable.
Memory flashed unbidden through your mind, of a quiet night moons ago, lying naked against Neteyam’s chest, tracing the beautiful bioluminescent patterns on his skin as your other hand caressed the base of his head.
He was a hybrid, he told you so when you pointed out how his kuru was at the base of his head and not on top like the average Na’vi. You had been laying together for many times already before you had the courage to ask about something so personal.
“It is beautiful anyway,” you mumbled, your hand caressing his kuru now as you moved your naked body closer to him. “I am only curious.”
He smiled, kissing your chin. “I got it from my father,” he told you then. “He is... different from a Na’vi. He is an avatar.”
“Avatar?” you echoed and he grinned at your accent, rising to drop a hard kiss on your lips.
“Like norm. You remember him?“ he asked, his hand caressing the curve on your waist.
You nodded. “He has five fingers... Like Kiri,” you mumbled.
“My brother Lo’ak does, too,“ he said. “It is in our genes now, I think.”
You nodded, your other hand tracing the bioluminescent freckles on his chest.
“Does that bother you?” he asked, his lips brushing your jaw and kissing your cheek like he couldn’t get enough.
“What does?” you asked, your heart hammering against your chest as you looked into his eyes.
“That i have such a gene. I am not fully Na’vi... And I will pass it down,” he said, his eyes earnest and worried.
You both know then what he was talking about even without explicitly saying it. He is genuinely worried you were bothered about his alien genetics, that you wouldn’t want it for your own children.
You breathlessly huffed, a small smile cutting through your lips as you shook your head. “No, it doesn’t. It doesn't, Neteyam,” you said, propping yourself on your elbow to hover over him. His hand clamped around your nape and pulled you down for a kiss.
“Push, Y/N! Push now!” your grandmother’s commanding voice snapped you back to the agony of the present.
With a final, chest-heaving scream, you gave everything you had. The pressure yielded, and your baby slipped into the world.
You collapsed back onto the mats, panting heavily as a triumphant smile blooming on your lips, until you realized the pavilion had fallen dead silent.
There was no cry.
Horror spiked through your veins. You sat up, ignoring the pain in your body. Your grandmother was near the washing basin, holding a massive, beautiful newborn, easily the size of a two-moon-old child.
“A boy,” she announced softly.
You tracked his body. He was breathing, his little chest heaving, but he was making no sound. Your eyes frantically mapped his tiny body, and there it was. At the base of his skull sat a low-set kuru and folded tightly against his chest were two tiny hands, each bearing five fingers.
The elder healers gasped when your grandmother lowered him for you. They backed away with expressions of absolute horror.
“Give him to me,” you asked, your voice breaking into a sob.
Your grandmother placed the quiet babe in your arms. Aside from the kuru and the fingers, he looked every bit a Na’vi. You lowered your head and touched your forehead to his, smiling as tears of exhaustion filled your eyes. The baby took a deep breath before letting out a sudden wail. You caressed his soft head, desperate to soothe him. Your grandmother took your kuru as she guided your son’s head to your breast. She brought your kuru to touch the boy’s, seeking to form the mother’s bond to regulate his frantic system..
The moment the tendrils touched though, the baby shuddered. His bioluminescent spots flickered erratically, almost choking as he began to cry again
Your grandmother instantly severed the connection, her eyes filled with fear and uncertainty.
“What is wrong? Why did that happen?” you asked, your voice breaking as you clutched your babe to your bare chest.
“He is not Na’vi!” one of the elder healers hissed, pointing a trembling finger. “His kuru and his fingers—”
“Silence, Zaknar!” your grandmother roared, her eyes flashing with deadly authority. “Out! All of you, leave us now!”
The healers immediately vacated the pavilion. Your grandmother knelt beside you, looking at the sniffling babe with a heavy, mournful expression.
“It is the first time I encountered something like this, truly, Y/N,” she said. “But you see... Your boy is different. He does not recognize your bond, I would wager, and it would be painful for him if we force it.” she explained softly.
You stared at her before your eyes lowered down to your son who is eagerly latching from your breast. His eyes were closed but there were tears on the side of them.
“I thought I was wrong because he was leaving,” she said, tilting her head. “But he is the father, isn’t he?”
You swallowed, nodding without taking your eyes off your boy.
“I thought so,” she mused in a humored tone. “I saw the way he looked at you... And I am not blind.”
You sniffled. “What do I do, grandmother?” you asked, lifting your eyes up to her.
She looked at your son. “Obviously, your son inherits from his father. If he does not recognize your bond, he might recognize his father’s.”
You looked down at your son again, caressing his cheek, and knowing that pride was a luxury you could no longer afford.
You managed to get your son to sleep after feeding him, placing him in a soft cot before wrapping yourself in a heavy shawl. You dragged your heavy and sore body out of the pavilion. Every step felt like walking on broken glass, your hips feeling completely unhinged.
“What do you need?”
The deep, velvety voice made you gasp and jump. Neteyam was already standing behind you, but you tracked the moving branches from the canopy of the tree above. His golden eyes were wide with frantic concern, his hands twitching at his sides, desperately wanting to reach out and support you.
“What are you doing here?” you breathed, your voice devoid of its usual biting tone.
Neteyam swallowed hard, afraid that you might not want him around here at all. “I... I just wanted to... guard the pavilion,” he said. “I’ll get... do whatever you need... if you’ll allow me.”
You looked at him through a blur of tears. “I need... you,” you choked out. “For my son.”
Neteyam froze, his pupils dilating until the gold of his eyes was almost swallowed by black. His breath hitched, a look of unadulterated wonder and agonizing joy breaking across his handsome face. “A son...” he whispered, taking a trembling step forward before catching himself. “What would you have me do? I’ll do everything.” he said breathlessly.
“My son... do not recognize my bond. I cannot feed... him,” you said, swallowing the lump in your throat and trying so hard to not let your eyes fill with tears. “I cannot help him regulate his body. He will weaken.”
Neteyam’s expression instantly hardened into absolute resolve, his own fear completely swallowed by protective instinct. “He will be alright. He will not weaken.”
You stared at him and nodded, taking from his strength. He did not even question why you would come to him for this, even after you told him moons ago that he didn’t father your child.
He followed you into the dim pavilion, his fists clenched tight to stop himself from picking you up and carrying you when he saw the limp in your stride. You shouldn't have been standing. He shivered in fear when he realized that if he hadn't been here, you would have gone to his sleeping quarters in this state. He took a deep breath as soon as you two entered the pavilion, but his breathing still hitched at the sight of the tiny cot in the corner.
He craned his head, trying to get a better look of the baby inside it but he got distracted with you taking a deep breath as you tried to lower yourself on the mat. He moved, his hand reaching for you. “Let me help you...”
“Do not touch me,” you immediately said.
He quickly nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry,” he said, his nails digging into his palm.
You sank onto the mats with a soft gasp of pain, and an uncomfortable weight settled on his chest as he watched you helplessly. If watching you from afar and not being able to do anything for you was hard, this is much harder. He watched you reach for the small cot and lift the baby. Wonder broke at Neteyam’s face at the sight of the boy.
His son.
He wasn't entirely small, but he could imagine how small the boy would feel in his arms. His heart warmed and tears pooled in his eyes. His eyes tracked the boy’s five-fingered hands and the low-set. He knew it already, but there was no denying that this was his son. The baby stirred, and within a moment, he was gasping for air and howling a huge cry that seemed to stem from the very core of his small body.
You moved to bring the boy to your breast, giving your palm to Neteyam. Neteyam immediately brought his kuru forward and you gently guided it toward your baby’s small tendrils toward his. The moment their kuru connected, a soft, contented hum escaped the boy’s tiny lips and his bioluminescent spots flaring into a brilliant color. His five-fingered hand reached out, his small tail curling tightly around your wrist.
You held his tiny hand and gently extended it toward Neteyam, Neteyam let out a choked sob, lifting his large hand and allowing the babe to hold his index finger. It left him breathless, his entire frame trembling as he channeled every ounce of his warmth, protection, and fierce love through the bond into his son.
You watched the sacred sight, your heart breaking and mending all at once. The baby latched as eagerly as he had done earlier, and with his father’s neural bond stabilizing his system, he feeds completely at peace.
Silently, you looked up. Neteyam was staring at you, his golden eyes overflowing with a reverence so intense it made your chest ache.
“He is happy...” Neteyam whispered, a tentative, breathless smile gracing his lips.
You looked down, stroking your baby's soft head. “Thank you...”
“Do not thank me, Y/N,” Neteyam said quickly, his voice thick with emotion. “I know I cannot erase what I allowed to happen to you. I know I broke your trust, and I was a fool who acted out of blind duty when I should have chosen you. I will spend every breathing moment of my life making it up to you—”
“You believed I was guilty,” you cut him off softly, untangling his kuru from your son’s as the baby drifted into a deep sleep. “You allowed me to get hurt because you believed I helped murder the woman you loved.”
Neteyam’s brow furrowed in utter confusion. “What? Y/N, no, I did not do it for a woman, I did it for my people and Tuk, I wouldn’t have—”
“You did it to avenge her, they told me so,” you muttered, the old bitterness bleeding through your fatigue. “I respect that, but truly, I feel bad for you that she died, you wouldn’t have turned into such a cruel man—”
“There was no woman, Y/N,” he emphasized, stepping closer on his knees, his hands hovering near your face in desperate earnestness. “I never loved anyone before you. Priya was a friend, a huntress of our clan. Sure, I was saddened and angered by her cruel death, but even when I believed you did what I thought you did, I fell in love with you. I love you, Y/N, I love you so intensely it terrified me and you will never know how much I regretted not betraying my people for you right from the start.”
He reached out, his thumb gently catching a stray tear on your cheek before you could pull away.
“I was trapped between my duty and my devotion to you,” he choked out, his chest heaving. “And I made the worst mistake of my life by not running away with you the moment they started questioning me. But I swear on the Great Mother, my heart has belonged only to you from the moment I fell in love with you.”
You stared at him and he saw the exhaustion and the pain of labor reflected on your face. His breathing hitched, worried he might have strained you emotionally when you literally just gave birth.
“We will talk some again about, but now you need to rest...” he said.
You huffed, moving to put your son on his cot. “Oh, yes. That would be convenient for you,” you said. “But I wish to put an end to this now. I’ll have to let everyone know you fathered my child and I want the people to not think I have an ill grudge toward you.”
He didn’t say anything, watching you lower your body down on the mat, feeling a different kind of low. But as he stared at your lying form on the mat, the tiny cot beside you holding your child’s tiny frame, he knew it would take more than that to fully grind him to the ground.
The next day, you were woken up by a loud commotion you know is coming from the lower terraces. You were still at the healing pavilion, and when you woke up disoriented, your grandmother was the first person you saw, sitting across the room.
She tilted her head. “Antulo knows,” she said simply.
“Knows what?” you asked, still confused and blinking away sleep.
“Neteyam and your boy,” she answered.
Your eyes widened. You sat up, slowing down immediately as your sore body protested. “You told him?”
“He told him, I suppose,” she answered calmly.
You pushed yourself up, rushing outside the pavilion, and gasped when you saw Antulo physically roughing up Neteyam. “Antulo!” you called out, struggling to move and step down the wooden stairs.
“Don’t come down here!” his booming voice warned, his hands on Neteyam’s shoulders shoves Neteyam hard back to the ground.
The villagers were watching as if it were a spectator sport. “Don’t hurt him, Antulo!” you snapped, carefully descending the steps.
Enya and Penxi immediately rushed to your side, guiding you down.
“Don’t hurt him? He told me everything he did to you! Everything his people did to you! Tell me now why I shouldn't drive my knife to this man’s throat!”
Your face crumpled at the sight of Neteyam’s bloodied face and Antulo's pristine state. Neteyam wasn't even fighting back. “He is the father of my son, and my son needs him, Antulo—”
Enya and Penxi gasped in sync. Antulo shook his head in disbelief. “I already know that. He told me! But that is not enough reason! I can very well stand as a father figure for your child. He doesn’t need a man like him!”
“Stop this, Antulo,” you begged. “Don’t hurt him. My son needs him. My son doesn’t recognize my bond, only Neteyam’s.”
Antulo snarled and finally released his grip on Neteyam. Neteyam immediately sat up, as though he hadn’t just been beaten up. He stood up without a wince, though he did touch his shoulder and made it crack. You looked at him, pain seizing your heart before glaring at Antulo. You knew that you had once told your brother you’d allow him to break the bones of the man who hurt you, but you hadn't realized how agonizing it would be to actually watch it happen.
You didn't like seeing him get hurt at all. It pinched at your chest, and for a moment, you struggled to fight the urge to wrap your arms around him. Instead, you turned and walked silently back up to the healing pavilion.
“We’ll go visit you later, Y/N,” Enya said softly, and Penxi seconded with a serious nod.
Neteyam followed you up, and when you were finally inside, you turned to him. “Why did you tell him everything?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Now he hurt you!”
“I deserved that, Y/N. I deserved that and more,” he said quietly. “I would have allowed him to sink his knife into my chest, but our son needs me,” he added self-deprecatingly.
“Don’t do that again,” you said, swallowing hard and trying to ignore the painful spasm in your chest. “Don’t let yourself get hurt.”
His jaw clenched, your forehead creasing as he kept his eyes on the ground. “How can you say that when I allowed you to get hurt at the hands of my people?”
You balled your hands into fists. “Because it doesn’t work that way, Neteyam. I am mad at you for what you did, but I wouldn’t do the same thing to you even if I had the chance.”
You heard him choke on his own breath, nodding slowly. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry...”
You took a sharp breath, about to say something more, when your grandmother craned her neck around the entryway. “The boy is waking up. You’ll need to feed him soon.”
You moved, and Neteyam moved too, both of you willing slaves to your tiny baby.
The first few weeks revolved around that strict routine, every moment choked with unsaid words. The two of you were like disciplined workers whose sole purpose in life was to satisfy your child, while maintaining a painful distance from each other. You allowed him to carry Mako at certain points, your heart breaking at the sight of him cradling the boy against his large frame, acting like his safest sanctuary.
And when he handed Mako back to you, his large fingers would carefully try to avoid brushing yours, but they would still touch sometimes, and both of you would feel an electric jolt from that brief contact.
One evening, as you sat rocking Mako in your arms, Neteyam stood by the doorway, his broad frame blocking the moonlight. His eyes lingered on your exhausted face.
“You should sleep,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble. “I will stay on the platform outside. If he wakes and needs the bond, call for me.”
“You do not need to sit in the dirt like a banished pet, Neteyam,” you replied, looking at the newly-woven mat near you. “This mat is yours.”
He nodded quickly. Of course, he wouldn't argue with that. He’d take any chance to watch you with Mako. To just be near you and observe you be a mother. Truthfully, you wanted to be closer to him, too. You could hardly believe that sometimes, when you watched him carry your son outside your hut to bathe him in the morning sunlight, you actually felt like you were missing out on an experience your son was privileged to enjoy.
Weeks earlier, when Mako was only days old, Penxi and Enya had visited to officially meet the babe, and Enya hadn’t missed the chance to put suggestive thoughts in your head.
“Seriously, Y/N, you might just be the best secret keeper in the village, because if I were you, I wouldn’t have been able to keep this a secret!” Enya had said, gently touching your son’s forehead. “I would have told everyone by day two!”
“In retrospect, we should have known,” Penxi pointed out. “Enya did observe that Neteyam seemed oddly devoted to you, almost like a slave.”
Enya giggled. “And not to mention that he looks at Y/N like he wants to devour her!”
“Enya!” Penxi gasped, her face flushing.
“What? I mean, he is baby Mako’s father, and Y/N did say it didn’t happen only once with him!” she giggled.
Penxi’s eyes widened. “Even so!”
Enya pouted and rolled her eyes before looking at you with a broad grin. “Even more so now, Y/N! You don’t see how he looks at you, but I do! I’ll report to you from time to time,” she smirked. “Do you feel the same, though? Do you feel... ticklish when you look at him? Do you feel like you want to devour him?”
“Enya, that is such an inappropriate question! Where are you even getting these ideas?!”
“From myself! It's what I feel when I look at Krikhir,” she grinned, playing with her braids.
You scoffed, chuckling at her, even though you were now bothered by a heat that was all too familiar. It didn't help that you did see what Enya was talking about. It wasn't like you were blind; you could see the way Neteyam looked at you. It was literally the primary reason you couldn't handle being touched by him.
Aside from Neteyam, Penxi and Enya were your primary caregivers. They were almost always by your side when Neteyam was out for training or hunting. Antulo was still annoyed with you for not telling him the actual story from the beginning. He had come up one time to meet your baby, having no issue with Mako—only with you.
“I didn’t even know Tarzuk wasn’t the only enemy I allowed into my lands! Is that why you were so mad when Neteyam arrived?” he had asked, scoffing sarcastically at himself. “I should have listened to you, huh? I shouldn't have let him in here!”
Penxi and Enya had both remained tight-lipped as your brother scolded you.
“Now that I remember, I was so stupid. I even told you to be friendly. You were friendly to him, and he did this to you,” he had said.
“It wasn’t that deep,” you lied, just so he wouldn't remain so furious.
“Not that deep?” he asked, pointing at your son. “Oh, maybe that's why he so happily got you pregnant.”
You groaned. “Will you just drop it? You can't undo things any more than I can, and I wouldn't undo it either if I could. I want my son here, and I need you to focus on the present. Neteyam is a part of your life now, he's the father of your nephew.”
It took several more lectures until he was finally on speaking terms with you again. With Neteyam, though, he remained distant, and you could see how hard Neteyam was trying to make amends with him as well.
“Is that good?” Neteyam asked as you leaned against the cushion of the nursing seat he had built for you.
It was made entirely of padded lining and felt like sitting on a cloud, molded specifically to support your body. You nodded with a soft sigh. “It feels like sitting on a cloud,” you adjusted Mako in your arms. “Thank you.”
He looked at you with the same intense expression he kept giving you every time you said thank you. “Don’t thank me, Y/N, please...” he mumbled. “Making things a little better for you is part of my job as Mako’s father. You wouldn’t even be in this discomfort if it weren’t for me anyway...“
You saw his lips twist with humor at what he said, and you stifled a smile, narrowing your eyes at him. “Right. This is completely your fault,” you mumbled, guiding your son’s head to latch at your breast.
Neteyam connected his kuru to the boy, watching both of you with deep satisfaction. Mako was an eager, messy eater. After a long feeding session where both of you obsessively watched how much he could consume, Mako fell into a milky stupor against your chest.
Neteyam reached out gently. “Let me pat his back. Your shoulders look tense.”
You nodded, shifting the heavy baby into his large, careful hands. You adjusted your top as you watched Neteyam hold Mako against his broad chest, his long fingers spanning the baby’s entire back. He began a gentle, rhythmic patting.
Suddenly, a sound completely unsuited for a tiny baby echoed through the quiet room: a loud, explosive, rumbling burp that sounded like an old warrior after a massive feast.
Immediately afterward, Mako let out a satisfied, tiny squeak.
You froze. Neteyam’s golden eyes went wide in absolute shock as he stared down at his tiny son.
A sudden, snorting laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. Neteyam’s head snapped toward you, a boyish, breathless chuckle bursting from his chest. Within seconds, both of you were laughing softly, the heavy, suffocating tension that had hung between you for weeks finally snapping into pieces.
“Great Mother,” Neteyam wheezed, nuzzling the babbling baby’s cheek. “He burps like an old man already.”
For the first time in a year, you looked at Neteyam and saw the man you had originally fallen in love with, his eyes shining with pure, unshielded warmth.
“And drinks like one, too,” you added with a giggle, catching the end of your son’s tail and tickling it.
The baby shivered in Neteyam’s arms, his tail curling tightly around his father’s wrist, making Neteyam chuckle softly. That was only the beginning, but it opened a whole new realm of possibility for a genuine connection between the two of you.
Since then, the air around you both grew much lighter, and talking to each other became effortless. You would have genuinely enjoyed the idea of a simple friendship with him if you weren't lying to yourself, and if you weren't dreaming of your supposed “friend” in completely inappropriate ways. It wasn't entirely your fault; your traitorous mind fed on the sight of him every day, turning your resolve against you.
One night, your mind dragged you back to vivid memories of moments shared with him in your hidden grotto in the forest.
Your hands cupped his jaw as you kissed, his hips pushing against yours at a pace that made you moan against his lips. His hand pillowed your head as you fell back onto the soft moss. Your hands slid down to his chest, which was pressed flat against your bare breasts, while his other hand pinned your thigh to the ground, quickening his rhythm.
You kissed passionately until he pulled back slightly to look down at the way your body was encompassing his length. “Fuck, baby...” he groaned, his pupils dilated with raw lust and desire.
He licked your lips, and you caught his tongue with yours, sucking on it before pulling him back into a deep kiss. His large hand behind your head angled your mouth so he could kiss you better.
It didn't just happen in dreams. Whenever Enya teased you relentlessly about missing intimacy with your former lover, your brain would instantly supply vivid snapshots of things you had done with Neteyam... Like him fucking you against a tree deep in the forest; him going down on you and eating you out by the riverbank; him taking you from behind; or something intensely thrilling, like when you gave him a blowjob up in the high branches at the risk of being spotted by people below.
It certainly didn't help that the unspoken tension between you and Neteyam was growing far more... intense and serious by the day. Thankfully, Mako was always there to break the spell.
At five moons old, you woke in the middle of the night to find Mako burning hot, his small frame trembling as he let out weak, miserable whimpers.
Panic seized your chest, and you immediately pulled him against your body. Neteyam woke from his mat beside Mako’s cot in an instant, rushing to your side and feeling Mako’s feverish skin, his own face contorting with concern.
“He’s too hot, Neteyam. Look at him. Be’s barely breathing properly. What if his body is failing him? What if my milk made him sick?” you panicked, your eyes watering.
“Hey, hey... shh, look at me, Y/N.” Neteyam’s voice was steady and grounding, though his own heart was pounding.
He no longer hesitated to sit close beside you, wrapping a massive, warm arm around your shoulders to pull you against his chest while his other hand gently connected his kuru to Mako’s. Even with Antulo’s initial protests, you had allowed Neteyam to sleep inside your hut for the convenience of having him present whenever Mako needed to bond. You hadn't listened to Antulo, whose main objection had been:
“Because that man is fast and sneaky! Who knows what he might do? You might surprise me with a niece by next moon!”
Neteyam gently pulled Mako’s lower lip down, revealing a tiny white bump on your son’s gum, making you gasp softly.
“He has a mild fever from a new tooth coming through. It was the same with my sister Tuk when she was a baby,” Neteyam murmured into your hair, his voice a soothing rhythm. He took a damp cloth, gently wiping Mako’s warm forehead. “Mako is going to be fine, hm? Meanwhile, you should probably prepare yourself... he’s got a tooth now,” he chuckled, and you huffed through your lingering anxiety, caressing your son’s chubby cheek.
“Oh, right... he bites even without teeth, so thank you for the warning,” you said.
Sinking into Neteyam’s solid warmth, your panic slowly ebbed away. You leaned back against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart while he cradled both you and the baby until Mako finished feeding and fell into a peaceful sleep. You carefully placed the babe back in his cot, trying not to shiver as Neteyam’s hand caressed your shoulder and back, soothing you.
You lay back down on your mat, and he settled onto his. He usually had early morning patrols, and he always made sure to slip out quietly without waking either of you. He had fully integrated himself into your clan’s warrior and hunter ranks, so much so that sometimes you wondered if he even intended to return home, given that the rest of the Omatikaya delegation had departed moons ago.
His days were largely filled with training the young warriors and hunters, as well as leading his own patrol squad. Your brother might not have liked him personally, but he undeniably recognized Neteyam’s immense value to his warriors.
Later that day, you had just put Mako down after a long, exhausting bout of teething, leaving a heavy quiet over the hut. You sat near the wooden wash basin, wringing out a wet cloth to wipe stray milk from your neck and collarbone. You were exhausted, and the sky had not even fully darkened yet.
A faint shadow fell across the entryway, and you saw Neteyam quietly placing his weapons onto the wall rack he had built for them. He looked as though he had just washed up at the river after returning from patrol, his bare chest damp and glistening faintly in the twilight. Instead of retreating directly to his mat, he knelt quietly behind you, taking the cool, damp cloth gently from your hands.
“Let me,” he murmured, his deep voice carrying a low, gravelly rasp that sent a sharp shiver straight down your spine.
You froze, your heart slamming against your ribs. His large, warm fingers brushed against the back of your neck as he swept your braided hair to one side. The contrast between the cool cloth and the searing heat radiating from his hands made your skin prickle. Slowly, delicately, Neteyam dragged the cloth down the curve of your neck, lingering over the pulse beating wildly at your throat.
His breath hit the bare skin of your shoulder, heavy and uneven. His golden eyes dropped to your mouth, dark with a raw, intoxicating hunger he had spent months suppressing. The air in the room became suffocatingly thick. His hand rested on your shoulder, his thumb stroking your skin just once, a slow, reverent caress that made your toes curl into the mat, before he forced himself to pull back, leaving you breathless and aching in the quiet night.
That brief touch dragged his mind back to the grotto as well. It had been the night after he first took you flying on his ikran, obsessed with the feeling of your back pressed flat against his chest that he knew he had to do something about it. In the grotto, you had been sitting on his lap, your back pressed against his front and your head resting on his shoulder, leaving your neck fully exposed for his mouth.
Your legs had been draped over his so he could control how wide he wanted you spread. You were already impaled on his cock, his fingers working your clit to stimulate you as he drove his hips up, fucking you relentlessly. His other hand was on your breast, squeezing and kneading your soft flesh.
“Neteyam.... oh!” you had moaned, arching your back into his chest.
His hand had dropped to your lower abdomen, pulling you back tightly against him when he remembered your tendency to dislodge yourself from him when you're overstimulated. Your hand grabbed at his large forearm, whining and trembling violently in his lap. He sucked on your skin, licking a sensitive spot on the side of your neck.
“Good?” he had asked, his hand caressing your belly as he pounded into you.
You had nodded frantically, “I’m going to...” you moaned, lifting your hips again.
He had allowed you to slip away, letting you go until you fell forward onto your hands and knees. He followed instantly, placing a heavy hand over your lower back and pushing back into you hard from behind.
“Neteyam...”
Your real voice snapped him out of his vivid dream, jolting him awake the following morning.
His wide eyes zeroed in on your flushed face, and his heart jumped, not out of panic that you might have heard him moaning your name in his sleep, but because you looked so breathtakingly beautiful. He was overwhelmed with gratitude to be greeted by such a sight in the morning, amplified by the fact that you were holding his son in your arms.
“Good morning?” you greeted softly, sounding as though it were a gentle question.
Neteyam swallowed hard, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. “Yeah... good morning,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. The only thing he wished for in that moment was the freedom to lean over and kiss you.
His eyes dropped down to Mako. By seven moons old, he was an extraordinarily chubby baby, but he suffered from one glaring tragedy: his head was remarkably large, far too heavy for his little neck muscles to easily support.
Neteyam sat up on his mat. “Is tummy time over? I slept in,” he groaned, rubbing his face.
You chuckled softly. “No, I was just getting him ready, but then...” You shrugged, stubbornly refusing to admit that you had been completely distracted hearing him grunt and murmur your name in his breath.
He nodded, seemingly unashamed of whatever was causing your flushed cheeks. He grabbed the plush pelt, laying it flat in the middle of the floor, and you placed Mako on his belly for his daily exercises.
Mako grunted loudly, his four-toed feet kicking the air wildly as he tried to push his upper body up with his tiny, five-fingered hands. He managed to lift his large head an inch off the fur, his eyes wide with intense focus, before his head wobbled dangerously and slammed right back down onto the pelt with a soft thud.
Mako immediately let out a dramatic, outraged screech of frustration.
Neteyam burst into laughter, quickly reaching over to rub the baby's back. “Shh, my boy... You are fine...” Neteyam crooned, gently poking Mako's chubby cheek. “You just have a big brain, like your uncle.”
“Do not insult my son’s head,” you giggled, resting your chin in your hands as you watched them. “He gets his stubbornness from you.”
Mako looked back and forth between the two of you, his furious cries melting into an annoyed babble as Neteyam rolled him onto his back and blew raspberries on his tummy, making the baby squeal in delighted, breathless laughter.
By eight moons old, Mako was easily the most talkative child in the entire village, holding full, dramatic conversations in nonsensical gibberish while gesturing wildly with his little hands.
Neteyam had been quietly teaching him the word Mama during the rare times you went out without the babe. The Tsahik had advised that it would be wise to allow Mako time alone with Neteyam, so as not to let the boy grow entirely dependent on you.
One afternoon, Neteyam sat on the platform outside your hut, holding a carved wooden ikran toy just out of Mako’s reach.
“Say Ma-ma,” Neteyam coaxed patiently, pointing toward you as you sat near the healing pavilion a terrace away. “Come on, buddy. Ma-ma. She gives you the best hugs and kisses, and the great feasts. Say Ma-ma...”
Mako bounced on his knees, his eyes locked on the toy. He opened his little mouth, his tongue clicking against his gums. “Ma... Ma-ma! Mama!” he cheered loudly.
You swiveled your head toward your hut, your heart swelling with overwhelming affection. Tears pricked your eyes as you dropped the herbs you were counting and rushed over to smother your son’s face in kisses.
Neteyam smiled triumphantly, looking absurdly proud of himself as he watched you so happy. You looked at him and smiled warmly. The very next afternoon, while Neteyam was out on warrior duties, you spent almost the entire day whispering into your son’s ear.
So when Neteyam returned later that day, weary and covered in trail dust, he set his weapons aside and knelt by the cot. The moment Mako saw his father’s shadow, his pale yellow eyes lit up. He reached out his chubby hands, bouncing wildly.
“Pa-pa!” Mako shouted clearly, clapping his hands together. “Papa!”
Neteyam froze. His breath hitched, his golden eyes widening in sheer disbelief. He looked up at you, completely speechless, his lips parting in shock.
You offered him a playful, smug grin, leaning casually against the doorway. “What? You didn't think I would let you have all the glory, did you?”
A breathless, deeply emotional laugh broke from Neteyam’s throat. He reached into the cot and scooped Mako into his arms, burying his face in the baby’s neck, hugging him tight as the side of his eyes shone with unshed tears.
At ten moons old, while sitting together on the terrace edge watching Mako attempt to chase a beetle, you finally asked the question that had been lingering in your mind for moons.
“An Omatikaya scout arrived to give a message to my brother yesterday,” you said softly, watching the sky shift colors. He didn’t answer immediately, and you tilted your head with a gentle smile. “You thought I wouldn't know?” you asked softly. “They said your father misses his chief warrior. Your clan is peaceful now... You could return home.”
Neteyam didn't even glance toward the path leading out of the valley. He kept his eyes firmly on Mako, his large hand resting gently on the wooden deck, dangerously close to yours.
“My duty to the Omatikaya ended the day I realized my heart was here,” Neteyam said, his deep voice carrying an unshakeable finality. “My home is wherever you are, Y/N. If you tell me to leave, I will sleep at the edge of your borders, but I will never go back to a life without you.”
You looked at his side profile, feeling the profound, unwavering weight of his devotion dissolve the last bitter thorn in your chest completely.
As he grew, Mako turned into an absolute force of nature, especially now that he was no longer just crawling. He shuffled frantically on two chubby legs, his balance precarious, his little toes curling into the dirt. You and Neteyam often took him down to the lake to walk on the soft grass, delighting in his giggles every time the blades tickled his bare feet, causing him to lift his legs high like a syaksyuk.
“Careful, buddy,” Neteyam warned gently, walking a single pace behind him, his massive hands hovering mere inches from Mako's waist, ready to catch him if he tumbled.
Mako took three wide, wobbly steps, his arms and tail flailing in the air for balance. He gasped loudly, turning his head to make sure you were watching.
“Go on, my boy!” you cheered, kneeling at the end of the grassy path with open arms.
Mako let out a triumphant squeal, taking four fast, uncontrolled steps before losing his balance entirely and flopping into the soft grass. Before he could even think of crying, Neteyam dropped beside him, rolling him onto his back and tickling his stomach until Mako was breathless with laughter.
You sat down in the grass beside them, watching Neteyam lift Mako high into the air against the backdrop of the golden sunset. Mako babbled endlessly to the sky, his five little fingers grabbing at his father’s braids, and Neteyam looked up at him with a face overflowing with pure, unadulterated love.
When Neteyam lowered the baby, his golden eyes shifted to you. The lingering guilt, the painful groveling, and the strict boundaries of the past year had quietly matured into a deep, unshakable bond of mutual respect, unspoken understanding, and a love far stronger than the one you had lost.
Later that evening, after the trek back from the lake, the cool night air settled over the village. Mako had burned through the last of his endless energy, his small body going limp in your arms the moment you stepped into the hut. You tucked him into his cot, listening to the tiny, rhythmic sighs of his breathing, before walking over to the low wooden counter to prepare your evening tea.
Neteyam moved quietly across the room, carrying a heavy water jar. He turned just as you spun around to grab a dried herb bundle.
Neither of you gave way in time, and you bumped right into his broad chest.
The collision sent you off balance. Neteyam’s instincts flared instantly; he dropped the jar onto a rack and caught you around the waist with both arms. The sudden movement pulled you completely flush against him, your chest pressed flat against his bare, warm torso, your hands catching his broad shoulders for support.
You gasped, your face ending up mere inches from his jaw. Neteyam’s breath hitched, his large hands tightening around your waist as he held you securely. His golden eyes locked onto yours, blazing with a sudden, searing intensity that made the room feel stripped of oxygen.
“Are you alright?” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, rich and thick with restraint.
“Yes,” you breathed, your pulse thumping against your ribs. “I... I just didn't see you.”
But you didn't pull away... and neither did he.
His eyes dropped to your lips, lingering there with a desperate, agonizing hunger that had been kept under lock and key for almost two years. His thumb stroked the curve of your hip, a subconscious, needy movement that made a quiet sigh escape your mouth.
That faint sound shattered the last of his defenses.
Neteyam leaned down, closing the tiny gap between you, and captured your lips in a deep, hard kiss.
You let out a soft groan, sliding your arms up to entwine your fingers in his thick braids, pulling him down to kiss him harder. Neteyam let out a low, shuddering growl in the back of his throat, his large hands sliding up your back to press you so close there wasn't a breath of air left between your bodies.
The kiss deepened, heavy and intoxicating. His mouth opened against yours, tasting you with a slow, ravenous passion that set your entire nervous system ablaze. He shifted his hips, pinning you lightly against the wooden edge of the counter, his tongue tracing yours in a rhythm that made your knees go weak. You tightened your grip on his shoulders, arching into his heat, completely lost in the sensation of being held by him again.
Both of you knew that nothing was stopping you. Mako was fast asleep, the hut was dark, and the door flap was secured against the night wind. The lingering longing of long, painful years throbbed between you, practically begging you both to abandon the slow pace you had carefully set.
Neteyam’s lips trailed down your jawline, pressing hot, lingering kisses along the side of your neck, making you gasp softly and tilt your head back to give him complete access. His hands cupped your thighs, lifting you slightly onto the edge of the counter, pressing his raging hard-on against your crotch.
He was trembling. The sheer force of his desire was palpable, vibrating through every muscle in his arms as he pressed his forehead into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your bare skin.
“Y/N...” he choked out, his hands gripping your legs with a reverent, desperate strength. “Fuck, I want you so much...”
You cupped his cheek, feeling the intense heat of his skin, your own chest heaving just as fast as his. You looked into his golden eyes, dark with passion yet filled with absolute devotion. You kissed him softly, “Take me,” you mumbled against his lips.
He pulled away a little, resting his forehead against yours and closing his eyes for a moment in an intense attempt to calm himself down. As intoxicating as it was to feel you this way again, he knew the quiet, beautiful truth anchoring you both: he didn't need to rush anymore. He was no longer on a mission to prove anything to anyone; his time with you had no timer on it, and you weren't going anywhere.
You two had all the time in the world.
“I want us to mate first...” he mumbled against your skin.
A breathless chuckle escaped your swollen lips. You reached up, gently threading your fingers through his hair and bringing his face back to yours, pressing a soft, slow kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Wise,” you whispered against his cheek, your thumb stroking his cheekbone.
“I will court you,” he mumbled softly. “I will formally ask your grandmother and brother for your hand.”
Your lips twisted playfully. “No need for that...” you mumbled.
He shook his head firmly. “Don’t say that. Antulo might actually kill me this time if I make moves under their noses.”
You laughed breathlessly, hugging him around the shoulders. “Okay...” you mumbled against his neck. “Okay.”
The tension in his shoulders softened, replaced by a profound, blissful peace. He rested his forehead against yours, a soft, breathless laugh breaking from his lips. “And... my family will be coming for Mako’s first birthday,” he mumbled.
You pulled back slightly, “Birthday?” you asked, your forehead creasing in confusion.
His hands caressed your waist gently. “It’s a Terran tradition my father brought with him. We celebrate the person every season, during the exact day they were born,” he explained.
You smiled up at him, “That’s amazing. I want to celebrate Mako,” you mumbled.
He nodded, “And you, too... You did so well on that day. You survived it, and that’s amazing considering the size of his head.”
“Hey!” you said softly, a giggle escaping your lips as you playfully smacked his chest. “Not my son’s head! He got that entirely from you.”
He grinned, lowering his head to press a lingering kiss to your lips. You kissed him back for a long moment before pulling back slightly.
“And... are your parents okay with me?” you asked, suddenly feeling worried and uncertain.
He chuckled softly. “Of course. My parents have always been impartial in their judgment,” he said. “And they knew that I was with you before.”
Your eyes widened a little. “How?” you mumbled.
He bit his lip, looking away as if thoroughly embarrassed. “Well...” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Remember that time I...” His eyes widened to indicate a specific memory. “You... behind the stock hut?”
Your eyes narrowed as the memory returned. Your face heated up instantly, and you closed your eyes in intense embarrassment.
“Right... that was my reaction, too,” he said in a humored tone, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
It had been even worse for him, to be honest. His parents had been standing near the stock hut, speaking about the matter of your presence in the clan, when they were treated to the quiet, unmistakable moans coming from behind the structure. They were certainly old enough to know what was happening, but they were mostly curious about which young people were desecrating the stock hut.
“You taste so good...” they had heard a familiar raspy voice murmur.
“Let’s go,” Jake, scandalized by the sounds, had pulled Neytiri away.
Neytiri allowed herself to be pulled, but she looked back over her shoulder. “That sounds like Neteyam,” she thought out loud.
Jake looked back too, shaking his head. “That boy...”
They stayed within sight of the stock hut, ready to lecture Neteyam once he revealed himself. After what seemed like an eternity, however, a smaller figure emerged from the shadow. A woman. You had tried so hard to fix your single-braided hair, but it was so messy that you chose to simply unbind your hair before adjusting your top and loincloth, both of which were askew as though you had been ravaged.
Both Jake and Neytiri’s jaws had slackened to see you, but especially when, minutes later, their firstborn son emerged. Not casually walking at all; he was palming his crotch and squeezing as though he were desperately trying to calm his body down. He was about to walk up the winding ramp after you when Neytiri called out to him from where they stood.
His shoulders had squared immediately, standing straighter as he walked toward his parents with all the air of a respectable, dignified warrior. But that façade was shattered right away when his mother calmly pointed out the remnants of wet essence glistening around his mouth.
Now that Neteyam recalled the memory, he couldn't help but laugh softly as he held you close. That felt like a hundred years ago, and the two of you had come so incredibly far. Most people would say they wouldn't change anything about the journey that brought them to where they currently were, but he definitely wished he could change a few things... or just one specific thing.
The part where you got hurt. He wished he had taken your side completely and defended you to his people openly from the start. But he could not erase what he had done, so he was determined to make everything right going forward. He would love you so intensely that you would never be haunted by what had happened. He would give you his absolute faith, belief, and devotion.
His official courtship began the morning after he spoke to your brother. The air between them cleared in a raw, quiet conversation down by the lower terraces, where Neteyam looked Antulo dead in the eye and swore on his very soul that he would never hurt you or allow danger to touch you or your son again. Your grandmother had watched from the shade of the pavilion. Though she hadn't held Neteyam to the same white-hot wrath as Antulo, the Tsahik’s heart had ached deeply for what you had endured; seeing Neteyam’s humble, unwavering devotion over the past moons was the only reason she blessed his intention to woo you properly.
Antulo’s first official decree as the brother being appeased was immediate, however: “Move out of her hut, warrior. You may have fathered my nephew, but you’re still a suitor, not a mate. You want her? You earn her from the ground up.”
Neteyam didn't complain for a single second. That very afternoon, he built a small shelter, close enough to hear Mako if he cried, but far enough to respect your honor and the clan's traditions.
The formal courtship transformed Neteyam from a quiet co-parent into an utterly shameless pursuer. Every morning, before you even opened your eyes, a new gift would be left on your wooden porch.
One afternoon, you sat with Enya and Penxi near the weaving looms, sorting through the vibrant blue stones and rare, hand-carved bone hair beads Neteyam had brought you that morning.
Enya picked up a beautifully carved wooden comb, turning it in the sunlight with a dramatic sigh. “He has been courting you since forever, Y/N, and he still has endless ideas for gifts!”
Penxi smiled at you before turning to Enya. “All of that before was just Neteyam repenting. But this right now? This is the actual courtship, and he must show he is worthy.”
“Either way,” Enya giggled, nudging your shoulder, “the chief warrior of the Omatikaya is sleeping in a woven tent for you. I say put him out of his misery!”
Penxi laughed. “Or make him sweat a little longer?”
You smiled softly, tracing the smooth wood of the comb, your chest swelling with a warmth that knew exactly what to do, despite the playful chatter around you.
While the village thoroughly approved of the courtship, one tiny person was severely offended by Neteyam’s sudden shift in behavior: Mako.
Now a fully mobile, incredibly vocal toddler, Mako was used to having both of his parents in a neat, protective triangle centered entirely around him. Neteyam’s sudden habit of giving you undivided, romantic attention—which he foolishly thought the boy wouldn't notice—did not sit well with the young child.
One evening, Neteyam brought over a basket of sweet, roasted roots. You sat together on the terrace steps while Mako played with a set of wooden animal blocks near your feet.
Neteyam leaned in, offering you a piece of the roasted fruit. As you took a bite, he lingered close, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek, his hand gently resting over yours.
“NO!”
A high-pitched, furious screech shattered the romantic atmosphere.
Mako dropped his wooden blocks, his little brow furrowing into an outrageously dramatic scowl. He shuffled over on his chubby legs as fast as he could, wedging his tiny body directly between you and Neteyam. He pushed his hands against Neteyam’s chest with all the strength his little arms could muster.
“Mine!” Mako shouted fiercely, slapping Neteyam’s knee before wrapping his arms tightly around your neck and glaring at his father. “Mama mine! No kiss!”
Neteyam gasped, clutching his chest in mock agony. “What? Buddy, I brought the sweet tubers! I carved the blocks! You betray me for a cheek kiss?!”
Mako puffed out his cheeks, burying his face in your shoulder and letting out a protective, tiny growl.
You burst into breathless laughter, kissing the top of Mako's head while Neteyam shook his head in fond disbelief.
“I can't believe I have fought rogue warriors and border beasts, Y/N, but my fiercest rival for your heart is my own son.”
Days before Mako’s first birthday, Neytiri, Jake, Kiri, and Tuk arrived for Mako’s nameday celebration. Neteyam welcomed them alongside you, Mako snuggled securely in his arms. Both Jake and Neytiri were breathless at the sight of the little boy. He looked remarkably like Neteyam when he was that age, but Neytiri noticed his brows and low-set kuru right away.
She looked at Jake, who also looked back at her with a soft, understanding smile. Mako was restless in Neteyam’s arms, hugging his father shyly as Neteyam introduced him to his family.
“Dad, Mother... you remember Y/N,” Neteyam said, turning his body toward you, his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you closer to his side.
Kiri smiled warmly from behind her parents, while little Tuk remained silent, her eyes fixed on Mako, curious and full of quiet wonder.
“I remember her,” Neytiri said with a soft, gracious smile, stepping forward toward you. “I am sorry for what my people brought upon you...” she mumbled, lifting her hand to gently touch your cheek. “And for the treason we allowed to foster among our people, whose poison bled onto the innocent.”
You offered a genuine smile, nodding and gently holding her hand. “I hope knowing who the real culprit was brought peace to the grieving families.”
She smiled, her eyes misting as she recognized the deep grace you held in your heart. It had allowed you to forgive her son. For this, she was profoundly grateful. Grateful to know that her son’s heart had chosen a spirit as pure as yours.
Your brother welcomed Toruk Makto and his family with a grand feast, housing them in a comfortable, spacious hut and assigning local guides for Kiri and Tuk. Tuk visited your hut frequently, initially not speaking much and simply playing with Mako’s toys. Mako was far more talkative, which endeared him greatly to Neytiri.
It was not until Mako’s actual birthday that something truly momentous occurred. You were preparing Mako, bathing him and dressing him in a fresh loincloth, while Tuk quietly hovered nearby.
“It’s his birthday?” she asked quietly, gently touching Mako’s head.
You looked at her with wide eyes; Neteyam did too. You subtly shook your head when Neteyam looked as though he wanted to loudly celebrate the fact that she was speaking. You turned to Tuk and smiled softly, “Yes. His first birthday.”
Tuk smiled gently. “He was born a year ago?” she asked. Neteyam watched her, his face contorting in pure joy as tears filled his eyes. He quietly stepped out of the hut to silently call his parents and Kiri.
Mako looked at Tuk and giggled. “Birthday!”
Tuk giggled too. “It’s the most special day,” she said softly.
You smiled, breathlessly laughing, “Yes. Very special,” you nodded, playfully tapping her nose. “When is your birthday?”
Jake and Neytiri quietly rushed to the doorway, watching Tuk hold a comfortable, easy conversation with you, a huge smile spread across her face as she even laughed when Mako grabbed at her braids. Safe to say, Mako’s birthday was a resounding success, and he grew comfortable enough with Neytiri and Jake to allow them to feed him and carry him around the village.
“He is so chunky,” Tuk giggled, kissing Mako’s chubby arm.
Your son remained unbothered by all the fussing, far too busy gnawing on the cooked meat Jake had given him, holding it tightly with both of his little hands. Neytiri caressed his head while Jake kept teasing his tail, but Mako was completely unbothered by any of it.
“He has long patience,” Kiri remarked, smiling at you and Neteyam.
“Much like Neteyam,” Neytiri piped in warmly. “Nothing could make Neteyam lose his temper when he was small. Jake loved teasing his tail, too,” she shared with you.
You chuckled, watching your son. He had an absolute blast on his birthday, and you were so glad. He ate, played, and then ate again. He fed with you and connected kurus with Neteyam, but he stubbornly refused to take a nap, far too restless as he watched the other children playing and running around. Thus, it was no surprise that by nightfall, he was completely limp and asleep in Neteyam’s arms.
“Can he sleep in our hut?” Tuk asked softly, gently touching Mako’s hand.
“Oh, maybe not, Tuk-Tuk. Mako needs to sleep with his mama in case he gets hungry,” Neytiri said softly, caressing Tuk’s head.
Tuk’s lips pouted forward, and seeing how sad she looked, you couldn't allow the young girl to be disappointed on the very day she had opened up and spoken again. You held her hand gently. “Maybe he can. You are just our neighbors, so I think Mako can sleep beside you in your hut, and you can bring him to me if he gets hungry or fussy?”
