pairing: modern!aerion targaryen x f!stark!reader
summary: Aerion Targaryen is a vain, vain man. Unfortunately for him, his thirst traps work better on himself than they do on you.
contents/warnings: smut (18+), switch!aerion, switch!reader, mean!bratty!aerion (gotta compensate for the fact he's down bad horrendously ykyk), banter as foreplay, mentions of smoking/drug use, russian lit as foreplay (😭), oral (m receiving), deepthroating, spit play, choking, hair pulling, marking/biting, fingering, multiple orgasms, possessive!aerion, edging/orgasm denial (brief), dirty talk, praise kink, degradation (mild), rough sex but they're both so into i'm not sure it counts, ultimate freak4freak... they're genuinely demons in this 😭 #freakmatched
notes: I missed writing these two so much. This is the verse where you never walked away, so Baelor never happened and you two are just gross and in love. So enjoy! By a crazy coincidence, we also hit 15k followers today, so HAPPY 15K AND THANK YOU FOR BEING HERE MY LOVESSSS 💕
✶ valarr's version.
✶ modern au/trailer trash masterlist.
The text comes through at three in the afternoon.
You're curled into the corner of his couch in nothing but his t-shirt. Black and expensive, the cotton so thin it's almost translucent. The hem hits mid-thigh with absolutely nothing on under it because that's a small private cruelty you've been cultivating for weeks now.
You've got your knees drawn up, Aerion’s copy of Demons open across your thighs. The spine is cracked from repeated reading, the margins so densely annotated in his cramped hand that the printed text is sometimes hard to find beneath the ink. Three different pens. Half-Russian, half-English, the occasional Valyrian word slashed in furious black when no other language would do.
self-pitying, he's written next to one of Stavrogin's monologues, and then beneath it, smaller, almost reluctant: and yet—
"And yet," you read out loud with a quiet, huffing laugh. "Relatable, huh?"
Your phone buzzes against the cushion. You set the book aside, careful with the worn pages, and pick it up.
ari 🐉
[image]
You click on the image preview, waiting for the full thing to load.
He's in the gym bathroom. That obscene private one in the basement of the building, all black tile and recessed lighting that he probably picked specifically for this exact purpose. Shirtless. Pale hair damp and pushed back from the sharp angles of his face. One arm braced against the counter, the other angled up to hold the phone. His head is tipped slightly, that flat, bored expression he wears when he's hunting your attention and pretending he isn't.
The lighting catches every single line of him. The lean, wiry musculature he works obsessively to maintain, the cut of his hipbones disappearing into low-slung shorts, the platinum at his nipple, and, lastly, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his sternum. Four silver hoops in his left ear glint, his full mouth parted. A glimpse of the dragon's tail is just visible, curling over his hipbone where the back tattoo crests.
"You vain, conceited bastard."
He's beautiful. He's outrageously beautiful, and he knows it, and that’s exactly why he’s never going to hear it from you. Still, you can’t help but drink the lines of him in, heat curling low in your belly, a laugh still caught in your throat.
The caption, when it comes, is one word.
well?
You roll your eyes, humming under your breath. Unbelievable. Annoying. You let the phone fall face down on the cushion, getting comfortable again.
You go back to Demons.
Aerion gets home an hour and twenty minutes later.
You hear the elevator chime, the soft hiss of the door, and then the particular cadence of his bare feet on marble. Aerion never wears shoes in his own home, finds it gauche, a peasant's habit, sweetheart, only idiots wear shoes indoors.
You don't look up as he enters, turning another page instead. A hum builds in your throat at one of his marginalia (Tikhon is the only honest man in this novel, and Dostoevsky knew it), and you feel, more than see, the moment Aerion registers what you're wearing.
The pause is small. A fraction of a beat. He covers it almost instantly, but you catch it.
"Oh, fuck off," he says pleasantly, dropping his gym bag beside the door. "Really. The shirt? And the book? You're being deliberate."
You make a vague, distracted sound, finger tracing another note he’s made.
"You've left no note unstruck. The little tableau of it, look at her, positively domestic—" He's coming closer, voice dripping with that mean, lilting drawl. "Tell me, did you set this up before or after I sent the photo?"
"Before."
"Liar."
You turn another page. "I was already wearing it. I'm always wearing it."
"Yes," he says, and his voice has gone darker, lower, the performance briefly slipping. "I know."
You finally look up.
He's leaned against the back of the couch behind you, both hands braced on the leather, peering down at you upside-down. You have to be careful, immediately, not to let him see what your face does at the sight of him.
Aerion hasn't showered.
The shirt he pulled on after the gym is loose and unbuttoned, hanging open down his chest, and you can see the gleam still catching at his collarbones, the faint sheen down his sternum. Clean sweat, cooled now, the smell of him filtered by the elevator ride into something concentrated and warm. Beneath the warmth of his skin lingers the faint cigarette he definitely smoked in the parking garage on the way up.
There's still a vein up the side of his bicep where the pump from his last set hasn't fully dropped. The dragon's wing is half-visible where the shirt has fallen open, the ink across his skin stark and detailed, scales catching the light. The piercing glints. He's wearing his rings—the heavy platinum Targaryen signet, the cluster of thinner bands on his middle finger—and the hoops in his ear gleam.
His hair has dried slightly damp at the temples, and he’s so unbelievably hot you could choke on it.
You arrange your face into perfect blankness instead.
"What are you reading?" he asks, though he already knows.
"Your annotations sound like the ramblings of a madman,” you inform him graciously. “I hope you know that."
"My annotations are analytical."
You snort. "You wrote self-pitying next to Stavrogin and then immediately walked it back."
"He is self-pitying."
You tip your head back, pitching your voice to match his. "And yet—"
"Shut up." His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't quote me at myself. It's beneath you."
"Is it?" you pose.
You tilt your head back further against the couch cushion to look at him properly. Upside-down, Aerion’s features look even sharper. The devastating cut of his jaw, the strong line of his nose, the pale lashes lowered. His eyes look almost lavender in this light, washed pale, gazing down at you with an expression that’s half-irritation, half something he would rather die than name.
"You didn't text me back," he remarks casually.
You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing at the disgruntlement you hear simmering beneath the faux casual statement.
"You sent me a thirst trap," you say flatly.
"I sent you a photograph."
"Of yourself. Shirtless. Flexing."
"I was checking my form," he says, with the magnificent affront of someone who absolutely was not, in fact, doing that.
"You wrote the caption well?" you remind him.
Aerion’s eyes flash, mouth twisting sourly. "That was… a separate enquiry," he insists, irked.
"Into what, exactly?"
"Your aesthetic opinions, sweetheart,” he drawls dryly. “I have a body, and you, allegedly, have taste, and the two intersect at—"
You hum. "Aesthetic opinions. Right, right."
"Yes."
"On your form."
"Yes."
You smile slowly, all teeth. You watch Aerion’s pupils widen at it—the involuntary little dilation, gone before he can mask it—and feel, low and warm in your stomach, the answering pull of yes, there you are, hello, pretty dragon.
He registers the smile, registers what it means, and his mouth tightens.
Aerion drops his head and bites your jaw.
Just sinks his teeth in, no playfulness in it. His teeth find you just below the curve of bone, where the skin is thin, with enough pressure that you feel the warning in it. A small, vicious nip designed to make you make a sound.
He's been annoyed for an hour and twenty minutes. He went to the gym, worked out, rode up in his own elevator, let himself in, and found you wearing his shirt, reading his book, still not giving him what he wants. The bite is the smallest, pettiest way to communicate as much. You can smell him properly from this angle. The salt of his sweat, the warm damp of his hair, the faint cologne underneath that's gone hours-old and tacky.
You don't react.
You let him bite, let Aerion hold there, jaw locked, his breath hot and moist against your skin. You let the silence stretch between you.
Then you turn your head lazily and press a single, light peck to his cheek.
You feel him seethe.
It's a tiny, beautiful thing, really. The way Aerion’s whole body goes rigid against the back of the couch, his teeth releasing with an audible click. He makes a soft, furious sound in his throat that’s nearly a hiss.
"Are you fucking serious?" he demands.
You shrug against the cushion, stretching your toes out with a wiggle. Readjusting your weight, you turn another page of the book.
Aerion’s hand catches your jaw.
He comes around the couch in one motion, fast, his fingers closing around your face. Thumb under your chin, fingers spread along your cheek, gripping with the kind of pressure that says look at me right now as he tips your face up and kisses you.
Properly, this time.
Aerion’s mouth is hot and slick against yours. It always is. Kissing him is like kissing an open flame. His tongue slips into your mouth before you've finished registering the intrusion.
He tastes like whatever gum he chewed earlier, and underneath, Aerion tastes like him, that particular warm-skin-and-cigarettes thing that lives on his tongue. He kisses you like he's making a point. He kisses you with his hand still gripping your jaw, holding you exactly where he wants you. You let him for two full seconds, let him have the satisfaction of taking it, and then you bite his bottom lip.
He hisses, but he doesn't pull back.
"There," he mutters against your mouth, lips dragging on yours when he speaks. "That's better. Stop patronising me."
You lick at his bottom lip, and he chases the sensation, leaning closer. "You bit me."
"You deserved it."
You snort despite yourself. "Are you five?"
"Don't peck me on the cheek like I'm your fucking grandmother, you absolute —"
You drag your mouth, slow, off his.
Down. Along the line of his jaw. Past his ear—you feel him tense, the curse caught on his tongue, his hand still locked on your face—to the side of his throat where the vein is. Where the sweat is. You set your tongue against his pulse point and lick, leisurely, a flat wet stripe up the side of his neck. You taste the salt of him. The clean musk under it. The metallic edge of the chain at his throat, where the links lie cold against hot skin.
Aerion sucks in a deep breath.
"Christ, you—"
You pull back, meeting his eyes. They’re glazed, lavender almost gone now, and you lean closer at an angle and spit in his mouth.
You've still got the salt of his sweat on your tongue, and you push it past his parted lips with your own, the wet of it landing and making him go completely still.
A whole beat passes as you stare at each other. You see Aerion’s pupils blow even as a sneer twists his mouth.
"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, you—"
You smile innocently. "Yes?"
"Did you just—"
"Did I what?" you question lightly. “Use your words, baby.”
"Did you just lick the sweat off my skin—"
"And spat in your mouth, yes." You smile at him, blinking innocently. “Do keep up, dear.”
"—and spat it back into me—"
"Yes, naturally."
His grip on your face has gone slack. He looks, for a beat, like he's been clubbed across the head—eyes wide, mouth slightly open, throat working—and you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves now, can see the colour rising up Aerion’s neck above the open collar of his shirt.
"You absolute minx," he says, his voice dropping two registers, and his hips press forward into the couch behind you, fully hard now, the line of him visible through the thin shorts. "You filthy—you think you can just—"
You smirk at his indignation. "You liked it."
"I hated it."
"That’s not very convincing," you note gently, poking his cheek.
"Disgusting. Actually. Disgusting, I'm going to have to—"
He swallows.
You watch it happen. You watch Aerion’s throat move, deliberately, swallow the spit down, eyes still locked on yours, and his hand hasn’t left your jaw, his other hand coming up to brace on the couch beside your head. He swallows everything you gave him, and his lashes flutter. Flutter. Just briefly. The smallest tell.
"Hated it, huh?" you echo mildly.
"Shut up."
Your grin widens. "You swallowed."
"Shut. Up."
"You're going to let me come here—"
"Come where?"
You hook your finger into the open collar of his shirt and pull.
He comes.
Not easily because Aerion never comes easily, never gives you the satisfaction of obedience without a fight. But he lets himself be drawn forward over the back of the couch, his hands sliding down to brace on the cushion on either side of you, his face dipping toward yours. He stops, his mouth a breath from yours.
"You're being," he murmurs darkly, "insufferable."
You roll your eyes. "You're the one who sent—"
"I sent a picture—"
"Of your abs—"
"—of my form, you obscene little—"
You kiss him.
Aerion makes a sound against your mouth that’s half-laugh, half-snarl, and his hand fists in the back of your hair, tilting your head where he wants it. You bite his bottom lip again. Harder this time, and he bites you back, harder still, making you taste copper faintly. He's nicked the inside of your lip with his canine, and you feel him smile against your mouth when he tastes it too.
"Wolf," he murmurs, low and pleased. "I feared you’d gone all docile on me."
A snarl builds in your throat. "Shut your mouth."
"Make me."
You pull him over you.
He goes. Laughing now, properly, that rare, ugly, delighted laugh that only comes out when you've genuinely surprised him. Aerion lands half on top of you, one knee braced on the cushion, one hand catching himself against the leather beside your head. The book falls. Neither of you cares. He's radiating heat through the thin shirt. Gym-warm, sweat-warm, the smell of him concentrated now where his open collar has fallen against your face. Underneath everything, he smells like himself, that particular skin-scent that you'd know with your eyes closed in a dark room.
He braces over you. His pale hair shines in the light, a single bead of sweat caught at his temple.
"On your back already," he observes smugly. "Predictable."
You kick him. "You're on me."
"You pulled me," he sniffs.
"You came."
"I fell."
Snorting, you shove your hand up under his shirt. Your palm goes flat against his stomach, the muscle there tightening immediately at the coolness of your skin against his hot one. You drag it slowly upward. Over his ribs, the platinum bar at his nipple, up to splay flat across his chest. Aerion’s skin is faintly damp under your hand, heart hammering. He hates that you can feel it. You watch him decide whether to bite at you about it and see him, for once, choose not to.
You push the shirt off one shoulder. Slowly. The hem snags on his elbow where it's braced beside your head.
"Show me, then," you say. "Your form."
His eyes go dark.
"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and his voice has dropped into that register you only get in this room, in this apartment, in the moments when his performance starts to crack. "Insatiable. You'd think I never gave you anything."
"You give me almost nothing," you remark dryly.
"I gave you my shirt."
The bastard even manages to sound magnanimous about it. You almost kick him again.
"I stole your shirt," you say flatly.
"I gave you the key to my apartment. Ungrateful—"
He pushes himself back. Just enough to drag the open shirt off entirely, tossing it somewhere over the back of the couch, and then he's bare-chested above you, and the dragon's tail curves around his ribs, and you can see every line of him. The lean lines of him, the indent of his hipbones, a trail of pale silver hair below his navel disappearing into his shorts, the pink of his nipples and the platinum bar through the left one.
He sees you looking. Aerion’s grin tips into a slow, lazy thing, feline at the edges.
"Now she looks."
You roll your eyes.
"Aesthetic opinions, sweetheart?" he questions, tipping his head slightly to one side.
You extend your hand. "Get back here."
"No." He huffs, bracing his arm on the couch. "Look properly. You wouldn't text me back. Suffer a little."
You drag your fingertip down the centre of his chest. Purposefully. Through the faint damp of his sweat, between his pectorals, down the ridge of his sternum, over each rib. Aerion goes still above you. His abs flutter when you drag your nail across them, just barely.
"You're disgusting," you conclude pleasantly.
Aerion bares his teeth, but you hear the shallow pitch of his breathing. "You licked me."
"Tasted like gym equipment," you say ruefully.
"You liked that.” He presses into your hand, his skin burning and damp beneath your palm. “You spat it into my—"
You arch into him. "Aerion."
He drops his head to your throat.
His mouth opens against the skin under your jaw, hot and wet, tongue dragging slowly across your pulse before his teeth close. Light at first, testing. Then harder, harder, until you suck in a breath and Aerion hums against your throat like a man who's eaten well.
He sucks a mark there. The pressure of it is obscene, the wet drag of his tongue working the skin between his teeth, and you feel the bruise rising under his mouth and know it'll be on display tomorrow and know, distantly, that this is the entire point. He moves down. The hollow of your throat, the dip at the base where he likes to bite. Your collarbone. His tongue traces the bone, then his teeth, and you feel him laugh quietly against your skin when you arch into it.
"Mine," he murmurs against your throat, but petulantly, possessively, the way a child claims a toy. "Pretty. Stupidly pretty. You think I sent you that picture for fun?"
“For attention.” You huff. “Because you’re so damn vain.”
"For yours." His mouth moves to your other collarbone, teeth scraping, lapping at the skin greedily. "Hate that you make me work for it. Hate it. I should be bored of you by now. Should've moved on. It's been—" He bites down. "—months."
"Are you?" you breathe, arching into the sensation.
He bites the bone. Hard. You hiss, and his hips press down, and you feel him through his shorts, hot and hard against your inner thigh. His breath stutters against your skin like he wasn't expecting his own response.
"No," he hisses, like it's been wrung out of him. "Obviously not. Look at you. Look at the—"
His hand finds the hem of the shirt. Pushes it up. Stops dead in his tracks when he sees nothing beneath.
"Oh," he says, so quietly you barely hear it. "Oh, you absolute creature."
"I told you. I was already wearing it."
"You were not wearing anything under it."
Your lips twitch, and you fail to hold back your grin. "No."
"All afternoon?” Aerion hisses. “On my couch? Reading my Dostoevsky?"
"Obviously."
He drops his forehead against your sternum and laughs. Low, wrecked, almost helpless. You feel the laugh move through his whole body. When Aerion lifts his head, his eyes are bright in a way you don't get to see often, that brief crack in the cruelty where the obsession leaks through.
"You'll be the fucking death of me," he declares.
You hum. "Probably."
"Don't sound so pleased about it."
He pushes the shirt up slowly. Inch by inch. Drags the hem up over your stomach, ribs, the underswell of your breasts, like he's unwrapping a present. He doesn't take it off. He just bunches it up under your collarbones and looks. His mouth parts slightly. His hand splays wide across your stomach, thumb dragging slowly across the soft skin, and you watch Aerion’s eyes track over you with the unbearable, greedy attention of a man who is, despite everything, still surprised every time.
"Greedy," he mumbles, and he isn't talking about you this time.
He doesn't go for your breasts first. He drags two fingers slowly down the centre of your stomach, then back up the side of your ribs, mapping. His knuckles brush the underside of your breast. Pull away. Come back. He's making you wait.
"Aerion—"
"Patience."
"Aerion."
"You made me wait an hour and twenty minutes," he murmurs spitefully, watching his own hand move across your skin. "I checked. You opened the photograph right away. You read it for—" his thumb drags across your nipple, lightly, just once, and you arch, making him smile "—the seventeen seconds it takes to commit it to memory. Then you put your phone down. You went back to my book. You didn't text. You didn't even—"
"Fuck—"
"—send a single emoji. Insulting."
His slick mouth closes around your nipple.
You suck in a breath so hard your throat hurts. Aerion’s tongue is hot and unhurried, the curve of his teeth an excruciating tease, while his other hand comes up to cup your other breast. His thumb drags across the peak, rough and testing, while he sucks slow and dirty at the first. Aerion takes his time. He sucks until you feel the heat building, until you're squirming under him, and then he switches, mouth on the other one, and the cold of his saliva on the first against the air makes you shudder. He works the second nipple harder. Tongue flat. Teeth scraping. He pulls off with an obscene wet sound and looks down at the slick peak of you, glistening, and exhales hot air across it just to watch you twitch.
"Aerion."
"Look at you," he rasps, low and pleased. "Sensitive little—"
"Will you stop?"
"Stop what, wolf, you're—" he licks, greedily, just the one stripe. "—gorgeous, stop complaining—"
His hair brushes your skin. The piercing scrapes against your ribs as he works lower, then back up. You drag your fingers up into his hair—damp at the roots, soft at the ends—and tug. Aerion makes a small, wounded sound against your breast and bites you in retaliation. Your hand slides down the back of his neck, across the top of his shoulder, and you feel the raised edge of ink there where the dragon's wing crests over his shoulder blade. You trace it. Lightly, gently, ever so carefully. You feel Aerion shiver.
"Remember," he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to speak, mouth still wet, eyes hooded, consuming, "the night of the gala. Last month. You came home in that black thing, the silk—"
You almost hit him because you know exactly what he’s doing.
Your mouth parts, and you gasp, "I remember."
"You let me put my hand under it in the elevator."
"I did—"
"Your thigh." His teeth find your other nipple. His whole body presses into you, slick and burning above you, all encompassing. "Slick already. By the time we got upstairs, you were dripping for me. Down your leg. Onto my hand. Begging for it before I'd even—"
"I wasn't begging."
"You were. Don't lie to me. You said Aerion, please against my mouth. I have that shit memorised. I think about it in traffic. I had to—" he sucks, hard and mean, then drags his teeth slowly over the peak "—pull off the freeway last Tuesday because of it."
"That’s disgusting," you choke out, nails sunk into his back.
"Wasn’t disgusting when I bent you over the kitchen counter. Remember that part? Pulled the silk up around your waist. You weren't wearing anything underneath that one either, you absolute—" Aerion bites the underside of your breath, and you jerk, gasping. "Came on my fingers before I even got my mouth on you. Twice. You soaked the marble, sweetheart. Wouldn't even let me touch myself, just sat me on the floor and rode my face until I—"
"Aerion—"
"—couldn't breathe—"
"Stop—"
"—made me come in my own hand without you even looking at me—" His voice cracks open completely now, strangled and frayed at the edges. "Made me wipe it on the kitchen floor like a fucking animal—"
"Aerion."
"—which makes me wonder," he goes on, lifting his head fully now, eyes wicked and dark, "if you'd be that wet for me right now or if I'm going to have to—"
You shove him.
He careens backwards, startled, laughing. Back into the couch cushions, and you climb him, hands flat to his chest, and slide down his body. His shirt, your shirt, has fallen back down around your hips and bunches obscenely at your waist. His shorts are loose. You can see, clearly, how hard he is through the thin fabric, a wet patch already darkening the front of them. Aerion’s face when you look up at him from between his thighs is gorgeous. Flushed high on the cheekbones, mouth bitten red, hair an absolute mess, sweat starting to gather at his temple again from the heat of you both.
"Don’t you dare," he snaps, but you know he doesn’t mean it.
“What’s wrong, dragon?” you wonder innocently, one finger tracing his thigh. “Afraid you can’t hold out the way I did?”
His head falls back against the cushion as you slide your hand up his thigh. "Fuck."
You don't pull his shorts down right away. Just like he didn’t put his mouth on you right away. You drag your palm over the front of them, noting the heat of him through the thin fabric, the wet patch where he's leaking through. He twitches. Aerion’s hand fists into the cushion at the slip. You drag your knuckles up the length of him leisurely, watching his abs flutter. Elegant line of Aerion’s throat work, and his hips press up into your hand without his permission.
You turn your head and bite the inside of his thigh.
He makes a sound.
You set your tongue against the spot. Suck. Just enough to bruise, to claim. You feel his thigh trembling under your mouth, the muscle still warm and tight from his workout, and you lift your head and look up at him. He's watching. He's gone half-undone with it. Head tipped back against the cushion, throat exposed, the chain at his neck catching the light, lashes lowered.
"Greedy," you echo softly. “Such a greedy dragon.”
He snarls under his breath.
"You're so wet, Aerion." You put your mouth to the bite, lick it, then kiss it gently, speaking into the skin. “So hard for me, baby.”
"Quiet."
"For what? Just a photo? Did you think about me touching myself to your little photo, baby, is that it? You're dripping through your—"
His hand tangles in your hair, "Shut up."
You laugh under your breath, hooking your fingers in the waistband to pull them down slowly. Aerion’s cock springs free, flushed pink and hard, the head wet and shining. You wrap your hand around the base of him and watch Aerion’s head fall back against the leather. His abs are tightening rhythmically with every breath as he fights for control. The dragon tattoo across his back bunches where his shoulders are pressed into the leather, his throat working.
His hand leaves your ahir to fist into the cushions like he doesn't trust himself to put them on you yet.
You lower your mouth.
Not to take him in. You’re not that nice. You drag your tongue up the length of him from base to tip first. Once. Aerion shudders. You do it again—slower this time, flat tongue, the whole length of him from root to head—and he hisses something through his teeth. You circle the head playfully with your tongue, then again. You taste the salt of him, the faint bitterness of him, lick it clean and watch fresh wetness bead at the slit almost immediately. You lean down and lick that, too, kissing it. He twitches, throbbing insistently in your palm. The whole length of him jumps.
"Christ, you absolute—"
You hum, swiling your tongue around the wet, pulsing length of him.
"Take me. Properly. Stop—"
"You said patience," you remind him evenly.
"You fucking—"
You take just the head into your mouth. Suck softly. Swirl your tongue around the slit again, gathering the precum beading there. Pull off with a wet pop, and a string of saliva connects your bottom lip to him for a beat before it breaks. Aerion makes a noise like he's been gut-punched, and his hand finally flies up to your hair, gripping, not pulling, just holding on for stability.
"Please," he rasps, and immediately catches himself: "—fuck. Don't tell anyone I said that."
You smirk.
You take him deeper this time. Slower. An inch at a time, and you watch Aerion’s face, you watch his eyes lose focus, you watch his mouth fall open. His hand tightens in your hair. You take him almost to the back of your throat and pull off, slow, dragging your tongue along the underside. A sound escapes him that he absolutely would kill someone for overhearing, high and keening.
You set the rhythm. Slow first, mean, the kind of pace designed to make him beg. You hollow your cheeks, one hand sunk into the flesh of his thigh.
You drag your tongue up the underside as you pull off, and watch his stomach flutter, his head falling back. Aerion’s throat works as he tries, visibly tries, not to make any of the sounds you can feel building in his chest. You know how loud he can be, how deliciously descriptive in a way that can make you squeeze your thighs together.
You let your spit run down him, let it pool at the base, slick and obscene. You take him deep again and pull off, letting spit and precum drip down the length of him, using your hand to spread it, sliding wet through your fist, working him slowly while your tongue circles the head. His thighs tremble on either side of your shoulders.
"Fuck, fuck, your mouth, your fucking mouth—"
You suck him down, going as far as you can, and stay there. Hold. Swallow around him, throat working tight around the head, and Aerion’s hips jerk up involuntarily, choking you for a breath. You let him. Your throat eases around the throbbing hardness, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. The wet of your spit runs down your chin, and Aerion makes a strangled sound.
"Sweetheart—"
You pull off unhurriedly. Drag your tongue up, take Aerion back into your mouth, sucking lightly, insistently.
You hum sympathetically, mockingly, as the taste of him burns on your tongue.
"Fuck—don't you dare—"
But you do dare.
You take him all the way down one last time. You set a rhythm now, fast, dirty, your hand working what you can't fit, and you can feel it in him. The way Aerion’s thighs are starting to lock, the way his stomach is trembling, his hand gone vice-tight in your hair.
"Fuck, fuck, I'm—fuck, I'm going to—"
He comes with a sound that’s almost a laugh but mostly a curse. Entirely undone. His body goes taut beneath you, fingers tight in your hair. You hold him through it. You wait. Feel him pulse against your tongue, hot and thick, salt-bitter, filling your mouth in pulses. You wait for him to finish, wait patiently for the last twitch. His fingers loosen from your hair, and Aerion’s head falls back, his eyes closed. He’s gone. There’s a split second of complete peace on his face, his mind having gone somewhere far away.
Then, eyes locked on his when he finally cracks them open to look down at you, you lift your head, mouth still full, and let his cum drip off your tongue.
Down his length.
A long, white string of it, sliding crudely over the head and down his shaft, and Aerion’s eyes go wide.
You smear it with your thumb. Spread it. Make a show of it. Work it slowly down the length of him, slick and pearly, watching Aerion’s expression crack through a hundred emotions.
"What," he begins hoarsely, "are you doing?"
"Helping."
There’s a pleasant rasp in your voice from him hitting the back of your throat, and you smile when Aerion’s breath hitches slightly.
You see him puzzling out the word. "Helping."
You stroke him gently, your fingers slick and dripping, eyeing his hips twitch involuntarily. He's still half-hard, fluttering with aftershocks, and going to be hard again very fast at this rate. "In case you can't get me wet enough on your own, baby."
There’s a beat of utter silence.
Then Aerion lunges.
He hauls you up—roughly, hand around your wrist, the other in your hair—and flips you face-down into the couch cushions in one motion. You're laughing, practically cackling, half-muffled into the leather, as he yanks the shirt up over your hips and shoves your knees apart with his own. The leather is warm where he was sprawled across it; you can feel the body heat soaked into the cushion against your stomach.
"Get me wet enough," he spits, low and venomous, mouth at your ear from behind. "You insolent—"
You’re still laughing, muffled. "You came in thirty seconds—"
"I came in two minutes—"
"It was thirty—"
His hand closes around your throat.
A warning, a brand, the cold press of his rings against your pulse where they're still warm from his own skin. He drags you back up against his chest, your spine to his sternum, the dragon's wing somewhere behind you against your shoulder blades, and he holds you there. You can feel the sweat on him now properly—fresher, the heat of exertion not the gym anymore, the slick of his stomach against the small of your back.
"Behave, wolf," he murmurs against your ear.
"Make me," you mock.
His other hand slides between your legs.
Aerion hisses softly against your neck. You're already wet. You've been wet since the photograph. He drags two fingers through your folds, gathering evidence, and then he pushes them inside you, and your knees give a little against the cushion. His grip on your throat tightens by a fraction. Not cutting off your air, just holding. Claiming.
"Pretty liar," he whispers viciously. "I didn't have to do anything. You’re ready. Look at this—listen to it—" He works his fingers mercilessly, and the sound is lewd, wet and slick, and you can feel yourself dripping down his wrist. "Soaking my hand. Down to my elbow in a minute. Pretending you needed me to—"
You moan, the sound caught in your windpipe, your hips pressing forward for more friction.
"Greedy thing,” Aerion hisses into your nape. “Pretty greedy thing. Couldn't even let me catch my fucking breath—"
He pulls his fingers out. He drags them up, glossy and wet, across your stomach, your ribs. He brings them to your mouth and pushes them past your lips, and you suck, and he makes a sound against your neck that’s genuine hunger.
"There," he breathes out softly, mockingly. "Taste it. Taste how wet you are for—"
"Aerion."
"—a man you claim is insufferable—"
"You are."
You feel his smirk against your skin when he mocks lowly, "And yet."
He pushes inside you in one slow, mean stroke, hand braced on your hip.
You both make sounds as he sinks in. You feel the ridiculous, absurd intimacy of him—the heat, the stretch of him slick with the cum you spread on him with your mouth—and his hand flexes around your throat. He holds very still inside you and breathes, breathes, like a man trying to talk himself out of something foolish.
"Look at you," Aerion drawls, and you hear the naked pleasure in his voice, can feel his burning stare along your body. "Bent over my couch in my shirt. Reading my book. Took my come out of your mouth and put it back on me like you were doing me a favour—"
He starts to move.
He never goes slow when he wants you like this, when the dragon-thing in him has slipped its leash. He fucks you hard. Hand at your throat, other hand braced on your hip, fingers digging in with every thrust. You brace yourself against the back of the couch and let your spine arch, listening to the obscene wet sound of it and the bitten-off curses he's mumbling into your hair. His chest is slick against your back. The chain at his neck is hot now, dragging across your shoulder blade with each thrust.
"Mine," he's saying, mostly to himself. "Mine. Pretty mine. Pretty greedy mine. Look at—look at how you take me. You'd let anyone watch you like this, wouldn't you, wolf? You'd let me film you—"
You moan at the visual, clenching around him so hard Aerion snarls against your ear. "Aerion, harder—"
His thrusts turn bruising, and you melt into him, into the feeling, your walls gripping him close, clenching tighter, tighter.
"You're close," Aerion breathes into your ear knowingly.
"Yes, yes—"
"Not yet," he breathes sharply.
He pulls out.
You let out a snarl of genuine fury, and Aerion laughs—wrecked, breathless, the laugh of a man who's enjoying himself far too much—and flips you onto your back, pulling you up into his lap in one motion. Your knees settle on either side of his hips, his hands at your waist, his cock notching back inside you before you've finished registering the absence.
"There," he murmurs, mouth at your jaw, the same place he bit you earlier. You can feel him press his lips against the bruise. "Better. Wanted to see your face."
"Fuck you, I was about to—"
"I know, I felt it, I'm not charitable—"
What he said a moment ago registers fully in your pleasure-addled brain, and your eyes narrow. "Wait. Did you just say you wanted to see my face?"
He rolls his eyes. "Did I?" he poses dismissively.
You catch his face in your hands.
Aerion goes still. Looks at you. His eyes are dark despite their paleness, hungry and lidded. There's colour high on his cheekbones, and his hair is a disaster. The proud curve of his mouth is swollen from being bitten, and there's still a faint wet shine on his throat where you licked him. He is, in this moment, the most undone you’ve ever seen him. You stare at him, and you say, quietly:
"You missed my pretty face?"
His hand cracks down on your ass.
You yelp, laughing, and he grins at you, full and mean and absolutely delighted, grabbing your jaw between his thumb and forefinger.
"Don't get ahead of yourself," he says dismissively. "Wanna suck your pretty tits, actually."
But you're both laughing. Properly, stupidly. He's still inside you, and you're laughing into each other's mouths. Aerion’s hand slides up to cup your breast, and his mouth drops to the other one, and he's working you, slow now, the rhythm changing—deep, grinding, the angle suddenly exactly right to hit that one spot inside you—and you feel it building again, faster this time, helpless.
You feel his rings against your nape, quiet, panting breaths escaping you. A whine working up your throat as he ruts into you. "Aerion—"
He hums at the need he hears in your voice, pulling you flush to him, burning somewhere in the middle.
"Aerion, please, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs around your nipple, and you can feel the smile against your skin, "yes, sweetheart, I know what you need, let go for me, wolf—"
The coil inside your belly snaps. You come clutching him.
Both arms around his neck. Face buried in his hair. Body locking, shaking. Aerion fucks you through it, slower, his hands splayed wide across your back, clutching you, and you feel him follow a moment later. Quiet this time, no theatrics, just a starved, broken sound into your shoulder, his whole body shuddering and stilling.
For a while, neither of you moves.
Aerion’s heart hammers against your sternum. His hair is damp with sweat at the nape. You can feel the platinum of his piercing pressed against your ribs and the heat of him everywhere else. His arms are wound around your waist in that tight, possessive way that says don't move, don't go anywhere, stay.
You lift your head, eventually. To look at him.
He's already gazing at you. No smirk, not posing, gazing, with that rare, naked expression you only get for half-seconds before he remembers himself and smothers it. His full mouth is slightly open, eyes gone soft at the edges.
"What?" you mumble.
Aerion blinks, his mouth twitching. He doesn't smother it this time—too tired, maybe, or too undone—and just keeps looking at you.
"Why were you reading my book?" he asks suddenly.
You shift in his lap. He's still inside you, going soft, and your body aches pleasantly. Your forehead is against his. His hand come up to cradle the back of your skull, fingers in your hair, and his thumb is moving along the curve of your jaw.
"You annotate everything," you say vaguely.
"I know I do."
"In three languages."
His brows twitch. "I know."
"In ink so cramped, half of it's barely legible."
"Get to the fucking point, sweetheart."
You breathe out, let yourself look at him, let yourself say it. "I wanted to know how you see the world."
He goes rigid underneath you.
"I read your margins because… that's where you actually are. The real you. The book you're arguing with. The lines you double-underline. What you cross out and rewrite. The places where you've gone back years later in different ink and answered yourself." You shrug, a tiny movement, against him. "It's the closest you let me get without making me work for it."
There's a long beat where Aerion doesn't say anything at all. His thumb has stopped moving on your jaw. He's just looking at you, lavender-pale in the late afternoon light, mouth slightly open.
His arms tighten around you, hauling you flush against his chest so suddenly a breath escapes you. He drops his face into the curve of your neck. He breathes there. You feel him breathing. A ragged thing, the kind of breath a person takes when they’re trying very hard not to let anything else show on their face.
You stroke his hair.
When Aerion speaks again, his voice is hushed, mouth against your throat. You can feel the words form against your pulse before you hear them.
"You can't do that," he says.
"Do what?" you question quietly.
"That.” It’s practically a snarl. “Say things like that to me."
"Why?"
"Because." You feel his throat move against your collarbone. "I can't—you can't say things like that and then leave."
There’s a pinch deep inside your chest, and your fingers tighten in his hair. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Ever." Aerion’s arms have gone so tight his hold is almost painful, and his voice muffles into your skin. "I mean ever. If you say things like that to me, I'm going to—fuck— I’m not built to—"
You soften because he can’t see your face, and it’s easier to be open like this. "Aerion."
"—let go. Of you. I'm not going to. You understand that. You understand it, don't you? Ever."
"I do."
"I'm telling you. I'm telling you now." He lifts his head, and there’s predator’s grace in the movement. "If you stay, then I’ll burn down anything you ask me to. I will buy us a country. I’ll set my name on fire. But I’m not going to—"
"I know," you tell him quietly.
"—let anyone near you, do you—"
You cup his face in your hands again. "I know, Aerion."
His eyes are burning, lit up from inside. "—and if you ever—if you ever decided to—"
"I'm not."
"Ever?"
"Ever."
He stares at you, searches your face the way he reads. Annotating. Underlining. Cross-referencing in three languages against everything he already knows about you and him, and you two together.
Then he kisses you.
No teeth, no performance, no game. His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, and his mouth moves against yours like he's memorising it, and against your lips, half-mumbled, almost reverent now where before it had been petulant:
"Mine."
But it's different this time. It isn't the dragon claiming a coin. It isn't pretty mine or greedy mine or any of the small possessive cruelties he's been muttering all afternoon. It's quieter than that. Lower. It sounds like kept. It sounds like known. It sounds like a thing a man says when he has just understood that he will not, in any version of his life going forward, be the one to walk away.
You hum, the word closing around your heart like a fist.
"Yours," you agree softly against his mouth.
"Mine," Aerion says again, into your mouth, into your jaw, into the soft skin under your ear. "Mine. Mine. Mine."
His arms don't loosen.
He keeps his face buried in your throat and doesn’t let go once.
You stroke his hair, and Aerion doesn't tell you to stop.
fic warnings: non con. dub con. incest. super dark content. primal play. violence. obsessive and very possessive boys, jealousy, heavy smut. equally messed up reader. mutual pining. really fucked up relationships. past child neglect. serious daddy issues. 18+
a/n: i can't label this as an actual series because im rubbish with long chapters and plots. this will be more smut / build up to heavy smut with longer pieces and drabbles that fit together in a sort of timeline.
synopsis: so I have this sick and twisted idea of Aerion and Valarr living on a ranch with their family and their cousin who is like Aery’s daughter. She only been visiting like every summer since she was seven and then any other time she’s in like a boarding school. But basically they’re obsessed with each other and when she gets older her dad threatens to take her away and as much as you’re thinking they’d like be rivals i genuinely think they’d work together to keep her with them.
This is like very dark content. It’ll be less of a series and more of a dark smut with parts and lots of parts because I’ve been dreaming about this for like weeks I can’t lie…
lore - background to this story
prologue - in which you realise you could never truly escape them
one - in which you arrival doesn't go as planned
two - in which tensions start to rise
three - in which you think you might be making a mistake
-Synopsis: Your younger brother is so desperate to keep you that he would gladly destroy both his own name and yours, poisoning every chance you have at marriage just to make sure no one else can take you away from him.
-Warnings: targcest, mommy issues, smut, foul language, toxic relationship, you resemble myriah martell !!!!!!( some descriptions), divergent from canon…, age gap ( 3-4 years) , some angst, ur the only daughter of king daeron/myriah, blood
Baelor clenched his younger brother’s knee beneath the table, a strained smile fixed upon his face.
“The Baratheons would make a good ally, lord father.” the eldest son said, the pin of the hand of the king glinting upon his breast.
King Daeron hummed at the thought, glancing to his wife for approval. She had chosen to sit in council that day, for the matter at hand concerned their daughter’s marriage prospects.
“Yes, quite. Lord Ormund’s heir is certainly in need of a wife. Our daughter would reign in the laughing storm, I am sure! ” she said with a laugh, fanning herself.
Maekar clenched his jaw so tightly he feared his head might burst. He would sooner have it sliced clean off than see his sister married to another.
“The Baratheons are already allies of the crown. I see no reason to hand our sister over to some savage a-and brutish stormlander!” Maekar spat.
King Daeron sighed. “This is why you sit in council. You have mastered the sword, but it seems politics still eludes you.”
Maekar’s ears burned, though he ignored the looks of the other lords at the table.
“I am only concerned for our sister’s safety,” Maekar said, locking eyes with Baelor “Aren’t you?”
Baelor clicked his teeth. “We must all do our duties, brother, as I have and as you shall, soon enough.”
It seemed his older brother would not stand with him this time. No matter.
“May I be excused?”
He would find a way to get what he wanted. Being the youngest, it was in his nature.
☼
“If you do not do it, I shall tell them myself!” Maekar hissed in your ear.
The two of you stood in the throne room as servants hurried about, readying the hall for the coming announcement. The king had already made up his mind about your suitor.
It was to be the Baratheon boy.
“And say what? That you debased your own sister?” you answered in a low tone, pinching his ear.
Some passing ladies giggled at the sight, no doubt mistaking it for some childish quarrel between siblings.
“You would have me ruined, brother? The court already thinks I prance about like a whore. Would you give them color for their filthy fancies?”
“I would marry you… you… you would not be a whore. You would be my wife,” he began, his eyes wide, his cheeks flushed. “It is not as though it were untrue.”
“What? That I am your whore? You would be wed to a whore. That is what every lord would think of you if you said such a thing now, before the envoys and the court. The Baratheons would take it as a slight as well-“
“That is not what I meant! And since when did you care about politics? It is as if you wished to marry the doe! Huh,is that what this is?” your younger brother spat.
“So quick to anger, Maekar, so quick to anger! Perhaps I do not wish to be married to a child. Perhaps I wish to rule my own household! What are you set to inherit?” You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow.
You were being cruel, berating him like a little boy, hoping to knock his confidence down a notch or two. It had the opposite effect.
His breeches began to tighten around him, making his bulge even more pronounced.
“You’re pathetic, little brother ” you said, looking down your nose.
“You will rule Summerhall with me, by my side… you would bear my children and raise them. That will be plenty of work to keep you sated.” he whispered, a low, pained murmur.
Your eyes widened. “ The summer keep? Our vacation home?”
