Summary: What does a corrupt ex-cop, eco-terrorist, vigilante and master hacker have in common? Not much, other than the FBI's latest undercover group to bust high profile criminals. Oh, that and you absolutely have a thing for that corrupt ex-cop.
Set post Season 5! Gator has corneal scarring and can only half see !!
if anyone vibes with this silly lil idea and wants to be tagged when I post the proper first part let me know!!
Warnings: Swearing, misogyny, slut-shaming, (reader is just sexually free let her enjoy life 😔) incel shaming??? One guy killed predators for a living, 4chan reference, Srry for my one piece rotted moots for seeing a character named Smoker, its just a rlly cool name ahahahah.
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It's a seemingly regular Tuesday afternoon in the D - Division quadrant when the foundation of the team sits on the precipice of change. D was derogatory — short for defective, degenerate, disowned — whatever the other 'proper' divisions felt like calling the group. Concrete walls sweat with condensation because the AC broke and ex-criminals aren't supposed to have the luxury of being treated humanely. So you all swelter and melt in the summer heat, within the four walls of those barely breathable slabs of concrete.
It was a normal day at the office otherwise, until the very fabric of the group is rocked by bad news in combat boots and cargo pants.
Fresh blood.
"Who the fuck is this chud?" Leroy snorted when taking in the newbie, half hearted slicked back hair, scars wispy and white across his face near his eyes and the permanent scowl of a man who thinks he's gotten himself a good deal signing up for D - Division.
You appraise him like he's meat because really there's a lot to a person based off body language. He stands confident and tall, but he hasn't any idea what to do with his hands so he thinks slotting thumbs into belt loops comes off as authoritative.
Instead, it comes off clumsy.
His eyes scan the others in the room, finding you first, then Leroy, then Smoker in that order. Assessing each of you as a threat or who the easiest person was to push — that's what you did when you first arrived.
He's cute. In that mid-western conservative kind of way. No self respecting man who pretends to be a feminist would wear camouflage cargo pants in public. This is the style of a man who goes hunting for fun on weekends and by-proxy, should be the kind of person you despise.
Being surrounded by criminals, as a criminal completely fucked your standards though.
"Someone who looks like a lot more fun than you." You grin, eyes tracking from top to bottom at a leisurely pace without shame.
"Doubtful," Leroy doesn't look up from his laptop, fingers clicking away as if he was doing something important. He most likely wasn't, he was probably playing Cookie Clicker or League of Legends. Then he looks up at you, expecting you to have made that assumption and smirks to make a point, "ex-cop, snitched on his daddy and half the deputies for that Stark County blunder. Y'know that debacle and kidnapping thing. Was a big deal."
Not that he needed to, but he spins his laptop around to show the major articles covering it.
"Yeah in 2019, fuck face — Piggies can still squeal when they have a good time," you lick your lips, turning back to the new guy and winked at him as if neither of you were talking about him like he wasn't there.
"Or when they're gettin' murdered." Smoker smirks uneasy, that intense stare of his was off putting at the best of times, but he resumes reading over Leroy's shoulder, "did they cut ya tongue out too? Or are ya mute? Last mute we had ended up offin' himself."
"Yeah, because she's a fucking sex pest." Leroy snaps, gesturing to you.
"Newt didn't kill himself because I had sex with him, asshole." You flip him off then turn to the ex-cop to give him context he hadn't asked for, "total field accident, he wasn't gun trained and shot himself." A very important distinction. Purpose mattered, and really who throws a loaded gun at someone who has never handled one?
You apparently. Not that you say that.
Leroy sighs, expelling whatever rancid insult was resting on his tongue, he knows better than to provoke you with the wrong words. So he opts for something easier and lower, "she gave him Chlamydia—"
"—Oh fuck you, incel. He's pissy I won't have sex with him." The justification isn't necessary, but neither was implying you were dirty because you slept with people that weren't him. "Go on, back to 4chan you go and doxx predators like a good boy. I'm showing the new guy around."
Not that there was anything to show, the office was small and plain and none of you could leave unless given permission.
It had been fourteen months of this dynamic, its not all mean-spirited ribbing. Leroy is mostly joking, and so are you, but there was always a razor thin edge to each insult that was the truth cutting through. Not destructive or gouging where the wound gushes rivulets of crimson, but a small and annoying nick like a paper-cut. Unnoticeable at first, then makes itself known when there's salt or soap.
You round on the newbie, smile bright, wide and a little bit daring. Up close he looks lethal, not dangerous necessarily, but devastatingly attractive. Sharp features softened by freckles faintly dusting across sunkissed skin, moles in abundance in a way that makes him look more sweet than sour. But then one look at his lips, downturned into that grimace was enough to turn sweet into sour, undoing the hard work of his beauty spots.