Tuk smiled brightly, nodding eagerly. “I will! I will take care of him!”
You smiled warmly. Neytiri smiled at you and softly muttered her thanks. Neteyam handed the heavily sleeping Mako over to Neytiri, and the two of you watched them retreat to their hut next door.
You turned to Neteyam, smiling up at him and tiptoeing to kiss his lips. He wrapped his arms around you, kissing you back deeply. Your hand slid down to hold his, gently pulling him inside your hut.
The woven door flap fell shut behind you, and he immediately covered your face with kisses like a starving man, his large hands framing your face as he kissed you passionately. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and kissing him harder. He whisked your top away, his hands moving quickly to free you of your loincloth. His lips found their fiery path down your neck, his hand cupping your breast and squeezing reverently.
You lowered yourself onto the floor before he could stop you, untying his loincloth and freeing his length. You felt as though you were possessed. You had missed him so much; you had missed this closeness for so long. He groaned, his knees buckling as your hand wrapped around his thick girth, your mouth following by pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his velvety skin, sucking gently.
He took in a sharp breath, his fingers tangling in your hair. You looked up at him as you happily licked the full length of his cock, giving him deep kisses and tasting him while humming softly. He lowered himself onto his knees, allowing you to shift into a position that suited you, letting your hips rise as he took in the view of you.
He hissed softly, reaching for your wetness and slipping two fingers into your tight heat while you continued to pleasure him with your mouth. Your lips tightened around him as he worked his fingers inside you. His other hand gently angled your head so he could move against your mouth, the tip meeting the back of your throat. Your mouth had been accustomed to his impressive size before, and the familiar fullness brought a surge of pleasure to you both.
You licked and stroked, drawing intense groans from him until he came hotly in your mouth. Even as he tried to pull away, you swallowed and cleaned him thoroughly. When you were finished, he drew his fingers out from your core, licking them before lifting you easily by the waist.
He kissed you deeply, his tongue tracing your lips and tasting himself before placing you gently onto the soft mats. He licked his lip, admiring the raw beauty of your bare body beneath him.
There were subtle, beautiful changes to your frame after childbirth, and he adored this version of your body most of all. He lowered his head to kiss your lips, then moved down to trail kisses across your breasts, kneading the soft skin carefully before his hands slid behind your knees, opening you wide for him. He hungrily lowered his head, meeting your slick core with his mouth opened, licking away your sweetness and groaning happily.
“Fuck, I missed you so much...” he mumbled against your skin, and you laughed breathlessly.
“My pussy?” you teased softly. “Wow.”
He nipped gently at your folds. “Everything. I missed all of you so much... I missed this, and I missed my sweet one,” he pressed his thumb into your core before sucking your clit gently.
You let your head fall back onto the mat with a soft laugh, moaning when he continuously lapped at your pussy. You were trembling from intense stimulation by the time he pulled up, your thighs loose and unresisting in his firm hold. He hovered over you, reaching for his kuru and showing yoy the trendils undet the hair.
“I should have asked before we started...” he mumbled softly, taking your hand and kissing your palm. “But I’m not doing this without this anymore...”
You bit your lip to stifle a radiant smile, reaching for your own kuru to offer it to him. He lowered his head to kiss you deeply before connecting your tendrils. You arched your back as you gasped, your hand gripping his bicep as you stared straight into his golden eyes, both of your pupils dilated from the overwhelming wave of sensation the bond provided. He flooded you with an infinite ocean of love, but you also caught a brief glimpse into his emotions from the past years, the lingering fear, the regret, and the deep grief, all of which were completely conquered by his all-consuming love for you.
Your emotions flooded him in return: the love, the fear, the painful sense of betrayal, and then love that sent warmth to his chest. He choked on a sob, looking down at you in absolute disbelief, overwhelmed by the depth of your heart and how completely you had managed to forgive and love him again.
He kissed you tenderly, and you parted your legs wider for him. He looked down, giving his cock a few firm strokes before guiding himself inside you in a single thrust that made you moan loud. Even though you had given birth, your body welcomed him intimately, wrapping tightly around his length. He began a slow, deliberate rhythm, pulling back and thrusting deep, marking you with every familiar contour of his body.
He moved within you with a steady, passionate pace, his thumb massaging your clit as he buried his face into the crook of your neck to muffle his groans. When your climax hit, he didn't stop, continuing his deep, rhythmic thrusts that drew loud, breathless moans from your throat. He kissed you deeply to capture the sounds, moving with relentless devotion until he spilled hot and thick inside you, burying himself to the hilt as a powerful shudder wracked his entire frame.
You wrapped your arms tightly around his broad shoulders, pressing sweet kisses to his jawline.
Over the next few hours, neither of you thought of stopping. You ignited a fiery hunger in him when you rolled on top of him and took control, riding him with confident grace, until he eventually flipped you onto your hands and knees to take you deeply from behind. When you finally collapsed onto your stomach in sheer exhaustion, he gently lifted your leg to slide back inside you, his hand reaching around to stimulate your clit until you both shattered once again.
He was so insatiable that you were physically trembling by the time he finally pulled a soft woven blanket over both of your bodies. He wrapped his long arm around your waist and pulled you flush against his chest, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.
“Was I too much?” he mumbled softly into your hair.
You shook your head, a contented smile gracing your lips as you snuggled deeper into his warmth. “Never...” you answered softly. “I didn’t forget your stamina.”
He laughed raspily, holding you tight. “I'm sorry,” he said with a soft grin.
“Please, I have high respect for that animal,” you smirked, kissing the soft skin of his shoulder.
He cupped your chin in his large fingers, tilting your head up to kiss you with profound sweetness. “I love you so much, Y/N...”
You kissed him back, your eyes stinging with happy tears. “I love you, Neteyam... so much.” you breathed against his lips.
His hand stroked your cheek gently. “I hope you believe me when I say I will never allow you to be hurt like that again. I will lay down my life for you and Mako, always...”
Your lips curved into a soft smile, tears spilling over as you nodded against his skin. “I believe you, Neteyam. I believe in every word that you say,” you whispered, placing your palm over his steady heart.
He pressed his forehead firmly against yours, his voice thick with emotion. “All my love, belief, and devotion are yours, Y/N. Always.”
You grinned through your tears, pulling him down into another deep, everlasting kiss.
The morning after you two reunited in every sense of the word, the quiet peace of the hut was broken not by the sounds of tears, but by a brand-new, highly questionable skill your son had picked up.
Kiri’s voice calling outside made you and Neteyam sit up in panic.
“Wait!” you said, grabbing your loincloth and tying it on your tail. Neteyam grabbed your top when he finished tying his own, helping you put on it.
You quickly went to the woven flap, pulling it aside and being welcomed by the sight of your son theatrically mimicking the look of a wild animal roaring. You figured that he was also the one you heard roaring earlier. Tuk was standing beside Kiri, grinning at you and Neteyam.
“Mako can roar like a palulukan now!” she proudly announced.
Your son immediately demonstrated again. You were quick to jump into action, acting scared as he reached for you. “Nooo! Papa, save me!” you stepped back.
Mako giggled. “No, Mama!” he said like he was assuring you. “Just baby!”
You and Kiri melted in a puddle of aww. You reached for your son, hugging him to you and kissing his cheek. “Good morning, my boy,” you whispered.
Neteyam held his hand with his fingers, bringing it to his mouth to pretend bite it. Mako squealed and laughed. “Papa!”
Neteyam roared softly, coaxing a roar from Mako that the boy immediately gave. Neteyam took this new development as a serious parental responsibility. Every morning before sunrise, as you were trying to piece together enough sanity to prepare breakfast, Neteyam would crawl on his hands and knees across the floor mats, trailing behind Mako with an utterly deadpan, stoic expression.
“Watch closely, Mako,” Neteyam whispered solemnly, crouching low over a woven basket. “This is how a true warrior hunts. First, the stalk...”
Mako wobbled beside him, copying his father’s serious posture, his chubby little cheeks puffed out.
Neteyam suddenly threw his hands up in the air, baring his fangs and letting out the most dramatic, over-the-top, rumbling roar. Mako squealed in utter delight, throwing his little five-fingered hands up and screeching a high-pitched “Rrrr-rawr!” before losing his balance and rolling backward onto the soft mats.
Neteyam immediately collapsed next to him, dramatically clutching his chest as if mortally wounded. “Argh! You have struck me down, Chief Mako! The warriors lost!”
You stood by the cooking fire, leaning against the wooden post, holding a wooden spoon and shaking your head as you wheezed with laughter. “Neteyam, he is one year old. Stop letting him defeat you before sunrise.”
Neteyam looked up from the floor, one golden eye open while Mako sat on his stomach, slapping his chest. “I cannot help it, Y/N. He is far too powerful.”
Mako babbled triumphantly, bouncing up and down on Neteyam’s broad torso like a little chief who had just conquered a mountain. “Rawr! Papa down!”
Neteyam let out a exaggerated groan, letting his head fall back onto the mat as if drawing his final breath, which only prompted Mako to collapse forward, burying his little face into Neteyam’s chest with giggles that sounded like chiming bells.
You set the food down wooden tray and walked over, shaking your head affectionately as you knelt beside the two dramatic males in your life. You reached down, tickling the back of Mako’s thigh until the toddler squealed and rolled into your lap instead.
“Traitor,” Neteyam muttered, instantly sitting up with a boyish grin, his golden eyes warm as they swept over your face.
You looked up at him, your gaze lingering on his lips. The quiet residue of the night before still hung sweet and thick between you, the memory of his touch, the warmth of your connected kurus, and the unspoken promises he had breathed against your skin. You felt a soft flush rise on your cheeks, and Neteyam’s smile widened, knowing precisely what you were thinking.
“What?“ you asked, trying to sound stern, though the smile pulling at your lips betrayed you completely.
“Nothing,” Neteyam murmured smoothly, reaching out to tuck a stray braid behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheekbone with reverent tenderness. “Just thinking about how blessed I am.”
Mako, sensing that he was no longer the sole center of attention, promptly wedged his chubby body between the two of you once more, letting out another high-pitched squeak right into Neteyam’s chest.
Neteyam laughed, a deep, resonant sound that filled the hut, and wrapped his broad arms around both you and your son, pulling you tight against him. For the first time in two long, painful years, the air felt completely clear, the future wide open, and your home whole.
18+ MDNI!! Fem!reader! Oral f!receving, riding, piv, GxG, MxM more off page but still present, sharing, watching, face riding, cuming inside, giggly sex, dom!nyra, dom!harwin, switch!gwayne, subbyswitch!reader, praise, my queen, princess, not proofread, tell me if I forget anything!
“Stop staring at them.” Rhaenyra whispers into your ear while you’re both stood on the balcony looking over the training yard. Gwayne and Harwin training together, both their shirts discarded as they are the only ones who can match the other in skill.
“No.” You say looking at both men, despite for when you can all be together again. You and Gwayne arriving back in kingslanding only the night before. “I want to lick them.”
“Darling.” Rhaenyra whisper hisses with a laugh, her also having the same thoughts but more self control. “Oh gods you’re actually drooling.” She laughs wiping your lip with her thumb, you kissing it before anyone can notice. “Later.”
“Why do we have to wait?” You whine, feeling like you’re being tortured. Not having touched her or Harwin since your last visit over a year before.
“Because it’s the middle of the day.” She says raising an eyebrow at you. Her and Harwin having planed the night ahead, both having been looking forward to it.
“You’re no fun.” You pout going back to watching your men train. Licking your lips when Gwayne throws some water over himself to cool down.
-
“How come gwayne doesn’t have to wait?” You whine, Gwayne having pounced on Harwin as soon as the doors locked. Rhaenyra not letting you do the same to her, making you go slow.
“Because he knows how to wait.” She smiles giving you a quick kiss, pulling away before you can even attempt to deepen it.
“So do I.” You pout, everyone knowing you’re lying. Whimpering at the sight of Gwanye pushing Harwin down onto the sofa and straddling the man while Rhaenyra moves behind you, kissing your neck while she loosens the ties of your dress. “Please nyra.”
“Wait.” She says giggling, loving how desperate you are. All your lovers having been deliberately teasing you all day. Gwayne starting the day by waking you up with kisses then running off before you could go any further. Rhaenyra having been sneaking kisses all day while Harwin has just been giving you looks and calling you princess.
“Have some patience Ser Gwayne.” Harwin mumbles against his lips, Gwayne having already removed both the men’s shirts and starting to undo the guards breaches. “We have all night.”
“So it’s not just you who had an issue with patience.” Rhaenyra teases, all going to plan as she pushes your dress of you, leaving you naked in the middle of the room. “You naughty girl.” She says, lightly slapping your arse at the fact you're not wearing anything under your dress. Both men looking over at the sound.
“Really my love?” Gwayne asks with a laugh, knowing you’d do something like this. The knight moaning when Harwin grinds up against him. The dark haired man looking you up and down while Rhaenyra runs her hands over you. Stopping at your breasts to squeeze your nipples, loving the gasp that leaves your lips.
“Do you want to join me in bed and leave the boys to it?” She asks, hands still playing with your nipples.
“Yes please.” You sigh out, leaning into her slightly.
“Good girl, you’ve found your manners.” She coos, taking your hand to lead you to her bed. “Lay down for me.”
“Please kiss me nyra.” You beg, loving kisses.
“I always forget how desperate you are.” She teases looking at you while you lie on the bed waiting for her. The silver haired woman undoing her robe and leaving her as naked as you. Her smirking when you bite your lip and look at her up and down.
“Please my queen.” You beg, desperate for her. Despite for any of your lovers.
“That’s treason my love.” She says lightly, climbing on the bed to join you. Moans coming from the other side of the room but you to focused on Rhaenyra to care.
“No it’s not.” You deny pulling her down into a kiss. Her hair down and covering the two of your faces.
“Isn’t it?” She asks biting your lip, and moving you so her thigh to between your legs.
“No, you’re my queen.” You say whimpering when she stars moving her thigh your already wet cunt making a mess on her. “Please nyra.”
“Please who?” She asks kissing down your throat, nipping at your sweet spot.
“Please, my queen.”
“Good girl.” She mumbles, you whimpering as she kisses down you. Stopping at your breasts, her having been wanting to suck on them all day. Taking your perky nipple in her mouth she runs her tongue over it before giving it a suck. Making you moan when she plays with the other, her mouth still on you. “Fuck I’ve missed these.”
“Fuck Gwayne.” You hear Harwin moan out, the man groaning. You able to tune out their noises until you hear your husbands name. Gwayne on his knees sucking on the man’s cock, looking so beautiful as he does so.
“Eyes on me.” Rhaenyra says taking your face in her hand and bringing it back to looking at her.
“But-.” You’re cut off by her sticking her thumb in your mouth, you immediately sucking on it.
“Princess.” She says firmly, wanting you to herself for a while. “Good.” She smiles tapping your cheek before going back to work, this time skipping your breasts and moving down between your thighs. “Oh you poor girl you're dripping.” She coos, hands on your thighs while she looks at your dripping cunt. Teasing you further by kissing around where you need her.
“Please.” You beg needing her.
“As you wish.” She says pressing a soft kiss to your pearl before sucking it making you moan. Slipping two fingers in without warning making you gasp at the sensation of it all. “You taste so good.”
“Fuck.” You moan hand going to her sliver hair, tugging it lightly.
“Good girl.” She murmurs into you, the vibrations of her voice making you whimper. While she sucks at your pearl fingers exploring to find your spot. Smirking against you when she finds it, you just moaning in response.
“Nyra.” You whimper, clenching around her. Feeling your orgasm build, her being mean by removing her mouth from your pearl to blow on it making you squirm, not only the loss of her but also the cool sensation. Her then licking at you again. “Fuck please.”
“Can I have a taste?” Harwin asks, making you and Rhaenyra jump. You whining at the loss of her. Nether of you noticing your men appear by the bed. Gwanye dramatically flopping on the bed next to you. Making you laugh at the look on his face, him just kissing you in response. Mumbling about how much he loves you, the taste of Harwin still on his lips.
“Fine.” Rhaenyra fake huffs, moving away from your thighs to pull Harwin into a kiss letting his taste you on her lips. “You can have her now.”
“Thank you, my love.” He says softly, giving her another kiss before taking her place in between your thighs.
“Gwanye make yourself useful.” Rhaenyra says tapping the man so he stops kissing you, Harwin immediately pulling you further down the bed as soon as your lips part. Making you gasp when you legs get moved to his shoulders the man not wasting any time before he starts licking at you. Groaning at the taste.
“Sit on my face princess.” Gwanye says not wanting to move and also loving having his face ridden. “I shall be your throne.”
“Shut up.” She says rolling her eyes while doing exactly as he asked. Stradling his face, the man immediately pressing his tongue against her. “Fuck.”
“Fuck Harwin.” You moan, him finding the perfect rhythm of tongue and fingers, the man making you see stars. “I’m going to cum.”
“Cum for us.” Rhaenyra commands through gasps and moans Gwanye being annoying good at oral. Your husband moaning against her when she pulls his hair.
“Oh shit, fuck.” You pant your orgasm crashing over you. Harwin slowing to help you through the after shocks. “Fuck.”
“Gwayne if you stop I’m going to kill you.” Rhaenyra threatens when she feels his tounge slow. Him mumbling some unintelligible against her but continuing.
“Are you alright princess?”
“More than alright.” You say smile on your face. “I’ve missed you both.”
“I’ve missed you both too.” He says moving off the floor and onto the bed to give you a soft kiss. “You’re husband is getting hard again.” He whispers into your ear sharing a smile with you when you move over to your husband. His half hard cock red and dripping.
“Oh fuck.” Rhaenyra moans when Harwin kisses her, his hands on her breast as he moves behind her to help her keep rhythm. “I’m close.”
Gwanye just making noises from under her when you kiss his tip, him bucking his hips in response. A groan running through him as you lick along a vain pulling away from him when Rhaenyra cums. Making his whimper at the loss.
“You alright nyra?” You ask, her hair a mess as Harwin helps her lay down on the bed.
“I’m fine, just give me a moment.”
“Good.” You smile before pulling Harwin into another kiss and straddling him, his hard cock nudging at your entrance. His hand guiding it into you. Making you gasps as you forget how thick he is. Gwanye being longer but not as thick.
“Wait what?” Gwanye asks whining at the sight of you on Harwin instead of him. “Why?”
“If you’d of fucked me this morning like I asked i’d be riding you, but you didn’t so.” You tease, moaning when you start riding. Knowing that gwayne isn’t actually upset or annoyed, him loving to watch Harwin fuck you just as you like the same.
“I love you, you evil woman.” He sighs massive smile on his face kneeling to give you a kiss.
“I love you too.” You mumble against his lips, moaning against him when Harwins cock hits your sensitive spot.
“Less talking more fucking.” Rhaenyra says pulling Gwayne towards her. Her refusing to admit she’s missed him.
“And I thought you didn’t like me Rhaenyra.” Gwayne teases before kissing the woman, her biting his lip in punishment. “So bossy.”
“Fuck.” Rhaenyra moans when he pushing into her, letting her adjust for a moment before fucking her.
“Shit.” You whine, orgasm building as he plays with your pearl still sensitive from your first orgasm.
“You feel so good.” Gwayne groans into Rhaenyra’s shoulder.
“Can I?” Harwin asks when he notices you struggling to keep your pace, you wanting hard and fast.
“Please.” You whine, gasping when he moves so quickly next thing tou know you’re on your back and he’s fucking into you. “Oh fuck.”
“Gwayne, fuck.” Rhaenyra moans, his thumb on her clit bringing her closer to her second orgasm. Harwin bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. Your clenching bringing him with you.
“Fuck I’m going to cum.” He groans, not letting up on his pace. “Where do you what it?”
“In her.” Gwanye answers for you. You both having spoken about it before hand.
“You sure?” Harwin checks, not wanting to cross any lines despite how much he wants to fuck you full.
“Fuck her full of you.” Gwanye pants out, fighting his own orgasm. “Fuck nyra let me cum in you.”
“Please.” You and Rhaenyra beg as your orgasms hits you, Harwin fucking you thought it when he cums. Gwayne doing the same before both men pull out. You and Gwayne whimpering at the loss, Rhaenyra and Harwin sharing a look as you do so.
“Oh fuck.” Gwanye groans flopping back on to the bed between you and Rhaenyra. Harwin getting up to collect some cloths to clean you all up when you cuddle into your husbands side. Cum leaking out of you.
“That was…” Rhaenyra starts to say but unable to think of a word able to describe that.
“Incredible?” Harwin offers, passing Gwanye a cloth to clean you up while he does the same to Rhaenyra.
“We’d all make brilliant whores.” Gwanye muses kissing the side of your head while moving closer to you so Harwin could fit.
The events of this blurb take place after "Wrapped around your finger..." but this can also be read as a standalone blurb. Content tags are canon divergence, reader uses she/her pronouns, no physical description of reader, smut, fluff, pet names, gwayne and his wife are both bi and i love that for them, oral, slight overstimulation, reader continues to walk him like a dog :) thank you to @httpsvalarr for suggesting this part <3
While Gwayne is putting his arms through the sleeves of his shirt, he feels like he is stepping out of a dream, and coming to terms with reality again. He notes the sights and sensations around him: green curtains, woolen rug beneath his feet, rose fragrance from your hair, the sticky aroma of sweat and spend lingering on his skin.
And then he remembers. "A letter came for you while you were out." Gwayne nods to the wax sealed parchment lying on your bed.
Your fingers snatch up the letter, hastily ripping open the seal. "It's from my sister!" Your exclaim, face lighting up at the realization. Your eyes flash across the page and you look up at Gwayne "The babe came!"
He nods at you to continue.
You pace the bedchambers as you read aloud, unbothered by your bareness. It was only your husband in the room with you. And you'd just had sex - given yourselves fully to each other - there was no need for embarrassment now. “The babe came quickly and without too much pain for my sister. He is a boy, black of hair, and he already has a strong set of lungs. Both he and my sister are healthy and happy. And she named him after our grandfather."
Gwayne pulls a chair next to the copper tub beside the fireplace. Servants had prepared a hot bath for you, at his request, and the steaming aroma permeates the air with the addition of floral perfumes. He sits with a quiet groan (that last tourney wore on his knees especially) and leans over to test the water with his hand. “Come get in. The water is cooling. On the morrow you can write back your congratulations.”
You stare at the letter, beaming, and scan it again. “I wish to go the Eyrie to see them. To meet my little nephew and see my sister."
He shakes his head at your suggestion “The Vale is a great distance from here, dove. I don’t want you away for so long.”
You say nothing, but everything at the same time. You don't neet to utter words to convey how you feel. Gwayne notices the slightest shift in your body language; your shoulders slump, shifting away from him, and you reach for your robe on your vanity to cover yourself.
Panic grips him like a vice. He cannot go back to having you at a distance, not now. Not when he's just only been able to have you fully. Before he's even realizing what he's saying, he blurts, “I am sure we will find a way to you to visit them.”
The look on your face - pure unbridled joy - makes the icy panic melt from Gwayne's veins. Abandoning the robe, you skip across the room, where he sits beside the copper tub. He hasn't driven you away. You drift to him, curling yourself around him like a cat, practically purring with satisfaction that he bends to your whims. He may be spineless, he thinks, but his cooperation has enormous benefits. Your favor, your affections - they are worth more than his spine anyways. His hands find yours to hold you steady as you step over the side, and into the water. You go to lower yourself into the bath, but Gwayne holds you firmly by the hips to stay standing.
"Wait" he breathes, eyes locked on the junction of your thighs. Gwayne leans forward to press a gentle kiss at the split of your cunt.
"Husband" you voice is laced with a half-hearted warning. "What are you doing?"
His hands tighten, securing into the fat of your hips, lips landing again and again onto your folds. "It's alright" he mumbles. He kisses your low belly- stubble that has emerged late in the day scraping the soft skin of your stomach. "Please, let me taste you. Just a little." You fingers that clutch his shoulder for support dig into the velvet material of his shirt. But Gwayne is undeterred as he dips his head lower. As his mouth finds your puffy clit. When his tongue splits the folds of your cunt, you squeak, hands flying to his long, auburn strands.
Even though your center is sensitive, and admittedly a little sore, your husband soothes the area with a gentle touch. His fingers, callused from the sword, carefully part your folds and nudge the flat of his tongue, then the tip of his nose into your clit. You inhale sharply as he slightly sucks the puffy bud.
"You taste so good, dove I can't help it" He mumbles apologetically. His scratchy chin grazing your thighs is a new sensation that is turning your knees to jelly with each passing second.
When he looks up at you with wide blue eyes, you notice the lower half of his face shines with slick. "You're insatiable, husband. Greed is a sin cast down by the Seven." you tease, running a thumb across his pink lower lip.
"The Seven would understand if they tasted this." he responds, before dipping his head again into the junction of your thighs. His long fingers plunge into your soaked folds, parting your thighs so he can kiss your clit again. Gwayne latches to your center, drinking up the juices from your dripping cunt. The beginnings of your peak ignite low in your belly as his lips suck your hypersensitive clit.
"Gwayne, please" you whisper, your thighs beginning to tremble around his head.
All your husband can do is moan as he devours pleasure from you, and when you come, he practically whimpers, pressing his face even deeper into your cunt. "So perfect" he mutters when he comes up for air, and you are regaining your breath.
He leans forward to greedily indulge in your cunt once more, but your grip tightens in his hair to hold him stationary. "No. Come in the water with me." You state. Not a question - a command to your husband.
You lower into the bath and watch him fumble with his shirt, and step clumsily out of his pants, nearly tripping in the process.
"I didn't hurt you before, did I?" he asks as he lowers himself into the water, sloshing it over the side. You find yourself reaching for him before you even realize it. Settling into his lap, your knees straddling him on either side. A smile tugs at your mouth at his concern for you. His hands run over your back, and settling a firm hold on your arse.
"No, you didn't hurt me. It just felt a little different." You admit.
He asks "Different how?"
"Oh." Your face heats at what you are about to confess "Different than with Sara."
"And you and Sara..." he trails off watching bashfulness cover your face. "I see." He chuckles, pulling your chin up so you meet his gaze. "Dove, you have no reason to hide that from me. Thank you for being so forthright."
"You're not angry with me?" You squirm, eyes brightening at the realization that Gwayne is pleased with your honesty.
His cock twitches underneath you. Not only from your movement, but from the taste of you every time he runs his tongue across his teeth. You’re opening up, not running away. He’s finally undoing the distance that started between you at the start of your marriage.
"No, of course not." He shakes his head at the ridiculous thought. "It would be hypocritical of me take lovers and expect you to not have any."
"Wait." Your eyes flash with something Gwayne cannot name. "Lovers" you repeat, emphasizing the plural. "You did? Who were they?" Your mouth curls in giddy amusement, eyes widening at the new information.
Now it your husband's turn to flush under scrutiny. He sputters, pink creeping into his face, "Surely you cannot expect a man of my standing to be - to be chaste."
"Who. Were. They?" You repeat, the glint in your eyes is mischievous, not malicious. "Tell me the last person at least" You deliver a small, playful punch to his chest.
"Arrion Baratheon." He hangs his head at the admission.
You gasp. It's over exaggerated and completely dramatic. You're having too much fun tormenting your husband. Some strange cocktail of jealousy and arousal stirs in your belly. Fingers tightening, curling into the roots of his hair, you interrogate "Was he more handsome than me? More comely?” Manipulating the auburn strands tighter in your fist, you remind yourself to never let him cut his hair short - it’s the most satisfying way to bend him to your will.
"N-no" Gwayne chokes out "Gods no."
You laugh at his trembling hands holding you, his watery eyes. “Oh husband. I hope you don’t favor these past lovers more than me.” Under the water, you feel his cock stiffening against your thigh.
“I do not. Gods help me, I love you.” He rasps. His voice comes out broken, composure crumbling at your torment. He looks up at the darling girl in front of him and unconsciously gulps- your mouth contorting into a knowing smirk. You’re finding great amusement in this, making him sweat and balk in the damned bath water, boiled like a frog under your prodding questions and incessant pressing against his erection. But honestly, he cannot think of anywhere else he’d rather be.
Summary: After the death of your husband and Daeron's ascension to the Iron Throne, you are summoned to King's Landing to discuss your future.
Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x F!Reader (past Ormund Hightower x F!Reader)
Word Count: 3.6.K
Warning: Eventually 18+ only. This chapter includes brief references to past physical, sexual, and emotional abuse (Ormund is a warning himself, okay?).
A/N: A big thanks to @aninhatatu for all her help. No use of Y/N. Reader's house is not named and there is no physical descriptions of her given. Daeron will feature heavily in this story because I adore him.
Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.
Masterlist
When you are a girl, you dream of the day you will marry a true knight who will love you as faithfully as the heroes in the songs.
Your father promises he will find you a good and honorable lord to wed. He speaks of great castles beyond the Reach and noble houses far from home, but your heart seeks another much closer than the distant lords your father imagines.
You long for Gwayne Hightower, looking forward to the days he visits alongside his father. There is a tenderness in him that seems so absent from the men around you. Even the simple courtesy of the way he presses a kiss to the back of your hand feels like something out of the songs you cherish. You imagine a day he might look upon you the same.
It is a dream you guard closely, never daring to give it voice for fear that speaking it aloud will make it vanish. Yet you hold onto the hope that once your sister is wed to his cousin, Lord Ormund, your father might look kindly upon such a match.
Then sickness comes, and with it the Stranger. He claims your sister and the future you imagined. Dury destroys what little remains.
Weeks later, it is you who stands beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Starry Sept and accepts the richly embroidered bride cloak from Lord Ormund Hightower as sunlight pours through the windows.
His eyes are impossibly blue and gentle, his bearing every inch the noble lord the stories have promised. You believe him kind. You believe him true.
That illusion does not survive the night.
The years that follow as his wife are a slow burial of the girl who once believed in songs. You learn to make yourself small, to accept whatever his temper and his body demand of you, and to survive until morning.
You are not alone in your captivity. Daeron is little more than a boy when you first meet him, and he too suffers beneath your husband. Ormund's cruelty toward him is subtler, but no less damaging for its lack of bruises. It comes in a familiar barbed tongue and carefully chosen words that burrow deep, slowly twisting a kind heart into one that forever questions its own worth.
You cannot save Daeron from Ormund, any more than you can save yourself. But you offer him what comfort you can, growing skilled at redirecting your husband's ire when it turns toward the boy, just like Daeron learns the ways to shield you in return.
Then comes the war, and for the first time in years you find yourself alone. Yet there is no peace in your husband’s absence. You have spent so long preparing yourself for his anger that you no longer know how to exist without waiting for it. The silence feels like a trap.
Worse still, he takes Daeron with him.
It is a strange thing, to find yourself both hoping for and dreading their return. Their fates are too intertwined now so you find yourself kneeling before the statues of the Seven, whispering pleas to both the Warrior and the Smith. Months pass with little world beyond what gossip your maids gather for you.
Then, on a warm summer morning, news comes that your lord husband has fallen in battle.
Nothing is said of Daeron. You wait nearly a week in agonizing fear before a letter arrives sealed with the king's sigil. You break the heavy wax and unfold the parchment, breath catching in your throat at the familiar hand that sweeps across the page.
Daeron.
Your fingers linger over his name as though you fear it might vanish beneath your touch. A sob catches in your throat.
He is alive.
More than that, he is king.
Ink blurs beneath your tears as you read his message, a request to come to King's Landing. He promises that you will be welcomed, that you will be safe. It has been years since anyone has promised you safety.
–
The journey to King’s Landing takes nearly three months. Hightower men dressed in the dark greens and blacks of your house greet you within the inner keep. They bow when you emerge from the carriage, voices subdued as they offer condolences. You nod at the proper moments, offering the expected words of gratitude with practiced ease, your expression composed in quiet dignity and mourning.
Inside, you feel nothing.
Their praise of Ormund's honor and the heroic deeds that helped secure the king's ascension twists something inside you. They speak of a man you scarcely recognize, a man far removed from the one you knew.
Thankfully, you are spared further words when another figure approaches.
"My lady," he says with a quick bow, "I am the King’s steward. His Grace requests your presence once the Small Council has concluded its business."
"Of course," you reply, lifting a hand to your brow as you glance toward Margaery, your maid. "If I may have but a moment."
His eyes flick briefly over your travel-worn appearance before returning to your face, his tone remaining perfectly respectful.
“His Grace will not mind a brief delay," he agrees, motioning for you to follow.
The steward leads you through a series of quiet corridors, your maid following close behind with a small traveling trunk balanced carefully in her arms. The chamber awaiting you is modest but comfortable. A basin of fresh water rests upon its stand with clean linens folded neatly beside it. A large mirror hangs upon the far wall.
You pause before it.
The woman staring back at you looks exhausted. Dust clings to the hem of your skirts, and your mourning veil has slipped askew. Ormund would be furious if he found out you had been seen in such a state.
The thought comes so suddenly that you freeze.
He is dead, you remind yourself. Yet the unease settles beneath your skin all the same, irrational but impossible to silence. You can almost hear his clipped voice. A Hightower lady, his wife, no less, reflected not only upon herself, but upon him. To appear before the court looking so travel-worn was careless. Unbecoming.
"My lady," Margery says quietly, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder.
You flinch and she adverts her eyes.
“Yes,” you agree to her unspoken words, mouth gone dry.
Together, you work to make yourself presentable. You wash your face and hands and allow Margery to help you into a fresh gown. It is black, like all the others, stiff and uncomfortable. She runs a critical eye over you before smoothing the creases from your shoulder and tugging at a fold of bunched fabric at your waist, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
It strikes you then that you are not the woman trapped in old habits, still fearful of her master's displeasure.
You say her name softly, and she looks up, her expression uncertain.
"All is well," you assure her.
She nods once and helps you pin a fresh mourning veil into your hair. Only then do you allow the steward to lead you to the king.
The deeper into the keep you go, the darker it becomes, lit only by flickering candlelight that leaves the air hazy with smoke. The Red Keep is nothing like the Hightower, surrounded by sea winds and endless beauty. This place feels close and shadowed. The very air seems heavy, steeped in a cold kind of power that unsettles you.
Golden dragons on fields of green hang from every wall, an uneasy union of Targaryen and Hightower heraldry. Ormund would have despised the sight.
You walk a few moments longer until the steward stops before the towering oak doors of the Small Council chamber. Two white-cloaked Kingsguard stand sentinel on either side. You come to a halt behind him and wait.
“The Lady Hightower,” the guard calls out, opening the heavy doors.
A short flight of stone steps rises before you, and you ascend them slowly. At first, you do not see Daeron at the far end of the table. Your attention is drawn instead to the tall figure who rises the moment you enter.
Warm green eyes meet yours, and suddenly you are fifteen again, back in your father’s great hall, watching Gwayne practice with your father’s men. For a moment, you simply stare, caught between memory and the present. A strange flurry of emotions stirs in your chest. You should have expected Gwayne to be at Daeron's side, yet the sight of him still takes you by surprise.
Unbidden, you stare, searching his face for the changes left by the years since you last saw him. Weariness marks him now, the war having taken its toll, but his proud features remain as striking as ever. Reddish-gold hair curls at the nape of his neck, and he is dressed in a fine green doublet woven through with gold thread. At his side hangs Vigilance, Ormund’s longsword and the symbol of the title and the legacy he now carries.
The new Lord Hightower.
Gwayne opens his mouth to speak, but Daeron rises first, his chair dragging heavily against the stone floor. The rest of the men at the table quickly follow, scrambling to their feet, but Daeron pays them little attention, rounding the table toward you.
He seems to catch himself halfway, stopping abruptly to slow his gait. His attention jumps to Gwayne, then to the gathered council, as though suddenly aware of the eyes upon him.
“Lady Hightower,” he greets, stilted and formal.
On his head rests a golden crown. A seven-pointed star sits at its center, emerald facets catching the candlelight, framed by a pair of dragons whose delicate etching is so faint you nearly miss them.
He has grown taller since you saw him last, much of the lingering softness in his face gone, but he still looks so young. A scar bisects his left brow, and dismay settles in your chest. Your fingers itch to soothe away the hurt that must have caused it, but the skin has long since healed, pale and silvery against the rest of his face.
Someone at the table coughs, the sound drawing you back to the moment at hand. Only then do you realize you’re simply standing there, staring. You are not greeting Daeron you realize, but your King.
You drop into a deep curtsy, head bowed.
“You Grace.”
You hold your posture until Daeron gently takes your elbows and encourages you to rise. A faint blush colors his cheeks, and despite everything, you cannot help but smile.
"I am pleased you are here," he says warmly. "We have much to discuss."
"And to celebrate," a dark-haired man behind him adds, lifting his cup. "It will not be long before His Grace finds you a worthy husband.”
Daeron goes still.
His brows lift in surprise, and your own mirror his. You know him well enough to recognize the flicker of emotions that crosses his face, something between fear and guilt.
A quiet anxiety blooms in your chest, making your jaw tighten and your stomach twist.
"My..." Your voice falters as you look between the men gathered in the room. Most avoid your gaze, but the man who spoke watches you carefully, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.
The silence that follows is broken by Gwayne.
"Lord Peake." The words come sharply, and the man's smile falters. "You forget yourself."
Gwayne’s handsome features harden, the warmth gone from his face, replaced by a cold displeasure carefully held in check.
Daeron touches your arm, drawing your attention to him for only a moment before your gaze returns to Gwayne. He has moved from his position behind the table, placing himself between you and Lord Peake. One hand hangs relaxed at his side, but the other rests upon the pommel of his greatsword.
“Lady Hightower’s future is a private matter between the Hightower House and the crown”.
Lord Peake raises a single hand, as if to forestall further reprimand. "You mistake my meaning. I merely wished to offer Lady Hightower happy news."
Your breath leaves you in a slow, unsteady exhale. They speak of your future as though you are not in the room. As though you do not matter. It is all too familiar.
Gwayne does not answer. Instead, he folds his hands behind his back and looks to Daeron.
"I would speak with Lady Hightower and my Hand in private,” Daeron announces. “We shall reconvene tomorrow."
Chairs scrape against the stone as the men rise and file from the chamber. Lord Peake is the last to leave. He slows beside Gwayne, meeting his eyes with the faintest lift of one brow. Then he turns to you and smiles. It is a courteous smile, perfectly measured. Perfectly empty. Your stomach tightens. You know that smile.
As the heavy doors swing shut behind Lord Peake, a different silence settles over the chamber.
You lower your eyes to your clasped hands. Your thumb finds the slender silver ring on your finger, tracing the emerald set within it. The ring worn by every Lady Hightower that’s become before you. The one Ormund placed on your hand all those years ago. It will belong to Gwayne soon you realize.
Daeron says your name so softly it almost breaks you. But you keep your head bowed, pressing your thumb harder against the emerald's sharp edge until it bites into your skin. The sting steadies you, driving back the tears threatening to spill.
You mustn't cry. Ormund despises tears. He calls them weakness. He—
Daeron reaches for your hands, his own larger than you remember. Gently, patiently, he eases your fingers apart until the pressure against the ring disappears.
“He is not here,” he whispers quietly. “You do not have to stifle yourself.”
You blink rapidly, clearing your vision before forcing your shoulders back. “I am sorry, your Grace,” you reply.
The use of his title seems to wound him. A shadow crosses Daeron's gentle features.
“You do not need to call me that when it is just us,” he says. “Things have not changed.”
Against your better judgment, your look to Gwayne. He watches without speaking. Daeron follows your gaze.
"We can trust my uncle," he says gently. “He is a good man.”
They said the same about Ormund.
You force a smile for Daeron and he relaxes.
His hand remains wrapped around yours as he gently guides you away from the council table toward a smaller seating area tucked beside the hearth. The chairs there are lower, cushioned. He waits until you are seated before taking the place beside you.
Gwayne settles into the chair opposite, leaving the low table between you.
"This is not how I wished this conversation to happen,” Daeron begins.
"How long?" The words leave your lips before you can stop them. The two men exchange a glance. "How long until I must marry again?"
Daeron's face falls. His fingers tighten around yours before he lowers his eyes. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, almost helplessly, he looks to Gwayne.
“Soon,” his uncle replies.
The words settle over the room like a stone.
"Lord Peake spoke out of turn," Gwayne continues, "but he did not speak without reason." He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Since Ormund's death, many ravens have arrived carrying proposals."
You stared at him. "For me?"
"For your lands," he corrects gently. "For your inheritance. Your father's health worsens and the maesters believe he has little time remaining."
You swallow around the lump in your throat. Ormund had never permitted you to leave Oldtown without him as your escort, and your father's failing health had long since robbed him of the strength to travel. Letters from him had grown fewer with each passing moon. Long before that, you had stopped asking Ormund if you might return home. It was not worth provoking him.
"As he has no sons, his lands and titles will pass through you... and then to the sons you will one day bear. Until your heir comes of age, your husband will govern in his stead. But, if your father dies before your future is settled, every ambitious lord Westeros will believe the succession is open to influence."
His expression shifts, disgust surfacing briefly.
“There are those like Lord Peake who would not hesitate to spill blood over it."
Your gaze drops to the fire. The flames dance and twist, blurring as your vision stings. Before you even realize you're doing it, your thumb finds the emerald ring again, turning it over and over against your finger until the stone bites into your skin.
Daeron’s reign is still new, still fragile. They cannot risk another open war, not while he struggles to secure the realm. You know that. You know exactly why they have made this choice. It does not make it hurt any less.
After a long moment Gwayne says your name. Not Lady Hightower. Not some carefully chosen honorific. Just your name.
The sound catches you off guard. Against your better judgment, your eyes lift to meet his.
"I understand," you manage. The words are steady enough, but they sound distant, like someone else has spoken them.
“You are a member of House Hightower. We will protect you,” he says. The promise is earnest enough to make you ache.
You want to believe him. You want to be angry with him. Instead, fear settles heavily beneath your ribs, cold and unyielding.
At last, Daeron speaks.
"I wanted..." His voice catches. "I wanted you to have more time."
For the briefest moment, you see not the King of the Seven Kingdoms, but the little boy Ormund first brought home to Oldtown. All gentle smiles and earnest questions, forever eager to please. He is still there. Pained by what duty asks of him and of you.
"You will be safe here, no matter the outcome," he promises, a small crease forming between his brows.
"Have you settled on someone?" you ask quietly.
You hold his gaze. It is not a challenge. It is a quiet demand for honesty, if nothing else. After everything the two of you have endured together, you are owed at least that.
"Nothing would be decided without your approval,” he promises
You search his face, watching as his expression shifts ever so slightly, a change you might have missed had you not known him since he was a boy. The look when he was weighing the cost of the truth before giving voice to it.
He already has someone in mind you realize.
“Who?” You ask with a boldness that surprises you.
His eyes drift toward Gwayne. The older man stills. His shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly before he shakes his head once.
It’s a warning that Daeron ignores it.
"My uncle," he says. "You would keep your title. And because Gwayne serves as my Hand, your home would remain here, in King's Landing."
His voice is careful, but you hear what he does not say. That you would be close to him. That you would not have to return to Oldtown and walk those halls where every stone still bears the memory of Ormund’s abuse. It is a boyish hope, but it is a kind one.
Your look to Gwayne. Daeron's suggestion seems to have unsettled him. In his position Ormund would have feigned reluctance. He would have offered some practiced protest about duty before graciously accepting what he desired all along.
Gwayne does no such thing.The muscles in his jaw tighten, hollowing his cheeks. His expression is not one of embarrassment or false modesty, but something closer to shame.
"This is not a burden Lady Hightower should bear today," he says quietly.
"Of course," Daeron agrees at once.
His hands twist together in his lap before he catches himself and stills them. His gaze darts from Gwayne to you and back again.
"We should let you rest," he declares after a moment, rising so abruptly that his crown slips forward over his brow. He hastily straightens it, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. "You must be tired from the long journey."
You stand and smooth your skirts, searching for words but all you can manage is, "Thank you, Your Grace."
The title leaves your lips before you can stop it. Daeron's smile falters.
"Daeron," you say softly.
His expression warms at once and you smile to see him so unguarded.
For a heartbeat, he remains where he is and then he takes one uncertain step, then another, before closing the distance and wrapping his arms around you. The embrace is almost desperate. He buries his face against your shoulder, clinging to you. Your hand finds the familiar curve of his back. Slowly, gently, you stroke between his shoulders. After a long moment, the tension leaves him in a soft, shuddering breath.
Over Daeron's shoulder, your eyes meet Gwayne's. His features tighten almost imperceptibly. He looks almost stricken, but a heartbeat later, his composure returns.
Without a word, he looks away.
You close your eyes and rest your cheek lightly against Daeron's hair, allowing yourself to simply exist. In this quiet moment, he is not the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and you are not Lady Hightower. You are simply two people who survived the same man, holding one another steady as the world shifts beneath your feet.
You are free of Ormund. That alone feels almost impossible. Yet beneath that relief, a shadow lingers. You want to believe Daeron is right. That Gwayne is a good man. A true knight, the kind the songs once taught you to believe in.
But hope is a fragile thing.
You are no longer certain you remember how to hold it.
If you enjoyed the chapter, I'd absolutely love to hear your thoughts. Comments, reblogs, and asks about the story genuinely make my day and keep me excited to keep writing. Whether it's a favorite moment or just keyboard smashing, I appreciate every bit of it.
✿ aerion takes you to summerhall (part three of Here With Me; takes place directly after Don't Leave Me).
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 10.1k (damn)
✿ cw: fem!reader/healer!reader, no y/n, reader is undefined and smart asf, possessive!aerion (like seriously it might be obsessive!aerion too), intense jealousy (guess who from), threats of violence (not to reader), self-inflicted injury (knife-inflicted, blood), tbh dom!aerion, SMUT, oral (m!receiving & f!receiving), fingering, finger-sucking, unprotected piv, rough sex initially, breeding + contraceptive tampering? (he's delusional and unsuccessful don't worry), praise, pet names (sweet girl, etc), pussy pronouns, one (1) pussy slap, light degradation, strong language, a bit fluffy at the end, ser roland and ser donnel mentions bc i love them <3
✿ a/n: part three !!! so many people requested this, so here it is, and i hope you enjoy :)
part one here — part two here
Summerhall appears like a fortress carved from ivory amongst velvet green hills. Large windows glisten and reflect the midday sun, and the gardens tended around are thick and lush. Even the air is cooler out here, fresher than what traps stagnant in the alleys of your home slum. You can’t quite believe what you’re looking at as you clamber from the carriage with a timber-like stiffness in your bones. You clutch your satchel of medicinal supplies, a small trunk of your belongings at your feet.
Ahead of you, Aerion dismounts his horse with a flourish of his black cape. It billows around him like wings, and as he settles, his palfrey guided away by a servant, he spares a look in your direction. The corner of his lips quirk, something near a smile, as he appraises your expression of wonder, your eyes glittering as you stare up at the grand royal residence. Your fingers clutch nervously at your satchel, and there’s a subtle dip in your brow that tells Aerion all he needs to know.
But you’ll be fine here. You have him, after all.
He takes a few steps in your direction before he stops. He freezes, boots crushing gravel. There’s an obvious flex in his jaw as he watches a member of the kingsguard—oh, it’s Roland fucking Crakehall, Aerion immediately thinks—approach you with kind eyes and a disarming smile. Roland says something that snaps you out of your little trance, and you bow your head, saying something in return that makes the smile on Roland’s face split even wider.