“Father has promised it to me-”
“Do you truly think Father will allow us to marry? Do not think I have not thought of it too, of course, but you know he would never say yes. Mother as well… she would hate you.” you interrupted.
“He will have to marry us if I tell him the truth,” his eyes darkened. “And as for Mother… I never had her love to begin with. What is one more person who dislikes me?”
“I’ll deny it, Maekar. If you see this through, I will deny it. I’ll have baelor fight you for my honor.”
He wore a tight smile, his eyes unchanging. “Your own Aemon the dragonknight… you know he won’t face me. He has a wife and son to think about. You are no longer his priority. He told me so himself.”
“Liar,” you snapped, pinching his ear once more “I’ll tell father what you just confessed. That you wish to ruin my name, our house’s name! I’ll say you are a jealous little boy who wants to marry the stag himself, ha!” You spun on your heel and strode swiftly toward your father’s solar.
“Not before I reach him first!” Maekar shouted, sprinting after you, leaving you in the dust despite your fast pace.
☼
“Father!” Maekar yelled, bursting into the king’s solar.
The king looked up from his parchments, likely a marriage contract. The Baratheon envoy and the maester stared at the feathered pen like hounds drooling over rotten meat.
“What is the meaning of this, son?” the king demanded, his eyebrows drawn together and his mouth hanging open in shock.
“Don’t sign it.” he breathed out, exhausted from his run.
“Maekar, stop this at once! I forbid you from speaking!” you yelled.
“You cannot forbid me anything!”
The lords were too in shock at the sight, a prince and princess utterly lacking decorum, shouting at each other in the king’s presence.
,,Have you both lost your senses!” The king bellowed.
Everyone in the room froze, every eye fixed on you both, waiting for the next explosion. Your father’s cupbearer gripped his pitcher so tightly his knuckles whitened and maids pressed against the doorway, straining to hear every word.
With a shuddering breath, Maekar sank to his knees.
,, Wed her to me.”
Maekar watched his father’s face drain of color, then flush bright red, like blood staining a white sheet on a wedding night.
An omen, perhaps? Maekar would surely have his wedding… though at your ,first’ coupling, there would be no bride’s blood to mark the sheets.
“OUT! OUT, ALL OF YOU! ALL EXCEPT FOR MY FOOLISH, FOOLISH CHILDREN!” King Daeron roared.
They all scattered from the room like chattel, leaving only you and your brother behind. You watched Maekar plead with your father, frozen at the sight. Just before the door could close on the last servant, your father’s roar shattered the air once more.
“YOU DID WHAT TO YOUR SISTER!”
You had never seen your father this furious.
“I SHOULD HAVE DROWNED YOU ALL LIKE KITTENS IN A SACK!”
Fuck me, both of you thought.
☼
The linen shift clung to your skin, already damp with nervous sweat.
“Stand straight…” your mother said behind you.
The laces of the kirtle slid through the eyelets with a dry rasp. Then came the pull.
Too tight.
“Mother, let my maid do it. I know you are angry with me and taking it out on me, or rather on my stomach.” you said, clutching your dresser.
She tsked, ignoring you.
“You will wear one of my gowns, from my younger days and we shall say it is for nostalgia, since we could not have a dress made in time for your…”
“Wedding day, mother. A very joyous day.” you finished for her.
She rolled her eyes.
“I can see you, Mother. There is a mirror right in front of me.” you gritted out.
It was hard not being one of her favorites anymore. That honor belonged to Baelor now. You were certain they would fashion him a badge for it, something he might pin beside the hand’s brooch.
She ignored you once more.
“I do not wish to see your stomach today, so refrain from eating or drinking. I will not have them thinking you are with child. Seven save us…”
“Should I refrain from breathing too, mother?” you said, turning around. “I could wear a high waisted gown-”
“Gods, no! Then they will certainly think you are with child!” she exclaimed.
“Mummy?” you asked, though you did not quite know what to say.
Her brows were furrowed, the lines of age on her face deeper than they had been only weeks before. The strain seemed to age her by the day.
“Yes.” Her chest rose and fell heavily. You were certain you could hear her heart racing if you tried.
“I’m sorry.” Your lips turned downward and your cheek began to twitch.
“I’m sorry too,” she answered. “I know what a good woman you might have become. I should have protected you better . I should have sent you to dorne as a ward…so you might have known the kind of power and influence, the good and fair kind, you could have had as a princess. I never thought I would need to protect you from your brother, a younger brother at that.”
You opened your mouth, but only a soft, pained croak escaped.
“In my dreams, you are that woman….” she turned away, clutching her stomach. “I’m sorry I failed you.”
☼
,,… AND ITS KISS WAS A TERRIBLE THING!”
The crowd sang, gaudy and drunk and thankfully the gossip of your wedding was lost in their haze of inebriation.
Funny how the nobles who kept their noses so high in the air became the vulgar, disgraceful masses they had always despised, you thought grumpily.
You reached for your chalice of wine at the same time Maekar did. You had been sharing a cup after the ceremony in baelor’s sept.
Your fingers brushed and you flinched back.
“I hope you are not as frigid at the bedding ceremony ” he scowled, raising an eyebrow.
You had not spoken to maekar in weeks, nor had you really looked him in the eyes. The first time you spoke to him again was at the vow exchange, but your gaze had been fixed on the beady little eyes of the high septon.
“I’m not fucking you.” You pushed the chalice to his side.
“Why ever not?” he scoffed.
“Have a think.” you spat, rolling your eyes and turning back to the drunken crowd singing.
“BUT WHAT DOES IT MATTER ,FOR ALL MEN MUST DIE AND IVE TASTED THE DORNISHMANS WIFE!”
Maekar adjusted his collar at the song. The looks the crowd gave you both made his fingers itch for the dagger in his boots.
A pretty red headed man appeared behind you, offering his hand for a dance. Baelor’s brother in law, no doubt . You accepted it with graceful composure and when he whispered something in your ear,you giggled and looked back at Maekar.
You would ruin this night for him. He had wanted a wedding and you would give him one he would not soon forget.
And so you danced with every man in the room save your husband, accepted every drink offered to you and did not once look in his direction.
“You are quite drunk, sister.” You were thrust into the arms of your elder brother in the lively dance.
“No one seems to mind… the king and queen have already retired from the festivities…” you replied.
“I wonder why” he said, rather snobbishly.
“I do not understand how everyone is more angry with me than with him. He is just as guilty… so are you.”
Baelor at least had the decency to look down at his feet, though he did not apologize. He had scarcely spoken to you or maekar beyond a few hollow pleasantries.
“I am happy for you both. I know how much Maekar wanted this and you too, even if you will not admit it,” Baelor said, glancing around to be sure no one was within earshot. “But you have shamed us… our house. I am sure all of this will be forgotten in a year or two, but I won’t . And I fear for you as well. Childish fancies pass more quickly than you think and… marriages cannot be undone.” he whispered.
You wanted to slap him. Instead, you leaned in close, your lips brushing his ear as you hissed, “If childish fancies pass so quickly, then you would do well to keep your eyes on your wife… instead of straying to me….and maekar.”
You pulled back slightly, a wry smile on your lips though it did not reach your eyes. “I am not sure father is so indulgent. He will not make us your sister wives.”
You pinched his side, childishly, before turning on your heel and walking away.
☼
“The bedding! WE WANT A BEDDING!” a voice cried over the music and laughter.
At the shout, the hall erupted. Men surged toward you, grubby fingers tugging at your skirts and sleeves. Women swarmed around maekar, mussing his hair and pawing at his breeches.
You swayed, drunk and full of anger, shoving at the groping hands that dared touch you.
Lord dondarrion swept you up, his hand boldly resting where it should not.
“What a pity only my sister was wed to a targaryen,” he said with a leer. “I would have liked to have a pick from the litter myself!”
The men roared with laughter, hurling crude jests, until they reached your new chambers and shoved you inside.
Maekar sprang to his feet the moment the door swung wide. The ladies, showing some measure of decency, had made their way to your quarters all the quicker, it seemed.
“I hope they took no liberties with you… I would set that right at once.” Maekar said, stepping toward you.
“Get in bed and sleep” you shot back, fumbling with your jewelry as you pulled it off.
“When will you stop punishing me for this, sweet sister? Until we are old and grey?” Maekar asked, a faint smile lingering on his lips.
“I know not. Not until mother speaks kindly to me again, until father looks at me as though I were a little girl once more. And Baelor-”
“Fuck Baelor. Fuck them all. I took what was mine by right-”
“By right?” you cried, “What right have you over me? If mother and father had wished for one of their children to wed another, you would have been the last choice. It would sooner have been me with Baelor, or aerys, or even rhaegal. Not you. What right do you speak of? The only reason I let you near my cunny was because I allowed it.”
“You love me… and don’t deny it. Don’t take from me the only thing I hold dear, the only thing that has kept me sane in this hellhole.”
Tears pricked at his eyes and his cheeks burned red.
Yet he went on, “ you would have been miserable, as I would have been, in any other marriage.”
“What, even Baelor?” you scoffed, cruelly.
“Yes,” he spat “especially him.”
For a long moment you just stared at each other, both of you thinking the same thing: You’re all I’ve got. Alone in this world, yet we have each other.
You would not speak those words now, perhaps not for a long time. He would need to atone, kneel before you and beg for your forgiveness.
You would grant it, of course, sooner or later.
“Do you want to know what our good brother said to me?” you giggled.
He rolled his eyes. “I was meaning to ask.”
☼
You and Maekar were lazing in bed, he wore only his braies and you a plain linen shift.
He stroked your thigh. “You could’ve worn one of your silken nightgowns.”
“You don’t deserve it.” you scoffed, slapping his hand away.
He groaned, rolling toward you, while you read the same line of your novel over and over.
“I’m hard and it hurts ” he mewled, cupping his manhood.
“That line hasn’t worked in years. You’re a man grown. Don’t be pathetic.”
“Call me that again-” A knock at the door cut him off.
“Who the fuck would be knocking at our bedding?” you dropped your book to the floor.
“What bedding-” he scoffed, but you pinched him.
He cupped his face, scowling. “ It’s most likely our brother. Father told him to prick his finger for your maiden’s blood.”
“What?” you cried, leaping to your knees.
“Yes, father wants to parade our sheets in the hall tomorrow and all will first look to see if we bear any cuts upon our bodies.”
“That’s mortifying!”
The knock came louder still.
You quickly straddled Maekar and his eyes went wide.
“You’re evil” he whispered, a toothy grin spreading across his face.
“Shut your mouth!” you said, pressing both hands to his neck, squeezing lightly.
You gripped his thick cock, slick with his arousal and sank down onto him in one motion. A pained gasp escaped your lips as he stretched you open, filling you completely.
you started riding him hard, fast and desperate. Your hips slamming down with wet, filthy sounds that echoed through the room.
He groaned deep in his throat, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, guiding you, urging you faster. “ fuck, just like that…”
The door creaked open, but you didn’t stop.
Instead, you arched your back, throwing your head back so your dark hair spilled down, exposing the full curve of your throat.
Your mouth fell open in a loud, broken moan as your eyes locked onto the intruder standing there, frozen in the doorway.
“Brother…” you whimpered.
Baelor slammed the door shut and strode toward the bed. He drew a dagger from his belt and for a moment you feared he might strike you both down.
Had he done so, you were sure the bards would’ve sung of the tragedy for years to come.
Instead, he held his breath while he watched you ride his younger brother. He cut into his own palm and groaned, the blade biting deeper than he meant it to. He reached out and smeared the blood right over your cunt.
You gasped, your fingers brushing the blood smeared across your skin.
Maekar came at the sight.
☼
The ending is so stupid 😭😭 I really want to write a second part about their settled marriage, the kiddos and maybe even ashford.
SUMMARY: aerion is sick and is refusing to allow anyone close enough to help—naturally, you come to save the day. OR, it's your turn to realize that you might be in love with aerion, and you somehow take it even worse than he does.
WARNINGS: fem!reader, reader comes from valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described, aerion is aerion except he is worse than usualy when he's sick LOL, the high valyrian is not properly translated because we don’t know the words for the words I needed so bear with me LOL
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yayyyyy part 6 at last. This was actually a spur of the moment decision, there was initially supposed to be a wildly different 6th installment but I got the inspiration for this and just had to go with it, because who doesn't want to see Aerion sick and suffering LOLLLL. I'm excited for the next part—it's the longest thus far and with good reason, I think you'll like it, but until then you can have this lighter one. Anyway, comments and reblogs always appreciated! I hope you guys enjoy!
READ: SEHNSUCHT
Aerion is sick—or so Magister Vyrano claims, at least.
You arrive at Vyrano’s manse as a physician runs fleeing from the gates, an amused smile on your lips as you turn a questioning look up the path to where the magister stands, frustrated beyond words. You make your way up to the manse, fingers running along the tall pink and orange flowers lining the cobblestone until you stand a few paces in front of the man.
“It seems as though our good physician has left in quite the hurry,” you drawl, crossing your arms over your chest. “Does this have anything to do with the rumors I’ve heard about our resident dragon prince?”
Magister Vyrano’s shoulders slump with exhaustion. He lifts plump fingers to the bridge of his nose and sighs with a type of defeat you’ve never heard from the man in the five years you’ve known him. One of his attendants rushes from the open doors of the manse to where Vyrano is waiting on the steps with a glass of wine. He accepts it graciously, downing it faster than you can blink.
“The Prince Aerion is… taken with fever,” Vyrano confirms, tone far more grave than your own, tongue darting out to lick the droplets of wine that remain on his lips. “The fever worsens by the hour, and he refuses to let anyone near him. The last physician tried to insist and was very nearly thrown from the balcony.”
Your brows lift, unable to stop the curve of your lips. “Sounds like him.”
“It may, but it does not sound like a man who will survive if this continues,” Vyrano snaps, temper fraying at the edges. You raise your eyebrows, and his shoulders bow inwards. He exhales sharply, trying to regain composure. “He burns, my lady. The heat of him—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head with another heavy sigh. “It is unnatural. And he raves.”
You press your lips together, amusement fading slightly as you tilt your head to the side. You echo, “Raves?”
“About fire and dragons,” Vyrano replies, grimacing. “About rebirth. Like nothing I have ever heard before. He speaks in the old dialect mostly, and we can only make out a handful of words, but it is enough to… chill. He refuses water, refuses milk of the poppy, refuses everything. I am at my wits’ end trying to keep the Bright Prince alive.”
You breathe out long through your nose, glancing past Vyrano toward the open doors of the manse. Idiot, you think, gaze drawing back toward Vyrano. You say dryly, voice light to belie the uncertainty his words unearth, “He is very dramatic.”
“This is no drama,” Vyrano tells you, voice strained. “If it continues, I will have no choice but to send word to his father. I cannot be responsible for the death of a Targaryen prince within my walls.”
“That seems premature,” you say after a long moment, knowing that once word reaches Westeros, there will be no taking it back.
You do not know Aerion’s family well enough to presume how they would react to learning of his violence and lack of cooperation in response to Vyrano’s attempts to help him, but if they’re anything like your father, then you know that fever would never be an acceptable excuse for loss of control. You are the blood of Old Valyria—you are not to be bound by mortal frailty, not to be humbled by the same weaknesses that claim lesser men. That is what you were taught. That is what was carved into you before you could even understand the words. Weakness is not tolerated in any form, so you cannot allow Vyrano to send a raven to the west, because if Aerion were raised with the same truths, this would only serve to be used against him.
But if it would extend his stay here…
No, you halt the thought before it can even finish. You cannot go down that path. You have toyed with it before—ever since he nearly snapped Valerion’s wrist at the First Magister’s feast—mind working over ways to make him slip up without him realizing you’ve led him into it. You are no stranger to sabotage; back home, you would frequently lead your Elephant peers into vicious little traps to set them back and push you forward. It would be easy, woefully so—more than that, it was fun—but you’ve never been able to bring yourself to do it with him.
It does not feel quite as easy or quite as fun when you think of doing it to him.
You do not know why—you have always been selfish, never one to deny yourself your wants, no matter the cost—and you do not like dwelling on why because you are scared of the answer that waits for you there.
At last, you sigh and shake your head before saying, “He is a Targaryen prince, magister. He will not be felled by something as trivial as fever.”
“You do not see him. I have put it off long enough,” Vyrano disagrees. “The boy will die of his pride if nothing is done, I—”
“Allow me to go to him before you send the raven,” you say, giving the magister an easy smile. “Perhaps I will succeed in convincing the dragon prince to evade an untimely death.”
“My lady,” Vyrano sighs, and you can hear the protests that the man is about to make before he speaks at all. “He has barred the doors to his room, and he is not in his right mind. He is stronger than you think, even in this state. If he harms you—”
You laugh—it is harsh and unkind, and it slips out before you can stop it. Magister Vyrano cuts himself off before he can finish his sentence.
“I will pretend you didn’t say that last bit, dear magister,” you say with a smile that’s a bit less friendly than your last. Not for the first time since Aerion arrived in Lys, you ache for your homeland. You do not know why the dragon prince’s presence has resurfaced the longing—perhaps he reminds you of those you left behind, or maybe of yourself in the early moons of your exile—and ever since that conversation in Magister Lorento’s garden, it has become exceptionally worse. So, you can’t help the bitterness that rises, because if you were back home, no one would dare insult you by assuming a fevered, western prince could do harm to you. “And there are ways of subverting what I’m sure is an impressive blockade at his doors.”
Vyrano’s eyes slide shut. “Please do not knock the tiles off my roof again, my lady.”
You laugh—this one is delighted, the irritation you felt gone in an instant, and the tension in Vyrano’s shoulders eases. “That, my friend, was the dragon prince’s clumsy footing. I am far too graceful for that.”
“Do not get too close to him, so that you do not come down with whatever caused his fever,” Magister Vyrano warns. “And if you do not succeed, I will be sending a raven.”
“I do not come down with fever. Have I suffered a day of illness since I arrived on this island?” you say dismissively. You will not fail, so you refuse to even address the rest of what he said. You are confident in that much. “Go relax with wine, magister. I shall take care of your little problem. You need not fret.”
—————————
A knife hits the marble pillar next to your head the moment your feet touch down on the dragon prince’s balcony. You laugh, watching it bounce off the stone and clatter to the ground at your feet. Your gaze lifts to where it had come from, eyes falling upon a furious and flushed Aerion, who glares at you as though you’ve just committed some egregious crime against him by dropping down onto his balcony.
“Henujagon,” he spits, voice scratchy and hoarse and terribly unlike the smooth mockery you’ve become intimately familiar with. “Gaoman daor jaelagon ao kesīr, līve.”
Leave. I do not want you here, whore.
“Ah, yn ao vestragon sīr daor rytsa, byka dārilaros,” you purr, lips lifting up into a delighted smile when rage flashes hot and all-consuming across his face. He reaches for something else near the table he’s leaning on—a paperweight—and he flings it at you hard. You tilt your head to the side and let it glide past you, watching as it arches down toward the ground below and shatters on the stone below. You look back at him with a playful pout and complain, “Nyke mērī jaelagon naejot dohaeragon.”
Ah, but you seem so unwell, little prince. I only wish to help.
“Gaoman daor jorrāelagon aōha dohaeragon, ao doru-borto orvorta,” he replies furiously, but the fury he tries to imbue in his words is thoroughly dulled by the way you can see his body visibly weakening, arms shaking, shivers wracking his form. He looks terrible—much worse than you thought. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao naejot henujagon.”
I do not need your help, you stupid cunt. I need you to leave.
“Aōha ēngos iksis olvie quba skori iksā daor rytsa, byka dārilaros,” you drawl, undeterred, making your way over to him. He reaches with trembling fingers for another makeshift weapon—a fork, this time, one you’re sure he plans to try to put through your neck. “Ao daor sesīr iōragon mijegon nākostōbāves.”
Your tongue is quite vile when you’re ill, little prince. You can hardly even stand without swaying.
Aerion takes your words as a challenge, which you should have expected, because he lifts his arm and takes a step forward to swing the fork at your neck, which you did expect. He falls unbalanced with the motion of the swing, and you watch as frustration spreads across his face. You grab his wrist when he still tries to nick your skin, even with the weak swing, and your other hand wraps around his waist as you slip behind him, holding him upright against you.
“Ivestragī jikagon yno!” he barks, but his body betrays him, sinking into you, head lolling back against your shoulder. You can see the sweat beading his forehead up close, the slickness that coats his lips, and the redness high on his cheeks. His skin burns beneath your touch, and your amusement trickles into concern when you realize just how high his fever must be running. “Vestan, ivestragī jikagon yno, līve!”
Let go of me. I said, let go of me, whore!
“Aerion, you are only making yourself weaker—”
“Iksan daor nākostōbā!” he cuts you off furiously. The fork clatters to the ground, grip loosening when you let go of his wrist to card your fingers through his damp hair. He lets out a wobbling noise, caught between a gasp for air and a whimper. “Iksan se zaldrīzes—iksan daor nākostōbā!
I am not weak! I am the dragon—I am not weak!
In spite of his protests, he lets you lead him over to his bed, and you let out a soft sigh when you drop down onto the mattress, pulling him with you. He can hardly keep himself upright, his upper body leaning heavily against your side. Your gaze flicks up to the door, suppressing a smile when you see that even in his fevered state, he was able to drag his dresser in front of it to prevent anyone from entering. Stubborn boy.
“Zaldrīzes,” he repeats, softer this time, as though the word itself might give him strength. His fingers curl weakly into the fabric at your waist, clutching like it is the only thing anchoring him to the world. “Iksan se zaldrīzes…”
You exhale slowly, one hand braced behind you on the mattress while the other remains threaded through his damp hair, keeping his head from lolling too far.
“Yes,” you murmur, quieter now, humoring him in a way you never would if he were not half-delirious. “A very fearsome one.”
His breath hitches at that—pleased, maybe, or simply clinging to something that feels like agreement. You shift slightly, angling him back against the pillows. He resists for half a second, some last scrap of pride flaring up, but it burns out quickly, his strength giving way beneath your touch.
“Sesīr zaldrīzoti ēdruta ēdrugon, dārilaros,” you say lightly.
Even dragons must rest, prince.
Your gaze flicks up, trying to figure out what exactly the physicians managed to get into his room before he sent them running. You see fresh water, cooled broth, and what looks like milk of the poppy at his bedside. Good, you think. At least the first few weren’t totally useless. You will have to try to get him to at least drink some water—if you’re lucky, eat some broth and take some milk of the poppy to help him sleep.
Your gaze drags back down to him. His eyes drooped shut as soon as his head hit the pillows, but he’s still conscious, you think. Though his eyes are closed, his eyelids twitch incessantly, and his breath shudders, lips parted over rasps, face is twisted in discomfort; you can feel the heat emanating from him when you’re not even touching him.
You lift your hand to brush your knuckles against his cheekbone, frowning at how slick his skin is, clammy and terribly sallow—Aerion has always been pale, more ghost than man when you first saw him on the shore, but months of lounging around in the sun with you have changed that. The pallor that once clung to him has long since been burned away under Lyseni sun, traded for a warmer tone that sits more naturally on him now, as though he had always been meant for sun and beaches and dry heat rather than mist and grey skies (always meant for you runs traitorously through your head, but you push the thought away immediately). Even now, beneath the flush of fever, you can see it—the golden cast to his skin, the faint lines where the sun has kissed him deeper along his shoulders and throat.
His hair has grown, too, you note, toying with a longer strand, tugging lightly, taking advantage of his weakened state to observe him without receiving a cushion to the face or snappy words.
It spills across the pillows in a tangled sweep of silver-gold, longer than it was when he first arrived, no longer kept in the rigid, courtly styles of Westeros. You had noticed it weeks ago, the way it curls faintly at the ends when left loose, the way it clings to his nape when damp with sweat or seawater. You almost commented on it, but you decided against it because you figured he would chop it off again out of spite, and you prefer it like this. Now it sticks to his skin in uneven strands, darkened with sweat, plastered to his temples and neck.
You brush a few of those strands back without thinking. He is pretty, you think—even now, especially now, maybe. He doesn’t have the strength to keep his features twisted into an ever-present scowl, and though his expression does occasionally shift into a pained one, it is mostly lax. Peaceful in a way he rarely allows himself to be.
Your hand slips down to his cheeks, to the faint scars that he always gets testy about when your fingers brush them. You trace the lines outward from his lips, and he makes a small sound at the contact—soft, almost reflexive— leaning into your hand before he can seem to stop himself.
Your frown deepens.
“…Idiot,” you mutter under your breath, though there is little bite to it now.
You press your lips together tightly, trying to figure out what to do—your brother was always finicky, prone to tantrums and bouts of irrational anger where he would only allow you near him. They happened most frequently when he was not feeling well, so you know well how to handle fever—and unruly, belligerent boys—but Lys doesn’t have the same elixirs that you had access to in Volantis, which is unfortunate, and means you’ll have to make do with what you have.
You click your tongue softly, glancing back toward the table before shifting away from him just enough to try to grab the goblet of water and the basin, but it is out of reach. You frown when you realize that you will have to step away. You move to push yourself to your feet, and he is immediately shifting with you, though his eyes remain closed. Your hand remains on him for a second, and then you say, “Do not move.”
He makes a low, incoherent sound in response, something between protest and acknowledgement, but his fingers tighten faintly in your silks as if to ensure you do not go far. You exhale through your nose and unfurl his fingers so you can slip away, grabbing the basin, a rag, his water, and the milk of the poppy.
“Stubborn,” you say more to yourself than to him. You dip the cloth into the water basin, wring it out, and press it to his forehead. He flinches, breath hitching, but all of the fight seems to have drained out of him. He must’ve used the last of his strength to force himself to his feet and onto the attack when he heard your approach over the rooftops. “If you had let one of the physicians see you, you might not be in such a bad state.”
“Ēzi… Ēzi daor paktot naejot renigon iā zaldrīzes,” he says, trying to force steel into his voice, but the words wobble terribly. He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, eyes cracking open, amethyst slivers hazy as he peers up at you. His throat spasms as he swallows—his lips, usually soft and smooth, are terribly cracked. He needs to drink water, you realize. He says more quietly, “Pōnta daor ūndegon nyke hae bisa. Daorys kostagon.”
They… they have no right to touch a dragon. They cannot see me like this. No one can.
You sigh, reaching for the goblet of water next, lifting the cup and sliding your hand to the back of his neck to raise him slightly. His skin burns there, too—he burns everywhere. He resists again weakly, but you tighten your grip on his nape just enough to make it clear that this is not optional. You tell him, “Se kessi daor, zaldrīzes dārilaros, sīr bōsa hae gaomā daor mazverdagon ra qopsa syt nyke.”
And they will not, dragon prince, so long as you do not make things difficult for me.
“Nyke vēdros ao,” he spits with a sudden wave of energy. “Nyke vēdros ao, se eminna aōha laesi nādīnagon.”
I hate you. I hate you, and I will have your eyes gouged.
You ignore his empty threat and tilt the cup anyway. The first attempt spills down his chin, and he turns his head away in reflex, but you pinch the nape of his neck so hard that he whimpers. He gives you a furious look, but when you tilt the cup a second time, he swallows the water, and you almost roll your eyes when you see the relief that instinctively crosses his face when the liquid wets his dry mouth and throat.
Your gaze flicks once more to the small vial of milk of the poppy, and then back to him. Your fingers drum once against the mattress, considering, before you decide against it for now. He is compliant enough like this—barely, but enough. He will likely get up in arms again the moment you reach for the milk of the poppy. You shift closer to him, settling at his side, one leg tucked beneath you as you drag him slightly toward you so he cannot roll away or attempt to rise again.
He comes easily now, head tipped toward your shoulder, breath hot against your neck, and his hand slides weakly across your waist before settling there, as though he’s forgotten why he was ever fighting you at all.
And you hesitate.
Because this is not you, and you are suddenly terribly unsettled. This is not Aerion, either, but that can at least be excused by fever. You have no excuse, and this is not you, and it’s becoming increasingly intolerable to pretend that nothing has changed. This is—it’s different. It is different from lounging on cushions in various manses with his cock in your cunt and bloodied lips sliding together. It is different even from the intimacy of that night in the cove, when your arms slunk around his shoulders and your legs around his waist, so close that you did not know where you ended and he began.
What do you gain from helping him here, really? What do you gain from any of this? What do you gain from your fingers smoothing his hair and your lips ghosting the crown of his head? From lifting water to his lips and helping him through each swallow?
Your father did not raise you to give without taking. Every kindness has a purpose, and every touch has a cost. You have lived by that truth so long that it has become instinct, burned into the marrow of you.
And everything else thus far can be explained away by pleasure and distraction—your attachment to the dragon prince, the way you indulge him and his cruelty, the way you seek him out. It is all for the sake of making this exile more bearable, all for the sake of having someone who will not hesitate to cut and burn like the magisters and courtesans on this isle. You are keeping your mind sharp while this city of decadence tries to dull its edges. Aerion is the only one capable of this, so you attach yourself to him, you indulge him, you seek him out. You dread him leaving because you dread becoming blunted again.
You’ve told yourself this a million times: a taste of fire to a lifetime of ashes is worth whatever comes after the flame burns out.
But—is that really all this is, now? Attachment, indulgence, and seeking? Dread of becoming blunted? A taste of fire?
If the dragon prince dies, you will not have your steel and fire, you argue, but you know Vyrano will not let him die—even if he has to get Aerion’s family across the Narrow Sea involved, even if he has to call in favors from the greatest sorcerers in Qohor. Vyrano would sooner see his manse burned to ash than allow a prince of the blood to die on his property.
Aerion will not die here, so you do not have to be the one to play nursemaid when he is being unduly difficult. The thought irritates you. You are not a fucking nursemaid. You’re first daughter of the oldest bloodline in Volantis, you were to be a Triarch, so many monikers follow you after the blood you spilt in the Sorrows and Elyria that you cannot even recall them all.
So why the fuck are you playing at whore and nursemaid for a Targaryen prince?
The more time you spend with him, the more time you’re forced to ponder on these questions—why you indulge him, why you seek him out, why you will not take the steps to ensure he stays in Lys longer, why you play nursemaid and whore—and confusion slips into anger. There is only one person in your life who you has ever been exempt from the lessons of coldness and cruelty and calculation that your father drilled into you, and that is your brother, not the dragon prince.
So why does it feel like you have crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed?
You know in your heart the answer to the question. Because this no longer feels like pleasure, or distraction, or indulgence, it no longer feels like fear of becoming blunted or a taste of fire. It feels like—
You don’t even dare think the word.
You will get him to drink milk of the poppy, unbar his chambers for a physician, and you will leave. You cannot let this go any further than it already has.
It is time for you to take a step back.
—————————
You do not leave after getting him to drink milk of the poppy.
It has been days now since you first arrived at Magister Vyrano’s manse. The doors to Aerion’s chambers are no longer barred, and Vyrano and his servants occasionally knock to bring food and more fresh water, but as per Aerion’s demands, you do not let them into the room. You could not bring yourself to do so after you promised that they would not see him
(Why? It would not be the first time you broke a promise you made, and it would not be the last. You have broken more important promises to more important people for lesser reasons, so why is he the exception? You want to say you do not know, but it is a lie. You know. You know, and it infuriates you. It terrifies you. How could you have let this happen?)
Aerion’s poppy dreams are unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Your brother would have terrible ones whenever he was put under its effects. He would thrash and cry out, voice breaking on half-formed pleas, hands clawing at whatever was closest, usually you, as though trying to escape something only he could see. You would have to sit with him, pin his wrists gently to the mattress after he’s drawn blood from your wrists and forearms and face, murmur to him until the worst of it passes.
Aerion’s, somehow, are even worse.
His lips move soundlessly at first, shaping words that do not come, and then you catch the faint whispers of High Valyrian slipping through, low and broken and fever-thick. He cries for his mother, and he babbles about green fire and red-scaled dragons. He claws and scratches—not just you, but himself too. His neck is littered with wounds from his own nails when you’d woken up to him tearing into his throat, screeching about how there was fire inside of him and he needed to get it out. He clings to you now, nails digging into your skin, skin hot and slick against yours.
You hate it.
You hate the way his hands seek you out, hate the fear and panic in his eyes in his brief moments of consciousness before he recognizes you at his side, that he only seems to ease when he realizes you’re there with him, and you hate most of all that you do not hate it at all. That it brings you pleasure, comfort, to know that he reaches for you, finds comfort in you, the same way you do with him, in spite of better judgment. You hate what it means, and you hate that you cannot seem to get enough of it.
When he is lucid, you find yourself telling him stories of your home.
Old Volantis, first daughter of Valyria.
The halls of your family’s palace gleam with relics pried from the bones of the Freehold, you tell him as his eyes droop shut, head resting in your lap—Valyrian steel worked so finely that the metal whispers of blood and magick when looked at for too long, blades that have not dulled in a thousand years, goblets veined with dark red glass that never seem to cool.
The halls thrum with magic, you whisper, eyes sliding shut as you remember the feeling of your brother chasing you down them, pretending that the two of you were dragonlords of old, stalking one another between pillars, barefoot on marble as your laughter echoes through a palace that almost felt alive.
Proud Volantis, Queen of the Rhoyne and mistress of the Summer Sea, home to noble lords and ladies of the most ancient blood.
Your forefather was a dragonlord of one of Valyria’s greatest bloodlines, you explain, and Aerion’s eyes are wide and rapturous as he stares up at you. He was visiting Volantis with his family when the Doom began, left his wife and sons behind to start your line, and flew back into the destruction to try to save his father and brother. He never returned, but your line endured, you built and rebuilt and carried his blood forward, and since your line endured, Valyria endured—the magic of Valyria will not die until the blood that birthed it does.
We were, we are, we will be, you say, throat tight, those are your house words. The great serpent that devours its own tail, your sigil. Destruction and rebirth. Infinity. Because that is the point of the story, the reason it is told at all. You endure, no matter the cost, even if you must consume what you were to become what you must be to survive.
Mighty Volantis, grandest and most populous of the Nine Free Cities.
There was a time, when you were a child, when you climbed to the highest part of the Black Walls to get a better look at the towers of Old Valyria, you tell him with a small smile, higher than the ladders dared to go, above the ridges where even the guards thought it foolish to linger. And you fell—you fell for so long and so far that you thought for sure you would die. The whole world had gone silent in that instant, no wind in your ears, no shouts from below, no scrape of stone beneath your fingers as you clawed for purchase—and then, you hit the water, hard enough to drive the breath from your lungs and leave your body paralyzed momentarily with pain.
Your father had his entire army searching the banks of the River Rhoyne for you, you say with a laugh, and when he found you at last, soaked to the bone and laughing wildly, he had you locked in the western wing of the palace for six months.
Beautiful Volantis, city of fountains and flowers.
You describe the gardens that spill over marble terraces, orange trees heavy with fruit and pools carved with faces that weep endless streams of water. You tell him of warm nights thick with perfume and magic, music drifting through open colonnades as you spin between the arms of lovers and brothers and fathers and friends, laughter ringing through the air after long days of war and politics.
The city glows at dusk, you whisper, voice catching, the Rhoyne catches the last light, and the Black Walls cast long shadows that stretch across the districts below. The finest silks he’d ever touch, heat worse than Lys, heavy and humid, courtyards where deals are struck over wine and blood alike—a city where beauty and cruelty are woven together so tightly they cannot be pulled apart.
And for a moment, speaking of it, you can almost feel it again, the ghost of a place that was always yours, that was always meant to be yours, before the world decided otherwise.
You tell him that one day you would like to bring him there before you even know what you are saying. That you would bring him there, if you ever had the chance, but you would likely never have the chance. You would die without ever seeing your home again, and if you ever had children, they would die without ever knowing where they came from.
Your jaw tightens as soon as those traitorous words spill from your lips. Saying you would bring him home to Volantis—into the fucking Black Walls, nonetheless—your friends back home would lose their minds, you’d never hear the end of it, and your father might kill him. A fucking Targaryen—you remember what happened to the descendants of that whoremonger, Saera, after the last dragon died, and you think they’d might sooner accept an Elephant heir.
This is not distraction, you think desperately, this is—
You stop the word from crossing your mind again as you brush your fingers through Aerion’s silver-gold hair, as he leans into your touch, breath weak and shaky, skin pale and sweaty, sleeping peacefully for the first time in days. The fever broke a few hours ago. He should wake soon, and you can leave, find someone else to distract yourself with now that he’s pulled through the worst of it.
It doesn’t matter. It will pass.
—————————
“Ēdan iā zaldrīzes,” Aerion croaks beside you. You startle slightly, heart rate picking up when you realize you’d almost been on the verge of dozing off again. You don’t think you’ve had more than a few hours of sleep since you’ve taken to sitting at his bedside. “Nyke ēdrugon ēdan iā zaldrīzes.”
I had a dragon. I dreamt I had a dragon.
Your gaze slips down to him, throat tightening at the empty look in familiar amethyst as Aerion stares up at the ceiling. You have never seen him so despondent. It unsettles you more than the fever, more than the heat of his skin or the delirium of the poppy. There is a clarity in his eyes that has been lacking for days, a hollowness that makes you ache.
“Skoros gōntan ziry jurnegon hae?” you ask quietly.
What did it look like?
“Gevie,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Īles mele. Zȳhon tīkuni dīnagon iā sȳndor toliot mirre hen Lys. Zȳhon perzys zaltan mirre hen lentor naejot ñuqir.”
Beautiful. He was red. His wings cast a shadow over all of Lys. His fire burned all of these manses to ashes.
His voice cracks as he speaks, and Aerion’s eyes slide shut, a wince crossing his face when he hears just how weak the words come out. He exhales once, as though to regain a semblance of pride after days of weakness and humiliation at the hands of fever and poppy and you.
You don’t reply to that. Don’t know how to, really. You think there must be a certain cruelty in being born a Targaryen now. For the old blood, dragons have been gone for nearly three hundred years, and dragonfire was only part of what the Freehold was built on, anyway—bloodmagick and pyromancy were the rest, and the old families of Volantis turned to that other half of Valyria’s legacy when it became clear that dragons were out of reach.
Three hundred years is a long time. Long enough for dreams of dragons not to rip open wounds and edge a man closer to madness.
But for Aerion—the Targaryens—the loss is not three centuries old, and they do not have the other half of Valyria’s legacy to lean on as a crutch. It is fifty years, less than the span of a man’s lifetime. The last dragon died the year his grandfather was born. There are men still living in Westeros who remember them circling above castles and battlefields, who remember the heat of their breath and the thunder of their wings. They are not distant legends, they are a birthright that slipped through his fingers before he was even born.
The old blood would mock them—him. You used to mock them. Him. You were only ten when the first rebellion broke out in Westeros, and news crossed the Narrow Sea to your family’s palace in the Black Walls swiftly, because no one was more eager to hear about the downfall of the last “true” family of dragonlords than the ones who had been spurned by them.
From gods to men, your father laughed over wine with both Tiger and Elephant lords, chiming their glasses together, because only their hate for the Targaryens was enough to surplant their hate for one another.
You had laughed with them, because it was something to laugh at.
It was the cruel irony of the divine, and revenge served prettily in the form of humiliation of your enemies. The Targaryens refused to work alongside the old blood to bring back the Freehold after the Doom—with their dragons and the Valyrian magick, all of the rites and rituals preserved by Volantis, the Doom would have only been an interruption, not an end. But the Targaryens refused, and now they’ve been dragged down to the level of the very people they once ruled. Forced to dilute their blood to Andals and Rhoynar and First Men for alliances, forced to bend to the whims of people who would have burned at their command fifty years past.
It was funny, all of the old blood within the Black Walls thought it so. You thought it so. If they had just worked alongside your ancestors when they were asked—if they had bound dragonfire to blood and rite as it had once been—this never would have happened. Dragons would still rule the skies, and the Freehold would rule the world. It was funny—cruel irony, pretty revenge, and yet—
And yet, Aerion stares up at the ceiling now, mask cracked open no matter how hard he tries to push the pain away, throat spasming and eyes empty, and it no longer feels like something to laugh at.
“Kostan iēdrosa bāne zirȳla,” he continues after a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. “Se bāneves hen perzys. Zȳhon mēny.”
I can still feel him. The heat of the fire. His scales.
“It was only a dream, Aerion. A pretty dream, but a dream nonetheless,” you say quietly, because you don’t know what else to say. There are no words that can make better what was lost, nothing that you can say that can ease whatever he must be thinking right now. “How are you feeling?”
“It wasn’t. Not really,” he says quietly, and the words unsettle you for a reason you can’t place, but as your lips part to question what he means, he shakes his head and lets out a sharp puff of air. “It matters not. I feel fine. You can leave.”
You study him for a moment, the instinct to argue rising instantly, because he does not look fine—his skin still burns beneath your hands, though less than before, and his breath is uneven, and there’s a shadow of yearning in his eyes that he cannot fully push away. But something in his face stops you, wounded in a way you’ve never seen in him before. He begs you to go along with his farce without saying anything at all.
“Very well,” you say dismissively, voice light, as though you believe him. “If you are so recovered, then I can find some wine and entertain myself with whores.”
His gaze snaps toward you, furious. He’s feeling at least a little better, you determine, because you made this joke the last time he woke up, and he hardly acknowledged it.
You raise your eyebrows at him mockingly. “Kidding,” you sing, and then add, “mostly.”
“Mostly?” he demands. “If you find yourself a whore, I’ll have them flayed by morning and strung up for the gulls to peck at.”
“So terrifying when you are bedridden, little prince,” you coo, leaning down to lick the corner of his lips. He scowls at you furiously, pressing his hand into your face to shove you away, deceivingly strong, despite still being weak from the remnants of fever. You topple over the side of his bed with a laugh, hitting the marble floor with a thump, dragging his blankets with you. “What am I to do? A woman has needs, you know? I’ve spent four days at your bedside.”
“I did not ask you to stay,” he hisses. “In fact, if I remember correctly, I explicitly told you to leave, whore.”
“You did,” you agree easily, leaning back on your hands to look up at him as he glares at you over the edge of the bed. “But then you tried to kill everyone else who came near you. I think you were just too embarrassed to ask me to stay.”
Aerion’s face flames red—not from fever this time. “I tried to kill you, too, you impudent wench.”