His eyes, damaged upon closer inspection which explains the scars — brown iris' once a spiral of mahogany now half muddy to pools of milky gray from corneal damage. The left eye looked worse off than the right, but it's clear he can't see very well. And for the same reason you know he's either a recovering conservative or is one, is the same reason you think he was too proud to get himself glasses.
"What's your name, newbie. Or would you prefer newbie?" You tilt your head, eyes purposely track to his lips then back up again. Mark your words, you'll get a fix of him one way or another.
"Gator," his response is sharp and short, tipping away from you, wordlessly setting a boundary. Too close too soon. Yet his head turns slightly to the left so he could look at you with his better eye.
"Oh! Already with the aliases, sir yes sir. You can call me Cherry, then." You salute mockingly, not mean just playful, then gesture vaguely to the other two in the room. He opens his mouth to argue, something in your statement doesn't land right but the momentum continued so he closes it.
Hand flourishing in the direction of Smoker. He's tall, in his forties with tattoos covering his arms, neck and one on the side of his head. He's heavy set like lumberjacks are, even wore flannels as if it was his personal uniform out of hours. "Smoker, got done for killing pedo's, which is a shame because no one is really missing those sick fucks."
Then, dropping the fan fare for Leroy, you simply nod in his direction. He's more bone and awkward limbs than muscle or fat, greasy blonde hair that looks wet tucked behind his ears and one of the most punch-able faces, "Leroy, got done for infiltrating military databases and selling information to international parties. Also plays world of warcraft instead of touching a woman, but then blames it on 'the nice guys never get lucky'."
"Go fuck yourself, Cherry." He drawls.
"I do every night, baby!" You turn back to 'Gator' — an odd alias to choose but it probably had meaning. Everyone's did. "And me? Well its still up for debate, but stalking high-profile business owners and setting their properties on fire. The judge called it eco-terrorism but really it's kind of like liberation for the people."
"It's still domestic Terrorism even if you add pretty technicalities," Leroy sighs, one that says he's had to add this clarification every time you've explained your time inside.
Gator watches all of you, his new team and realizes what an absolute clusterfuck he has to work with. Smoker has that quiet composure which terrified him, because its not really composure. It's a hairline fracture away from snapping. His size was intimidating because it could be deadly when the pin drops. Leroy was every poindexter he'd spent a lifetime looking down on and in no way was he helping those type of guys look better. Then there was you, and he'd already decided you were fucking crazy inside and out with daddy issues apparent for days the second you opened your mouth.
Maybe he should've kept his original plea deal, because there was no feasible way he could run a team this dysfunctional. This beyond help.
Summary: To practice magic is to slight God with the devil's embrace. It is evil, sin, consuming and the price one pays is never worth what one seeks. Yet people, in times of desperation often turn to desperate measures, in Aegon’s case, medicinal remedy is not an option. No healer can undo what has been done. But the Hag tucked away behind reeds, water topped with algae and the voracious bog may be able to. For a price.
Warnings: Blood and Gore, Character Death, catholic-centric monotheism demonised
Tags: DnD Fusion AU, Targaryens are noblefolk, Aegon is a werewolf.
Word Count: 6.1k
Chapter Song: ‘O’Death’ Theme (Until Dawn Soundtrack) - Jeff Grace, Amy Van Roekel
SORRY THIS IS TWO WEEKS LATE !!! I literally got slammed at work two weeks in a row, i did so much OT and im SORRY but here she is yall :’(((((
Series Masterlist
You’re Back. The void bringing a sense of unnerving, and much like it had been the previous time — overstimulated the senses tenfold like a barrage of everything all at once. You move, but there is no feeling of your legs carrying you, just that you have moved from point to point with no memory of getting there. It was a more disorienting form of how you materialize from one place to the other, except in the prime realm you knew where you were going.
Here, there was nothing to determine a position or place other than the faint sense of knowing you weren’t in the same place. A droning of magical song ebbs and flows, louder or softer depending on whichever direction you appear to be going. Perhaps spirits are reaching out or even the Gods, faintly you recall Auntie speaking in hushed whispers whenever she reached out to Syrrelio, God of Blood, and think for a moment that this may be his domain.
Though you wait, there is no voice calling from the great beyond, no divine message flowing through you or even a presence to indicate a greater celestial presence. There was something, however. A beacon of warmth beckoning you in the void, barely detectable but the heat was like being in close proximity of a large fire during a winter blizzard.