Aerion watches you look up at Roland, and the nervous fidgeting of your fingers against the smooth leather of your satchel suddenly stops.
There’s a tick in his chest. A small, dull tug at the bottom of his heart and it sets off in a structured rhythm as he watches you and Roland interact. It has the nerves along his spine standing up, prickling with a heat he’s never felt before, venomous in its leeching through his diaphragm and up into his brain. He can taste it now—jealousy—and it’s sour on his pointed tongue, dripping from his teeth as his lip curls itself into a grimace.
He kicks himself from the gravel and approaches with meaningful strides. He feels the eyes of servants on him, hears the way they skitter out of his way like vermin. They drop their heads and lower their voices, and the tension that hangs treacle-thick in the air makes him feel great. It makes him feel alive.
He calls your name, and your eyes find his immediately. A rumble passes briefly through his aching chest, a proud purr as you respond so obediently to him. He snaps his fingers at a nearby servant then, gesturing to the wooden trunk at your feet. The servant nods, and immediately moves to pluck it from the ground and hurry towards the castle.
You frown. “Aerion, I am perfectly capable of—”
Roland speaks at the same time. “I was already offering—”
Aerion waves a hand, cutting both you and Roland off as though he had shouted at you. The silence is painful in the cool air, and you find yourself clutching your satchel firmly to your chest as the prince draws nearer.
“I will take my witch to her chambers,” Aerion says, and seizes you firmly by the elbow.
You do not dwell on the tightness of his fingers at your sleeve, nor do you dwell on his use of my witch. Instead, you offer Roland an apologetic smile as the prince all but drags you across the threshold, busy servants making quick work of throwing themselves out of his way.
You look around, possibly for someone to help. Not that you had belief anyone could save you from this situation, but maybe someone could at least offer you sympathy. But Prince Maekar was nowhere to be seen; neither were any of the other Targaryen siblings. Although, you think you catch a fleeting glimpse of dirty blond hair disappearing towards the kitchens, but that’s all it was: fleeting.
Aerion hauls you up a wide flight of steps, your footfall muffled by thick carpet. You shoot a glance downward as you ascend, in the general direction of the hall which would lead you, you’re sure of it, to the servants’ quarters. You were technically a servant.
“Your grace,” you begin as he hails you down a long corridor, grip still unrelenting on your arm. “Should I not take residence with the other servants? Surely—”
“You are not sleeping alongside the help.”
You scowl at his tone. “Well, I am the help, your grace.”
Aerion scoffs, pulling you around a corner. There’s another long hall that stretches, lit up by sunshine and hues of green where light passes through stained glass. It’s also empty, and you yelp when Aerion spins around and slams you roughly against the wall. You drop your satchel on instinct, the bag falling to your feet with a clattering of glass bottles—thankfully, not glass breaking—as your hands shoot up. Your palms rest flat to his chest as he presses close to you, one of his hands still on your arm, the other caging you in, propped up against the wall by your head.
“You are not the help,” Aerion begins, voice low. His eyes flit across your face, violet irises bright. “You are my help. You help me. And because you help me—you’re here for me—you will take residence where I tell you, yes?”
Your hands tighten against the red velvet of his gambeson. “I don’t think—”
“Yes?” Aerion repeats, the fingers on your arm clamping down. There’s a bite of blunt nails through the material of your sleeve too, and you draw in a calming breath as you try not to melt beneath the heat of his violet stare.
“Yes, your grace,” you whisper, dropping your head.
Aerion huffs, the hand on the wall shooting across to seize your jaw. You blow out an exasperated sigh through your nose as he forces you to look at him. The pads of his fingers are soft against the bone of your jaw, but his grip is tight. Unyielding.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he says, cocking his head. He raises his eyebrows, imploring, waiting for you to speak again. “Speak up.”
“Yes, your grace,” you echo, louder this time. Your voice carries in a murmur down the hall, and you grimace hearing yourself bounce from the ornate walls.
But it pleases the prince, for he breaks out into a vulpine smile and pats your cheek firmly before stepping back. You release a tense breath, collecting your satchel from the ground as Aerion resumes his hold on your arm and leads you down the hall.
After a moment, he gestures to a door with a torch mounted to the wall nearby.
“These are my chambers,” he tells you, then leads you further down the hall. You pass by several more doors before the hall’s end greets you, where a door sits beneath a large Targaryen banner. He opens the door with a heavy hand. “And these are yours.”
The room is… not small. It’s grand and spacious, with the largest bed you’ve ever seen taking up a considerable amount of space to the right. Tall, latticed windows allow bright light to stream in, resembling ghostly fingers reaching for the Myrish carpet that covers the floor. There’s an empty hearth, plush chairs, and a writing desk nearby too. The desk is bare, and you approach it tentatively, placing your satchel down. As you take off your travelling cloak, draping it across the desk, you notice that your trunk of belongings already sits at the foot of the bed.
“This is excessive…” you find yourself muttering, turning and leaning back against the solid wooden desk.
Aerion looks at you from the doorway. “This is what you get.”
You grip the edge of the desk, looking around. “It’s not that I’m unappreciative, but—”
“Then thank me,” Aerion interrupts, stepping forward. He closes the door. “Say thank you.”
You look at him as he slowly crosses the room. You utter softly, “Thank you.”
“Thank you what?” Aerion stands before you now, trapping you against the desk.
You can feel the heat radiating from his body; the blemishless shine of his pale skin. He leans in close and you can feel his breath ghost across you, tainted with mulberries and hazel.
“Thank you, your grace,” you reply, challenging his gaze.
He grunts, a rough sound from the back of his throat, as he grabs your wrist. You let him steal your hand away from the desk, and you let him press your palm flat to the front of his trousers as he leans in closer. You smell ash and lavender wax soap across his skin. You bite your lip, ignoring the sudden wash of heat through your core, as he gently ruts his hips against your palm. There’s a shift beneath the fabric, and your lips part.
“Say it properly,” Aerion hisses, still looking at you. He runs your open palm against the front of his trousers, and you feel his cock give another jerk beneath the material.
His hand is warm around your wrist, and you wonder if he can feel the thundering of your pulse beneath his thumb.
“Thank you, Aerion,” you whisper, and the lilt in your voice has his hips rolling deeper into your touch. “For the room.”
“Thank me for bringing you here,” he says quickly. He gently moves your hand up and down, and you can feel a tent pitching beneath your palm. “Tell me how lucky you are to be here with me.”
You frown, turning your head, his eye contact too intense. It’s cloying, overwhelming, molten heat that sticks to you the longer you look. You shake your head slightly, muttering, “Aerion—”
The prince’s other hand snaps up and grabs you harshly by the nape of your neck. He forces you to look at him, his other hand continuing to drag your palm across the bulge in his trousers. He looks at you, waiting.
“Say it.” It’s firm and venomous in its delivery.
The heat inside you doesn’t vanish. It swirls deeper, fills you broadly, and your free hand grips the edge of the desk in an effort to stop yourself from trembling.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” you say quietly, and you notice something flash in the violet of his eyes. You continue, “I am… I’m very lucky to be here.”
“With me,” Aerion utters, hand squeezing the back of your neck.
“With you,” you add, a little breathless.
Silence stretches. The distant rustling of leaves seeps in through the windows behind you, and the rush of blood in your ears is loud enough to bring you some sort of comfort. Aerion stares at you, blinking slowly, pupils tracing the lines of your face as he continues to gently move your hand against his covered cock. He’s so close that you can see the tiniest little scar just above his lip—a well-healed blemish you’ve never noticed before.
His eyes find your mouth.
You press your palm harder against the length of him, and he lets out a strained groan, before tipping forward. With his hand still on your nape, he cranes your head slightly so he can bury his face into the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, the sensation causing a shiver to rocket down your spine. His pelvis presses closer then, trapping your hand between his hips and yours. He groans into your shoulder, mouth against bare skin where the neckline of your dress exposes you.
You feel his teeth sink into your skin: not enough to break, but enough to have you squirming beneath him. You feel him chuckle, then pull away. A string of saliva stretches from the little indents at your shoulder, to his lips, but it snaps when he levels his face with yours. His tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.
There’s a wordless message passed between you.
Your fingers find the clasp of his trousers and you surprise yourself by undoing it one-handed. Aerion seems impressed too: he smiles and shoves his hips forward, rutting against you. You find the ties at his waist next, pulling at the knots as he lets a low groan slip from his mouth. Heat is sticky and stagnant in your stomach, sitting heavy in your core as you undo the ties of his trousers, exposing the linen of his breeches.
He helps you, shoving his trousers down his thighs as you untie his breeches. You need another hand for this, fingers moving deftly, eyes directly down. But you can feel him looking at you still, waiting for you. As you yank the ties of his breeches open, he leans in and presses his lips to the curve of your jaw—a brief moment of intimacy before his mouth opens and he licks like a dog across your pulse.
“Aerion,” you breathe out, tipping your head in an attempt to flee his tongue.
He just chuckles, pulling away and peering down at where you finally push his breeches down. His cock, blushing warm and hard, hangs free. You shift to take it with reaching fingers, but he slaps your hand away. You jerk back, then forward when the gap between you increases, and suddenly he’s guiding you onto your knees by the hand on the back of your neck.
He fists himself as he settles you in front of him, your head parallel to the desk behind you. You peer up at him, hands resting against his thighs, and he peers down at you. There’s a mirror in your expressions: a silent need as you squeeze your thighs together and he grips, white-knuckled, around the base of his cock.
“Say thank you,” the prince whispers, dragging his cock along your cheek. He’s drooling out against your skin, leaving glistening lines in its wake as he smears himself across your lips. He’s warm and solid, skin soft and blushing and pliable as he rolls the shaft across your other cheek too. He grins, bringing the tip to your lips. “Say thank you, sweet girl. Thank me for this cock.”
“Thank you,” you manage to say, gripping the bunched material of his trousers.
Aerion grins, lilting, “Oh, you’re welcome, little witch.”
He bullies his cock between your lips then, and you part them with a grunt. Still grinning, fox-like and stretched across his pride, Aerion pushes his cock deeper into your mouth, feeling over the bumps of your tongue as you lower your jaw to take him deeper. An airy moan leaves him as he grips your neck and feeds his cock down your throat, pressing your face into his pelvis. You close your eyes, screwing them shut as you withhold a gag.
He pulls out, then shoves back in. You manage to open your eyes, tears wet in your lashline as you look up at him. He’s already looking down at you, the smile still there but a lot smaller as he fucks his cock into the heat of your mouth.
“You’re here, in this room,” Aerion begins suddenly, vowels extended through a poorly hidden whine. “For me. You will come to my chambers when you are called upon, no matter the time. You will serve no one else but me.”
You want to argue. You’re a healer of the people. If someone else needed your assistance, it would go against all you believed in to disregard them.
But, of course, you can’t argue. Not just because you’re dealing with Aerion Targaryen, whose wrath sets ablaze like a dragon’s fire, but because you’re choking around the width of his cock, words beat back down your throat.
Instead, you moan around him. The vibrations tremble thick and fast through his cock, and he lets out a hoarse moan.
“For me,” he whispers, looking up and speaking it directly into the ceiling.
There’s a loud knock on the door and your heart drops into your stomach. Your hands squeeze his thighs tightly as he pulls you firmly against his hips, holding you there as he struggles to even his breathing. Aerion waits, and you swallow around his cock, saliva building uncomfortably in your mouth. His fingers tighten around the nape of your neck, a warning, as another loud knock rocks through the chambers.
“What?” Aerion calls, curt and obviously angry.
“Apologies, your grace.” Roland Crakehall. Aerion could murder him. Through the door, the kingsguard continues politely, “I’m looking for the lady.”
“Why?”
“Ser Donnel requests her presence in the main hall,” Roland replies, his voice slightly muffled through the thick wood. “Immediately.”
Aerion looks down at you, and you give him a pointed look. He shakes his head, and you take a gamble: gently scraping your teeth along the sensitive skin of his length. The prince sucks in a quick breath, and you manage to pull yourself from his cock, coughing lightly. Aerion is seething as you fend off his hold and get to your feet, hurrying towards the door whilst wiping your sleeve across your mouth.
You pull open the door and smile at Roland. “Hello.”
“Oh.” Roland bows his head politely. He addresses you by name. “I apologise if I’m interrupting something.”
You shake your head, smoothing your hands down your skirts. “Not at all. Shall… I come with you now?”
Roland nods. “Please. And bring your supplies.”
You nod, quickly rushing across the room to snatch your satchel from the desk. Aerion, hard cock stuffed back in his trousers, reaches a hand out, the tips of his fingers just brushing your arm before you breeze past him.
He grunts, messily tying a knot in the laces of his breeches, shifting towards you with ire flashing in his violet eyes. “Now, wait—”
“Lead the way,” you say to Roland when you reach the doorway once more, ignoring the Targaryen prince looming.
You quickly step out into the corridor and slam the door shut behind you. Roland can’t help himself: he lets out a small laugh as he begins leading you down the hall.
“I’m not sure if he wants to murder me or you,” the knight says plainly, thick with humour. His eyes sparkle as he looks at you, matching the gleam of his polished white armour. “You’re as brave as they say.”
You ignore his first comment with a playful roll of your eyes. Instead, you cock your head. “They?”
“Those who work for the household,” Roland tells you. “Word travels fast, and the woods witch Aerion Targaryen has taken a liking to makes for good conversation.”
“Great,” you mumble sarcastically.
Roland reassures you with a polite smile. “Don’t fret. You are well liked amongst the ranks, and Ser Donnel speaks very highly of you.”
That puts you slightly at ease as you traipse the sun-soaked corridors of Summerhall.
—✿—
As the sun sets, Aerion realises he hasn’t seen you since Roland whisked you away. You had vanished; seemingly slipped into the shadows, or danced off with the wind. He scoured the brightly lit halls, shoving open doors and tearing curtains from their hooks with dramatic flourishes as he peered out windows. You weren’t anywhere, it seemed, and there was a pit forming in the base of his stomach: a heavy stone, almost unbearable in its weight.
Having done three laps of the royal residence, Aerion huffs to a stop near the entrance to the servants quarters: the only place he hasn’t checked. He curses himself for being so ignorant as he stares down the dark, narrow hall that winds itself deep into the castle’s interior.
“Your grace.”
Aerion turns, finding Ser Donnel approaching. The kingsguard rests a hand casually on the pommel of his sword, which sits snug at his hip. He looks at Aerion with slightly narrowed eyes, a flat smile, and the look of a disappointed father.
“She’s in there, isn’t she?” Aerion questions, although it’s less a query because he knows. The shadows of the narrow passageway are thick, and he’d be a fool not to have noticed the way you looked at them when you had first arrived.
Donnel shrugs. “And what if she was? Do you intend to fetch her?”
“Yes,” Aerion replies quickly.
Ser Donnel lets out a mirthless laugh. It’s quick and sharp, and Aerion’s jaw twitches in response. The knight shakes his head too.
“Leave her be, just for the evening,” Donnel says firmly.
Aerion narrows his eyes at the kingsguard, the white of the armour appearing grey beneath the evening shadows and the flickering of mounted torches nearby.
“You sent her there,” Aerion mutters, recalling his little witch’s sudden—and unwelcome—departure from him earlier that day. “What did you say to her?”
Aerion grips the handle of his dagger, which rests comfortably at his side, sheathed in black leather. Donnel notices the movement and shakes his head, breathing out a chuckle. He nods towards the passageway, the air around him shifting.
“A few of the cooks suffered burns preparing supper,” Donnel tells the prince.
“We have maesters for a reason,” Aerion growls out.
Donnel gives him a pointed look. “Yes… we do.”
Aerion huffs, lip curling as he grips the black leather of his dagger. “Do not patronise me, Ser Donnel. She is mine. She is not here to serve anyone else.”
Donnel takes a step towards the prince, armour clanking. He drops his voice, speaking low, “You have already taken her from her shop, and her livelihood, and her people: the least you can do is let her help others while she is here.”
Aerion seethes. “How dare you speak—?”
“You do not need her help at this moment, your grace,” Donnel interrupts. “Please let her be.”
Aerion passes a challenging look to the kingsguard. Never in his life has anyone dared speak to him in such a manner, except possibly his mother or father. Ser Donnel matches Aerion’s glare with a calm look of his own, and Aerion realises that this knight really does care for you. He’s protecting you.
You don’t need protection from Aerion. You’re his.
Aerion spins on his heel and proceeds down the passageway. The firm, metallic footsteps of Ser Donnel behind him only spur him on, and he ducks down the narrow hall like a serpent shifting through stones. He breaks through a doorway and finds you sitting amongst a group of servants, your satchel open and resting in your lap. Beside you, a young woman admires a glistening cream-coloured salve—obviously your work—spread across her forearm, obscuring an angry burn. You hold a small bottle between your fingers.
“This is a natural disinfectant. It’s good for cleaning wounds, on both humans and animals…” You trail off, eyes lifting to find Aerion in the doorway. You swallow thickly, slowly placing the bottle back into your satchel as the servants notice his presence.
They scarper like rats, Aerion thinks, as he watches the group disperse in a flurry of limbs. Many scramble past him, disappearing down the hall, whilst others vanish through another narrow entrance across the room. They leave you alone, perched on the edge of a rickety wooden bed, the straw mattress threadbare and thinning beneath you.
“You grace,” you begin, getting to your feet and hefting your satchel over your shoulder.
“You’ve been hiding from me,” Aerion says.
You shake your head. “No, I’ve been helping—”
“You’re not here to help them,” Aerion spits, crossing the room now. “You’re here to help me, yes? You’re here for me.”
You look past Aerion as he draws within a few feet of you, and the prince turns to see Ser Donnel in the doorway. Your hands shoot out, finding the plush warmth of Aerion’s doublet, but your eyes are still on the kingsguard across the room.
Donnel frowns. “M’lady?”
“I’m alright, Ser Donnel,” you tell him gently, fingers balled in the prince’s shirt. It’s half to keep you grounded as you breathe, smelling cedar and smoke in Aerion’s clothes, and half to keep him in check, for you have a feeling he may lunge at someone. You nod at the knight. “I’m fine.”
Donnel looks between you and Aerion. “Are—?”
“She said she’s fine, did she not?” Aerion spits over his shoulder. “Now, be a good knight and fuck off.”
Ser Donnel, despite the worry flashing across his gently aging features, turns and slips down the hall and out of sight. Aerion was still his prince after all, and he knows better than anyone that the prince is… temperamental.
Aerion turns to you now, his hands finding the satchel on your shoulder. He carefully removes it, wordlessly, eyes near black in the darkness of the room. A small candle, dripping wax mounting at its base, illuminates part of the room, but the shadows here are consuming. They cling to your body as Aerion’s hands find your hips, rubbing up and down your sides, fingers ghosting across the top of your skirts.
You breathe out carefully, fingers loosening in his doublet. You rub circles across his chest, soothing. You pet him like a cat, fingers bending and circling. And he responds like a cat, eyes closing as a purr-like rumble stirs from deep in his chest. You feel the vibrations as he slowly moves you until the back of your calves hit the low bed.
“Aerion,” you whisper, and you mean for it to sound stern, but it’s breathless.
Wood and ash, a smouldering hearth, is what you swims in the air around you as he leans over you, head dipping and finding the bend of your neck and shoulder. But there’s a sweetness in the white flicks of his hair as it brushes against the side of your face, his mouth drawing over your skin. Cedar and blackberry wine, sugared with the smell of sweat.
He says your name in response, muffled as his teeth skim over your skin. He bites again, a firm imprint of teeth, before he sucks hard. It lodges a whimper in your throat, head leaning to the side as your hands grip at his doublet once more. His own hands dip low as he hunches against you, guiding you down, down, down until you’re sitting on the narrow bed. You squeak out, aware that this isn’t your bed and this isn’t your chambers and Ser Donnel is only just down the passage—
“Too sweet for your own good, aren’t you?” Aerion mumbles against your neck as his hands bundle up the material of your skirts. He brings them up to your hips, exposing the clean linen of your smallclothes. He ignores the muffled whimper you let out, your lips pressed in a tight line. He tuts, “Such a good little helper. They just love you, don’t they?”
“Aerion,” you breathe out again, your hands finding his shoulders now.
You feel the working of the muscle and joints as his arms shift to take hold of your smallclothes. His arm is thick and warm between the press of your thighs, but you don’t try to close them—in fact, you part them, shuddering as he pulls the linen away and exposes your slick cunt to the shadows of the quarters. His other hand finds the back of your neck as he picks himself out of your shoulder, lips shining with spit. He angles your head so he can trace the lines of your face with his swollen pupils.
“You enjoy spending time down here?” Aerion whispers as two fingers run down your slit, spreading you apart. He groans at the wet heat and the little moan you try to catch between your teeth. “With the servants and the maids?”
His fingers languidly shift, drawing your folds apart until they press to your hole. He wastes no time either: running a couple of circles around you, he dips his fingers inside you, slowly pulling you apart knuckle by knuckle.
“Yes,” you say around an exhale.
“More than with me?” His fingers crook inwards and your head tips back involuntarily, a hushed moan slipping from tongue to shadow. Aerion cradles the back of your neck, watching you carefully as you slowly settle your head to meet his gaze. You give a subtle shake of your head, and Aerion smiles. “No?”
“No,” you whisper, then bite down on your bottom lip, eyes closing. His fingers press against that perfect spot, your cunt clenching around the digits as something rolls in your tummy, a rope of tension stringing across the front of your womb.
Aerion rucks his fingers in and out of you. The silence of the room is filled with the slick plap-plap-plap of his fingers inside you as his movements pick up. You writhe, whimpering softly, and your fingers grip his shoulder tightly, pulling him to you. He obliges you, chest nearly against yours as he rests his mouth against your forehead. His lips press to the soft skin, not quite a kiss, as he pants against you, eyes fluttering as he feels the hot clutch of your cunt around his fingers. So wet and warm and wanting.
“Does being down here make you happy?” He asks, words breathed out against your warm skin.
You whimper.
“Answer me,” Aerion whispers, but it’s not harsh. It’s pushed out on an exhale and it’s surprisingly gentle. Smothered by shadow, carried away on a light summer breeze.
“Yes,” you manage to squeak out. “Yes, my prince.”
He crooks his fingers as he ruts them in and out. There’s slick dribbling slowly across his bottom knuckles, and there’s small sounds working out of your throat like the mewls from a kitten. His mind swims, cock half-hard and twitching in his breeches, sweat tacky on his forehead as his arm and fingers work.
“Okay,” he begins, pulling his fingers from you. He angles back, and you groan at the empty feeling that braces against you like a chill. Your orgasm recedes and you let out a breathy whine, fingers tugging at his doublet. He shushes you, the hand on your nape pulling you back and laying you on the mattress. “Okay, sweet girl, you can help them.”
You open your eyes properly. “Really?”
“But you will always help me first,” he says, and you’re already nodding. He doesn’t want to share, but he’s doing this for you. He takes his fingers, wet with you, and presses the pads to your lips. “You will help them when I say you can. Not—” he shoves his fingers into your mouth. “—when Ser Donnel says, yes?”
You hum around his fingers, tongue wrapping. He smiles, pleased, pulling them out. He pats your cheek before he shrinks back, parting your thighs. Hefting your hips, the prince bends and settles his face directly against your core. The abruptness of it has you keening, and the moan that leaves you is frighteningly loud. Aerion chuckles to himself as his mouth parts against your pussy, tongue splitting up between your folds, laving over your clit. You mewl, hand shooting down out of instinct to fist his hair. He groans in response as his fingers find your hole again, pushing in with an audible shlick.
“Oh, fuck, Aerion, wait—” You cut your whispered plea off with a moan as his fingers curl. Perfect, precise. It makes your hips grind down, twitching against his face as he licks across you simultaneously. The sounds that leave you, draped in shadow and hushed between the desperate clenching of your teeth, spur him on. You whine, that rope of tension in your lower belly pulling taut. “Aerion, my prince, please.”
Aerion’s other hand is tight on your thigh, dimpling flesh as he keeps it hooked around his shoulder. His head moves, eyes unwavering in their stare over the mound of your belly, the bunched fabric of your dress, the valley of your breasts, and onto your face. You’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen: eyes fighting to stay open, teeth sunken into your lip. You writhe beneath him, and you’re just so warm. Your cunt, wet and hot; your thighs soft and warm against his ears.
His tongue follows your sounds. The high-pitched mewls you try to hide when he licks over the puffy bud of your clit, or the low keen he feels rumble through you when he spreads your folds apart. Deft fingers push and pull, in and out, until he can see the way your body begins to tighten and tremble. He knows you by now.
The rope inside you frays and you arch off the thinning mattress. You press yourself deeper into his touch as your release snaps through you, fingers tightening in his hair as you cry out his name. It’s loud, and the little candle nearby flickers as the sound bounces off the stone walls. The shadows do nothing to muffle it as you shake, thighs tightening around his head as your pussy clenches around his fingers. The prince groans into you as you whisper his name, his cock painfully hard in his breeches.
Slowly, and with a pained grunt, he pulls himself from between your legs, wiping his mouth against the inside of your thigh. You make a noise of complaint, but he shushes you as he rights himself.
“Should’ve known this pretty pussy’d taste of the heavens,” Aerion whispers, more to himself than you.
You hum in response, reaching down and grabbing your smallclothes where they gather messily near your knees. Aerion shifts back and watches, palm resting over his pelvis, as you pull your undergarments back into place. You sit up, then stand on shaky legs, allowing your skirts to fall back into place. The prince sits on the edge of the low bed, not saying anything. He simply watches you.
“Come now,” you whisper, holding your hand out.
Something lurches in his chest. He takes your hand and gets to his feet. And then he follows you from the quarters, his hand fitting so perfectly into yours, and he doesn’t even bat an eye when they pass by Ser Donnel waiting at the entrance, ever the good knight.
—✿—
Three days later, you open your satchel in search of a small scrap of gauze. Rhae, having toppled from her pony, sits on the stone bench beside you with a small cut on the palm of her hand. Tears wet in her eyes, she watches you as you carefully rifle through your supplies. Butterflies breeze overhead, birdsong filling the garden as the sun shines warmly against your back. In your satchel, you find your roll of bandage, but what you don’t find is your pouch of moon tea. Where it usually sits, amongst your vials and bottles, is empty. You frown to yourself, pulling the bandages out anyway and setting to work.
“Thank you,” she mutters, watching you with glossy violet eyes as you wrap a small scrap of the linen around her hand.
Not long after, you send her on her way. You peer into your satchel then and confirm that yep, you’re moon tea is gone. You look up and around, annoyed. Aerion lounges across the garden, head tipped back with serene bliss stretched across his face, skin glistening like tallow. As if sensing your eyes on him, the prince, without even looking in your direction, simply crooks a beckoning finger.
You huff, but oblige, padding across the soft grass until you reach where he lays.
“Have you seen my moon tea?” You ask him. There’s a nagging in the back of your head. You know exactly where your moon tea has gone.
“Your what?” Aerion opens one eye.
“You know exactly what, your grace.”
Aerion scoffs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Fine,” you say. “I’ll fetch some more.”
“Fine,” Aerion replies casually, closing his eyes again.
—✿—
That night, he has your face pressed into the pillows of his bed. They smell of him, of a settled dragon, as you suck in short gasps as he splits you apart on his cock. He kneels behind you, mattress dipping beneath his weight as he locks his fingers around the plush of your hips, pulling you back to meet his thrusts. His movements are deep and heavy, the thick reach of his cock nudging towards the base of your cervix as you arch your back for him. You grip the silken sheets either side of you, panting, legs trembling.
You come with his name muffled against feathers, a sob breaking free of your throat as you turn your head to moan through it. Your pussy sucks him in tightly, fluttering with the rapid beating of your heart as you release for the third time since he’d dragged you to his chambers.
The prince groans in response, hips slapping against your arse as he ruts into you, chasing his own high. “Fuck, yeah, ah shit.”
He angles deeper, pushing you further into the mattress, your knees threatening to buckle. A deep-seated moan, thick as stone, fills the room as he pitches forward. Pleasure sits hot in his lower belly, itching at the base of his spine.
“Here it comes, sweet girl,” he grunts behind you, one hand leaving your hip to smooth up the dip of your back. “Take it all—take your dragon’s seed like a good little—”
Aerion knocks forward as he comes, all but flattening himself into you as he falls apart. His jaw hinges around a moan of your name as he spills, cock pumping thick and hot inside you, right up against the plug of your womb. You don’t have the energy to respond with anything else but a loud exhale that snags the end of a whine as it passes through your lips. Aerion’s hips roll himself through it as he empties completely, and even when the movements of his hips still and he’s sticking to you completely unmoving, he doesn’t pull out. The thick of his cock plugs you full as he hovers behind you, hands roaming, kneading, squeezing as he settles back within himself.
And you fall asleep like this: with him stuffed inside you, your back pressed to his sweat-slick chest. Slumber finds you easily, although you wake hours later with a dull ache between your thighs and the soft length of him resting against the cleft of your arse.
Gingerly, you pick yourself out of bed, careful not to stir the sleeping royal, wrap yourself in your cloak, and vanish out the door. You’ve gotten quite good at leaving unannounced.
In your chambers, you find your satchel.
You pause. The fresh moon tea you had picked up that afternoon was gone. You can’t help but roll your eyes, exhaling an exasperated sigh through your nose as you opt for one of your homemade remedies instead, plucking the small vial from its place in your bag.
You know exactly what Aerion is trying to do, and for the most part, it makes you fume. As you uncork your own vial, you stew in your anger: he’s trying to get you pregnant; he’s trying to tie you to him, a tether of flesh and blood. You down the bitter liquid in a few deep gulps and your face scrunches in disgust. It tastes, for lack of better words, fucking disgusting. Sour with fermented tansy, bitter with concentrated mugwort. The moon tea at least tastes a bit better than this.
However, there is a part inside you that grows hot. You place the empty vial back into your satchel, licking the aniseed from your bottom gums. Aerion wants you. His need grows teeth: long, sharp fangs that sink deeper and deeper into your flesh. He doesn’t want to let you go—he can’t let you go. And the thought, as you close your satchel and bundle your cloak tight around your naked body, sits heavy in the front of your mind.
A sticky heat prickles beneath your skin, the feeling of being in the sun for too long. You hurry out of your chambers and back into Aerion’s, taking your cloak off and slipping back into his bed.
So, he’s hiding your moon tea from you. He wants you with child.
You smile at his sleeping form, noticing the way his white eyelashes rest against his cheekbones. You can let him play this game for as long as he wants. He won’t win.
—✿—
Two days on, Aerion leaves his father’s solar and makes for your chambers. A carnal need claws against the hooked bone of his ribs. He needs you.
He pushes open the door of your chambers without so much as a knock, expecting to find you at the desk, or perhaps lounging by one of the grand windows with a book in hand. However, the hearth is cold and the room is empty.
He frowns to himself and heads down the long hall.
He checks the servants’ quarters, startling those who huddle within. They spook, staring at him as more phantom than man as his eyes settle on women who are not you.
“Where is she?” He hisses, and one of the younger women—the woman you had treated for burns, he remembers—raises a shaky hand and points behind her, gesturing in the direction of the gardens.
Aerion nods curtly and departs.
The sun greats him warmly, as does the sound of your laughter, and he physically feels his heart leap in his chest. His need for you has reached his teeth now, and his jaw works as he grinds his molars, gnawing on the desire to sink the points into your flesh. Your thighs, preferably, or the fat of your arse. Although your shoulder works just as well when he’s stuffed to the hilt inside you.
The thought has his cock jerking in his breeches.
Across the garden, you stand amongst blooming carnations, pink petals soft as silk. You rub the tips of your fingers against one—one that Ser Roland fucking Crakehall had plucked and handed to you. The knight hovers by your side, a pleased smile on your face as you speak to him, rolling the delicate flower between your hands. Aerion can’t make out what you’re saying as you gesture to the blooms around you, but Roland is paying close attention: his eyes never stray, his smile never falters, and he nods along as you ramble.
The need inside Aerion sheathes like cat’s claws.
Anger remains. Why can he never seem to keep you for himself? You’re his.
“I know that look,” Ser Donnel says around a tired chuckle, appearing at the prince’s side. He looks down at Aerion, then over at you and Roland. “You must let her have some freedom, your grace.”
“I do,” he spits a bit too quickly. “I’ve let her treat the servants.”
“You have,” Donnel replies, clearing his throat after. “Which was very gracious of you, your grace, but she is a young woman who deserves more freedom than you give her.”
Aerion scoffs, eying the knight suspiciously. “Since when have you ever spoken to me so openly, Ser Donnel? I could have your tongue for that.”
Donnel gives the prince a pointed look.
Aerion shakes his head. “She has freedom. I give her freedom.”
Donnel grunts, unconvinced.
Aerion looks back over to you. You’re bending, plucking another carnation from a nearby shrub, and the curve of your arse beneath your skirts is on full display. Roland ducks his head, preserving some kind of decency between the two of you. When you right yourself, you turn and accidentally bump into the knight, who reaches his hands out to steady you, fingers on your upper arms.
Aerion’s jaw twitches.
“Your grace…” Donnel warns, low and father-like, and it reminds Aerion, for a split second, of the day he first met you: the day when Ser Donnel had been taking too long in a healer’s shop. A healer the knight insisted was the best in all of King’s Landing.
Aerion ignores the knight though. Lightning quick, he reaches down and plucks Donnel’s knife from his side, ripping it from its sheath in one smooth movement. Before the kingsguard can even react, the prince slices the blade across his own forearm, ivory giving way to crimson. Blood ribbons over his skin as he hands the knife to a gaping Ser Donnel.
Aerion calls your name, approaching with one hand pressed to the finger-length wound on his inner forearm. You lift your eyes, smiling as the prince approaches, but it quickly vanishes when he presents you his arm.
“Oh!” You jump away from Roland and immediately take Aerion’s arm in your hands, the carnation you had been holding fluttering to the ground. Your touch is warm, soft. Caring. “Aerion,” you breathe, shaking your head. “What’ve you done to yourself?”
“I need your help,” he tells you, ignoring your question. He lifts his gaze and gives Roland a firm look. Roland shifts uncomfortably, before ultimately looking away.
You’re nodding before he even finishes his short sentence. “Okay, okay, come on.”
You take gentle hold of his wrist and guide him away. He spares a look at Ser Roland, and then another at Ser Donnel. Both read much the same: Aerion Targaryen gets what he wants.
Back in the sanctuary of your chambers, he sits on the edge of your bed. Clean, white sunlight fills the room and a pleasant coolness sweeps in from where one of the large windows sits open a crack.
You bandage his wound silently. And he watches you the entire time. You sit beside him, fingers wrapping, and he watches you with violet eyes glossy and nearly unblinking. There’s a heat in his gaze like the brush of a candle flame. You can feel it against the skin of your face, and you wonder then if the silence in the room is amplifying the hammering of your heart against your sternum.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you tell him finally. The silence is too heavy.
“I’ll look at you however I want,” he replies simply.
He cocks his head, dipping slightly to speak. He’s imploring, begging you to look at him, but you resist as you fasten the scrap of bandage into place. A beat passes, and he speaks again. He speaks your name, and it’s soft. Too soft for Aerion Targaryen. Too soft for a dragon’s tongue and teeth.
You relent, looking at him as you place your spool of bandage aside. Your hands fold together in your lap. It’s there again, the silence. His eyes dart across your face, feature to feature, and you see his pupils expanding the longer he looks at you.
“You’re such a pretty girl,” the prince whispers, and the hand of his non-injured arm finds your cheek. The backs of his knuckles trace across your skin, up over your cheekbone; a sweep of a raven’s wing, no scales or spines. You can smell the ash, the fire and the cedar and the blackberry wine, but you don’t see a dragon. He breathes out slowly, hand flipping so he can run the pads of his fingers down the side of your neck. “My pretty girl…”
“Aerion, don’t…” You whisper, watching the point of his tongue find the corner of his mouth.
He doesn’t register your words as his hand finds and cups the base of your neck. “Gods, you always take such good care of me, don’t you? My sweet girl, so smart…”
You wait for a mock, a jibe, a force of his hand against your thundering pulse. But it doesn’t come, and the anxious weight in your chest quickly trades places with the needy weight in your stomach.
“What would I do without you?” He asks, hand travelling from your neck and over your jaw. His thumb presses to your lips. Words evade you. You let him press the tip of his thumb against the corner of your mouth. He continues, voice low, “What would you do without me?”
His hand shifts then, cupping your jaw and bringing your face forward. He carefully presses his lips to yours, the motion tender. And his lips are soft against yours. Years of care within castle walls; years of healthy food and drink at banquets; years of being coddled by the powers of coin and gemstones. A prince of the realm.
But his movements begin hard. He holds your jaw tightly now, coaxing your mouth apart as his lips move, and he groans against you when you obey. Your eyes flutter closed and your hands, once on your lap, shift to his chest and shoulders. Aerion makes another deep sound before he angles further inwards and his tongue graces between the split of your lips. You oblige him once more: parting with an airy whine and allowing the point of his tongue to slip over your teeth. Your tongues meet as you try and push back, need growing white-hot. You fist his doublet, pulling him tighter against you as his free hand sets on your hip.
You move like you’ve both been practising. Aerion pulls you up, the both of you standing. He breaks the kiss with a pained whine and spins you around so quickly you almost lose your footing.
“My prince,” you whisper as his mouth finds the side of your neck as his fingers—quick and experienced—begin unlacing the threads of your gown. You arch your neck into his touch, feeling the pinch of teeth. “Aerion.”
In seconds, you feel your bodice loosen around your chest and torso, and you help him by slipping out of the sleeves and kicking off your shoes. The dress pools at your ankles, and you kick it away as the prince spins you again and slams his mouth back to yours. This one is harsher, faster. He’s licking over your teeth like he’s committing your taste to memory, and you can’t help but whine as he kisses you again and again and again.
You tug at his doublet, and he gets the message. Parting from you, silence stretches thick as he throws the garment over his head. His tunic follows as your hands find the laces of his breeches. You easily pull the knots apart, and he discards himself of his boots. You lift your head and slam your mouth back to his, and he groans in surprise, one hand cupping your cheek, the other helping you in pulling the ties of his breeches apart.
Your movements are hurried, and when you get his breeches open, you break the kiss and try to drop to your knees—but he stops you. With his hand on your face, he urges you back to him and kisses you. You whine, pulling out of the kiss, and now you’re both panting.
“Aerion,” you breathe, but he’s not listening.
He grabs the material of your chemise. “Arms up.”
You listen, and he pulls the garment off your body. It flutters away and the prince lets out a long-winded moan that sets your core alight. You can’t help but squeeze your thighs together as he looks you up and down, eyes glazing over.
“My pretty girl,” he utters, dipping to kiss you again. Your tongues meet, passing ash and berries and sugar, as he guides you onto your bed.
You move as though you’d done it all before. You shuffle back and he chases you, mouths barely leaving, barely pausing in their movements. When he gets you flat on your back, Aerion pulls away and his hands immediately find your tits. Kneading, rolling your hardening nipples beneath his thumbs. Then, they travel, skimming over your sternum, your ribs, and down your tummy.
“Here she is,” the prince coos as he parts your thighs. One of his hands massages the pliable flesh there, the other grips the base of his cock. He’s hard, tip a bruising red and leaking from the slit, pearling and rolling down the vein on the underside. Your throat works around a moan as you watch him, his eyes on the slit of your pussy. “My prettiest girls.”
You moan. “Aerion.”
“Don’t start,” Aerion mutters as he pushes the head of his cock against you. You moan again, embarrassment crawling up your neck as you feel how wet you are—you feel the cool slick webbing between your folds as he parts you, the movement too slow, too gentle. Aerion chuckles as you squirm. “Oh, she’s wet. M’gonna slip right in, aren’t I?”
This is the Aerion you’ve come to know.
He chastises you as he drags the head of his cock up and down your slit, coating himself because, as much as you burn from the inside–out, he’s right. You’re soaked, cunt clenching around nothing as you lay back completely bare for him. For him.
“Gods above, she’d be worth more than a few gold dragons, wouldn’t she?” The prince whispers, almost in disbelief, as he slowly pushes the leaking tip of his cock inwards. You suck in a breath—no stretch of his fingers, no circle of your clit—as your cunt parts around him. He groans, “But—oh, fuck—b-but I’m the only dragon you need.”
If he wasn’t spearing you on the thick of his cock, pushing in and splitting you apart with a lithe string of moans falling from his soft lips, then you would’ve rolled your eyes. You would say something to quell his ego, but you can’t. You simply moan, a desperate and loud sound that rattles through your skull, and arch. He leans over you as he rolls his hips, bottoming out with a moan of your name.
Then, he bends. His mouth is on yours like he can’t get enough. And, in all honesty, neither can you. Your hands find the back of his head, threading through white strands and tugging as your teeth clash and your tongues meet. Aerion grunts, hoisting your thigh up around his hips as he pitches forward, then shrinks back. You gasp out of the kiss when he notches the head of his cock just inside you.
And doesn’t move.
Sunlight spills across your joined bodies. Your nails scrape along his scalp causing goosebumps to appear along his arms. He pants like a worked hound, eyes on your face as he feels your pussy fluttering around his tip. Begging for it.
“You’re perfect,” Aerion whispers suddenly. It tastes like I love you on his tongue, but he knows that’s impossible. You’re perfect because you’re here. With him. Doing as he says. Aerion Targaryen doesn’t love. He continues, “You’re perfect and you’re mine.”
He doesn’t have the patience in waiting for your response. He thrusts back in with a curl of his spine. It’s rough and hard and it knocks the wind from your lungs. The sound that leaves you is distressed: a broken mewl as a bruising ache festers low in your stomach. But as the prince moves in and out, setting a rhythm that rocks you into the mattress, the pain subsides and is instead replaced by that simmering heat you’ve become all too familiar with.
“Oh, g-gods,” falls from your mouth as you take both hands and seize him by the shoulders. “Aerion, my prince, oh—”
You press little indents into his shoulders as you rock beneath him; the angle he’s made of you, with a hand on your thigh, driving him deep towards the plug of your cervix. He pries you apart so effortlessly with both his words and the length of his cock.
“That’s it, just like that,” Aerion grunts as he fucks you. Sweat glistens high on his forehead and there’s a light blush over his cheekbones as he drives you into the mattress. The fingers on your thigh squeeze, dimpling the flesh as he groans. “Taking your prince’s cock like an absolute dream, little witch.”
Heat moves through your body like steaming water. It coils tight in the pit of your stomach, sitting heavy behind your navel as he hits that perfect spot inside you over and over. You grip him with tightening fingers, pussy clenching around the thick of him. Your thigh on his hip presses inward, driving him closer to you as his pelvis meets yours.
The mattress groans slightly beneath you as you both rock. Dappled sunlight blurs through your lashes as you look up at him, whining when he dips his head again to kiss you. You take it with kiss-bitten lips, opening for him while he grunts. The wet grip of your cunt around him is silken soft, and it draws his thoughts away as his mouth moves messily against yours. You snake a hand to the nape of his neck and hold him to you as his hips roll deeper.
“Aerion,” you mutter against his mouth. You’re not kissing anymore. It’s an open press of lips as you both grunt and mewl and take what you need.
“Say it like you mean it,” he mutters back, the tip of his tongue flicking serpent-like over your parted lips. He pulls back slightly so he can shift his spine and push his hips further against you. “Say my name when you come, sweet girl, c’mon.”
Blood replaced by a golden-hot ichor, you tip your head back as you tremble. Your release builds hot in your veins and you’re right there, bathed in sunlight, as you’re taken apart from the inside–out by a prince of the realm. Your fingers scrape down his front as you arch off the bed, moaning—airy and wanton and loud—as you come.
“Aerion—!” The syllables are rich and honey-sweet in the warm summer air of your chambers. Your entire body trembles, limbs tightening as it takes hold: a gold-fingered grasp around your diaphragm as your moans turn to whines.
Aerion groans, smiling to himself as your cunt clenches tight around the width of him. Muscles pull taut, fluttering with your beating heart, and it gushes too—he can feel it, hot and slick as he rolls his hips, a thin white ring around the base of his cock. The clutch of your pussy around him, and the little whines you taper off with, some battling around whispers of his name, have the tension in his belly and spine contracting.
He screws his eyes shut, muttering to himself, “Oh, sweet girl, my sweetest girl…”
He thinks of spilling inside you. He thinks of filling you with his seed and watching you grow round with his child. His poor little woods witch, pregnant with a bastard child but oh, how he’d look after you. You’d never leave his side. You’d be spoiled beyond reason.
“F-Fuck, oh fuck,” he curses at the thought, cock jerking inside you. You whine, fizzling down from your release, fingers tracing lazy circles across his chest. He opens his eyes at the sound, gazing down at you. He coos, “Oh, don’t cry yet, little witch, your prince is here. Your dragon’s right—fucking—here—”
You choke on a moan. You hadn’t noticed a tear slip from the corner of your eye.
He speaks around heavy, rolling thrusts, cock knocking up deep until you feel his body shudder beneath your touch. He groans, thick and leonine from the back of his throat, as his head dips down one last time.
The prince kisses you as he spills right up against your cervix. A low utter of your name passes from his mouth to yours as he licks over your tongue, his cock jumping inside you as he comes. Thick, hot ropes pulling deep from his being, and the weight of his orgasm has him collapsing half on top of you as he continues to spill. The pressure on your belly and the angle at which your legs part around his body makes you gasp, then whimper, but the prince licks the sound before it touches sunlight.
Aerion picks himself out of the kiss, sitting back on his haunches. You pant, hands gripping the sheets now as he slowly pulls his cock from you. He watches himself drool out of you. The feeling makes you squirm.
“Uh-uh, don’t be like that,” Aerion whispers, one hand coming to rest on your lower belly. He presses down firmly, and the throaty whimper that leaves you is completely involuntary. His other hand collects his seed from the curve of your arse, using two fingers to stuff it back into your cunt. You whine, and Aerion shushes you again. “Fussy girl. Can’t let it go to waste, can we?”
You bite your lip and stare up at the ceiling as Aerion curls his fingers into you. Your legs still bracket his hips and you can feel the ash-licked warmth radiating from his pale skin.
His fingers stretch you, curling and splitting against the silken walls of your cunt. They reach deep too, and after a moment of holding back your whimpers, you feel a prickling heat reappear beneath the press of his hand. Your legs shake before you can say anything, and the heat builds and builds as you attempt to lift yourself onto your elbows.
“A–Aerion, wait, wait—” You stutter out, then fall back onto the mattress as another orgasm rockets through you. It’s sharper, hits you in the base of your lungs and forces sounds from you you barely recognise as your own.
He watches you come undone again with a satisfied smile on his face, his softening cock giving a feeble twitch against his thigh. Your pussy squeezes around the thick push of his fingers, and he strokes you through it, pushing his cum right up towards your womb. The hand on your tummy gives you a gentle pat when you quit your shaking, and he carefully pulls his fingers from you, watching the way your slick and his seed webs between the digits.
You watch, vision blurred by your back-to-back orgasms and the early afternoon sunlight, as his tongue unfurls from between his kiss-bruised lips. He licks his fingers clean in a few curling movements, and you feel something jump in your belly, a flip beneath the press of his hand.
“My prettiest girls,” the prince whispers, wiping his wet fingers on your inner thigh before giving your pussy a quick pat—the sudden pressure making you jolt against the mattress—and manoeuvring himself beneath the sheets.