“And what incredible attempts those were,” you tease. “A knife, a paperweight, and a fork. You should sail to Braavos to become a Faceless Man—they would do well with someone of your skills.”
“I will see your tongue removed,” he spits, but he looks mortified, hardly able to hold your gaze. Then he adds, less certainly, “Leave, then. If you need to rut so badly, go find someone else to scratch at. I do not need you here.”
You watch him for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly as you take in the way his fingers curl against the sheets, how his jaw tightens as though bracing himself for you to leave. You tilt your head to the side, smiling lightly.
“No,” you decide with an easy smile, rising to your feet and dragging the blankets back up with you, tossing them unceremoniously onto the bed and over him, settling back at his side. Your hand finds his temple again, fingers slipping into his hair without asking. He does not pull away, eyes sliding shut as he leans into you. “I think I will stay.”
“You need not,” he says through his teeth, as though his face isn’t half pressed into your side. What nerve, you think, amused. Such a volatile little monster, spitting venom and cruelty all the while curled at your side. “If you are so desperate, I am sure half the island would be eager to—”
“Oh, I have no doubt,” you cut in lightly, raking your fingers lightly agains this scalp—the way he likes, relishing in the way he shudders. “I am very popular, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I have not,” he mutters, and you can feel him glaring up at you even though you do not look down at him. He then asks, quieter, “Why did you stay? Why did you come at all?”
You do not like that question. That question is of the same nature as the ones that have been plaguing you since that conversation with Caelyx: what will you do when he leaves? Is this really just a taste of fire? Indulgence? Distraction? Why do you not sabotage, when you have never been above such methods before? Why do you play nursemaid? Why, ever, would you think of home, and then think of bringing him to see it?
You have doomed yourself, you realize pitifully; you have right and truly doomed yourself with this dragon prince who is inevitably going to leave you behind.
Fuck.
“Well,” you say lightly, refusing to allow him to know the truth. “I have nothing better to do, do I?”
“You could find whores to fuck, as you’ve made abundantly clear,” he says under his breath, more petulant than anything and more to himself than to you, and you laugh, tugging his hair lightly, beckoning him to look at you. His amethyst eyes are tired and hazy again, but less so than they have been the past few days. “You are a fool. You are going to come down with whatever I caught, and I am not going to sit at your bedside and play nursemaid.”
More a fool than you know, dragon prince, you think to yourself wistfully.
“I am no more a fool than you,” you say instead dismissively, grateful that the despair does not reach your voice. Grateful more when he turns his face back into your body so you can let the smiling mask drop, gaze falling to the silk sheets the two of you are entangled in, and the way his body curls around yours. You tack on proudly, “And I do not get sick.”
He is asleep again before he can reply.
—————————
You find yourself coughing less than two days later, feeling a bit woozy on your feet, blinking in surprise as Aerion steadies you. With wide eyes, you glance over at him. He is already well-recovered from his fever, already giving you a deadpan.
He rolls his eyes. “You are a fucking idiot, and I told you I will not be playing nursemaid for you, and I meant it.”
Guys help, I literally read this fic yesterday (it's ongoing still I just wanted to check if there were any updates) but I've forgotten it already, but basically this lady leaves Winterfell (she's a stark) to go fight in the Blackfyre Rebellion under the disguise of a bastard Stark son, she befriends a man named Barrian Marsh(?) and they've already met Maekar Targaryen, can someone work their magic and tell me the name please and thank you 🙏🏻
UPDATE: I found it hehe, sadly no updates, but it was on ao3 and I highly recommend it if you wanna read about a woman pretending to be a man, it's a Maekar and Baelor fic.
summary: another of baelor's memories returns. at least, you think it does.
pairing: baelor targaryen x wife reader
word count: 6.2k
based off of this! | masterlist
maekar paces by the fire whilst baelor recalls the tale the next morning.
“am i to believe that by some fucking coincidence, you were alone in the gardens with the lord’s daughter-”
“not his daughter,” baelor interrupts his brother.
they are by the hearth, with a table filled with fruit and bread to break their fast. he does not feel hungry, though, with a strange, dull emotion resembling fervor sitting somewhere beneath his heart. it thumps loudly with each breath.
“i thought you said-”
“his niece. his late brother’s only child.”
“never mind that. the man is unbearable,” maekar scoffs, as he sits to eat his food. he toys with a peeled orange, opening it before eating a slice.
“he is still our host, maekar. we eat his food and sleep in his halls.”
but there is no denying the fact that the man is unbearable. entirely so.
baelor had always thought it, even when they had been young men meeting for the first time at some prior tourney. his chest was puffed with ego for a second son, even more so now as the lord of the house, though lords such as he are commonplace.
and yet, he has never thought twice of it until he met you.
in the garden, you had been entirely too sweet. baelor should have guessed that you were not his daughter from your disposition, but he reflects briefly he had no way to know.
you could have been anyone. he, nor maekar, he’s sure, could have properly guessed that you were a lady of the keep
a different sort of irritation begins to seep through, making itself apparent. you are this man’s niece, still a daughter of this noble house, and yet you were not seated with the others of the family at the high table where baelor was.
instead you were with the distant relatives, seated below, and not a single soul had noticed where you had gone off to in the middle of the feast.
not a single soul, save for him.
it is very, very irritating to him. almost angering. though he does not understand entirely why—
maekar clears his throat.
“he is desperate for a match for his daughter. the girl is pretty enough, i suppose, and tolerable for daeron, perhaps. but having to deal with that man and his fucking gloating is enough to put me off the entire thing-”
“daeron must marry eventually.”
“and he will. i will find him a suitable bride. but not here. as soon as he finished inquiring about daeron, he moved onto aerion before i could eat another damned bite.”
“i imagine he is quite eager. you have four sons. he must see in you great deal of-” baelor is interrupted once more.
“too fucking eager. what father would pawn his own daughter off to aerion, i wonder? perhaps she is not tolerable after all. i refuse to marry one headache to another. the gods know i have suffered enough.”
his brother stares, expecting a response. and there are many things baelor could say.
that he trusts his brother will find his nephews suitable, dutiful brides when the time is right. that perhaps the daughter of the house—a girl whose name he cannot remember now—might be the wrong choice after all. or something else, some comment about the food or their journey home once the festivities have finished.
and yet, nothing comes to mind. baelor is sat near the fire, and where he should feel the warmth of the flames, he instead recalls how the cool breeze felt last evening.
it had rustled the leaves of the garden and the skirts of your dress along with it, a dress that looked as though perhaps it was a touch too large for you.
the sleeves were too long, resting somewhere by your fingers, and the skirt danced in the wind, trailing behind you. perhaps made for someone taller, like your cousin.
he shakes his head as though he might dispel the thought by removing it with the motion. he has no business thinking of you or your hesitant comportment or the gown that may or may not belong to you.
“well,” maekar starts, and baelor turns to look at him. how long had he been silent, lost in his own thoughts? “what’s this about the niece, then?”
baelor releases a breath he did not realize he was holding in.
“the girl is… lovely. quiet. polite to a fault. she claims she stepped outside for fresh air.” the truth escapes before he can try to deter it with silence.
his lips pull into a smile without his leave as he reminisces the thought—how you had worriedly tried to make an excuse for not being inside with the guests, before he reassured you that he was not there to get you scolded.
in fact, he had smiled then too. because the two of you had used the same excuse to escape.
could such a thing be called fate?
“without a maid or even a household knight?” maekar asks, scoffing again.
it is indignant. that is what his brother is thinking. no lady would be allowed to leave alone, not unless—
“i imagine she is not the lord’s most pressing concern. she was tending to the garden with her own hands.”
“is that so?” maekar says. “what sort of lord forces his niece do garden work?”
“i do not think she was forced. i… i do not know,” baelor trails off, thinking about the white dress that made you look as though you were not of this earth, with your eyes shining in the moonlight.
their true color remains unknown to him still, though he had spent much of the remainder of the evening deep in thought about it. the moon had made them sparkle brightly, and you had been blinking quickly, looking as though your heart was racing.
there was no need for your fear, but of course, you could not have known that.
you could not have been waiting for him to find you, yet the thought lingers all the same.
it resembles an alter too much, he thinks, before he tries to silence his mind.
“and this is the one seated at the lower table? the quiet one?” he asks, and baelor’s eyes flick from the hearth to his brother.
“indeed,” he breathes. “the quiet one.”
maekar looks deep in thought.
“quiet would be most welcome in king’s landing. how old is she? old enough for daeron, i presume?”
“i suppose,” baelor says, trying not to appear too suspicious. not for daeron, he thinks possessively, though he has no right to think anything of you, least of all as something that belongs to—
no, not for daeron. for me.
“it has been my wish to find a bride for daeron… perhaps someone who might help straighten him out. though i’d hate to please that prick-”
“your point may stand, brother,” baelor interrupts easily, unsure of where he finds the words.
they come out quickly and without any hint of uncertainty. gods forgive me.
“aye?”
“perhaps it is not best to indulge the whims of a minor lord. soon you will find yourself invited to every feast in the realm if you mean to find brides for your sons there.”
maekar considers the thought for a moment before he replies.
“it is hard enough already to keep track of the boys. let alone carting them across the realm every time father refuses to turn down an invitation-”
maekar says something else, some complaint, though it misses baelor’s ears entirely. he picks up a purple grape, breaking his fast while he thinks of what he has done.
there is nothing wrong with his nephew.
in fact, if he had to pick, he would choose daeron over his younger brother for any lady wishing to marry. he was often in his cups, yes, and troubled sometimes in a way that baelor did not quite understand, but still kind.
and perhaps, for you, it might have been a match that changed the course of your life. your family’s life, even.
he has disrupted that for a selfish reason, one that he cannot yet come to terms with.
he sets it aside. perhaps because the idea of seeing you in the red keep, at his family’s dinners and at court with his nephew by your side is nothing short of…
devastating.
devastating to see another by your side that is not—
“your grace?” you ask, fear clear and sharp in your voice, though you try your best to conceal it. “are you sure you are well?”
baelor blinks again, and he is transported yet again. back to the familiar walls and the four-poster bed of the chambers he once shared with you.
gone is the sweet memory of that night by the trees and the flowers, and the rather informative one that followed. in its wake, it leaves a tantalizing ache in him. to figure out more, to understand what else happened after that day.
he can only recall a glimpse of it now—standing in the gardens with you, talking with his brother after. maekar had wanted you for one of his sons but he had thwarted the whole thing, a sign of how enamoured he was, surely.
if only he could remember why he was so enamoured. what had you two spoken of in the gardens? what had happened in the days that followed?
he had once thought he would never marry again, that even the idea of doing so felt like an insult to his late wife’s memory.
he wishes he could recall exactly how you had changed his mind, if not for his sake, then for yours.
had he truly gone to a feast at his father’s request and come back with a betrothal and a bride for himself, unannounced? had he returned moons later to ask for your hand? had he fought some other suitor, or even his nephew to secure it?
baelor releases a rush of breath at the very thought—how far away and silly the ideas feel. it is an odd feeling of humor and sadness, but when he looks at you, it all melts away.
you are crying again.
gods, had he completely forgotten how to be a real husband in these short years? you have cried during every encounter the two of you have had, and all he seems to do is make you weep further.
your hand cradles your stomach, and you chew on your cheek as you watch him carefully, your eyes wide and watery and blinking slowly.
the color of them is truly astonishing, he thinks.
that warm, slippery feeling from the memory possesses him all over again. lovelier than he recalls, now that he has the recollection to sweeten it.
“i am fine,” he finally says, watching as your shoulders sink a little, as you relax your body against the cushions of the bed.
you have migrated from your familiar chair to his side, resting at an appropriate, yet entirely too far distance from him.
“grandmaester must be furious at me,” you say quietly. “i should not have led you to the gardens. he says it is much too warm for you to-”
baelor clasps his hand over yours, bridging the gap between the two of you. your eyes move from him to where the two of you are touching, and then back to him.
“in fact, i believe it was i who led you to the garden. not at all like the first time, is it?”
you do not say anything for a moment.
“do you remember?” you whisper, silent tears trickling down your face. somehow, you are prettier still when you cry. “the night in the garden?”
“the gods have only granted me a portion of it. i remember… meeting you. you were standing by the vines. you seemed frightened of me,” he says, and your expression changes before his very eyes, your mouth curving up and your eyes shining with renewed hope. “you were wearing white.”
“i was,” you say excitedly, your voice rising quickly. more tears follow, but he can almost forgive himself, with the way the news of the memory has made you smile so beautifully.
give me more, he demands of the gods, that i may make her smile again.
“was that your gown that night? the white one?” he asks, and you seem almost surprised. surprised that he has recalled such a distant detail. you shake your head.
“n-no. i... it belonged to my cousin. she had a new one made for the feast.”
“and so you had worn her old one?”
the gown you are wearing now—the very one with the pink silk and pretty pattern—looks as though it fits you perfectly. this one has been tailored for you, he concludes. he hopes it was his own doing.
“nevermind that,” you say, the smile still gracing your lips. he returns it, holding your hand tighter. “how do you feel?” you ask again, using your other hand to wipe your tears.
“the picture of health. i promise,” he says, watching as your hand almost instantly goes to your belly.
you are still scared. terrified that any misstep, any moment too long in the sun or some accidental fall might take him away from you again.
he does not know you, but at the same time, he does.
the fear for your unborn child—our unborn child, he thinks—rests heavily on you at all times. you do not wish for your child to grow with a father, as you had, he knows now.
though the memories are hazy in the firelight, it all seems much clearer now.
“-but i shall continue to rest. perhaps we might dine here in the chambers instead?”
you nod, smiling again. he wishes he knew you well enough to discern if it is a genuine one or not.
“of course, your grace. may i ask grandmaester to come check on your again? j-just to be certain?”
“you may, princess.”
the next few hours come and go—malleon does indeed visit, chastising him for traveling to the gardens without alerting any of the maester’s staff.
it is not so far away, he wants to argue, but he keep silent as he watches you listen intently to the maester’s words.
the guilt is evident on your features, and even more so in the language of your body. you stand, keeping one hand on your stomach while the other plays with your necklace—his ring.
you look better and healthier, at least. not nearly as exhausted or unwell as you had just the previous evening. you eat a small meal with him at mid-day, and contribute to the conversation gently when matarys and valarr come to visit.
it would be evident to a blind man, or even one devoid of memories like himself, that his boys adore you.
he cannot imagine a reality in which they would not, but baelor feels something inside of himself, something perhaps buried long ago, return and begin to grow stronger.
the feeling of watching his family be whole.
of watching the smile grow on the face of his younger son when you are persuaded to request applecakes with honey after supper. of watching bright-haired kiera smile and talk with you, with how everyone’s ease seems to grow as they realize you are in better spirits.
you have made a change within the walls of this keep, one he wishes to know everything about. he only wonders what lengths he will go to in order to find out, if his own mind continues to fail him.
even maekar feels the impact of your warmth returning to the cold, hallowed halls.
his brother, who has been one to express sentiment, even looks… sad, when you depart with kiera to visit the great sept after supper.
“you look more upset than i,” baelor comments, standing by the fire once more as maekar paces somewhere behind him.
“i’m not upset,” he replies quickly. the truth, however, is written all over his expression. “i only wish for them to return before nightfall. with the state of things as they are, the last thing i need is them getting hurt because the kingsguard was chasing some wench-”
“they are with ser donnel. i am sure they will be well protected,” baelor says, returning to an armchair rather the bed. he has laid there long enough. “sit, brother. i have something to ask of you.”
maekar glances at him, with something that baelor cannot make out entirely simmering beneath his eyes. he takes a seat in the chair beside him.
“what is it? do you require the maester? guard, send for-”
“no, no. gods know i am thankful for malleon and his healing, but i have seen enough of that man for a lifetime. this is about something else.”
maekar quietens down, sinking further into his chair. baelor holds back a smile, because it seems to have triggered another memory, another time where he had perhaps scolded his brother for something, and he had appeared just as he did now.
nervous, perhaps?
he had not seen his little brother nervous in some time. even when the birthing bed had claimed dyanna and stolen her from him, he had not been nervous. that had been grief and fear, he knows, but not nerves.
“do not be alarmed. i only wish to-”
“i am sorry, brother,” maekar says, and before baelor can get the words out, they die on his tongue. he stares at his brother, pain haunting him.
“i do not require your apology,” baelor says, the words coming out softly.
“i still wish to give it.”
“it was an accident, maekar. a regretful one, but an accident nonetheless.”
“i thought i killed you,” maekar says, and for a moment, gone is the man sitting beside him.
he is replaced by the boy he once was, quiet and contemplative, angering quickly and forgiving slowly.
even when it came to the matter of forgiving himself, it seems.
“but you did not. perhaps we should let it rest there.”
“i would have made your young wife a widow. left your children fatherless. because of my own pride-”
“but you did not,” baelor repeats, interrupting him sternly. “what good is it to linger in the realm of possibility? i am still here, am i not?”
maekar swallows, turning his gaze towards him. his eyes flash towards baelor before turning back.
“yes. you are.”
“then we shall thank the gods, and leave it at that.”
“no.”
“no?” baelor questions, raising an eyebrow.
“no. no, you should be angrier,” maekar says, his voice rising as he stands suddenly. “you should feel rage towards me. you are here with half of your fucking memories gone. i have stolen the memories of your wife. i almost sent her to summerhall or back to that prick she calls an uncle. i-”
“which of us stands to gain anything from harboring anger? hm?”
“you should be angry. you should send me away yourself. that is what-”
“the humor of it has not escaped me. here i am, struggling to recall the past, while you cannot think of anything but.”
maekar rolls his eyes, gritting his teeth against one another.
“there he is. the brother i do remember. you have been acting awfully gentle, but i thought perhaps it was my own faulty recollection.”
“it is the least i could do,” maekar says, slumping back into the chair, glancing at him again. he looks almost like a boy again, the times when mother would remind him to sit up straight. “i do not think i will ever forget the sound she made when you collapsed. nor her expression when you did not remember her.”
baelor’s heart thuds loudly in his chest.
the very mention of you in such a situation makes it begin to ache, as though he has been struck there instead. your wet eyes are painful enough under these circumstances, let alone trying to imagine the tears you had shed while he was not awake to see them.
“it seems that i am not the one you should be apologizing to, then.”
“i have apologized. several times, in fact.”
“and?”
“it seems the two of you are a match designed by the gods. too compassionate to let me get a single fucking apology out.”
baelor smiles.
“that is why i wanted you to sit. i had a question to ask.”
“about her?”
“indeed. about her.”
maekar takes a deep breath, releasing it before looking back at him. his brother’s lilac eyes have always been hard to read, though he sees the fondness he has for you shine through regardless.
“and?”
“i have recalled a piece of a memory. the morning after the feast when i first met her. we were breaking our fast and you were telling me of her uncle trying to convince you to wed daeron to his daughter.”
“and aerion. and no doubt, aemon as well, if i had not halted the conversation there.” baelor smiles at his brother. “what is your question?”
“how did this all… happen? i had not thought i would ever wed again. and i remember holding quite steadily to that idea. mother had shown me a number of suitable ladies and i had turned down each one.”
“that you did. trust that it came as a shock to all of us.”
“then how did it happen? how did i change my mind so easily? i have tried so hard to recall and it escapes me time and time again.”
“do you truly wish to know?”
“yes.”
-
the sun is setting deep into the orange sky by the time you and kiera return to the keep. ser donnel had accompanied the two of you, keeping guard by the doors as you went inside to pray.
it seems, recently, that you have been praying to the mother almost every day. to watch over baelor, to return him to you, to keep the child growing inside of you safe.
today, you had knelt by the father’s alter.
kiera had been by the mother, and no doubt praying for what she has always confided in you, her desire to be blessed with a child, a son for valarr. you can recall only two moons ago when that was you.
your own prayers were different today. you had closed your eyes, but unlike the others who had knelt there before you, you did not pray for justice.
you prayed for the father’s protection. for him to watch over baelor today and all other days. to allow your own child to have a father, to not deprive your daughter of that comfort and protection that was stolen from you.
when you and kiera had walked back, she had made you smile with her words.
“in a few short months, you will not be able to kneel.”
ser donnel had first escorted kiera to her chambers, where valarr was waiting for her. and then he walked with you to baelor’s rooms, where you had entered without thinking about it, as you had done a thousand times before.
baelor turns when he hears the sound, his tunic in his hands, the skin of his chest and arms exposed.
your face burns as you stare wide-eyed. you should perhaps turn around, but it has been so long since you have seen him, and still—
“i am sorry, your grace. i-i should have knocked, i-”
“do not be silly,” baelor says, setting his shirt aside. “these are your chambers too, are they not?”
“they are,” you answer quickly. “but, still. i did not know you were-”
“merely too warm to sleep in cotton, wife. that is all.”
wife. your heart sings and leaps with joy at the sound of the word leaving his lips. you release a shuddery breath, quiet and forceful, feeling hope possesses you once more. begone, you fickle thing. he will say something that tears you away again, no doubt.
you smile again.
“i only wanted to bid you goodnight. i thought perhaps matarys might still be in here.”
“the applecakes sent him to bed early. he was almost too tired to walk. i thought perhaps ser roland might have to carry him.”
you laugh at the thought, knowing it has been weeks since any of you have indulged in dessert. and now, because baelor has been feeling better, now that his injuries have almost healed…
though, not all of them. bruises, yellow and green like the apples the maids serve in the morning, litter your husband’s chest and back. a particularly painful one rests on his shoulder, blooming like a flower as it reaches the expanse of his always warm skin.
“you are staring,” baelor says, and you feel yourself flush. though, you still do not look away.
“i apologize, your grace.”
you had thought perhaps this might be the end of the evening, but your breath catches in your throat as you see the way baelor stares at you. he walks closer, taking your hand into his.
“just baelor, remember?” he says, weaving your fingers together. your eyes meet his—one brown, one blue, both incredibly beautiful—for as long as you can before your eyelids flutter shut.
it is better to look away than to answer, your mind tries to remind you.
it wants you to remember how you felt earlier today, yesterday, and every other day since the tourney that broke something inside of you.
baelor’s other hand reaches around your waist, resting on your back. you can feel the warmth of his skin through the silk, so hot that it’s almost burning through. you would not be surprised if the fabric is singed after, and yet—
your eyes open slowly. he is so close to you, after so long. you can see the gray hairs in his beard, the small lines around his eyes, the curve of his nose that always makes you blush, because you know it feels against your skin.
“your grace, i-” you breathe, before being interrupted. he chides you, clicking his tongue.
“from this day on, it is baelor,” he says, and you feel yourself melt further into his grip. if not for his strong hands supporting you, you’re certain you might collapse onto the ground. “or husband. i will not remind you again.”
“husband,” you repeat, breathless again, having waited to very long to hear the word leave your mouth again. you blink again, your eyes traveling from his own mismatched irises to his nose, down to the soft pink of his lips. “we… i… i should let you rest-”
“i do not wish to rest, wife,” baelor says, leaning down so close that you think he might touch his forehead to yours. your heart is racing so quickly that you are afraid he might hear it. “in fact, i wish to tell you i am feeling much improved.”
“i am glad to hear it-”
“and i have recalled something else.”
your eyes widen, staring up at him as your mouth parts gently with surprise.
“something else?”
“of our first encounter,” baelor says, and you cannot help the smile that comes forth, nor the tears. baelor brings his hand to your face, cupping it while his thumb wipes away the droplets. “though, i have begun to think of it differently. rather as the moment i decided i must make you my wife.”
you are breathless now, feeling as though his words have stolen the very air from the room. there is nothing you could say, nothing you could think to steal away the joy you feel in this moment.
one you have so long prayed for. your husband remembers you, remembers all of you, meeting you and claiming you and he remembers loving you.
baelor says your name quietly, but before you can think of it for a moment longer, you press your lips against his.
your husband has returned to you.
his hands travel to your waist instantly, holding you tightly, as though he does not want you to slip away from his grip. you do not pull away for an instant, letting his mouth kiss you furiously.
making up for a thousand loss kisses, you think dreamily.
his kisses are as hot and wet, and harder than you remember. he does not pull away for air for even a moment, your bodies pressing together as your hands roam his broad chest. you keep spreading them, touching all over until you are convinced this is not another one of your dreams.
beneath your hands, baelor’s arms are hard where the muscles sit beneath the surface. you trace the veins down with your fingertips until you feel baelor’s hand weave into your hair, holding your head tightly to his.
when you finally pull away, much to his and your own protest, it is only to catch your breath.
“husband,” you whisper, staring up at him again. you can only imagine you must look—lips bruised and swollen, your eyes watery and the handiwork of your maid undone as your hair falls loosely around your face.
baelor cups your head with his hands again.
“wife.”
and suddenly you cannot wait any longer, returning for another feverish kiss.
i do not need to breathe, you think stupidly, but i will die if he stops kissing me.
baelor’s hands roam too, from your face to your waist, down to the soft flesh of your rear, before working their way up again. you do not know what you intend to do, in your state and his, but you pull at the laces of your gown roughly, hoping it undo it without his help.
baelor’s hands grasp your own, moving them aside as he unties it nimbly. the feel of his fingers over yours has you reeling for more, and you pull at the waist of his breeches, though you feel him smiling against your lips.
“there now, wife, have patience,” he says, the words a heated whisper against your skin. he pulls at the strings of fabric, and your dress comes loose as you move to rid yourself of it, leaving you in your thin shift.
baelor stares at you—the curves of your exposed body, through the barely-there fabric, the way your nipples poke against it, revealing your desire. he swallows, and then pulls you back for another burning kiss.
he lifts you gently, as though it is the first time all over again, and you find yourself smiling now too, his mouth hot and tongue wet on yours. your back hits the bed softly, and you grasp at his arms, trying to anchor yourself to him, refusing to ever allow him to escape again.
your fingers will leave bruises on him, you are sure, and you pull away from the kiss quickly.
“wife?” baelor asks gently. “are you-”
you do not let him finish, pressing a gentle kiss to the bruise on his shoulder, and littering similar ones all around, where it has spread.
“oh,” he says, and you feel your chest heaving, with an unbearable urge to rip your shift in two to be rid of it. “you will be the death of me.”
your fingers find the waist of his breeches again, but he takes them both into just one of his hands, holding it above your head.
“patience, sweet girl,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your ear and then down the column of your exposed neck. he works all the way to where your shift covers your breasts.
he takes his other hand to pull it up, and you help him, sliding it off so you lay naked before him.
“gods,” he says, but you have been rendered speechless with want. “may i touch you, wife?”
you shudder, eyes shutting tightly. why, why does he have to remember that? you do not like to say it, but he loves to hear it regardless.
“please touch me, husband,” you whisper, your heart hammering and blood rushing in your ears.
his fingers, long and broad, tease your exposed cunt, working gently along your glistening folds until you are moaning wantonly in his ear.
that is something you remember, that he will stop in his tracks if you are not being sufficiently loud, loud enough to his liking.
being quiet is a habit he had to work you out of. he had succeeded within the first moon of your marriage.
you gasp with every prolonged touch and teasing motion, moaning into his mouth and your back arching as he glides his fingers against your most sensitive part.
“baelor,” you sigh, your fingers gripping the sheets as he pulls away from your kiss. his head hovers along your neck, pressing kisses until he reaches the valley between your breasts.
when he lowers his burning mouth onto your nipple, you cover your own mouth to keep from screaming.
his tongue flicks against the sensitive skin as he inserts a finger into your soaking cunt. first one, the length of it making your eyes roll back in your head. he pumps it in and out slowly, as though he is testing you, testing how much you can take.
just as you are about to plead and cry out for mouth, he inserts another. your teeth bite down against your cheek, trying to keep yourself quiet. there are guards and servants in the corridor, and you are acting as though this is the first time you have ever been touched, but then—
isn’t it?
feeling baelor’s possessive, strong grip on you as he fucks you with his fingers and teases your sensitive breasts with his tongue, it seems as though it is the first time all over again.
your entire body feels hot like fire, desire churning deep in the pit of your belly, rushing over you with the incessant need to chase your own pleasure.
your hips move of their own accord, rubbing yourself against the palm of his hand, and you are certain if you could see yourself now, and you would die of shame, and still, you cannot stop.
you whine when he pulls away from your breast, but he only goes to the other one, his other hand coming to tease your nipple by rolling it between his fingers.
you stare at his hand, at the ring on his finger, and then at his eyes as he glances up at you during his ministrations.
you think he is smiling, but before you can linger on the thought, he plunges in a third.
despite everything in your body that cries out to you, that wants to prolong this for as long as possible, you have never been able to withstand the pleasure of his fingers for too long.
baelor releases your breast from his mouth, rubbing over the hot, sore skin, he makes his way back to your neck, and then your ear.
“i want to feel it, wife,” he says, and the lust in his voice cuts straight over the loudness of your heart beating in your ears. “i want to feel your release on my fingers-”
“baelor,” you cry out, feeling that twisting feeling in your belly unfurl and then snap entirely.
a feeling as hot as lightning strikes through your body, your legs shaking and fingertips digging into the skin of your husband’s arm. he keeps going, relentless in his efforts to seek your pleasure, and you repeat out his name as though it is the only word you know.
you are breathless and exhausted when he finally slips his fingers out of your pulsating cunt.
your chest rises and falls, and you can make out where your skin shines in the dim firelight, where your husband has his mouth on you, and you feel your face burning at the thought.
“husband,” you whisper, if for no other reason than you wanted to feel the word on your tongue again.
“shh, wife. rest now,” he says, and you feel your body comply before your mind can even try to fight him. baelor pulls the furs from the other side of the bed, covering your naked body and himself.
“but we did not-”
“we have plenty of time for that, yet, sweet girl. close your eyes,” he says, and you listen.
as they flutter shut, you cannot make out a single clear thought.
they merge and blend together, and then you feel your husband’s arms tighten around you, his warmth on your skin, and sleep claims you.
baelor holds you, evading sleep himself as he thinks about what he has done. your juices glisten on his finger, your body lays completely pliant against his, and he thinks of his lie from earlier.
Synopsis: Some fires are born in dragon blood; others burn slow between duty and desire. In a legacy built on fire and flames, a restless Princess keeps chasing freedom, and the Prince—heir to the throne—who keeps watching her begins to forget where loyalty ends.
Fic Warnings: incest (uncle/niece relationship), age gap (reader is 20, Baelor is canonically 36), canon typical misogyny, arranged marriage themes (mentioned), blood and violence, possessive behaviour, minor OC character deaths (mentioned), angst, Targaryen’s being Targaryen’s—if you know you know. (this is a slow as heck burn, as in they don’t even kiss until roughly the 12,000 word mark. you have been warned.)
Word Count: 20.8k
AN: the reader is of Targaryen blood, but I have not given any physical descriptions into hair, skin or eyes colour, or even body size, except that the reader is shorter than Baelor.
please note that this fic is set in 206 AC which is three years prior to AKOTSK so there is no show spoilers. any background world building/events takes place pre-show canon, and is specified to be book/history canon instead. the reader was born 196 AC, making her twenty in this fic.
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The castle breathes at night.
You feel it in the stone—the slow exhale of heat gathered through the day, the whisper of wind slipping through arrow slits, the distant murmur of King’s Landing below like a beast that never truly sleeps. The Red Keep is quieter after midnight, but never still. Somewhere, armour shifts; somewhere, a servant crosses a corridor with slippers that sigh against old tile. Even the torches crackle with a patience that feels watchful.
You stand at the balcony of your chambers with your hands braced against cold stone, staring down at the city. Lanterns glitter along the streets like fallen stars. The stench of the city does not reach this height, only salt and smoke and something sharp that smells like freedom—or perhaps merely the idea of it.
Behind you, your rooms stretch wide and pale in the moonlight. Silk drapes stir with every draft that slips through the cracks in old stone; tapestries whisper against the walls, heavy with stories of conquest and flame. A carved screen shields the bathing alcove, and the great bed—too large, too soft, too perfect—waits untouched, its embroidered blankets smoothed by hands that are not your own. Everything is arranged for comfort, for display, for a princess meant to remain still and beautiful within gilded walls.
And yet the balcony stone beneath your palms is rough, unyielding. Cold seeps into your skin until your fingers ache.
You think of dirt roads instead—the give of earth beneath a horse’s hooves, the jolting rhythm of a gallop that rattles through your bones and feels more alive than any courtly dance. You think of your boots in stirrups, the leather worn soft where it meets your ankles, wind tearing at your hair as fields stretch wide and open without walls or watchful eyes. Out there, the ground warms quickly beneath the sun; here, the castle never quite loses its chill.
You imagine riding until the city is nothing but smoke behind you. Riding until no one calls your name like a command.
A princess should not dream of running.
Yet you do.
The lock at your chamber door turns—not to open, but to test. A Kingsguard, likely. They rotate shifts every few hours. Your father insists on five stationed outside, as though you are a prisoner rather than his daughter.
A daughter who shames him.
You can still hear Maekar’s voice from earlier that evening, sharp as drawn steel.
“You are not a hedge knight to wander the roads! You are blood of the dragon, and you will remember it!”
You remember it all too well. That is the problem.
You glance over your shoulder. The room is dim; only one candle burns now. The bed looks untouched, though its sheets have changed twice today. The servants mutter at that—“the princess with restless sleep, the princess with strange requests”—yet none of them know how your hands shook as you folded the old linens instead of letting them be taken away.
None of them know what hides behind the bookcase.
It stands like any other piece of furniture meant to impress rather than to comfort—dark wood polished to a deep sheen, carved with curling dragons and coiling vines that catch the light when candles burn low. The lower shelves are neat, arranged by careful servant hands, scroll cases lined beside bound volumes of court histories and treatises no one truly reads. But the upper shelves gather dust. Few bother climbing high enough to disturb them; even fewer would notice the way the books are arranged just slightly wrong.
You did, many years ago.
You rise onto your toes, fingertips brushing along cracked leather spines until they find the familiar ones, histories of Valyria stacked side by side. Before the Doom texts bound in fading crimson, heavy with pride and certainty; After the Doom volumes darker, thinner, written by survivors and scholars trying to stitch meaning from ash; before and after the Dance is held by just one book, its spine too thick, a crack forming down the centre at the weight of it, and yet the leather is hardly touched. The contrast has always struck you. One shelf speaks of conquest, of dragons blotting out the sun, while the others read like mourning.
Your fingers slip between them.
Dust coats your skin as you nudge the books aside, revealing the hidden iron catch tucked behind them. The metal is cold and slightly sticky with age. You press—once, firmly—and hear the faint click that still sends a thrill of relief through you every time.
You move quietly. The stone floor is cold beneath your bare feet; your heartbeat thunders louder than the city below. Fingers press against the carved edge of the shelf—the same pressure as always, a secret learned years ago while exploring corridors your septa thought forgotten.
The shelf resists at first. It always does. The weight of it drags against the floor with a dull scrape, wood groaning softly as dust stirs into the air. You strain, shoulder pressing hard, muscles shaking with effort. Beneath it, the grooves in the stone have grown paler with time, carved by repetition—thin crescent lines catching the moonlight now, betraying your secret more each night you use it.
One day someone will notice. One day a servant’s curious eye will linger too long.
But not tonight.
The gap widens enough for you to slip through.
Behind it lies darkness, narrow and cool, smelling of dust and age. You close the passage behind you and the sound of the chamber disappears entirely, swallowed as though it never existed. Here, the air is thick with stillness. Dust clings to your skin; cobwebs brush your cheek like ghostly fingers. The corridor bends sharply, stones slick with age, mortar crumbling when you press your palm against it for balance.
No one walks here, you are certain of it. The place feels abandoned by time itself, as if the last footsteps echoed here a century ago and never returned. Every breath stirs the silence. Every movement feels like an intrusion.
Your hidden rope waits where you left it: sheets twisted and knotted with careful precision, cotton wound tight until it resembles something stronger than its beginnings, each knot tested again and again and again. Your hands knows their pattern by heart.
It hangs from a balcony cut into the wall opposite a narrow doorway—a forgotten exit used long ago by people whose names have been lost. You wonder if they felt the same thrill, the same fear.
You tug once, twice, reassuring yourself it will hold.
Outside, the moon hides behind thick cloud.
Perfect.
You ease yourself over the edge.
The cotton wraps around your hands as you descend, rough where the knots tighten, softer in the stretches between—a startling contrast to the stone wall scraping against your forearm as you lean back. Fibres bite into your palms, warming quickly beneath your grip. Your boots search for footing and sometimes catch unexpectedly, the soles tangling in loose twists so you must pause, breath held, to free yourself without sending the rope swaying too wildly.
The wind chooses that moment to rise.
It slams you sideways into the wall. Stone bites your shoulder; a sharp scrape burns along your forearm. The wall is unforgiving, cold enough to numb. You gasp, cheek pressed against cold rock that smells faintly of salt and rain, the sheets twisting beneath your weight, creaking softly. For a heartbeat you simply cling there, breathing hard, feeling the tremor in your arms.
The breeze is merciless—a sharp, cold bite like teeth against every strip of exposed skin, slipping beneath your sleeves, stinging your throat when you inhale, dragging at your robes. Your hair lashes your face; your gown snaps against your legs. The wall steals warmth from you, leeching heat until your fingers ache.
You keep going—slowly, carefully; every knot is a marker, ever breath is a measure.
Below, the castle dissolves into shadow. Above, the moon appears only in fragments, silver caught between racing clouds. Its light is thin, uncertain, enough to deepen the darkness rather than banish it. Shadows pool along the walls and spill across the ground, thick and waiting. You slip into them instinctively, as though they know you, as though you belong more to night than to firelight.
An ember would glow too bright here.
You are swallowed instead.
Your boots touch ground with the softest thud. Knees bending, you sink immediately into shadow, the damp scent of earth and stone rising around you. For a moment you remain still, crouched in shadow, simply listening. No shout follows, no alarm rings. There is only the distant roar of the city carried upward on the breeze—laughter from taverns, a dog barking, the endless restless hum of lives moving without you.
A breath escapes you, almost soundless, half-laugh and half-prayer. Your fingers curl into your palms as if to contain the sudden rush of triumph; your pulse still hammers from the climb, but now it beats with something brighter. You tilt your head back just enough to glimpse the dark silhouette of the Red Keep above, all towers and stone and watchful windows, and for the first time tonight it feels smaller.
You press your back to the wall, eyes closing briefly, letting the thrill pass through you—the giddy, reckless relief of knowing you are no longer trapped behind locked doors and guarded halls. No king’s command. No watching eyes. Just you, the darkness, and the fragile miracle of freedom stolen one quiet moment at a time.
The castle looms overhead, unaware that its captive has slipped free yet again. The silent night wraps itself around your shoulders like a cloak. It feels like an accomplice, like a friend that asks no questions.
The wind cuts across the courtyard again, but now it feels less like a threat and more like applause. Still, you do not linger.
Victory in the Keep is always temporary.
And then you slip away, unseen and unheard, swallowed by the dark as though you were never there at all.
The stables smell of hay, sweat, and warm animal breath. Horses shift in their stalls, hooves striking soft rhythms against packed earth; leather creaks; somewhere a horse exhales in a low rumble that vibrates through the quiet like a familiar greeting. The scent is grounding, honest—nothing like the perfumed corridors of the Keep. Here, life is simple: breath, muscle, movement.
You reach them the way you always do: circling wide, avoiding torchlight, slipping through the gap behind stacked barrels where you once dug at the earth with bleeding fingers until there was room enough to crawl.
You remember that night.
You had been younger then—furious, reckless, more angry than afraid—scratching at the soil with a broken piece of wood stolen from the yard. At first it had only been meant as a place to hide, somewhere to vanish when the walls pressed too close. Escapes were smaller then, just leaving the Keep for an hour, breathing air that did not feel watched.
But when you turned three-and-ten, something in you shifted. The city walls began to feel like the bars of a cage rather than protection. You wanted sky, endless and merciless and wide. You imagined trees like skeletal fingers clawing into the night, imagined sleeping beneath them with no roof above you, only stars and cold wind and freedom. You dug until your nails split and your palms blistered, widening the tunnel just enough to squeeze through, dirt filling your mouth and hair, heart pounding with the thrill of imagining the day you would crawl out and ride one of your father’s horses far beyond the reach of King’s Landing.
You never stopped widening it after that—a little more each escape, a little closer to freedom.
Dirt clings to your knees as you pull yourself through. You rise, brushing soil from your trousers, pushing your hood back, and freeze.
Someone stands inside, ten feet away, still as a shadow cast by lantern light.
Baelor, your Uncle, watches you.
His arms are folded loosely across his chest, robes half-unbuttoned as though he had risen from bed to follow suspicion rather than certainty. The lantern glow catches the salt and pepper strands of his hair, turning them almost silver-white. He looks completely at ease, which somehow makes the trap feel worse. The faintest grin touches his mouth.
You curse under your breath.
“Princess,” he says quietly.
His gaze drifts over you—the commoner’s shirt, the worn boots, the hooded robe hanging loose from your shoulders. Recognition flares in his eyes.
“That robe,” he murmurs, amused. “I remember lending it to you.”
Two years ago, after a rainstorm, when he had found you soaked and laughing in the training yard and wrapped it around your shoulders with a conspiratorial smile.
You straighten. “Uncle.”
“You dig holes in royal stables now?” His tone is soft, almost impressed.
You flash him a wry smile. “I do what I must.”
He steps closer, lantern light catching silver in his hair. Baelor has always carried himself like a knight even when dressed as the Hand—calm, measured, a quiet strength that contrasts your father’s iron severity.
“You grow bold,” he says.
“I grow caged.”
The words slip free before you can stop them.
Something shifts in his expression. The faint amusement fades, replaced by something quieter, heavier. You take a half-step toward him instinctively, and he turns just slightly away, a reflex so small you almost miss it, as though closeness is dangerous. As though he already knows how easily the line between duty and something else could blur.
But his eyes stay locked on yours.
You feel restless under that gaze, suddenly aware that he could seize you now, drag you straight to his father King Daeron’s chambers. He could hand you over for punishment, for lectures about duty and blood and wildness that must be tamed. The possibility tightens your chest.
“You mean to ride tonight,” he says softly.
You do not deny it. It is plain what you meant to do.
“I mean to ride for more than a night, uncle.”