He helps you with him, and after a moment of silence, you’re both tucked beneath the silks of your bed. You don’t say anything as he pulls you to him, tucking your body against his. But you do look at him as he rests against the pillows with his eyes closed. You admire the way little orbs of sunlight dance across the bare skin of his chest, shoulders and neck. You can’t help yourself: you reach up and trace the dappled light with your fingers, trekking up the side of his neck until you reach the curve of his jaw. His pulse jumps out to meet you.
He opens his eyes and peers at you sideways. “Something you want?”
You hum a no, then say, “You’re so pretty.”
Aerion rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Silence beats through the room like a racing heart.
Then, “Aerion?”
“Hm?”
“You cut yourself on purpose, didn’t you?”
The prince opens his eyes again and shifts his head to look at you. His eyes dart across your face as if searching for any disappointment or anger. But he finds none.
“Maybe,” he replies after a moment.
You sigh. “You’re impossible.”
“Ser Roland was too close to you.”
“We were talking about flowers.”
Aerion huffed. “You can talk about flowers with me.”
You give him a sceptical look, fingers tracing the sunlight on his shoulder now. “Do you even know anything about flowers?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then what kind of—?”
“They’re carnations,” he interrupts. He looks away from you. You pause, hand over his heart. He continues quietly, clearing his throat. “My… my mother had them planted.”
You pout. “Oh, Aerion…”
“So, yes, I know flowers, or whatever the fuck you’re interested in,” Aerion hisses, reaching an arm around and taking your jaw between firm, still slightly sticky, fingers. He leans down and presses a kiss to your lips before pulling back before you could plead for more. “And so the next time you want to talk about flowers with someone…” He looks away, almost embarrassed. His cheeks are pink. “You can talk to me.”
These words taste like I love you as well, and it makes him grit his teeth.
It’s not said possessively. He holds your jaw tenderly, and his words match his hold. He actually means it: it’s sincere and honest, and he’s bearing his heart to you and hoping you don’t tear it apart.
“I’d love that,” you respond, your hand finding his and guiding it away from your jaw. You kiss his knuckles as he closes his eyes again.
you don't agree with the way ormund berates daeron. after a small disagreement with your husband over this, gwayne finds himself at the end of some silent treatment. but it's not just your son daeron you're worried about, it's the little one in your tummy that gwayne is yet to discover.
husband! gwayne x wife! pregnant! reader, parent! reader & gwayne x daeron. (love this boy sm- he's fab & needs to be protected.) fluff! slight angst! comfort fic! pregnancy! mentions of difficult getting pregnant. mentions of violence off screen (my guy gwayne would knock ts out of ormund i just know it)
"you are upset."
he does not need to be loud to be heard in the library. the whistle of the wind carries his declaration with a profound softness till it reaches your ears and yet, it's not enough to lift your gaze from the book your eyes are militantly trained to uphold. he's sure you're going to set that book alight with the intensity of your stare.
"i am not." right, or perhaps rather with the flame of your curt replies.
"then you are quiet."
"you would rather me be quiet than be bitten with my anger right now, husband."
"i would not, my love," he takes a seat next to yours on the table, his hands gripping the edge of your wooden chair with an effortless ease to tug you closer. when hes successfully minimised the distance, his hands hook under your knees and bring your legs across his lap. in turn, your body just shifts in his direction, the blanket perched across your abdomen shifts slightly and he tries not to focus on the way you pull it back with instinctious ease, "bite me, dearest," he whispers tenderly, fingers tracing in soft lines up your calves "i can take it."
your head shakes in defiance, a petty silence shifting between the two of you and gwayne almost smiles at your stubbornness. almost. but he doesn't, he knows it'll rattle you further and thats the last thing he'd rather do right now. he'd rather die, if that's an option.
his trailing touch is too welcome of a distraction and you stare hard at the little map of your skin he's following and knows all too well. you refuse to bend, you need time to sit in this heat to brace yourself, to find the right words to say and the best way to say them.
but gwayne would take all your words no matter bark or bite, with sense or without, just anything is better than this weighted silence between you. so he struggles a little, one hand stays firmly wrapped around your leg as the other tries to engage in a small game of tug and war as he wiggles the book from your grasp. he ignores your grumbles and successfully lays it flat at the far edge of the table, furthest from your reach. his slender finger reaches out and tilts your chin up to him, brows raised with that patient fondness and he just waits.
all he has to do now is wait, and it doesn't take long at all because one look to gwayne and all your thoughts tangle on your tongue and slip so messily.
"if you cannot tell me what has happened then tell me who," he murmurs, sterness laced into his features, "give me a name, darling that is all i need."
"ormund," you finally break and its bitter on your tongue. you feel your husband tense instantly, the beat of his heart slowing to a halt and he lets out a long exhale.
"of course it is him, what has he done now?" he rolls his eyes but there's a fierceness still harbouring. ormund has been a constant topic of conversation during your years of marriage and raising daeron, the same circle you find yourself trapped in where ormund pushes too hard. he mistakes the gentleness and kindness the two of you have brought daeron up to value as weakness and it irks you to the bone.
"i don't like the way he speaks to him gwayne, he's frightening the poor child," you exasperate and gwayne's listening but he's watching more with concern on the way your hands are flying around with great agitation. "filling him with notions of being king and getting angry with small inconsistencies in history and i'm sorry," you bite out, "having been beaten by a child in a game? and you're in a fit?" the shock and disgust is laced in your tone and you're far into your rant that you look over at your lover and seethe, "seven hells, gwayne would you at least look at me when i'm speaking?"
"i am looking!" his palms shoot up in defence, "and i am listening," he levels his tone, "it is not acceptable you are correct."
"of course i am correct, ormund is deranged,"
"yes, well i think his nightmarish tendencies have been festering since he first laid in his mother's womb," gwayne tries to joke, earn a giggle from you, an easy breath, a temporary truce but all he can see is a sliver of teeth breaking through from your frown. womb. he has no idea which of his words have settled on your skin, making home with the nerves and annoyance.
"is something funny gwayne?"
"my love," he starts and then stops, you've swung your legs off his lap and he misses the heat instantly. he tries to think, what could best diffuse this situation right now and bring you back to him. "i agree and i'll talk to him," he places a comforting hand on your shoulder but you're staring at him and he starts to shift under your scrutiny.
"has daeron said anything?" he feels a wave of protectiveness surge through his body. he knows ormund is harmless, but daeron is gwayne's more than anyone. he and you have raised that babe from young and when you look at daeron, sweet kind daeron, all gwayne can see is you. all the love you've ever poured into him. you and gwayne hadn't been so lucky in your marriage to be blessed with children but daeron has made up for it. he is your son and you'd be damned if anything were to ever happen to him.
"no but," and immediately gwayne sends you a look, "he doesn't need to! the maids speak and they speak of ormund's cruelty," you stress and he nods in understanding.
"you didn't need a maid i could've told you that," he shrugs his shoulders, "i will talk to him," he repeats, trying to catch your eyes, laser in on your focus and bring it to calmness.
"why do i sense a but?" you question.
"but i do think you're too soft on the boy," gwayne speaks. "he's ten and six, my love. he's incredible at his sword play and a novice in his text, i have no doubt ormund's ways are peculiar and i will raise that but he is growing, ormund may be cruel but the world will be harsher."
"he is a boy," you don't even have to shout for gwayne to feel the outrage in your tone.
"he is heir to the throne," gwayne's hand steadies on the table, his body looming over yours. he tries to reach out to you but you stand, guarded and tense. one wrong move from him and you'll shatter the brave stance he's holding up. his hands find the sides of your empty chair now instead, gripping it tensely till his knuckles break through an icy white.
"he is our boy," you voice finally breaks at the edge, you don't even let gwayne finish his sentence before youre shooting daggers and cutting at his hearts edge. "and i will not have the weight of the house's responsibilities and his brother's failures crush him whole," you try and create distance between you, heading to the windows and focusing on the way your small breaths lace the condensation on the glass. you reach out and feel the coolness against your fingertips and close your eyes, "you were not there when it's happened gwayne," you speak slowly, "he tries so hard with everyone, to be what they expect of him, he shouldn't have to with us."
there's an emptiness in the metres that hold you apart. from the silence and from the exhaustion that you know this familiar fight always brings. ormund inflicts his pain, daeron suffers, you and gwayne squabble, gwayne turns to ormund. ormund will never apologise you know this, he becomes a little softer the next weeks before he's back to his usual tirade and the damage will always be done. it'll always linger and haunt you and fail you when you catch the small slip of daeron's smile. the subtle flinch he tries to mask when the tiniest of mistakes have been made.
you think of the weight resting in your body, the heightened need for safety and it almost brings a tear to your eyes. your family is growing and you need to protect them. when you think of daeron, you think of the babe. you think of a life that could be more than just a political piece and your heart lurches, this can't go on. it takes everything in you to not reach out for the little fetus now, you find yourself often just mindlessly checking its still there. as though this could be a dream, as if something so precious could disappear so quickly.
"i know, sweetheart. i will speak to him," gwayne promises with determination, "i will make this right."
you open and eye to sneak a peek at him and see the way he looks back at you, with a longing desperation and you heave out a sigh.
"i would rather he die," you moan and gwayne snorts. its not a resolution to your disagreement but it lightens the mood for a minute. you feel his presence coming behind you and he stops short. he knows you want the space and he grants it to you.
"should i challenge him at the sword, lady hightower?" he mumbles with a tease, breath warm on your neck. and it'd be so easy for you to just give in, turn to your husband and melt back into the safety net of his love. but you're not only sick of this cycle, your heart breaking for your son and unborn child. you're also scared. so you press your forehead against the glass shaking it softly.
"i think poison should be fine," the condensation rises with a small fatigue and the lack of humour in your tone. "quicker, even. though i'm not sure he should be granted the mercy of a swift death."
you can feel the weight of his gaze shift from you to the gardens outside. the way your eyes track the different flowers in bloom and he stands quietly.
"i'd like some time alone, i think," you break the silence and gwayne pauses. you wait for him to say something, to fight you on this, fight for you on this but he clears his throat and nods tightly.
"as you wish, my heart. but rest assured, i will sort this for us. " he slowly presses a kiss to your hair and stares at you a minute more. he wants to tell you it'll all be okay, he will sort this for you and daeron, he will take charge of his household and make things right but you demand action, there's only so far that words can take him right now.
the stress pounds on the forefront of your mind. youre scared for daeron, but youre also scared for yourself. for what youre holding and what will soon be brought to life. its a heavy secret and you want nothing more than to just tell gwayne. but you've already bitten off more than you can chew for today and it settles in your bones.
you don't turn back to watch him leave, his footsteps are sound enough to know you're alone. and when there's absolute stillness do you let your back slide down the window and sink to your knees. your palms rub your eyes gently and then catch your face as you weaken for a moment. your fingers drum along your abdomen, three little knocks to say hello and you sigh, shifting the focus on your breathing. four inhales and six exhales. four inhales and six exhales. four times more before making a move to stand and continue with your day.
you know it's unfair to pin your annoyance on gwayne, your husband is your rock and ormund is the target. you just can't help but feel the tug of his words around your heart. daeron is your son, more of your son that alicent and ormund's combined and with what the future may bring, you've got to protect yours.
...
you make it your mission to be scarce today, to clear your head and simmer down the anger till it floats to a pensive sadness. you weren't hungry enough for lunch, though your defensiveness had stolen a large portion of your energy so you settled for a tea outside in the gardens. alone, save for the same book from earlier perched in your lap. except now when you hold it you can feel your husband's fingertips burn with each page.
you sigh and stretch your neck, the muscles sore from craning and sit patiently, trying to feel the breeze against your skin and listen for the small chirping from the trees above. what does catch your ear however is the small stalling of breaths and you don't need to see the flash of auburn to know who's hiding behind the pillars.
"come out, daeron," you call softly, "you need not hide from me," and the young boy emerges slowly and you make space on your bench for him to join. he attempts to greet you properly until he's met with the gentle sterness of your stare and smiles sheepishly instead.
"i haven't seen you today," he speaks to the flowers and your gaze follows. you shoot him an easy smile and let his comforting aura relax the tension in your shoulders. he leans his head on your shoulder as an invitation and you rest your head on top of his.
"forgive me sweetheart, it's been a heavy morning," he toys with your fingers and you let him stretch each one out, playing with them mindlessly. you watch him for a few minutes, fluctuating between a small frown and a cautious smile and like a sixth sense, your free hand closes on top of your joined ones. "what's the matter?" you ask so tenderly, it warms the cracks of his demeanour and allows him to melt in your ambience entirely.
"nothing," he mumbles and you click your tongue, shaking your head knowingly.
"tell me," its a soft command and it has his eyes lifting to yours with encouragement.
"did..." he starts and hesitates, your brows furrow at the stutter before he lets out a sigh and continues unwillingly, "are you upset with uncle gwayne because of me? did i make things troublesome?" you catch the stretch of glassiness swirling in his orbs and tuck him into your side firmly.
"no, my love," you rebute instantly, "and i am not upset with your uncle gwayne." you rub his shoulder comfortingly. he leans into your touch like a cat seeking refuge and looks back down to his lap.
"i heard him shout at uncle ormund," he lets it slip and your lips purse in thought, "and he hardly raises his voice."
"you shouldn't be eavesdropping my little dragon, some conversations are not meant for us," and you pour him a cup of tea, it's not as hot as it had been when you first sat down but the temperature is perfect for daeron to drink and not burn. he accepts it gingerly, the warmth of the cup welcome on his grip and he takes a sip.
"they mentioned your name," he mumbles in a slurp and you have half a mind to scold him on his table etiquette but seeing him so unguarded and carefree reaches down to the cusp of your soul and tightens.
"did they?" a small amount of interest grows at the claim and you wait for him to continue. daeron stares back at you, a mischievious grin plastered on his face as he shrugs so casually.
"i cannot say more, i shouldn't have been eavesdropping," and you nudge his shoulder playfully.
"oh come now, little prince. you cannot tease and then stop, that is just cruel," and he leans in closer, voice dropping to a murmur.
"uncle gwayne said that if he ever sees even just a wrinkle in your brow because of uncle ormund he was," and his eyes dart around carefully before whispering behind the palm of his hand, "he was going to send him to the seven hells himself." and he giggles so loud at your violent blush. you can't fight the smile that grows on your face and you shove him ever so lightly.
"you jest far too much, daeron."
"no! i swear it!" he defends and you know it to be true. "i'm sorry, aunt. i know this is because of me. uncle ormund isn't that bad, you just have to catch him at the right time and he makes me a better man. i have been difficult" and the shame that leaks off of him is so heart-rending you're overwhelmed with the urge to wrap him into your arms and hold him in safe refuge for eternity. far away from ormund, from the weight of his future and from the name that he carries.
"you shouldn't have to catch him at a right time, he should be a good role model all the time," you feel yourself getting riled again all over, "and what good is he doing making you a better man when you are the better person in all of this. everything is for you, daeron because we love you. you are not difficult in the slightest, in fact it's rather easy to love you daeron. though we do not share direct blood, you are ours, and nothing could change that " you soften. and when you catch him looking at you, its not daeron the prince in your eyes, its your daeron. the small babe alicent left you for what feels forever ago, the same child who tugged at your skirts, who ran with lemon cakes tucked at his sides away from his maestars, who cried when gwayne had first left you for battle and slept with you till the nightmares ran out of fuel.
he's your daeron more than anyone's and your heart stretches to think that the little babe sitting below your diaphragm will come to know, love and call him brother.
"i love you too," he mumbles into your side and you catch his stray tears.
"and when you love someone, you stick with them through everything."
"like you and uncle gwayne?"
"yeah," you pause, "though i don't think i could get rid of uncle gwayne even if i tried."
"he's a persistent man," daeron agrees, "but that's what is important right? he shows up, he always shows up," and the beam of admiration that lights in daeron's eyes sways you off balance. you must've been quiet for a while, listening to your heart beat pulse in your ears and your hands cradle the bottom of your stomach, the most softest of touches. soon it'll expand and you'll probably find more to moan about but at this time you marvel at how precious the life growing in you is. it's selfish you know, but you imagine a girl. with his deep sea eyes and auburn hair, or maybe they'll have your nose, the crinkles of your smile and your blended laughter.
you imagine gwayne to be just as he was with daeron. soft, patient, kind, stern when forced to be but never unjust. maybe a daughter will relax him to a new level, or stress his undoubtedly so. whatever may come, you know gwayne and you know how he loves, completely and all consuming.
he's gwayne. your gwayne. and your pregnant with his baby after what seems to be a miracle from the heavens.
"have i said something wrong?" daeron breaks the silence tentatively and you look up so suddenly, caught and unsure. you clear your throat and let go of your stomach and rest a hand on his. but daeron's quick and he's clever and he's noticed it from the first glance downwards. a small knowing grin works its way onto his face and he bites back the giggles.
"am i?" he drawls out in a tease, "to have a sibling?" and you freeze. no one other than you and the maestar knows. you had hoped gwayne would be the first to be told but after this morning, with your thoughts and emotions clouding your every move, daeron has been too quick.
"do not tell your uncle," your throat grows dry.
"uncle gwayne doesn't know?"
"no," you confirm, staring ahead.
"are you going to tell him?" and you feel his curious stare burning holes into his face.
"of course i will, silly," you blow into the air in frustration, "i was a little bit agitated at your uncle earlier," you admit and and daeron waits patiently. "he wasn't necessarily at fault but he also was not right and you know, this," you gesture down at the small bump hidden under your gown, "has occupied my mind greatly, i have not been fair."
daeron rests his head back onto your shoulder and doesn't say much more. "what?" you question, "what is it?"
"nothing."
"daeron targaryen," the sterness in your voice causes him to press his lips together in a fine line.
"you shouldn't have matters adding to your stress, its not good for the baby," and you roll your eyes.
"you are my baby-"
"i am a grown man," he hisses in embarrassment. he watches you look around in mischief before clearing your throat and raising it to the highest level known to man. he's sure that even the neighbouring galaxies have heard your boo.
"you are my baby!" and just like he did when he was five, he hides in your hold.
"stop this," he mumbles, "i beg of you, please stop." you laugh and feel the sunshine warms your backs as you stroke his hair affectionately. "but?" comes his tiny voice, "you won't forget about me right?" and you melt.
"my love, i could never," and you press a kiss to his hair. he closes his eyes at the touch and then sighs out in relief. for the first time today you've finally had the chance to relax and it feels so blissful you never want to leave the garden. daeron makes a notion for you to pass your book over to him and let him read aloud which you do.
you correct his pronounciation, pause to assess his analytical skills and ask him questions about the text, except when you do it it doesnt feel like a test or challenge as ormund does. it feels like an interest to his thoughts, a learning curve and he is grateful for it immensely.
he makes it through a chapter before turning to you with seriousness you purse your lips in thought, "so who has to apologise then? you or uncle gwayne?"
"daeron," you roll your eyes with a huff but the child doesn't deter, "gwayne obviously," you scoff. "i am pregnant the least he could do is grant me some mercy."
"but he doesn't know you're pregnant yet," daeron counters, "i think you should just apologise and be done with it, don't let your ego ruin your happiness."
and he is true, making so much sense that it irks you. "when did you get so wise?" it lands without a bite, a fondness carrying the question.
"well if you must know then i had some really good parents," its a tease but you recognise the truth behind it, guarding that sentence as if it was gold. daeron shuffles off the bench almost bouncing away with his boyish laughter ringing in the spring breeze, unaware of how that one sentence has brought you to a flood of overwhelming tears.
if you truly did right by daeron and his upbringing, then just maybe you'll be okay with this next one. the thought definitely eases a little pressure from your mind, you can't wait for this little one to meet the rest of your family and come home.
...
gwayne finds you in your chambers, ready with a tray in his hands as he kickes open and close the door. he has a spread of your favourite foods made after finding your absence at the dinner hall. the thud of the door doesn't even so much as shift your glance from your book and he waltzes over in your direction.
"what?" you mumble and he kisses his teeth in disapproval.
"my, is that any way to treat your husband?" he grins.
"what, lord husband?" comes your immediate reply and you feel a chuckle of breath hot and heavy at your ear. you half expect his lips at your cheek but you're met with the smell of grassiness and a tickle of pollen.
"your favourite flower, for my favourite flower," he beams at the daisy gently tucked behind your ear and tangled in the tendrils of your messy hair. the humour doesn't disappear completely from his face, just settles into a quiet simmer as he crouches down for a second. the food tray abandoned to his left on the bed as he places a warm weighted hand over your knee. "i know we argued earlier but please wife, i am sorry and let us not go to bed angry with each other." he speaks with such sincerity and honesty that more than anything you're thankful he's waved the white flag of peace and you send him a small smile of appreciation.
you lean close and press your forehead to his, you nose gently knocking into his and you nod. "i am not angry," you relax into his embrace.
"no?"
"no," you repeat softly, "though i hear you've talked with ormund?"
"and who did you hear that from?" he shoots a knowing grin. he pulls apart from your hold reluctantly to play around with your tray, rearranging your food and attacking the meat with such precise motions from your cutlery. the smell of it is off putting and you shake your head childishly. you should be more cautious of the things you're eating but lord, is the nausea intense.
"darling," he raises his brow, the fork hangs in the air between you and you press your lips shut in a thin closed line. he doesn't even look disappointed, he just makes a different move with his slender fingers plucking a strawberry from a dish and holds it up instead. and when it takes you a moment longer than necessary to react, he reaches out with his free hand and uses his thumb to drag open your bottom lip, "open," he whispers, "now chew," and the bite is so sweet, you feel a buzz of delight rush through you. its the first proper thing you're able to actually stomach and hopefully keep down. "good girl," he murmurs and feeds you another. he mindlessly licks away the drip of the strawberry juice from this thumb before stealing a kiss from your lips. he tastes the sweetness, the stickiness but more dear to him, he can taste you.
a satisfied groan slips between your lips and he grins, working his way through the tray and trying to differentiate between what he thinks you would like and what you wouldn't be able to stomach right now with this wave of nausea.
"you still didn't say how you knew?"
"our son, obviously." as if there could be no possible other who would deliver the news so fresh and quick.
"god, you're so much alike, it's terrifying," he rolls his eyes playfully, "and yes, though this time it is different my love. i get the feeling it's more final, ormund will be seeing things in a different light now."
"what do you mean? how did ormund take it?" you're half expecting gwayne to list boring details, an adult discussion, talks of ruling the realm and false promises of brotherhood but the tease in his tone is alarming and now when you look at him so up close, barely inches away you see why he's awfully smug.
"gwayne!" you exclaim, taking a stand and hovering over at him. your hands find the side of his jaw, painted with the tiniest of green splotch and a few nails ran at the surface.
"who did this?" you demand and he relishes at how you fuss over at him now, the stark contrast of your earlier conversation. it's only been a few hours but in your absence it feels like years have been missed and he drinks you after a long tiresome drought. you're tender around the bruises but there's haste in how you squash his face in his hands and inspect him all over, tossing him left and right with rapid assessment. he can still feel the stickiness of the strawberries against his skin but pays it no mind.
"i told you," and he leans back onto the bed on his forearms, his biceps pulsing in his shirt. his posture is both lazy and inviting as he shrugs once more "ormund will be seeing things differently now, or rather at least he won't be sniffing those ridiculous salts for a week or so,"
"gwayne!" you gasp louder.
"give or take," and the creases at the corner of his eyes fold with pure pride.
the length of his arms reach out and tug you closer as you fall into his lap. you try and brace yourself, cautious of the weight inside you but gwayne's welcomed you with such ease and pulls you firm in his hold, "i told you," he tucks the free flowing of strands back behind your ear and into the makeshift flower hair clip. "things will be different, ormund knows his ways are unlikeable and unacceptable. that change is greatly encouraged and what matters most is daeron. his tutors will stay the same but ormund will no longer be required to test his recitations or squabble over losses at a wooden game" you hum in agreement, kissing his cheek softly. "ormund may be a fool but he's wise to not lay a hand on our boy. that is final. should they need repeating to him then he shall hear them from his casket."
"thank you-"
"it needed to be done," his voice is firm. his hands wrap around the back of your thighs and he pulls you against him till he's laying flat on the bed, your form sprawled on top of him. it's not exactly rough but it's swift and a little unexpectant that you try and brace yourself with your hands to his chest. your body still collides with his, at solid contact, a tight tangle of your limbs and then it just slips from your lips carelessly,
"gwayne- shit the baby-" and you freeze, eyes blown wide at the admission. it's too late for you to take them back, you clear your throat, try and think of what else to say, maybe a distraction?
but there's nothing distracting about the way he's looking at you now. his hold on you tightens, mouth dropping open as he takes in your words. like you, it's like someone's put his brain through slow motion, the world around him seems to fade. blurs into a streak of messiness but you stand at the core of it, so clear and so beautifully his.
"a baby?" his voice breaks, "our baby?" the heat of his gaze melts your heart and brain to mush, you feel the weakness in your limbs as he sits up. your body in tandem as he holds you in his lap. his movements are snail-like now, soft, careful. every second he pours into you fills him whole in return.
"sweetheart?" he calls out to you, the tenderness is so all-consuming on his tongue and you look at him. really look at him. inches away you can see the freckles that dance his cheeks, the lines of the age from all the years youve known and loved him, the dimple that breaks through the surface whenever he pronounces a word so distinctly even when he's not smiling. the earnest in his eyes is what brings you back home, to him and you try to establish an easy breathing pattern.
"our baby," you whisper, the tears already starting to pool at the corners of your eyes. his breath halts, your confirmation shattering any efforts he has of forming a thought and then he reaches out tentatively, eyes searching for your permission first. his hands brace each side of your body, splashed wide against your stomach and he closes his eyes.
it's an odd angle where he cranes his neck lower but he presses a careful kiss there and buries his head into your abdomen. a baby. your baby. and he feels himself lightweight and soaring, ascending to the heavens already.
in the years of your marriage, you and gwayne have tried many times for a child before. it just had never been the right time and though it was hard the two of you had slowly come to accept it. there were tears, silent struggles you carried though no blame was ever directed, and slowly but surely daeron began to fill the gaps in your and gwayne's heart and loving him was far more than you could've ever wished for.
"the maestars say it's early and i didn't want to get our hopes up, i didn't want to let you down," you admit shamefully and his heart tugs. he raises his head to lean his forehead against yours. he turns his head to side and you can feel the slope of his nose against your cheek as he murmurs so tenderly, softly for your ears alone.
"you," his breath his hot and heavy with determination. its the most outrageous thing he's ever heard and he stamps out any doubt in your mind, his words tickling the shell of your ear, "could never let me down, my love," and he returns to your lips. its slow, its gentle and poured with every ounce of intention and love he is capable of delivering. his heart has already stretched and made room for the next addition to the family and he presses that thought into your lips.
"gwayne," you manage to mumble before he's captured you again, swallowing you and your sure right now, your souls are morphing into one.
"a babe," he laughs against your lips, the delight dancing between your tongues and he scrunches his nose, dimples beaming loud. "we truly have been blessed haven't we?"
the excitement doesn't fade, it settles into something easier and lighter. into a faint sense of longing to meet the little one that is moons away from existing.
"i'm sorry," you apologise to him, "i'm sorry, i wanted to tell you earlier but i just, it's been hard carrying this secret, i've had a lot on my mind with daeron and ormund and researching on successful pregnancies and-"
he listens to you ramble and it all makes sense to him. you spending most of your days in the library, the iron grip on the books hes caught you with. your concerns about ormund, your protective affection with daeron and the understanding washes over him. he picks up your hand and places it on his heart, letting you feel the pulses beneath it and its so warm.
"my darling wife," he starts, "whatever burdens you carry are mine to deal with," his fingers trace your cheekbones, the most intimate of caresses and you lean into his touch, "whatever we do, we do it together."
"i'm scared gwayne, i'm afraid that if this babe is to be born, i don't want them to be subjected to what we have, the sacrifices we have made. i know they won't be in line for the throne like daeron, but with everything to come? i can't let anything happen to them- we can't," you stress.
"hey," he tries to shush your quiet sobbing, "i will not let anything happen to daeron, to this babe and more importantly to you, my heart. nothing will get in the way between our family, not war, not household politics, nothing," the intensity of his promise heals the wounds before they've fully bled and you believe him. gwayne hightower is not just one of the noblest but fiercest of knights, he's a man in love and loves to death. and he most certainly would die in the attempt at protecting who he loves.
"i'm serious," he presses a slow kiss to your lips, lingering in the milimetres of air as he takes his time to pull away. he keeps you in his orbit, swirling as he rotates around your being. "nothing matters more to me than your safety, our family's safety," and when he smiles its as if its the very first time you met him across the courtyard and your stomach flutters an army of butterflies.
"yes well," you muse, speaking down at your stomach, "daddy's doing a fine job of beating people up isn't he?" and he laughs, throwing his head into the nook of your neck. your body vibrates under his shaking chuckles and your laughter joins in a sweet melody, the tune of your love.
"and daddy," he throws you a mischievous look before turning his attention down to your abdomen and drums along your skin, "will fight a million more to keep you, your brother and your mother safe."
"a child," he sighs dreamily, he pulls you down to the bed so you're laying side by side. your gazes shift from the ceiling to each other and the fondness in his eyes is world altering. you're sure galaxies have been moved by the focus of his stare.
"what are you thinking of, dearest?" you ask as gwayne's interlocks your hands in a tight promise of forever and brings them to his lips, and then leaving them to rest over his chest. your voice soothes the flowing waters of his thoughts and he breathes slowly, thinking of the future and whats yet to come for your family.
"what i must have done in my past life to accumulate all these blessings, to have been blessed with you," your breath halts. you don't think you'll ever grow accustomed to gwayne's declarations and love, your ears are blessed with sweet nothings every single day, but each time it feels like the very first time all over. gwayne's easy to love, it's natural, you're so sure you were made solely to exist for each other, you can't imagine to be by anyone elses side.
"you really know how to make a girl swoon, ser hightower" you tease.
"my girl," and he makes a move closer to you, hovering over you slightly, careful. "my wife," his head dips, "my love" and just before he closes his lips over yours, you feel yourself fall entirely into the safety net of his arms and his love for the rest of his life, "mine, all mine."
///
i have rewritten this fic a million times and i am never satisfied with how it ends or how it flows but im glad to get it out of the drafts it has been consuming my mind all week. (just in time for tonights episode too!) i think when you think too long and hard about it, you're bound to never be happy with something but yeah, hope you enjoy! let me know what you think! (positive comments only i strictly take NO criticisms sorry x)
@hwaofdreams - sorry it took so long! ty for being enthusiastic about it lolll :p
Summary: After a failed attempt to escape her fate, the princess spends her brief betrothal hiding from the man she is destined to marry. On their wedding night, however, she is forced to confront not the knight from her nightmares, but the man behind them.
"Princess?"
The voice seemed to reach you from very far away.
You blinked slowly, your gaze remaining fixed upon the deep red wine swirling lazily inside your goblet as though the answer to every question you had ever asked might somehow be waiting beneath its surface. The music filling the Great Hall blurred into little more than distant noise, the laughter of lords and ladies melting together until the celebration sounded less like a wedding feast and more like waves breaking endlessly against the shore.
How much had you slept this past week?
You tried to remember. An hour the first night. Perhaps two the next.
You had drifted into exhausted naps whenever your ladies managed to force you into bed, only to wake moments later with your heart racing and smoke still clinging to your lungs from dreams that felt altogether too real.
Ten hours across the entire week, perhaps.
It hardly mattered as you were tired enough that the world no longer felt entirely solid. Ever since your betrothal, the dreams had ceased showing you the man himself. No longer did you wake with the image of emerald cloaks or a familiar smile lingering in your thoughts.
Instead, every night unfolded into the same dreadful vision of a kingdom devouring itself. The dragons screamed as they tore one another from the sky and fire swallowed castles whole. The banners of great houses burned until only ash remained and somewhere within the smoke stood your family. One by one, they disappeared, no matter how desperately you ran toward them, your feet never seemed to move.
And always you woke before discovering who had survived.
"Princess."
You startled violently at the gentle nudge against your arm, blinking several times before the Great Hall finally returned to focus.
"...The princess," Gwayne was saying smoothly to the elderly lord and lady standing before the two of you, "...has had very little rest these past several days. Wedding preparations have rather exhausted her. She was terribly eager for today."
You nearly laughed, the only wedding preparation you had been a part of was making sure there was enough wine. You bit the inside of your cheek as the old couple smiled knowingly.
"Entirely understandable," the lady replied warmly. "Every bride grows overwhelmed eventually."
You stared politely for a heartbeat, trying desperately to remember who they were. They were from the Riverlands, you were almost certain. Or perhaps the Reach. You could not remember their names.
"...We merely wished to offer our congratulations," the lord continued. "It is good to see House Targaryen and House Hightower joined in friendship once again."
"How fortunate," you murmured before you could stop yourself, "To become a bridge built for everyone else's benefit."
Silence.
The couple exchanged an uncomfortable glance and beside you, Gwayne cleared his throat with practiced ease, "What my wife means," he said gently, "is that we both hope our families enjoy many years of peace together."
The couple accepted the explanation with relieved smiles before offering another round of blessings and finally drifting back into the sea of nobles filling the hall.
Before your thoughts had the chance to drift away again, Gwayne was already steering you elsewhere with a light hand against the small of your back, politely intercepting another lord who looked eager to offer his congratulations.
You hardly noticed where he was leading you. Your mind had wandered back to dragons. To fire. To ash carried across a blackened sky.
Every night the dreams revealed another piece of a future you could not understand, each one ending before you reached the answer you sought, and every morning you awoke feeling as though you had lived through another lifetime. Somewhere within those visions, something terrible was waiting for your family.
You simply did not know when.
"I cannot decide," Gwayne said after watching you in silence for several moments, his voice carrying the faintest trace of amusement, "whether I ought to be impressed or thoroughly insulted that this is the first conversation we have managed to have since you attempted to climb over the walls of the Red Keep."
That was entirely true. After your failed attempt of fleeing, you had become almost impossible to find on the single week of your betrothal. If he visited the training yard, you wandered the libraries. If someone whispered that Ser Gwayne had been seen crossing the eastern galleries, you slipped into forgotten stairwells known only to servants and children who had spent their lives turning the Red Keep into a playground. You lingered in the dragonpit until dusk, disappeared into abandoned towers, climbed onto rooftops where no lady ought ever to be, and more than once your ladies had distracted curious knights long enough for you to escape through hidden passages behind the old tapestries.
You had convinced yourself it was easier that way. If you never truly knew him, perhaps the dreams would hurt less when they came to pass.
You studied him for a moment before answering with complete seriousness, "You should probably feel insulted."
His mouth twitched, "I suspected as much."
"And your sister certainly is."
You inclined your head toward the royal table where Alicent sat beside your father, regal as ever, though her gaze found the two of you often enough that it was impossible not to notice. Even from across the hall, there remained something watchful in the way she looked at you, as though she expected you to vanish before the evening was through.
Gwayne followed your gaze before smiling with quiet resignation, "She worries."
A dry laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You doubted worry had ever been the proper word.
You knew perfectly well why Alicent had approved of the match. Marriage carried you to Oldtown, away from King's Landing, away from the court, away from the endless disappearances that had become almost expected of Viserys's younger daughter. It solved a problem politely enough that no one could accuse anyone of cruelty.
You kept that thought to yourself and instead chose to stand quietly next to him which in itself, was an odd sort of torment.
There were moments when you forgot you had only met him once before, because your dreams had stolen that unfamiliarity from you years ago. You knew the sound of his voice before he ever spoke, the easy smile that softened his features, the slight crease between his brows whenever he found himself thinking too hard. Every part of him felt strangely familiar.
Yet he looked at you with the curiosity reserved for complete strangers.
What you were not aware of is how desperately he wanted to change that. While you ran from him, he had questioned dragonkeepers, stable boys, guardsmen, maids, cooks, even elderly servants who had watched you grow from infancy, and every one of them had answered him with the same amused smile.
"The princess does that. She'll turn up eventually."
He had begun to wonder whether you intended to appear at your own wedding.
"You are tired." The observation was spoken so softly that it almost disappeared beneath the music.
"It has been a long day."
"It has been a long week."
You offered no reply and Gwayne watched you another moment before quietly rising to his feet.
Without explanation, he crossed the hall toward the royal table.
You followed him with tired eyes, watching as he bent to speak privately with your father. Viserys listened with surprising attentiveness before a warm smile spread slowly across his face, one accompanied by a gentle nod of approval. Beside him, Alicent looked between the two men with obvious skepticism, one elegant brow arching before she sighed in quiet resignation and inclined her head as well.
Only then did Gwayne return.
He extended his hand toward you, "Let us retire."
You looked at him in confusion, "The feast is not over, there are still hours before midnight," then quietly you added, "...and the bedding ceremony."
"There will not be one."
For the first time that evening, genuine surprise crossed your face.
The hall continued behind you in laughter and celebration, entirely unaware as your husband led you quietly toward the great doors, leaving the music behind without so much as a backward glance.
-
The silence that greeted your chambers felt almost startling after the endless noise of the feast. Servants slipped inside only long enough to light fresh candles before disappearing as quietly as shadows, leaving the room bathed in warm golden light and blessed stillness.
Almost mechanically, you reached for the jeweled pins woven into your hair, removing them one after another until the intricate braids loosened and silver-white strands spilled heavily over your shoulders. Rings followed. Bracelets. A necklace that had begun to feel unbearably heavy hours ago.
You became aware, little by little, that Gwayne was no longer speaking and the realization surprised you.
Ever since the gardens, he had seemed determined to draw you into conversation whenever circumstance allowed, asking gentle questions you never truly answered, smiling whenever your stubbornness surfaced. Now, he simply let the quiet exist.
He busied himself with small, unnecessary tasks instead, stirring the fire back to life before pouring a modest measure of wine into a silver goblet. When he approached, he offered it without ceremony.
"So you may sleep."
You looked at the goblet, then at him. For the first time since your father had announced the betrothal, uncertainty settled over a different question entirely.
Had you been wrong about him?
Not about the dreams, but about the man standing before you. He had canceled the bedding ceremony without asking anything in return. He had noticed your exhaustion when no one else had cared to. He had remembered the wine not because of gossip, but because he had seen you struggle.
It was a kindness you have not felt from anybody in a long time.
"But, we're meant to...consummate the marriage." The words felt strangely hollow as they left your mouth.
He looked almost bewildered, "You are in no condition for anything except sleep."
"But everyone—"
"I am unconcerned with everyone," his voice softened, "I am only concerned with you."
Something inside your chest tightened unexpectedly. He gestured toward the bed, "You should rest, I'll remain by the fire."
You searched his face for some trace of obligation, some hidden expectation that would reveal this gentleness to be little more than courtesy and found none.
Truthfully, you had no desire to sleep. Not because you lacked the exhaustion, but because you knew what awaited you the moment you surrendered to unconsciousness. Yet the words refused to leave your lips. You found yourself unable to confess such a childish fear aloud, especially to a man you had known for scarcely a fortnight and married only hours before. So, swallowing both your pride and your apprehension, you drank the wine without another word.
When the last drop was gone, you set the silver cup aside and crossed slowly toward the bed, every step carrying the strange feeling that you were walking willingly toward the very thing you feared most. Before climbing beneath the covers, you glanced back over your shoulder.
Gwayne was already watching you.
When your eyes met, he offered the faintest of smiles before inclining his head toward the bed as though gently reminding you that it was all right to rest. Then, true to his word, he turned back toward the fire, giving you the privacy.
-
You did not know how long sleep had held you. It could have been minutes or hours. Time rarely existed within your dreams.
One moment you had been wrapped beneath warm blankets while Gwayne sat closely to the fire, and the next you stood beneath a sky stained black with smoke while dragons screamed somewhere beyond walls you could not see. Syndor's cries cut through the chaos with heartbreaking familiarity, each desperate roar carrying the unmistakable panic of a creature searching for the only person who had ever been able to calm him.
You tried to reach him, but something unseen held you in place while his cries grew louder and louder until they became almost unbearable.
Then, you woke with a violent gasp that burned your lungs.
Your eyes had not yet opened, but your hands were already searching frantically through the darkness, clutching at sheets and blankets as though expecting rough chains instead of soft linen beneath your fingertips.
"Syndor..."
The name escaped you before you had fully returned to yourself.
"My dragon..."
The room remained swallowed in darkness, interrupted only by the faint orange glow of dying embers in the hearth. For one terrifying heartbeat, the dream still felt real. Then came the quiet scrape of a chair against stone.
"Princess."
Gwayne's voice was low enough that it scarcely disturbed the silence, yet it carried through the room with a steadiness that slowly began pulling you back to the present.
He was already crossing the room, then stopped almost immediately when he took a look at you.
You had retreated as far back against the carved headboard as the bed would allow, the blankets gathered tightly against your chest while your breathing came in short, uneven bursts. Your wide violet eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond him, still trapped halfway between nightmare and waking.
Very carefully, he lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, "It was only a dream," he said quietly.
Before he had even finished speaking, you shook your head, "No."
"Syndor needs me. He's..." You swallowed hard, struggling against the lingering panic. "...he was calling for me."
"He is safe," The reassurance came without hesitation, "You are in your chambers."
You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heels of your hands against them as though that alone might banish the images still clinging stubbornly to your mind.
"He is asleep in the Dragonpit," Gwayne continued gently. "Nothing has happened to him."
Neither of you spoke after that and the silence settled over the room like a blanket of its own, broken only by the crackling fire and the gradual slowing of your breath until each inhale no longer felt as though it fought against your ribs.
Only when he was certain the worst of the terror had passed did he speak again, "Are you alright?"
You answered with the smallest nod.
"Would you like to try sleeping again?"
"No." The word came too quickly and sharply.
He rested his forearms loosely against his knees, studying the fire for a long moment before asking, almost conversationally, "What do you usually do when you wake from them?"
You followed his gaze toward the embers, "Anything," your shoulders lifted in a tired shrug and your fingers tightened around the blankets, "I walk, or read."
"And when I was younger..." a wistful smile touched your lips before fading just as quickly, "...I used to sneak into my sister's chambers."
He looked back at you, "Rhaenyra?"
You nodded, "We never spoke about the dreams, we would simply talk until the sun came up."
The confession lingered quietly between you and Gwayne found himself smiling. He could picture it with surprising ease, a much younger princess padding barefoot through dark corridors with tangled silver hair, crawling beneath her elder sister's blankets simply because sleep had become too frightening to face alone.
The image was unexpectedly endearing.
Then he noticed something else. Every time he shifted, however slightly, you shifted too. It was subtle, the smallest instinctive retreat. Enough that the space between you never truly disappeared and his smile faded. He searched his memory for something, anything, that might explain it.
Had he spoken too harshly in the gardens? Had he frightened you that evening without realizing it? Or was it simply the marriage itself?
The thought settled heavily inside him.
After a long silence, he drew a quiet breath, "May I ask you something?"
You looked up cautiously before giving the faintest nod. He hesitated, not because he doubted the question, but because he feared the answer. "When I found you in the gardens..." his voice remained gentle, "...you looked at me as though you already knew who I was."
"And just now when I came to you..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "You looked almost frightened of me."
He searched your face, hoping to find an explanation there before he asked the question aloud, "Have I done something to deserve that?"
For a long moment you simply stared at him as your fingers twisted together beneath the blankets.
"I suppose you have not."
Not yet, the little voice in your head told you.
You stopped, struggling to shape feelings that had lived inside you since childhood into words another person might understand. The admission came little more than a whisper, "It is just that...the first time I dreamt of you, I was only a child."
His brows lifted in quiet surprise.
"I didn't know your name, I don't even think I knew what Oldtown was. I only know it was you because you were a knight wearing green."
The corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it.
"So it is strange," you continued before he could tease you, "Meeting you, I mean."
You looked at him then, "It feels as though I have known you for years. As though, the night in the gardens was not our first meeting."
Gwayne felt something tighten unexpectedly in his chest. The thought was strangely beautiful. Somewhere, years before either of you had known the other's name, a lonely little princess had dreamed of a knight in green armor. And somehow, she had remembered him.
"I confess," he said after a moment, his voice carrying that same quiet warmth that had followed you throughout the evening, "I feel I have been placed at a considerable disadvantage."
You looked at him, your brows drawing together in sleepy confusion.
"You have known my face since you were a child," he continued, a faint smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. "You have spent years deciding what sort of man I am."
"And you?" you asked softly.
"I have scarcely had a week."
Despite everything, despite the lingering ache in your chest and the remnants of terror still clinging stubbornly to your mind, a quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it, "I suppose that is rather unfair."
"I should think so," he replied. "I have had hardly enough time to convince my own wife that I am tolerable company."
"You have done..." You hesitated, lowering your eyes to your hands. "...better than I expected."
The admission surprised the both of you.
You had not meant to say it aloud. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to truly look at him, not at the knight who appeared in fragments of prophecy, nor at the stranger fate had insisted you marry, but simply at the man seated beside your bed in the middle of the night with sleep still clinging to his own eyes because he had risen the moment he heard you cry out.
He had asked nothing of you. Not obedience, affection, not even an explanation. Only whether you were well. The realization settled quietly somewhere deep inside your chest.
It made everything infinitely more difficult, because the man before you looked nothing like the one your dreams warned you about.
The silence between you was no longer uncomfortable. Outside the windows the castle had surrendered entirely to the night, the laughter from the feast long since faded until all that remained was the gentle crackling of the fire and the distant rush of wind against the towers.
Eventually Gwayne inclined his head toward the bed, "You should try to sleep again."
The answer came almost before he had finished speaking, "I cannot. The dreams will only return."
He considered your words for a long moment before speaking again, "Then they shall wake me as well. I'll remain here."
"You needn't. You have already done more than enough."
"I don't believe I have." His answer was gentle, but there was an unmistakable certainty beneath it. "If you wake frightened, then I shall wake with you."
He said it so simply that, for a moment, you wondered if he understood what he was promising. "You do not know what you are agreeing to."
"No," he admitted honestly, "But I know you should not have to face them alone."
Your throat tightened. You had spent so many years convincing yourself that the dreams belonged to you alone, that they were yours to endure and yours to hide, that hearing someone speak so matter-of-factly about sharing even the smallest part of that burden felt almost foreign. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you shifted beneath the blankets.
It was not an invitation so much as the smallest surrender and Gwayne seemed to understand the difference.
Silently he extinguished the last candle until only the embers in the hearth painted the room in shades of amber, then crossed quietly to the opposite side of the bed. He lay down carefully atop the covers, leaving enough space between the two of you that propriety remained untouched, his hands folded loosely across his chest as though he feared even the slightest movement might disturb you.
"Good night, Princess."
"Good night, Gwayne"
The distance made you smile despite yourself, then you closed your eyes once more. This time, sleep did not feel quite so terrifying even when you knew, with the same dreadful certainty that had followed you since childhood, that the dreams were waiting just beyond consciousness.
You had not told him everything. You had not told him about the dreams where you reached for him and he never reached back. The ones where you awoke every time with the unbearable certainty that, somehow, someday, he would become the source of a grief too great to imagine.
The thought lingered for only a moment before your gaze drifted toward the man lying quietly beside you. His breathing had already begun to deepen, though you suspected he was not truly asleep, listening instead for the slightest sign that another nightmare had found you.
The ache in your chest remained and yet, you chose not to dwell upon the future your dreams insisted awaited you.