He sighs softly, glancing toward the stable doors. Outside, distant footsteps echo, guards passing somewhere beyond.
“They will search for you before dawn,” he says.
“They always do.”
“And your father…”
You lift your chin. “Will rage regardless.”
Silence stretches between you.
Then, to your surprise, Baelor laughs under his breath, a quiet and almost nostalgic sound. “You remind me of myself at your age.”
You pause your wandering eyes that had searched the stables for a way to run, flitting back to Baelor for a moment. “I thought you were always dutiful.”
“No one is born dutiful,” he replies.
His gaze shifts toward the stalls. Your sigil-less horse stamps softly, ears flicking forward, sensing you. He notices the tack already hidden, the preparations made long before tonight, and shakes his head.
“You planned well,” he murmurs. “I suppose I should sound the alarm.”
Your hand tightens at your side.
He looks back at you, the lantern light catching across the shadows dancing across his skin. “But I will not.”
Relief floods you so quickly you nearly stagger. “Why?”
“Because cages break what they hold,” he says quietly. “And I would rather you return of your own will than learn to hate these walls.”
He steps aside.
“Go, before someone else comes, dear niece.”
You hesitate. “If my father learns you helped—”
“He will not. And if he suspects, let him blame my sentimentality.” A faint smile returns. “Ride fast.”
You step forward without thought. Your hand lifts, hesitant, brushing the back of his. He bristles at first—a sharp intake of breath, shoulders stiffening, nostrils flaring—but then, almost imperceptibly if you were not his favourite niece, he softens. His fingers relax beneath yours, the tension easing just enough to feel like permission.
Your other hand slides over the fabric of the robe draped around your shoulders, fingers tracing the worn edge. His eyes follow the movement, watching the way you touch something that once belonged to him, something that smells faintly of smoke and leather and memory.
You swallow, unsurprised by the warmth blooming in your chest. “Thank you.”
Baelor inclines his head, almost formal. You lean in further, raising high up on your tiptoes, your neck arched up to press a soft kiss to his jawline.
He goes still. When you pull away, his expression is unreadable and his voice is quieter when he speaks.
“Be safe, ñuha byka jēdar.” It is more a whisper than anything, and the name feels like a secret only he knows.
You turn and move to your horse. The saddle creaks softly as you mount. You pull your hood low again, gathering reins in your gloved hands.
When you glance back, Baelor still watches, half-hidden by shadow.
“Be back before dawn,” he mutters. Your brows furrow when you feel yourself nod without thinking.
And then you ride.
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King’s Landing falls away behind you.
At first it clings—the distant glow of torches along the walls, the faint smudge of smoke hanging over the city like a veil—but the farther you ride, the smaller it becomes, until it is only a low shimmer against the horizon. The Red Keep fades into silhouette, just another jagged shape swallowed by distance, its towers no longer watching.
The road opens wide and empty before you, a ribbon of pale dirt winding through darkness. The earth is uneven beneath your horse’s hooves; stones shift and crunch, sending small sprays of dust into the air. Wind bites at your cheeks, sharp and clean; your cloak snaps behind you like a banner unseen, and your breath leaves you in pale bursts that vanish almost as quickly as they appear. The rhythm of hooves becomes a heartbeat, steady and alive.
It settles into you until your own pulse follows its pace, until the world narrows to movement and breath and the familiar sway of the saddle. Every ride feels like this — like peeling away layers of expectation until something raw and true remains.
This is why you come back to it again and again.
Not rebellion—not truly.
Breathing.
Fields roll out on either side, dark shapes stitched together by moonless night. Sleeping farms pass in silence—low cottages crouched against the cold, shutters barred, roofs silvered faintly with dew. Occasionally a watchfire burns low, little more than glowing embers beside a fence or gate, proof that someone somewhere is awake even now, keeping quiet vigil over their small piece of the world.
You ride past them unseen.
The land stretches endlessly, and for once it feels as though it belongs to you more than any throne room ever could. You are a rider beneath the expanse of open sky, under darkness unbroken by stars, guided only by instinct and memory. Far off, distant firelights flicker—villages tucked into valleys, lonely campfires dotting the edges of the road—small reminders that life goes on beyond the walls that define your own.
You think of marriage proposals.
They arrive like trade agreements, wrapped in courtesy and expectation. Lords from fertile valleys, from storm battered coasts, from cold northern holdings you have never seen. Their names blur together: sons inheriting castles, men twice your age seeking alliances, polite smiles offered across banquet tables while eyes measure what you are worth.
None of them mean anything to you.
Their titles feel hollow. Their promises sound rehearsed. You imagine riding beside them and feel nothing—no spark, no curiosity, only the dull sense of a future narrowing into obligation.
Your father grows more impatient with every refusal. You can hear it in the clipped way he speaks your name, in the way conversations fall silent when you enter the room. You know that a princess cannot remain unpromised forever.
You think of your brothers—Aemon, quiet and brilliant, forever buried in thought as if the world exists as a puzzle only he can solve; Aerion, burning bright and dangerous, a wildfire contained only by the thinnest thread of control; Aegon, inquisitive and bold, brighter than any sun that has shone.
And then, your thoughts drift back, unbidden, to the stables. To Baelor—firstborn son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, brother to your father Maekar and your Uncle.
You think of Baelor’s knowing smile in the stables.
The road stretches on beneath you, and your thoughts turn inward again, toward bloodlines and history, toward the stories whispered like warnings in candlelit halls.
The Targaryens’ were once a house set apart by fire and custom alike. The old histories speak openly of marriages between brother and sister, of blood preserved like a flame kept carefully sheltered from the wind. In Valyria it had been tradition, almost necessity; here in Westeros it had always been something else—tolerated when dragons filled the sky, feared when they did not.
Since the Dance of the Dragons, everything changed.
The realm remembered the ruin too clearly: dragons turning on dragons, kin slaying kin, the sky itself burning. The small-folk spoke of it as punishment, a curse born from a bloodline that loved itself too fiercely. Since then, the marriages grew fewer, the old ways softened or abandoned entirely in the face of murmuring lords and wary eyes. Lords preach caution now, alliances instead of purity.
And yet the whispers remain.
You have heard them in markets, disguised as jokes. Heard servants fall silent when your family passes. The common-folk bow, but their devotion is thinner than it once was. Some fear you; others simply do not understand how a house can cling to itself so tightly and not fracture.
Perhaps they are right.
The thought unsettles you as much as it comforts.
The wind sharpens as you ride, stinging your cheeks. Your horse’s breath mists in the air, each stride steady and sure. The sound of hooves beats like a second heart beneath you, grounding you even as your thoughts drift.
You think of Baelor.
There was a time when he never turned away from you, when you ran through the halls and he was always there, patient and amused, indulging questions no one else had time to answer. You had been his only niece then, bright and loud and unafraid, forever shadowing his steps with childish certainty that he belonged partly to you.
But something shifted.
When you reached eight-and-ten—when your laughter changed, when your body grew one last time into itself, when eyes lingered a moment longer than before—he began to step back. It was subtle at first—a pause where once there would have been easy closeness, a careful distance placed between you like an unseen wall—but you noticed, even if he thought you did not.
And now there is Daella—younger, sweet-faced, untouched by the sharp edges of adulthood. You wonder if she has taken your place in his affections; if she receives the smiles that once belonged to you alone. The thought twists unexpectedly inside your chest. Heat flares there, sudden and fierce. It catches you off guard, bright as wildfire licking at dry brush. Jealousy. Not the small, passing irritation you know from courtly rivalries, but something deeper and hotter, an emotion that feels almost foreign in its intensity.
You press your heels gently to your horse’s sides, riding faster, as if motion might burn it away, but the feeling lingers. You tell yourself it is not about him. It is about change, about growing older and watching the world rearrange itself without asking your permission, about losing a certainty you once relied on.
And still, that low-lit fire burns.
The road ahead stretches like a wound across the earth—dark, quiet, and seemingly endless, vanishing into a horizon marked only by the faintest flicker of distant villages. Their lights tremble like dying stars, fragile against the weight of the night. The wind cuts across the open plains in restless gusts, tearing at your uncle’s cloak and tugging at loose strands of hair, its cold fingers finding every gap in your armour and cloth alike. You ride through it without slowing, letting the chill bite at your skin until the fire inside you dims—until the sharp, consuming heat becomes something quieter, heavier, settling low in your chest as an ache instead of a blaze.
Behind you, King’s Landing has long since dissolved into memory. No towers clawing at the sky, no golden windows glowing with excess, no distant roar of crowds or clatter of courtly life. Only darkness now, and the rhythmic thud of hooves against packed earth. Ahead lies nothing certain — only the open road and the uneasy sense that each mile carries you farther from who you were, toward something unfamiliar, unnamed. You wonder whether you are fleeing or transforming; whether there is even a difference anymore.
The villages you pass are small enough to miss if you blink—four or five squat buildings huddled close as though for warmth, smoke curling thinly from crooked chimneys. Rough wooden fences penned in tired cattle and restless sheep, their shapes pale in the dark moonless night. A single lantern burns in a window here and there, casting soft gold onto dirt paths worn by bare feet and labour. These places are scarcely large enough to be called homes, yet they are full of life—a quiet, stubborn, enduring life.
You watch figures moving even at this late hour: a woman carrying water, shoulders hunched against the cold; a man mending something by lamplight; children asleep in spaces too small for dreams to stretch. These are the people your grandparents speak of as small-folk, spoken of in dismissive tones, numbers to be taxed or managed from a distance. Yet as you ride past, you see only people surviving. People who work until their bodies bend, who measure their days by harvests and weather, not feasts or titles. They scrape a living from unforgiving land while you were born into silk sheets and tables heavy with roasted meats, exotic fruits offered at the slightest whim.
The contrast settles uncomfortably beneath your ribs.
You wonder, not for the first time, if you could survive like this, if the softness bred into you by privilege would crack under a life where comfort must be earned each day. Could your hands harden? Could your hunger be patient? Could you live without servants, without certainty, without the invisible net that catches you every time you fall?
Hours pass unnoticed, marked only by the shifting weight of exhaustion and the slow lightening of the sky. The darkness softens first to grey, then to pale blue that spills across the horizon. Shapes emerge where shadows once ruled. When you finally turn your horse toward home, dawn is breaking, and the world feels newly exposed, as if it has seen too much of you in the night and now refuses to look away.
When you return, the sky has begun to pale.
The night has thinned into that strange hour between secrecy and morning, when the world feels caught holding its breath. Your fingers ache as you grip the cotton rope again; the climb burns through your arms and shoulders, muscles trembling with the effort. Dust clings to your skin, sweat dampens your brow, and your lungs pull air in sharp, quiet breaths as you drag yourself back toward the hidden doorway.
The stones scrape your palms as you crawl inside. The passage smells of cold mortar and age; your heartbeat echoes loud enough to feel dangerous. You shove the bookcase shut behind you with a muted thud and straighten—
—and freeze.
Baelor turns at the sound of the hidden door closing.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. His gaze flicks to your clothes—dirt-streaked, wind-tossed—then to your flushed face.
“You climb out of your chambers,” he says evenly, “like a thief.”
You straighten, caught but unwilling to appear ashamed. “And you enter without invitation, kēpus.”
His mouth twitches slightly, almost a smile. “The Kingsguard believed you sleeping.”
“They believe many things.” The words come out breathless; you are suddenly aware of how close the air feels, how warm the room has grown despite the lingering chill from outside.
He steps nearer.
Not enough to touch, but close enough that you feel the shift in the space between you. His presence fills the room, steady and controlled, the scent of leather and cool morning air clinging to him. You have dreamed of moments like this, waking from restless sleep with your pulse racing, your skin overheated, the memory of his voice lingering in your ears like a secret you cannot shake. Dreams you never name aloud, that leave you disoriented in the half-light.
He steps even closer, lowering his voice. “Do you know how dangerous it is out there?”
You scoff softly, leaning back to rest against your chest if drawers. “Everyone always says that.”
“And they are correct.”
“I am more alive out there than in here.”
The words fall between you like a confession.
Baelor studies you in silence, long enough that you feel suddenly aware of the dirt on your hands, the loose strands of hair sticking to your face, the racing beat of your pulse.
“You should change before anyone sees,” he says at last.
“You will not tell?”
“No.”
Relief flickers, though smaller this time, edged with curiosity.
“Why?” You enquire.
Baelor pauses, struck frozen by your question, before he states: “Because I understand wanting the sky.”
You blink.
For a breathless moment, neither of you moves. The air itself seems to hold its breath, the world narrowing to the space where his voice lingers, warm and low, like the first hint of a storm building on the horizon. You feel it in your chest, a slow, insistent tug, as if his words have reached inside you and pulled something taut. Something that has been waiting, coiled and restless, for far too long.
Byka jēdar… you remember him calling you little sky earlier this eve in the stables. Surely you are not the sky he speaks of—he must be speaking about wanting to ride like your ancestors in the sky upon dragons and flames.
He takes a step closer, and this time, it’s deliberate. Not the cautious, measured approach of an heir, of an uncle, but something else entirely. His presence fills the room, solid and unyielding, yet his eyes are soft, almost tender, as they sweep over your face. You can see the conflict there—duty warring with something deeper, something raw and unchecked. It mirrors the battle raging inside you, the push and pull of propriety and desire, of who you are supposed to be and who you ache to become.
The shift is subtle, almost imperceptible, but you feel it like a sudden chill in the air. His body stiffens; the tension in his shoulders pulls taut as if he’s wrestled something back into place. His hand, which had hung in the space between you, stills and then slowly retreats, returning to his side as if it had never dared to reach out at all. His jaw tightens, his eyes hardening into the disciplined mask of the knight he is—the heir he must be.
You can see the struggle in him, the way his breath catches and steadies, the way his gaze flickers away from yours for the briefest of moments before returning, steady but distant. There’s a conflict there, raw and unspoken, and it mirrors the one raging inside you. Closer, your heart whispers, even as your mind screams no further. The air between you feels charged, heavy with everything unsaid, everything that could have been.
For a moment, neither of you moves. You’re caught in the gravity of that suspended moment, the world narrowing to the space where his presence lingers like a promise he won’t allow himself to make. His eyes bore into yours, searching, asking questions you don’t dare answer. You wonder if he can feel it too, this pull, this ache that seems to grow stronger every time you’re near him. But then he exhales, a slow, deliberate breath, and the spell breaks.
He takes a step back, the movement precise and controlled, as if he’s drawing a line neither of you can cross. The warmth of his presence recedes, leaving you feeling strangely hollow in its absence. His voice, when he speaks next, is measured, deliberate—a shield, you think, to keep the words safe from the truths they might reveal.
“Get some rest, tala. Dawn has passed, and your father expects you soon.”
As he leaves, you catch a faint trace of cold air and steel, the scent of training yards, of open spaces.
The door closes softly behind him.
You stand alone in the quiet room, heart still racing.
Outside, King’s Landing wakes, and the castle breathes again.
For the first time in many weeks, your restlessness feels less like a prison and more like the beginning of something you cannot yet name.
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The days that follow are different.
You notice Baelor watching sometimes—from across a hall, from the edge of a council gathering, from the training yard where sparks fly from clashing steel. His gaze is never intrusive; it lingers only long enough to remind you that he knows your secret.
And he keeps it.
You ride again—not every night, but often enough that the walls begin to feel less suffocating. The rope of linens grows worn from use. Each time you descend, you half-expect to find him waiting.
Sometimes you almost wish he would be.
The Red Keep looms beautiful and terrible around you, towers catching sunlight like flame, banners snapping above stone that has outlived kings. From the highest balconies, the view of King’s Landing stretches endless: the winding Blackwater, ships like toys upon the water, smoke rising from thousands of hearths.
You wonder what it would feel like to never return. And yet you always do, because somewhere within its walls walks a man who looks at you not as duty, not as problem, but as something wild yet worthy of understanding.
One evening, as twilight stains the sky purple and gold, you find him waiting near the balcony.
“You will leave again tonight,” Baelor says without greeting.
You lean against the stone, smiling faintly. “Perhaps.”
“You are predictable.”
“Then why do you keep watching?”
He considers the question.
“Because,” he says quietly, “I would rather know where you fly than wonder if you have fallen.”
The words settle between you like a vow unspoken.
Below, King’s Landing glitters as the sun sinks—restless, alive, endless—and you feel the pull again: the road, the wind, the freedom waiting beyond the walls.
But, for the first time, you do not feel entirely alone within them.
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You sit through a meeting with your father, Maekar, his voice a low, relentless drumbeat. Proposals. Alliances. The necessity of a match. He does not look at you when he speaks of it, but you feel the weight of each word settle on your shoulders, pressing down like the heavy stone walls of the Red Keep itself. The room is too warm, the air thick with the scent of parchment, ink, and the faint tang of wine. You imagine lords around the table murmuring their agreements, their eyes darting to you only briefly before shifting away, as if you are a ghost already, not a living person to be heard. You imagine them as the lords they are: men beyond your years that stare and gawk at you as you grow more, as you grew into the woman you are now; you see their beaded eyes delight in the idea of your hand and the alliance with House Targaryen, not even a thought of your own wishes and prayers to the Mother to be considered.
Your father’s tone is methodical, almost detached, as he outlines the potential alliances. “House Baratheon’s fleet is unmatched,” he says, his fingers tapping idly on the polished wood of the table. “A union would strengthen our position in the Narrow Sea. Their son is young, yes, but well-mannered and… tractable.” The word hangs in the air like a sentence. Tractable. Easily controlled. Easily managed. You clench your hands beneath the table, your nails digging into your palms, as the image of Lord Baratheon’s nephew flashes in your mind—his soft hands, his hesitant laugh, the way he always seems to be searching for someone else’s approval. The thought of sharing a life with him, of lying beside him in a cold marriage bed, makes your stomach churn.
“The Tyrells are too ambitious to consider,” your father interrupts your thoughts sharply, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade. “They would seek to influence rather than align. The Baratheon boy is the safer choice.” His tone brooks no argument, and the room falls silent again. You feel the weight of his gaze flicker to you once more, brief and assessing, before he turns back to his papers.
A princess is not a person—she is a tool, a pawn, a thing to be traded.
Your father remains seated, his gaze fixed on the ledger before him. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, until he finally speaks.
“You cannot climb walls forever,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “A princess is a piece on a board. A valuable one. You will be moved where you are needed.” He looks up then, his grey eyes unyielding, and you feel the sting of those words like a slap. His gaze is not unkind, but it is weary, carved from years of compromise.
“I am not a piece to be played, kepa,” you hiss, though the defiance sounds hollow even to your ears. Your throat feels tight, your chest aching with the pressure of unshed tears.
He exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “You are my daughter,” he says finally. “That is both a privilege and a chain. You have until the moon’s turn to consider Lord Baratheon’s nephew. After that, I will consider the matter for you.”
The dismissal is clear, his tone leaving no room for further discussion. You rise from your seat, your legs trembling slightly beneath your skirts, and leave the chamber without another word. The stone corridors feel narrower than before, the walls closing in as you walk, your footsteps echoing like a dirge in the silence.
The Baratheon boy is two years your junior, with a laugh that sounds like a hiccup and hands that are always slightly damp. The thought of his touch makes your skin prickle unpleasantly.
Your steps carry you instinctively toward the outer walls, toward the place where the air is clean and the world feels vast, but you stop yourself. The memory of Baelor’s quiet presence in your room is a brand on your thoughts. Instead, you retreat to the library, a vast, dusty cavern of knowledge that offers a different kind of escape. You lose yourself in maps of distant lands, in accounts of dragons that once darkened the skies. For a few hours, you can almost forget the pressure building inside your chest.
It is there that he finds you again.
You do not hear him approach. You’re bent over a massive tome detailing the flight patterns of raptors in the Dornish Marches, your finger tracing a line on the vellum when a shadow falls across the page.
You know it is him before you look up. The air in the library shifts; the dust motes seem to slow in their dance.
“Ñuha dōna jēdar.”
You lift your head. Baelor stands a respectful distance away, his black velvet cloak melting against the dark wood of the shelves. His expression is neutral, the perfect picture of an heir to the throne, but his eyes hold a faint, questioning light.
“Kēpus.” You close the book softly. “Have I summoned you without knowing?”
“Your father requested an escort for your evening walk in the godswood. He is… concerned for your safety after yesterday’s… fatigue.”
The pause is slight, but you hear it. Fatigue. A polite fiction for whatever he suspects, for whatever he has not reported.
“I see.” You stand, smoothing the skirts of your dress. The gown is a layered black silk, heavy and rich, the fabric catching the light like smoke. Gold threaded dragons wind their way subtly along the cuffs and bodice, their scales glinting with each movement, and the high collar frames your throat like armour fit for a Princess if old Valyria, high-necked and modest, yet under his observant gaze you feel strangely exposed. “And are you to be my jailer, or my escort?”
“Here I am a merely your kēpus. I am only here to protect you.”
“From what, Prince Baelor?” You gasp mockingly, placing a hand upon your breasts. “The falling leaves?”
“From anything that would harm you.” His tone is even, but there’s an edge to it, a seriousness that makes your stomach tighten. “Including your own impulses.”
The challenge hangs between you. You want to argue, to tell him your impulses are the only things that make you feel real. But you don’t. You simply nod and move past him toward the library’s great doors.
He falls into step beside you, a half-pace behind. You are acutely aware of the rhythm of his footsteps, the soft clink of his sword belt, the solid, quiet bulk of him at your periphery.
The godswood is quiet in the dusk. The heart tree’s carved face seems to weep crimson tears in the fading light. You walk the winding paths in silence for a time, the only sounds the crunch of gravel underfoot and the distant call of a night bird.
The tension from the morning is still there, a live wire humming just beneath the surface of the quiet. It gathers in the spaces between your words, in the glances you don’t quite allow yourself to take.
“Why did you cover for me, kēpus?” You ask finally, the question bursting out of you. You stop walking, turning to face him beside a small, dark pool.
He stops as well, his profile etched against the deep green of the dark oak leaves. “I gave you my reason.”
“Wanting the sky is not a reason. It is a feeling. Heirs to the throne do not act on feeling.”
He turns his head, his pale eyes meeting yours. In the dim light, they look almost grey. “No,” he agrees. “They do not.”
“So?”
“So perhaps I am tired of watching cages.” The words are so soft they are almost lost in the rustle of the leaves. “Even gilded ones.”
Your breath catches in your throat. It feels like a confession far greater than your own. You think of his life: firstborn son son of the King, heir to the Iron Throne, a boy with his life carved out for him long before his birth, every moment since belonging to someone else. Does he, too, stare at the stars and feel a hunger that has no name?
“Se nyke daor gryves urnēbagon ñuha byka jēdar sagon ruarza.” The words fall from his lips like poetry, not spoken so much as breathed, shaped carefully in the space between you.
Baelor does not speak as other men do. There is no blunt edge to his words, no careless weight. Each syllable leaves his mouth with deliberate care—as though he has measured it first, turned it over in thought, and only then allowed it into the air. The cadence catches you before the meaning ever does; a slow, lilting rhythm that feels less like conversation and more like something recited from memory.
High Valyrian was meant to be elegant—every tutor ever told you so—but hearing it from Baelor is something else entirely. It is not the clipped instruction of lessons half-ignored, nor the stern repetition of grammar you used to slip away from as a girl. In his voice it becomes music.
You are ashamed, suddenly, of all the hours you shirked; all the afternoons spent climbing towers or fleeing your tutors instead of learning the tongue properly. The words brush past your understanding like wings, familiar yet unreachable. You chase them instinctively, trying to grasp meaning from fragments alone.
Cannot bear. The word lands clearly, sharp enough to catch your breath.
Then softer, almost fond: little sky.
Your heart stumbles at that, though you cannot say why. The phrase feels impossibly gentle, something meant to be held close rather than spoken aloud.
And another, nearly lost in the hush between syllables.
Hidden.
The rest slips away from you; beautiful, frustrating, and entirely beyond reach. For a fleeting instant you imagine finding the words written in some ancient book tucked away in the Red Keep’s library; ink faded with time, a love sonnet penned by a long-dead poet who understood longing too well. That same hush lives in Baelor’s voice now—an ache disguised as gentleness, restraint wrapped around something brighter and far more dangerous beneath.
You feel a slickness between your thighs, emanating from your petals, your bud alight with a heat you have hardly experienced. Only one boy has ever touched you, from when you were six-and-ten until nearly two springs ago—a stable boy from an inn far from here, one who did not know your name or your reason for staying there for near a week. That boy had passed of sickness nearly two springs before, but you remember the last time he had touched you: you had whispered kēpus when he inserted a finger inside of you, moaned my Prince when his cock bullied its way into you, and when your body shook and vision became clean as snow, you called out Bae— before you choked back your words.
This memory rises unbidden, and you take a step closer without meaning to. The space between you dwindles again. This time, you notice the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint scar that bisects his left eyebrow, the way his lower lip is slightly fuller than the upper. Details you have seen a thousand times and never truly seen.
“My father will force a marriage,” you whisper, the truth of it sharp and bitter on your tongue. “Before the moon’s turn. To some lordling whose only merit is his uncle’s fleet.”
Baelor’s jaw tightens. A muscle feathers along its edge. He says nothing, but his silence is louder than any objection.
“I cannot breathe when I think of it,” you continue, the words pouring out in a rush now that the dam has broken. “I feel it here.” You press a hand to your chest, just below your collarbone, a contrast to the mocking you used before. A strange, swollen ache has been growing there all day, a tightness that has nothing to do with the fabric of your dress. “It feels like… like I am being stuffed into a box that is too small.”
His gaze drops to your hand, then swiftly back to your face. But not before you see something flicker in his eyes—not pity, but a sharp, sudden recognition.
“I know that feeling all too well, byka jēdar,” he says, his own voice low.
“Do you?”
He doesn’t answer with words. He simply looks at you, and in that look, you see a reflection of your own trapped spirit. It is a mirror, a understanding so profound it steals the air from your lungs.
The ache in your chest pulses, a warm, heavy sensation that spreads outward. You become hyper aware of your body in a new way—the gentle weight of your breasts against the silk of your dress feels more pronounced, the bodice seeming to fit more snugly than it did this morning. It is not pain, but a deep, visceral fullness, as if the frustration and yearning inside you is manifesting physically, pushing against its confines.
You drop your hand, suddenly self-conscious. The sensation is confusing, intimate. You wonder if he can see it, this strange swelling of your own flesh.
“What do you do?” Your voice is barely audible. “When you feel the walls closing in?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he lifts his own hand, holding it in the space between you, palm up, as if offering you something invisible. “I remember the sky,” he says simply. “I remember that it is still there, even when I cannot see it.”
You stare at his open hand. You imagine placing yours in it, the heat that would bloom from that contact, the sheer, shocking reality of it. The thought sends a jolt through you, straight to your core, and the heavy warmth in your chest tightens again, a sweet, insistent pressure.
You want to. Gods, you want to.
Your fingers twitch at your side.
A loud crack of a branch echoes from the other side of the grove, a guard on his rounds.
The moment shatters.
Baelor’s hand closes into a fist and falls back to his side. The shutters come down over his expression, the Prince's mask settling back into place. “It grows dark, Princess. We should return.”
The dismissal is a physical blow. The warmth in your body cools rapidly, leaving you feeling hollow and shaken. The strange, full sensation in your chest remains, a lingering, tender echo of the moment passed.
You nod, unable to speak, and turn back toward the castle. He walks beside you, the silence now a chasm filled with everything unsaid, everything almost done.
At the door to your chambers, he stops. You hesitate, your hand on the iron ring of the door.
“Will you be there?” You ask, not looking at him. “Tomorrow morning, when I wake to the same walls?”
You hear the soft intake of his breath. When he speaks, his voice is rough, scraped raw by something you dare not name. “I am always here, ñuha jorrāelagon. You may always come to me when you need.”
You push the door open and slip inside without another word.
Alone, you lean back against the cold wood. Your heart hammers against your ribs. You bring your hands up, pressing them against the swell of your breasts beneath your dress. They feel fuller, heavier, sensitive in a way that makes your breath shorten. It is a secret, physical testament to the tension that coils between you and the knight in the white cloak. A slow, aching burn that has found a home in your very flesh.
You know, with a certainty that terrifies and exhilarates you, that this is only the beginning. The walls are the same. The cage is the same. But you are not. And neither, you suspect, is he.
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The days grow louder after that, as though the Red Keep senses change before you do. Servants hurry with purpose; banners are unfurled; the training yards ring from dawn until dusk with steel and shouted orders. Even the air tastes sharper, filled with the scent of oiled armour and anticipation.
Your father moves through the castle like a storm given shape.
A tourney, your grandfather announces. A grand one—knights summoned from across the realm; lords invited to witness strength and loyalty alike. The halls fill with rumours, and you need not ask why.
Marriage.
It clings to every conversation you overhear. Every glance cast your way feels weighted; measured. You are Maekar Targaryen’s daughter—too long unwed, too restless, too wild for comfort.
A tourney gives him opportunity.
From your chambers windows, the world beyond the walls changes by degrees. At first there are only wagons—small dots crawling across the dusty fields outside the city, then stakes driven into earth, lines marked in chalk, men shouting measurements to one another. Day by day the shape grows clearer. Pavilions rise like bright mushrooms after rain; long lists of coloured canvas stretching toward the horizon. Wooden stands climb higher each morning, skeletons of beams becoming grand galleries draped in cloth the colour of noble houses.
You watch the lists take form as though they are building a cage around you.
By afternoon, the wind carries the clang of hammers all the way to your balcony; by evening you can hear laughter drifting faintly upward, the sound of merchants already selling sweet wine and roasted meats to early arrivals. Fires prick the dark like fallen stars. The tourney swells—alive, hungry, and inevitable.
The city hums with excitement. You feel nothing but tension tightening beneath your skin.
Footsteps sound behind you.
“You have been avoiding the court,” Baelor says softly.
You do not turn immediately. “It has been avoiding me first.”
He comes to stand beside you, hands resting lightly on the stone. His presence is steady — grounding in a way you dislike admitting.
“Your father means well,” he says after a moment.
You laugh quietly. “That is a dangerous phrase.”
His mouth twitches, though his gaze remains on the city below. “He fears for your future.”
“I fear being traded like a horse.”
The words slip out sharper than intended.
Baelor falls silent. When you finally glance at him, something tight moves across his features—sympathy, perhaps; perhaps something more complicated.
“Not all matches are prisons,” he says quietly.
“No,” you murmur. “Only most.”
The silence stretches, heavy with things unsaid.
You have grown accustomed to this, the quiet understanding between you. Stolen moments in corridors; conversations that skirt edges neither of you name. Sometimes his gaze lingers too long. Sometimes yours does the same.
Neither of you speaks of it, yet it lives there, a spark beneath ash.
As the days pass, the view from your window becomes unbearable—too bright, too alive. You begin to linger there at night instead, watching torchlight move through the tents like veins of fire. Music reaches you sometimes; the low thrum of drums, the shrill rise of pipes. The small-folk laugh freely in a way the court never allows itself.
One night, when the Keep settles into silence and the corridors grow soft with sleep, you wrap yourself in a plain cloak, silver hair tucked neatly into a hat, and slip through servant passages you learned as a child. The night air tastes different beyond the gates—thicker, freer, heavy with smoke and spilled ale.
The tourney grounds are nothing like the orderly spectacle seen from above. Up close they are chaos—mud churned by boots, children darting between tables, dogs barking beneath benches. Lantern light paints everything gold. You are jostled immediately; no one looks twice at you. It thrills you more than it should.
Someone presses a cup into your hand. Strong wine burns your throat; laughter catches in your chest. You dance because someone pulls you into it, spinning in circles to the rhythm of fiddles and clapping hands. The earth beneath your feet is uneven, the air warm with bodies and breath. For a few precious hours you are nameless—just another girl laughing beneath the lanterns.
You drink more than you intend.
Music swells while skirts whirl around you. The world blurs pleasantly at the edges. Dawn feels impossibly far away.
Then, mid-turn, you pause.
Across the tent, half-lost in shadow near one of the support poles, stands a figure. Cloaked, hood drawn low; plain wool where silk should be. The posture is familiar nevertheless—too still amid the revelry, watching rather than joining.
Your breath catches. For one heartbeat you are certain it is him.
Baelor.
You stumble, missing a step. Your dance partner laughs, steadying you by the elbow. The moment breaks. You blink, heart hammering, and look back toward the corner to see nothing there. There is only shadows and shifting bodies, a wine barrel where the figure had stood. The space is empty, as though it had never held anyone at all.
You tell yourself it was the wine or the music, perhaps just wishful imagining. Still, a strange heat lingers at the back of your neck.
You dance again, but your gaze keeps drifting toward that corner, half-expecting the hooded stranger to reappear. He never does.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The morning of the tourney dawns bright.
Trumpets sound across the grounds; banners snap in the wind—red dragons, crowned stags, sigils painted so vividly they seem almost alive against the pale sky. From the royal approach, the tourney field spreads wide and gleaming, the lists carved clean into packed earth, rails polished smooth by careful hands. Everything smells of trampled grass, leather, and anticipation. The stands are filled with nobles draped in silk, their voices rising in eager chatter, and below the common-folk and entertainers (some you recognise, some you do not) cheer and chant.
You sit beside your family in the royal box.
The structure rises high above the field, built to impress. Thick wooden beams frame the pavilion, each one carved with twisting dragons whose bodies coil around tongues of flame; the craftsmanship is so intricate the scales catch the sunlight, shadows settling deep within the grooves so it looks as though the creatures truly move. Red silk hangs between the pillars, shifting in the breeze like living fire. Beneath your fingers, the railing is warm from the sun—smooth where countless hands have sanded it down, rough where the engravings bite into the grain.
Maekar’s expression is carved from stone, pride and purpose radiating from him. On your other side sit your brothers — Aerion restless, Aegon grinning with careless delight. Daeron is absent, drinking himself into a stupor, most likely. Baelor sits at the right-hand side if your grandfather, his cloak stirring in the breeze. His own sons are absent, with Valarr with his betrothed and Matarys at training.
You feel his presence before you look.
Your hands rest still in your lap, posture flawless; a proper Princess placed on display like a jewel meant to catch the light.
The first knights ride forth, armour gleaming, horses stamping and snorting as names echo across the field. The crowd answers in waves—cheers cresting and breaking, laughter rising from the stands. Lances shatter; the sound cracks through the air like thunder, vibrating through your ribs.
And then you hear it—the nephew of Lord Baratheon.
The roar that follows is louder than the others, a tide of approval rolling through nobles and small-folk alike. He rides forward—broad-shouldered, steady beneath heavy armour, the stag crest gleaming gold upon his breastplate. There is nothing flamboyant about him. He sits his horse like a man born to discipline; no flourish, no grin for the crowd—solid and predictable.
The thought makes something cold settle in your stomach.
You study him in this daylight, the sun shining and cutting sharp shadows below his brows and cheekbones. He is not ugly, and not unkind looking either. He is simply… contained. A man more comfortable with sword than speech.
Your father leans slightly toward you. “A strong match,” he murmurs.
You keep your expression smooth, though distaste curls quietly beneath it. The Baratheon looks every inch the sort of man a father would choose—reliable, practical, unquestioning. A man who would place you carefully into a life already arranged, where duty comes first and desire is politely ignored. You imagine years of measured conversation, steady silence; a life built on obligation.
You feel suffocated just thinking of it.
The Baratheon rider turns his horse toward the royal box, reins tightening as the animal tosses its head and stamps its hooves below you.
His dark, steady eyes find yours.
“My lady,” he calls, voice deep and steady, “would you grant me a favour?”
The crowd hushes, eager and watching. Your smile forms slowly, practised and polite, though it feels brittle beneath the weight of expectation.
In your peripheral vision, you sense movement.
Baelor.
You glance, only briefly, and the breath catches in your throat.
His jaw is clenched so tightly that the muscles jump. Nostrils flare once, controlled; his hands curl into the engraved wood arms of his seat. Nothing else gives him away. To anyone else he appears composed, princely. But you know him well by now—you know the simmering anger barely leashed, the stillness of a man restraining himself. Possessive.
The realisation sends a heat racing unexpectedly through you.
You turn back to the knight below before anyone notices. Without speaking, you untie a narrow ribbon from the sleeve of your dress—gold threaded with black and red—and toss it down. The fabric catches the sunlight as it falls.
The Baratheon man catches it neatly.
“I pray you ride safely,” you call.
Nothing more.
The crowd applauds; your father nods approvingly. The Baratheon bows his head before fastening your ribbon to his arm before riding away.
You lean back slowly, and when you do, you meet Baelor’s eyes.
Everything else fades.
The lists continue; lances crash, shields splinter with sharp metallic crunches, horses scream and men shout. Steel rings against steel again and again. The air grows thick with dust and sunlight; heat gathers beneath your collar, turning every breath warm.
You do not watch the tourney—you watch him.
His gaze does not leave yours.
There is something fierce there—restrained, smouldering. Not open anger; something deeper, quieter, more dangerous. The air between you tightens like a drawn bowstring, invisible and taut. The noise around you becomes distant, muffled, as though you sit inside a world separated from everyone else.
Another knight falls. The crowd erupts.
You do not blink. Neither does he.
The Baratheon nephew rides well; you hear the cheers grow louder each time he unhorses another opponent with relentless precision. Your father’s satisfaction becomes increasingly visible. The trap closes, thread by thread, yet all you feel is the heat building between you and Baelor. There is an inferno that grows each time his eyes darken, each time his expression tightens when your ribbon flashes on another man’s arm. You feel it like fire licking at your skin. Even the roar of the crowd cannot drown the silence stretching between you.
The Baratheon nephew rides well.
At one point Aerion leans toward you, whispering something mocking about the knight’s stiff posture; the biting words stem from a jealousy at the man’s skills, no doubt. You barely hear him. Aegon laughs at something else entirely. The world has narrowed to a single point.
Baelor’s eyes. His gaze holds frustration, hunger, something almost protective—something that feels dangerously close to ownership.
It should frighten you. Instead, your pulse quickens.
The sun dips lower as the final tilt begins. Your ribbon flashes on the Baratheon’s arm as he charges, dust rising in a plume as his lance strikes true. His opponent falls; the crowd erupts.
The knight is declared victor.
Cheers thunder across the grounds. Your father stands, applauding. Nobles follow suit in a rustle of silk and approval.
You choose to remain seated, gaze still locked with Baelor’s.
He does not clap. His expression is carefully neutral again, but his two-times eyes betray him, dark and burning.
When the Baratheon man rides toward the royal box for acknowledgement, you barely notice. He lifts his helm, breathing hard, sweat darkening his hair.
Your grandfather gestures for him to approach closer.
“This is the princess,” Daeron speaks loud enough for those nearby to clasp at their ears, and for the common-folk in the stands to hear. “Her favour brought you luck.”
The knight looks up at you, respectful and almost shy. “My thanks for your protection, my lady.”
You incline your head.
The words stick in your throat.
Behind you, Baelor’s presence feels almost tangible — like heat against your back.
The knight lingers a moment too long, as if hoping for something more. You give him nothing beyond a distant smile.
“I am glad you ride unhurt.”
You offer nothing else.
His gaze lingers a moment, then he bows and withdraws.
The crowd begins to disperse, excitement spilling into talk of feasts and celebration. You rise with the others, skirts whispering across the wooden floor. As you turn, your shoulder brushes Baelor’s.
The contact is fleeting, accidental to anyone watching, yet you know this was by design.
He leans slightly closer, voice low enough that only you hear but sharp enough to cut through the noise.
“You should not have given him your ribbon.” The words come almost as a hiss, stripped of his usual gentleness. You pause, surprised by the raw edge of it.
“He asked,” you whisper.
“He is being presented for your hand.”
“I know.”
You turn to him fully.
His eyes hold yours—curious, burning, threaded with something that looks dangerously like rage; not loud, not wild, but contained, focused. The sort of jealousy that does not shout because it does not need to.
“And you dislike it,” he says quietly.
“Do you?” The question escapes before you can stop yourself.
For a moment something unguarded flashes across his face—something hungry, aching, fiercely possessive.
“Yes,” he says. “Iksā ñuha vēzos se jēdar. Ñuhon mērī, dōna run.”
Heat flares between you again, sudden and consuming. You do not need to know these words to understand it is a claiming. For one breath you imagine what it would feel like if he stopped holding himself back—if that restrained fire finally burned free.
Your father calls your name.
The moment shatters.
Baelor steps away at once, expression smoothing into princely calm as though nothing passed between you at all. But as you walk from the royal box, the carved dragons twisting above your head, you feel his gaze on you still—steady, consuming, like a flame that refuses to go out.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The corridors near his chambers are quieter than the rest of the Keep; most of the court has drifted down toward the great hall, drawn by food, wine, and retellings of the day’s victories. Laughter echoes faintly upward through the stone like something distant and hollow.
You slip from your own apartments with your cloak pulled close, heart hammering so loudly you are certain it will betray you. The passageways twist narrower here—older stone, less adorned. Torchlight gutters in iron sconces, casting restless shadows that stretch and recoil as you pass. Every footstep feels thunderous against the worn floor; every turning corner sends a spike of heat through your veins.
You know these corridors well enough. You learned them as a child, racing your brothers, hiding from tutors. Tonight they feel different—charged. Dangerous.
A pair of servants pass at the far end of a hall; you press yourself into an alcove until they disappear, breath shallow, pulse racing not from fear of discovery but from the anger still blazing beneath your ribs. The Baratheon’s ribbon. Your father’s satisfied nod. Baelor’s eyes.
By the time you reach his door, your restraint is threadbare.
It stands slightly ajar. You push it open without knocking.
He is near the window, half-turned toward the dying light, as though he sensed you long before he heard you. The sunset paints him in gold and shadow; the line of his shoulders rigid beneath dark robes. His armour rests on a stand nearby, the faint smell of freshly oiled leather and steel thick in the room.
“You should not be here,” he says quietly.
“And yet here I am, kēpus.”
The door shuts behind you with a soft, final sound.
For a moment neither of you moves. The air feels heavier here; warmer. The noise of the feast below does not reach this high. There is only the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint whisper of wind against the glass.
“You heard him,” you say. “He means to bind me.”
Baelor exhales slowly, exhibiting a control you wish to break. “Your father believes it best, as does the King himself.”
“You do not.”
His gaze flicks sharply to yours, not quick enough to hide. “That is not for me to decide.”
The calm in his voice makes your anger flare hotter.
“You watched him barter me like a prize!”
His jaw tightens. “Do not think it easy for me.”
“Then why say nothing?”
Silence stretches, tight and unbearable. You step closer; he does not retreat. The space between you grows charged, humming like a drawn blade.
“If you hate this match,” you whisper, voice trembling now with something more than mere frustration, “then do something.”
His eyes darken—one shade lighter than the other, both burning. You can see the war in him; duty strangling desire, loyalty battling something far more dangerous.
You barely think before the words spill out, reckless and raw.
“Take my hand yourself, ñuha dārilaros.”
The Valyrian falls from your tongue imperfectly but unmistakably.
Shock flashes across his features—true, unguarded surprise. It softens him for half a heartbeat, strips him of princely composure. Beneath it something else rises—something fierce and deeply wanted. His breath catches; his gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes with new intensity.
Hidden want.
You do not wait for reason to reclaim him.
You close the distance.
The first press of your lips is charged with everything unsaid—anger, longing, years of stolen glances and swallowed words. It is not gentle. It is desperate.
For a single heartbeat he is still, then the restraint shatters.
His hand finds your waist, fingers tightening, drawing you flush against him. The kiss deepens—hungry, urgent; the taste of him warm and unfamiliar and dizzying. Your fingers tangle into the folds of his robe, clutching as though the ground might vanish beneath you. Heat surges between you, swift and consuming. All the tension from the lists, from the royal box, from the carved dragons and cheering crowds, burns away in this single reckless act.
His other hand rises, threading into your braided hair, fingers spreading along your scalp as though to anchor you there. The touch sends a shiver through you; sharp, electric. You tilt into him instinctively, mouths moving together with a wildness that feels long restrained.
The world narrows to breath and warmth and the faint sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears.
You taste wine and salt and something entirely his. The kiss turns deeper still—less anger now, more want; something molten and aching that has lived too long beneath silence. Your hands slide higher, gripping at his shoulders beneath the heavy fabric, feeling the strength coiled there.
The kiss breaks only because you need air, and even then you refuse to part more than a breath. You clutch at his tunic, the taste of him unfamiliar and overwhelming. It feels like fire, like stepping off a cliff and refusing to fall back. His hands remain at your waist and in your hair, as though he fears you might disappear if he lets go. His forehead rests against yours; his exhale is a ragged, warm thing against your damp lips. The hand at your waist moves, splaying wide across the small of your back, pressing you closer until you feel the solid, unyielding length of him—the undeniable proof that his control is as fractured as yours.
“This is madness,” he murmurs, the words a rough vibration against your skin.
“I do not care.”
His eyes—one a shifting blend of blue and green like shallow sea over stone, the other a steady, burnished brown—search yours, striking in their quiet, mismatched intensity. You see the war—duty, honour, the ghost of your grandfather’s command. But beneath it, a current of raw need runs darker, deeper. It’s the same current that has pulled his gaze to you over the years, after his late wife Jena passed, all the way to today in the lists, that tightened his jaw when the Baratheon ribbon was offered.
He moves without another word.
A sudden, fluid shift of his body turns you, his arm a firm band around your waist as he guides you back. Your shoulder blades meet cold, rough-hewn stone beside the tall, arched window. The shock of the chill against your overheated skin makes you gasp. Moonlight, pale and silver, spills through the leaded glass, painting a stark, luminous stripe across the floor and up the wall, bathing you both in its ghostly glow.
From far below, a distant roar of laughter rises from the tourney grounds—a world away, a life away. Here, there is only his scent—leather, clean sweat, the faint, smoky trace of the hearth—and the overwhelming heat of him caging you against the wall.
His mouth finds yours again.
This kiss is different. The initial desperate hunger is still there, but it’s been joined by a fierce, focused intensity. It’s a claiming. His lips are insistent, demanding your surrender. You give it willingly, opening for him with a soft, yielding sound that is swallowed by his kiss. His tongue slides against yours—a slick, hot glide that steals the strength from your knees. Your whimper is muffled, lost in the wet, consuming rhythm he sets. One of his hands comes up, fingers tangling once more in the intricate braids at your temple, holding you still for his exploration. He tastes of the deep, dry Dornish red served at the high table and something inherently, uniquely him—a flavour you realize you have yearned for without name.
You break for air, panting, your lips tingling and swollen. “Baelor,” you breathe, the name a plea and a prayer.
“You should not be here,” he repeats, but his voice is a low, guttural thing that belies the words. His mouth leaves yours to trail fire down the line of your jaw. “You should be in your chambers. You should be thinking of your future lord husband.”
The words are a goad, meant to punish you or himself, you cannot tell. But you will not have it.
“I am thinking of my prince,” you whisper into the dark silk of his hair. Your own hands find the firm planes of his back, clutching at the fabric of his tunic. “My kēpus. Take me as yours!” You hiss. “Claim me!”
A sound rips from his throat—not a groan, but something deeper, more visceral. A growl. It vibrates against the sensitive skin of your neck as his teeth find the arch of your throat. He doesn’t bite, not truly, but the sharp pressure of his teeth grazing that frantic pulse point sends a jolt of pure, undiluted sensation straight to your core. Your head falls back against the stone with a soft thud, offering him more.
His free hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip. He grips your thigh, his fingers strong and sure, and lifts. You feel the cool air against your calf as he hooks your left leg over his hip, settling you more firmly against him. The new angle presses the hard ridge of his arousal against the juncture of your thighs, even through the layers of your skirt and his robes. A startled, delicious friction sparks there, and you cry out, a short, sharp sound.
His hand doesn’t stop. It smooths up the outside of your lifted thigh, pushing the heavy fabric of your gown and underskirts up as it goes. The cool night air from the window kisses your bared skin, raising gooseflesh. You tremble, not from cold, but from an anticipation so acute it borders on pain.
His fingers find the edge of your underclothing—simple linen drawers. He pauses there, his breath hot against your neck. “Do you know what you ask for, byka jēdar?”
“Yes.”
“Do you truly?” His voice is taut, strained. His fingertips brush the damp linen where it clings to you. A shockwave of sensation rolls through you, making your entire body jolt. You are wet. The evidence of your desire is a soaked patch against the fabric, and his touch ghosts over it, a maddening, feather-light pass.
“I know,” you insist, your voice trembling. “I want you, ñuha dārilaros.”
His thumb finds the shape of you through the cloth, a firm, circling pressure over the aching bud hidden beneath. You arch off the wall with a choked gasp. The sensation is too much and not enough—a brilliant, focused point of pleasure that threatens to unravel you before he’s even truly begun.
“Please,” you beg, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. “Baelor, please.”
He ignores your plea, his thumb continuing its lazy, torturous circles. The rough pad of it rubs against the sensitive bundle of nerves through the damp linen, building a coil of tension low in your belly that tightens with every rotation. Your hips try to roll against his hand, seeking more pressure, deeper friction, but he holds you pinned, controlling the pace, the intensity.
“Please what?” He demands, his voice a dark rasp in your ear. His other hand still anchors your head, his fingers threaded tightly in your hair.
“Inside,” you whimper, the word barely audible. “Your fingers… inside me.”
He stills. The sudden absence of motion is its own exquisite torment. He pulls back just enough to look at you. In the moonlight, his face is all sharp angles and shadowed hollows, his eyes like chips of flint. “Ask properly.”
You blink, dazed, your body screaming for the relief he’s withholding. “What?”
“You know how.” His gaze burns into you, unyielding. “Ask me as my niece should.”
Understanding dawns, hot and humiliating and thrilling. It is a test. A claiming, just like you pleaded.
“Kēpus,” you breathe, the High Valyrian title feeling different now—intimate, dirty, a secret between you. “Please. Your fingers.”
“Louder.”
“Kēpus!” You wail it, the sound torn from your throat, raw and desperate. It echoes softly in the high ceiling room, swallowed by the distant revelry.
A faint smile touches his lips. “Better.”
His hand moves. He pushes the damp linen aside, the fabric scraping softly against your oversensitive flesh. Then his bare skin meets yours.
The first touch of his fingers against your bare, slick folds is an electric shock. You cry out, your back bowing. His touch is not tentative. He parts you with a confident stroke of his middle finger, sliding through the drenched heat, gathering your wetness. The chill of the signet ring on his little finger presses against your outer lips, a stark, metallic contrast to the feverish warmth of your skin.
He finds your entrance, the tip of his finger resting there, applying the barest pressure. You are panting, every muscle in your body tensed, waiting. He looks into your eyes, holding your gaze captive as he finally, slowly, sinks his finger inside you.
The sensation is overwhelming. A fullness, a stretch, a shocking intimacy. You are tight, unaccustomed to any intrusion, and your inner muscles clamp around him instinctively, a silken, clutching grip. His breath catches audibly. He curls his finger, a deliberate, searching motion. The pad of his finger brushes a spot deep inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Your vision whites out for a second. A ragged, broken moan tears from your throat, and your nails, without conscious thought, drag down the nape of his neck, scraping over the short hairs there.
He hisses, a sharp intake of breath, and his own hips jerk forward, grinding his hard length against your thigh. The pain-pleasure on his face is intoxicating.
“Another,” you beg, the words slurred with need. “I can take you, ñuha kēpus. Give me another.”
His eyes flash with something wild. He withdraws his finger almost completely, making you gasp at the loss, then returns with two.
The stretch is more pronounced, a burning, exquisite fullness that steals the air from your lungs. You hear it then—the obscene, wet sound of your own arousal as he pushes his fingers deep, as your body accepts him. The noise is loud in the intimate silence of the room, lewd and undeniable. A hot flush of shame washes over you, followed immediately by a wave of even hotter arousal. You try to tuck your face into the hollow of his shoulder, into the fine wool of his robes, to hide from his penetrating gaze.
“No.” His voice is a command, low and absolute. The hand in your hair tightens, not painfully, but with undeniable force, pulling your head back. “Look at me.”
You obey, your eyes fluttering open to meet his.
What he sees makes the last vestige of princely composure vanish from his face. His lips part. His eyes, wide and dark with pupil, rake over your features with a kind of savage hunger. You know what he sees: your hair coming loose from its braids in wild tendrils, your breasts heaving as you gasp for air, your lips swollen and glistening from his kisses. Your eyes, wide and pleading, dark with a wantonness you never knew you possessed.
“Gods,” he snarls, the word half-reverence, half-curse. “Look at you.”
You watch him watching you fall apart. You see the awe in his gaze, the fierce possessiveness, the sheer, staggering want. It fuels you, amplifies every sensation. The coarse rub of his tunic against your cheek, the cold stone at your back, the relentless, curling thrust of his fingers inside you—it all coalesces into a single, rising wave of tension.
He changes the angle of his wrist, his fingers driving deeper, crooking just so. His thumb finds your exposed nub again, circling it in firm, rhythmic passes that are perfectly synchronized with the thrust of his fingers.
The coil inside you, wound so tight you think you might break, suddenly snaps.
Pleasure does not crest—it erupts. It is not a gentle wave but a firestorm, blazing out from that central, molten point where his touch resides. It consumes you, racing along every nerve, turning your bones to liquid heat. Your body arches violently, held to the wall only by his solid strength. A wordless, choking cry is torn from you, then his name mixed with ragged, sobbing gasps of “ñuha dārilaros!”
Your inner muscles clutch and flutter around his fingers in frantic, pulsing waves. The pleasure is so intense it borders on unbearable, a radiant, shuddering release that seems to go on and on, draining the strength from your limbs, leaving you boneless and trembling. Your head lolls forward, your forehead coming to rest against his collarbone as you gasp for air, each breath a shaky, shuddering thing.
For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breathing, the distant murmur of the feast, and the soft, wet sound as he slowly, gently, withdraws his fingers, raising them to his lips as his tongue darts out to taste your wetness on them.
As your pulse begins to slow and you breathing starts to even out, you feel Baelor still.
It is subtle at first; a tightening beneath your palms where they rest against him. The warmth does not vanish, but it pulls inward, as though he is drawing himself back behind walls you cannot see. His breath, which had been uneven and mingled with yours, begins to steady—too quickly, too deliberately.
You do not realise he is pulling away until the absence begins.
His hand at your waist loosens. The other, which had tangled possessively in your braided hair, slips free strand by strand. The space between your bodies widens by inches, though you remain leaning against him, too dazed to understand the shift.
Then, footsteps—distant at first, echoing faintly down the corridor outside his chambers.
The sound of skirts brush against stone. Your name echoes faintly down the corridor.
“My lady? Princess?”
Your maid.
Baelor breaks away sharply, as though burned. The last trace of warmth vanishes from his hands. He steps back, running one hand over his face as if to erase what just transpired, breath uneven once more—but now with restraint, not desire.
The absence feels cold.
You lift your head slowly, blinking up at him—flushed, shaken, hair loosened from its careful braids. Your lips still tingle; your skin still burns with the memory of his touch. The room seems smaller now, tighter.
“Go,” his voice rough, but not with want this time.
“… Pardon?”
“They will find you here.”
You wait, expecting him to say more.
Your maid calls again, closer, and still he says nothing.
You see the return of the prince: guarded, controlled, jaw set hard enough to ache. His hands are fisted at his sides, knuckles pale.
The silence cuts deeper than any refusal.
Anger floods back, hot and sharp.
“You tasted me,” you whisper bitterly, voice trembling despite your effort to steady it, “and still you hide.”
His expression twists—pain flashing across his features, something raw and strangled beneath it. For a moment he looks as though he might reach for you again.
He does not.
“This is folly,” he says, quieter now. “Dangerous folly. For you most of all.”
“For me?” You almost laugh. “We are dragons, kēpus, no matter what people may say! We do not have to bend to the will of these politics!”
Your name echoes again, closer this time.
He steps further back, putting deliberate distance between you. The space feels like a blade driven into your chest.
“Go,” he repeats, softer but no less firm. “Before I forget myself again.”
You straighten slowly, smoothing your skirts with hands that still tremble. The heat between your thighs has faded to a dull, aching warmth; your heart still pounds, but now with fury as much as longing.
You turn sharply, crossing the room in swift strides. When you open the door, the cooler air of the corridor rushes in, carrying with it your maid’s hurried steps. The corridor swallows you; your maid rounds the corner moments later, relief flooding her face. You barely hear her excuses as she escorts you away.
Behind you, Baelor’s door closes softly.
He does not follow.
You do not look back.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Two long, burning days since you last saw Baelor alone in his chambers—since heat and want and reckless words shattered whatever fragile balance had existed between you. Two full days of this tourney stretching on beneath banners and cheers; two endless nights lying awake in your bed, staring at the canopy overhead, replaying every look, every touch, every word he did not say.
He avoids you completely.
In corridors he bows with impeccable courtesy and moves past without lingering. At meals he speaks to your brothers, to your father, to visiting lords—never to you. His gaze slides over you in public as though you are no more than any other courtly presence. No stolen glances. No quiet murmurs in shadowed alcoves.
The absence is deliberate.
It feels like punishment.
You endure two whole days of spectacle—of splintering lances and roaring crowds—while something tight and wounded coils inside your chest. Two whole nights without him, even though he hurt you so; even though he pushed you away when you were still trembling in his arms. Anger wars with longing until you no longer know which burns hotter.
By the dawn of the second great day of tilting, you are raw with it.
The morning rises bright and deceptively cheerful. Frost clings lightly to the grass beyond the walls, turning the fields silver beneath the early sun. The air is brisk, sharp in your lungs. From the royal box, the world seems carved from colour and noise—banners snapping crimson and gold, the carved dragons along the beams casting twisting shadows in the pale light.
You sit once more beside your father.
Maekar’s pride is evident; he leans forward slightly as the lists fill, satisfaction radiating from him like heat from a forge. Aegon laughs at some private jest, unconcerned. Aerion watches everything with sharp, assessing eyes.
But Baelor is missing.
Your gaze drifts again and again to the entrance lanes where the riders gather. Nothing. No sign of black armour; no sign of the man who has haunted every breath of yours for forty-eight hours.
Restlessness coils through you.
The Baratheon nephew rides out to thunderous applause. He looks every bit the victor of two days past—armour polished, the stag crest gleaming, your ribbon still tied firmly around his arm. The sight of it makes your stomach twist.
He guides his horse toward the royal box, lifting his visor.
“My lady,” he calls, voice steady.
The crowd hushes in anticipation.
You summon a polite smile that feels carved from wax.
And then—
A thunder of hooves splits the air.
It is not the measured trot of a knight awaiting announcement but a hard, deliberate gallop. Heads turn. Gasps ripple through the stands as another rider breaks into the lists without ceremony, horse powerful and dark as night.
The steed’s breath fogs in the cold air, plumes of steam curling from its nostrils as it slows sharply before the royal box. The animal is pitch black, muscled and restless, stamping at the earth as though eager for blood.
The rider sits tall.
Your breath leaves you in a single, stunned exhale.
Even before he lifts his visor, you know him.
The armour is unmistakable.
It is not gilded or overly adorned like the suits worn by lords eager for admiration. It is forged for war. Pitch black from helm to greaves, the metal drinks the sunlight rather than reflecting it. The chest piece is ribbed and hand-carved with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen—not in bright enamel, but etched deeply into the steel itself, as though the sigil has been claimed by fire and hammered into permanence.
This is not parade armour.
Cuts mar the surface—old scars gouged into the breastplate and along the pauldrons. Not decorative etching but the marks of blades that have struck true and failed to fell him. You have heard the stories whispered in halls and sung in quieter corners: battles fought in the marches, skirmishes on distant shores, duels settled in mud and blood. Too many to count.
He wears them all.
His gauntlets are plain but solid; his sword hangs at his side, well-used, the hilt wrapped in dark leather worn smooth by his grip.
When he lifts his visor, the world narrows to the line of his face.
Baelor.
Though the visor shields his eyes when lowered, you know—instinctively, fiercely—that they are on you alone.
He turns his horse slightly, so that he faces not only the Baratheon but the royal box.
“Before I ask anything,” Baelor calls, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent grounds, “I issue challenge.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
He turns his helm toward the Baratheon knight. “To you.”
The Baratheon stiffens.
“Fight me,” Baelor continues, “until death or until one yields. If I win, you will withdraw your request for the princess’s hand and speak no further of it.”
The words strike like thrown steel.
A collective intake of breath.
Your father’s sharp gasp is audible beside you. Aerion and Aegon fall stunned into silence.
Baelor turns his gaze upward—to the King, your grandfather.
“And if I win,” he declares, voice steady as drawn iron, “I claim her hand myself.”
The world stops.
For a heartbeat there is only wind snapping banners and the distant shifting of horses.
Your father half-rises from his seat. “This is fucking madness—”
But the challenge has been spoken. It cannot be unsaid.
All eyes turn to the King.
Your grandfather’s expression is unreadable, carved from old stone. He knows as well as anyone that a public challenge cannot be withdrawn without dishonour. The crowd waits, suspended between outrage and exhilaration.
At last, the King inclines his head.
“So be it.”
The words fall heavy.
A roar breaks from the stands.
Baelor turns back to you.
For the first time since he rode in, the edge of his composure falters. Even at this distance you see it—the flicker of vulnerability beneath the steel.
“Ñuha jēdar,” he calls, voice no longer for spectacle but for you alone, “your favour.”
Your cheeks burn.
Your heartbeat pounds so violently you fear it will burst from your chest. Your fingers tremble as you reach beneath your skirts, seeking the ribbon tied at your stocking. You feel your pulse pounding everywhere at once. The movement is hidden from all but you—and perhaps him, with how he is watching so closely.
The knot loosens. You draw the ribbon free.
Leaning forward over the carved railing, you stretch and lower yourself as far as you dare. The cold air bites your skin. The distance between you closes; your fingers brush the metal of his gauntlet.
He takes the ribbon from your shaking hand.
He takes the ribbon carefully, then he lifts it to his lips and kisses it with reverence.
The crowd erupts into cheers, but you can hear only your own heartbeat.
“I pray you ride safely,” you say softly, voice trembling just enough for him alone to notice. “Return to me.”
His gaze darkens at the words.
His helm lowers and he turns his horse.
The Baratheon knight draws his sword. So does Baelor.
The clash is immediate.
Steel rings against steel with a shriek that scrapes along your bones. The first blow lands hard enough to jar both men in their saddles. Horses rear and wheel; dust kicks up in sharp clouds beneath pounding hooves.
Your chest tightens.
They fight not with lances but with swords—close, brutal. The Baratheon is strong, disciplined; his strikes are precise, calculated. But Baelor fights like a man with something to lose.
Like a man with something to win.
The sound of blade on armour cracks through the air again and again—sharp metallic shrieks, dull thuds where steel meets ribbed breastplate. Sparks flash when swords glance off one another.
Your head swims with each collision.
They dismount almost simultaneously, abandoning horses for footing on earth. The fight grows more vicious. Boots grind into dirt; shoulders slam. The Baratheon swings hard, forcing Baelor back a step—another. The crowd roars approval.
You cannot breathe.
You press your hands together, knuckles white, whispering frantic prayer to the Mother: Bring him back to me. Protect my jorrāelagon.
Steel crashes again. Baelor pivots, parrying with swift efficiency. He fights differently now—no flourish, no wasted motion. Each movement is purposeful, measured, honed by real war rather than tourney sport.
The Baratheon lunges. Their blades lock. For a heartbeat they strain against each other, faces inches apart behind steel.
Then Baelor shifts.
A twist of his wrist; a sharp kick to destabilise. The Baratheon stumbles. Baelor presses forward, relentless. Sword strikes armour with brutal force—once, twice. The sound is deafening.
Dust clings to black steel. Sweat darkens the edges of Baelor’s helm.
The Baratheon rallies, slamming shoulder-first into him. They crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs and metal. Gasps ripple through the stands.
You rise to your feet without realising.
They roll; blades scrape against earth. The Baratheon attempts to pin him—but Baelor surges upward with startling ferocity. He shoves the other man back, brings his sword down in a controlled arc that stops a breath from the Baratheon’s throat.
Pinned.
The black blade rests at the vulnerable seam beneath the stag’s helm.
Silence falls.
“Yield,” Baelor commands.
For a heartbeat you think the Baratheon will refuse.
Then, hoarse and defeated: “I yield.”
The roar that follows is thunderous—it shakes the very beams of the royal box.
Baelor rises slowly, chest heaving beneath scarred black armour. He pulls off his helm. His shoulders rise and fall with each drag of air. Sweat traces down his temples, along the sharp line of his jaw, slipping to disappear beneath the collar of his breastplate.
His eyes find you immediately.
Everything inside you snaps.
You do not think; you run.
You run down the steps of the royal box, past stunned nobles and shouting small-folk. Skirts gathered in your fists, heart pounding wildly. The crowd parts and presses around you in equal measure, pushing you closer to the entrance of the lists.
He sees you coming. His armour is already off, thrown carelessly to the earth beside him.
Baelor moves toward you before anyone can stop him. When you reach him, breathless and trembling, he does not hesitate. He catches you by the waist and lifts you effortlessly, settling you behind him onto his black steed. The horse snorts, steam curling into the cold air.
You cling to him—armoured and solid and alive.
The crowd roars again as he wheels the horse toward the gates.
And then he is galloping.
Away from the lists. Away from the roar of nobles and small-folk alike. Back toward the Keep, wind tearing at your hair, your cheek pressed against scarred black steel.
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The cobblestones blur beneath the stallion’s pounding hooves, a thunderous rhythm that matches the frantic beat of your heart where you cling to Baelor’s back. The wind steals your breath, whipping stray strands of hair across your face. His scent envelops you—sweat, leather, the metallic tang of dried blood from the skirmish at the tourney grounds, and beneath it all, the clean, warm smell of him. Your arms are locked around the hard muscle of his abdomen, your cheek pressed against the damp linen of his tunic, feeling the powerful flex of his body as he guides the beast with a fierce, single-minded urgency.
He rides not like a lord, but like a man possessed. Every shouted command to the steed is a guttural promise. Every sharp turn that makes you clutch him tighter is a step closer to a destination only he sees. The world streaks past in a smear of stone and shadow, the late afternoon sun casting long, desperate fingers across the city. You feel a wild, unbridled joy surge through you, a laugh bubbling in your throat at the sheer madness of it—the Hand of the King, still in his fighting leathers, cutting through the capital like a comet, with you as his only passenger.
The castle gates loom. He does not slow. Guards scramble aside, their faces a mix of shock and deference. The stables are reached in a final, breathtaking gallop across the inner yard. He pulls the great horse up so sharply its front hooves skid on the gravel. Before the animal has fully stilled, Baelor is swinging down, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thump. He turns, his hands finding your waist before you can move, and lifts you from the saddle as if you weigh nothing. Your body slides down the length of his, a slow, friction rich descent that leaves you breathless. Your feet touch earth, but his hands don’t leave you. They slide to your back, holding you steady, holding you close.
His face is a map of the day’s violence—a fresh, shallow cut gleaming on the sharp plane of his cheek, his silver-gold hair darkened with sweat and dust, his violet eyes blazing with an intensity that has nothing to do with battle. He looks at you, really looks, as if checking for cracks. Then his mouth finds yours.
It’s not a gentle reunion kiss. It’s a claiming. A punctuation mark on the frantic ride. His lips are firm, insistent, tasting of salt and urgency. One of his hands cups the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, angling you to deepen the contact. It’s over almost as soon as it begins, but the heat of it lingers, sparking on your lips, simmering in your veins. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.
“Soon,” he murmurs, the word a vow. Then his hand swallows yours, fingers lacing through yours with a possessive tightness, and he turns, pulling you into a near run.
You are a comet’s tail in his wake. He storms through the Red Keep, a force of nature in bloodied leather. Servants and courtiers alike part before him like wheat before a scythe, their eyes wide, their bows hurried. No one dares speak. The message is in his grip on your hand, in the savage purpose in his stride. Staircases spiral upward, one after another, your legs burning with the effort to keep pace. Halls stretch, tapestries fluttering in the wind of your passage. Your laughter finally breaks free, not a delicate giggle but a full, throaty sound of pure, undiluted exhilaration. It echoes off the stone, a bright counterpoint to his silent, driven fury. You throw your head back, the world a dizzying whirl of vaulted ceilings and torchlight, and you laugh. You laugh for the sheer, stupid joy of being alive, of being wanted, of being his in this wild, stolen moment.
He glances back once, at the sound, and something in his fierce expression softens for a fraction of a second, a flicker of sun through storm clouds. Then he’s moving again, faster, dragging you up one final, private staircase.
His apartments. The heavy oak door bears the three-headed dragon, carved and painted a deep, bloody crimson. He shoves it open, pulls you inside, and slams it shut with a sound that feels final. The clack of the iron lock sliding home is deafening in the sudden quiet. You have a half-second to register the familiar room—the hearth cold, the Myrish rugs, the large bed with its dark hangings—before he spins you, your back coming to rest against the carved door. The dragon’s scales press into your shoulder blades.
He cages you there with his body, his hands planted on the wood on either side of your head. He is all heat and solid weight and panting breath. His eyes roam your face, devouring every detail. The scent of him—exertion, iron, man—fills your lungs. You lift a trembling hand to the cut on his cheek, your thumb brushing the edge of the dried blood. The gesture makes his eyes flutter closed for a heartbeat.
You tilt your face up, your lips a breath from his. “Ñuha dārilaros,” you whisper into the scant space between you.
A low sound, almost a growl, vibrates in his chest. His mouth descends, but not to yours. He bypasses your lips to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the corner of your jaw. Then another, lower, on the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. His lips are a brand, moving with a desperate hunger across your skin. He kisses a trail along your cheekbone, down the line of your throat, his teeth grazing the tendon there, making you gasp. He moves lower, his mouth finding the hollow of your collarbone, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin. Each kiss is a wordless sentence, a confession written in fire.
You can taste his blood from his cut lip upon your tongue. It is copper and heat and something achingly, terrifyingly intimate.
Your hand rises between you almost without thought. Your thumb brushes the split in his lower lip, gentle at first, then pressing just enough to draw another bead of red to the surface. He inhales sharply at the touch, dark eyes flaring, but he does not pull away. Instead he watches you, something reverent and unguarded flickering there.
The blood stains your skin.
Slowly, deliberately, you drag your thumb upward, leaving a thin crimson line in its wake between his brows—a trembling mimicry of the old Valyrian marriage rite, whispered of in histories and half-burned scrolls. A mark of binding, of blood answering blood.
For a heartbeat the world stills.
His breath turns unsteady. His hand comes up to cover yours where it lingers at his forehead, and for a moment you feel the shudder that runs through him.
Then he moves.
He wipes the blood from his own mouth with two fingers, gathering what remains. His gaze never leaves yours as he lifts his hand.
He draws a line between your brows. The touch is slow and careful, intimate beyond any kiss. His fingers tremble slightly as they fall away, leaving the warmth of him behind. The air between you feels charged, sacred, dangerous. Your pulse thunders in your ears. He rests his hands on the door on either side of your head, catching his breath, as you stare at each other, wholly aware that you will spend the rest of your lives together.
His hands leave the door, coming to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your temples as his mouth works its way back up your throat. He pauses, his breath fanning over your damp skin. “Ñuha dōna jēdar,” he murmurs, the Valyrian syllables rough with emotion. “Ñuha ābrazȳrys. Eman mērī mirre jorrāelatan ao.”
You whimper, the ancient words weaving a spell around your heart. You want to reply, but coherent thought is scattering under the onslaught of his mouth. You push gently at his chest, and he allows you to create a sliver of space, his eyes questioning, dark with need.
“The dirt,” you manage, your voice unsteady. “The blood…”
His gaze drops to his own tunic, then to your travel stained dress. Understanding clears some of the wildness from his eyes, replacing it with a tender focus. He nods, a slow, deliberate motion. His hands, which moments before held you with bruising intensity, now come to the laces at the back of your gown. His fingers, long and deft despite their callouses, work the knots with infinite patience. There is no tearing, no rushed urgency. This is a sacrament.
The fabric loosens. He guides the sleeves down your arms, the bodice falling forward. The cool air of the room kisses your shoulders, your upper back. He turns you gently, his hands smoothing the dress down over your hips, letting it pool around your ankles on the rug. You step out of it, feeling profoundly exposed in just your thin shift. You hear his sharp intake of breath behind you.
You turn back to face him. He is staring, his eyes drinking in the sight of you through the semi-sheer linen. Your own hands rise, shaking slightly, to the fastenings of his own tunic. You mimic his slowness, undoing the leather ties, pushing the heavy, blood smudged fabric from his shoulders. The scent of sweat, steel, and a faint trace of smoke clings to the heavy fabric. It falls with a soft thud.
His chest is revealed—broad and powerfully built, the kind shaped not in vanity but in battle. Muscle lies thick and defined beneath sun-kissed skin, each line and curve earned through years of swordplay and tourney lists. His collarbones are strong, sweeping outward into shoulders built to bear armour without complaint. Dark hair dusts his chest, thicker at the centre and trailing in a deliberate path down his sternum, tapering along the hard planes of his abdomen.
He is warm beneath your palms when you lay them against him—solid, unyielding. The slow expansion of his lungs presses into your touch. Beneath your fingertips you can feel the quiet tension coiled in him, a warrior’s readiness that never truly fades.
Scars map him like constellations.
There are pale ones first—thin white lines that catch the light when he shifts. Clean, precise marks where blades bit and were swiftly stitched. One curves just beneath his ribs, another slices diagonally across his side. They are old enough to have softened, the skin smooth though faintly raised, evidence of wounds that were sharp and decisive.
Then there is the one that draws your breath.
It mars his left shoulder, cutting from the crest of it down toward his collarbone in an angry sweep. Unlike the others, it is not pale. It is red still, a deeper hue against his skin, as though the memory of the injury lingers there. The flesh is uneven beneath it, slightly ridged—a wound that had not been clean, not easy to mend.
You trace the edge of it lightly, and he exhales through his teeth. The scar pulls subtly when he rolls that shoulder back, the movement making the muscle beneath flex and shift. It only emphasizes the strength there—the thickness of his arms, corded and powerful, veins faintly visible beneath the surface when he tightens his grip on your waist.
He is magnificent—not unmarred but marked; not pristine marble, but living stone shaped by fire and steel. The moonlight through the window paints him in silver, catching along the planes of his chest and the hard line of his abdomen, gilding the scars instead of diminishing them.
You reach for the lacings of his breeches, but he catches your wrists, bringing your palms to his lips for a soft kiss. “My turn,” he says, his voice a velvet rumble.
He guides you backward, away from the door, toward the vast canopied bed. When your legs hit the edge of the mattress, he presses down on your shoulders, urging you to sit, then to lie back. You sink into the featherbed, the dark silks cool against your bare arms. He stands at the foot of the bed, just looking. His gaze is a physical touch, travelling from your flushed face, down the column of your throat, over the peaks of your breasts pressing against the shift, down the flat plane of your stomach, to the junction of your thighs where the linen is already shadowed with your arousal.
A wave of self-consciousness washes over you. The sheer intensity of his scrutiny is overwhelming. Instinctively, you squeeze your thighs together, turning slightly on your side.
He makes a soft, chiding tut of a sound. He climbs onto the bed, kneeling between your legs. His hands are warm and firm as they settle on your knees.
“Look at me,” he commands, gently.
You force your eyes to his. The love you see there, mixed with a blazing hunger, steals the air from your lungs.
“I will one day know every curve, every freckle, every secret sigh of this body,” he says, his voice low and sure. “Why shy away from me now, when I am finally here to worship it?”
His words melt the last of your hesitation. He coaxes your legs apart, his hands sliding up from your ankles with a mesmerizing slowness. His touch is reverence itself. He pushes the hem of your shift up, over your knees, your thighs, bunching it at your waist. The cool air touches your most intimate skin, and you flinch, but his hands soothe you, stroking the inside of your thighs.
He sees you then, fully. Your sex is laid bare to him, to the fading light from the high windows. You watch his face as he looks his fill. His lips part, his eyes darken to the shade of a deep twilight storm. Your petals are already slick, glistening with your own wetness, the inner lips a shade deeper than the surrounding skin, swollen and parted slightly, revealing the glistening pink within. The neat thatch of curls at the apex is the same colour as the hair on your head. You are utterly open, utterly vulnerable.
“Gods,” he breathes, the word filled with awe. “You are a vision.”
He doesn’t wait. He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a lightning strike. It’s not a tentative flick, but a broad, languid stroke from the very bottom of your entrance, all the way up through your soaked folds to circle the tight, aching bud of your clitoris.
You cry out, a sharp, shocked sound. Your hips jerk off the bed. “Baelor!”
He hums against you, the vibration travelling straight to your core. The sensation is so intensely foreign, so shockingly intimate, a bolt of pure and undiluted pleasure mixed with a flare of embarrassment. Your hands fly to his head—not to push him away, but to clutch at his salt and peppered hair, your fingers twisting in the short strands.
He ignores your startled squeal. He moans, a low, ragged sound of pure pleasure, as if he’s tasting the finest wine. His hands slide under your thighs, then around to grip your hips, pinning you to the mattress. There is no escaping the decadent assault of his mouth. He licks you with a focused greed, exploring every fold, every hidden crevice. He laps at your entrance, tasting the essence of you, then swirls his tongue around your bud before sucking it gently into the heat of his mouth.
You arch, a broken sob tearing from your throat. The embarrassment is burned away in the forge of the pleasure he’s stoking. It builds, a coil tightening low in your belly, a pressure gathering with each expert flick and suck. He varies his rhythm—long, slow strokes that make you writhe, then quick, fluttering flicks that make you whimper. He inserts the very tip of his tongue inside you, just a shallow penetration that has you clenching around nothing.
“Please, I can’t—it’s too much…” You babble, but your body is screaming the opposite, your thighs trembling around his head.
He releases your bud with a soft pop, blowing cool air on the wet, sensitised flesh. You gasp at the contrast. “You can,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot. “Give it to me. Let me have it.”
He descends again, and this time, he sucks. He draws your bud into his mouth and sucks with a firm, relentless pressure, his tongue working over the tip.
It shatters you.
Your peak rips through you with a violence that is utterly new. Your back bows off the bed, your spine a tense arc. A raw, guttural wail is punched from your lips, a sound you don’t recognize as your own. Inside, your sex convulses, a series of rapid, clutching contractions that seem to originate from your very core and radiate outward. Your vision whites out at the edges. You feel a sudden, hot gush of wetness, more than you’ve ever produced, and his mouth is there to drink it, his moan of satisfaction vibrating through your entire being.
The pulses go on and on, each one a little less intense than the last, until you are a boneless, trembling wreck on the silks. You are aware of him releasing you, of him sliding up your body, but you can’t open your eyes. You float in a haze of spent sensation, your breathing ragged, your skin humming.
You feel his weight settle beside you, then over you. His breeches have been removed while you quivered in the aftermath, but doesn’t enter you, not yet. He lays his body alongside yours, one of his hands finding yours on the mattress. He interlaces your fingers, palm to palm, a connection that feels more intimate than anything that just happened. His other hand strokes your hair back from your damp forehead, his touch infinitely gentle.
Slowly, you drift back to yourself. The frantic pounding of your heart settles into a heavy, satisfied thrum. You crack open your eyes.
He is propped on an elbow, looking down at you. There is no triumph in his gaze, only a profound, awestruck love. A soft adoration that makes your newly sated body stir all over again. He smiles, a small, private thing that lights his whole face. He leans down and kisses you, softly, on your swollen lips. You can taste yourself on him, a musky, sweet flavour, and the intimacy of it sends a fresh shiver through you.
“Welcome back, ñuha dōna jēdar,” he whispers.
You lift your free hand to trace his jaw, your fingers raking through his now soaked beard.
“That was…” Your words fail you.
“The first of thousands,” he promises, his voice thick. His hips shift, and you feel the hard, hot length of him pressed against your thigh, a blatant reminder of his own unslaked need.
The sight of him, the feel of him, rekindles the fire in your blood. The fullness you felt during your peak was internal, a ghost of a sensation, and now you crave the real thing. You need him inside; the emptiness is suddenly an ache.
You turn onto your side to face him fully, your hand sliding down his chest, over the taut muscles of his stomach, to wrap your fingers around his shaft. He hisses, his eyes closing. You explore him, this part of him that is now yours. He is thick, the skin like heated velvet over solid steel. A bead of moisture glistens at the broad, flushed tip. You smear it with your thumb, feeling him jump in your grasp.
You look into his eyes, trying to find the Valyrian words he has showered upon you. “Ñuha valzȳrys,” you breathe, the accent clumsy but earnest. You kiss his chest, over his heart. “Kostilus, nyke jorrāelagon ao in…”
A shudder runs through him. “Ābrazȳrys,” he groans. He rolls you onto your back once more, coming to rest between your thighs. He looks down at where your bodies are about to join, his expression one of solemn reverence. He takes himself in hand, guiding the broad, plump head of his cock through your slickness. The sensation of him gliding through your soaked folds, gathering your wetness, makes you moan. He does it again, and again, coating himself thoroughly, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet room. Each pass teases your swollen entrance, making you clench in anticipation.
Finally, he notches himself there. The pressure is immediate, immense. You feel yourself stretching around the very tip. You gasp, your eyes flying to his.
“Slowly,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Slowly, my love.”
He leans down, bracing his weight on his forearms on either side of your head, his body covering yours. He kisses you, deeply, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he begins to push forward with his hips.
It is a gradual, inexorable invasion. The pressure builds, a sweet, burning stretch as your body yields to him. You feel every ridge, every inch of him as he sinks deeper. He pulls back slightly, just enough for your stretched opening to try to close, then presses forward again, going deeper this time. The wet, sucking sound of your body accepting him is loud in your ears. Your own juices, stirred by his earlier attentions, ease his way, but the sheer size of him is breathtaking.
“Kēpus,” you whimper against his lips, the Valyrian word for lord falling from you like a prayer.
He stills, fully seated at last. You feel impossibly full, stretched to your limit, the root of him pressed firmly against your entrance. There is no space left inside you. He is everywhere. You look up at him, your eyes wide, and see his own struggle for control. A fine sheen of sweat coats his brow, his jaw is clenched, the muscles in his neck cording with strain.
“Are you…” He starts, his voice gravelled.
“Yes,” you breathe, shifting your hips experimentally. The movement sends sparks through your nerves. “Yes. More. Please.”
He begins to move. The first thrusts are tender, measured, a slow withdrawal until just the head remains within your clutching heat, then a slow, deep return. It’s a dance, a conversation held with bodies. Each stroke touches a place deep inside you that makes you see stars. He watches your face, reading every flicker of pleasure, adjusting his angle until he finds the spot that makes you cry out. He kisses you through it, swallowing your gasps, his breath mingling with yours.
The tenderness builds its own kind of heat. The slow, loving rhythm stokes a different fire, one that burns in your chest as much as between your legs. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting his thrusts. The sound of skin meeting skin is a soft, rhythmic slap, underscored by the wet sounds of your joining.
“Ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys,” he chants into your skin, between kisses to your throat, your shoulders. “Ñuha byka jēdar.” He speeds up, infinitesimally, the control starting to fray. “Finally. I have you. I have all of you.”
The change is subtle at first. The loving, deep strokes become more urgent. His hips snap forward with a little more force, a little less finesse. The slide of him inside you is a slick, perfect friction. Your own need coils tight again, spurred by the sheer physicality of him, by the love in his eyes, by the primal need to be claimed. You feel his stones, drawn up tight, slap against the curve of your backside with each forward drive.
You claw at his back, your mind splintering. The words spill from you, a desperate, heartfelt plea. “Fill me, kēpus, please. I want it—I want your child.” You beg, your head thrown back into the pillows. “Fill me with your seed, make me round with your babe every spring until I can carry no more…”
Your plea undoes him. A ragged groan tears from his throat. His rhythm fractures completely, devolving into a hard, desperate rutting. His thrusts become shorter, faster, a heavy rut driving into your welcoming heat. His face buries in the crook of your neck, his breath scalding hot against your skin. You feel the exact moment he loses the battle. His whole body seizes, a tremor wracking his frame. He drives deep—as deep as he can go—and holds there, buried to the hilt.