That could wait until morning, tonight, you allowed yourself to remember the kinder dreams instead, the ones where a lonely little girl had found comfort in the company of a nameless knight dressed in green, long before she knew the sorrow the future promised.
And with those memories held close, you surrendered once more to sleep, choosing to believe in the dreams that had taught you how to love him before the ones that warned you how you might lose him.
Notes: I have the craziest urge to write an extremely angsty part three but I have grown attached to reader and do not want to make her suffer even more💔
random question because i’m obsessed with them — do you see lady tyrell ever actually falling in love with aerion, or will their relationship always be a bit of a chess match for her?
🩷🩷
Growing Familiar
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game. A continuation to Growing Strong and Married Life, but set before Deep in the Meadow. Can be read as a oneshot.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, power imbalance, Reader is Margaery Tyrell coded and plays Aerion like a fiddle, manipulation, emotional control, breeding.
a/n: I had drabbles about this question and didn't know where to place it in the timeline. This is somewhere before the Ashford tourney, so before she becomes with child. Enjoy fluff and smut because y'all are not ready for what happens after the Ashford tourney with her pregnancy! I don't think anyone will guess correctly but I'd still love to hear your predictions!
When Aerion and Maekar left, the Red Keep breathed easier.
Baelor smiled more. Valarr laughed openly. Daeron sang without being glared into silence. And little Aegon followed everyone around like a puppy finally allowed out of a kennel.
You noticed it within the first day. The halls felt lighter, voices warmer. Even the meals were quieter, less edge, less anticipation of a sharp remark cutting through conversation.
They were kinder to you, too. Not that they had ever been cruel. But now there was a softness to the way they addressed you, a careful gentleness that made you feel strangely fragile.
Baelor asked after your comfort with almost excessive concern. Valarr made sure you had the best seat near the fire. Daeron kept you entertained with ridiculous stories that made you laugh harder than you expected. Aegon, still small, still earnest, crawled into your lap without hesitation, as if sensing you were safe.
It didn’t take long for you to understand why. They pitied you.
The realization came one afternoon when Baelor watched you quietly over tea.
“You are…holding up well,” he said carefully.
You blinked. “Holding up?”
He hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Marriage can be an adjustment.”
You almost laughed.
Valarr, overhearing, added softly, “You deserve peace when you can find it.”
The sympathy in his voice was impossible to miss. You wondered what they imagined your life with Aerion to be. Torture, perhaps. Unrelenting chaos. Fear.
They never saw the private moments. You didn’t correct them. It was easier not to. You walked the gardens with Aegon holding your hand. You listened to Daeron’s songs. And, if you were honest, you enjoyed the peace.
But when word came that Aerion had returned…your heart lifted anyway. You tried not to show it.
They arrived in a rush of noise: hooves, shouted commands, the clatter of armor. The courtyard filled with movement.
You stepped forward instinctively, skirts gathered, eyes searching.
Aerion dismounted first. Windblown. Alive with restless energy.
His gaze found you instantly. And despite yourself, you smiled.
Behind you, Baelor and Valarr exchanged baffled looks. Daeron blinked like he’d misread something.
Aegon whispered loudly, “Why is she happy?”
You ignored them.
Aerion strode toward you and caught your hands as if claiming you back from the world.
“My pretty rose,” he said, pleased. “You didn’t forget me.”
You shook your head, laughing softly. “I heard you were returning today.”
He smirked. “Of course you did.”
Behind him, Maekar sighed the deep sigh of a man exhausted. The others watched the exchange like it made no sense at all.
You could practically hear the question in their silence: How is she happy to see him?
That evening, after the welcome feast, Aerion pulled you away the moment propriety allowed.
His chambers felt smaller after weeks apart. He paced as he talked, animated, triumphant.
“You should have seen it,” he said, gesturing wildly. “The puny lord tried to claim he could outdrink me. Fool.”
You sat on the edge of the bed, smiling faintly. He boasted about skirmishes, about horses, about arguments he had won and men he had humiliated. Eventually, he stopped pacing and turned toward you, grinning.
“You missed me terribly,” he concluded.
You tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “I suppose the castle was quieter.”
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. You laughed softly and reached for him.
“I did miss you.”
His expression brightened instantly. “I knew it.”
He dropped several bundles onto the bed beside you: silks, jewelry, small carved trinkets.
“I brought gifts,” he announced proudly. “Everyone else was bringing things back for their wives. I would not be seen returning empty-handed.”
You touched the fabric, surprised by the care in the choices. “These are beautiful.”
He shrugged, pretending indifference, though the satisfaction in his eyes betrayed him. “I have good taste.”
Later, when the candles burned low, the distance between you vanished completely. He clung to you with an urgency, having become expert by now at unlacing your dresses, never one for patience. He didn't tease for long, only rubbed and flicked your pearl, holding your waist with one hand to keep you still as you squirmed and jolted in response. Once he deemed you wet enough for his satisfaction, he pulled off his breeches and sheathed himself inside you.
He didn't last long, seemingly pent up. He finished twice inside you before deciding to be gracious enough to pay more attention to you and helped you reach your peak, curling his fingers as you liked, pushing his spend back inside you with his movements.
Aerion had never, not once, told you to be quiet when he was fucking you, enjoying your desperate moans and whimpers, even crooning mockingly to you as you whined at the overstimulation once you came down from the height of pleasure.
When he finally settled, bare-chested and heavy with sleepiness, he draped himself over you. He reminded you of a large, possessive cat more than a dragon in that moment.
His voice dropped to a soft murmur against your shoulder.
“I told them about you,” he said drowsily. “Said my wife is prettier than all of theirs.”
You smiled into his hair.
“Did you?”
“They were jealous,” he mumbled with satisfaction.
He pressed a lazy kiss against your skin.
“My pretty rosebud,” he murmured. “You belong with me. Everyone knows it.”
The words were half nonsense, half sincerity. He rambled on, unhinged little declarations that made no logical sense but sounded deeply romantic to him alone.
“You’d hate traveling,” he said sleepily. “Too dusty. Better here. Waiting for me.”
You hummed in agreement. His arms tightened.
“I missed you,” he admitted quietly, the honesty slipping out only when exhaustion softened him.
There it was. The real thing. You stroked his hair gently.
“I know.”
He sighed, content.
Night in the Red Keep was never truly quiet.
There was always something, distant footsteps in corridors, the low murmur of guards changing shifts, wind sighing against stone, but the sounds were far away enough to blur into background noise.
You should have been asleep. Instead, you drifted in and out of uneasy dreams.
Fragments chased you: Highgarden paths twisting into endless hallways, dragon shadows passing overhead, voices that spoke your name but never quite sounded right. Each time you slipped deeper, something sharp would pull you back, a sense of falling, of losing something you couldn’t name.
You turned again, tangling the sheets around your legs.
Beside you, Aerion made a faint sound of annoyance.
You froze, hoping he would settle again.
He didn’t. His arm moved abruptly, sliding around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. The heat of him surrounded you instantly.
“Stop wriggling,” he muttered into your hair, voice thick with sleep. “You’re shaking the bed.”
“Pardon,” you whispered automatically.
He only grunted, tightening his hold.
You tried to relax. Tried to let the steady weight of him anchor you. But your heart still beat too fast, your breathing uneven, the edge of the dream clinging stubbornly to your skin.
You shifted again without meaning to.
Aerion sighed dramatically.
“What is wrong with you tonight?” he murmured.
“Nothing,” you said softly.
He didn’t believe you. You could feel it in the way he went still, listening.
You didn’t tell him. You wouldn’t have known how. Aerion was many things but comfort was not a language he spoke easily. You had learned long ago not to expect softness from him when you were fragile.
So you kept quiet.
Yet, he noticed anyway. His hand slid along your arm, slow, absent strokes over your skin, as if testing whether you would settle. The gesture was clumsy, not quite gentle, driven more by instinct than intention.
He liked touching you. That much was obvious. But he wasn't much for affection that didn't lead to anything more heated. His palm drifted lower, resting on your hip, thumb drawing slow circles.
When you still didn’t quiet, he huffed softly and gave your backside a firm, rhythmic pat, almost absentmindedly.
You blinked, startled.
He did it again. It reminded you absurdly of the way someone might soothe a nervous horse.
“You’re fussy,” he muttered. “Lie still.”
You bit back a laugh.
He kept stroking your skin, long lazy passes that were probably more for his own enjoyment than your comfort, but the warmth helped anyway. The tension in your shoulders eased slightly.
“There,” he murmured, half asleep. “Better.”
You hesitated.
“Aerion…”
“Hm?”
“I keep having bad dreams.”
The admission slipped out before you could stop it.
He was quiet for a moment. You braced for impatience. For dismissal. Instead, his arm tightened around you.
“Well,” he said finally, voice low and rough with sleep, “stop it.”
You almost snorted.
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
He made a small, displeased sound.
“You are my wife,” he said firmly, as if this explained everything. “Nothing touches you without going through me first. So stop being afraid.”
The words were awkward. Blunt. Not comforting in the way another man might have tried to be.
Yet somehow they were. Because he sounded so certain. As if it were simply fact.
His fingers resumed their slow path along your arm. Another absent pat to your hip.
You could feel him fighting sleep, stubbornly staying awake because you weren’t resting yet.
“You worry too much,” he murmured. “No harm will come to you.”
You exhaled slowly, letting your eyes close again. For a moment, it worked.
Then another restless shiver ran through you.
Aerion groaned softly.
“That’s enough,” he muttered.
Before you could ask what he meant, he rolled you over beneath him, pinning you gently against the mattress. His hair fell forward, silver strands brushing your cheek.
You blinked up at him, startled.
“Aerion...”
“You’re not sleeping,” he said simply. “So I will fix it.”
His mouth brushed your temple, not quite a kiss, more a press of reassurance.
He hitched your legs over his waist. His hips moved with familiar confidence, not hurried. The rhythm was steady, repetitive, drawing the tension from your body piece by piece until your thoughts blurred and softened.
Your breathing slowed. Your limbs grew heavy. The nightmare haze melted into warmth and exhaustion.
By the time he settled back beside you, you were already drifting, eyelids heavy, body loose against his.
He pulled you close again automatically, his chin resting near the top of your head.
“There,” he murmured, satisfied. “Quiet now.”
His hand found your waist again, holding you in place as sleep finally claimed you.
Full series: Growing Strong, Married Life, Growing Familiar , Deep in the Meadow and Dragon Dreams, Perzys ānogār. Can be read as a oneshots.
a/n: Donate on Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
PAIRING: sworn protector!gwayne hightower x fem!targtower reader
SUMMARY: ser mark mullendore has been put to rest, leaving you defenseless and without a knight. your mother, queen alicent, remedies that quickly, finding you a new sworn protector who hits a little too close to home
WORD COUNT: 4.6k
AUTHORS NOTE: welcome to chains of love!!! i am so excited to start writing for gwayne and targtower!reader!!! it’s going to be a total roller coaster of emotions and feelings, and i can’t wait to get into it!!! this is also my first time writing asoiaf incest, so bare with me. this chapter also contains mentions of death and creepy, unwanted behaviour from men, so read at your own risk.
HIGH VALYRIAN IS IN ITALICS
ser mark mullendore took his last breath on the day of your twentieth name day. a testament to the years he spent protecting your life, harbouring a care for you as if you were his own kin.
the funeral pyre laid smokey in front of you; moonfyre, your midnight blue scaled dragon, swirling the sky over your head. it was only you in this barren field, your family and members of court and council not thinking it important that a man had died. mark came from a noble house in the reach, yet he had no family, and the families occupying the red keep, people he called his closest friends, didn’t seem to care about him.
it was only you honouring his death. the girl he called his daughter. the girl who he had been sworn to protect since she had turned six name days old. you stood in front of his wrapped body with a spine straight back, fire dancing across the gold of your silken dress as the mount holding mark’s body engulfed in flames. you had demanded a firm dracarys from moonfyre, yet your words had cracked, emotion blanketing the edges of your voice with a firm grasp.
this was a man who lifted you up easily and threw you over his shoulder when you were eight, catching you sneaking into the kitchens to thieve a batch of lemon cakes. that same man, who didn’t scold you harshly, yet shared a pastry with you and told you to not do it again, had died of sickness, and you would be damned to let people forget him.
“my princess!” a voice drifted through the air of the cliff, high pitched and squeaky in its announce. you lifted your tear stained face up from the pyre, taking in the sight of a young squire running up the grassy hill. you glared at the boy, not waiting for him to come closer before you unleashed your torrent of fury onto him.
“can’t you see i’m busy?!” you snapped, moonfyre growling and snapping her jaws behind you. the two of you were always in tuned. anytime you were grumpy, happy, or sad, moonfyre was similar, the dragon keepers being able to guess her mood for the day for all they would need is a moment with you and she was understood.
the squire halted a couple paces away from the burning body, a cherry hued blush on his cheeks as he wrung out his fingers in nervousness. people knew you were quick to temper, and it was never fun being on the receiving end. “i’m sorry, princess. it’s just that her grace — the queen, has called you back to the tourney grounds. it is your name day after all.”
a sneer rocked its way into your lips, eyes turning into slits as you stared at the squire with a molten glare. he shrunk under your gaze, not being able to hold a second of eye contact before he was shrinking into himself like a petulant child being caught on grounds they weren’t supposed to wander.
“ser mark has died,” you breathed, red hot anger radiating off of you in waves. if you were a dragon, fire would’ve been breathing from your lips, the fury coating your blood heating up your body and making you feel like you were going to explode. “i think it’s easy to understand that i don’t give a fuck about my name day, or the tourney for that matter. are you that daft that you cannot comprehend that?”
a deafening silence blankets the cliff as the squire shrinks even further into himself, mouth agape as he tries to come up with words to combat your snark. you stare at him with a raised brow, and before he can even utter a word, you snap at him again, words sharper and more cutthroat than before.
“that’s what i thought.” you say, crossing your arms over your chest before staring back down at the still burning body of mark mullendore. “you can leave now.”
“as you wish.” the squire scurries off before you can snap again, leaving you in a peaceful silence that is only interrupted by the beat of moonfyre’s wings. it dawns on you that this is what ser mark would’ve wanted. a serene moment for just himself and his daughter. the gods knew king viserys didn’t treat you as such, so what was a problem in stepping up?
a sigh tore from your lips, hands itching to touch ser marks sword withered skin. it didn’t matter how much he trained or how people called him a brute, ser mark was always kind and gentle with you, and you’d remember that until your dying breath.
no one had ever been as sweet to you as ser mark had. your parents were ghosts, your father melting away as your mother tried and pretended she cared, but you knew you weren’t her favourite deep down. your elder brother aegon was a drunk, too busy drowning in his cups and fucking whores to notice you. and when he did? he was cruel, making jabs at you that always left you wondering your worth.
helaena, your elder sister, was a sweet and gentle soul, but she liked to be by herself. sometimes you’d visit her and her children in her chambers, but she was always quiet, the visits usually spent with you playing with jaehaera and jaehaerys instead of talking with your sister.
your younger brothers, aemond and daeron, were vastly different, the latter having gone off to oldtown when he was very young, leaving you to only know snippets of his personality in letters you sent once every moon. from what you could gather, he was kind, and to you, a targaryen man known for his kindness was a good thing.
aemond was an enigma in his own, the one-eyed man more reserved and quiet than talkative. you guys bonded on the grounds of being the black sheep of the family, but aemond felt like he held a brighter candle to the name, sulking around corners and training to the sword with ser criston cole, a man who you loathed for no apparent reason other than he made your bones rattle with irritation.
it dawned on you at a young age that you held a syndrome only middle children could understand, the one where you felt left out even in a crowded room. it made you feel isolated as a kid, yet ser mark always made you feel seen, cheering you up when the trials of being a targaryen got too much.
now he was gone, and at the realization that you were invisible once again, a tear slipped down your cheek, a watery gasp leaving your lips as you clutched at your chest in agony.
“gods, ser.” you sobbed, holding onto your heart as it broke in your chest, the muscle feeling like it was spasming and burning all at once. “why did you leave me alone in this wretched world! it was supposed to be you and i forever, and i don’t know if i can live without you.”
behind you, moonfyre flew down in a fellow swoop, landing beside your shaking frame and nuzzling her snout into your chest. a shaken laugh left your lips, your head leaning down to lay on top of her nose, nuzzling into her deeply.
“i love you, my girl.” you breathed out the words in a soft breath, holding onto her a little tighter. the smoke was starting to make your head spin, and you knew it was time to go back to the tourney grounds before your mother sent a whole batch of kings guard to look for you.
with a sigh, you patted moonfyre’s neck, caressing her midnight blue scales before commanding to her deeply in high valyrian. “go back to the dragon pit,” you said firmly, backing away so the midnight monster could descend into the air and fly away towards her resting place.
a deep dread wallowed in your gut was you watched moonfyre fly away, your fingernails digging into the beds around your cuticles in worry. you didn’t want to leave ser mark, but you also knew he wouldn’t want you to hold back your life just for him. this thought made you sigh yet another breath, moving forward towards the noise of the tourney that was being celebrated in your name.
many minutes of aching feet and sniffling sobs finally led you to the tourney grounds, your eyes taking in the extravagance of all the tents and vendors that lined the field. you walked through with your head held high, the feeling of ser mark not behind you uncommon and saddening, yet you tried to get used to the feeling.
the royal pavilions came into view as you walked a little further, the sight before you complete and utter chaos. alicent stood frantic, her fingers twisting the green sleeves of her dress as she spoke harshly and sharply to her sworn protector and leader of the kings guard, ser criston cole, the rest of the white cloaks being spread around evenly. helaena sat on a bench beside the yawning mouth of the main pavilion, butterfly in hand as jaehaera and jaehaerys ran around wildly close by.
aegon was slumped over beside helaena, drunk off his arse even though it was only half past midday. aemond was nowhere to be seen, and you were certain he was probably off training somewhere.
your lips twisted in displeasure, the thought that you were abandoning ser mark for this terror one of pure unbridled anger. no words left your lips as the chaos ensued around you, and it wasn’t until your mother caught onto the sight of your silver curls and golden dress that she finally let go of all the tension that was building up in her shoulders.
alicent turned to ser criston and said a few more words before stalking over to you, her face a mask of anger as her dress billowed behind her in a storming fury. “where in the sevens name have you been?” she seethed, grabbing onto your upper arm with malice. her nails dug into your skin, and you felt a hiss leave your lips as she started tugging you towards the pavilion. “i’ve been worried off my wits for hours!”
a roll of your eyes had alicent digging her nails harder into your upper arm, leaving a gasp of pain to breach through your mouth. “don’t give me attitude, or i swear to the seven, i will send you to oldtown to become a septa!”
“i was on the cliffside by blackwater bay,” you mumbled, tripping over your slippers as your feet slid on the grass. “i laid ser mark to rest. a feat none of the imbeciles in this gods forsaken realm had the honour to do.”
a drunken laugh was heard from your left, your head whipping to the side to encounter a drunk yet somewhat coherent aegon. a lazy smirk was thrown on his face, disgust rolling in your gut as he eyed you up and down with the lustful eyes of a snake. “what’s with your incessant need to drone on about that mullendore nobody?” aegon slurred, gaze landing on your breasts with a smirk. “a good fuck would do you good. get your mind off that animal. you know which chambers to come to if you need aiding between your thighs, sister.”
“focus on your wife, you drunken craven!” a gasped yell left your lips, ripping your arm out of your mothers hold to charge at aegon. “and don’t speak of ser mark again! or i will cut off your cock and feed it to-“
“woah there, m’lady.” arms wrapped around your waist in a firm grip, your body spinning as the perpetrator pulled you away from aegon’s grinning frame. your arms clawed at your brother, glaring daggers and yelling curse words at aegon as the mystery man held you in a firm grip. “you mustn’t make a scene.”
a half scoff, half snort left your lips, spinning your head to glare at the stupid hedge knight who dare speak to you in such way. why wasn’t anyone stepping in? why wasn’t your mother calling the kings guard to unhand this treasonous man from you? it was all blinding, and you couldn’t help the sneer that blanketed your words.
“pardon me, ser. but if you don’t mind letting me the fuck go.” the words died in your throat as your lilac gaze caught onto that of warm brown, alabaster skin marred with freckles and soft auburn hair the only thing in your sight as you took in your captor. you knew now why your mother or the kings guard hadn’t acted, for the man holding you was non other than your uncle gwayne, proud knight of oldtown and a man you hadn’t seen since your tenth name day.
he’s grown in the decade since you last saw him. sharper, acute, and definitely more handsome than before. his eyes were wide, taking you in with a startled smile that rendered you speechless. he held you firm around the waist, fingers digging into the divots in your back as he pulled you away from aegon’s giggling frame. you could hear your mother sigh behind you, her fingers most definitely pinching her nose in exasperation.
“can you ever be proper, my dear?” she asked in a withered breath, auburn hair billowing behind her in the wind as she glared at aegon with sharp eyes. “gwayne. you can let my daughter go. and aegon. one more word from you and i’m enlisting constant surveillance around your chambers.”
aegon’s drunken protests were sparked on deaf ears as gwayne squeezed the flesh of your hips, smiling at you dashingly before letting you go all together. you fixed your wind swept silver curls, cursing yourself for deciding to go with your hair down today for it now resembled a birds nest. your lips blew at strands as you smoothed them down your head, doing the same motion to your rumpled dress before placing your hands on your hips and staring at gwayne with eyes thinned into slits.
“what are you doing here, dear uncle?” you asked suspiciously, watching as gwayne fixed his chest plate with a boyish grin. “you should be holding down the fort in oldtown. not halting me from attacking my disgrace of a brother.”
gwayne only laughed at your accusation, shaking his auburn hair out of his eyes before looking you up and down swiftly. it wasn’t leering or lustful in the way that aegon did it. gwayne seemed to be sweeping you for injuries, making sure his firm hold on you from earlier hadn’t harmed you.
“your mother hasn’t told you, i presume?” he questioned, looking past your shoulder to alicent with a raised brow. you whipped around at his remark, taking in your mothers too stoic face and knowing she was about to be the harbinger of bad news.
with another sigh, alicent reached forward and placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing lightly before explaining what your uncle had meant. “i know you’ve been heartbroken by the sudden passing of ser mark,” she responded, his name on her tongue shooting a pang of sadness to your heart. “but you need a protector, my dear. you can’t go around unsupervised.”
gears starting winding and turning in your brain; gwayne’s sudden appearance. why he had rushed to save you when you charged aegon. it was all starting to make sense, and the realization had you letting out a dry, humorous laugh.
“no.” you stated firmly, moving your head back and forth between alicent and gwayne, taking in your mothers firm yet motherly stare and your uncles apathetic eyes. “mother! you’ve got to be joking.”
alicent squeezed your shoulder tighter, nails digging into the blade as a warning to stop acting like a brat. after five kids you would’ve thought she was trained well in deflating their temper tantrums, but you and your siblings all had targaryen blood running through your veins, and nothing could stop the swell of wrath that sparked when any of you got mad.
“it needs to be done,” alicent responded, looking around to see if anyone had caught onto the crowned princess throwing a fit. “ser mark had passed, and i trust little in the kings guard by my own sworn protector. gwayne is a fine enough choice, and he took this role was grace and apathy.”
you only scoffed, ripping your shoulder out of your mothers hold to spin around on your uncle. he stared at you wide eyed, taking in the fiery lilac embers of your eyes and the wild untamed energy that radiated off of you in waves. “ser mark just perished not even a fortnight ago,” you quipped, rounding on gwayne with the predatory act of a dragon. “you dare steal a dead man’s position?”
“there’s little to steal, princess.” ser criston thought it perfect to put in his two cents, a sneer sucker punching itself across your face as you whirled on him in fury. “he’s passed. the position isn’t his anymore.”
“i’m sorry, who the fuck asked for your opinion?” alicent gasped at your language, her cheeks flaming in anger. gwayne tried to hide his snicker, agreeing with you on your hatred for the knight. he’s heard about ser criston’s lack of honourable behaviour, detesting him for breaking his vows and becoming the thing the warrior would loath.
a crack sounded through the air as alicent slapped you across the cheek, your head snapping sideways as a red hot print latched itself onto your skin. a gasp was heard from her brother behind you, yet no reaction came your way, your head turning back to your mother as she glared at you deeply.
“you watch your tone, young lady. and stop acting like a petulant child.” her words were sharp, cutting into your skin like glass. you just glared at your mother, seeing the deepness of her aversion towards who you really were. alicent never really saw you, and because of this, she never saw your relationship with ser mark, not understanding why appointing you a new protector so soon made you upset.
a silence blankets over your small gathering, the only noise being the merchants and nobles wandering around camp. you just stare defiantly at your mother, waiting for her to make the next move.
alicent only sighs for the umpteenth time, looking past you to her brother who is wide eyed at the display you and your mother just made. “gwayne. please escort my daughter back to her chambers. she’s had a rough morning, and i think some rest would do her good.”
your defiant stare turns into an open gaping mouth, wide eyed and angry as your mother turns her back on you to talk again with ser criston. it was heartbreaking, being on the receiving end of your mother’s indifference. she only seemed to care for helaena these days, her favouritism clear as she shooed you away to your chambers on your own name day.
a soft hand blanketed your shoulder, the feeling almost comforting as you whirled around to see gwayne looking at you sadly, a soft smile on his lips that showed how much care he held for you.
“come, sweet niece,” he whispered, trying his best to keep his words low and out of earshot of alicent and ser criston. “let’s get you back to your chambers. i know you detest this tourney anyways.”
the kindness of his words seeped into your bones, making a warmth bloom underneath your skin. gwayne was always kind. he never picked favourites like your mother did, doling out his affections for each of his nieces and nephews evenly. if ser mark’s death wasn’t weighing heavy on your chest, you would’ve been glad that gwayne was your new protector, for his knightly virtues and honourable behaviour made him a good man.
with a defiant huff, you pushed aside that warmth in your chest, remembering ser mark and how it was supposed to be him with you right now. you fluttered past gwayne with the grace of a disgruntled fairy, dress swishing behind you as the wind lifted your silver hair.
gwayne hurried after you in measured steps, his armour clanking as he tried to keep your pace. nobles and common folk looked on earnestly and confused as the young princess tore through the camp grounds, her exasperated uncle following behind her. it was a sight for sore eyes, the whispers starting to already form.
“it’s been a while since i’ve made your acquaintance, princess.” gwayne’s voice was smooth, his attempt at trying to form small talk making you irritable. “you’ve grown into a fine young lady since our last meeting.”
“i was ten when i last encountered you,” the words that came out of your mouth were clipped, your head turning to the side to eye gwayne as you continued to walk towards the red keep. “it would be concerning if i didn’t grow.”
a huff of laughter left gwayne’s lips, his arms placed demurely behind his back. “you’re quick to wit, dear princess. i must say though, it evades my memory if you were always this smart tongued as a child.”
it was easily detectable to see the prying of gwayne’s questions, how he inquired cryptically on your upbringing, wondering on the difference between you then and you ten years later. a raise of your brow showed your knowledge of gwayne’s ulterior motives, your face passive as the red keep’s scarlet bricks came into view.
“growing up in my family leaves you moving down one of two paths,” you responded, the bustling sounds of stable boys and maids hitting your ears the closer you got to the castles yawning mouthed entrance. “either you become quiet and meek, or you become steeled and hardened. i learned early on the quietness gets you nowhere in life, so being a cruel bitch must do.”
a soft silence came over both you and your uncle, the only sound being the howling wind ghosting through your ears and over your skin. you looked over to gwayne to see a mask of thoughtfulness over his usual muted expression, his eyebrows drawn tight as he bit his lip and stared down at the rubbled sand beneath his feet.
“i don’t think your cruel.” gwayne’s words were finite, his bitten lip twisting as he stared head of you towards the halls of the red keep. “mouthy? yes. headstrong? definitely. but not cruel.”
laughter left you in a quick, loud shout, your head thrown back in merriment as gwayne stared at you with a smile, a soft yet quizzical look on his face. “what’s so funny, princess?”
“i’m sorry, uncle. it’s just that no one has ever spoken of me in such manner.” you grinned at him as you continued walking, silently taking in his ethereal beauty. gwayne was seriously gorgeous, and you realized that you don’t recall what he looked like from when you were ten. the only image you have of him is gwayne now; a godly beauty that is steadfast and strong in his words and actions.
it was refreshing, how gwayne didn’t diminish you like aegon did with his lewd words, or how he didn’t ignore your requests like your mother did. you weren’t fond of him taking ser mark’s place, but you could see yourself warming up to him in the future. for now, you’d stew in your anger, for it’s the only way you could hold onto your best friends memory.
gwayne shook his head, a grin on his face that rivalled the brightness of the sun. you could tell you were getting closer to your chambers, and some deep part of you didn’t want this conversation to end. “that’s too bad,” gwayne responded, spine straight and poise in a knightly manor. “i’m honoured to be the first one to acknowledge your kindness.”
“kindness?” you snorted, ignoring the spark of warmth that ignited in your stomach at gwayne’s words. “dear uncle, you just held me back from attacking my brother. how is that me demonstrating acts of kindness?”
a mask of displeasure twisted over gwayne’s face as you mentioned aegon, a soft sneer igniting on his lips that made you hold back a smirk. “don’t mouth this off to anyone but me, but aegon is far from honourable, and if your mother or that craven ser criston weren’t there, i would’ve let you get a few scratches in.”
more laughter danced from your lips, the knowledge that gwayne hated ser criston just as much as you did brightening. you spotted your chamber doors in the distance, sighing as you could now finally get some peace and quiet. talking to your uncle was all nice, yet the toll of putting ser mark to rest started weighing heavy on you, leaving your bones weary and your body in need of rest.
“well, i’m glad to hear that you’re on my side, dear uncle. but i fear it’s time for me to retire.” you stopped in front of your door with a wave of exhaustion, your eyes tired and your quick whit dwindling. gwayne only bowed his head in response, grabbing your free hand that wasn’t reaching for the door handle to bring it up to his mouth.
the kiss he placed on the back of your hand was delicate, one that sent shivers wracking through your bones. in this moment, it was hard to see this man as your uncle. in this moment, all you could see was a dashing man who treated you with respect. one who cherished you.
his lips lingered on your skin, their warmth leaving you in a trance even as he pulled away, staring at you with kind eyes.
“get some rest, darling niece.” he whispered, a unfamiliar cherry blush dancing across your cheeks. “and sorry for the loss of your old protector. i remember you mentioning his name was mark mullendore, and i can’t help but think back to meeting him at a tourney.” a smile dusted his lips, one of remembrance and good memories. “he was a fine knight, and i hope to protect and keep you unharmed to the degree that he upheld.”
with a reverent nod of his head, gwayne spun on his heel and moved back down the hall, your eyes following his purposeful gait before he turned a corner and you lost him.
something deep furled in your gut, and you didn’t know if it was his acknowledgement of ser mark, something not one singular person had done since his death, or that gwayne seemed steadfast in his protection of you. he was always a noble man, a follower of the seven and honourable enough to cover a whole army, but something in his words left tingles in your veins, a feeling you hadn’t felt since you developed a silly crush on a kitchen boy when you were twelve.
your hand clutched tightly onto the door handle of your chamber, mind reeling with emotions that hadn’t been unearthed since you were a girl. what you were feeling was dulcet, but it was forbidden, and that made your stomach clench so tight, you felt like you were going to be sick.
“seven hells.” you breathed, throwing your chamber door open and slamming it in a fellow swoosh, your body flinging itself onto your bed in agony.
— summary: no matter how far duty takes him, gwayne always finds himself crawling back to you.
— pairing: gwayne hightower x targaryen!female!reader
— word count: ~1.7k
— content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, afab!reader, established marriage/relationship, mutual pining, possessive language, he whimpers and cries, praise kink, body worship, gentle dominance, sub!gwayne, he is so pathetic for reader, happy ending.
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
“You believe I ought to let you go, hm?” you ask breathlessly, your hands hooked securely around his neck, your unforgiving hips bringing flashes of pleasure throughout his entire boneless body.
Neither of you have any knowledge of how long you’ve been there, nor how many times you’ve peaked. The evidence of your orgasm now making a sticky mess between your legs and spraying his thighs, creating a wet sound that’s nearly lewd each time you lower yourself all the way down onto his cock and bottom out, sitting all pretty on his lap.
A goddess hovering above him, mighty and glorious. And there he remains, but a servant at her mercy.
Gwayne is lost in the haze of your body and your cunt and the way you're making him feel—so lightheaded that he can hardly even comprehend your words. Though he does, for he was made to listen to you, to answer to you, to obey you, to receive whatever you choose to bestow upon him.
“N-no,” he babbles his reply, his lovely lips—all wet with sweat and his own spit—tracing a trail of sloppy kisses down your throat. His lean arms lock your body tight against him in an unavoidable cage, his hands molding to the outline of your hips and guiding you up and down on top of him, to ride him like a savage. “Never let me go, my love. I could not bear to be away from you any longer—hmm!—”
The dirt clinging to him, the fine dust of the trail ground into his skin, the smudges of earth dried against his jawline, temple and cheekbones from days of relentless travel, doesn’t diminish him. It fucking heightens him. Every sweat-streaked trace of soil on his flushed face and along the tense line of his neck only serves as a raw, tangible marker of how far he had pushed himself in the last days, how tirelessly he journeyed... just to reach you.
Seeing him like this; weary, filthy, and thoroughly pathetic, ignites something fierce and primal deep within you. It makes your blood run hotter, turning every harsh, heavy bounce of your hips into a claim over every inch of him.
“And what did you do all this time we’ve been apart?” you question him in a remarkably steady voice, considering just how utterly overwhelmed he's making you feel, tugging sharply at his reddish hair to force him off your neck so you can look him straight in the eye. “How many whores were you with while I was gone, husband?”
The sight of him—your sweet, perfect knight—now reduced to a ruined mess begging for your mercy, makes your insides clench even tighter. Your cunt pulses around the length of his hard cock, impossibly tight, sucking him deep inside, so deep that his swollen tip bumps up against that one special little spot inside you that lights up stars everywhere you look.
It’s a remarkable circumstance, that you two have withstood all these months away from each other. The only thing that could ever separate you would be death or war, and war has fallen in between you, unfortunately locking you into opposing sides. Your birth name and your dragon are what, months ago, dragged you away from the peace of Oldtown and back to Dragonstone, where you were summoned to take on an important role alongside your mother Rhaenyra, the true heir to the Iron Throne.
And Gwayne, by his family name, had to follow his sister's orders and swear allegiance to the Usurper.
Your husband shakes his head in despair, whimpers slipping from his half–open lips, and big tears welling up in the corners of his beautiful eyes, blue and sparkly like a sky full of stars. “N–none, my Princess. I could never be with anyone else.”
You know it’s true, and that someone like Gwayne—your Gwayne—could never even consider being with anyone other than you; he could never possibly betray you. His own values as the most righteous and honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms forbid it, and most importantly, he is simply much too in love with you to view anyone else with the kind of gaze that is only reserved for you.
His body belongs to you; his soul, heart, and mind are yours.
“No?” nevertheless, you question through a low whisper, taking full advantage of the fact that you’re performing a slow circular motion down his lap so you can lean toward him and kiss his lips. He moans into your mouth, making you breathe him in, his thrill, his pleasure, his appreciation.
The very moment your dear husband spotted the ominous silhouette of your dragon swooping down from the cloudy sky and onto him and Criston’s futile little army, he knew it was all over. He had endured so much over the past few moons, forced to follow that foolish man around. It was absurd—what other choice did they have? Nothing but to beg for the dragon’s mercy.
Fortunately for him, it was you who descended from the clouds, for if it had been anyone else, he would be as dead as Cole.
He keeps whimpering as your hips rise again, your velvety walls wrapping all around his cock, making him twitch inside you, as your tongue runs passionately along his cheekbone, wiping away the tears that have dampened his freckled, flushed skin.
“No one takes me the way you do, my beloved,” he claims, kissing your lips to seal it like a promise. He kisses you again and again before continuing to whisper sweet things to you. “No one feels like you—so tight and perfect. I—fuck—I am yours.”
He pulls you down hard against him, his hips snapping upward to meet your descent with an ungodly, wet slap that knocks the breath clean from your lungs. The tip of his cock buries itself ruthlessly against that exquisite, agonizing spot inside you, making the world behind your eyelids fracture into brilliant bursts of gold and white, of him, his soul.
“Yours,” he repeats, a broken, desperate prayer against the seam of your lips. His slender fingers dig brutally into the soft flesh of your hips, leaving bruises that will surely bloom tomorrow. “Always yours. Slice open my chest, my love... look inside, feel it... there is no room for a King or a crown or a throne. Only you. Only my wife, my sweet wife.”
Gwayne locks his arms around your waist and shifts his weight, rolling you both over in one fluid, breathless movement. In an instant, the tent spins, and he settles above you, his heavy, warm body pressing you back into the wrinkled bed and thrusting his hips into you.
He looks down at you through a veil of disheveled, reddish hair, his sky–blue eyes dark with emotion and body utterly undone by yours.
“G–gwayne...” you moan out his name, your hands moving up to the broad curve of his shoulder blades, your fingers digging into his freckled skin as he frames your face with trembling hands. “My dearest”
“Yours,” he pledges, the words rolling off his tongue and onto your lips like a prayer and he kisses you again, and again. “Let me give you everything. Take it all—all of me.”
He sets a relentless, desperate pace, driving both of you straight past the edge. Your back arches into him, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist as the tension builds to an agonizing, exquisite peak.
When the wave finally breaks, it crashes over both of you at once—a blinding, overwhelming release that leaves you clinging to one another, gasping for air and crying each other’s names as your heartbeats clash against each other’s chests in tandem.
Gushes of his seed warm your insides, coating your walls in his color and laying claim to your womb.
The feeling is so familiar, the way he fills you right to the brim, so much that trickles overflow out the edges of your throbbing, abused cunt.
“Gods above...” Your lover sighs weakly against your collarbone, leaving a wet trail of saliva on your skin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you...”
You stroke the soft, auburn hair at the nape of his neck, breathing in the scent of rain, leather, and him.
Your fingers trace appreciatively the familiar curve of his back as your chest heaves in time with his, the wet warmth between your thighs a quiet, lingering mark of the love he just poured into you.
“Gwayne,” you call out to him softly into the dark, your voice cutting through the heavy silence of the tent.
He shifts slightly, pressing a tender kiss onto the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. “I'm here, my love. I'm right here.”
You cup his beautiful face in your hands, forcing him to lift his head so you can look straight into those clear, desperate blue eyes. The tears have dried on his cheeks, but the vulnerability in his gaze is raw and absolute.
“Then come with me,” you say, the command laced with a quiet, pleading ache that makes his breath catch in his throat. “Leave all of this behind tonight. Fly with me to King’s Landing and bend the knee to my mother; she will grant you mercy and forgiveness.”
Gwayne freezes, his chest resting heavily against yours as the weight of your words sinks in.
“My love...” he begins, his voice thick with an ache so profound, for love and for you. He presses his forehead against yours, his warm, uneven breath fanning over your lips. “Would that truly make you happy? Is this what you need from me?”
“It is what I desire above all else in this world,” you answer without hesitation, your voice trembling with the full weight of your devotion. You kiss him tenderly, tasting the salt on his skin. “I want you by my side, Gwayne. I want you, alive, safe, and mine. I need you with me.”
A shaky, shuddering breath escapes his chest, and a brilliant, tearful smile bleeds across his flushed face.
“Then it is done,” Gwayne breathes out, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tastes like sweet relief and irreversible surrender. He pulls your body flush against his, resting his weight over you one more time. “Take me with you, my Princess. Where you fly, I shall follow.”
Summary: On a business visit to Oldtown, you found an unexpected friendship with Gwayne Hightower, and perhaps something more.
Notes: Reader’s house isn’t specified. Characters might be a bit OOC and this is a pre-dance or no dance world, whichever you prefer. Reader has a disability affecting her right leg, involving some weakness and pain, no specific diagnosis. Let me know if there are any mistakes. Hope you enjoy!
Contains: Idiots in love, fluff, baby Daeron
Words: 2.3k
You had heard great stories of Oldtown all your life. Now as you had been here for a fortnight, you were surprised to learn that they had not even been exaggerated. Magnificent stone bridges, beautiful moonbloom, the hallowed Starry Sept, and the grand Citadel, they had all come flowing out of the books and surrounded you.
Your father had important matters to discuss with Lord Hightower and as a result, you had been guests at Hightower. It had taken a lot of convincing for you to be allowed to accompany him and it had all been worth it. As your parent’s only unwed child, you found yourself talking to shadows and walls to spend your time. Your keep and your town hadn’t been lively and inviting for you in the best of times, and now it was becoming suffocating.
It was not entirely your own choice to be alone. Your family would be more than pleased to see you wed and become bound to some lord somewhere. But your body possessed a certain weakness that you couldn’t hide from any suitors for long. All the long walks, the hunting trips, and the dances, took their toll sooner rather than later and suddenly you were seen as a weak prospect for marriage. You had never been a particularly sturdy child, but when you were eight, you had fallen down some stairs while playing with your sisters and your right leg had never been quite the same again. The maesters seemed confounded by your injury and had informed your family that no cure existed and you should focus on managing it as best as you could. It was frustrating as there was no wound, no blood, nothing to fix and you could mostly go on with your life the same as before. But there was the unsteadiness every time you walked for too long. Or ran. Or bent your leg too much. You didn’t know when it would give in and you would crumble. And needless to say, there was the pain every once in a while.
A fact you were reminded of again as you played in the gardens with the little prince, Daeron Targaryen, sent here to ward. At just two years old, he was the sweetest babe you had ever met. You couldn’t run behind him for long so you had decided to sit down and just watch him run around and pretend to fly his wooden toy dragon. But as soon as you did, he came running to you and only ran around you with his toy. You supposed this was his way of including you in his game. You held him and lifted him into the air and pretended he was now flying as well. He giggled so much at this that you couldn’t help but laugh too and try to make him fly higher.
‘We don’t have to wait for his dragon to hatch then. He seems to have an excellent way to fly already.’
You put him down and turned around. You weren’t startled by the intrusion as you had been counting down the seconds to when Gwayne Hightower would finally show up for your stroll. You had gotten quite close in the past weeks, albeit not as close as you would like. You knew you had no right to think such thoughts, the Hightowers had been kind to you and you should not insult such a charming knight such as him with your affections. But it was a difficult ordeal. He was kind and intelligent and handsome like a knight from a book. Every day, you would walk around the gardens and talk about the trade of your towns, the stars, the new architectural styles of Braavos, just about anything. It felt nice to make a friend in this unfamiliar place.
‘You honour me, my lord.’
‘Will you honour me now by walking with me on this fine day?’
You laughed at his formality and got up and said goodbye to the little prince.
Gwayne had been looking forward to this all day. He had a rather boring day reading administrative texts as his father believed it was important to be well read even as the son of a second son. He was aware that he should not presume you would want to spend time with him every day but he couldn’t stop himself. He had met many pleasant ladies and lords over the years but he had never felt this way. He found himself nervous walking up to you but immediately at peace in your presence. And gods, you were as beautiful as you were clever.
‘Do you pray, my lady?’
‘I do, my lord.’
You hesitated for a second. If Gwayne sensed something, he didn’t bring it up. He just continued to look ahead. In some ironic way, not being prompted to talk about it made you want to talk about it.
‘I can’t always go to the sept and kneel, so on most days, I just pray in my chambers come nightfall.’
He turned to look at you and smiled so you continued.
‘I should very much like to go to the sept. I always feel ashamed that I am not being true to the gods.’
‘I hope the gods wish us only to be true to ourselves and in the end deem that a worthy life.’
It was your turn to smile now. You closed your eyes and felt the cold breeze against your skin. You took a deep breath and smelled the salt of the sea. You felt your hand graze his, the faintest of touches. If this moment stretched into an eternity, you would not want for anything else.
————
You were walking down one of Hightower’s many corridors when you heard your name being called. You turned around to see Gwayne running towards you with a box.
‘My lady, I wish to give you something. I hope I do not offend you.’
It was not a simple task to come up with ways Gwayne could offend someone. You pretended to think and consider his request.
‘If you do, I hear the dungeons of Hightower are quite empty these days.’
Gwayne laughed and unwrapped the box in his hand.
‘It is a leg binding. The maesters say it might provide stability to your leg and mayhap you could pray at the sept for a little while.’
You just stared at the binding, unable to comprehend what he had just said. A leg binding? It didn’t seem to be a complicated device, some leather and some metal. Could it really be true? You knew there was no magic cure to fully heal you but was this all you needed to be able to pray in a sept, to be able to walk just a little while longer, to be able to play with your nieces and nephews without sitting down every few minutes?
None of your family’s maesters had ever really suggested a way to help. It was just something one learnt to live with, they had said. You weren’t sure if they had been unmotivated to help or if they had never even been persuaded by your family to do so. Standing here in this corridor, as the wind rattled against the walls, you could hear every word. Everyone gets tired. Just get a good night’s sleep. You need not do wearying unladylike activities anyway. Theyhadn’t all been unkind, at least not all the time, but they had never been quite sympathetic either.
‘My lady?’
You broke out of your reverie at the sound of his voice and looked up at him.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ That was all you could muster as you took his gift and turned and hurried back to your chambers.
————
In your discourtesy and foolishness, you had never even asked him how you were supposed to use it. You wrapped it around your right leg with your maid’s help and hoped for the best.
It felt a bit different to walk with it but not unpleasant. You had started off from your chambers with excitement about this adventure, but as you reached the doors of the sept, you felt quite nervous. You pushed them open, walked towards the altar, and knelt in prayer. You let out a little gasp at the relative ease with which you could kneel. You weren’t scared anymore that it would all fall apart in any given moment, it was secure. You still felt some pain in your knee but it was as if finding a flask of water with a tiny pebble in it after moons of thirst. You would happily drink and endure it.
You could only stay that way for shorter than you would have liked before the discomfort increased but this was the first time in years you had even been able to do it at all. All you wanted to do now was run and find Gwayne and thank him. You weren’t naive, you knew you had been lucky that your affliction was hidden from the outside world and you were spared the open mockery that many others endured. But you had spent more time than you would admit, weeping at night and no one had ever cared this much before.
After resting near the sept for a while and massaging your leg, you made your way back to the castle. It wasn’t long before you found him at the training ground. You didn’t wish to disturb him so you just sat on the stairs nearby and waited for his sparring to be done. After he was done, you invited him to sit next to you.
‘My lady, you must forgive me. My appearance is quite unseemly to be greeting a lady.’
‘I would never have imagined you worried about such things. Perhaps, it is just how the Hightowers are. I saw Daeron staring at his reflection two days ago. And I need not elaborate on Ormund.’
‘I suppose not all of us are blessed with undeniable, innate beauty.’
‘My lord, you must not say such things.’
‘I apologise if I have offended you.’
‘No.’ It came out quicker and louder than custom would dictate. ‘It is I who must apologise to you. I have been utterly ungracious and ungrateful.’
He started to speak but you didn’t let him.
‘I wish to thank you for the kindness you have done me. I haven’t felt this happy in some time now.’
‘So it worked?’
‘Yes. It eased my unsteadiness enough that I could pray at the sept.’
‘I am glad to hear that.’
You were quiet as you tried to gather enough courage to ask him a question.
‘If I might ask, why did you bother with this?’
He turned to look at you.
‘Bother? You are my friend and you expressed such a simple wish.’
You moved your hand on top of his and squeezed it.