Inside you, he erupts.
The warmth is sudden. You feel the first thick, pulsing spurt deep in your womb, then another and another to follow. His release floods you, a claiming more absolute than any word. It fills you so completely that a small, wet sound escapes as a little spills out around the base of his shaft where you are still joined, trickling onto the bedsheets beneath you. His hips jerk through the last of his spend, a series of shallow, helpless spasms against you.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of your combined, ragged breathing. He collapses atop you, his full weight a welcome anchor. You wrap your arms around him, holding him as his tremors subside. He shifts slightly—just enough to keep from crushing you, but doesn’t withdraw. He stays inside, softening, a constant, warm presence.
His lips find your shoulder, then your neck, placing soft, reverent kisses on your sweat-slicked skin. His hand, which had been gripping the sheet near your head, relaxes and comes up to cradle your cheek. He turns your face toward his.
Your eyes meet in the dimming light. Mismatched into your own. No masks, no titles, no Hands or courtesies. Just Baelor and you.
“I love you,” he whispers, the Common Tongue words simple, direct, and more powerful than any High Valyrian poetry. “With everything I am. With every scar, every duty, every breath.”
Tears well in your eyes, not of sadness, but of a joy so fierce it aches. You stroke his hair, your fingers tracing the line of his ear. “And I love you, my prince. My husband. You are my home.”
He kisses you again, a slow, deep, languid kiss that tastes of salt and completion. He finally slips from your body, a slow, wet separation that makes you both sigh. He gathers you immediately, turning on his side and pulling you against him, your back to his chest. His arm snakes around your waist, his large hand splaying possessively over your lower stomach. You feel the sticky evidence of your union between your thighs, on your skin, and you have never felt more cherished.
He nuzzles the back of your neck, his breath stirring your hair.
“Will it take, do you think?” He murmurs, his voice drowsy with spent passion.
You place your hand over his, lacing your fingers together over your belly. “I hope so,” you whisper, a smile in your voice. “But if not this time, we have all the time we need to try.”
He tightens his arm around you, a wordless promise. Outside, the last of the sun dips below the walls of King’s Landing, plunging the room into soft twilight. You lie together in the quiet dark, wrapped in each other, in the new, unbreakable bond forged of sweat, blood, whispered vows, and shared, blinding pleasure. The world with its dangers and duties waits beyond the locked door. But here, in this moment, there is only this: the steady beat of his heart against your back, the warmth of his skin, and the profound, echoing peace of being exactly where you are meant to be.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
TRANSLATIONS
Ñuha byka jēdar - My little sky
Kēpus - Uncle (for a direct address)
Tala - Niece (more specifically it translates to brother’s daughter, as their is no direct word for "niece" in HV)
Kepa - Father
Ñuha dōna jēdar - My sweet sky
Se nyke daor gryves urnēbagon ñuha byka jēdar sagon ruarza - And I cannot bear to watch my little sky be hidden
Iksā ñuha vēzos se jēdar. Ñuhon mērī, dōna run - You are my sun and sky. Mine alone, sweet thing
Eman va moriot issare aōhon, ñuha jorrāelagon - I have always been yours, my love
Ñuha dārilaros - My prince (also translates to "heir" or "crown prince/princess", as this HV word is gender neutral)
Ñuha dōna jēdar. Ñuha ābrazȳrys. Eman mērī mirre jorrāelatan ao - My sweet sky. My wife. I have only ever loved you
Ñuha valzȳrys - My husband
Ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys - My sweet wife
Kostilus, nyke jorrāelagon ao in - Please, I need you inside
please let me know if I have missed out on any translations!
Mucous Membrane! John Constantine x Witch!gn!reader
w/c: 9.1K
!!!Spoilers for the Hellblazer issue #11!!!
tags: the John Constantine usual of smoking, drinking, inducing: vomiting, witchcraft, occult magic, John is a dick and can't handle feelings, slow burn, fluff, don't get along to lovers, drug use, mention of arson, mention of sex magick(sorry no smut today freaks), intimacy through magic, slight hypnotism but really not, making out, blood, angsty ending cause I like pain :)
A/N: this took me way too long but its just mucous membrane!john brainrot but I love this little bastard and I want more of him! Especially with more magic and occult involved. I know John canonically knows other occult people in the comics, I just wanted to have him meet his first magic user who isn't Alex Logue.
Enjoy!
The night was nearly pitch black when John stepped out into the streets, the cold wind nearly burned him as he wiped the sweat from his brow. Skin bruised and hot from being tussled and tossed around in the mosh pit before his stomach gave up holding in what food he had eaten.
He was at least thankful none of his mates noticed his sudden absence as he emptied his guts onto the street, groaning as he caught his breath, dizzy and lightheaded.
Their laughter at his sorry state would only make his skull rattle.
He needed a smoke and a walk to come down from the familiar rush that steals away your hearing to the point you can't hear your own voice over the impact of the music still slamming around in your senses like a thunderous echo.
But earplugs were for posers in his opinion, he liked earning his tinnitus naturally as he hauled himself up, ignoring the feeling of how light he felt as he reached into his pocket for a fag.
Nothing.
"Wha-? Oh fuck me, Les you bastard!" He cursed into the empty street, the echo finally dawning on him how quiet it had become.
He couldn't tell the time, but he was sure London was never this quiet.
He blamed it on his muddled senses as he spat the last remnants of his dinner with a curse, the only noise being the soft pulse of the beat coming from the downstairs gig still going hard.
John groaned as he turned in the direction of the nearest cornerstone; at least he hoped it was.
But a relaxing walk wasn't relaxing without a cigarette to burn away the acidic taste on his teeth.
The streetlamps seemed darker than usual, but it's not like he noticed as he trudged forward, the heat slowly slipping from him the farther he walked, shivers crawling up his spine.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he kept going forward, it wouldn't do him any good to stop and try to assess where the hell he was.
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Something caught his gaze as he walked past the park, a soft light far brighter than the streetlamps, as it seemed to be moving, walking along where the roads all connected into the small island of an imitated display of nature meant for families and rowdy kids doing what they shouldn't. The light flickered as it disappeared between the trees.
He stopped in his tracks.
That sensation, something alive and humming with a need to fill the entire space.
Familiarity began to weigh on him.
Feeling it so clearly, even through the haze of his intoxicated state, hair on the back of his neck standing on end.
He knew that feeling, he knew it well, for he'd chased its knowledge.
Magic.
His feet already decided before his head even caught up, going to investigate without so much as a plan, possessiveness of territory you could call it.
Or just his arrogance at the fact that someone else was pulling tricks on his side of the city.
He needed to see it.
Show whoever this new practitioner on the block is who was in charge around this side of London.
No petty casters are gonna be spewing spells if he could help it, being the hypocrite he was.
The leaves crunched beneath his boots as he followed it, preparing for the worst of what could be occurring.
A sacrifice, a summoning, raising the dead? How could he know what he was up against when he couldn't even see it as he kept his gaze locked on the small flame as he grew closer.
Waiting for the burst of flames, the screaming of souls, any indication of some dark art being harnessed.
But the rush for a challenge, coupled with the last sparks of adrenaline, fed his curiosity.
He nearly tripped over a tree root when he finally came to the scene.
No hellfire or blood.
No virgin sacrifice.
Just you.
A burning piece of parchment at the base of a tree, orange flames lighting up your features as whatever text was written on it was swallowed and destroyed.
You looked around his age, maybe a bit younger.
Your right hand is holding a lighter inscribed with symbols you'd set the paper aflame with.
Holding it aloft so as not to have the fire claim the leaves.
He could feel the heat from here, watching as the paper was eaten away by fire, as it all clicked in his head what this was.
Witchcraft.
A craft that branched off from the occult.
This was some sort of ritual. And he'd walked right into the final act of it.
The heavy weight of being watched stuck him before your eyes met, both wide with surprise at the other.
In practice, John hadn't bothered to seek out others of his working, too confident in his powers to feel the need to seek others out unless he could gain something from them.
But standing here,
an occultist and a witch,
two beings so similar at their core, yet divided by the subtle changes of their practices and nature.
It was surreal as he couldn't read your features anymore, only the eyes.
Full of knowledge yet curiosity, strength & power.
It seemed you were the same as they softened, glinting in the flaming paper you held.
It would've lasted longer if the paper hadn't burnt your fingers, your cry of pain shattering the silence as the magic dispersed as if frightened by the scream.
The flames went up into ash, and the park was thrust into darkness as he felt something harsh hit him like a train.
'What the fuck just happened?'
John thought as he once again opened his eyes again he found himself standing at the edge of the park.
The briefest glimpses of stars through the dark clouds are now the only light above, besides the dull streetlamps.
His ears now ringing from your scream, his heart racing now for a different reason.
But he had no intention of letting you get off that easily, not after a display like that.
But first, an entire pack of cigarettes was needed after that.
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It'd been two days now, and he still hadn't found you, and he was beginning to let his temper get the better of him.
'What were you, a fucking hermit on top of being a witch? Or are you just hiding from me, silly witch?'
He couldn't get you off his mind even if he wanted to,
Seemed like every time he closed his eyes, he'd be met with that moment back in the park.
It pissed him off as he stomped down the street.
John hated losing, and cheating was practically his specialty above magic; he just had nothing to go off of in terms of finding you.
And even if he did, John didn't know much about witches other than most were known for their overprotective nature, with the chance of a curse at hand.
He wouldn't put it past you to put one on him, but nothing too horrible that wasn't already an average occurrence in his life had happened.
So he figured not.
In the end, his best bet on the table was to wait at the same park in broad fucking daylight.
Just hoping you'd appear, as stupid as it looked.
If his mates saw him now, they'd be teasing him for looking like he was waiting for a date to show.
If anything, it was for some damn answers. He could still feel the odd burn in his chest when the fire was snuffed out.
And that feeling didn't lessen when his gaze finally found you.
He scrambled to his feet in a hurry, not wanting you to get away like last time, his cigarette left in the grass as he glared at you.
"You," he said bitterly.
You blinked at his attitude, already somewhat recovering from the ritual you held that night.
Seeing him didn't ease your worry as you walked towards him.
"Y-you. Hello...again." you answered somewhat cautiously.
Voice soft yet clear as a bell to him.
He scowled at your cautious attitude. Why were you being careful? You were the one who messed him up somehow.
"Thought you could just skive right by me after ya little spell the night before huh? I thought you witches were suppos to be clever little cats?" He insults, in his eyes, you were the entire problem.
You don't budge under his attempt at intimidation, your steps stopping just a few feet of space between you two.
"I figured you wouldn't want to see me again after that night. I hit you pretty hard after all."
He scoffed as he slumped back down onto the bench, leaning back as he looked you up and down.
Dressed warmly in a black crew neck, long flowing skirt over it that just barely brushed the concrete, with a black trench coat. Concealing most of your figure, but you still looked the same as that night he met you.
"Then fix it, ya broke it, ya buy it as they say."
Your gaze sharpened instantly with a look of confusion.
"Fix it? It wasn't my fault you interrupted my ritual. You're clearly also one of the arts, you fix it." You scolded his audacity to fix his own mistake; you already knew what he'd be like seeing his punk attire.
But this was just stupidity.
Being met with the same level of snark, a part of him was almost impressed that you were standing up to him.
At least you had backbone.
"Now you've lost the plot. I'm not the one doing a ritual out in the middle of the night in a public park, can't blame a bloke for getting curious."
You two went back and forth arguing like an old married couple in the middle of a park before he stood up to insult you.
"Well, unlike you slippery little witches, I prefer to do my spells in..."
Then his vision got blurry, and the burn in his chest came back at full force.
Felt like he was drunk and hungover at the same time before he lost his balance.
You caught him by the shoulders before he could fall, those eyes that had been branded into his memory were now full of worry.
What the fuck was happening to him?
"You fucking moron, you didn't cleanse yourself?!" You berate, realizing the severity of his state as you press your hand to his forehead.
Oh, right.....cleansing.
A supposed 'need' when practicing any sort of magic.
John had skimmed over that section when it came to his personal study of the occult. Figured it was only needed if you went face-to-face with something in a demonic or otherworldly zone.
Apparently fucking not.
In your panic, you helped him up, leaning his body against yours as you began dragging him along. You had to get rid of whatever he was hit with from your spell before the effects got worse.
"C'mon, we're going to my place."
"At least....buy me a pint first putz."
Well, at least he found you.
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Waking up in a bathtub still clothed was not on John's bucket list for the week. Head still somewhat pounding, but the pain in his chest was gone.
The smell of incense burns his nose as he sits up in the shallow warm water, a thin layer of what looked to be salt sat on the bottom of the large tub beneath him.
What were you trying to mummify him as well?
He had been stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt at least as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings.
Clean yet cluttered with ingredients & trinkets.
Even the clothes that hadn't been submerged in water sat beside neatly folded dry ones for him.
Certain bottles of various oils and soaps littered the cabinets and shelves, all humming that same note of magical energy.
"Steweth...what's a witch like that gotta do for a place like this?" He mutters to himself.
The bathroom door opened, revealing you looking very frazzled as your hands seemed to be holding a plate of food. Trench coat discarded, leaving you in your long-sleeved crewneck and long flower-patterned skirt.
"Oh, you're awake," you sigh in relief, pulling up a stool to sit beside the tub as you hold out the plate of food to him.
Eggs in a basket, along with a good portion of grilled honey ham.
The real fucking meal for what felt like days.
"Here, it'll help with-"
Swiftly swiping the plate from you, he's already scarfing it down before you can finish.
"Mmm~ Food's fuckin' amazing," he mumbles between mouthfuls, licking his fingers without any manners.
Guess you were smart to put him in the tub and not on the couch.
Once he was done eating, he felt much better than before, less angry as well, now that his problem was fixed.
"Good to know, wanna mind telling me why you didn't fucking cleanse yourself after running into me that night?" You asked, trying not to sound too angry at such a basic need throughout spell work.
John shrugged as he cleared his plate, not even a crumb left on it once he was finished.
He somewhat respected you, but he was still willing to be a brat about it.
"Why should I have bothered? never encountered a witch before, you weren't anything special." He answered with a condescending smirk your way as he handed back the plate.
Apparently, saving his arse from his own stupidity hadn't earned you his manners.
If he had any manners to begin with.
"You're in deep need of a damn teacher if you're this daft." Is all you say before grabbing the plate and leaving to allow him to change.
It was impressive how they squeezed three insults in the time it took for you to leave, though, closing the door behind you to give him some privacy.
But you were being serious about the teaching part as you grabbed one of your early grimoires, not exactly something for a beginner, but definitely something past the basics.
Before stopping yourself at this odd rush of generosity, you didn't trust him, let alone with a grimoire of all things.
You didn't even know his name, doubt he'd give it for free.
Witches could be paranoid, but you'd never run into an occultist, and it's not like you both got off on the right foot.
"Don't think I caught your name yet doll face," John interrupts your thoughts as he leans against the doorframe, dressed in one of your t-shirts with his still dry pants and shaking the water from his hair as he takes in your living space.
Your flat was cramped but cozy in a way, shelves of books and bottles of components, sprinkles of salt and cinnamon laid on the windowsill, along with a bowl filled with water, herbs, and salt.
He'd never seen so much magic at play all within one room.
Not even in those tacky spiritual shops he'd pass on the street looking for books on the occult. But your place...It seemed to envelope the entire flat like a bubble.
"Yet by the looks of it, you're the real deal then, aren't you?"
You set down the grimoire on your desk before turning to him.
If you wanted to get anywhere with this, you had to answer some questions. And at least try to be as mannered as you were capable.
"(Y/N)...my name is (Y/N), been practicing for about three years now."
He gave an impressed whistle at that.
"Blimey, ain't you a right and proper witch." his smirk widened as he stepped closer, the air still thick with energy, but it wasn't stifling.
"Name's John, been in this game far longer than you for one." He bragged.
"Hm, it's a wonder you've survived this long." You retorted, crossing your arms unimpressed.
And then bickering started up again.
"Oi! Watch it, I've been in the craft since I was twelve, ya nitwit!"
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It was the start to some sort of odd relationship, or well, he kept showing up at your apartment randomly, having no respect for your organization, as he asked about anything and everything, and he flopped onto your couch like he owned the place.
"Fucking Les won't pay back my damn fags as if he didn't bloody nab 'em off me!" He complained as he flopped onto your much more comfortable couch, immediately rifling through the side table for a joint.
"Maybe I'll hide his Bass here, get a good rager out of him."
"First of all, you're not hiding anybody's bass here cause you wanna cause havoc, and two, quit rifling for my damn stash!"
Also, never gave you your clothes back and didn't seem adamant to do so.
"Call it leverage, can't have ya getting too cheeky to curse me now, can I?" He'd laughed when asked about it.
It was at least the first step to teaching him some of the more necessary topics of spellcasting he clearly neglected.
But he wasn't gonna do it easily.
Just like tonight.
"You need to fucking cleanse, quit the kerfuffle." You scold, trying to hold his chin while rubbing an egg against his forehead as he sat on your couch.
Having run into a nasty wraith you both found to be haunting under a bridge, and in typical John wanted to bind it to use for later.
What a stupid idea that was, as you'd at least swept in last minute to banish it.
"Come off it, I'm bloody fine! The fucks an egg gonna do for me anyways?"
He tries batting your hands off him, though you're both being equally stubborn.
"It'll help with deciding what kinda curse this thing put on you so we can send it back. Gotta crack it into a glass of water to read the yolk properly."
"Now ya just wastin' good eggs ya knobhead! I've survived worse." He barked, pushing your face away as you two fought like a couple of kids.
"Enough!" You demand. Your hands pinning down his wrists to the couch as you tried to de-escalate the situation you two found yourselves in, panting like a dog.
Glaring down at him with those captivating eyes, his stormy blue ones glaring back as the world seemed to melt away to just you, too.
Skin felt too hot, and the hum of magic grew stronger like electricity crackling.
A shiver rolled up your spine before you pulled your hands off him with a sigh and offered a solution to not cause any damage to your flat.
"If you're that adamant, we can try something else, quit wasting time...and eggs." You give in as you turn to grab a decanter from your kitchen counter.
In the end, you both finally agreed to purify through the old-fashioned method that John enjoyed, alcohol.
Since many believed it held the ability to cleanse and rid spirits.
Guess it was just another way John got as far as he did.
Moon rum, you'd called it. John figured he'd ask about it later as he took his fill.
He watched you from the table, giving each other a rest after the eventful night, as you went and made a small protection pouch to place under the couch where John slept.
"Just in case it tries to give you nightmares." You'd explained before heading off to sleep.
He was confused; even after all the fighting, you still wanted him to be safe.
That stupid feeling in his chest came back, only this time it didn't hurt.
"Cheers, luv." He called out to you before he saw your bedroom door close.
John was a stubborn dick who didn't pull punches, good thing you knew how to be one right back at him.
Always able to toss back exactly what he dished out and trying to get him in minuscule ways to teach him your kind of magic.
John honestly found it quite attractive the way you'd snapped back, towering over him with the magic of the room thickening like molasses with the bottles rattling with your anger.
But he didn't wanna delve into the thought of melting into your gaze with your hands on him. His face heated up remembering that blaze from the fire still caught in your pupils set a different kinda heat through him. He forced those thoughts away as he rolled over on your couch with a warm blanket and a full stomach.
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But he was learning some stuff from you, making sigils was a breeze, he'd definitely use to his advantage due to it being a basic tool of the occult.
Things like wards that needed to take up space weren't his favorite.
He didn't even have a place outside of his mate's flat, and they needed to be renewed every once in a while, which he hated.
You couldn't really blame him for that. It could be a pain when your wards get hit and need resetting.
"How the fuck many more flavors of spells are ya gonna hammer into my skull? What's this difference ya keep waffling on about anyway?"
John groaned as he kicked off his boots before setting his feet on your coffee table. Absolutely knackered after practice for a new gig coming up.
"The difference is, all witchcraft is considered occultism, but not all occultists practice can be considered witchcraft.
There are a lot of components at play, but it's mainly what you're shooting for that's the most important to define them. Most commonly considered old or ancient magic for the occult, newly developed methods of today are considered witchcraft."
You tried to explain while mixing the odd concoction of ingredients and needed components sat at your desk right beside the couch.
Some burnt rosemary, sea salt, and agrimony it looked like.
"In simple terms, at least."
"So I'm the original deal, and you're just choosing the easy new crap? Good to know I'm at least not cheatin in magic." Was all you got in return.
He couldn't fight the chortle at your scrunched brow and upturned expression.
"Easy? What do you need, a grocery list or something for what magic is easy?"
No magic method was 'easy', every kind took practice and study, some magic was sacred and inherited.
You let it go, seeing he was just trying to get under your skin, and you had better things to do as you sprinkled the mixture on the windowsill.
"Well, what's your favorite? C'mon, you've gotta have some preferred type of witchy shit ya dabble in being in it for three years." He prodded, trying to learn a bit more about you.
"I don't have a favorite," You shut down, striking a match to light a candle.
"Too many options."
"Boo! You're no fun. Everyone's got a favorite something. Gotta hand it to planetary, makes my spell hit all the harder if ya wondered, which I'm sure you do." He rolled his eyes, watching in mild fascination once the candle had been lit, your gaze fixed on the match between your fingers.
"And you said witchcraft was 'easy', must be fun just scheduling what day you gotta cast this spell to cause this effect, so on and so forth." You sassed as the flame fizzled out under your gaze.
"Well, if what I've seen is anything to go off of you certainly fancy the more fiery magic, don't you? More than enough matchboxes n lighters on you to make an arsonist of ya."
He smirked, resting his chin in his palm.
He wasn't getting anywhere with his usual insults today.
You seemed especially crabby as you had to reset the protection on your flat, having to clean and salt the windows along with cleansing and locking every reflective surface to avoid peeping toms.
Or John trying to scry on you.
...If he even knew how to do that.
Guess he'd switch up his question as he placed a joint between his lips, grabbing one of your lighters from between the couch cushions to spark it.
"How bout what magic you have tried then, hmm? Will ya answer that?"
"Uhh, just a good few, fun part of being a witch is you get to be quite eclectic with what to study and practice. No need to just focus on one form. Curses, protection, abundance, money bowls, cord cuttings, glamour magic,"
You began to list, trying to think of the wide variety of witchcraft had to offer.
John was impressed, but he wasn't really getting what he wanted from you.
"A bit of kitchen magic, divination, sex magick from time to time &-"
John wasn't expecting that, sitting up suddenly, nearly choking on the smoke.
"Wa- wait, you can put magic into shagging?" He asked expectingly, the thought of you, of all people, participating in that kind of magic...or what it would even look like.
He guessed it didn't seem too far out of a concept, but still...
"Yeah, it's kinda a mix of manifestation or glamour magic. You don't need a partner to do it with either. Why do you ask?"
You blinked in confusion. It wasn't taboo magic by any means and was widely known by other spellcasters.
But the damage had already been done, and his interest was piqued.
He couldn't stop that slimy smirk of his from forming, or the words that came from him.
"Can we learn about that next?" He asked half jokingly with a raise of his pierced eyebrow.
The sudden intensity in the air was the only answer he got.
All he saw before he got a pillow thrown at his face was your flustered glare at what he insinuated.
So much for trying to flirt with you.
"No, I'm not teaching you that, you perv! Go read a book about it!"
He could only laugh in return.
"Still luv, what's the harm in it? No doubt our magics together could give us quite the reaction."
God help you, why did he have to be such a prick?
"You don't need sex to do that; connection and magick can be a delicate process to succeed."
"Good thing I'm anything but delicate, huh?"
"It's a good thing neither of us are delicate, John."
He ignored his shiver at the way you said his name with a bitter note. You could call him any name in the book, and he'd probably let you if you said it like that.
"Connection in magic can be just as fragile as intimacy and trust, one wrong step or doubt, and it's like throwing a set of fine china down a stairwell."
He'd keep that in mind for later as he reached down to pick up the joint to not burn the carpet.
"Speaking from experience?"
"Wouldn't you like to know, nosy brat." You couldn't help but smirk seeing him try and fail to get some answers out of you.
'Worth a shot, I guess?' he thought as he continued watching you work.
You didn't even know why you kept him around; it wasn't responsibility.
You'd already cleaned up the effects of the spell. There was nothing else between you two other than the fact that you got on each other's nerves and were kindred spirits of the craft.
Guess it was more of a question of why he kept coming back.
Or why you kept letting him in. No, you already knew that answer.
Didn't mean you had to like it.
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The constant butting heads and bickering had slowly mellowed out to simple teasing and pokes at the other.
And it finally seemed you two were growing into a friendship you could call it.
John was especially hyped when he offered you to come to one of his shows, and for some reason, you said yes.
You needed to get out more often, or that was more what John said as he tossed you one of his jackets so you could at least try to fit in.
He gave you the address of the show and how much the entrance fee would cost you before leaving in a hurry, fighting the urge to fucking skip down the street.
He wanted to peacock his magic to you, in his own chaotic fashion of punk rock and angry screaming teenagers all being at each other's throats.
No other reason...definitely no other reason.
Other than the fact Mucous Membrane would be one of the bands playing that night.
It wasn't til the band started setting up that John began doubting his decision.
Something he rarely ever experienced.
He didn't doubt himself when he cast his first spell all those years ago, locking his innocence away in a box.
He didn't doubt his decision to leave his father's house and run away to London.
'Why the fuck would I start doubting bloody now?!'
He didn't want to admit that he wanted you to like him the same way he was beginning to like you.
He was amazed by you, he just wanted to amaze you the same.
Those nights spent on your couch as you prattled on about magical stuff while he fell asleep against your shoulder, waking up with a protection sigil drawn on his hand.
Showing him all the good resource stores to avoid getting ripped off.
You two had become a part of each other's lives, and John just wanted it to go further.
And those damn eyes of yours! He swore he could fucking drown in them if he looked too long.
That was far too hopeful a thought for his liking.
'Feelings are stupid. Stupid and useless, never did me any good.'
He kept repeating in his head, thinking of Katie back in Liverpool, how that relationship got left at a dead end thanks to that bloody teacher.
He tried not to set down the equipment too harshly, doubt beginning to set in at the idea you wouldn't like the show.
For fucks sake he'd invited you to a punk show of all things?!
As a means to impress you, of course.
But you liked Fleetwood Mac mainly cause of Stevie Nicks, and The Police, sure rock and punk fit together like a glove, didn't mean you couldn't not like the other.
What did a crush on you do for him anyway?
Let alone a witch like you.
Could probably just wave your arms, write your dream man or woman on a petition, cast your spell, and probably find yourself a perfect partner within the next month.
If that ever happened, he wouldn't hesitate to scare them off.
With magic or his fists.
"John, you alright? Your handling that mic like it owes you a tenner." Chas's voice snapped him out of his frustrated thoughts.
"S'nothin mate, just need a fag before this shit show starts." He shook his head, trudging off stage to light one up.
He shouldn't be surprised that Chas followed him.
As if he could hide anything from him.
"Nah, nah, you're not getting out of this one easy, mate you're bursting at the seams and not in your usual sense before a gig. What's got you so wound up?"
John groaned as he ran his hand through his messy hair, still a slight magenta tint from when he'd dyed the ends a dark red.
"Someone's coming to the show tonight, they own the place I've been runnin' off to for the past month. Helpin me sharpen my skills in the occult and magic, you could say."
It didn't take a genius to figure out John's distress.
Chas was honestly appalled at the realization, much to John's dismay.
"Bloody hell, you fancy them don't you?"
John only groaned in response. If Chas could see it, no doubt his mates would be at him like a pack of dogs fishing for details on you.
"If I say yes, will you fuck off and not tell a soul?"
Chas chuckled as he could clearly see how tense John was.
"Oh, you're not getting off that easy, you wouldn't make it easy for me if you knew I fancied someone."
John cursed at the fact Chas had him pinned.
In the end, Chas walked away with a bit of cash, and John was one step closer to lung cancer as he burned through the pack, lighting each one with your lighter.
Seeing it didn't help his thoughts.
Thinking of you still walking through his mind like you damn owned it.
Wanting that feeling of your hands on him, pinning him down.
'God fucking damn it!'
He growled, kicking the nearest trash can in the alley with a huff.
He was fucking twenty-two, not some hormonally frustrated teenager having his first boner.
He just wanted to dissolve under your gaze and melt under your touch.
He groaned, leaning against the wall as he looked up at the sky, seeing the sun begin its slow descent into the afternoon.
Tonight would go fine, but that would be hard to expect from a punk show of all places?
‘The hell did a ‘fine’ punk show even look like?’ John thought as he lit the next cigarette with a deep sigh.
Figured he could give it back to you after the show...
If you even stuck around after the show.
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The bands were just starting when you arrived. You didn't have any high expectations for the set, so you weren't surprised to find it in someone's garage. People of all varieties are getting shit faced and picking fights before the chaos could even begin.
It didn't take a magic user to tell the air was tense and waiting for an outlet to cause beautiful chaos as the first band was just starting to play.
Harsh bang of the drums shaking the floor, followed by the intense bass.
It was like willingly walking into a cave in the middle of an earthquake.
You came as prepared as someone could be for their first punk show.
Well hydrated, earplugs, ate dinner an hour before, extra cash for the bands, the usual.
John's jacket sat snuggly on your frame as you looked around for the scrawny punk.
You weren't surprised to not see him, but before you could think of your plan to find him, you stepped back to the wall as the mosh pit began to form and the music came a meter away from deafening.
People screaming along to the music as they rammed and danced wildly, it was fascinating as well as overwhelming, as you couldn't be more thankful for planning.
You weren't scared, you'd fought off a nest of imps with more bite than these teenagers, but it was overwhelming in all aspects, so you focused on the bass of the music as you watched from a distance.
The rest of it was a blur.
You drank a bit too loosen up, but the beer tasted like shit, and the muggy atmosphere was getting harder to stand in such a claustrophobic space.
Though the flooding colors and people were entertaining, the music shook the entire venue as you noted some of the songs you did enjoy.
Your eyes were still looking around for John, but through all the leather, spikes, bare skin, and band shirts, you weren't brave enough to step away from the wall to go find him.
The creeping thought that this was some way for him to get back at you for all the teasing, but you knew John enough to know he wouldn't invite you to something he held an honest interest in just to humiliate you.
But being alone, in a corner, in a scene you didn't fit into, surrounded by people you didn't know...
Til the music started up again.
You didn't even catch the name of the band, but that feeling as it began to drip down the concrete walls,
over the crowd, and fill the room, bleeding into anything it touches like water.
It began to pulse to the beat of the drum and bass, and your eyes widened with shock and realization.
This was a ritual.
One you gave John a while ago when he kept bugging you about magic to get more money at gigs.
And you'd thrown together something strong for him, mainly to get him off your back while you worked.
But the ritual was made from a strong force known for its hypnotic effects.
Siren magick was a strange thing to harness,
Drawn from the depths of allure and entrancement, it wasn't easy to pull off.
Yet it fit him gorgeously.
You didn't need to ask whose magic this was, the sheer presence of it could have swept you off your feet if you hadn't designed it yourself.
Your eyes looked up from the crowd, watching the sea of people swirl and crash, John at the front of it all, practically screamed his frustration and anger into the poor mic as the band played like their lives depended on it.
You'd never felt his presence like this.
His magic was hungry.
Urgent, desperate.
Sweeping across everything and everyone in its path without mercy to draw their attention to him.
You were standing in the middle of the beach, about to be sucked under by the tide.
Yet you couldn't find it in yourself to be worried about the intensity.
You were proud.
He used your teachings in his own way, took the ritual you'd made just for him, and had the privilege of seeing it all.
And seeing all of him.
A starving envy too proud to die out, instead willing to take whatever it could to elongate its power and survive no matter what.
Sweat-covered skin, that old t-shirt you gave him, now cropped short and patterned to his punk fashion.
Teeth bared as he screamed to his heart's content, voice shrill as he raged through the lyrics like the lines themselves were the cause of such rage.
And those angry blue eyes only seemed to look brighter with the dark makeup painted on around them.
The eye of a storm. That's what he was.
And that's what he'd always be.
And then they met yours.
Intense and accusing, they didn't even blink, as if this state of his was your doing.
As he waited for you to join.
Join whatever this was between you both in the middle of the ritual, abandon formality, and be creatures of need and desire without boundary.
Hop the fence and meet him halfway, angry and alive.
You'd written the incantation, you knew this process as well as you knew him. The steps needed to come to fruition.
It wasn't the music that had you stepping forward, or the Siren magick being cast.
The connection was far stronger than that, it pushed you both together, waiting for acknowledgment and reaction.
Just like all the times before.
And he wanted you to join.
The swirling tide threw you for a loop, but you couldn't fight the smile you found yourself holding as you swung and yelled along to the incantation.
You'd observed the people in the pit long enough to know how to operate in such a dance.
Magic crackling through the waves of sound as you joined the ritual you'd written for him.
Both your powers mixed with some otherworldly force of nature, the connection you'd proclaimed to be 'delicate' wasn't needed.
Neither of you two wished to be delicate.
Feeding its power with all the magic you held as you found rhythm in the dancing you'd perform in these kinds of rituals.
He only caught glimpses of you through the pit, but what he did catch was the barking laughter and tales of the incantation, your smile so bright he nearly forgot what he was doing.
Watching you dive straight into chaos as he'd desired you to, as the magic reached its full potential.
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Your legs felt like jelly as you nearly collapsed against the wall of the garage outside. Tugging out your earplugs. Your face was numb from where you'd been hit in the nose, dried blood flaking off your chin as you took a much-needed drink of water to wash it out.
The set was done, and the afterglow was setting in as you went outside to catch some fresh air.
Your heart is still pounding, your ears somewhat ringing, every muscle in your body awake and screaming.
You felt drained, but the good kind of drained.
That satisfaction after putting all the effort you could into something, knowing that the seeds now sown would prosper well for tonight.
Especially after a ritual like that.
That took a lot out of you both spiritually and physically, your hands somewhat shaking as you lit up a cigarette.
You'd definitely have bruises tomorrow, but you could worry about that later, as you heard the small garage door open.
You didn't need to look up to know who it was.
But you were still riding the high of everything and simply handed John the fag when you felt him sit beside you on the pavement of the driveway.
The sound of his heavy breaths was an odd comfort, knowing this was a lot for him, too.
Both just sat still after something so intense, it was hard to stay tethered to consciousness as your breath finally evened out.
As much as you'd love to see the mess he was too, sitting down wasn't the best option, as already your body decided to make the rest of your muscles jello.
Going limp as a ragdoll as you leaned against him.
Focusing on how his heart still raced like it was trying to escape his chest.
You smiled, he enjoyed this just as much as you did.
Leaning your head back against the wall, you let your head tilt to the side, finally getting a good look at him now in the dim light near the porch.
God, he looked handsome in that rugged, trashy, messy way.
The pink of his cheeks suited his sweaty dyed hair still stuck to his face.
Laughter shook your chest.
"Heh...using my own written ritual as a means to get me to participate in the punk scene huh? You are far more clever than I-"
His rough palm found the side of your face before you could finish,
half-lidded eyes flickering from your lips to meet your gaze pleadingly.
All the power simmered down to raw desires, he'd been wanting this for far too long.
His dilated pupils make his blue iris become a single band of blue around black holes.
His breath was still harsh, yet his eyes had softened with what magic he'd used.
But it was more than that.
He was still hungry, but success for the ritual had already been found and conquered.
He'd never felt a connection like that before, not even between the cheap flings and thrills he sought out.
This was deeper than that.
You two were intertwined, the rawest powers of you both mixed for what felt like hours was only twelve minutes.
But he wanted it to be hours.
"Please..." He rasped like an incantation, the word heavy on his straining voice, eyes looking for reciprocation.
The pad of his thumb wipes away the blood from your lips.
Asking permission for more, as it slid down to hold your chin, as his arms began to snake around your waist lazily.
He already got the answer when you leaned forward to seal your lips to his.
That burst of pent-up feelings, buzzing energy, and exhaustion felt like heaven to you both, clumsily kissing outside the show in the middle of someone's driveway.
Hands messily reaching for the other as you two had to use the wall and each other to not topple over onto the ground.
The cold air of the night did little to calm the fire you two had set.
"Mm' fuckin need you..." he gasped between messy kisses as he tugged you onto his lap.
"Fuckin need you so bad...(Y/N)."
You gripped the front of the shirt you gave him, noses smashed against the other.
"Shut up....you can fucking have me, John."
He didn't need to be told twice as he wove his fingers with yours to pin him against the wall. Losing the ability to tell where you ended and he began, caught in the tide of your combined magic seeping into each other.
It was honestly for the best Chas & Gary walked in on you two.
John was about a second away from finishing in his damn pants, and you were a second away from ripping that stupid shirt off him.
Both freezing up like raccoons suddenly found rifling through the trash.
"Take it, this is your friend you were talking bout?" Chas asked with a slightly sympathetic smile, seeing that John at least got over his nerves and made a move on you.
"Eeww never mind that! You two were just gonna shag in the middle of a fucking driveway, mate?!" Gary yelled, somewhat impressed and disgusted at the situation.
"Piss off Gary! S'if you had the guts to do it!" John yelled, flipping him off, his other hand still pinned to the wall by you.
"As if! You're not bringing that back onto my couch John! Get a real room, ya poser!"
Chas just sighed, but gave you and John a hesitant thumbs up at the more than awkward situation.
"Happy for ya, John, and nice to meet ya...but Gary's right."
You didn't even hesitate to shrug, offering that he'd just come crash on your bed instead.
"Ugh poser! Only posers fall in love John!" Gary gagged in disgust.
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It had been weeks now since that gig.
Since Mucous Membrane had gotten a generous tip thanks to the ritual.
And since you and John became inseparable, it would be a surprise to see John not smiling when coming back from your place.
Days spent doing magic together or just lying on your chest and feeling the flow of your magic connect each other in ways he still struggled to understand. But he let himself he as needy as he wanted, and you loved holding him in your arms, running your hand through his dirty hair.
Nights spent running down to the park to cast spells, both tipsy and wild with love.
And seeing you absolutely tear into his mates with your sharp tongue and wit with a winning smirk made him fall all the harder.
It was hard to deny that you and that night's ritual weren't an inspiration for their latest song 'Venus in the Hardsell.'
They planned a music video with the cash earned.
Muttering intentions as you did his makeup for the newest gig or writing your own brand of protection sigils across his back when holding one another.
Oh, John had it bad for you.
Being on the same wavelength as you was addictive, and he had no reason to quit.
He told you things he'd never told anyone, sat under the stars in that same park as you both looked down at the silver platter of candles and ingredients.
Just like when you met, he adored seeing the orange fire highlight your face against the darkness.
Though you hadn't really explained what the spell was for. Your eyes were full of sadness when he discussed his first spell.
Locking away his innocence and vulnerability, so nothing could hurt him.
"And just like that...crammed it in a box and hid it away forever. Never to see the light of day." He sighed, opting to look into the flames with a solemn look.
He'd pieced together that this connection you shared was mostly because of the magic and the fact that you could still make him feel vulnerable. It both terrified and excited him.
That he'd cheated his own spell just through loving you. It truly was wicked witchcraft as he looked up across at you.
"Do you think you'll ever release that spell?" You asked curiously.
He shook his head; you could see the fear in his eyes of what would come flooding out of that small box.
Probably lost in a landfill or still rotting away in that yard he'd buried it in back in Liverpool.
It'd be his personal Pandora's box.
He didn't hesitate when you reached a hand out to him. The heat from the candles lapped at your outstretched palm, yet not close enough to burn.
"It'll be alright, you were keeping yourself safe..." You assure, his hand slipping into yours like a lock and key.
"I know...just dosn' feel right right knowin'... knowin' I could've just been safe if I'd met you sooner."
Mirth twinkled in your eyes, soft and loving, your thumb tracing circles into his hand.
"It's funny the way the world works, doesn't it? Specially for us folk, but you still found me, didn't you?"
He sniffled and wiped away the tears he didn't even know he shed.
Nodding softly.
"Yeah...yeah, I still got ya luv."
"And you'll always have me, for forever and more motherfucker." You smirked as he blinked in realization.
"You didn't..."
"I think I just did John."
His entire face burst into a harsh shade of pink as it wasn't the fire making his face warm.
"You cheeky little tart, did you just-"
"Nothing serious, just figured I'd make it official. Can't have my boyfriend going around others, taking the hint." You wink.
And it was even more official than before, both in dating terms and magical. You two belonged with each other.
And had no plans to separate.
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At least til the latest show at Casanova, you could see some troubling John, could practically feel it too.
He told you about it, the so-called 'chapel' Alex Logue had tried to get him and his band to do 'magic' at.
It had sick written all over it in black paint.
You were glad he made it out unscathed, but telling you about Astra already made you cautious of the situation at hand, fearing for that poor girl, but you could already tell something nefarious was at play here.
Especially with a sex obsessed, corrupt magician in the mix, all that magic...sick and twisting in and out of itself. And involving a poor girl nonetheless made your jaw clench in rage.
It wasn't right.
Of course, John wanted to save Astra, having already gathered together a group of acquaintances to make the ride up to Newcastle, but throughout this plan, you didn't once hear him mention where you'd come in.
John knew you didn't do well with certain types of cases, demons of the upperclass weren't to be fucked with without heavy preparation, and neither was working with other spellcasters.
Too many things to go wrong at once.
Too many people to try and keep safe.
This plan was rushed, but heavily needed.
You weren't sure whether to be relieved or scared out of your mind for him.
But you knew better than to talk him out of it, hell, you would've done the same for some poor child caught up in her father's disgusting business.
It was odd how intuition and magic could affect your body so harshly; your stomach felt too heavy, and it was hard to ignore it. It was trying to anchor you down so you couldn't leave.
"I want to go with you." you lied, looking down at your tarot deck. You didn't need to pull cards to know the disaster you'd find in them.
John packed some of your magic supplies you'd lend him, petition paper you'd made yourself, a couple of candles and holders, and John's own grimoire he'd been making.
Even if you couldn't go, you were going to help in any way, shape or form.
"No ya don't, ya little liar," John shot down as he stopped packing up the equipment to look at you on the couch.
"You don't wanna walk within a five-mile radius of the place."
"Doesn't mean I can't do it. Doesn't mean I gotta sit here and let you go alone."
"Luv, I won't be alone, I've got-"
"You know I don't mean alone like that."
"Alright," John huffs as he sets the bag down, making his way over to you, clambering into your lap with both of his legs on either side of you. Leaning down so he was directly face-to-face with you.
"Listen here, you," he begins, hands softly on your neck, his thumb tracing your jaw.
"Do ya doubt me? Is that what ya goin on about?"
You sigh, taking a deep breath, the smell of cinnamon and cigarettes on him winding you down.
"No John, not that...just intuition, I don't even wanna touch my divination tools...I can already feel something wicked coming." You sigh shakily, hands slotting over his as you lean into his touch.
You were scared, John just didn't understand why.
"Aye, aye, don't start crying like I'm already gone. It'll be fine (Y/N), and if anything happens, I've learned more than enough from you to weasel my way out, ya here?" He presses a gentle kiss against your lips.
"And I've got tricks of my own, we will get Astra outta there, then burn the place down. I'll be back to you in no time."
You looked up at him with such worry, but you knew him. You'd taught him what you knew and had hammered enough knowledge in him to keep any spirit from reaching him.
You didn't doubt him. You just worried about how cruel the world would be to him.
You wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug.
"Alright...I want you cleansed and protected before you step out my door tomorrow, John Constantine, I'm not letting you go til then."
He smiled triumphantly.
"Alright, you win."
You wished him luck all the same, even if you were scared, you picked your ingredients with great care as you sealed your protection magic over him with a kiss. But of course, he wanted more than just a goodbye kiss, sliding his hands up your waist as you both laughed.
That night, you held him as close as physically possible, your hands against his bare skin with his head tucked under your chin.
The humming of your magic intertwining to a warm layer across you both like a cocoon.
And in the early hours of the morning, you awoke to his squeezing you tight, kissing your shoulder before getting out of bed to leave.
No words were exchanged as the door closed and locked behind you.
He never came back to you.
But he was honestly happy you didn't come with him.
Summary: In which, after the battle of the Gods Eye, Daemon’s body IS found. Unfortunately, he is very much alive and your problem now.
A/N: I went out and got a new keyboard. I was posting today even if it killed me. @just-some-random-blogger if you want to read?
Warnings: Mature language, canon level of violence, pigtail pulling. Enemies to lovers? Ehh, close enough! Welcome back, Jaime and Brienne.
YOU WONDERED WHAT you had done to offend Cregan Stark so. Perhaps he had become infected with his wife’s matchmaking spirit. Perhaps you had not bowed low enough when his army had passed your father’s lands.
When the events that would later be called The Hour of the Wolf transpired, your family had rejoiced. With your liege in power, you would finally, finally benefit from backing Queen Rhaenyra after what felt like years of enduring losses. Instead, you reflected, this was another punishment.
As if the taxes were not enough.
You watched in dismay as the Stark men lowered trunks and coffers. There were far too many for your tastes. Enough to know they were expecting him to stay here. Forever.
Cregan himself approached, dragging a thin, blonde man with him. He looked battered, but he was dressed in even finer clothes than you were. The dragging seemed a bit unnecessary, as the man was not opposing any resistance.
“Lady Dustin,” Lord Cregan grabbed your hand and kissed it, as if you were some great lady. He stank of guilt. “My condolences for the death of your father.” A bit late, his condolences. A year late, in fact. Your father had died fighting those damn Hightowers back in Tumbletown. Your grief was now a dull, small thing, shrunk by time and too many moons spent worrying about what you would do if the greens decided your lands, with no man to defend them, were now a suitable target.
“Lord Stark.” You curtsy to him because no matter how much he bows down to kiss you, he is still your lord. Guilty or not. You do not reply to his condolences, though. You still have some pride left.
Cregan fumbles for a few instants, not quite sure how to lead on from there. You agree that going from condolences to a marriage isn’t exactly the smoothest transition.
“I... Yes, I am deeply sorry. However, we must move on.” Cregan attempts to get back on topic.
“Yes, you know a thing or two about that.” You mumble under your breath, prompting a snort from the man next to him. The sound startles you into looking at him, and you have to face the unfortunate reality that he is very much real and not going away. So far, you had been doing great at pretending he didn’t exist.
The man stares at you, dark purple eyes fixed into yours. He is as tall as Cregan is, though much less broad. His war had cost him quite a lot, it seemed. But not enough to stop him from being handsome.
You stare back, unwilling to cower before him. He cannot hurt you, you remind yourself. He no longer has a dragon, he is old, and he has no grievances with you.
“Be as it may,” Cregan says, in a far more stern tone. “This will be good for the two of you. Moving on is what the Seven Kingdoms need. Your marriage will give Prince Daemon a dignified…” He struggles with the wording. You do too, inside your head. Imprisonment? Dungeon? Hiding hole?
“You can call it by its name, you know?” Prince Daemon turns to Cregan. “I will not be offended, boy. Exile. I have been in it enough times to not shy away from it. And here I thought northerners were made of sterner stuff…”
“And what will it give me?” You say, sharply, not wanting them to be derailed and being unable to let your protests be known. “A more likely chance of being murdered in my sleep?”
“As I said in my letter, Lady Dustin, there will be a monthly stipend for his upkeep, and you will get back the lands in…”
“Oh, come on!” Prince Daemon laughs. “I never murdered anyone in their sleep. Did I?” He turns to look at Cregan. You pinch the bridge of your nose.
You know for a fact that he ordered to have a child murdered in the middle of the night. Does it count?
Cregan keeps talking to you, as if Daemon had not interrupted.
“Again, you have made your grievances perfectly clear. Still, it is my will that you marry. You have been widowed for far too long, and you hold lands in a strategic position…”
“And you think I cannot defend them without a man?” You scoff. “How am I supposed to defend myself when he tries to murder me, then? Or when he flees? Am I supposed to stop it?”
“Oh, great, you are one of those types.” Daemon mutters. “Don’t tell me you wear breeches, too?”
“Whatever I wear is none of your business!" You round on him, incensed. You do not, in fact, wear breeches, but are now considering getting a pair if only to spite him.
“Oh, but it is! How else will I undress you later tonight?” He taunts, making your face heat up. You think the veins in your forehead must be throbbing, with how enraged he is making you.
It is then, perhaps sensing your heightened murderous intent, that Cregan intervenes. He grabs Daemon by the collar of his cloak and hisses in his ear. Unfortunately, the northern lord has a rather loud voice, and you hear it anyway. “Do try not to antagonize her. If this doesn’t work, it is the Night’s Watch for you.”
“I think it would be a terrible omen to have the father of the king at your wall, wouldn’t it?” Daemon answers through clenched teeth. It is clear that it bothers him more than he is comfortable showing. Or perhaps he objects to the rough treatment, unused to being disrespected.
They always say that the higher you are, the more it hurts to fall. And no one has ever been higher than Daemon Targaryen, Prince Consort of Queen Rhaenyra and father to the boy king Aegon.
And now, because of him, your watch begins.
THE SUN SETS early this time of the year. The snow, shining like crushed diamonds, crunches under your feet. It is more ice than anything else, yet it looks beautiful as the sun sets and night begins.
Your Godswood looks beautiful. You had asked the servants to place a few torches alongside the path to the heart tree, and the guests carry some as well. The clear sky, alight with a thousand stars, makes it the ideal night for a wedding.
It feels anything but ideal, to be getting married tonight to a man you despise. You had never been one to put stock in rumors alone, but Daemon had already shown you his colors. No man who truly loved his wife would be as apathetic to her passing as he was showing himself to be. Suddenly, the fact that he betrayed the Black Queen made a lot more sense to you.
Before the heart tree, Cregan stands next to Daemon. Never one to be ruffled, your future husband stands, indolently leaning against your sacred tree. In contrast, the lord of Winterfell looks as stern as always, and his voice is loud and clear when you approach.
“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”
“I do.” You say, trying to sound firm. You had no one left to give you away, except for your liege. Since Cregan was needed to officiate the ceremony, the two of you had to improvise. “I come here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. I come to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim me?” You feel the wording is awkward, but clearly not as much as Prince Daemon does. Neither of you are strangers to weddings, but it isn’t your first time marrying under the Old Gods.
He steps forward.
“Daemon, of House Targaryen. Prince of the Realm and father of the King. Who gives her?”
“Myself.” You state, meeting his eyes in open defiance. His lips twitch, as if amused.
“Lady Dustin, will you take this man?” Cregan asks you.
You hesitate for a few seconds, only to make Cregan sweat. Your decision had been made before even setting foot on the Godswood. Traitor or not, you would marry him because your liege ordered it so. But your loyalty to the Starks didn’t mean you couldn’t make them suffer a little for asking such a sacrifice of you. “I take this man.”
Daemon kneels in the snow, and so do you. He offers you his hand. It is the first time you will ever touch him, your mind tells you. You don't understand why you fixate on that detail, but you do.
His hand is warm and big around yours, with a few calluses. He is sweaty, despite the cold. Nervous, though his face doesn’t show it. You close your eyes, silently praying for a good, calm life. When you open your eyes again, he is already looking at you.
He tugs you to your feet. He removes your cloak and hands it to Cregan before taking his off and putting it around your shoulders.
You thank the Old Gods no one has dared to put a kiss in the script all weddings seem to follow. You reach for his hand, to hopefully walk hand in hand to your hall, but only find empty air. Much to your surprise, Daemon is bending his knees and getting ready to…
You yelp when you are suddenly lifted in a bridal carry.
“What are you doing?” You hiss.
“I hear this is the traditional way to ensure good fortune in marriage.” He replies, loudly, to the cheers of the guests and even Cregan.
“You are insane. I am not a maiden anymore, and you are getting on in years too, cease this ridicule.”
“What, you think I’ll strain my back? I have lifted barrels of ale heavier than you.”
“Yes, when you were twenty years old, perhaps!” But you cannot continue to spout your disbelief because you are already reaching the hall. Showoff that he is, he sets you down only after reaching the dais.
The feast prepared for the occasion is lovely. Plates filled with delectable dishes and cups overflowing all over the hall. It is as extravagant a wedding as they had been before the war started, much to the joy of your guests. Nothing else would do, after all, for the father of the king.
Widow that you are, you do not dread the bedding. As the lady of House Dustin, you do not hold to those dreadful southron customs, and your guests know it. No one will call for it, and consummation itself doesn't scare you.
When the last dishes are being cleared away, Cregan clears his throat, giving a pointed look to your husband. Daemon stands up and takes your hand.
Instead of addressing or saying anything to you, he turns directly to Cregan.
“I am sure my bride and I will be the happiest couple in the Seven Kingdoms.” Then, as if an afterthought, he seems to remember your existence. “You could change your words. The most happy.”
You smile at him, barely containing your urge to insult him. Instead, you breathe in and try not to embarrass yourself.
“Perhaps you shall change yours, husband.” Your smile is as tight as it gets. “To the most blessed. Our wedding was beautiful.”
Daemon scoffs. He begins dragging you out of the hall, still holding you by the hand. Since he has no idea where your rooms are, he has to stop once in the hallways of your castle. Too proud to ask for your help, he simply glares at you until you begin leading him to your room.
Once inside, he looks around, eyes lingering on the soft furs covering your bed, the desk full of books and papers, and even the small loveseat by the window. His gaze feels malicious. Judgmental.
“I assume I will have my own quarters.” Daemon states, clearly finding yours lacking. It's fine by you. You would rather not sleep with the enemy, and you do not wish to have him lurking in your private space. No matter what Cregan says, you have too much common sense to believe he might not slit your throat as you sleep.
“There is a set of rooms on the northern tower that has been arranged for you.” You inhabit the southern one. You have placed him as far as you can.
Daemon steps closer to you, smiling. It unnerves you. He hasn’t smiled at you before, only smirked. But he only leans in and tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.
“You remind me of someone.” His voice is low. Intimate. His tone sounds seductive, and despite yourself, you can feel your resolve to hate him weaken. It makes you think of how charming he must have been, once, before all the realm knew of his treachery.
“Whom?”
“One of my wives. She was… Fierce. She rode as well as any man.” His eyes unfocus for a moment, as if he were truly remembering her. You wonder who he is talking about. Lady Laena, perhaps? You cannot help being curious.
“What happened to her?”
Daemon leans in, embracing you. His arms circle your waist and pull you in. His body feels firm against your own, despite his gauntness. Only when his lips kiss your hair, right above your ear, he whispers.
“I killed her.”
Your blood goes cold. Your stomach feels heavy, and you cannot move. It feels as if you have been turned into stone. The feeling only intensifies as Daemon releases you and leaves the room, leaving you unable to even ask where he is going. Instead, you stand alone on your wedding night, with the feeling your watch has just begun.
CONTRARY TO POPULAR belief, Daemon does have some sense of self-preservation. He wouldn’t even attempt to go outside the castle walls with that damn Stark still prowling around, sticking his snout where it didn’t belong. While he would like to go whoring, burying his pain into warm bodies, he couldn’t. Instead, he makes his way to his new rooms.
He had plenty of nights to explore the nightlife of the town after he left. He had only promised to stay put in your lands, not to not go outside the castle. The town was under your supervision, after all, so visiting would not betray his word.
Gods, he wished he could be with Aegon now. Only the Old Flames of Valyria knew what nonsense they were filling his head with. That Daemon was craven and a traitor, and had forsaken his mother when it mattered the most.
Lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling, Daemon could feel his eyes sting. To think that Rhaenyra was gone… It was not right. His girl had always been so bright, so full of life, burning hotter than dragonfire. To think the usurper had killed her in such a gnarly way broke his heart. But to know he had been too old, too injured after facing Aemond to be able to do anything that helped her, hurt him the most.
Here is a truth for you: Daemon had never betrayed his queen. He would have never done so. Nettles had been there, yes, and it was only natural that things had transpired as they did. By then, his relationship with Rhaenyra had been strained, between the war and the miscarriage, and they had no longer been sharing a bed. It meant nothing.
Clenching his eyes tightly, Daemon willed himself to sleep. He would not cry. He refused to give his enemies the satisfaction. His age and the injuries he had sustained had emasculated him enough. No longer was he the proud warrior he had once been, having lost even his very sword. He would not continue degrading himself further.
The night seemed an eternity. He tossed and turned, unused to the unfamiliar stillness of your castle. When the sun rose, Daemon felt almost relieved. He got out of bed, dressed, and made his way to the training grounds. The space seemed in disuse, as was to be expected when a woman was leading the castle. Daemon would soon change that.
Between angry parries of his sword against a target, and drilling himself into exhaustion, his grief bled out. Just like an infected wound, it needed to bleed constantly, lest he become mad with it.
Daemon had a feeling it wasn’t quite working. He had always been mercurial, but now, he had moments where he didn’t recognize himself. It frightened him. Because if there was one thing Daemon had been known for, it was being sure of who he was, and proud of it.
Suddenly morose, he threw his sword down and walked back inside, leaving some unfortunate page to pick it up. Without even washing himself, he went straight to the hall. There, he found you, scowling at your pudding. You didn’t bother to greet him.
A shame you were such a beautiful woman. It would be easier to ignore you if you had looked like Rhea. Instead, you reminded him of another woman who had ruled her lands, and dared to stand tall, another who was as proud as she had been beautiful. It was fucking awful.
“Do you always scowl while you eat? Or is the food here just bitter by vocation?” He asks, sitting next to you. He serves himself some eggs, making sure to plaster his body to yours, so you can feel exactly how sweaty he is. In his head, he can already hear your screeches when you realize, a soothing, grounding melody to start his day. There was a certain pleasure in scandalizing ladies.
This morning, though, you do not take his bait. It makes him frown. Thinking it a fluke, he decides to try again.
“I must say, marriage does become you. That look in your face, as if it physically hurts you to breathe the same air as me…. Almost romantic, really.” He serves himself even more eggs, wolfing them down as he speaks and showing the worst table manners known to man. Still, no reaction, beyond scooting yourself away from him. “Did the glare come with the dowry, or is it an extra that Stark asked you to throw in just for me?”
When you still do not respond, Daemon feels his eyebrows raise. Yesterday, you had not struck him as someone who would take all these insults and crassness lying down. It seems strangely out of character, how quiet you are behaving.
Set on making a pest out of himself, he keeps talking.
“You will forgive me, of course.” It is said as if it is a given. He reaches for the teapot, and you flinch. Interesting. Are you afraid of him? “I have not eaten with a lady in such a long time.” And just to test his theory, he slams the teapot back down after he serves himself, making you jump nearly a foot in the air.
You fear him, Daemon thinks, an amused smile stretching his lips. How funny, that a quick-witted little thing like you had been so frightened by his words alone that you became meek. Yet the road you chose is not to please him in all things, but to ignore him.
If there is something that Daemon cannot stand, it is to be ignored. It hurts his pride. Once he had been the man every single woman wanted, and the one all men wished to emulate. Now, branded a traitor by those sheep like Stark, he couldn’t even hold the attention of his own wife. It was unacceptable.
He would make sure you never ignored him again.
His plan starts as soon as you are finished breaking your fast. Instead of exploring your lands, as he had thought of when rising, he decides to follow you without you noticing. He watches in the shadows as you mount your horse and ride out. After a few inquiries, he is informed of the time of your arrival and makes sure to give you a proper welcome.
“Ah, lady wife. There you are!” Daemon says, as he pushes aside a page who was attempting to help you dismount. Instead, he is the one to grab you by the waist and aid you in descending. “I wasn’t aware you could mount a horse with such dignity. I almost knelt.”
You do not react, but it is fine. Daemon has played the game of making a nuisance of himself long enough to know it takes patience. He had done it to Viserys before, and the experience had taught him one had to play the long game.
From then on, he becomes your shadow. There is not a single second of the day in which you are alone. He follows you around the castle, not giving you a single respite, unless you are in the privy or your rooms.
When you are filling a jar with flowers in your solar, Daemon materializes by your side.
“Are those flowers for me, dear wife? You shouldn’t have bothered. How fast did you surrender to my charms.”
Or when you are reading by the fire, inside the library of your keep,
“Is there a reason for reading in hiding? Or is it to hide you have feelings?” He sits down next to you, draping an arm over your shoulders. When you get up, and close the book, in annoyance, he shouts after you, cackling. “No need for that, my lady wife! I so enjoy your company. Or your disdain. They are one and the same, really!”
Daemon can tell he is wearing you down, and it amuses him to no end. As you sup together, at his insistence, he fills the silence with chatter of his own.
“How lucky I am to have a wife who hates me in silence. What every man desires.” He says, as he slurps at his soup obnoxiously. He gestures to a dish near you. “Serve me, please, wife. No, not that one. That. Yes. No, a bit to the left.” It is finally too much for you. He watches in amusement as your face grows more and more furious, filled with righteous indignation.
“By the Gods, I thought you northern women were at least good at domestic…” But before he can finish his phrase, you stand up.
“Die, you deranged worm!” You shout, finally losing your temper. Daemon only laughs. You storm off, with him laughing behind you.
And because he cannot stand not to have the last word,
“If you are about to poison my dinner, at least stay to watch. I like having an audience!”
Daemon remains seated, eating his dinner with much improved manners now that you aren’t there to watch. It is so delightful to irritate you. Especially because now that you are actually answering his taunts, focusing on toying with you might help him focus on something else than his past and all those he left behind.
TODAY, YOU SEEM set on not being found. A few moons have passed since your marriage, and Daemon has grown used to your presence. He spends a good part of his day chasing you around the castle, seeking your company and your sharp tongue. When he is not training the pitiful lot you call your men, he is by your side. Yet today, you evade him.
After finishing a training session with the fools that, given enough time, could shape up to be decent guards of your household, Daemon had set out to find you. It was always so delightful to verbally spar with you and see you grow more and more indignant as he intruded into your life as best he could.
Daemon reasoned you didn’t hate him as much as you claimed. After all, you kept going to where you knew he could find you. Whenever he wished to see you, he just had to visit your solar, where you would be hard at work answering your correspondence. Or visit the library, where you would be reading curled up in a windowsill. Hells, you even spent time seated at your own hall, listening to the inane chatter of your tenants.
They were mostly public places, accessible to all your servants, guards, and him. It wasn’t as if you locked yourself in your rooms. Then Daemon might have believed you didn’t enjoy his company as much as he enjoyed yours.
There was something refreshing in how awful you were to him. Unlike most, you didn’t belittle him for being a traitor. Instead, your insults of his character consisted only of digs at his stupidity, appearance, or manners. Not once had you mentioned the war during your verbal spars. And best of all? You didn’t single Daemon out. He clearly remembered seeing you offer similar verbal lashings to that damn Stark pup. You would employ your silver tongue against anyone who taunted you. He just happened to do it often.
He had spent the whole time he had been running your men through drills thinking of what he would say once he saw you. Perhaps something about those murderous eyes of yours? No, he had already complimented them yesterday. It would be unoriginal and might give you the wrong idea. It wasn’t as if Daemon liked you. You were just amusing.
You did have beautiful eyes, though. Lethal, even. He liked that your eyes were always honest, he supposed. Everything and everyone had been so guarded during the war that it was refreshing to look at someone and know exactly what they thought.
Your eyes, though, took it further. They were soulful in ways lesser women could only hope to achieve. A single glance and Daemon could gauge exactly how angry or amused you were.
But just as he had thought of the perfect argument conversation starter, he realized he could not find you anywhere. You weren’t in any of your usual haunts. Daemon had even checked your rooms, which he never did, but you were not there either.
Questioning the servants only earned him disdainful looks. While he had earned the respect of your guards, the maids were a wholly different story. Loyal to you to the very end, they didn’t seem as willing to forgive past mistakes. Not even if he was the father to their king.
His boy. His chest squeezed painfully to think of him. Baela and Rhaena were women grown, married, and with lives of their own. But his son, forced to wed that green cunt, as mad as her mother and treacherous as they come. Daemon’s heart ached for him.
As he wandered the castle and determined you were not inside, he thought of how much he missed Rhaenyra. She wouldn’t set him on this foolish errand, not even if she had been upset with him. His little dragon preferred to make her displeasure loudly known, just as her mount did. She would never hide away from him.
The two of you were so different it pained him to even compare you. You had nothing to do with the other, and yet, when you stood your ground, or when you directed the pitiful men you had, you looked so much like her it was uncanny.
Not like the Rhaenyra of the end, twisted by mania and distrust, trapped inside her own mind. Like the little girl he had cradled in his arms, the one he had taught everything she needed to know about love.
Perhaps it was that thought, or it was luck. Maybe even instinct. But something told him to search for you in the goodswood. And there you were, just as Rhaenyra had once been in a very different keep, sitting under a tree.
Yet, instead of reading or indulging in sweets, you were crying quietly. You were not at the heart tree at the center of it, but tucked under another weirdwood, a bit out of sight. Had he not been looking for you, he would have missed you entirely.
This was why the servants had not answered. They either didn’t know, or didn’t wish to disturb their mistress in her secret shame. Who else cried in hiding, but someone who didn’t wish to let anyone find out she was crying?
Your shoulders shook, back turned to him. You were muffling the sobs with your hands, and your hair, much too dark, was in disarray. This time, he thought of Nettles, and her face when she had mounted Sheepstealer for the last time. Her thin body, limbs much like those of a delicate frog. She had been no dragon, and yet…
Slowly, and making sure his footsteps made no noise, Daemon approached you. He placed a hand over your nape, making you startle. You looked over your shoulder, features exquisite even when struck with grief. Perhaps, made even lovelier because of it.
And your eyes, glassy and with lashes that clumped together from the wetness of your tears, pierced him like a bolt straight to the heart.
“I am not in the mood, Daemon.” You hiccuped, sobbing too hard to manage more. It was the first time you called him by name, and he savored it. “Not today.”
“Why not today?” He asks you, voice pitched low. He squeezes your nape once more. Fatherly. Reassuring. He would rather not think of the last time he did so.
“If you must know, it is my father’s nameday.” You say, and Daemon finally understands. Grief, of course. The insidious bitch. Not even here, up in the North, could he escape her.
He hesitates. He feels any of his jokes would fall flat. So would his more hurtful thoughts. But to attempt to soothe you… Is it even his place to comfort you?
Soft, still doubting his ability at it, he begins to speak.
“I knew your father.” Daemon starts, his tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth. He finds it difficult to speak. To think of those times, of the war, and the death and all the grief that came with it. Of the chill that clung to his bones and hadn’t allowed him a moment’s respite since. “Roddy the Ruin, the men called him.”
You give a wet, shuddery chuckle.
“Aye, they did.” And you look up at him, with those devastating eyes of yours. “He was so proud to fight for the dragon queen…”
Daemon flinches. He doesn’t mean to, but to hear one of her monikers in your mouth spooks him.
He has been neatly dividing his life. His past with Rhaenyra. His present with you. Both exist at separate points in time and space, never crossing. While near you, he tries not to think of the before, and you are so engaging it nearly works. And now, his two lives collide, her name in your mouth, his lips speaking about a war that he tries pretending is a faded dream.
“We won in the end.” Daemon squeezes your shoulder. As you look at him, a sad smile playing on your face, he thinks of what to say to soothe you. Daemon has been the sword so many times, he has forgotten how to be a light in the darkness. “Her claim still lives. Our son sits on the throne.”
“With a Hightower Queen.” You wrinkle your nose. “A pyrrhic victory if there ever was one.”
“Don’t be so sure.” A look at your face, and he thinks you so painfully young, yet so strong. It causes him to have confusing feelings. Unnerving ones, that make him think of Nettles, and a young Rhaenyra, and tell him to protect, to shield, yet to destroy. Kill the threat before it can hurt him. “No one remembers queens.”
“But you do.” Then, softer. “You are allowed to grieve for her, husband.”
Daemon doesn’t answer. He grabs you instead, and kisses you with bruising force. He can barely taste the salt of your tears before you move your head away. Somehow, the tender rejection hurts more than if you had shoved him off you.
YOUR HUSBAND IS behaving oddly. You watch him from the corner of your eyes, as he slowly, but surely, attempts to steal your seal from your desk without you noticing.
After that day at the godswood, you have stopped trying to run from him. All the fear he inspired had evaporated, leaving behind an odd sense of pity. Daemon behaved erratically, you realized, because he was grieving. His antics were much easier to tolerate knowing it.
Unfortunately, now that you were ready for his scathing sarcasm, he had chosen to leave it behind. No more of his usual taunts were heard. Instead, he escalated.
It had started yesterday, when you had come from your morning ride to find your room full of the most awful, sickeningly smelling flowers you had ever seen. When you had grabbed them and thrown them out, a task that had taken nearly an hour because the damn things were everywhere, Daemon had nearly smiled.
Now, he was attempting theft.
“I thought you were a Gold Cloak once.” You muse, as you reach for your seal. His hands are still on it, and yours barely brush them when he moves it out of your reach. “How did you catch thieves if you cannot steal to save your life?”
“Considering I still hold it, I would consider myself successful.” Daemon smirks. “Do you want it back, little wife?”
“Keep it.” You scoff, and continue to write your letters. With a shrug, Daemon pockets it. And waits. Patiently, which is not a word you would have used to describe him before.
You continue writing letters. You have always been methodical about it, writing them all before placing them in envelopes, addressing them, and then sealing them. It makes the task more efficient, which you appreciate, since it can be the dullest part of being a lady.
Hence, why it takes you so long to notice you cannot finish your letters unless he relinquishes the seal.
“Husband.” You try, hoping he has forgotten. “Could you hand me the seal?”
“I don’t know, could I?” He asks you, leaning back in his chair. He has the look of a satisfied cat. The whole morning, Daemon has just been sitting across from you, toying with the knickknacks on your desk. It had made no sense to you, but now it does. He had been waiting for a chance to make a nuisance out of himself.
“May I have my seal?” You stress the word my, because it is your seal, and you need it now.
“No, you may not. “ Daemon smirks even more. His eyes crinkle up in that way you hate, infuriatingly handsome. “Though congratulations on your improved grammar. It only shows that I am an extraordinary teacher.”
“Husband. The seal.” You say, through gritted teeth.
He sits up and reaches for your face. Cupping your cheek in his hand, warm and big, he smiles. You tense. It is the first time he touches you so, with such proprietary softness.
“I am feeling generous. Give me a smile, and I’ll give it back.” Daemon brushes his thumb over your lower lip. “Come on, sweet thing. Smile.”
Much to your chagrin, you feel yourself slowly begin to get shy. To cover it up, you scowl.
“Really?”
“I guess you do not really want it…” Daemon speaks with such smug satisfaction, you know you have been unsuccessful in hiding how much he is affecting you.
“Hand me the damn thing!” You say, standing up and looming over him. He tuts, jumping up with far too much agility for a man of his age, and raises your seal over his head.
“Now, now, wife, what sort of manners are those?” He clicks his tongue at you, as if you were some unruly child. “Say please. Or give me a pretty smile. Both will soothe my aching heart.”
“Daemon, I swear to…”
“A kiss then?” He interrupts, purple eyes shining with amusement. “Let it be known I am a generous creditor.”
You glare at him, feeling yourself grow even more embarrassed. Then, knowing that Daemon is capable of dragging this nonsensical conversation on for hours if he so pleases, and that you need to finish your task, you give him a tight smile, with closed lips.
“Come on, love, put a bit more in it, will you?” Daemon leans forward, and fixes your smile with his hand. You bat it away, annoyed. It is all so absurd that you cannot help but laugh. When you grin, Daemon does too, and places the seal back on your desk once more.
WHAT DAEMON HATED more in young knights was the sheer arrogance of them. He shuddered to think he had been one himself, in what felt like a lifetime ago. And even then, really, he had been justified in being so. Daemon had been born a Targaryen Prince, closer to Gods than to men.
The silly things you had in your service had probably been born from a donkey and a sow, though. They had no reason to be as cocky as they were.
To even claim that you were too lovely to be married to a traitor and that Daemon didn’t deserve you. The nerve! So of course, Daemon had to show the arrogant little shit exactly why Cregan Stark had given you to him. He might have lost his dragon, but he was still the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. He was more capable of protecting you and your little keep.
And look, back in Daemon’s day men were made of sterner stuff. When they got injured during friendly sparring, they didn’t run crying to their daddies.
“Lord Husband, would you be so kind as to explain why Lord Whent is claiming you attempted to kill his son in the courtyard?” You say, in what you believe to be a frightening tone, but sounds rather cute to his ears. You round on him, skirts opening like a flower in full bloom, face askew in the most delectable little frown.
Daemon sighs. Knights these days, by the Fourteen Flames.
“I didn’t attempt to kill him.” He explains to you, as his hands find their home in your hips. You squirm a bit, surely mad at him, but he only holds more firmly onto you. “Besides, isn’t he a bit too old to go sniveling to his father? By the Gods, he acts as if I cut his sword arm off.”
“Daemon, you took three of his fingers!” You say, in absolute exasperation. Your lower lip sticks out in a tempting pout. He taps it with his thumb, distracted.
“Put that away before I have to bite it.” He threatens you, absolutely fascinated by the give in the plush flesh. When you only scowl more, Daemon sighs. “Oh, right. The Whent boy. Well, it isn’t my fault he doesn’t know how to hold a sword proper. If he did, he would still have his fingers.”
“By the Old Gods…” You mutter, sounding astonished. Daemon would be too, if he were faced with such a useless excuse for a knight. “He is a knight. He knows how to hold his sword.”
“Which only shows how lax the standards for knights have fallen, because no, he doesn’t.” He protests. He continues to rub your lower lip, until you get annoyed and move your face away. Instead, he focuses his attention on pulling you even closer. Only when the two of you are nearly hugging, and his chin is perched over your head, he speaks. “Even if he did know how to hold a sword, no northern man would begrudge me for what I did.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Ask the Whent boy what he said about you. I was only defending our honor, I assure you.”
You sigh. It is charming. Daemon likes the shape your lips form when you do it. You abandon the discussion in favor of rummaging through your desk’s drawers. He hates it. He wishes to hold all your attention, all the time. But before he can voice it, you turn to look at him again, holding a jar of ointment in your hands.
“Come here.” You demand. “Shirt off.”
“Why, Lady Wife, won’t you offer me dinner first?” He teases you, even as he obeys. You have that effect on him lately. He cannot resist a chance to indulge you.
“Don’t be stupid.” You mutter, even as your eyes stray to his naked chest. Daemon preens under your hungry gaze. “I noticed you favor your left side. Did you get injured while defending my honor?” Little disrespectful thing that you are, you continue. “Perhaps, pulled a muscle? Must be your old age.”
Daemon had, indeed, pulled a muscle. He had already been training the whole morning when he had sparred with the Whent whelp, and he might have overdone it. Not that he will ever admit it, of course.
You warm some ointment between your hands and carefully begin to rub his ribs. You do not touch him often, not out of your own will. That you are seeking contact on your own, and doing him such a kindness, is telling.
He has you right where he wants you, Daemon thinks to himself, as he enjoys the touch of your warm hands. You apply just the right amount of pressure to make it both an ache and a relief. Soon, the pain in his side is diminishing, and he can stop overcompensating for it by leaning left.
“Thank you, lady wife.” He tells you, placing one of his hands over yours. You look up at him, as if finally realizing what you are doing.
“Do not mention it.” You step back, stumbling in your haste to pull distance between the two of you. “I just don’t want to have to explain to our king that his father was killed in an accident while defending my honor.”
Daemon smiles. For once, the reminder of his son doesn't sting as badly. He knows it then. He needs to have you as the dornishmen need water. Nothing less will sate him.
THE MESSENGER COMES when you are busy tending to your tenants. Your hall is full of petitioners, and you are attempting to settle a dispute over two herds of sheep that got mixed up after a fence fell. Daemon has retired already, with a charming remark about not even your presence being enough to lure him into debating the merits of more humane branding methods.
You read the letter. Once. Twice. Then, in the firmest voice you can manage while shaking in your boots, you give the order.
"Seize him.” The guards, trained by your husband, and loyal as dogs, do not hesitate. They pounce on the man, dragging him away even as he protests. "The hearings are postponed. You are all dismissed.“ You tell the petitioners, as you rise, clenching the parchment in your fist. It bears the royal seal. Inside, the message is simple. Sparse. Three lines, communicating the death of the Queen and that Prince Daemon Targaryen is wanted for questioning.
You wish to rush to Daemon’s side and tell him about it. You wish to question the man that now sits on your cells. But there is no time. Instead, you rush to the courtyard, and order your men to prepare for a siege.
Soon, the chaos begins. Your servants remember well the horrors of the war. Maids are sent running into the town, to buy all the supplies they can without leaving the smallfolk with a shortage. The maps are brought out, the river is cut, a curfew is established.
Amidst the panic, you refuse to explain your reasoning. It is too dangerous. If you do, they might ask you to surrender Daemon. And you cannot do it.
Once, during the war, you had prided yourself on being a lady who did everything for her subjects. You had been willing to marry for convenience, to set aside your hopes and dreams, to spend every waking hour attending to the affairs of your lands. Now, you cannot.
It is said that the men of the Night’s Watch vow to take no wife and father no children because love is the death of all duty. Because when you love, you turn selfish, suddenly unwilling to sacrifice everything, including your very life or the life of those you love, for the cause.
Summoned by the unrest, Daemon appears by your side while you are overseeing the posting of the guards. You pass him the parchment you still hold, without a word. He stands next to you as he reads, eyebrows raising.
You do not need to say anything. The sight of the bridge being readied to be pulled up at a moment’s notice speaks for itself.
“So you are going to war.” Daemon crosses his arms over his chest. Then, voice full of derision. “You silly girl.”
“Would you prefer to die?” You ask him, sharply. You turn to look at him, hands on your hips. “I wasn’t aware the rogue prince was anything more than a selfish bastard.”
Your words are harsh. He would probably strike any other person who dared utter them at him. But with you, he only smiles.
“My parents were married, as you well know.” He grabs you by the nape, pulling you close, until your foreheads touch. Until you are sharing the same breaths. “Stupid girl. You should just do as they say. Save yourself. There is no need for martyrdom, no dishonor in abandoning a lost cause.”
“Is that how you see yourself?” You ask him, feeling a strange pity blossom in your chest. Daemon’s eyes meet your own. He looks tense, as if fighting an inner war. But he doesn’t look as a man who has no will to live would. He isn’t broken. Instead, he looks as if he cannot bear to think of a world without you in it. “You want me to live.” You realize. “You want me to live, to be safe. Even if…” Even if he has to die for it.
You remember then that this is not the first time Daemon has willingly walked to his death to spare a woman he loves.
“Do not look at me like that.” Daemon barks, his hold on your nape turning harsher, tugging at your hair. His face twists into a snarl. “Stop it.”
You cannot help it. You smile. Despite the pain in the back of your head, despite the fact that he is looking at you like he would like nothing more than to murder you.
“Like what?” You challenge, eyes soft.
“Like you care.” He growls, low and threatening. “Like you understand.”
You grab his hand, taking it in yours.
“But I do.”
He pounces on you, kissing you as if his life depended on it. It is harsh, all teeth and spit, and absolutely no finesse. Daemon’s hands find your hips, and he squeezes, acting like a man starved. And you, scared to death that they will take him from you, do the same, nails digging into his shoulders to keep him here. With you. Where he belongs.
That is precisely why you miss Cregan’s entrance. When you part, lips kiss swollen, and panting for breath, you see him standing there, an amused look on his face. He must have ridden for hours to reach you so soon after the news broke.
“I see the two of you are getting along.” He comments, in that infuriating tone of his. “I come to inform you there is no danger to your husband, Lady Dustin. I handled the matter as soon as I found out.”
You wipe your mouth, suddenly embarrassed. Daemon, as always, looks shameless and even proud of himself.
“Thank you, my lord.” You say, fighting the urge to run and hide under your covers, and never again daring to show your face in front of Cregan Stark.
“The two of you are under my protection.” He says, as he turns towards the stairs. “I do not take kindly to uppity southrons daring to order around my bannerwoman.”
“How do you know I didn’t do it?” Daemon calls after him, frowning.
“Oh, Prince Daemon. You didn’t believe I would just leave you alone and unsupervised with Lady Dustin?” Cregan looks from between your stunned face to Daemon’s angry one. “I take care of my people. The North remembers, after all.”
You watch him disappear, mind still reeling. Of course Cregan would never allow you to be in any actual danger. But this meant that he probably had a spy in your household and had heard all you had been up to these last few moons. Gods, you wanted to die from embarrassment.
Synopsis: The territory between the Uchiha and the Senju dwindles by the day. And in an era where social lines have been blurred, and new clan heads have been chosen, you're stuck between a scorned lover and a man who relentlessly pursues your hand in marriage. You don't have much time before you're forced to confront the sins of your past.
Word Count: 9.6k
Tags/Warnings: Warning for dark themes ahead. Fem!Uchiha!Reader. Please consult AO3 for more specific warnings.
Chapter I | Previous Chapter | Part XI (Current Chapter)
Notes: A one month turnaround for me and this series is becoming unheard of. Probably due to the lengths of these chapters. Why do they keep growing???
Hashirama enjoyed lingering in a lovely garden, and political figures, no matter the rank, tended to flock around Hashirama. So, to accommodate Hashirama’s tendency to idle in nature and the massive posse of political figures that vied for his attention, a sizable courtyard area was built near the Senju dwellings.
When Tobirama tore through the garden and stormed inside, he appeared troubled, much more so than usual. While he usually tried to ignore Hashirama’s bids for laughs and attention, the speed and force with which he stormed through the courtyard raised Hashirama’s brow.
Tobirama was granted a brief reprieve. However, his brother's delayed presence was strictly attributed to the many political figures Hashirama had to gently dismiss before he could follow Tobirama inside.
Tobirama was already hunched over a desk, penning away at some lengthy document with his forehead in his palm. While the desk was cluttered, the mass of papers and stationery items were allotted into neat, well-maintained piles for their size. Hashirama frowned in the doorway, allowing his brow to twitch a minuscule amount before he quietly shut the door. His head dropped before it rolled back.
“What happened?” he asked.
Tobirama didn’t answer. His back flexed with more tension than needed for the simple task of writing. Hashirama let out a deep sigh.
”I did tell you that it would not end well, now did I not?”
“I was the swiftest messenger,” Tobirama snapped, slamming his quill on the table. The sound reverberated across the near-empty room. He sat straight, facing forward as he took a steady breath in. But the moment he took to calm himself did nothing for the volume of his voice. “What do I have to shrink away from regarding the Uchiha? We had all killed our fair share on the battlefield. Facing a fellow warrior with a grudge is no matter to me!”
Hashirama flinched neither at his brother’s volume nor the physicality of his outburst. His face slowly melted from its usual brightness to a concerned neutrality.
“Well, this tells me that you did not engage with a fellow warrior.” Hashirama’s gaze narrowed. He hardly let a beat pass. “What did you do, brother?”
The room fell silent. Tobirama should have known that his brother was far too clever to let him ignore what happened at the Uchiha compound. He didn’t expect that in any reality. The moment his hands found your skin, Tobirama knew there was no coming back. It would have to come out eventually, given that this was surely the end of the Uchiha-Senju compromise for which Hashirama had worked so hard.
And for what he had told you about slapping the scroll out of his hand, the incredulousness he committed was far more severe and far more reckless.
Tobirama turned, his face nothing less than severe and neutral as he approached Hashirama to kneel and bow deeply at his feet. His head hardly touched the wood flooring below for Hashirama to be filled with dread.
“I have committed a great error, for I have laid hands on a member of the Uchiha council!” Tobirama proclaimed, his forehead digging into the floor.
Hashirama took a moment of pause above him.
“And this was in self-defense?”
Another moment of pause came. Tobirama didn’t let it last for long and spoke what he knew was the truth, “No,” he said.
Tension grew in the stale air.
“For the sake of clarity,” Hashirama started. Tobirama’s heart had already begun to palpate in anticipation of the words he knew would come next. Hashirama’s voice had hardly wavered, but Tobirama knew his brother well enough to know that Hashirama was barely restraining rage. “You had laid hands on Madara’s companion.”