‘Thank you again, truly. I am not sure if I can always use it and for how long but even your consideration of my wish is a priceless present.’
Gwayne knew he was being rude right now but he couldn’t do anything about it. His mind had stopped telling him to listen or even reminding him to breathe really. He had no idea what you were saying. All he knew was that you were touching his hand with your soft, warm hand.
‘Uh, yes. Of course, my lady.’
You were actually holding his hand under yours. What in the seven hells had possessed you to do this? You weren’t sure if he had said something or asked what you were doing. You couldn’t focus on anything else. His hands were rougher than yours but you wanted to feel them everywhere. You immediately removed your hands at this thought. You needed to be smacked on the head.
‘I agree.’
‘What?’
Both of you turned to each other and looked at each other for a second before bursting into laughter.
‘I confess, I am not entirely sure what we are talking about anymore.’ You gained your senses first.
‘I am guilty of the same crime. But if you wouldn’t mind, next time I would like to babble on with your hand still holding mine.’
You weren’t sure you had heard him correctly but were it a mistake, you didn’t want it to be corrected. You reached out and intertwined your fingers with his.
————
‘Eat?’
‘No, you must not eat it, sweet prince.’
‘Game?’
‘No, it is not for playing. It is a letter. You must give it to her today when you are with her.’
‘Give letter.’
Gwayne pulled him up and sat him down on his lap. He felt guilty about using his nephew for delivering letters but he thought the answer to his inquiry was more likely to be positive this way.
Daeron had already dropped the letter to the floor and was now grabbing Gwayne’s hair in his tiny little hands. Even Gwayne forgot about it momentarily as he played with him and feigned hurt. Feigned before he was actually being hurt.
‘No, Daeron, please do not pull it so harshly.’
He stopped pulling for a second.
‘Seven, do not eat it either.’
————
Near the end of your third week in Oldtown, Lord Hightower threw a large feast celebrating the recent harvest and the castle was livelier than ever before. You were sitting next to Gwayne at the table.
‘I received quite interesting correspondence today, my lord.’
‘Oh?’
‘Delivered by a most interesting raven as well.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I think it was unfair of you to send such a sweet messenger. How can I say no?’
The gentle glow of Oldtown’s sun stirred the city awake with such gentleness that it was nearly a true fantasy. How the sun warmed your skin when it peaked through the drawn open curtains Gwayne had left open the night before. Mornings were his favorite time of day. With the world so far away from his very own, how she slept so beautifully next to him that his heart ached at the thought of moving.
“Ser Gwayne?” the maid called from the door.
He had heard her calling and the knocking, yet still did not attempt to answer it. He needed no irritants this early, nor tight laces or dresses to shield him from you this day. Perhaps he was a simple man who only desired simple things, to see you sleep so soundly or tug yourself closer to him when the draft chilled you.
And as he would eagerly assist in pulling you closer till your form engulfed his own without any protest or complaint. He would suffocate under your gentle weight if he possible, as the slow morning dragged on and on.
His hands at the dip of your waist and crux of your knee as your leg draped over him. His own breathing is full of slumber.
The maid had stopped knocking, but a smaller fist seemed to rap at the door. Quieter and more hesitant this time. Once, twice, and a third before the heavy door was gently pushed open. From his spot in the bed, Gwayne could see the small frame, the dark auburn curls lazily thrown into a stolen scarf, and bare feet padding across the cold floor till they stopped at his side.
“Is the room cold?” Gwayne asked, looking towards his nephew, who seemed half asleep where he stood.
And half asleep was true as Daeron yawed and nodded, wasting no time in pulling at the covers and joining you in using Gwayne as a warm mattress instead. The boy finding place atop his uncle with a satisfied hum once the blankets returned and everyone settled in.
These were the moments that made being a little late all the more worth it. The sept would still be there, and the seven would not rise from the clouds to damn him. Here with his small family was reason enough for Gwayne and all the reason he needed.
Authors note: I have no idea how Ser Gwayne Hightower managed to crawl under my skin by appearing for a few seconds on screen but here I am writing for the sad noble knight as if my life depended on it.
Warnings: SMUT 18+
Word Count: 5,8 K
Summary: a wounded knight, a healer's hut, and a love neither of them can afford
Dividers by @cafekitsune
The rain had come and gone three times that day. The forest smelled of wet earth and pine, and the cool air had made goosebumps rise along your arms. You shivered and gripped tighter your woven basket half-filled with mushrooms and wild herbs.
Most villagers avoided the forest even during the day, and every child knew the stories about spirits wandering beneath the trees once the light faded.
You knew better. The woods held wolves, thieves, and men. Those were the real danger.
The shadows were getting longer, you had to get home before darkness settled in.
It was when a distant sound reached you through the trees – a groan, low but unmistakably human.
You stopped and listened, the sound came again, so full of pain and angry despair that it made you flinch.
For a moment, you considered turning around and running. You didn’t. You couldn’t.
Your mind screamed at you in agony, calling you a fool, that whatever had happened here had nothing to do with you, that the only sensible thing to do was to vanish before anything worse happened.
You had never been good at sensible.
You stepped from the path and pushed through the undergrowth. The forest slowly darkened around you as the last remnants of daylight vanished behind thick clouds, but the direction you had chosen was right – the groaning grew louder.
A shape emerged between the trees.
A horse.
Dead.
Saddle half-torn loose, some pieces of armor scattered just next to it and several paces farther on – a man, sprawled against the roots of an ancient oak, one arm hanging uselessly at his side, face streaked with mud.
Your breath caught.
Not a bandit.
A knight, or rather what remained of one.
You stopped dead in your tracks. Men in armor brought trouble. Noblemen brought even more.
For all their faults, thieves and bandits understood the sacred rule: do not bite the hand that heals you. They knew what it was to go hungry, to bleed, to depend on the mercy of another. Noblemen rarely did.
They moved through the world as though it had been laid at their feet for their use alone. Gratitude flowed upward, never down. Kindness was expected, service demanded, and debts forgotten even before blood had dried on a bandage.
You had learned that lesson young, and life had seen fit to repeat it often.
Yet as you watched, the man’s head shifted weakly and you heard a strained breath escape him.
Not dead, not yet at least. You cursed at your foolishness as you moved closer.
The man's hair, damp with rain, stuck to his forehead, and even the mix of dirt and blood couldn’t completely hide the fine features of his handsome face.
The embroidery on his green doublet, the remnants of his armour, every single thing about this man screamed he was someone important, someone dangerous and surely someone far above the concerns of a village healer living alone on the edge of nowhere.
You leaned in and put your palm on his forehead. Burning hot.
His eyes opened. Blue of the morning sky and still sharp despite the pain. A shaky hand reached for you.
"Water," he rasped before his eyes rolled back, and his body slumped back against the tree.
You stared at him, at the blood seeping through his doublet, at the straight line of his nose, the sharp eyebrows.
The sensible choice would have been to leave him.
Instead, with a muttered curse and a prayer to every god willing to listen, you set down your basket and knelt beside the unconscious stranger.
You fetched the flask hanging from your waistband and slid one hand behind his neck.
"Easy."
His head lolled heavily against your palm and his eyes opened again, unfocused and glassy with pain.
You tipped the flask carefully.
He swallowed once, coughed, then drank again, greedily.
"Not too much," you warned, pulling it away.
His brow furrowed, whether at your words or simply from the effort of staying conscious, you couldn't tell.
For a long moment he simply stared at you. He looked confused, trying to place where he was, who you were, perhaps even remember his own name.
You set the flask aside and turned your attention to the armor.
The breastplate was dented along one side and mud had worked itself into every buckle and strap. You had to get it off but it was clear it was not going to be an easy task.
"What are you doing?" he managed as you started to pull at the straps.
"Saving your life."
Your fingers worked at the leather fastenings, the knight frowned and his hand moved weakly toward yours.
You slapped it away.
"Stop that."
A surprised blink and then, despite the blood loss and obvious pain, something almost resembling offense crossed his face.
"I can't carry you," you said with a slight scoff. "And you can't walk carrying half a forge on your shoulders."
The final buckle came loose, the breastplate shifted and he groaned in pain as you moved his body to ease it away from him.
You kept going – the pauldrons, the vambraces, all went off. He didn’t protest anymore, and piece by piece, all the steel fell away.
You looked at the man revealed beneath it – wiry but well built, pale and far younger than he had first appeared.
The doublet was stained dark with blood. The wound would need cleaning, stitching, perhaps, but none of that could happen in the middle of the forest.
"We need to move."
His eyes closed briefly and when they opened again, they were sharper and more aware.
"I can’t."
"You want to live, you will."
The look he gave you suggested he was unused to being argued with.
You rose to your feet and dusted off your skirts, his gaze followed you.
You offered your hand and after a moment's hesitation, he took it.
You braced your feet.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Good."
You pulled, he cried out as he put all his remaining strength in holding on to you and pushing himself upright. For a second his knees buckled and you already thought he would fall back on the ground, but somehow he managed to keep standing.
"Seven, help me," he muttered through clenched teeth.
You quickly stepped closer, draped his good arm over your shoulders and wrapped your own around his waist.
The weight that settled against you was considerable.
"Gods," you breathed, looking with remorse at your basket on the ground. There was no way you could lean down to fetch it without letting the man drop back into the mud.
The two of you stood there for a moment, swaying slightly.
“Move,” you ordered.
There was a pause but then he shifted his weight forward.
One step. It was shaky and painful, the movement drew a sharp hiss from him but it was a step.
"Good boy," you gave him an encouraging smile.
His jaw clenched but another step followed.
Consciousness returned slowly and in fragments.
First was the feeling of warmth, then the sound of crackling fire, next came the scent of dried herbs.
Pain. A dull, throbbing ache spread through his ribs, shoulder, and side.
Gwayne frowned, his eyelids felt heavy but he forced them open.
A low wooden ceiling, smoke-darkened beams, a small window.
Memories run scattered through his still somewhat foggy brain.
The battle. The screams. The pain.
The fire. The rain. The forest.
A woman.
Beautiful, large eyes looking at him with open annoyance.
He was alive.
The realization came with a fresh pulse of pain and a ragged gasp.
The door opened and you stepped inside carrying a wooden bowl filled with steaming water.
"Look who's decided to rejoin the living," you smiled seeing the young man awake and set the bowl down.
The blanket shifted as he moved, attempting to sit up, and he instantly froze and looked down, realising there was nothing between him and the blanket. Completely, absolutely nothing.
His eyes widened.
"What in the..." his voice sounded hoarse but it still was pleasantly soft.
He looked pointedly at the blanket, then back at you.
You blinked.
"What happened to my clothes?" The accusation in his voice was hard to miss.
You folded your arms.
"They're drying."
A beat of silence passed.
Gwayne's face grew steadily warmer as the implications arranged themselves in his mind and the speed with which the young man’s cheeks all over to his ears turned brightly red made you chuckle.
"You removed them."
"You were unconscious."
"You removed all of them."
You stared.
He stared back.
Finally you let out a long, disbelieving breath. "Seven preserve me."
"What?"
"You wake up in one piece after nearly dying in the middle of nowhere and that's your first concern?"
His jaw tightened.
"You undressed me."
"I saved your life."
"You undressed me."
"I stitched your wounds!”
The man looked genuinely mortified and offended. You looked genuinely ready to throw something at him.
His mouth opened, closed, then opened again but nothing emerged.
"Not even a thank you," your frustration spilled out before you could stop it. "Not one."
Gwayne blinked.
"I carried you out of the woods, spent half the night cleaning blood off you, used almost every bandage and pain soothing herb I had and unless you've discovered some miraculous method of treating wounds through a doublet, yes, I removed your clothes."
The room fell quiet.
Gwayne found himself staring at a knot in the wooden wall, and his ears felt suspiciously warm.
"You stitched my wounds?"
"That is generally how healing works when someone has a hole in his side."
Gwayne shut his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, the movement pulled painfully and he hissed.
The concern drove away the annoyance from your features so quickly that it caught him off guard. You immediately stepped forward.
"Don't. You'll tear the stitches."
Your gaze dropped to the bandages wrapped around his torso.
"Try sitting up slowly."
Gwayne eyed you suspiciously.
"Why?"
"Because if you're going to continue being difficult, I'd at least like you to be conscious for it."
It had been on the third day that the young man finally revealed his name.
To his credit, there had been no grand announcement, no expectation that the world should stop and marvel at it.
The truth had surfaced gradually, piece by piece, through idle conversation and half-answered questions until, with visible reluctance, he admitted that he was Ser Gwayne Hightower.
You cursed inwardly.
A Hightower. As if sheltering a wounded knight beneath your roof was not enough trouble to tempt fate. Of course he had to be a nobleman as well. Of course he had to belong to one of the most powerful houses in the realm, a house with its hands buried up to the elbows in the bloodiest war of the century.
Just your luck.
You dragged a half-dead stranger out of the forest and somehow ended up with a piece of the realm's troubles sleeping in your bed.
The days that followed settled into a rhythm neither of you acknowledged aloud – each morning began with fresh bandages and a new argument.
Gwayne healed quickly, much faster than you had expected. The fever broke after three days and by the end of the week, he could cross the room without needing to lean on walls or furniture. He stubbornly refused your hand whenever you offered it to him.
He had tried to ask you questions about the course of the war. You cut him off before he could speak them out.
"No discussions about kings, queens, claimants, dragons, battles, or whichever noble lord is currently trying to kill whichever noble lord."
A faint frown appeared between his brows.
"I merely wished to know..."
“I said, no,” you tied off the fresh bandage with perhaps a little more force than necessary.
Gwayne studied you for a moment.
"I'm too poor to have the luxury of caring who sits on the Iron Throne," you finally said and turned to face him. "When lords quarrel, villages burn. While princes decide who is entitled to crowns, common folk bury their sons. Armies take grain, horses trample fields, and healers like me spend their days stitching together whatever is left behind."
You folded your arms.
"I heal whoever comes through that door. Farmer. Merchant. Shepherd. Drunkard. When I picked you up in the woods, I didn’t ask for your title.”
Your gaze drifted briefly to the fresh bandages wrapped around his torso.
"I have no desire to be part of noble quarrels," you said at last, more quietly. "I don't want favors. I don't want rewards. I certainly don't want enemies."
A muscle shifted in Gwayne's jaw as it slowly hit him, the reason for that distinct feeling that learning his name had somehow lowered your opinion of him.
"You think knowing my name places you in danger."
"I know it does."
The certainty in your voice surprised him.
"When you leave this place, Ser Gwayne, I sincerely hope you forget the path that brought you here."
His expression tightened.
"You saved my life."
"Exactly."
You pointed at him.
"And if, after all that, the thanks I receive is having soldiers, rivals, debt collectors, spies, or ambitious noblemen showing up at my door asking questions, then I hope every old and new god in the Seven Kingdoms curses you for the rest of your days."
For a heartbeat, Gwayne simply stared, his blue eyes met yours and something softer flickered there, something unusually sincere.
"I give you my word. No one will hear of this place from me," the solemn certainty in his voice surprised you, and for reasons you could not entirely explain, you found yourself believing him.
A week later, Gwayne Hightower discovered that recovering from a near-death injury was considerably easier than earning your approval.
Gwayne had spent most of his life knowing exactly what was expected of him.
He was a knight. A Hightower. A soldier. The son of a powerful house.
There had always been a place for him in the world, a purpose that fit as naturally as a sword hilt in his hand until he woke up in your hut and discovered that in your world he had none of all that. Even more - he was entirely useless.
The realization did not come all at once.
At first, there was the wound. No man could be expected to work while half stitched together and burning with fever but the fever broke and the strength returned.
The days passed.
You rose before dawn every morning.
By the time he woke, water had already been fetched, the fire lit, herbs sorted, breakfast prepared.
Then the rest of the day began: children with split open knees, farmers with swollen joints, old women seeking remedies for aching backs, broken bones, cuts, fever.
You treated them all.
Then there was laundry, cooking, cleaning, mending, collecting herbs, brewing potions, the work never seemed to end, and somehow everything that needed doing simply found its way into your hands.
For the first time in his life, Gwayne found himself uncertain of where he belonged within it all. Worse still, he discovered that he wanted to belong.
Every morning he woke to the scent of porridge or fresh bread and the soft sounds of a household already awake around him.
It was a small life by the standards of lords and castles, a simple one, hard, undoubtedly, and demanding in ways he had never seen before, yet there was something about it that drew him in.
Perhaps it was the honesty of it, the quiet purpose woven into every task, or perhaps it was simply you.
Whatever the reason, Gwayne found himself wanting, more and more, to be a part of this strange little world fate had thrown him into.
It took him a while before he braved to offer help, but it seemed the least he could do.
A mistake.
A terrible mistake.
The first task you entrusted him with was watching the bread.
It sounded almost insultingly simple – sit by the oven, keep an eye on it, take it out when it was done.
A few distracted thoughts later, smoke began pouring from the oven and by the time he realized something was wrong and dragged the loaf out, it had transformed into a charred black brick that could scarcely be called bread anymore.
Your face when you discovered it haunted him for days.
The bowls proved even less cooperative. The task was to wash and dry them.
How could anyone wash dozens of fragile things every day without breaking them?
As the third one hit the floor, Gwayne stopped and sat down with his head in his hands.
Not that he had more luck with the wood. You had found him standing in front of the chopping block and watching the axe stuck in the log after his first swing with absolutely no idea how to get the stubborn tool out of it.
The truth was humiliating.
He was a knight and yet you were more capable than him in almost every practical matter that kept a household alive.
At first he found that realization uncomfortable, then impossible to stop thinking about.
He started to watch you. Not intentionally, at least, not at first.
His gaze simply found you. Again and again.
There was confidence in everything you did – competence earned through years of doing.
There was no one else in your life. No servants. No household staff. No family helping. Just you and yet somehow you managed it all.
And for the first time in his life, Gwayne found himself wondering if fate had dropped him into the world with nothing but his own hands, would he have managed half as well as you?
He wasn’t certain, and it made him feel both shame and admiration.
The realization arrived gradually like the dawn creeping across a room.
No single moment or dramatic revelation, just a growing certainty.
He liked your sharp tongue, the way you refused to be intimidated by him, the way you argued with him without hesitation or the way your eyes flashed whenever he said something particularly foolish.
Gods.
Especially that.
You were infuriating and somehow he found himself looking forward to every argument.
He liked hearing your voice, just simply being near you and seeing you smile. At some point, without noticing when or how, you had become the first thing he looked for when he woke and the last thing he thought about before sleep and once he acknowledged that, the rest became impossible to deny.
Your handsome knightly patient was getting better with every passing day and somehow it made you inexplicably sad.
Patients came and went. Some stayed for an afternoon, some for a few days. They arrived carrying pain, fear, and uncertainty and departed as soon as their bodies allowed it.
That was how it was meant to be.
Yet lately, whenever you looked at Gwayne, you found yourself wishing his recovery would slow.
Not stop, just... slow.
The wound along his side had nearly closed, the bruising had faded. He moved easily now, no longer wincing every time he stood, soon there would be nothing left keeping him here.
The thought sat heavily in your chest whenever you allowed yourself to think about it for too long, but even if you tried not to allow it, your attention kept drifting toward him.
The truth was, he was not at all what you had expected.
When you had learned who he was, you had imagined the worst – a proud nobleman, demanding and entitled, the sort who believed the world existed for his convenience only.
Instead, fate had delivered you a knight who burned bread, shattered bowls, and spent half an hour contemplating a log because he did not know how to chop it.
The memory still made you laugh and there was one thing you couldn’t deny – his efforts had been genuine, even after repeated failures, especially after repeated failures, he still never acted as though any task was beneath him.
Despite all his attempts to appear composed, he still blushed every time you changed his bandages.
A grown man and a knight, reduced to awkward silence and burning cheeks whenever you untied the laces of his shirt.
You glanced up from sewing the torn sleeve of his doublet.
Lost in thought Gwayne was staring into the fire again. He looked so out of place when he did that.
He looked lonely.
You had spent most of your life alone, you were used to it, and yet for a brief, foolish moment, you found yourself imagining what would happen if he stayed.
The thought lasted all of three seconds but it was enough for you to accidentally drive the needle into your thumb.
Then common sense returned with the pain.
“Ouch,” you hissed.
He would never stay and even if he wanted to, he shouldn't.
Gwayne belonged to castles and armies and great stone cities, to duties and responsibilities, to a world you could scarcely imagine.
You lived in a forgotten hut at the edge of a forest.
Your lives were not even supposed to touch.
Carefully, you brushed your fingers over the healed skin on Gwayne’s side one last time.
The gash was gone, the skin had knitted together cleanly and what remained would also fade with time.
You didn’t even notice Gwayne had gone suspiciously still beneath your touch.
"Well," you leaned back. "Congratulations. You are healed."
You both glanced down at the discarded bandage in your hands.
"There is no need for another one," you said more quietly.
You knew exactly what that meant. He could finally leave.
You placed the bandages aside and pushed yourself off the bed as a hand closed around your wrist.
Your eyes dropped to the place where his fingers touched your skin.
Gwayne immediately looked as though he regretted every decision that had led him to this moment.
Color flooded his face.
Gods.
You had never seen a man blush so thoroughly.
The redness reached all the way to his ears.
For a heartbeat he simply stared at your joined hands.
Then he released a breath.
Opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
You waited.
Gwayne looked like a man preparing to charge a dragon.
You blinked.
"I … I…,” he stammered.
“What?"
A flash of horror crossed his face.
"Gwayne."
His gaze found yours again.
"Come… come with me," he finally managed.
You stared, certain you had misunderstood.
"What?"
His grip tightened slightly before immediately loosening again.
As though he feared frightening you away.
"When I leave."
The words came slowly now.
Carefully.
"I want you to come with me."
For a moment, you simply looked at him, at the handsome knight sitting on your bed with an earnest terror in his eyes.
A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
"Gwayne."
"I know how it sounds."
"Do you?"
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
That, at least, was honest.
Neither of you moved but neither of you looked away.
Gwayne still held your wrist lightly. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he loosened his grip and turned your hand in his.
His gaze dropped to your fingers as he lifted your hand toward his mouth.
The touch of his lips against your knuckles was feather-light.
You could have pulled away.
You knew that.
You should have.
Instead, your hand remained where it was.
Gwayne kissed your knuckles first, one after another, slowly, eyes shut close, savouring every touch of his lips against your skin.
When he finally looked up at you again, something had changed.
The uncertainty in his gaze remained, but now there was something else alongside it.
Wonder.
As though he could scarcely believe you were still there, that you hadn’t pulled your hand away.
Slowly, giving you every opportunity to stop him, he leaned closer.
"Gwayne..."
His gaze flickered briefly to your mouth then back to your eyes. You held your breath but didn’t move away.
Carefully, tentatively his lips brushed yours. So lightly, so briefly that at first you almost wondered whether it had happened at all, even so your heart stumbled painfully in your chest.
Gwayne’s eyes fluttered shut and he leaned in once more. His hand cupped your cheek and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers as though he could scarcely believe he was allowed to touch you.
You felt him smile faintly against your lips, a small, disbelieving thing, as if he had spent so long hoping for this moment that now he didn't quite trust it to be real.
Without thinking, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
It drew a soft breath from him, something between a soft moan and a whimper.
The sound sent warmth flooding through you.
Gwayne's hand, still resting against your cheek, slipped into your hair, his fingers threading through the strands before settling at the nape of your neck. The touch was careful, almost protective, yet there was nothing uncertain about it anymore.
The kiss deepened, his lips moved against yours with impossible tenderness but you could feel the quickened beat of his heart beneath your palm on his chest.
When you finally broke apart, it was only because breathing had become necessary.
"Gods," he murmured.
"What?"
A smile appeared. It was slow but bright enough to transform his entire face.
"I was certain you were going to throw something at me."
Despite yourself, you laughed.
Gwayne drew back with the unmistakable look of a man gathering the courage to say something that mattered.
His lips parted.
You already knew what was coming.
A promise, a plan, something sensible and reassuring.
You did not want any of it. You didn’t want promises that were impossible to keep. You wanted this moment, this beautiful fleeting moment between now and then, where everything was possible and nothing was spoken out loud.
Before he could say anything, you lifted a finger and pressed it gently against his lips.
"Hush."
He blinked.
"Don't."
There was confusion in his gaze, you ignored it.
Slowly, you guided him backward. He let you. The mattress dipped beneath his weight.
His gaze never left your face.
You crawled on top of him, straddling his hips. His heartbeat picked up beneath your palm. Fast. Much too fast for a knight.
You smiled.
"Don't speak," you murmured.
His throat bobbed.
"Just feel. No promises. Just this one night."
Your fingers drifted absentmindedly across taut planes of his abdomen tracing the familiar lines of the body you had spent weeks tending back to health.
Beneath your touch, every muscle seemed to go still.
You leaned in and pressed your lips to the scar on his side. Gwayne's breath caught audibly, head tipping back with a soft gasp.
The sound emboldened you. You kissed the line of the scar again, letting your tongue trace its length. His hips twitched beneath you and a low, broken sound left his throat.
“Gods…” he breathed, fingers flexing against the sheets as if he didn’t know whether to reach for you or hold himself back.
“Schhhh, my knight,” you whispered.
You took your time exploring him with your hands and mouth, every scar, every ridge of muscle, every place your fingers had once brushed as you tended his wounds, you worshiped them now with your lips and tongue – the hollow of his throat, the sharp line of his collarbone, the sensitive spot just beneath his ribs that made his breath hitch sharply.
Gwayne’s head pressed back into the pillow, eyes half-lidded. You loved the soft, helpless sounds that spilled from his lips with every touch, all the quiet gasps and shaky moans. His hands finally rose to your waist, gripping lightly, reverently, as though you were something sacred he was terrified of breaking.
“Don’t…,” he managed, voice wrecked. “I… I can’t…”
You silenced him with a deep kiss, swallowing his words as you rocked your hips slowly down against his. His fingers dug into your waist, then loosened again, trembling with the effort.
“It’s my choice,” you said firmly. “You’re mine for this one night. Unless you tell me you don’t want it.”
Gwayne swallowed hard but didn’t say anything.
“I take it for a yes,” you smiled and started to pull your dress over your head.
You let your fingers trail the hem of his breeches.
The moment you pulled him out, your noble knight almost stopped breathing. He was beautiful, hard and flushed, a vein running along the underside from base to the flushed tip.
You wrapped your hand around him slowly, stroking once from base to tip with a feather-light touch and Gwayne’s chest started to rise and fell rapidly, his hands fisting the sheets.
You stroked him a few more times, gliding your thumb over the sensitive head, drawing beautiful broken whimpers from him.
His hands settled lightly on your thighs, fingers trembling. He didn’t guide or rush you. He simply held on, as if touching you was the only thing keeping him from shattering.
You shifted higher on your knees, Gwayne’s gaze snapped back to yours, pupils blown wide.
“Are you sure?” he rasped. You silenced him by sinking down onto him, slowly, unhurriedly, savoring every inch. Gwayne’s head fell back with a broken moan, hands clutching at your thighs.
You stayed still for a moment, savoring the way he pulsed inside you, then you began to move. Slow rolls of your hips, rising and sinking down on him again and again.
You loved every desperate sound your movements drew from him: the soft, needy moans, the sharp gasps and pleas he couldn’t seem to stop.
Your proud, noble knight was completely unraveling beneath your touch. The flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes fluttered half-shut with every roll of your hips, the broken sounds he couldn’t hold back… you loved it. You loved it more than you could ever admit.
His hips started to buck up to meet you, sharp needy thrusts that almost knocked the air out of your lungs. You stemmed your feet against the bed and rode him harder, faster, grinding down, chasing your pleasure shamelessly.
Gwayne’s back arched clean off the bed with a strangled moan, one hand flying up to clutch at your waist as he kept moving against you.
“Good boy,” you moaned, leaning down and capturing his mouth in a messy kiss.
The praise hit him like a spark to dry tinder. Gwayne whimpered into your mouth, the sound raw and needy, his tongue sliding against yours in urgent sloppy strokes.
His fingers dug into your waist as he flipped you over like you weighed nothing.
“Say it again,” he gasped, voice wrecked and pleading, hips slamming against yours in almost desperate rhythm. “Please…, I need to hear it.”
You moaned beneath him, nails raking down his back, as the new angle sent sparks of pleasure shooting through every nerve.
“My good boy,” you breathed against his lips. “My perfect knight.”
“Fuck me harder, knight!” you moaned and a low, broken groan rumbled from Gwayne’s chest, his hips stuttered, rhythm faltering before he managed to get the hold of it and started driving into you with deeper, more powerful thrusts.
It didn’t take long, a broken sob of pleasure tore from you as you shattered, back arching against the bed. He kept fucking you through it, arms wrapped around you, holding you close. The tenderness never left him even as moments after he came, gasping, shuddering, groaning hoarsely against your neck.
The night passed in quiet whispers and lingering touches. Neither of you spoke much, there seemed little point.
Words belonged to tomorrow, tonight belonged only to the two of you.
Gwayne held you as though he feared the dawn, you rested against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
At some point during the night, when sleep still felt far away, Gwayne pressed his face into your hair.
"I never want to let you go."
The honesty of it was both beautiful and unbearable.
For a moment, you closed your eyes. Gods help you.
It would have been so easy to pretend, to let yourself believe impossible things, that the war did not exist, that he could stay or that you could follow.
Instead, you reached up and brushed your fingers through his hair.
"This was my parting gift, Gwayne."
You felt him go still and the silence that followed hurt more than any argument could have.
His arms tightened around you again.
"You could come with me."
"And go where?"
He did not reply.
You shook your head.
"You belong to your world and I belong to mine."
His breathing grew uneven, but he didn’t say anything.
Morning arrived far too quickly, by sunrise you slipped out of bed.
“It’s time,” you whispered. He didn’t answer.
A moment later Gwayne stood fully dressed beside the door, his sword at his hip.
The sight felt wrong.
Neither of you seemed able to find the right words, but in the end, it was you who broke the silence.
"You should go."
Gwayne looked at you, eyes moving over your face.
He took a step toward you, then stopped and nodded once. A small, broken gesture before turning and walking out the door.
You remained where you were, arms folded tightly across your chest.
The path disappeared between the trees a short distance from the hut.
Gwayne reached it and stopped.
Your heart betrayed you immediately.
For one terrible second, hope surged through your chest.
He turned around.
Even from there, you could see the question in his eyes.
Come with me.
Stay.
Choose differently.
Slowly, you shook your head.
No.
His eyes closed briefly, then he turned and continued down the path.
You watched until the trees swallowed him completely, only then did you allow yourself to sit down.
You did not see the tears that finally slipped down Gwayne's face once he was safely hidden by the forest.
And he never saw yours.
Years passed. The realm endured.
A fragile peace settled across the land, uncertain and imperfect, yet peace nonetheless.
Life continued.
The little hut remained where it had always been, tucked against the edge of the forest, the herb garden had grown larger, the roof needed repairing twice.
The ache had softened with time and become something quieter, a fond memory tucked carefully away, a story belonging to another life.
The afternoon sun was warm against your skin as you sat outside sorting herbs into neat bundles.
Your hands moved automatically, the work was familiar enough that your mind could drift elsewhere – toward a broad-shouldered knight with kind eyes and a talent for burning bread.
You paused, a stem of lavender still between your fingers as you couldn't shake a feeling of being watched.
Slowly, you lifted your head, the forest stood silent. Nothing there. You shook your head at your own foolishness yet looked up again.
A movement caught your eye. A figure was standing at the edge of the woods, far enough away that another person might not have recognized him.
You did. Immediately.
Not because he looked unchanged, time had touched him, as it touched everyone, yet you would have known him anywhere.
A soft smile appeared on your lips before you could stop it.
The figure remained motionless for a heartbeat longer, as though he needed a moment to convince himself you were real.
Then Ser Gwayne Hightower began walking toward the hut, and with each step he made, you found yourself smiling a little wider.
notes hate to love (but i won’t call it enemies to lovers), fierce and feral reader, mentions of violence and bullying, ultra possessive and dominant neteyam 🤭, reader has a bad male friend, rough smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving), secret relationship, , someone sees them going at it 🙂↔️
synopsis for years, you and your friend have made it your lives’ work to rile neteyam up and make him unworthy of his birthright. but somehow, neteyam only ever gets riled up by you and completely ignores your friend’s existence.
word count 20.5k
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
“What is it, Sinto?” you asked, not looking up from the obsidian arrowhead you were scraping against a stone.
The lanky boy stepped into your space, blocking the sunlight filtering through the canopy. Sinto was your only friend in this village, your bond forged in shared grief more than genuine friendship. Both of your parents had died on a raid gone wrong under Jake Sully’s command. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t strictly the Olo’eyktan’s fault, because war was war, and the sky people spared no one, but logic did nothing to soothe an orphaned child left with a hollow heart. Both you and Sinto decided that both of your parents were dead because of Toruk Makto’s bad decisions.
It gave both of you a quiet reason to hate the legendary family who walked around like royalty.
In a clan that prized strength, two orphans had to stick up for one another. If you didn’t, you’d get eaten alive by the older kids and a highly competitive warrior culture that had no patience for the weak.
Around you, the atmosphere near the training ground was thick with tension. The upcoming sparring matches were a massive deal for the aspiring hunters, of which Siton was included. It was where you showed your teeth, where the clan decided if you were worth noticing. And currently? Neteyam was leading the ranks and obliterating everyone in his path.
“Look at them,” Sinto spat, his voice dripping with venom as he watched Neteyam effortlessly pin another boy into the dirt. “They look at him like he is the real deal, none of them even sees the obvious that he is only leading in the ranks because he is being taught by the Olo’eyktan himself. He is learning from the best, of course he wins.”
“The best?” you echoed. You snorted, looking up at Sinto with a sharp, cynical smirk. “It is always subjective, Sinto. My father was the best in a hand-to-hand combat, too, and he learned from Jake Sully. You can beat Neteyam if only you work as hard.” You rolled your eyes, returning to your arrow.
Sinto’s bitter expression melted into a slow grin. He knelt beside you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s what I like about you, Y/N. You see through the illusion.” He leaned closer. “I have a plan... but I need you.”
You paused again, your eyes snapping to him. This wouldn’t be the first time Sinto asked something from you. You two have quite the reputation, and you are fine with it if it meant you wouldn’t be ganged up on when you were alone. You and Sinto only had each other, and if he needed you to help him take what he believed he deserved, you wouldn't hesitate. You were loyal to him to a fault. Like you believe he is to you.
“What do you want me to do?” you asked.
“The final match will happen soon. Neteyam will go against Litkir. If he misses it, he is disqualified,” Sinto whispered, his eyes gleaming. “The only thing that can peel him away from his focus is his family. Go find Kiri. Distract him through her.”
“Kiri? She is older... And she never did anything bad to me,” you frowned, your nails digging in your palm.
Sinto sighed loudly, his face turning into a deadpan. “I’m not telling you to make her bleed. Just a little scuffle. Nothing permanent. Enough to make him look like a failure of a brother.”
You looked at him before nodding, sheathing your dagger, and standing up. Sinto has come in your defense for most of your life, he protected you from your bullies and taught you to fight back. Showing up for him whenever he needed it is the least you can do.
Tracking Kiri wasn't difficult. You found her near the riverbanks, laughing with one of her friends. The sight of her, so untroubled, so heavily protected by the status of her family, ignited a bitter spark in your chest.
You stepped out from the foliage, blocking their path. “You are a long way from your brothers’ shadow, Kiri,” you taunted, your arms crossed as you sauntered toward them.
Kiri’s smile vanished, her ears pinning back. “What do you want? We are not looking for trouble.”
“Too bad. Trouble found you,” you scrunched your nose, stepping forward to shove Kiri back.
Her friend gasped, trying to pull Kiri away, but you lunged, grabbing the girl's arm to drag her away from the path. In the chaotic scramble, the girl panicked, tripped blindly over a slick root, and fell hard into the mud, a sickening pop echoing from her foot.
She let out a piercing shriek of pain, clutching her ankle as tears immediately mixed with the mud on her face. Kiri lunged for you, tackling you to the mud and grabbing at your braids. It is obvious that she isn’t really used at being violent because her grabs weren’t as painful as that of the older girls you grew up with.
Even her clawing at your skin wouldn’t bleed much, you know from experience. You didn’t fight back, allowing her to grab at your braids and smear mud on you.
“Kiri?! Rinyal?!” you heard another girl’s voice and your head snapped to the bushes.
The girl jolted in fear, her eyes wide. A huge, predatory grin cut at your lips, but before you could even move, Kiri shouted, “Call Neteyam!” And then she realized what today is for Neteyam. “Or Lo’ak! Call Lo’ak!”
You bursted out in laughter. “Call Neteyam! Call Lo’ak!” you mimicked to mock her.
Your hands grabbed at her shoulder so you could shove her backward, tackling her into the mud, knowing her brothers will come soon and you want to treat them to a good view. You turned when the bushes burst open, seeing Neteyam charging into the clearing, eyes wild with panic. When he saw his sister pinning you down to the mud and her crying friend, his gaze locked onto you.
His breathing was heavy, his chest heaving as he took in the scene. Neteyam was known across the clan for his gentle nature, his endless patience, and his calm demeanor. But right now? The look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated fury.
“What is wrong with you?!” Neteyam yelled, his voice cracking with a rare, explosive anger as he rushed forward.
Lo’ak came running after him, dragging you away from Kiri. You shoved him away, standing on your feet. You saw Neteyam dropped to his knees beside the sobbing Rinyal, checking her ankle.
“She attacked us!” Rinyal cried out, pointing a trembling, muddy finger at you. “We were just walking and she came out of nowhere, Neteyam!”
Neteyam looked up at you from the dirt, his golden eyes burning into yours, waiting for an explanation, a defense, a shred of remorse.
You stood your ground, crossing your arms loosely. You didn't even blink. “I didn't even push her,” you said plainly, rolling your eyes. “She sprained her own ankle because she is clumsy!” you pressed, looking at the girl. “Rinyal, next time you try to get in the way, make sure you are strong enough.”
Neteyam’s scowl deepened. He stood up slowly, stepping toward you. The sheer malice and indifference radiating from you made something snap inside him. To be so cruel, and to not even be sorry for it, it was beyond his comprehension.
“She is hurt, Y/N. She cannot walk,” Neteyam hissed, his already deepening, adolescent voice dropping to an even lower octave. “You have no honor at all, do you? You’re not even sorry.”
“Why should I be?” you spat, wiping some mud on your face.
Neteyam’s hands trembled with a rage he had never felt in his entire thirteen years of life. But Rinyal’s painful cries pulled him back to reality. He had to take them back to Hometree and you know that by now, he would have been delayed for the match.
He scooped the injured Rinyal into his arms, casting one final, dark look over his shoulder at you. “You will face consequences for this,” he vowed.
And because he chose to carry them back, Neteyam missed his final sparring time slot. He was officially disqualified from the matches. When Sinto found out, he practically glowed with triumph, praising you for a job well done.
“That’s great,” you said, your skin back to its pristine, mud-free state, sporting a different loincloth.
“By the time his father does something about it, I will have been ahead of him in the ranks,“ he told you.
But the victory was short-lived. Later that evening, one of the senior warriors spoke up during the evening debrief. “Neteyam did not flee from a fight,” the senior pointed out to the council. “An aspiring warrior such as he is chose to protect and help the vulnerable who are in need when our warriors have failed to do so. That is the exact trait a future Olo’eyktan must possess.”
“Damn them!” Sinto furiously said after dinner, pacing the wide branch overlooking the council longhouse on which you are both perched to listen to the meeting. “They speak as if he will surely be Olo’eyktan one day.”
“Well, he is the Olo’eyktan’s firstborn,” you pointed out, walking away from the branch and jumping down to a lower one.
“It shouldn’t be that way though. What was in his blood that proved he is worthy? It should be determined by merit,” Sinto said, following closely behind you.
You turned to him. “He is leading the ranks,” you reminded him.
You understood that Sinto was furious. He had worked in the past years since he became aspirant to compete with Neteyam who obviously doesn’t deem him threatening enough to compete with. Both of you stepped back into the clearing where most youth were gathered for the senior warriors’ announcements.
You watched as the senior announced, that by order of the council, Neteyam was reinstated into the matches. His friends cheered for him, pushing against his shoulder and jumping around him. But as you watched him from the shadows, you noticed his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed squarely on you.
It sharpened in an instant, a look of pure, unadulterated disgust as he remembered your cruelty. Rinyal seriously injured her ankle, but you’re here, standing with Sinto who is equally as malicious as you are. Your head tilted and he looked away with a scowl on his face. He may be back in the running, but he had absolutely not forgotten your transgression.
And neither had Kiri.
Mostly her friends, actually. Rinyal was still struggling to walk after a few weeks, and they knew they couldn’t let what you did slide so easily. One day, when you were foraging alone, a snare snapped shut around your ankle. You were yanked upward, dangling upside down. You gasped, catching sight of three girls emerging from the brush, their faces grim. Following behind them was Kiri who was looking up at you more in worry than in anger.
“Drop her on her head!” One of the girls said.
“What? What if she dies?” The other panicked.
“But we can't let her go! She's feral. She’ll attack us!”
“Oh, I will!” You groaned, struggling against the thick vine biting into your ankle.
“See?!”
“Lower her down, I'll bash her head with a rock!”
“Vrixa?!” Kiri called out. “She is only eleven!”
“So is Rinyal, Kiri, and this demon broke her ankle!” Vrixa reasoned. “Lower her down!“
You were lowered just a little and when Vrixa neared you, you attacked her. She panicked and hit the side of your forehead with the the rock she was holding. You groaned, clawing at her legs until your sight blurred a little from the pain on your forehead.
“Vrixa!” Kiri called again, panicking now, her eyes on you as yoir weakened state was lowered down. She gasped at the blood on your forehead, her view blocked by Vrixa and the two other girls who dragged you to the nearest tree.
They tied you firmly to the tree, the vines biting into your midriff, arms, and legs. Then, they began to throw mud. Thick, stinking peat and river slime coated your face, your hair, your loincloth. They laughed, a sound that felt like needles in your ears, remembering the laughter of the other girls that made your life a living hell growing up.
“That is enough,” Kiri said, wrangling her clean fingers as she watched you weakly leaned against the bark of the tree.
The other three stopped, looking at you with satisfaction, murmuring about you being weak when you’re alone, before before disappearing into the path of the river. You squeezed your eyes shut. You don’t even want to open your mouth because you might taste the mud. You tried to wipe it off your shoulder but your shoulders were also muddied.
You groaned, struggling against your tight binds, to no avail. You were tied there for hours. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the bioluminescence of the forest began to glow, mocking you with its beauty. You wondered if Sinto will come once he notices you were gone for too long, but you couldn’t really count on him on that, not when he’s probably busy socializing with his fellow aspirants, playing the role of the grieving orphan and the ambitious youth.
You craned your head when you heard footsteps crunching on the loam. You tried to struggle against your binds again, fearing that it might be a stray palulukan or viperwolf, but you stopped when a figure emerged from the gloom. You pulled your lips back, baring your fangs, but your eyes lost a little of its sharpness when you saw Neteyam. He stopped a few feet away, his expression unreadable. He stepped closer, trying to get a look at your face through the layers of dried mud.
“Get away from me!” you shrieked, snapping your teeth at him.
Neteyam hissed at you through his teeth, his eyes landing on a deep gash on your forehead where Vrixa had hit you. “You look pathetic.”
“Go ahead! Laugh!” you said, your head trying to reach him so you could bite him. “Once I’m freed here, I’m coming for your sister and her friends!”
He mockingly huffed, “How is it that I got here first before your friend? I can leave you here. We’ll be lucky to still find you whole tomorrow, but a palulukan at night is as hungry as a Na’vi breaking fast.”
You sniffled, glaring at him. “Leave me here then. I always knew you were a shitty person.”
He stepped forward, his knife flashing in the dim light. Your mouth clamped shut, genuinely afraid for a moment that he’d finish the job Vrixa had started. With a few swift movements, he carelessly sliced through the bindings. You collapsed in a heap, your muscles numb and cramping, making you hit the floor hard,
Another set of footsteps approached and you lifted your head, seeing Sinto appear, his expression shifting instantly. It is obvious that he merely followed Neteyam out and was surprised to see you in this condition, probably only ever remembering you now that he saw you. The outraged concern on his face was no doubt only born from the fact that Neteyam was involved.
“What happened?” Sinto demanded, rushing to your side. He looked up at Neteyam, his voice loud enough to carry through the trees. “Did you do this?”
Neteyam stood still, his chest rising and falling. He had overheard Kiri’s friends laughing over you earlier, doubling over the look on your face when ‘you were hanging upside down’. Sure, he dislike you to a certain degree but you were bleeding, muddied, and defenseless right now, and you didn’t deserve this as much as Rinyal didn’t deserve her ankle injury.
He knew Kiri and her friends did this, but he couldn’t tell anyone that, not when he would be admitting she had committed an act of cruelty, which would compromise her standing and his father's reputation. He watched Sinto haul your body up in his arms, hurriedly going to the direction of Hometree.
He followed Sinto, the steady, heavy thud of his footsteps trailing like a drum behind you. Your head was throbbing with a brutal, pulsing agony, and the pain only intensified with every step Sinto took. He was practically hoisting you like a political trophy, his calls for help echoing with an exaggerated panic as he climbed the winding ramp up the communal clearing.
“Help! Someone help her!” Sinto’s voice cracked, taking everyone’s attention.
When he finally broke into the wide clearing, the evening chatter of the clan had already died, replaced by a heavy, shocked silence. You were a horrific sight. Caked in layers of dried mud, the deep gash on your forehead weeping fresh crimson that carved bright paths through the filth on your face. Your limbs and midriff were crosshatched with angry red welts where the tight vines had chewed ruthlessly into your skin.
“What happened to her?!” one of the older weavers cried out, dropping her basket.
“It’s Neteyam!” Sinto yelled immediately, his chest heaving as he carefully laid your shivering, weak body onto the woven matting. He spun around, pointing a furious finger at the boy who had just stepped into the light. “He was mad at Y/N for what happened to Kiri and Rinyal weeks ago! He cornered her alone in the dark, retaliated, and did this to her!”
A collective, horrified gasp rippled through the crowd. Their eyes snapped from your bleeding form to Neteyam. He stood perfectly still, his frame still tall and unyielding, though his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the hilt of the hunting knife in his hand.
Neytiri stepped down from the dais, the crowd parting before her like water. Her fierce eyes took in your broken state, and a rare look of pure disbelief crossed her features. She looked at her firstborn.
“Neteyam?” she uttered, her voice a low, trembling whisper of horror. “Did you do this?”
Neteyam looked at his mother. For a second, the mask of the perfect soldier slipped and a flicker of anxiety crossed his features. He looked up to his mother, the thought of her fearing him or believing he was capable of such senseless brutality cut to him quickly.
“No,” he said, his voice steady despite the pressure. “I did not.”
“Then who did?!” one of the senior council elders demanded, stepping forward. “Violence against our youth cannot be tolerated! Who brought this shame upon our clan?”
“Neteyam, do you know who did this?” Neytiri urged, her eyes pleading for an answer that would clear his name.
Neteyam’s golden gaze drifted down to where you lay. Your eyes had closed against the harsh glare of the fires, but the dark blood from your forehead had begun to seep anew, rolling down your temple. He disliked you, sure, but as he looked at the raw, bloody cuts on your skin, his jaw tightened. He would hate to put Kiri in a compromising situation, but he could not, and would not, let a pack of cowards hide behind his name while a girl bled out on the floor.