Your name followed, spoken in the same way one would name a jutsu. The mere word stilled the atmosphere in such a way that Hashirama didn’t need explicit confirmation.
Tobirama breathed in.
“Yes.”
Hashirama hummed, deep in thought behind his neutral eyes and deepening frown. Yes, his mind was working quickly, perhaps almost as swiftly as the rising heat of rage in his chest. Hashirama hardly wore his expressions on his face when it came to grave matters, a stark contrast to his usual jovial demeanor.
“Pick yourself up, brother.”
Tobirama obeyed, and just when he got to his feet, Hashirama’s fist flew mercilessly across Tobirama’s face. It was a strike thrown without frills, just hard knuckle against skin at a velocity unseen. The sound snapped through the room, as red stained Tobirama’s starkly pale skin. He recoiled, having been forced down to one knee from the sheer power of such a simple strike. Hashirama hardly had anything to add, watching as his brother maneuvered his own jaw, popping it back into place. Tobirama’s hand came away with a streak of blood from his ruptured nostril.
“I cannot say that was not deserved—”
”You best have a great explanation.” Hashirama fidgeted, moving to turn but jerking back toward Tobirama. Hashirama held a hand to his own face, squeezing and massaging the skin of his cheeks as he heavily pondered. He stared off into a corner of the room. “Madara loved Izuna more than anyone else, and I had just barely managed to persuade him into these negotiations—”
—“I know this, brother, the deepest apologies could never—”
“Tobirama, you do understand that you have attacked a civilian?” Hashirama asserted. Another great pause filled the space between them. There was too much to say and little time for it. “You have laid hands on a civilian much smaller than yourself, a diplomatic ally, and the very person that has the most sway over Madara and, by extension, the Uchiha as a whole.”
Even now, Hashirama's voice held great patience but left little room for escape. He spoke to understand, even as the fate of a unified Land of Fire looked as if it would crash down around him.
“I need an explanation,” Hashirama said. “If I am to face Madara— for there is no doubt that Madara has already heard word— I require your reasoning.”
He looked Tobirama in the eye, concern and complexity swimming around his dark irises. Tobirama had since picked himself off the floor.
“I am sorry…” Tobirama’s head bowed. “I cannot offer you an explanation that Madara would accept. I am certain that the truth would only make him more furious than he already is.”
“You have bigger issues than Madara if you refuse to speak,” Hashirama said with an acute frown. “Without information from you, I can only assume the worst.”
Tobirama ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, especially out loud. But in the face of his brother, with such important things in the balance, Tobirama couldn’t hesitate.
“We were involved long ago when we were but children… Perhaps for a series of weeks… Perhaps less,” Tobirama admitted, and to his slight surprise, Hashirama wasn’t fazed. Why would he be when he had also snuck off to see an Uchiha in his youth as well? Tobirama expected no less. He squared his shoulders, clasping his hands together as if delivering a report. “Seeing her after so long… She had brought up things that had happened, and I lost my temper.” His slender eyebrows wrinkled his forehead. He gave a nod of acknowledgment. “I spoke in a foul manner. She, rightfully, retaliated… and I did the same tenfold.”
Tobirama nodded, thinking as to whether he had left anything significant out of his brief summary. Shame coated him like a blanket. It all sounded so trivial when put in such a way.
Hashirama placed his hands on his hips, casting his gaze toward the ceiling. He breathed in deeply, then out.
“Of all the women…” Hashirama sighed, letting his eyes close. “She did not sustain lasting damage, did she?”
“Of course not,” Tobirama defended, sounding almost insulted. “You think I would brutalize a council member unprovoked in the middle of the woods?” He shook his head, his fingers momentarily finding the hair just above his forehead. He raked the strands back like a comb. Tobirama’s eyes also fell shut. He took another breath in as if preparing himself for his next confession. “I pinned her by the neck.”
“By gods, Tobirama!”
“My aim was not to kill or injure.”
“I am sure she was petrified all the same! And you know as well as I that Madara would not see it that way,” Hashirama asserted. “All he will be able to think is that you attacked his companion when he was away—”
—“Please stop referring to her as this.”—
“You could have faintly touched the shoulder of her robes, and that would have been far too much aggression shown toward an Uchiha woman.” Hashirama shook his head.
Tobirama rolled his eyes.
“My regretful actions aside, I do not understand why it should matter whether she is a woman or not.”
“Because the Uchiha are of a different culture, brother. Only a handful of female Uchiha warriors have existed in their history, that being only so many you could have come across, and yet you had to choose Madara’s closest companion to pick a fight with!” He shook his head, letting it fall back into his hand again. “I must go tend to this. We can only hope that Madara remains in a headspace from which he can be talked down.”
Hashirama grabbed his haori, pulling it over his shoulders as he primed himself toward the door. Tobirama didn’t budge. He knew that the mess he made had to be mended by Hashirama. No one else could pull off such a feat.
“I am prepared to take full responsibility,” he said with certainty.
“Madara will certainly demand your head,” Hashirama countered gravely. “We can only hope that creativity finds me on my journey there.”
***
“Where have you been?” you snapped. Madara had barely made it to the compound before you were upon him. “You have been gone for hours!”
You barged out from the Uchiha compound, marching across the dirt clearing to Madara, who stood still. A massive beast was slung across his shoulder, its head handing over his back.
He scowled. You spoke to him with quite the tongue on you for as long as he could remember. He hadn’t been particularly fond of it then, and ever since he had been chosen as the head of the Uchiha, his tolerance for your attitude had dwindled immensely. Madara checked you far more often, unashamed of using his title to silence you. Still, your familiarity with each other was enough to overpower formalities more often than he would have liked.
“Hunting,” he deadpanned. He spared a momentary glance at the beast draped over his armor.
You looked at it incredulously.
“Is that a deer?” The rest of the council, who were used to your spats with Madara, completely passed the two of you by. They carried their gear, chatting amongst themselves and paying little mind to what you were on about. “You know better than to hunt deer in Nara territory!”
You placed your fists on your hips, your heart nearly bursting out of your chest after being pent up all afternoon. Of all the times for the Uchiha men to get restless, it had to have been the time you needed them most.
“Well, I will inform you now that while you and the rest of my kinsmen have disappeared for half a day, Tobirama Senju came to this place in search of you!” You huffed, too wrapped up in yourself to notice Madara’s darkened demeanor. You opened your mouth wide to continue, ready to spit venom and fire alike. “I do not even know where to start when it comes to the absolute nerve—”
“I am able to believe such things,” Madara interrupted, his intonation a tick lower than usual. The volume surprised you. He looked at you straight on with a severe air about him. “What did he want? It better have been a very important message to compensate for his coming to this place. Tobirama should know better than to show his face here.”
You sputtered, thrown off by not being able to finish your earlier thought. But with Madara’s words, you were suddenly too caught up in what he said to remember the entire rant you wanted to unleash. You blinked a few times. You had a whole tirade ready that you had carefully been scripting in your head since you dragged yourself back to the compound to await Madara’s return. Now, as things weren’t happening the way they had in your head, you found yourself thrown off.
“Only to deliver a scroll,” you stammered, trying to pick a direction. Your personal issues aside, was there a reason that Tobirama should have been hesitant to show himself at the Uchiha compound? “Did… something happen between you and Hashirama? Because Tobirama came to this place absolutely—”
“A scroll? Bah!” Madara shook his head, waving a hand. He began to march off to follow the rest of his men. “If you are asking just me, I would believe that Hashirama and I are on favorable terms,” he announced into the evening atmosphere. Madara spared a brief, singular glance back at you. “Unless Tobirama suggested otherwise… Even so, a discussion with Hashirama would be paramount before I believe a word that man speaks!”
Even for his noises of annoyance, Madara appeared almost unconcerned. And while you could see the visible tension in his form on his dismayed expression, Madara continued on.
You followed behind him. You had never been able to keep up with Madara’s long and fast strides. You were convinced he walked like that on purpose.
“Madara! Will you just let me speak?”
“You have been allowed to speak for the duration of this. Out with whatever is negging you so.”
The head of the beast he carried laid limply over his shoulder, or perhaps the better term would have been heads. It was some sort of two-headed deer with great antlers, a good portion of which dug into the back of Madara’s armor. It couldn’t have been comfortable to carry.
You breathed in with certainty.
“While you were away, Tobirama had come to this place and raised a hand to me—”
“Madara! My friend! Talking about me, are you?” Hashirama’s voice drowned you out completely.
You turned in shock as Hashirama made his way up the hill, trudging through the dirt path with a great smile and wave of his hand. From the little time you had been acquainted with him, he had always been rather loud when he grew excited. Even during negotiations, the sheer volume of his voice was enough to hear from several rooms over.
Madara turned as well with a sigh. He readjusted the deer on his shoulder.
“Will no one let me place this thing down?” He lamented to no one in particular. His voice rose when he called across the clearing. “What do you want, Hashirama?”
”No need to be so hostile, Madara!” Hashirama laughed, making short work of the distance between you. “Do I need a reason to visit?”
It was in one moment that you made eye contact. Hashirama’s gaze met yours, and in that connection, his eyes flickered from wide and jovial to wary. The upturned corner of his lip faltered, and it all happened in an undetectable fraction of a second.
He knew.
There was noise all around you. Madara continued to speak, sighing and complaining as the noises of nocturnal bugs seemed to grow to an unbearable volume. Even the gentle evening breeze seemed to hit your ears in just the right way as to be almost deafening.
Despite how authentic it might have been, you knew that Hashirama’s upbeat and charismatic demeanor was a calculated tool. For as energetic as he was, there was always a certain volume that masked the way in which Hashirama played his cards close to his chest.
And yet, for all the noise, it only took one look at Hashirama—one pointed gaze that pierced through his carefully crafted diplomatic demeanor—to understand your mutual situation instantly.
He had come to begin damage control, and you had yet to tell Madara what Tobirama had done. As long as Hashirama wasn’t here to pick a fight, the discussions were still on the table, contrary to Tobirama’s earlier threat.
— “Hashirama?”
Madara’s voice cut through your mental stare. Hashirama’s shock was visible but melted quickly into an endearingly sheepish expression.
”My apologies, my friend, you must speak up!” he laughed. Madara groaned with a roll of his eyes, once again readjusting the deer on his shoulder.
“I hardly have the time for these things!” He frowned. “What are you doing here, Hashirama? If you do not answer, we can settle your matter during daylight hours.”
“The sun still prevails!” Hashirama gestured loosely toward the setting sun, and in the golden light, you stole another pointed gaze toward each other. “But truly, I wanted to apologize for my brother.”
Madara glanced in your direction.
“Go inside.”
“You speak as if I have not participated in every diplomacy session for the last two sunsets,” you countered.
Madara hardly had the time to eye you warily. And after a long hunt, Madara had too little patience for beating around the bush. He had truthfully wanted to be rid of you and Hashirama. But as he glanced between the two of you, he knew that trying to avoid one would pick a battle with the other. Reluctantly, Madara’s eyes settled on Hashirama.
“Tobirama should have been relieved that myself and the rest of the council were not here to humor his lapse in judgment,” Madara reluctantly gruffed with a deep scowl. “We may be engaging in peace negotiations, but bear in mind that the passing of my own brother was not all that long ago.”
His words struck you, the weight of them looming overhead as your mind had yet to piece things together.
“We may be on friendly terms with the Senju as a whole, but a killer entering our estate is pushing the limits on our… courtesy. Especially with a lady present with no guardian by her side.”
Madara didn’t talk much about Izuna or the nature of his death. Aside from the night Madara begged you to accompany him to the village negotiations, Izuna’s name hadn’t come up since, no matter how much you pushed.
You had wanted to talk about him so as not to let his memory fade, but Madara had refused to speak about the matter. You dropped it, a part of you trying to be understanding while the other was far too wrapped up in the fact that the ceasefire had turned your world upside down.
“Most certainly; we are in complete agreement.” Hashirama nodded profusely. “I will ensure that he will not play courier in the future.”
And yet, when Madara spoke of Izuna’s death to Hashirama on a random summer night in the clearing just outside the Uchiha dwellings, you knew the truth. You just didn’t quite believe it. It hadn’t hit you yet.
“That would be agreeable,” Madara agreed. A beat passed. Hashirama made no motion to leave or speak. “Anything else you wish to discuss?”
Hashirama stole another glance at you.
“Yes, in fact, this is not all I wanted to speak about—”
“I was not aware that Tobirama had been the one to kill Izuna,” you said, your voice projected by pure shock. But the volume aside, the words were enough to slice through the clearing and still the powerful men that stood before you.
The entire sentence had been flat, devoid of shock, hurt, or anger. It was a statement in every sense of the word that nearly forced the air in the clearing to a thick, atmospheric standstill.
It felt odd to say out loud like none of the words you spoke were words at all. You could feel the reality of it all floating around you, like tiny particles of truth hovering over your shoulders, ready to fill your chest like crashing waves. And yet, no sensation came.
It was an objective truth devoid of sharpness, unable to penetrate the core of your soul. Reality felt numb, the shapes of things in your vision sharpening significantly as the most minute textures and details became glaring.
You thought it would have felt as if the world was crashing down… and yet all you could feel was the warmth of the little embers that had been sparked in your chest.
Hashirama’s tongue recoiled as Madara turned toward you with regretful concern.
“Is this true?” you asked.
All Madara could do was look at you before deflating his chest with a deep sigh. He didn’t answer. Hashirama stood by. It didn’t take an emotional genius to recognize that now was hardly the time to have the conversation he had come all this way to have. And yet, the repercussions of leaving you and Madara to hash out the details surrounding his beloved brother’s death were even more daunting.
“Hashirama—” It was another instance of Hashirama not being where his feet were. He blinked a few times, the motion of his surprise subtle as you and Madara stood closely before him. “Unless your matter is urgent, I must ask you to save this discussion for another date.”
Hashirama took a steady breath in, taking the nanosecond that he had to consider the facts in front of him. He saw Madara fatigued and moderately high-strung. And perhaps he could have worked with that if it wasn’t for the outlier: you.
You stood by Madara’s side, having overstayed your welcome in the conversation long enough to have swerved the topic so off-topic that it would be impossible for Hashirama to even consider bringing up the indiscretion that Tobirama had committed against you. His brother had wronged both you and Madara. Hashirama knew he either had to nip it in the bud and risk making matters worse or leave the two of you alone. In doing so, he would be trusting that, for whatever reason, you would continue to hold your tongue about your interaction with Tobirama.
“Bah, woman, is it your intention to make things difficult? My shoulder has been bearing the weight of your dinner; I will have you know!”
“It is hardly the fault of my own!... Hunting in Nara territory… What were you thinking? You knew better than this!”
Madara scoffed.
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission.”
“Were not these the thoughts that clouded your brain when you held such crucial information away from me, Madara?”
Right. Right.
Hashirama bobbed his head a few times and held one hand up to bid the two of you goodbye. Neither of you noticed.
***
It always started with something like this: something that didn’t bother you until you and Madara bickered more and more. And suddenly, the jabs made half lightly turned into actual problems. Or perhaps they were problems when you initially picked a fight with him, masked by pettiness until you hardly had the restraint to hold your punches.
With Hashirama long forgotten, you bickered all over the Uchiha compound. Hell, you had exchanged words over Madara breaking down the deer he brought back. The antlers— you had decided over verbal blows— would be returned to the Nara to use in their medicine as a gesture of goodwill. Any additional meat that wasn’t roasted over the fire that the other Uchiha had been tending to outside would be salted and brought to the Nara aunties to be incorporated into the next day’s lunch.
This all, of course, meant nothing to you in the face of the revelation you had uncovered during Madara’s and Hashirama’s conversation.
“I had known that this would be the outcome,” Madara had sighed following a bombardment of questions. “I bring it upon myself at this point.”
It wasn’t until Madara was finished with all of his tasks and appeared to be looking for anything else to do that you finally cornered him on the engawa.
“Why?” You had called into the night.
You gazed at the back of Madara’s large form. Lanterns burned around you, casting a gentle, warm glow onto the wood at your feet. Fireflies and other creatures of the night hovered somewhere in the darkness, the blackness of the night making your wooden engawa feel like the only place in the world. And perhaps at that moment, the Uchiha dwellings were all that existed to you.
“Was it a surrender?” you asked. You would nearly say you cried it, but no tears welled in your eyes. Your face scrunched, puzzled, as you tried to assemble the pieces. “Has this all been a convoluted way of us begging for our lives?”
Madara stood still, just like the world around you. You were sure he had something heated on his tongue, something along the lines of these things not affecting you. But it did affect you.
Helplessness was not foreign to you, and yet, for everything that happened up until now, you have never felt as utterly helpless in your life.
You kept pushing and pushing him, knowing he would explode soon enough. But perhaps that was the point; you wanted him to explode. You wanted something, any sort of information that might make you feel less helpless than you felt.
But for Madara’s infamous temper, he was resigned.
“I suppose it was a surrender in a sense,” he admitted. “For Hashirama defeated me in battle.”
He kept talking, but you expected more. You expected to be told your place and to keep your nose out of things that weren’t your concern.
It all made little sense to you. There was little logic to you in the first place. You were a simple apothecary— who shouldn’t have even had that position— becoming the most important Uchiha woman practically overnight. You shouldn’t have known a single detail. You shouldn’t have exchanged words with the Uchiha council, let alone national dignitaries.
Madara was clan head.
Madara should have been strong enough for the Uchiha.
He was smarter than this. He was more driven than this, yet the Uchiha floundered on a field that wasn’t battle. Madara should have taken care of it all just as he promised! Madara shouldn’t have put any of it on your shoulders in asking you to be with him, especially if he knew he was out of his league.
You wanted a fight.
You stared at the back of Madara’s head, watching as he began to retreat.
You took a deep breath in before you called, “And so you betray the last words of your brother?”
“Woman!” Madara roared for the first time that evening. He whipped around, the sheer tick in volume making you flinch. But even so, you faced him without fear, the ember in your chest flaring to life to form a great flame. You didn’t move from where you stood, even as Madara stepped forward. Your eyes widened in anticipation.
You were picking a lot of fights as of late.
He had a feral look in his eye that only intensified with the glow of his sharingan. The very sight of his red irises made you feel small, shrinking as you lowered your head, trying to hide your excited glee. You gritted your teeth, ready to engage in the verbal fisticuffs you graciously requested.
But to your disappointment, Madara almost seemed to deflate. His eyes closed as tension built up in his forehead. He ran a hand across his face with a deep sigh.
The nocturnal creatures of the forest continued to chirp around you. They were the only things keeping you anchored to the reality below your feet.
“You want a story, do you?” Madara muttered in a soft tone that didn’t suit him. “You want me to tell you about my duel with Hashirama?”
His finger gently found the bottom of your chin. Madara tilted your head up before his arms coiled over his chest. It was another action that didn’t suit him, yet the night continued to surround you, enveloping you in a muted blanket of protection from the outside world.
It felt like the summers of your youth. Festivities and special events happened during the day, leaving reprieve and anticipation to the night. The air in the Land of Fire was prone to mugginess to the point where it was almost stifling without the cool air that sailed through the trees. But even so, it smelled the same as it did back then. Your skin felt a bit sticky, but not to an overly uncomfortable extent. You were just warm, almost warm enough to sleep.
“I had left our home in anger— in grief. I was fully intent on Hashirama and I killing each other the moment I tracked him down. And, as honorable as he is, Hashirama allowed the duel I sought. I suppose I should have known it would only result in a loss,” Madara narrated. Another victory for Hashirama was undoubtedly a blow to his ego, but Madara told the tale levelly. The tone in and of itself carried a great respect.
“And he had simply spared you,” you assumed.
“Nay,” Madara answered. “Hashirama had all the opportunity to finish me then and there. I had practically asked him to honor me with a warrior's death, for then perhaps I could have been reunited with Izuna… but instead, he presented me with a proposal.” Madara made a vague gesture. “This. These negotiations with the hope that we might stop fighting.”
You breathed. The lanterns flickered in the dark, only providing enough light to barely illuminate Madara’s somber face.
“And you believed him,” you finally spoke. “Why?”
Something flashed across Madara’s dark irises, a certain softness to pair with his regretful resignation.
“I would not expect you to understand,” he said. The corners of his lips dipped into a slight frown.
You let him simmer, once again unsatisfied. And truly, there was nothing else to do but probe, not when the Uchiha compound was the only thing comprising your world. Or perhaps it wasn’t the compound as much as it was the engawa upon which you and Madara stood.
“Do you consider that Hashirama believes in us as strongly as you believe in him?” you asked.
Another moment passed.
“Yes.”
“And what do you think of this in the context of all of this? Do you think Hashirama would be in favor of our equality in the village?”
“I believe that Hashirama holds pure intentions.”
Hashirama, not the Senju. And certainly not the rest of the clans gathered.
Your eyes narrowed.
“And you think that will make a difference?”
The embers in the lanterns suddenly flared, glowing only slightly bigger. The glow that cast across Madara’s face brightened for only a moment, making the shadows that enveloped his right side seem darker. His black hair held a golden sheen to it.
“That is yet to be foreseen.”
***
Madara retired early that night. He decided he didn’t want to talk any further, rejecting all speak about Hashirama and Tobirama. Like before Hashirama’s visit, any further mention of Izuna was once again forbidden. But despite one thing in its singularity returning to normal, Madara, ever physical, arrogant, and stubborn, appeared far more pensive as of late.
He was quiet. It was odd seeing him so quiet. It felt wrong seeing a fighter such as Madara so limp. Despite what your teenage self would have protested, you almost missed Madara’s pompous confidence and self-righteousness. As tiring as he was, his attitude always gave him a spark: a fire that had been missing ever since his defeat at the hands of Hashirama.
You wanted to ask him, “Where is your fire?”
Perhaps it was because the context of bloodshed was the only place he knew how to fight in the first place. He might have known no other way. And yet, it was odd— painful even— to see Madara out of his element.
He seemed lost, pushing toward a goal he did not even know how to achieve. His seemingly blind loyalty to Hashirama was another mystery. While Hashirama was undoubtedly a great man, you could hardly say you knew much about him. You undoubtedly didn’t know enough to wrap your head around Madara’s unyielding trust in the man whose throat he’d held a kunai to for a lifetime. Perhaps he was right when he said you wouldn’t understand.
Perhaps none of it was Hashirama at all. A greater part of you knew that it wasn’t the defeat that plagued Madara’s mind, and that idea holed itself somewhere in the back of your thoughts.
You couldn’t sleep.
The memory of Izuna haunted you, something you thought you shoved into a neat lockbox the night Madara came to the apothecary. You hardly remembered him for his last, bitter interaction with you following the Uchiha council’s meeting, but rather the night following the failed raid on the Uchiha settlement. You remembered how he stood in your apothecary, surrounded by candlelight, marred by blood and gore despite his clean hands.
“Why is it always about what Madara wants?” you had asked him, banking on Izuna picking up the subtext you were too afraid to say out loud.
There was a brief moment, a second of thought, where you wondered if saying the quiet part out loud would have made a difference. Instead, he haunted you: a spirit of a dear childhood friend, a brother in all aspects but blood, and a potential of something and nothing that faded with the strike of Tobirama Senju’s sword.
Tobirama Senju: another man you wanted to forget. You refused to think of him at all. The mere thought of him made you cringe, yet the rage he had spurred on brought you here.
It was the one place where you thought you could feel a semblance of control over your present. You could sit in the council chambers and imagine what it would look like to have a novel idea. But now, you found yourself hiding again, pressed against a wooden beam in the dark as hushed voices deliberated inside.
The memory of the initial meeting flashed across your thoughts as you stood outside the discussion hall. You had long since extinguished your lamp, holding it near your hip and close to the ground as you flared your sharingan. Your back met the outside of the hall, unabashedly listening in on the muffled conversation within.
The walls were made of paper, as was traditional, and any structure that wasn’t made of paper was made of wood. The walls of the Uchiha meeting hall were made similarly, and you couldn’t help but wonder if your many nights of peering through those cracks were to prepare you for this very moment.
You were drawn to the hall, following only aimless instinct after your discussion with Madara.
“And you think it wise to offer the Uchiha such a central location?” You heard. You weren’t acquainted well enough with all the clan heads to properly recall who was speaking. It sounded like Hyūga if you were to take a guess. A laugh resounded from inside the meeting room.
“Do you desire their proposed allocation?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then leave it be,” the second voice said, “You knew as well as I that any intelligence that Madara holds ends at the battlefield. Best to get them out of the way now. From there, we have more room to talk policy.”
The voices drifted, and as the collection of clan leaders trickled into the hall, you swiftly fled into the forest line to lie in wait. The collection of clan leaders slowly trickled out of the conference building, chattering amongst themselves. The head of the Fuma clan, an old ally of the Uchiha, and Inuzuka, to your surprise, were among the gathered.
It was long past sunset, but that didn’t seem to affect the way they loitered outside the conference hall before slowly departing back toward their respective dwellings. You observed their hushed whispers from the canopy of a tree, sitting amongst rough wood and biting insects until the clan heads and their respective trustees left into the dark.
You waited. You waited a few moments longer to ensure they all had left before you dismounted from your hiding place. Slowly, you approached the hall and quietly slipped in the door.
The negotiation hall was still. And only when you determined that no one was left in the building did you relight the ember of your lantern. You scoured the rooms, starting with the one the three clan heads had just met in.
You weren’t surprised when you found it exactly how it had been set up. The room was spotless, with everything neatly in place, as you’d expect from high-ranking shinobi.
You wandered to the main negotiation room just down the hall, where all the clan heads would gather again the next morning. It, too, was still.
You placed your lamp down at the table, taking a seat in Madara’s chair. You gazed across the room at where Hashirama would sit the next day. A neutral painting hung on the wall above his seat.
You thought about the way Madara reluctantly consented to your use of the sharingan to record the conversation. You thought back to the charged looks exchanged between you, Madara, Hashirama, and Tobirama. How could you forget?
You took a small stack of pages from your robes, a quill from your hair, and a bottle of ink from a string around your waist. You kept an internal record of the meeting and, by extension, a written one. Papers quickly consumed your waking hours since the discussions began.
The other council members, Madara included, hardly touched papers, let alone put a quill to them. And plot to undermine the Uchiha aside, the whispering clan heads were correct. The Uchiha council were warriors through and through. The entire council had been chosen through battle, as Madara had been chosen as clan head. Scribing was not in their wheelhouse, nor was it in their interests.
It had only been a short time since negotiations began, hardly a week, let alone a handful of days. The Uchiha had yet to give a formal dissertation. Rather, Madara spoke strongly about what he was in favor of, what ideas he rejected, and almost predominantly off-cuff when it came to any ideas he had of his own. Ones that he almost always failed to share with you until it mattered.
You had penned a few of these rough notes down on the pages below your wrists. As you studied the pen strokes, you couldn’t help but consider that many of Madara’s ideas were strikingly coherent, branching into topics from economic policy to the village grid. However, they lacked structure, well-thought-out details, and were surface-level at best. It didn’t matter how good his speeches were or how well you penned your notes if they couldn’t hold up to basic probing.
The Uchiha didn’t have a proposal, especially not in the way that other clans did, but were expected to speak soon. Other clans were far better with organization, preparing lengthy dissertations and proposals that would be open for discussion and, ultimately, a vote. A haphazard way of running things, the proposed ideas were arranged by category and run through several rounds of deliberations and cuts until the most popular compromise prevailed.
You studied your handwriting, and the ink started to look less and less like words. You couldn’t make sense of it either, and for all the times your breath hitched when Madara should have done something different during the conference, you had no better ideas yourself. Rather, it took several read-throughs to wrap your head around the complex topics, hardly knowing a good idea from a bad one.
The Uchiha were a battle-minded clan, and you were a woman apothecary who was almost entirely self-taught. Then there was Madara. His struggle with bureaucratic competency aside, he might not have said it, but Madara was incredibly invested in a village of unity. You could see it when you spoke on the engawa. Madara himself aside, it was the only way forward where the Uchiha could even think of seeing the future.
You considered your leverage and the grief that plagued Madara’s heart. Finally, the unlikely last piece of the puzzle was the negotiations as a whole.
You gathered the documents and slid them into a hidden compartment of your robes for safekeeping. The warm glow of the tiny ember in your lamp illuminated your face in golden orange light before you blew the flame out. The smoke wafted up into the air, leaving the scent of burning in your nose.
***
A water fixture sat near the Senju dwellings. And at the risk of sounding dubious with your words, its structure felt very Senju in a way you couldn’t quite put your finger on. The water ran from a small pond adorned with lilies and tall grasses and down a manufactured stream lined with round river stones.
You made your way through the yard, stopping in the center to watch the stream run across the stone. Although, it appeared you weren’t quite as stealthy as you thought you were.
“I could have sworn you were Madara coming to take my head for my transgressions.”
When you turned, Tobirama was ducking through the doorway and emerging out from the darkness of the Senju dwellings and onto the engawa. You turned away from the stream, quelling the startled jump in your chest. He was, after all, who you had come to see.
Tobirama’s expression was neutral: neither pleased nor displeased with your arrival at the Senju dwellings so late at night. His surprise, however, was palpable in the air. The feeling was mutual.
You opened your mouth to speak, but before you could utter a word, Tobirama stepped down from the tall engawa and onto the ground below. It all happened quickly: the near effortless leap to the garden to meet you, your panicked step back, and as Tobirama began to bow, you had quickly ordered him to stop.
He had made it to one knee, seeming to freeze in place with the one word for him to halt. It was another instance where you had confused the both of you. His eyes cast down somewhere random; his forehead crinkled as he pondered his actions and wondered where he had gone wrong. Tobirama placed his other knee on the ground and gripped the pebbles below, fully intending to repent with a deep bow.
Clans and other politics were far from his mind. He was ready to place his pride aside to grovel, but you scolded him again.
“Stop.” It was hard to determine exactly what your tone was. Not quite angry, not quite frightened, your voice was far from neutral and yet far too composed to place an emotion properly. As much as your heart beat loudly in your chest, Tobirama hardly knew better. How could he in the face of your scornful gaze? “Get up.”
Tobirama made piercing eye contact from his bowed position. You stood a distance before him, fists balled and jaw tensed.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. Even when his face was nearly on the ground, Tobirama held a presence over the courtyard, and the energy he reined over hardly dwindled as he stood at his full height.
He was tall, perhaps even taller than Madara, and yet you hardly felt the domineering presence you grew used to in the Uchiha settlement. You practically expected it from a warrior as bulky and stoic as Tobirama. He seemed to have grown bitter in the years you had been apart. Hardened. Logical. And yet the dark chakra that seemed to drip from Madara in spades was not present in the Senju courtyard.
Tobirama almost made himself another fixture of the garden, one you might glaze over if your eyes were to bounce across the foliage. You weren’t great at sensing the chakra of others unless the output was explicit— you were hardly one to use jutsu on a regular basis— but if Tobirama was letting any of his energy slip, you couldn’t sense an ounce. He was calm, ready to accept whatever punishment you were there to serve him.
In fact, he reminded you of…
“Is it true that you were the one who had slain Izuna?”
“Yes.”
The answer came quicker than you thought it would. In its singularity, the word was void of a brag or a boast. It came quickly, the noise not overstayed in the air—a singular truth.
You huffed, squaring your shoulders as you swiftly marched forward. You hitched the sleeve of your robes as you did, quickly closing the gap between the two of you as you wound up for a hefty strike. You walked until you were directly in front of Tobirama, arm cocked and at the ready. But for as quickly as the ember inside of you had flared to life, it extinguished into little more than smoke.
Tobirama had closed his eyes, and you hadn’t noticed that he had actually lowered himself a bit to allow better access to strike his face. When the hit didn’t come, he opened his eyes again, ever-neutral.
You took a step back and lowered your arm, and it wasn’t until you were a few steps away that Tobirama stood tall once more. Then, he waited.
“Hashirama and Madara… they have met before,” you spoke the accusation softly.
“Yes, they were friends once.” His voice rumbled like he was narrating a story. Tobirama was straightforward, and the new information came with neither fondness nor judgment. After all, who was Tobirama to judge the way in which Madara and Hashirama met?
You took a deep breath in before letting a steady stream of air out. The motion melted some of the tension in your shoulders. It was just one new piece of knowledge you didn’t know before, yet the affirmation of your suspicions somehow made you feel slightly less alone.
“Did they meet—” You only wondered momentarily if you should say the quiet part out loud. — “Were they like us? The way we met?”
“I suppose,” Tobirama answered. “Although—” He glanced away for a moment that barely caused a pause in his words before meeting your eyes once again. —- “I hardly believe that the two of them were doing anything like… what we were doing.”
You quickly tore your gaze away.
“You have become bitter and vulgar.”
“It is simply the truth.”
The small stream continued to trickle behind you, and the sound of water pouring over water was a constant background noise to your aimless conversation. You took another deep breath.
“You have more,” Tobirama said. Aside from the few times you had witnessed his temper, you found that Tobirama tried to hold things close to his chest. This included the question behind his simple, three-letter sentence. You wondered, during the time between him talking and you answering, if it was because of his temper that he tried to keep so stoic.
“While Madara certainly seems confident that the Senju will not betray us, I would like a safety net.”
“The Senju have no intentions of betraying the Uchiha,” Tobirama put plainly and curtly. He pushed back on you a bit more forcefully this time, red irises boring into you. “Might I remind you that Hashirama took the initiative and spared the Uchiha—”
“I do not truly care for the minutia.” You didn’t know the whole story, but you weren’t about to let Tobirama know that.
“Well, you should.” The corner of his lips twitched downward slightly, but he gave little else. “If you are to engage in these negotiations, I would advise you to keep the details in mind.”
“It does not take a genius to realize that the Uchiha are perceived as a threat to be undermined during negotiations.”
“We are the wrong people to be having these discussions.” His words came out more like a sigh, despite the mounting pressure of your exchange.
Tobirama shook his head, melting a bit into a more relaxed stance as he did. He was certainly still tense, but the deflating of his shoulders only highlighted the stress that had filled them moments ago.
“Hashirama has no intention of acting in any other way than good faith. He and your clan head want this village to become a reality the most, you know,” he said.
Tobirama waited for you to respond, pursing his lips inward. He nodded a few times as if something else was on his mind. The time that passed when you didn’t respond appeared to make him restless.
“Your people will defend themselves as much as you will collaborate with others,” he continued. “It is truly not so different than any other negotiation you have done. Perhaps even similar to that of your alliances with the Fuma and the Hagoromo.”
“Most certainly,” you said, vaguely recalling the exchange of sake cups between the two allied clan heads with little other discourse. The Uchiha had, after all, been the most powerful force in the area, and an alliance saved both clans from being pushed from their territories. They had little to stand on other than a few generations of goodwill and Madara’s favor.
“I am confident the proposal that Madara has written up is a strategy that will give every scribe a run for their coin indeed,” Tobirama huffed begrudgingly.
“Most certainly.” You nodded, wondering if you had missed word about a monetary fee. You didn’t quite understand him. It must have been a Senju turn of phrase.
The stream continued to babble in the background. The night only seemed to grow darker, almost completely enveloping the lone lantern that glowed at the far end of the compound. Even so, the light was enough to make out the bare minimum of your surroundings, and your superior vision made up for the rest. Tobirama didn’t appear bothered by the lack of light. You wondered if he felt just as nostalgic meeting in the dark as you did.
“Madara does not have a plan, does he?”
“Most certainly not.” You probably shouldn’t have answered so honestly, especially in the context of the negotiations and your long, strained history with Tobirama Senju, but he was going to deduce it either way. “That is why I am here.”
Tobirama’s bottom lip tensed. You could tell he was trying to fight a disdainful scowl. He wasn’t doing a great job.
“Did my brother not already pay a visit to the Uchiha dwellings?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Did I not already try offering you my deepest apologies—” You hummed in confirmation. — “To which you had refused?”
“You can offer your apologies in a different way—you know politics and formalities. You are good with your words. Seeing you at the unity banquet was enough to know this.” You squared your shoulders, tilting your chin up. Your gaze drifted away momentarily as you fished for the documents in your robes. “You may offer your apologies by assisting the Uchiha in formulating a compelling proposal—”
“Absolutely not.”
— “That will ensure our fair share of resources and land in the unified village. And the Senju will back us on the matters we pursue.” You held out the notes you took. Tobirama barely craned his neck to glance at them before he crossed his arms over his chest. “That is how you can repent for laying your hands on me… and for striking down Izuna.”
Tobirama’s piercing gaze flickered up to yours. He apparently gave up his efforts to suppress his scowl.
“You are absolutely mad.”
“I believe that I am being fairly calm.”
He leaned forward, bending slightly at the waist. His arms were still coiled over his chest.
“You are absolutely out of your head,” Tobirama corrected, gesturing to his temple before returning to his upright position. You understood that one. Tobirama nearly waved you off then and there. “You know that what you demand is impossible, just as much as it is ethically dubious. You cannot expect this of me with any ounce of true seriousness. This is all not to mention that the thing you hold is hardly even a proposal! They, they— they are scribbles at best.”
“If your answer is no, then perhaps your clan— as well as the others— should be aware of your actions,” you snapped, pulling out the weapon that Tobirama was waiting all this time to hear. “The Uchiha are out of their league. I would rather utilize your skillset than cause waves amongst the clans, but I will do so if I must.”
“If that is what you deem appropriate, then so be it,” Tobirama spoke sharply. A pang reverberated throughout your chest. He had called your bluff. “Actions have consequences, and I am ready to atone for my own.”
“I am presenting a way for you to now.”
“I would have much preferred if you struck me if I can speak candidly,” Tobirama muttered. He shifted where he stood, shaking his head. His shoulder jerked back to adjust the way his robes sat. “I cannot play advisor for Madara. I apologize; I cannot do this for you… There are boundaries for these things.”
Tobirama spoke in the way he always did: neutrally, resigned, and lacking in true harshness despite the nature of his words. He stared at you, once again waiting for you to speak.
“Well then,” you spoke, having little clue what was actually going to come out of your mouth next. You stood a bit straighter, steeling your resolve. You placed a hand over your chest. “Play advisor to me. Review what I have written. Ensure that Hashirama supports it by daylight.”
Tobirama said nothing as he quirked an eyebrow. And slowly, his cold exterior began to crack from the brows down. He snorted, his shoulders bouncing as his head dropped into an amused swivel.
You hardly noticed how your breath hitched or when you began holding it. But when the air left your chest, it did so with a stuttering, burning huff. The hiccups between the stream of air held the remaining face you held.
And not one to be laughed at, you turned to leave.
Tobirama only spoke as you began to march away.
“Alright.”
The singular word made you freeze in your tracks. Tobirama’s head dipped again somewhere behind you, bobbing a few times as his arms uncoiled and his hands found his hips. By the time you turned around, Tobirama’s mouth had formed a tight line, barely restraining the amused smirk that tugged at his cheeks.
“Pardon?” You blinked.
“Alright,” he repeated, the semblance of a smile melting into a serious expression once more. “My debt is to you, not Madara,” he hummed with a bounce of his brows. “I will take a look at your drafts as long as they were written by you.” Tobirama nodded in affirmation, gesturing toward you to accent his counteroffer.
You breathed in, an awful pang reverberating through your chest. Overcome by a moment of pure instinct and guts, you hadn’t thought he’d take you seriously.
Wait—
“And you are aware that I know nothing of politics!” You gulped, a part of you thinking that perhaps Tobirama would revoke his consent in favor of your earlier proposition.
What were you thinking?
“Not much less than Madara from your explanation,” Tobirama muttered with another bounce of his light eyebrows.
“That is different!” you snapped. “Madara is at least a—”
The sight of Tobirama’s narrowing eyes made you falter. They moved almost independently of the rest of his face, shrinking inward in scrutiny before returning to their original size. It all happened with one subtle beat, but it was enough to throw you off your train of thought.
Seeming to sense your hesitation, Tobirama continued,
“You have put these ideas belonging to Madara to paper. Continue to do this. Probe him for details, granted he has them, and have the draft approved by Madara. I will assist you in polishing the final product.” Tobirama nodded, almost seeming to warm up the idea in real time as the corner of his mouth dipped in thought. “The Uchiha will receive what they fight for— I cannot make guarantees— but in terms of atonement, I agree to guide your strategy.”
Your strategy. He spoke as if you were some military officer.
“It is a deal.” You didn’t give yourself time to think. You couldn’t afford it, and if you changed your mind later, you were sure you could burn that bridge when you got to it. He was giving you exactly what you wanted, after all. You had little room to complain after the fact.
You offered Tobirama a nod, wanting little else than to retreat. But when you turned on your heel to disappear into the night, Tobirama called your name.
It spilled from his lips in an almost questioning tone, as if he had something to add, but the fact that he had called you at all made you stop in your tracks. The syllables sounded weird coming from him, and it occurred to you that it was the first time you heard him speak your name in years.
You turned, your heart beating heavily and steady in your chest as you met Tobirama’s eye. He cleared his throat.
“The blackmail—” His head dipped as if you were trying to hide the way his lips contorted into a slight smile before his gaze returned to yours. —“It was a nice touch.”
Your voice stalled in your throat.
“I am sure that it will make you think twice the next time you are about to behave brutishly,” you oped with a frown. It was officially too late in the night for further repartee.
“Certainly it shall.” Tobirama bowed his head, and when he looked up, you were gone.
Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.
Notes: Part of me wanted to make everything up until now split into Act I and Act II, with this section being maybe Act II or III. Because it feels like a different story, doesn't it? And it feels like it's just starting. This is where the crux of what I wanted to write is actually coming which is crazy. Go figure... 11 chapters of set up.
A recommendation for the Madara fans; The Head, The Neck (Madara x Reader) reads like an alternate universe in which you let Madara marry you. Unfortunately, 'tis only a oneshot. Foul Creature did have a sister series that also took place in the village negotiations and featured Madara as the main love interest. However, I don't think I'll drop the link to that since I don't have plans to update it anytime soon.
I think I'm going to set a loftier goal for the next chapter. I miss Yonji and want to write a chapter of ... And the Beast before chapter 12 of this series. This one is also so long it should be enough content to hold everyone over. Let's set it at 100 likes and 50 reblogs, no restrictions. See you later.
Tag list: @gracefulbumblebee @norasincubi @rahatake @frvv
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Full chapter list: Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X
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