His eyes scanned the murmuring crowd until they locked onto Kiri and her circle of friends. Vrixa, who had been laughing so raucously about what they did to you hours prior, now looked like she had swallowed ash. The other two girls were visibly trembling, shrinking behind Kiri’s taller frame. Neteyam’s eyes met his sister’s. Kiri looked at you, then up at her brother, and gave him a subtle nod. She wouldn't let him take the fall.
“Vrixa,” Neteyam voiced, his tone cutting through the clearing like a cold wind. “Would you like to tell them, or should I?”
Vrixa’s eyes widened in sheer terror as every head in the clearing snapped toward her. Under the crushing weight of the clan's scrutiny, she cracked instantly. “It—it wasn’t just me!” she stammered, her voice high and panicked as she turned on her accomplices. “They helped! They said we couldn't let her go because she’s feral!”
Within minutes, the girls dissolved into a crying mess of mutual betrayal, the truth spilling out into the open, how they had snared you, tied you up, and how Vrixa had ultimately bashed the side of your forehead with a rock when you fought back. Neteyam’s face crumpled at the brutal details.
An elder turned his sharp gaze back to Sinto, his brow furrowed in disapproval. “And what of your serious accusation against the Olo’eyktan’s son, boy? You swore he did this.”
Sinto stood straight, refusing to back down, smoothly pivoting his strategy. “He had every cause to do it! I found him standing over Y/N’s bound body. Y/N told me herself weeks ago that Neteyam vowed she would face consequences for what happened to Rinyal. How was I to know it wasn’t him?”
“That is not a legitimate cause, boy, and you need to be careful with your reckless tongue,” the elder scolded sternly. “Vrixa, Weyan, and Parey will all face severe consequences for this dishonor. This cycle of violence ceases tonight.”
But Sinto wasn't finished. He had to take this opportunity, uncaring that you had literally slipped out of consciousness now. He took a bold step forward, gesturing grandly toward Neteyam, his voice ringing out across the entire canopy.
“He could barely even speak to defend himself, knowing his own sister was involved in the crime!” Sinto shouted, his eyes flashing. “Is this truly the kind of leadership we want for the Omatikaya? An inherited power that protects its own while the vulnerable are left to rot in the mud? I propose to the council that the position of Olo’eyktan should not be a birthright! It should be determined by merit, not blood. Let the young men compete for it. Let the strongest and the most just lead us into the future!”
The elders immediately scoffed, others grumbled angrily about tradition, structure, and the laws of Eywa, several of them loudly scolding Sinto for his blatant disrespect.
But from the dais, a deep, commanding voice cut through the noise.
“The boy has a point.”
Jake Sully stepped forward. He looked at Sinto, then at his own son.
“Ambition isn't a crime if it's paired with merit. Times are changing. We need the absolute sharpest blade to lead this clan. We will establish a series of trials over the coming years. The leadership of the Omatikaya will be earned.”
Neteyam looked at his father in admiration, even though everyone looked at him expecting him to not like this. Little did they know, that deep down, Neteyam thrived on the idea. He also didn’t fault Sinto for the suggestion. He was born as the firstborn son of Toruk Makto, the grandson of Eytukan, but that didn’t mean it automatically earned him the right to lead the people.
If the people wished to see him fight and work hard for the right to lead, then he would.
As the years bled into one another, Neteyam’s confidence proved justified. By the time he turned twenty, he was obliterating every milestone set before him. He claimed his ikran on the first try, his hunting parties brought back the largest kills, and he remained firmly at the absolute top of the warrior ranks. Sinto’s grand plan to open the competition had backfired, though he would never admit it. All it did was give Neteyam a grander stage to prove his undeniable superiority.
“Neteyam doesn’t care about you, Sinto, that much was clear,” you said, drawing the bowstring back to your jaw and lifting your chin a little as you adjusted your stance.
You released the arrow and before it could even hit the target, you felt a stinging slap behind your thigh. You jumped in surprise, turning to Sinto who playfully smacked it. You were about to hiss at him when you caught sight of Neteyam walking down the pathways with a senior warrior.
You wouldn’t have bothered looking at him for longer than a second if only his eyes weren’t trained on you. There was a deep scowl on his face and he looked like he had smelled something rotten, his eyes narrowed and full of judgment as per usual.
You stood straighter and crossed your arms to properly glare at him, but his attention was also immediately snagged by the warrior he was talking to and he looked away so smoothly he didn’t even look like his attention was temporarily taken by Sinto smacking the back of your thigh. You smirked, watching the muscles on his broad back flex when he circled his shoulders.
Pretentious bastard, you thought. Acting like he hadn’t smack a girl’s back side before.
You watched him disappear down the pathway, his stride long and effortless. You feel annoyed at how the passage of time had generously treated him. None of the boys your age, not even Sinto, was treated as nicely by puberty as he was. At twenty-two, he had completely grown into the clan’s ultimate golden boy. He was massive, bigger, broader, and taller than almost every other young warrior in the Omatikaya. Just the mere presence of him was enough to place every other male in the village on the sidelines.
Yet, for all his physical perfection and the giggling trails of young women who followed him with their eyes, you had never heard a single rumor of him getting involved with anyone. No late-night rendezvous, no shared hammocks, no stolen glances by the cooking fires. He was practically a saint.
But as you stared at the empty path where he had just been, a cynical thought crossed your mind. It’s impossible that he hasn't laid with anyone. You snorted quietly to yourself. No male with a body like that, muscle packed tight over a towering frame, lived like a monk. He was probably just incredibly secretive about it, hiding his desires behind that infuriating mask of the perfect soldier and dutiful son. Or maybe he really was just as stiff and rigid as the wood of his own bow.
“What is it?” Sinto’s voice cut through your thoughts. He had caught you staring somewhere, his eyes narrowing as he tried to follow your line of vision. But Neteyam was already completely out of sight.
You smirked, adjusting yoir grip on your bow. “Nothing.”
You turned your back around, nocking an arrow, drawing it back and releasing as you walked. It slammed directly into the center of the target with a satisfying thud. Sinto grinned, murmuring something about your form, but your mind was already elsewhere, still irritated by the lingering memory of Neteyam’s judgmental scowl.
Sinto stood up to walk toward you, conveniently standing behind you to adjust your stance. You rolled your eyes, shrugging his hand off but his other hand remained on your hip.
“I’m a huntress, Sinto. I know how I should stand,” you said as you draw your string back.
You focused on the target, but your eyes slithered back to the pathway when a sharp shift in the shadows distracted you.
It was Neteyam. He was walking back alone this time, his stride unhurried and graceful despite his size. The moment you spotted him, you realized he had already been looking at your direction.
But as soon as your eyes collided with his, a deep, heavy scowl marred his handsome face. It was instantaneous, like a physical reflex. He looked at you with a cold, irritated intensity, as if he utterly hated the fact that you were in his line of sight, and hated himself even more for letting his eyes wander to you in the first place. His gaze dipped for a fraction of a second, taking in Sinto’s hand still resting familiarly on your hip, and his jaw clenched so hard you could see the sharp line of his muscle twitch from yards away.
You held his gaze, refusing to look down. With a slow, deliberate smirk, you turned your head back to the target and released the arrow. The arrow slammed dead-center, splitting the wooden shaft of your previous shot. Sinto let out a low chuckle, clapping your shoulder and squeezing your hip.
“Beautifully done, Y/N. You're getting too fast for these targets.”
You didn’t hear him. Your eyes darted back to the pathway, but Neteyam was already marching away, his tail whipping behind him in an agitated motion. A quiet, smug satisfaction bloomed in your chest. For someone who claimed to despise you, who acted like you were nothing but an irritation to the peace of the clan, he sure spent a lot of time watching you.
It wasn't the first time you’d caught him. In the common area during meals, during the hunting briefing circles, or even when you were simply crossing the suspension bridges, you would look up and find his heavy gaze already anchored to you from across the crowd. Scowling and judging, but always looking.
“Come on,” Sinto said, pulling you back to reality as he gathered his things. “Let's get to the grounds before the hunters crowd it.”
“You go ahead,” you replied, sliding your bow over your shoulder. “I have to report for dusk patrol.”
You turned around and jogged to the command tent to check in with your patrol leader, only to slow down as a sour look rested on your face. Standing there, leaning over a tactical map bathed in the cool glow of the hanging firepot, was Neteyam.
The firelight flickered across the intricate stripes of his skin and the heavy, braided cords of his hair. Because of his rank and his status as the leading warrior in the leadership race, he held a position of authority over the hunting parties. Technically, he was your superior. He could order you around, and he knew it.
As you approached, Neteyam didn't even look up from the map, but you saw his ears twitch, tracking your footsteps.
“Ah, Y/N, perfect timing,” your patrol leader said, nodding to you. “You’ll be taking the eastern route tonight.”
Before you could even acknowledge the command, Neteyam calmly reached down and tapped a spot on the map, far beyond the eastern canopy.
“Actually,” Neteyam voiced, his deep, smooth baritone cutting through the humid air. He finally lifted his head, his golden eyes locking onto yours with a cool, deliberate challenge. “The southern ridge has had reports of unstable ground and minor viperwolf pack activity. The younger hunters shouldn't be sent there alone. Send Y/N to clear the outer perimeter of the southern ridge first, then she can double back to her original route.”
Your ears pinned back instantly. A low, defensive hiss threatened to bubble up from your throat.
The southern ridge was brutal, what will all the thick mud and thorny bushes. Adding that to your dusk patrol meant you wouldn't return to Hometree until well after midnight.
“The southern ridge is a two-person job, Neteyam,” you said, stepping forward, your voice dripping with sweet venom. “Are you sending a partner with me, or are you just hoping the viperwolves do your dirty work for you?”
Neteyam slowly straightened to his full, towering height, looking down at you with that maddeningly calm, self-righteous expression.
“You are a capable huntress, Y/N,” he said, his tone deceptively soft. “I'm sure the great, fearless Y/N doesn't need her hand held to walk a ridge. Unless, of course, you're admitting you can't handle it.”
Your jaw clenched so hard your teeth ached. He was doing this on purpose. He was pulling rank just to make your life miserable. The worst part is that you knew this would happened the moment you saw him here. Your brain has been accustomed to knowing that there will be an added task specifically for you whenever you see him.
Usually, you two managed to exist in entirely separate spheres. You could go up to a full moon without ever having to cross paths or speak a word to one another, which suited you just fine. But whenever Neteyam did choose to acknowledge your existence, it was only ever for two reasons: First, to make your life miserable by casually burying you under the most tedious, exhausting labor, giving you the worst patrol routes, or assigning you to clean the hunting gear.
Second, to play the hero. He swoops in every time you happen to fight with your fellow hunters, or huntresses mostly, to defend the poor, fragile huntresses from your “evilness”, entirely blind to the fact that those very same girls had just spent the last twenty minutes trying to ambush you.
“I can handle it just fine,” you spat, stepping right into his space, refusing to let his height intimidate you. You leaned in close, your voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “Just make sure you’re this diligent with everyone else’s duties, Commander. It would be a shame if the people realized your leadership style only means fucking me over.”
A spark of genuine, volatile heat flashed in Neteyam’s eyes, his tail snapping sharply behind him. For a split second, his perfect, patient facade cracked, revealing the raw, explosive temper that only you seemed capable of pulling out of him.
His jaw tightened as he gestured toward the forest. “Go. Before I decide to double your perimeter run.”
You let out a mocking huff, spun on your heel, and marched out of the tent, leaving him standing in the firelight, his eyes burning a hole into your back. He didn’t even know why you had become a big deal to him in a way Sinto had never been, even though it was obvious that your friend had a special life mission of provoking his ire.
To Neteyam, Sinto was a fly buzzing around him. Insignificant and entirely unworthy of his energy.
But you? You were a completely different story.
Neteyam knew himself to be level-headed. He could handle Lo'ak's reckless stunts with a sigh or Sinto's pathetic taunts with total indifference, but the mere sight of you sauntering about the village like a tyrant was like lighting a fuse on a keg of black powder. Around you, he was a ticking bomb, his calm completely shattering into a raw fury that no one else in the village could ever provoke.
You were sharp-tongued, volatile, and fiercely combative. You were constantly picking fights, cornering huntresses by the training grounds or the archery targets, acting like you owned the forest. You haven’t changed at all from the eleven-year-old girl who brought trouble to his sister for the fun of it.
What he doesn’t know was the reality behind all of it. After the incident with Kiri and Rinyal years ago, the majority of the girls in the village had completely ostracized you. It would have been better if they only ostracized you and left it at that, but they don’t, they gang up on you. They would wait until you were alone in the thickets, cornering you three or four at a time, but you were never one to run away. You fought like a cornered viperwolf, and because you were strong, faster, and meaner than them, you usually won.
Neteyam never saw the beginning of those fights. He only ever walked in on the aftermath.
He would happen upon a clearing to find two girls crying on the ground, and you standing over them, dusting yourself with a mocking smirk on your lips.
“What is happening?!” he would always say, stepping between you and the other girls, furious and self-righteous, his broad shoulders tensing as he shoved you back. “What is wrong with you? You feed on the weak like a predator!”
You glared at him, sniffling before steeling your expression. “Maybe if your precious little clan members spent less time gossiping and more time training, they wouldn't end up face-down in the dirt,” you would taunt in a scalding voice, your eyes flashing before shoving back against him and walking away.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
“He gave you the southern ridge again?” Sinto hissed when you returned to Hometree long after midnight, your skin thoroughly mapped with shallow cuts from the thorny brush and your feet caked in heavy, black mud.
Sinto was waiting for you by the lower roots, leaning against the bark with his arms crossed. He looked at your exhausted state, his eyes glowing with a calculating glint. Over the years, Sinto had realized that while he couldn’t get under Neteyam’s skin, you could. Neteyam’s absolute obsession with policing your behavior was a weapon Sinto loved to use.
“I wonder what you did this time,” he asked, putting down the water basin from the root pools.
“I have no idea. He likes surprising me,” you said, wetting a woven cloth to wipe the grime from your neck.
“He didn’t even punish you like this when you disrupted his archery class two weeks ago,” Sinto pointed out.
“Perhaps he thought delaying the punishment and serving it when I least expect it would be funnier,” you muttered, aggressively rubbing at a streak of dried mud on your collarbone.
“He’s trying to break you,” Sinto whispered. “Everyone knows no one could break at his facade better than you do, and he’s using his authority to subdue you.”
“He’s not breaking anything,” you rolled your eyes, washing your legs now. You were too tired for his political speeches. “I cleared the perimeter. The southern ridge is quiet.”
Sinto’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile. He leaned in, his hand sliding down to grip your shoulder, his fingers pressing a little too firmly into your aching muscle. “Good. Because the next phase of the Olo’eyktan trials is coming up. The grand hunt. If Neteyam is distracted looking for you, he won’t be looking at his prey.”
You frowned, tilting your head away from his touch. “What are you planning, Sinto?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” Sinto murmured, his yellow eyes flashing. “Just do what you do best. Keep his eyes on you. Keep him angry.”
Loyal to a fault, you didn’t push further. Sinto was the only one who had stood by you when the rest of the village turned you into a pariah. You had no other friends, but he does and he still hangs out with you. If he needed you to be Neteyam’s target so he could get ahead, you would play the part. You had been playing it for years anyway.
The day of the trial hunt arrived, a massive test where the young warriors were split into competitive tracking parties to bring back the largest hunt. It left the atmosphere thick with excitement and the scent of ceremonial paint and the nervous energy of the hunters.
Neteyam was in his element. He stood at the head of his party, his longbow slung around him, his chest painted with the bold, sweeping stripes of a lead tracker. He was calm, focused, and utterly in control, until his eyes swept across the clearing and landed on you.
You were leaning against a weapon rack, lazily spinning a hunting dagger in your hand, wearing a smirk that was directed entirely at him. Across from you, Sinto gave you a subtle nod before slipping away into the brush with his own party.
The hunt began. Neteyam’s party moved like a shadow through the deep canopy, tracking a herd of yerik. They were closing in, their movements silent and synchronized, when a sudden, sharp cry echoed from a parallel ridge, the distinct call of a huntress mocking her prey.
Neteyam froze. His ears twitched, recognizing the pitch of your voice instantly.
He signaled his party to halt with a raised fist, his brow furrowing. You weren't supposed to be on this side of the hunting grounds. Your party’s designated zone was miles to the west.
Then came the rustle of leaves, deliberately loud, crashing through the brush just ahead of them. The herd bolted, scattered by the sudden noise, their heavy hooves thundering away into the valley. A morning’s worth of careful tracking, completely ruined in a single heartbeat.
Neteyam’s jaw tightened, his eyes trained on the thicket where the noise had come from, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His hunting party had erupted in sharp curses as the empty trail stared back at them.
“Neteyam?” one of his trackers whispered, startled by the terrifying, dark aura suddenly radiating from Neteyam. “Should we double back?”
Neteyam shook his head, his golden eyes fixed on the shadows. “Hold here. I will check the perimeter.”
He stalked toward the bush, pushing through the dense foliage, his long legs eating up the distance until he burst into a small, secluded clearing.
There you were. You were sitting casually on a thick, mossy branch, swinging your legs, a half-eaten fruit in your hand. You looked down at him, your eyes sparkling with a wicked light.
“Looking for something, Commander?” you taunted, taking a slow bite of the fruit. “You seem to have lost your prey.”
Neteyam stopped at the base of the tree. He didn't have his mask on today. He was completely, utterly unhinged. The sheer volume of his rage was palpable, vibrating in the humid air between you. He looked up at you, his chest heaving, his hand gripping his bow so tightly his knuckles were white.
“You did that on purpose,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a gravelly, predatory register that made the hairs on your arms stand up. “You deliberately crossed into our boundary to scare the herd.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” you lied smoothly, leaning forward, resting your chin in your hand. “I was just tracking a smaller trail. It's not my fault your precious herd are so easily spooked by a girl.”
“Do not play stupid with me, Y/N!” Neteyam roared, the sudden blast of his voice echoing through the trees, startling a flock of syaksyuk from the canopy. He took a step closer, his tail thrashing violently behind him. “You are sabotaging the hunt! You are risking the safety and the sustenance of this clan for whatever pathetic, bitter game you and Sinto are playing!”
Your smirk faltered slightly at the mention of Sinto, but you quickly recovered, sliding down from the branch to land gracefully on the floor, just feet away from him.
“Oh, are you upset?” you mocked, tilting your face up to meet his furious gaze. “Are you going bend me over and teach me a lesson for ruining your perfect little record?”
Your words hung in the air, heavy and sharp as a poison dart.
Neteyam froze. The explosive anger that had been building in his chest died instantly and you saw the pupils in his eyes dilate so rapidly they nearly swallowed the gold.
Are you going to bend me over and teach me a lesson?
The incredibly graphic nature of what you had just spat at him made him lose his focus. His mind, which he worked so tirelessly to keep disciplined and worthy of a future leader, betrayed him with terrifying speed.
It raced to the dark, quiet corners he tried so desperately to ignore. It dragged up a vivid image of doing exactly what you just said, shoving you against the nearest tree, pinning your hands, and bending you over to force that mocking, arrogant smirk right out of you.
He used to hate being so bothered by you that his mind would frequently take a different route. He had suppressed too many fantasies a thousand times over by now, but what you said supplied such a brutal, intensely hot image in his mind that he nearly choked.
A sudden, fierce heat rushed from his chest straight down to his loins. Under his loincloth, he felt himself harden, thickening with a sudden, humiliating rush of blood. He took a sharp breath between his gritted teeth that fortunately sounded like a furious hiss.
He burned with a fresh, twice-as-deadly fury not just at you, but at himself. “You—” Neteyam choked out, his voice cracking, thick with a dangerous mix of rage and sudden, raw lust. He took a threatening step toward you, his chest practically touching yours, his tail thrashing like a cornered predator. “You are so—”
“What? Are you going to insult me about being indecent and immoral again? Or that I hide behind Sinto because I’m too weak to stand on my own feet? I am twice the warrior any of your fragile little friends will ever be,” you taunted.
Neteyam’s eyes dropped to your lips. For a terrifying split second, he thought he was actually going to grab you by the nape and kiss you. He wanted to do it so bad his hand on his bow trembled so hard that the wood creaked. He wanted to actually teach you a lesson. He wanted to slide his hands over your hips and tear those mocking words right out of your throat.
And that was exactly why he had to get away from you. Like a coward.
“Then prove it,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a gravelly register. He looked at you with a gaze so hot, so utterly consuming, it felt like a brand. “Stop these wicked games, this sabotaging, before I have you stripped of your weapons and banned from the command tent.”
You let out a harsh, breathless huff, your heart hammering against your ribs from the dangerous rush of having him this close, this completely consumed by you. “I'd love to see you try,” you whispered back, your eyes dropping to his lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to his eyes.
His lips pulled back tightly to reveal his gritted teeth, his sharp fangs on display. “Go back to your zone. Now.”
You rolled your eyes and bit onto your fruit before turning on your heels and sauntering back into the foliage, your tail still flicking with excitement. Behind you, Neteyam closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool bark of the tree you had just occupied. He let out a long, ragged exhale as he fought down the humiliating, tight ache between his thighs.
Later that night, the communal clearing buzzed with the celebratory noise of the successful hunts. Sinto’s party returned victorious, dragging back a massive beast, and although Neteyam’s group came back with a sufficient haul enough to feed the families, it is still far from the legendary catches he usually secured.
Neteyam himself wasn't even bothered about the results, or angry, because he knew it went that way because of your sabotage. He had always had an accepting view of the trials, he knew he wouldn’t always come out on top of every single challenge because the other young men competing are also doing their best. He was cool about it.
Until he looked across the communal fire.
In the corner of the clearing, he saw Sinto approaching you, and as if someone had put blinders on his head, he couldn’t look away. He watched with an extreme focus as Sinto casually pulled you close... and kissed you right there in the open.
Neteyam’s lips parted for a moment before he pressed them into a thin line, his teeth clenching so hard he thought at least one of them would crack. Sure, he hadn't felt like a loser for bringing home the second-best hunt of the day, but looking at you in Sinto's arms, he felt like a loser for a completely different reason: for the first time since Sinto had started competing with him, he wanted something Sinto had.
For years, Neteyam had been entirely indifferent to Sinto. He was never threatened by him, never envious of him. But now, his chest felt like vines had wrapped around his heart and his lungs. He remembered the casual way Sinto had smacked your thigh the other day and how it had drove him to an anger so irrational he pulled rank on you and added weight on your dusk patrol.
He had never truly considered the possibility that you two might be lovers, he had simply assumed you were two wicked, bitter friends who stuck together out of spite. And now, as Sinto pulled you away from the crowd and into the darker pathways outside the clearing, Neteyam felt like he was going to explode.
Hidden in the shadows of the woven pathways, away from the prying eyes of the feast, Sinto backed you against a broad branch and kept kissing you.
You let him, but your heart wasn't in it. You made out with Sinto from time to time, but you never let it go any further than a simple kiss. To you, it was just a physical distraction, something to do for fun. But the truth was, you didn't even like the way he kissed. Sinto was sloppy, selfish, and always expected you to do the work.
And whenever he tried to push your boundaries, urging you to be more physical, you always rejected him. You didn't even like his kisses, and there was absolutely no way you were going to let him fuck you.
“Y/N… come on,” Sinto whispered, his hand sliding heavy and demanding down to your waist, trying to pull your hips flush against his. “I won the trial tonight. Let’s celebrate properly.”
You placed both hands firmly against his chest and pushed him back, your expression instantly flattening.
“Be serious, Sinto,” you said, crossing your arms defensively over your chest. “I don't want to go there with you. I told you that already.”
Sinto scoffed, his ego taking a brief hit, but he quickly masked it. He raised his hands in mock surrender and flashed his easy, manipulative smile. “Alright, alright. Let’s just go back to the feast.”
You rolled your eyes and followed him back. If you wouldn't give Sinto what he wanted, he would simply find other girls in the clan who would and you didn't give a single fuck.
But Neteyam, apparently, did.
The weeks bled by and you knew these are one of those weeks, or sometimes even a moon, where you won’t even catch a glimpse of the end of Neteyam’s tail. He had probably decided that your constant interaction weeks ago were enough.
You did your part of avoiding, too, practicing your marksmanship late into the afternoons when the archery grounds were mostly empty.
You stood alone at the range, drawing back a heavy longbow, aiming for a distant target. You released the string, watching the arrow fly, only for a chaotic commotion to shatter the quiet of the grounds.
You snapped your head toward the heavy murmurs, your eyes widening at the sight that welcomed you.
Neteyam was marching toward you, his chest heaving, his face twisted into a mask of pure, unbridled rage. He was manhandling Sinto, dragging him by the nape of his neck. Sinto was a complete mess, his face was bloodied, his nose broken, and his swollen eyes were barely open as Neteyam hauled him across the dirt.
With a final, furious grunt, Neteyam threw Sinto violently at your feet. Sinto collapsed into the dirt, groaning weakly as he clutched his bruised side.
You stared down at your childhood friend, your lips parting in sheer disbelief. Neteyam had spent years ignoring Sinto’s pathetic attempts to get under his skin. Yet now, Neteyam had beaten him into a bloodied, pathetic pulp. It was completely ridiculous, but looking at Sinto writhing on the ground, you felt a strange, forbidden burst of satisfaction.
“That bastard is cheating on you!” Neteyam roared, pointing a furious finger down at Sinto.
You blinked. Sinto? Cheating? A small, incredulous laugh escaped your lips as the idea sank in. You shook your head, looking from Sinto up to Neteyam’s chest, which was rapidly rising and falling with his heavy breathing.
“Let him do what he wants,” you said plainly, resting your bow against your hip. “What? Are you policing what he does now, Commander?”
Neteyam’s eyes narrowed, his pupils shrinking as your utter indifference pushed him past his limit. Somehow, your response made him even angrier than before.
“Are you serious?” Neteyam hissed, taking a heavy step toward you, his voice cracking with raw, defensive fury. “You are allowing yourself to be disrespected this way? You let him touch you, and you don't even care that he touches others, too?”
You smirked, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze, completely ignoring the small crowd of people that had gathered around the perimeter to watch the spectacle.
“I don't care, really,” you said softly, your voice dripping with easy amusement.
Neteyam stared at you, his chest heaving, a look of profound disgust and utter bewilderment washing over his face. He looked at you like you were some kind of creature he couldn't comprehend.
“Both of you are so sick,” he spat through his teeth.
He turned on his heel and stormed away, his steps heavy and furious, his tail lashing violently behind him.
You watched him go until he disappeared into the thick foliage of Hometree. Beside your foot, Sinto let out a weak, rattling laugh, spitting blood onto the grass.
“He was so mad,” Sinto wheezed with a bloody grin.
You looked down at him, nudging his ribs lightly with the toe of your foot to check if Neteyam had cracked anything, and he did. You looked at your arrow, Neteyam’s furious face flashing in your mind’s eye. You tried to rack your mind for any possible reason why he could be so mad about Sinto cheating on you.
“What were you doing anyway?” you asked, setting the arrow and raising your bow.
“Making out with Fxeyka behind the weapon sheds,” Sinto muttered, wiping blood from his lip.
You scoffed, pulling the string back and locking your eyes onto the target. “He cannot even mind his own business,“ you muttered, releasing the arrow and smirking when it slammed dead-center into the target.
Just like that, the story of Neteyam beating Sinto to a bloodied pulp became the lifeblood of Hometree’s gossip circles for weeks. Sinto made sure to utilize every single opportunity to taunt Neteyam, trying to pretend his broken nose and shattered ego were nothing. But indeed, they were nothing, especially when he could parade his bruised face and paint Neteyam as a mindless brute.
That’s the thing, too, Neteyam was never mindless. He was never a brute, either. So, why had Neteyam reacted that way? When has he ever given a single thought to Sinto's existence? And more confusingly, why did he care about Sinto cheating on you, a person Neteyam had openly detested for years?
As for Neteyam, he remained uncaring of the gossips and the suffocating weight of the village’s stares trying to see when’s the next brawl will be. His fellow warriors and hunters didn't dare ask about it either, even though they were there when he gave Sinto the beating of his life. Only Jake Sully, of course, had the gut to ask. He’s heard about it from the elder warriors, apparently his firstborn had gone berserk.
So when he asked to know what had prompted the explosive violence, Neteyam sat by the cooking fire, his body vibrating with a tightly coiled anger at the mere reminder. He didn't even know what was more maddening anymore, the fact that Sinto had dared to treat you like a disposable toy, or the fact that you had stood there and laughed in his face, entirely indifferent to the disrespect.
He had simply expected more from you. He thought you had more pride.
“He was cheating on Y/N,” He casually told them.
“Y/N? The huntress under Likya?” Neytiri asked, her sharp eyes alight with an intense curiosity. She chose the safest, most neutral words possible, though she knew you well, mostly for your unique ability to rile her eldest son past his incredible patience.
“Yes, Mom. That’s her,” Kiri said in a thoroughly amused hum, leaning over to elbow Neteyam in the ribs. “Why do you even care, brother? I heard Y/N doesn’t even give a damn.”
“It’s good you care for her, Neteyam,” Tuk piped up, speaking with a mouthful of roasted root.
“What?” Lo’ak asked, letting out a loud, disbelieving laugh. “For Y/N? No one triggers Neteyam’s anger better than her!”
Tuk shrugged her small shoulders, fiercely defensive. “She’s kind to me. She defended me once when the older boys didn’t want me to join their play.”
Neteyam’s ears twitched sharply, his eyes snapping up to his youngest sister. “Defended you how?”
“She threatened to cut off their tails if they didn't let me play,” Tuk said matter-of-factly. “They always make me join now.”
Neteyam’s jaw dropped and the entire family went entirely still, astounded by the sheer, unhinged protective streak you possessed. Only Jake had the gall to let out a booming laugh. Neteyam took a sharp, slow breath through his nose, rubbing his temples. You were utterly impossible.
Yet, looking back, he realized he didn't regret a single strike he landed on Sinto’s face. What’s confusing to him though is how even with the talks of his violence streak, he still inadvertently became a hero among the women for defending you for being cheated on, even though you were the village outcast. Everywhere he looked, women threw him shy glances and batted their eyelashes at him, even more so now.
Meanwhile, you weren’t faring well. But that has always been your normal.
The whispers followed you even by the riverbanks, where the rush of the water usually drowned out the noise you wanted to escape.
“Look at her,” a voice said, filled with a malicious kind of pity. “Still working on Sinto’s arrows. She thinks if she labored for him enough, he’d actually be contented to her.”
The girls giggled, a grating sound that made your ears twitch violently. You kept your back turned, your fingers wrapped around the rock you were using to sharpen the Sinto’s arrows, your knuckles turning pale.
They had everything entirely wrong. They thought you were a lovesick fool, desperately clinging to Sinto’s scraps because you had no one else. You didn't do things for Sinto out of love, you did them because you were fiercely loyal to the only person who had stood by you when you were being bullied as a kid. And now, he was the only one who hadn't turned his back on you when your peers cast you out after what happened with Kiri yeats ago. If the price of his companionship was enduring his carelessness and cleaning up his messes, you paid it willingly.
He was your only friend.
“Maybe if she begs him, he'll let her sit at the edge of his mat tonight,” another girl taunted, tossing a pebble that caused a splash your way.
Your jaw clenched hard, debating with yourself is you should rip your hunting knife from its sheath and show them exactly how desperate you were. You wanted to silence them the only way you knew how, with teeth and claws.
But you forced yourself to stay still. You took a ragged breath through your nose, letting the cool water numb your burning palms. Let them talk, you told yourself, though their words were clawing its way deep under your skin, targeting a spot your pride used to be. You were used to the isolation, but the humiliating narrative that you were a pathetic, weak-willed girl begging for a boy’s attention was a bitter poison you could barely swallow.
And Sinto wasn’t even doing anything to clear things up to defend your honor. He rarely ever does when it concerns his public image.
And so when the next trial for the Olo’eyktan race was announced, a freezing realization caught on you. Something that had never even crossed your mind before. The day before the trial, Sinto dragged you into the deep shadows of the communal clearing’s alcove. His usual easy charm was completely gone, replaced by a frantic, desperate edge.
“Neteyam is still leading the race far ahead of me,” Sinto whispered, his grip on your arm tight enough to leave a deep bruise. “If he wins tomorrow, he will create an even bigger gap, and we are stuck at the bottom of this clan forever.”
He pulled a small, tightly sealed vial from his loincloth. You recognized the foul, pungent stench immediately. It was a concentrated oil made from crushed seed pods. When smashed near water, its scent perfectly mimicked a fatally wounded animal, drawing any nearby predators into a hyper-aggressive, bloodthirsty frenzy.
“I need you to climb the high ridges directly above Neteyam’s designated tracking path,” Sinto commanded, shoving the vial into your hands. “Crush these on the wet rocks. It will draw the viperwolf packs right down on top of him. It’ll ruin his tracking time, maybe get him injured seriously enough that he drops out.”
You stared down at the vial, then out at the dark, dense woods. The sky was turning a heavy, bruised violet, a massive downpour was coming.
“No,” you said softly, taking a firm step back. “The mud on the high ridges is completely unstable in the rain, Sinto. If the viperwolves attack him there, getting slowed down is not what’s going to happen. He’ll lose his footing. Neteyam could die out there.”
Sinto stared at you, his features twisting into an ugly, unfamiliar sneer. He let out a harsh, mocking laugh that made your stomach turn.
“Who cares if he dies?” Sinto snapped, lunging forward to invade your personal space. “When did you start caring about that self-righteous bastard? He’s the one who makes your life miserable, remember? You owe me this, Y/N. Who stood by you when those pathetic huntresses threw you out of the circles? Who is the only reason you’re even allowed to carry a bow with your nasty reputation? Me.”
The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest.
You owe me.
In the sudden, heavy silence, the fragile illusion of your entire youth shattered. The memories of the last few years flashed before your eyes in a horrifyingly clear, agonizing light. You remembered the vicious fight with Kiri and Rinyal years ago—the one that had cemented your isolation. Sinto had been the one whispering in your ear, instigating the fight, using you to target Neteyam's family.
You remembered when Vrixa and her friends had ambushed you behind the tanneries. Sinto had been “conveniently” late to help. If Neteyam hadn’t come out and checked the woods, no one would have known that you were in trouble. And surely, Sinto only came out after him to see what he was up to. Even then, he had spinner a narrative that Neteyam had orchestrated the bullying.
He had isolated you on purpose. He kept you friendless, angry, and defensive so that you would have nowhere else to turn, using your fierce loyalty into a weapon he could point at Neteyam whenever he needed to clear his path.
“You know what, Sinto?” you whispered, the realization washing over your skin like ice water. “If you cannot beat Neteyam without these underhanded tactics which we have used a hundred times over the years, and yet he still lands on top, then who is to say you deserve to lead more than he does? You’re not doing this so we won't be left at the bottom. You’re doing this entirely for yourself. And you don’t care who dies for it.”
Sinto’s eyes narrowed into slits, realizing he had lost his grip on your leash. The manipulative smile died completely. “If you won't do it, then you are entirely useless to me.”
“I won't do it,” you spat, tossing the vial into the dirt at his feet. “Whatever happens in the trial, it is on your own merit. Beat him clean for once, Sinto. Prove yourself.”
But of course, Sinto won’t let it slide that quickly. Enraged by your defiance, he sent his latest woman your way, whispering vitriol that you were trying to force him into a mating bond. Riled into a frenzy, the girl and her friends ambushed you by the training grounds. You fought back like a cornered viperwolf, but you emerged with deep, nasty scratches marring your jawline, neck, and arms, your braids a complete mess.
On your way to the river to wash, you crossed paths with Neteyam. You kept your eyes locked straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge him, but his sharp eyes instantly caught the angry red welts on your skin. He took in a sharp, furious breath through his nose. He didn't want to care, but the sight of you bleeding made something inside his chest twist violently.
He pivoted on his heel and followed you, his large hand shooting out to grab your elbow, pulling you to a halt.
“What?!” you hissed, spinning around defensively.
“What happened to you?” he demanded, his voice dangerously low.
You huffed a bitter, breathless laugh. “What always happens. I bullied a bunch of innocent girls and they fought back. The perfect version of the story you prefer, Commander.” You smirked before aggressively wrenching your arm from his grip and storming away.
Neteyam’s eyes darkened, his chest tightening with a sudden, heavy wave of shame. You were right. He had spent years assuming the absolute worst of you. He always expected you to be the catalyst of the petty fights that happen in the training grounds, letting his prejudice blind him to the fact that it was always a bunch of girls against you.
And you were always so alone.
He followed you to the river from a distance, staying hidden within the thick foliage. He watched as you knelt by the water, washing the dirt from your scratched arms. Then, he heard a sound that seized at his chest and caused his face to crumple in frustration. A small, choked sniffle. You were crying.
He saw your shoulders shaking but he heard no following sounds. You were crying in silence, refusing to even sniffle so you could breathe. Your breath was so even that the shaking of your shoulder stopped, and if he didn't hear a choking sound of you struggling to breathe, he would assume you had stopped crying.
Everything was so practiced, so professional. You were good at this... At hiding that you were crying. And even when you thought you were alone, you still chose to not sob earnestly. He heard you take a shuddering breath before plunging entirely into the cold river.
He waited, but the silence stretched too long. Panicking that you weren't coming up for air, Neteyam stepped out of the bushes onto the bank, trying to see your form under the water. When you finally broke the surface, you were already glaring at him, as though you knew he was standing over the water. You hauled yourself out of the water, ignoring his presence entirely as you pushed past him.
“Is that what you do?” he asked, his voice rough as he followed you, trying to rile you up. “You attack those girls and then you come to cry at the river like a loser?”
You stopped dead in your tracks, turning on him with a murderous glint in your eyes. “Don’t piss me off more than I already am, Neteyam. You might not make it to your trial tomorrow,” you gritted out through clenched teeth before walking away.
He watched you walk away, his gaze on your back until you were out of sight.
The next day, the tracking trial commenced. You forced yourself not to care, but your chest was tight with a sickening anxiety the entire day. Sinto was desperate, and a desperate Sinto was lethal. You keep wondering about what he could do to Neteyam and you’d had the urge to throw up for about thirty times in the last few hours.
When the horn finally blew, signaling the return of the victor, Hometree erupted into deafening cheers. You pushed through the crowd, your breath catching when you saw Neteyam. He was covered in mud, but a massive, triumphant smile split his face as his brothers-in-arms hoisted him up.
His eyes scanned the crowd and landed squarely on you. You saw his smile softened, but almost as instantly, you turned around and walked away, a heavy weight lifting from your shoulders. Sinto had lost. Cleanly. And a huge part of you waa delighted about that. For the first time in your life, you are happy for Neteyam. You are glad that he had won.
But without Sinto, you don’t have anyone to sit with in the feast. That was the only thing you were a little bit sad about... You wanted to be there.
Desperate to escape the loneliness despite the boisterous celebratory feast, you volunteered for a late-night perimeter run on the eastern boundary and received an approval immediately, considering that no hunter would want to go out there while everybody’s having fun.
You were already deep into the bioluminescent brush when the sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind you. You spun around, scowling deeply as Neteyam materialized from the shadows.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you snapped.
Neteyam raised an eyebrow, his tail flicking with an infuriating calm. “I’m walking the perimeter. The senior hunters wanted a second pair of eyes out here tonight.”
“The senior hunters didn't send you,” you hissed, stepping directly into his space, pointing a sharp finger at his painted chest. “I volunteered for this run specifically to get away from the feast, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for a shadow. You just won the trial. Go back to Hometree and let the clan kiss the dirt you walk on. I do not want you here.”
Neteyam’s eyes dipped briefly to the scratches on your neck before snapping back to yours. “You’re walking into the deep woods alone at night while you’re clearly not at your best. You look like you can barely hold your bow straight. You seem so alone out here—”
“What did you just say?” you cut him off, your voice cracking with a genuine, burning rage. “Is that what this is? The great, righteous warrior taking pity on the village outcast? You think because Sinto is rotting in his corner and I’m out here by myself, I need your pathetic charity?”
“I didn’t say that,” Neteyam's jaw tightened, his perfect composure fracturing a little.
“You didn’t have to! You’ve spent years looking down your nose at me, judging every breath I take, assuming the worst of me every single time a girl stubs her toe!” Your hands clenched into tight, trembling fists. “You don’t get to play kind now, Neteyam. You don’t get to follow me into the dark and pretend you give a damn. I have survived every single day without your pity, and I sure as hell don’t need a pretentious bastard policing my space!”
“I am only making sure you won't accidentally—”
“I don’t care what you’re trying to do!” you shrieked, shoving your palms violently against his broad chest.
It was like hitting a solid wall of stone. Neteyam didn't even move an inch. Instead, the physical contact snapped the final thread of his control. Before you could even draw breath to yell again, Neteyam’s large hand shot out, wrapping firmly around the back of your neck, his fingers tangling deep into your braids. He lunged forward, his massive frame completely overtaking yours, and slammed his mouth down onto yours to violently cut off your words.
You gasped in pure shock, but he used the moment to deepen the kiss, his other hand coming down to grip your waist with a bruising, desperate force that yanked your hips flush against his rock-hard thigh. His tongue pushed past your lips, letting out a low groan that vibrated through your chest.
Your first instinct was to push, your palms sliding over the warm skin of his chest, trying to wrench your head away. But he followed you ruthlessly, stealing your breath until a sudden heat surged through your veins, making you shiver against him.
The anger was still there, but it mutated into a desperate, starving need. You stopped pushing, your fingers curling into his muscled shoulders, pulling him closer. You wanted to win. You wanted to dominate this moment, to show him you weren't just some subordinate to be ordered around.
You shifted your weight, trying to pin him, but Neteyam was entirely too strong. He groaned into your mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated hunger. Moving frantically, his hands mapped the curve of your waist before reaching up to squeeze your breast. You moaned against his lips, completely overcome by the blinding heat as he backed you hard against the nearest tree.
In one fluid motion, his large hands clamped behind your thighs and hauled you up. You let out a muffled shriek as you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist. He carried you deeper into the dark woods, away from the path, his mouth never leaving yours.
When he lowered himself to his knees on the soft moss, his fingers hooked into the knot of your loincloth. With a single, demanding tug, he stripped you bare, leaving you completely exposed to the cool night air. You felt like you had gone completely insane. You were naked, and between your legs was Neteyam, stripping his own loincloth while he watches you darkly.
His body looked magnificent in this angle... when you're beneath him. His shoulders were incredibly broad, his chest heavily muscled, his arms far bigger than an average warrior's. You bit your lip, your eyes tracking up to find him watching you watch him.
When his loincloth fell away, your eyes snapped down. He was terrifying... His cock was thick, pulsing, and standing proud. You had experimented with wooden phallics in privacy before, but nothing prepared you for the sheer, imposing size of him.
“Scared?” he asked with a humored tone, his hand grabbing your thigh and squeezing hard, catching the flash of panic on your face.
You glared at him through the dark. “No. Bring it on,” you challenged.
He huffed a dark laugh, pushing your knees back almost to your chest before guiding his broad head against your wet folds. You breathe deeply, but before you could fully complete the inhale, he drove into you in one single, powerful thrust. He stretched your pussy past anything you had ever felt.
“Ah!” a sharp cry of pleasure and pain tore from your throat. You arched your back, the sheer fullness of him leaving you gasping for air. Reflexively, your hand flew out, slapping his cheek hard.
“Tsk,” Neteyam’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing as you moved to strike him again. He caught your wrist in a vice-like grip, pinning your hands securely above your head. He lowered his face, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a dark, raspy promise. “I’m going to fuck you.”
Your breath hitched. Your body instinctively clenched around his massive girth, the overwhelming fullness intoxicating your senses. It felt so... good. You decided right then and there that you loved the feeling of being completely filled by him. You looked at him, your eyes clouded with lust and defiance.
“You talk too much!” you bit out.
Neteyam let out a guttural laugh. “So impatient,” he kissed you softly.
He began to move, dragging his cock slowly through your tight warmth, creating an intense, searing friction that made your toes curl and moan softly. Moans that turned into screams when he began pounding into you with a forceful intensity, driving you deeper into the moss.
He released your wrists only to cup your face, his fingers digging into your jaw, forcing you to look into his blown-out pupils.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice raw. “Know who is doing this to you. Know whose cock is filling you up.”
You huffed, reaching up to grip his sharp jaw. “Where’s the perfect, golden boy?”
“In you?” he replied, raising a brow.
You burst out in laughter, but it quickly became a loud moan when his thrusts came down harder and faster. He groaned, slamming his mouth over yours to drown your moans. The wet, loud squelching sound of your fluids being churned by his relentless thrusting made your skin flush with embarrassment.
“You are so beautiful...” he murmured, sloppily kissing your chin as he relentlessly pounded into you.
“Shut up...” you whimpered, your head tossing back.
He accelerated, his thrusts becoming frantic, driven by a primal need to completely claim you. As the pressure in your gut coiled to a breaking point, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin before moving down to catch your breast in his mouth, sucking and licking with a ferocity that sent you violently over the edge.
Neteyam let out a long, shuddering groan as he came, his entire body stiffening as he pumped his hot seed deep inside you. Your internal muscles pulsed and clenched around him in desperate, rhythmic waves. You squeezed his large, muscled arms, your nails digging deep into his skin as the orgasm crashed over you.
For a few moments, the only sound was your synchronized, heavy breathing. But when Neteyam slowly pulled out, the sudden absence of him left you feeling cold and hollow. The reality of what you had just done crashed down on you. You really just let Neteyam claim you like that.
You aggressively pushed his chest away, rolling onto your side and pushing yourself up onto shaky elbows. You were on your hands and knees, crawling toward your discarded loincloth, when you felt it. Large, heavy hands clamp securely onto your hips. Your breathing hitched when you felt his hand circle your hips and touch your drenched pussy.
His fingers caressed your inner thigh, scooping his come that oozed out of you. “Let’s put it all back in you...” he murmured, pushing his come back into your hole.
“Ah...” you whimpered, fisting on the grass and trying to pull away from the overstimulation. You fucking love it, though.
With a sudden jerk, he pulled your hips right back against him, your ass hitting his muscled thighs. He lowered himself down until his massive frame enveloped you from behind, his chest pressing flush against your back.
“Where are you going?” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous against your neck. “We're not done yet...”
One of his hands traveled upward, kneading your breast with a possessive, heavy grip. You whimpered, a violent tremble running through your body as the heat returned, twice as intense. You couldn't believe you were surrendering to him like this, allowing the man you had hated for years to dominate your body.
You felt his hardness pressing against your entrance once more, and in one singular, devastating motion, he drove into you from behind.
“Ah, Neteyam!” You cried out, the force of the entry knocking the wind from your lungs. You tried to pull forward, but his grip on your hips was an unbreakable shackle, locking you in place.
The pounding began immediately, more relentless and more focused. He drove into you with a raw, animalistic power that made your vision blur. His pleasured grunts and the low, rumbling sounds in his throat made your knees buckle, while your loud, uninhibited moans only seemed to fuel his desire, driving him to thrust deeper.
He lowered himself fully, his lips grazing your shoulder. “Fuck, Y/N... You feel so good... so fucking tight,” he groaned.
“You can,” he whispered against your skin, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, hitting your sweet spot with a terrifying precision.
He came again, his body shaking violently as he sucked hard on the skin of your neck, intentionally leaving a dark mark that would last for days. He wished people could know who put it there. Your arms finally gave out, and you collapsed onto the moss. Neteyam cushioned your fall, hugging you tightly from behind as he continued to pulse inside you. Because he hadn't pulled out, the angle shifted, burying him impossibly deeper.
He kissed your shoulder softly, his hand caressing your body, helping you endure the aftershocks before finally withdrawing. Effortlessly, he flipped you onto your back, pinning you beneath his weight.
Your eyes lazily opened to find him staring down at you. His golden eyes were incredibly gentle now, glinting with a soft, postcoital delight. He lowered his face, nuzzling his cheek against yours, brushing his nose against yours. Your heart warmed so intensely it felt like you were being lit up from the inside.
You had never felt this close to anyone. This connected.
But panic suddenly seized you, freezing the warmth he had started. You pushed against his chest, breaking the spell. He looked down at you, confused. You didn't want the vulnerability, but you didn't want to leave either. So you stopped pushing.
Instead, your hand reached up, clamping onto the nape of his neck, and you pulled him down into a deep, proper kiss before he could question you. He hummed against your lips, his hand fondling your breast, his thumb sweeping over your nipple.
“I was going to let you rest for a while...” he mumbled against your jaw.
“I’m wondering if you actually spent the whole day doing that trial,” you said, your voice hoarse. “You’re not even tired.”
He chuckled, nipping at your jawline as his cock pressed against your entrance for a third time. “Even I have top priorities...”
The succeeding hours were a blur of agonizingly slow, precise coupling. He watched your eyes, listening to the hitch in your breath, ensuring every single movement was designed for your maximum pleasure. He filled you again and again, completely blurring the boundaries between hate and desire.
Yet, despite the consuming intensity, you still managed to wake up before him. He was heavily draped over your body, his limbs tangled with yours, his face buried in your neck. Quietly, you worked your way out of his hold. He was exhausted, the weight of the trial and the relentless energy he had spent fucking you until your lights gave out finally catching up to him.
You grabbed your loincloth, looking down at his serene, sleeping form. A dangerous warmth blossomed in your chest. You wanted nothing more than to curl back into his arms and wait for him to wake. But you violently caught yourself. It was just sex. You were both caught up in the heat of the moment. There was an unspoken agreement that this madness ended when the sun rose.
Wrenching your eyes away, you quietly fix yourself. Your body was incredibly sore, a soft groan escaping your lips when you felt a sharp sting in your pussy as you parted your legs to put on your loincloth. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to ignore the memories reminding you exactly why you were sore. Neteyam was completely insatiable.
If you hadn’t been so sleepy after hours of going at it, he would do you until dawn. And what's crazy is that you know that you would let him. You limped toward the river, submerging yourself in the cool water, using sweet-smelling sap to aggressively scrub his scent off your skin. You reeked of him so heavily you couldn't even smell yourself.
You wanted to slap yourself for this, trying so hard to drag the part of you who would have hated this so much into the surface but there was none. You wanted it, you wanted him, and you wanted to go back there to snuggle against him. This was an added complication in your life and you shouldn’t want this.
For the next two days, you successfully avoided him, feeling like a terrified yerik constantly watching your back. But eventually, your luck ran out. You entered the command tent to report for patrol duty during a time you knew he was supposed to be out tracking with the younger hunters.
But as you were speaking to Likya, a massive figure darkened the entrance. You turned nonchalantly, only to nearly choke on your own breath when you saw Neteyam standing there, his eyes dark and his jaw tightly clenched.
You looked away immediately. “Thank you, Likya. I will take my leave now...” you said quickly.
“Will you leave us for a moment, Likya?” Neteyam interrupted, his deep voice gravelly, his eyes locked entirely on you.
Likya didn’t even flinch. He was so accustomed to you and Neteyam fighting over the years that he simply assumed it was another one of those days, quietly exiting the tent. You scowled, hating the way a fierce heat rushed up your neck. You could still feel the pressure of his girth inside you even after days now.
Meanwhile, Neteyam was enduring a completely different kind of torture. He had woken up to a cold, empty bed of moss. For two days, he had looked for you in every corner of Hometree, but you were a sneaky, elusive thing. Unlike you, who had scraped his smell off at the first opportunity, Neteyam had worn your scent like a prized reward. He had reeked of you so strongly during training that the young hunters had looked at him in confusion, though only Sinto would have recognized it, and Sinto was too drowned in his own misery to notice.
“What?” you asked curtly, standing rigidly on the opposite side of the strategy table, using it as a physical shield.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said, his eyes tracking the faint, healing purple bruises on your neck and chest.
You huffed. “Why would I? Hometree is massive. We don't always cross paths.”
“I always see you around when I was avoiding you,” he said, taking a heavy step forward, forcing you to instinctively shift to keep the table between you. “But now, I am specifically looking for you, and you are nowhere to be found.”
“Looking for me? Why?” your voice snapped.
“You left me,” he said simply.
You rolled your eyes, tilting your chin. “Well, what do you want? That we cuddle or something?”
His eyes sharpened to lethal points. “Do you intend to act as if nothing happened?”
Your heart hammered violently against your ribs. What did he want from you? “I don't know what you want, Neteyam. We had sex. I believe we both enjoyed it,” you whispered cautiously. “But I don't think we should dwell on it. We are two consenting adults. It was good, but it doesn't mean anything.”
Neteyam took a sharp, painful breath through his nose. “Is that really what you think?”
You shrugged, masking the tremor in your hands. “Yeah. Can I go to my patrol now?”
He gritted his teeth so hard the bone clicked. He had a thousand things he wanted to say. He wanted to pull you across the table, cage you in his arms, and force you to admit that it did mean something. He wanted to hear your complaints at the end of the day, he wanted to look into your eyes while he kissed you softly. He wanted to be with you.
But a crushing weight settled on his shoulders. He realized he was the one who had driven you to this. He had spent years judging you, acting superior, treating you like a plague. It was entirely ridiculous to expect you to suddenly trust him, or want to be with him, just because of what happened. He was too stupid to believe it would have changed things between you.
You were at the archery range days later when Sinto unexpectedly approached you. To your surprise, he offered a quiet, humbled apology for the vile things he had said to you in the woods. What surprised you even more was that you found that you didn't even hold a grudge. You were entirely too indifferent to him now.
You realized you didn't need his toxic presence to survive. In fact, without him whispering poison in your ear, you had actually begun talking to other clan members, finding them far more welcoming than Sinto had ever allowed you to believe.
“Forgive me?” Sinto asked, his hand settling onto your waist with a practiced, comfortable ease.
In the past, you wouldn't have thought twice about the contact. But now? It felt incredibly wrong to have his hand on your skin.
“Whatever,” you said, stepping away under the guise of adjusting your stance to draw your bow. Your breath hitched mid-inhale when your eyes flicked to Neteyam standing a short distance away, watching.
Sinto stepped forward again, chuckling as his hands found your hips from behind. “Are you still mad about what I said? I was under so much pressure, Y/N,” he whispered against your ear.
You violently shoved him back, turning on him with an icy glare. “I am not mad, Sinto. But I am letting you know right now: I will never be involved in any of your schemes again.”
He raised his hands, flashing his easy smile. “Of course. I would never ask it of you again. We’re good, right? You're still my best friend.”
You rolled your eyes, and he chuckled, pulling you into a brief hug from behind. You dug your elbow sharply into his ribs until he let go. “Go away. I am trying to focus.”
“Alright. Dinner later? I’ll save you a seat.”
You shrugged, nocking an arrow and using the motion to glance back toward the walkway. Neteyam was gone.
That evening at the communal fire, you sat at Sinto’s table, surrounded by his loud, arrogant friends whom you had never liked and never liked you, too. Across the clearing, Neteyam sat with his own circle. They were more boisterous, laughing loudly, and during a bout of playful teasing, a stunning huntress named Mitxi leaned in, sweetly resting her chin directly on Neteyam’s shoulder.
Neteyam craned his head away slightly as his friends cheered, but he didn't pull his shoulder back. That would have been rude, and the oh so ever gentleman Neteyam would never do that.
A massive, suffocating lump formed in your throat. A toxic wave of discomfort washed over you, and you absolutely hated it. You hated the sight of her touching him. You felt a savage urge to march across the clearing and drag Mitxi away by her hair, but you did nothing. Like a coward, you abruptly stood up, vacating your seat, and stormed out of the clearing.
You walked briskly along the dark, woven pathways, desperately needing fresh air, wanting to laugh at your own pathetic jealousy. You silently groaned when you heard footsteps behind you. “Sinto, I want to be alone—”
A large, calloused hand clamped around your elbow, spinning you around and pulling you hard against a stone-solid wall of muscle. Your wide eyes snapped up to find Neteyam staring down at you, his chest heaving. You shoved against him, but his strong arms only tightened around your waist, trapping you against him.
“Why are you leaving?” he demanded.
“Why do you care?” you snapped, shoving his chest again. “You seemed to be doing just fine back there. Why don't you go focus on Mitxi instead? She looked like she’d love for you to do to her exactly what you did to me.”
Neteyam watched the fiery, furious display on your face and a slow, dark satisfaction melted his scowl away. He loved how fiercely annoyed you were. His hands gently caressed your waist, trying to soothe the tension out of your muscles.
“Well, I couldn’t have done what I did to you to anyone else,” he whispered, his eyes darkening to amber in the shadows. “I have never been as crazy about anyone as I am about you, Y/N...”
Your eyes remained sharp, but the fire keeping your defensive scowl intact was rapidly dying. Your palms, which had been pushing him away, slowly curled into fists against his chest. “It’s only because of the sex,” you smirked with a malicious glint in your eyes. “That does drive men mad. I thought the perfect warrior would be immune.”
“Oh, it absolutely drove me mad,” he murmured, the corner of his lips tugging upward. “I think about your moans every hour of the day. I think about how you feel against me, how incredibly tight you wrap around me... it makes me so hard I had to excuse myself from the young hunters’ training just to find a release—”
“For someone who parades himself as a golden prince, you are incredibly crass!” you said in a biting tone, your face burning.
“I want you to know every single thing I am thinking,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss you, but he pulled away immediately. “It’s not just the sex, Y/N. I wouldn't have touched you like that if I weren't already ridden by thousands of fantasies of what I wanted to do to you the moment I finally got to hold you. I only acted on years of buried desire.”
You held your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Liar.”
“I have never lied to you,” he said softly, nuzzling his cheek against yours before pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips. You didn't pull away. When he pulled back, his eyes were full of a quiet delight. “It is the truth. You put me through an unimaginable torment, Y/N.”
“You’re being dramatic,” you muttered, rolling your eyes, but you bit your lip to hide a smile.
He chuckled, his lips pressing against yours with far more pressure this time, devouring your breath. “Give me a chance...” he mumbled against your mouth. “I will prove myself to you.”
“There is no need for that,” you replied, your hand finally sliding up to clamp around the nape of his neck, pulling him down into a deep, consuming kiss. “We both want pleasure... and we’ll get it from each other.”
Neteyam’s brows furrowed slightly at your stubborn insistence on keeping it purely physical, but as your hand grazed down his muscled abdomen, a heavy groan tore from his throat. His hands tightened on your hips, lifting you slightly as he pressed you into the shadow of the trees.
“I want you...“ you mumbled against his neck. “I want you, Neteyam.”
“Where do you want to go?” he asked, already guiding your steps out of the paths, his large hand splaying over your midriff, his lips kissing your temple continuously. You held his hand tightly, both of you knowing exactly where you were going. You were crossing the threshold into the dark again, only this time, you knew exactly what you were walking into.
The following weeks were filled with Neteyam practically perching himself at your side, so you made sure not to let him see you in public because he doesn’t seem to care that people might be looking. Once, he even approached you on the archery range in broad daylight, uncaring that there are young hunters working on their archery, too. You were practicing your mid-range forms, your skin slick with sweat, when a heavy wooden sparring staff clattered against yours, nearly knocking the bow from your hands.
You spun around, your ears flattening as Neteyam stood there, a cocky, infuriating smirk playing on his lips. He was stripped down to his loincloth, his broad shoulders glistening under the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy.
“Your stance is too narrow,” he taunted, spinning his staff with an effortless, practiced grace. “Sinto might let you get away with sloppy footwork, but I won't.”
You rolled your eyes, “I am a hundred times better than Sinto in this.” You jolted when you felt his hand on your waist. “Neteyam, we’re in public!” you whispered-shouted.
He snorted. “It's just the kids and they won’t care,” he murmured, nipping at your ear.
You groaned, still stepping away. “If you want to touch me so much, we should probably just work on my combat skills,” you turned to him with a smirk. “Teach me what you know?”
He raised a brow. “Between us, you had more experience in combat. What with your stints with the girls,” he said in a humored tone.
You chuckled and shoved against his chest. “You’re an idiot.”
He grinned, pulling you close by the waist. You elbowed him to gently push him away. “I’ll follow you in 10.”
“Five,” you insisted just to argue.
He shrugged, giving your waist a lingering caress and biting his lower lip. “You’re the boss.”
You smoothly rolled your eyes, spinning on your heels to walk away, the tip of your tail teasingly touching his lower abdomen. You heard him groan and you pursed your lips, continuing to saunter away from the range to go deeper into the woods. Sticking to your words, he didn’t even give you five minutes, he showed up after you in an instant.
His ears were perked, his golden eyes scanning the secluded spot behind a curtain dense vines and ferns until they locked onto you. “Secluded,” he raised his brow, his lips twisting.
“I don’t want them seeing us together,” you said, grabbing your staff.
“Drop that,” he ordered and you looked at him.
“No weapons?” you asked, rotating your wrist.
The side of his lips curled up in a slow and dangerous manner. “You said hand-to-hand.”
“Alright,” you mumbled as you lunged, driving a lightning-fast jab toward his jaw.
Neteyam snapped his head back, dodging the blow by a fraction, but you were already pivoting. You threw a sharp, snapping kick aimed straight for his ribs. His forearm came down, blocking the strike with a force that vibrated up your leg, but instead of backing off, you pressed even more, throwing a vicious left hook.
He caught your wrist in his palm, his grip like an iron shackle. “Too predictable,” he grunted, using your momentum to twist your arm and try to force you to the ground.
You snarled, using his own leverage to leap, throwing your weight forward and driving your elbow hard against his collarbone. The impact forced a sharp gasp from him, and his grip slipped. Before he could recover, you delivered a stinging palm-strike directly to his chest, pushing him back a full three paces.
Neteyam stumbled, his hand coming up to touch his chest where your palm had landed. A low, feral growl rumbled in his throat, his eyes darkening from bright gold to a deep, predatory amber. The playful smirk was entirely gone, replaced by a raw, competitive hunger that made your blood run hot.
He moved, closing the distance to pin you, but you threw your leg up, catching him around the neck and using a desperate scissor-kick to violently flip him over.
You both crashed into the dirt, rolling frantically. Finally, you managed to scramble on top of him, straddling his waist. You pinned his large wrists into the dirt on either side of his head, your chest rising and falling violently as you glared down at him, your hair completely wild and your skin flushed..
“Yield,” you panted, your teeth bared in a victorious grin.
Neteyam lay beneath you, his muscled chest slick with sweat and dirt, his heart hammering a frantic, thunderous rhythm. He didn't even look like he was defeated, he looked like a predator that had let himself be caught just to see what you would do next.
“No,” he rasped.
In a split second, he wrenched his wrists free, his large hands shooting up to clamp securely around the back of your neck. He violently pulled you down, his hips bucking upward to reverse the pin, throwing you flat onto your back in the deep moss while he completely overtook your frame.
Before you could even draw breath, his mouth slammed down onto yours.
The transition from violence to pure, unadulterated lust was instantaneous. The kiss felt like a continuation of the brawl, a desperate struggle for dominance. His tongue pushed past your lips with a bruising force, letting out a deep, guttural groan as he humped against your clothed crotch.
Your hands slid up his slick shoulders, your nails digging deep into his skin, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you. The anger, the competition, the heat, it all melted into a starving, blinding need.
Neteyam tore his mouth from yours, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as his lips tracked a burning path down your jawline, nipping sharply at the sensitive skin of your neck. You tried to push his face away.
“Neteyam, I’m sweaty...” you whined.
His large hand slid down your stomach, his tongue licking a swipe on the hollow of your neck up to your jaw. “So what?” His calloused palm was heavy and possessive when it hooked into the crotch of your loincloth. With one swipe, he pushed it aside.
“Neteyam—” you whimpered, your fingers tangling frantically in his thick braids as he shifted his weight down, settling between your legs.
He growled against your thigh, his voice completely ruined by lust as he licked the soft skin of your inner thigh. He grabbed your knees, forcing your legs wide apart and draping them over his broad shoulders. He looked up at you once, his blown-out pupils dark and wild, before he slid his large hand between your thighs.
You gasped, your back arching off the moss as his fingers found your dripping center. He began to stroke you with a cruel, agonizing rhythm, his thumb circling your nub while his fingers slid deep inside your tight warmth. The contrast of his rough skin against your wet, sensitive folds made you whimper, your hips helplessly rolling against his hand.
“Aww, look at you...” he mused, his fingers driving deeper, churning your fluids until a loud, wet sound filled the quiet clearing.
“Please...” you choked out, your hands clawing at the dirt, your head tossing back as the tension in your gut began to coil to a breaking point.
Instead of slowing down, Neteyam lowered his head. Your breath completely hitched as his mouth replaced his fingers.
The first touch of his tongue against your swollen core sent a violent, electric shock straight up your spine. You let out a loud, uninhibited cry, your hands flying down to grip his shoulders, trying to either push him away or pull him closer, you didn't even know anymore. Neteyam ignored your trembling hands, his strong hands locking around your inner thigh as he used his tongue to relentlessly devour you.
He sucked and licked with a primal, terrifying ferocity, his fingers sliding back inside you to stretch you wide while his mouth drove you insane. Every stroke of his tongue was precise, heavy, and dripping with a possessive dominance.
“Neteyam! Fuck, I can't—” you screamed softly, your toes curling as the blinding heat rushed to you.
His tongue only flicked faster, his fingers pulsing inside you in perfect synchronization until your body completely gave out. A shattering orgasm crashed over you, your internal muscles clenching around his fingers in desperate waves as a long, breathless wail tore from your throat.
Neteyam stayed right there, drinking you in, holding your trembling hips firmly in his grasp until the last of the aftershocks faded. When he finally crawled up your body, his face was flushed, his lips wet and glistening with your taste. He pinned your hands above your head, caging you beneath his heavy frame, a beautiful, dark satisfaction melting his sharp features.
“On the side note, I do like secluded places...” he brushed his nose against yours, his cock pulsing thick and hard against your thigh. “More chances of getting you to scream.”
You looked up at him through tear-blurred eyes, a breathless, defeated laugh escaping your lips as your hand weakly reached for his hard cock. “Show me more?”
Over the following moons, a quiet shift occurred between you two. What you intended to keep as a strictly physical arrangement began to deepen into something completely out of your control. Neteyam had a definitive goal in mind though and it is to truly, completely have you, and he pursued it with the same relentless discipline he applied to everything.
You two are together almost every day, something Neteyam had made sure of. Meanwhile, you made sure it is only an almost occurrence. He was too comfortable with you now that he’d often approach you in public or drag you to his table during communal meals. He’d been acting too normal with you around his friends. Though the warmth of it reaches the coldest, loneliest parts of you, the fear of him being associated with you, a village pariah, beats any of your desires to belong.
Behind the dense thickets, though, you indulge him. You would often find yourself pinned against mossy banks, both of you eager to experiment with the limits of each other's bodies until you were both gasping and painted in each other's sweat.
You heard Neteyam’s breath hitched completely. His hands came down to rest on your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin with a bruising grip as you leaned forward. You swirled your tongue over the crown around the thick base of his length, guiding the broad, leaking head against your mouth.
Neteyam groaned, a low vibration that started deep in his chest. His hips gave a slight, involuntary twitch forward, his tail flicking wildly beneath him.
“Y/N...” he rasped, entirely ruined.
You took him in slowly, the sheer fullness of him stretching your mouth, your throat tightening as you slid deeper down his shaft. You used your hands to stroke the remaining length, your thumb tracing the sensitive seam underneath while your tongue swirled around his ridge with every upward stroke.
The wet, loud sounds of your mouth devouring him echoed in the quiet. Neteyam was entirely at your mercy, his large, muscled body trembling as his hands traveled from your shoulders to tangle deep into your loose hair, his fingers anchoring you against him. You moaned in pleasure when he gently pushed your head down, controlling your pace and using your mouth for his pleasure.
“F-fuck,” he choked out, his eyes closing as you sucked harder, your hand moving frantically at his base. You took him deeper, letting his thick girth slide down your throat until your nose brushed against his pubic bone, the scent of him intoxicating your senses.
He began to move his hips in a slow contrast to your mouth, guiding himself inside your tight warmth, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
“Eyes,” he commanded, his voice a raw, breathless whisper.
You tilted your head back just enough to look up through your lashes, your mouth still completely wrapped around his shaft. His sharp features were tight with extreme pleasure and lust, his golden eyes burning down into yours with an expression that was terrifyingly possessive. The hand on the back of your head moved to cup your jaw, his thumb caressing your stuffed cheek.
“You are so good to me, baby...” he mumbled.
You accelerated, your hand churning the moisture at his base while your mouth worked relentlessly, pulling on him with a fierce, starving suction while Neteyam’s hips began to move faster, his thrusts becoming short, frantic, and deep. He let out a loud, shuddering groan, his fingers tightening so hard in your hair that it made you moan.
“I'm going to— Fuck! Shit,“ he growled, his entire body going rigid.
He didn't pull out. In one final surge of his hips, he buried himself to the hilt in your mouth as his hot, thick seed erupted deep down your throat. You swallowed the heavy, burning waves of his release, your hand continuing to stroke him as he pumped into you again and again, his chest heaving as if he had just run a lethal trial through the mountains.
He dropped heavily to his knees on the moss, his face burying in the crook of your neck as his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his chest with a fierce grip. He was shaking, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. He pressed his wet lips to the skin of your shoulder, inhaling the scent of you as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.
“You are mine,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick and stubborn. “Do you hear me, Y/N? You belong to me.”
The most dangerous moments, however, were the quiet ones. After hours of making love, you would lie tangled together on the soft moss, talking about nothing and everything. You were entirely unaware of how tightly your souls were intertwining, but Neteyam knew. He was weaving himself into your fiber.
Neteyam’s large hand was tracing idle patterns along the curve of your spine, his touch light, almost reverent. The intensity of what had just passed between you still hung thick in the air.
“You have a scar,” Neteyam murmured, his voice vibrating against your collarbone. His thumb pressing gently into a jagged ridge of raised skin just above your hip. “Right here. I notice it every time, but you always pull away when I touch it.”
You went rigid for a second, the instinct to deflect, to crack a joke or push his hand away, flaring up instantly. But the exhaustion of keeping your guard up for so many moons had finally caught up to you.
“I got it when I was seven,” you said softly, keeping your eyes trained on your fingers. “The longhouse is a tough place for a child. The other orphans... They are not the nicest people.”
Neteyam’s thumb stopped stroking. “Who did it?”
A bitter, humorless smile touched your lips. “I’ve long since gotten my revenge.”
His eyes burned in a dark admiration. “What did you do?”
“Broke his ankle. He doesn’t deserve to be a warrior,” you mumbled.
His head tilted. “Ferkil,“ he said. Though you didn’t confirm, his face was still overcome with a silent fury.
“I remember sitting there for hours, the thorns hooking into my skin, crying until my throat was raw. The other children stood at the edge of the brush. They didn't help. They just watched, whispering that the forest was punishing me because I was bad. By the time I crawled out myself, I had decided I would never cry where anyone could see me again.”
You swallowed hard, your chest aching with the sudden, raw vulnerability of the memory.
“Sinto... He helped me at some point. He defended me and stood by me. He said no one will stick up for us if we don’t stick up for each other,” you said in a small voice, looking at Neteyam, your eyes brimming with tears. “He lied to me.”
Neteyam didn’t blink. At the mention of Sinto, a possessive, dangerous heat flared in his eyes. But as he looked down at the tears threatening to spill from your lashes, the anger melted into something fiercely protective.
He leaned over you, his large hand sliding from your hip to cup your jaw, his thumb wiping away a stray tear before it could drop.
“He is a coward,” Neteyam murmured, his voice low, steady, and grounding. He pressed his forehead against yours, forcing you to feel the heavy, unyielding rhythm of his breath. “He defended you to keep you small, to keep you relying on his scraps. But I will change that.”
He kissed your eyelids, then your nose, before capturing your trembling lips in a soft, deeply reassuring sequence.
“I will make the people see you how I see you,” he whispered against your mouth, his grip tightening around your waist as if anchoring you to the earth. “I don’t want to hide anymore.”
You reared your head back. “Neteyam...” you said in a warning tone.
He bit his lip and nodded, “I understand, baby. But this can’t be like this forever,” he said solemnly. “I want you to be my wife.”
Eventually, the inevitable arrived. As you lay against his chest one night, tracing the glowing bioluminescent freckles on his skin, Neteyam cleared his throat, his hand wrapping securely over yours.
“I want to begin a formal courtship with you, Y/N. I want to be your mate.”
You froze, your fingers going entirely still against his skin. You pulled away, sitting up as a cold wave of reality flooded your chest. “I... I don’t know. Kiri detests me. Your family... What will they say? I am completely unsuited for you..”
“You are not unsuited,” he said fiercely, sitting up and grasping your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. “I see you, Y/N. love you. You are my choice, and no one, not even Kiri, my parents, nor the elders, will ever change that.”
You looked away. “I don't know, Neteyam...” you let out a breathless, humorless laugh, tears suddenly pricking the corners of your eyes. “The clan... I am not favored here. And you want me to be their Tsahik?”
Neteyam stared at you, his features a mix of agonizing defeat and unyielding determination.
“None of their opinions matter to me,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. He reached out, taking your trembling hand and pressing a tender kiss directly into your palm. “Y/N, you are my heart. I am already fighting for the chance to lead, if they want me to fight for the chance to be your mate, as well, I would do that, too. I love you, Y/N. So much. And I won't let you walk away just because you think you are unsuited. You are the only one for me.”
You stared at him, utterly silenced by the sheer magnitude of his devotion. A tear slipped down your cheek. With a breathless huff, you lunged forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a desperate, consuming kiss. He cupped your jaw, devouring your mouth as he lowered you back onto the mossy ground.
You spread your legs for him with a practiced, fluid grace, completely surrendering your heart to him.
Little did either of you know, a pair of dark, venomous eyes were watching from the thickets. Sinto stood hidden in the brush, his fists clenched hard. He watched in absolute, stomach-churning betrayal as Neteyam knelt between your thighs, entering you with a powerful thrust that made you throw your head back and cry out his name in pure, unfiltered pleasure.
“Oh, Neteyam!” you gasped, your fingers clamping onto his massive biceps as he hovered over you, his hands anchoring your waist as he pounded into you.
“Fuck, baby...” Neteyam groaned, kneading your breasts.
Sinto’s mind reeled. He didn't know when exactly this started, but he knew when you had first refused to help him sabotage Neteyam. You had laid with the enemy. You had given the perfect golden boy the one thing you had ruthlessly denied Sinto for years. A monstrous wave of bitterness consumed him.
Neteyam always gets what he wants. Even you.
But Sinto vowed it would end at the final trial. He would take the Olo’eyktan title, and then, he would take you. He was even willing to overlook the fact that you had laid with Neteyam and allowed yourself to be sullied by his hands, as long as he could tear everything away from his rival.
When you finally returned to Hometree later that night, Sinto was waiting in the shadows near your pod.
“Took you long enough, for a simple patrol,” he said, his voice dripping with a cryptic, icy venom.
You stopped in your tracks, your defense mechanisms instantly snapping into place. “I had an added task from the seniors.”
He huffed a dark, mocking laugh. “Let me guess. Neteyam once again put you in a very hard position... and you just had to stay there and take it?”
Your eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. You knew Sinto was manipulative, but he had never shown such raw, undisguised contempt toward you. Your blood ran cold at the realization. You didn't know how, but you know that he knew.
The next morning, the training grounds were packed with a group of young hunters that Neteyam was putting through a rigorous bow drill. A few warriors stood near the perimeter, including Sinto, helping when needed.
When Neteyam stepped to the back of the line to observe, Sinto casually sauntered over, standing beside Neteyam in silence, his skin radiating a foul, seething malice. Neteyam didn't even spare him a glance, treating him like an invisible speck of dust, only managing to piss Sinto off effortlessly.
“Does she feel good?” Sinto began, his voice low.
Neteyam slowly turned his head, his eyes cold and unbothered. “Excuse me?”
“Y/N,” Sinto purred, relishing the way Neteyam’s calm facade instantly crumpled into a mask of lethal fury. “Her pussy. Does it feel good? I saw you two out in the brush last night. You looked like you were having the absolute time of your life fucking my woman.” Sinto flashed a sickening, triumphant grin.
Neteyam froze, his mind calculating a hundred different ways he could tear Sinto apart. The sheer, protective rage vibrating through his veins was enough to kill the man.
“Enjoy it while it lasts, brother,” Sinto whispered, leaning in closer. “Y/N will come crawling back to me eventually. We stick up for each other. You’re an outsider to her and you always will be. So don’t you ever think you successfully took her from me just because she lets you fuck her. Honestly, I didn’t mind watching last night. At least now I know exactly what makes her scream like a—”
Neteyam didn't let him finish. He lunged, his fist crashing into Sinto’s jaw with the force of a falling boulder. At this time, you were at the target grounds across the clearing, helping younger children with their archery form, when Tuk came sprinting toward you, her eyes wide with terror.
“Y/N! Y/N, come quick! Neteyam and Sinto are killing each other!”
You dropped your bow and ran, your heart leaping into your throat. When you burst into the training clearing, a massive crowd had already formed. Neteyam and Sinto were locked in a feral brawl. Neteyam looked completely demonic, his eyes wild with a homicidal rage, while Sinto was putting up a desperate, pathetic fight, taunting Neteyam even as his face was painted in his own blood.
It took five heavy warriors to finally wrench Neteyam away. Sinto collapsed into the dirt, laughing hysterically through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth. Neteyam was heaving, his muscles straining violently against the arms of his friends who were dragging him back.
As they hauled him out of the clearing, Neteyam’s eyes found yours through the crowd. The terrifying, murderous fury in his gaze subtly faded, replaced by a quiet, profoundly apologetic look. He hated that you had to see him like this.
You didn't break eye contact, giving him a subtle nod. You both knew exactly where to meet.
The crowd watched you walk away, their whispers following you. A brawl over the leadership was one thing, but everyone knew Neteyam had never given a single damn about Sinto’s competitiveness. The only times the perfect commander had ever lost his absolute composure, it had been because of you.
You sprinted to your hidden clearing in the woods, finding Neteyam already waiting. He crossed the distance in a single stride, pulling you against his chest. Your hands flew up to cup his jaw, your heart breaking at the deep purple bruise forming on his cheekbone and the nasty split across his lip. You stood on your tiptoes, pressing a tender kiss to his wounded jaw.
“What happened?” you demanded softly.
“He saw us last night. He was watching us,” Neteyam said, his voice trembling with a terrifying anger.
You blinked, gently caressing his arms to soothe the tremors out of his muscles. “I knew it. He threatened me last night.”
“Do not let him come near you,” Neteyam growled, his grip tightening on your waist. “I swear to Eywa, Y/N, I will kill him if he lays a single finger on you.”
You looked up at his furious face, pulling him down by his neck to kiss him deeply, pouring all your warmth into him until his rigid posture finally melted against you. “What did he say to you to make you so mad?”
Neteyam blinked, shaking his head, refusing to let Sinto’s disgusting words defile the space between you. “Nothing that matters. He’s nothing.” He cupped your face, kissing you with a desperate, starving intensity.
You kissed him back, whispering against his lips, “Whatever happens, you have me, Neteyam... I am yours. Completely.”
A low groan escaped his throat, hugging you so tightly you could barely breathe. He desperately needed to hear those words. He knew how deeply Sinto had been rooted in your life, how he had manipulated your loyalty for years, and for a moment back there, he had been so scared Sinto was right.
You both lay down on the soft moss, and you gently traced the glowing lines on his chest, kissing the soft skin of his shoulder.
“Sinto is incredibly dangerous, Neteyam,” you said softly, looking into his golden eyes. “You need to be careful during the final trial. He will stop at nothing to surpass you. Ever since we were children, he wanted to tear you down, and... I helped him do it. I don't think I can ever make it up to you. For sabotaging you, for putting you and your family in danger at some point just to help him win...”
Neteyam hushed you softly, shifting his weight to nuzzle his nose against yours, kissing you with a profound tenderness.
“You were loyal to the only person you thought you had, Y/N. We all played a role in pushing you to him,” his features crumpled with a deep, genuine distress. “I was harsh, judgmental, and cruel to you after what happened to Kiri. I allowed the bully behavior of girls toward you by always siding with them, leaving you entirely alone in the dark. I will always be sorry for that,” he breathed heavily. “No one protected you from Sinto... and I failed to truly see you.”
You looked at him, a breathless, tearful huff escaping your lips. “I detested you for so long, too, Neteyam. I believed Sinto deserved to win, and I helped him cheat you at every turn,” a slow, playful smirk formed on your lips as you traced his sharp jawline. “And even then... you kept winning over him anyway.”
He smiled, a genuine, beautiful sound escaping his chest as he leaned down to kiss you. “Would I still be here if I hadn’t?”
You burst into a bright, genuine laugh, pulling him down into your arms. “I would probably be making fun of you if you were at the bottom of the ranks,” you admitted cheekily. “But since you would still be... hot, and sexy, and handsome...” you traced his features. “Gallant and kind... yes, you’d still be right here.”
The morning of the final trial arrived, and the atmosphere in Hometree was the exact opposite to what you are feeling. The council of elders had prepared brutal, unforgiving obstacles designed to test the absolute limits of the aspirants’ endurance, agility, and spirit.
The trial began with a grueling footrace from the roots of Hometree to the base of the Hallelujah Mountains, a path littered with loose rocks and mossy roots that instantly claimed two runners. From the base, they had to scale the vertical rock walls of the floating mountains to reach the highest peaks where their ikran awaited. From there, the race would take a lethal plunge into the canopy of a series of hollowed-out, pitch-black floating islands filled with razor-sharp chalice plants and swarms of deadly hellfire wasps that were easily disturbed by the tiniest of sounds.
The final leg of the trial required them to retrieve Eytukan’s ceremonial knife from the highest, most perilous cliff face of the mountains and fly it back.
The clan scattered across the peaks to watch. You stood on one of the primary floating platforms, your longbow slung securely over your shoulder, your eyes burning as you scanned the mist.
Vrixa, noticing your rigid stance, sauntered over with her usual sneer. “What’s the matter, Y/N? Got your bow ready to shoot Neteyam out of the sky so your pathetic boyfriend can win? We all know Sinto can’t beat him fairly.”
You didn't even look at her, your voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “I’ll shove this arrow down your throat to shut you up if you breathe another word. How about that?”
Vrixa paled and you rolled your eyes, focusing instead on the figure breaking through the mist below. It was Neteyam, climbing the vertical vine walls with an effortless agility, leading the pack. But directly beneath him was Sinto, lagging behind, his movements frantic.
The crowd held its breath as Sinto reached out, violently grabbing Neteyam’s ankle to drag him down. The Omatikaya roared in disapproval, shouting for Neteyam to kick him off, but Neteyam ignored him, focusing entirely on the summit.
That was when Sinto’s hand slid down to his hip, pulling his hunting knife from its sheath, aiming it directly at Neteyam’s thigh.
Your blood turned to pure fire. In a single, seamless motion, you ripped an arrow from your quiver, nocked it, and drew the heavy longbow back until the string bit into your cheek. You didn't hesitate. You released.
The arrow sliced through the winds, its heavy tip striking Sinto’s thick leather armband squarely, pinning his forearm deep into the thick, wooden vine. Sinto let out a distant sound of frustration, his knife tumbling into the abyss below.
The surrounding Na'vi gasped, turning to stare at you in utter, slack-jawed disbelief. You ignored them, watching as Neteyam hauled himself over the final ridge, completely unbothered, and let out a piercing whistle for his ikran. A warrior, one of Sinto’s closest allies, marched up to you, his face twisted in a furious snarl. “Why the hell did you do that?!”
You turned on him, your eyes flashing with a terrifying, predatory rage. “Because you are all blind!” you shrieked, gesturing furiously at the cliff face. “Sinto was going to stab him in the leg!”
The warrior went entirely still, his jaw clenching.
Your head tilted, a cold, dangerous realization settling in. “You knew. You are helping him cheat.”
“Don’t play the hypocrite, Y/N,” he muttered under his breath. “We all helped him cheat Neteyam at some point over the years.”
“That stops today,” you spat, stepping into his space. “If Sinto needs to mutilate Neteyam just to survive a trial, do you honestly think he is worthy of leading this clan?”
The warrior’s ears flattened against his head, unable to meet your gaze, and he silently turned away. You turned back to the sky just in time to see Neteyam’s massive banshee soar into the clouds, its wings cutting beautiful lines through the atmosphere. Sinto, finally wrenching his arm free from your arrow, whistled for his own beast, without truly climbing to the summit like Neteyam did.
Vrixa and her friends tried to open their mouths to taunt you again, but Kiri stepped into their path, little Tuk flanking her side with her arms crossed.
“I suggest you clear out before she practices her marksmanship on you next,” Kiri said, her voice dripping with humor.
Incapable of talking back to the Olo’eyktan’s daughter, Vrixa and her lackeys quickly scurried away. You turned back to the horizon, refusing to acknowledge Kiri, your pride still fiercely intact.
“Y/N! You saved him!” Tuk chirped, jumping up and down at your side, entirely oblivious to the heavy tension between you and Kiri.
You looked down at the little girl, a small, genuine smile softening your features. “That is what a warrior does, Tuk.”
But inside, your chest ached. One good deed couldn't erase years of sabotage. You didn't feel honorable.
“I knew you liked my brother!” Tuk giggled, grinning up at you. “He likes you too, Y/N! He watches you all the time! Did you know that?”
You bit your lip, a fierce, burning heat rushing up your neck. You quickly turned your eyes back to the jagged, stalactite-ridden grotto where the riders had flown.
“The child sees clearly,” Kiri’s voice echoed beside you. You snapped your head to look at her, ready to snap, but Kiri only offered a soft, knowing smirk. “Sister.”
Your eyes narrowed, your tongue momentarily paralyzed. Before you could even process the word, the entire mountain ridge erupted into a deafening, earth-shattering cheer.
You whipped your head around. Emerging from the heavy mist of the highest mountains, soaring high into the sunlight, was Neteyam. He held Eytukan’s ceremonial knife high above his head, its blade gleaming in the sun. The trials were over. Neteyam had won. This time, he wouldn’t be Olo’eyktan due to birthright alone. Everyone knew he had bled for it, fought for it, and conquered it.
Jake Sully stood at the center of the platform, watching his son with a fierce pride. Neteyam guided his ikran into a steep, breathtaking barrel roll, a magnificent display of victory that made the Omatikaya cheer
Neteyam’s eyes, bright and wild with adrenaline, scanned the massive crowd until they locked directly onto you.
You watched, your heart leaping into your throat, as Neteyam suddenly swerved, guiding his massive banshee directly toward the crowded platform where you stood. The clan members scrambled backward in a frantic, laughing hurry, clearing a wide circle as the beast touched down with a heavy, echoing thud.
Neteyam leaped from the saddle before the creature had even fully settled, marching straight through the parting crowd. His blue-and-gold war paint was smudged with dirt and sweat, his chest heaving with exertion. The sheer, intoxicating heat of his gaze sent a violent shockwave straight through your body. You took a half-step back, completely stunned by the raw, unhinged intensity in his eyes.
He didn't care that the entire clan was watching. He didn't care that his parents, the council of elders, or the people around were looking on.
Neteyam crossed the distance in three massive strides, his large, calloused hands slamming firmly onto your waist. Before you could even utter a single, defensive taunt, he hoisted you into the air, pulling you into his chest so fiercely your feet completely left the stone floor.
You gasped against his collarbone, the intoxicating scent of smoke, rain, and his skin filling your senses. And then, he tilted your chin up and kissed you.
It was a deep, violently possessive, and utterly breathtaking kiss, his mouth locking over yours with a starvation that made your knees turn to water. Neteyam poured every single ounce of his suppressed desire, his explosive fury, and his grand victory straight into your lips. Your hands, acting on pure, primal instinct, slid up his solid chest, your fingers tangling deep into his thick braids as you kissed him back just as fiercely, giving him everything you had hidden away.
The surrounding clan went completely silent, their jaws slackened. Only Tuk was jumping up and down, cheering wildly. It was blindingly obvious to everyone watching that this was not the first time your lips had met—and suddenly, your arrow through Sinto's armband made perfect, undeniable sense.
When Neteyam finally pulled back just a fraction, his hot breath fanned against your swollen lips. His hands remained heavily anchored to your hips, his eyes burning into yours with a quiet, triumphant smirk. He leaned down, pressing another hard, lingering kiss to your mouth, utterly insatiable.
“Neteyam...” you moaned softly against his lips, your hands resting on his chest. “The entire clan is watching us.”
He let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his deep voice vibrating straight through your bones.
“I want them to,“ he whispered, his golden eyes locking onto yours with an unyielding promise. “I want every single one of them to know that you have always belonged to me.”
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The heavy, sweet aroma of roasted meats and fermented berries filled the central clearing of Hometree, but the true feast tonight was the gossip. Low murmurs rippled through the Omatikaya like wildfire, eyes flicked constantly toward the head table, where Neteyam sat with his family, his eyes rarely leaving the empty space beside him.
The pieces were finally falling into place for them. They wondered how they could have been so blind. Everyone was suddenly remembering the two brutal, unhinged fights Neteyam had picked with Sinto over the last few moons, fights that had left Sinto a bloody pulp. Back then, they thought it was just the fierce rivalry of two ambitious young warriors. Now, looking at the bruised knuckles Neteyam still possessed, they realized it had never been about the birthright. It had always been about you.
You kept your head down as you slipped toward the refreshment bowls, desperately needing a moment away from the suffocating weight of a hundred staring eyes that openly watched you when you were sitting on the dais. Vrixa and her friends glared at you from across the fire, their faces twisted in a bitter, humiliated defeat. Their lovesick-fool narrative had completely disintegrated in front of the entire village.
But their bitterness was nothing compared to the shadow that suddenly stepped into your path.
“Was switching teams at the last minute your plan all along?” Sinto hissed, cornering you against the massive, woven root of the beverage station. His face was still swollen from the trials, his eyes burning with venom. “To make sure you'd still end up as an Olo’eyktan’s mate? Because if so, I have to give it to you. It was a flawless performance.”
You stared at him, a cold, detached disgust washing over you. “What?”
“Don't play innocent,” he spat, stepping closer, trying to use his height to intimidate you. “You played me. You played the loyal friend until the prince offered you a better crown.”
“Sinto, you are unbelievable,” you said, your voice dripping with quiet scorn. “Do you truly believe you ever had a chance of beating Neteyam? You were never able to best him without cheating. I helped you rig those matches for years. I sabotaged his gear, I misdirected his tracks, I bet on the losing team for years all because I thought we were friends. I thought we were sticking up for each other because no one else would.” You took a sharp step forward, forcing him back. “But you were always selfish. You used me as a weapon against Neteyam, and right from the start, you should have known you'd never win.”
Sinto’s jaw clenched, his pride entirely shattered. His eyes turned dark and ugly. “You are so naive,” he sneered, a malicious grin cutting through his bruised face. “You're too stupid to realize I never saw you as a friend. The only thing I regret now is not pushing hard enough to fuck you first. It would have been pretty sweet to taunt Neteyam about having you before he got his hands on you—”
A sudden, violent force slammed into Sinto’s chest.
With a sickening thud, Sinto was thrown backward, crashing hard against the wooden tables. Neteyam stood over him, his massive frame shaking with an explosive, lethal fury. He didn't just look like a warrior; he looked like an apex predator ready to tear a rival to pieces.
“Neteyam, don't—” you whispered, catching his tensed arm.
Neteyam didn't look at you, his burning gaze pinned entirely to the trembling male on the floor. “You know what, Sinto? After your stunt with the hidden blade today during the final trial, I was actually willing to forgive you. I was going to let you stay in this clan.” Neteyam took a slow, heavy step forward, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural growl that made the nearby hunters freeze. “But I draw the line at the way you speak to Y/N. You do not deserve to breathe the same air as her, let alone stay in this clan.”
Before Sinto could scramble to his feet, Neteyam turned to the center of the pavilion, his booming voice cutting through the entire feast.
“Listen to me!” Neteyam commanded, his hand tightly finding yours and pulling you securely to his side. “Today, during the sacred trials, Sinto dishonored the ancestors and the Omatikaya. He broke the laws of combat. He hid a blade in his wrap and attempted to stab me when my back was turned.”
Murmurs echoed through the crowd, the people remembering what they had witnessed. Jake Sully rose slowly from his seat, his eyes narrowing.
“He speaks the truth!” another young aspirant shouted, stepping forward from the crowd of hunters. “During the second trial, Sinto deliberately cut my strap. He caused me to fall into the ravine so he could advance.”
“He did the same to me!” another voiced, and within seconds, the fragile wall of Sinto's reputation completely collapsed.
The elders stepped into the clearing, their expressions grim. Mo'at looked at Sinto with deep disapproval. “These are heavy accusations,” she spoke. “A dishonorable warrior cannot walk among us. The council will discuss your fate and go through the proper due process. But for now, you will be stripped of your title as a warrior and placed in the holding cells.”
As the guards dragged a cursing Sinto away into the darkness, the heavy tension in the room finally broke.
Neteyam didn't care about the whispers that followed Sinto out. He turned completely to you, his large hands immediately coming up to cup your face, his thumbs gently wiping away the residual shock from your cheeks. The fierce, terrifying commander melted away in an instant, leaving only a man who clearly loves you very much.
“Are you alright?” he whispered, his golden eyes searching yours with a desperate, frantic tenderness. “Did he hurt you?”
“No,” you breathed, a genuine, breathless smile finally breaking across your lips. “You got here right in time.”
Neteyam let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, leaning down to press his forehead firmly against yours. “I was watching you the entire time, baby. But Dad really just had to talk to me—”
You laughed, kissing him. “Don’t blame your Dad, Neteyam,” you mumbled.
He sighed. “This won’t happen again. Ever. I won’t let anyone make you feel small again.”
You beamed, a rare sight to the Omatikaya around that some of them couldn’t stop staring at you. He took your hand, his long fingers intertwining with yours tightly, and led you back toward the head table. This time, you didn't pull away. You didn't look at the floor. As Neteyam pulled out the seat directly beside his own, the seat reserved for the future tsahik, the seat right next to Jake and Neytiri, you sat down with your chin held high.
The daylight had finally come, and for the first time in your life, the thorns were entirely gone. You were right where you belonged.
Ye, didn't get better names, if u have, share em lol
Rotxo n Kiri r in controls ❤️🔥
Yes, Sullys Jaeger is #32, n yes, I made them from sketches, don't pay too much attention to the details lol That btw I bought decals just for this HAHA