Finally, the small glimmer of light sparkles like a flare against the abyssal backdrop of pitch black darkness. At first you think your eyes are playing tricks on you, but it flickers again and there is an instant and urgent pull to go to whatever has your attention. An exit from this madness? Maybe so, but it was an answer you would not get this visit.
A violent and abrupt flash of light from the sun’s spotty beams cutting through the trees of the kitchen window jerk you back to the prime realm. There is a moment of utter confusion as you take in the surroundings with care, the hut remains in tact and in normal shabby condition, but the cause of confusion is that you are standing over the table with a sprig of dried Goodberry clutched in your hands hovering over the Mortar and Pestle.
Strange.
These… episodes… weren’t something brought on by sleeping it seemed. They were involuntary, like someone - or better yet - something was trying to send a message. It was only slightly unnerving to say the least, but shakily you continued on creating the healing brew like you weren’t just psychically accosted by an unseen force or entity.
The days were short but slowly dragged on a little later each day, now that Dead Winter’s Day had been to pass. Snow was still falling in excess, marking a relatively relentless bitter winter as the trees of the swamp withered and the bottle brush shrubs discoloured from frostburn. It wasn’t just the cold that swept through the dreary feeling across the swamp, you could sense that despite restoring Ornmirs shrine it had not settled the spirit.
Her unstable energy seemed to entice more malevolent creatures to the area, Stirges were now the least of your problems.
Your current problem required more attention — this evenings full moon was a mere few hours away judging by the soft sweeping darkness encasing the swamp and Aegon was yet to arrive. Since he started coming to see you he had been relatively punctual, often arriving midday at the earliest or mid-afternoon at the latest but never this close to dark.
It deeply concerned you, more than expected and it only slightly embarrassed you. The deep inner voices within your mind were at a battle, one half expressing urgent distress and beckoning to go and investigate, the other half was trying its best to reason and that there was nothing to worry about.
Today, it seemed, anxiety was much louder than reason. That paired with the unpleasant feeling that twisted inside your gut was reason enough for you to throw on your cloak and disappear into nothing, appearing back in reality inside the Fortress that overlooked Oldtown. He’d be beside himself if he hurt anyone, is what you tell yourself to not feel flustered and to justify why you’re going to him. Deep down you know he cared little for those inside the stony fort, only his siblings had the privilege.
Your hood concealed a great deal of your face and the cloak hid the rest of your attire, aware that you didn’t exactly look like the typical local roaming. It was disturbingly quiet which was odd enough considering it was renowned for housing belligerently loud swordsmen and knights.
And yet, as you cross the courtyard with a purpose it was as quiet as a chapel. Your eyes scanned the few people, some were holy men, some were servants and others were simple folk or traders but not a single notable individual in sight. Time was not on your side, as you give the darkening sky a despondent look before quickly making haste to the West Wing of the building.
Living quarters were located within the West Wing and if Aegon had any sense, he’d have locked himself in his room lest he be set loose to attack any ignorant wanderer. The lack of people around may have been a blessing in disguise, making things easier to lurk around without fear of being caught.
Most of the holy men were headed to the East Wing, where you had to assume the inbuilt chapel was since for the last three corridors you only passed servants who looked at you with curious glances but said nothing or alerted anyone. This corridor in particular inlaid carved stone, a garish green rug trailed from end to end with golden accents and the holy symbol of their false god reminded you how much you despised their religion.
The thought had barely registered in your head, softly stepping on the carpet and past a door that was half open.
”— and what of Aegon?”
Hearing his name pricked your ears and forced you to come to a stop, the voice was raspy, struggling to speak and airy. Viserys, was the first thought that came to your head, shocked slightly at how quickly he sounded to be deteriorating. You lean against the carvings that lined the door, not caring to look up and inspect whatever lavish artistry has been wasted on accenting what amounted to a door hole.
“If I may speak plainly, my Lord… Aegon… he is a sinner.” Another voice, older but more confident. A priest. You think, a holy devoted man. “He has been unfit to take over long before you became ill, you must know this, your Lady wife knows this.”
Your eyes flicker to the window, the sky darkening with each moment, you have little time to waste but find it difficult to step off from the wall you leant against, wanting to hear what was being said while Aegon was absent. From the stories he has vaguely revealed, you piece together that this can’t be very pleasant —.
”—Devil work is at play, are we to ignore what Ser Criston reported back… The hag of the swamp may be gone but she has left a younger in her stead. A younger, might I add that Aegon has been seen visiting every month.” A stern female voice snapped imperiously, ah, you stop to focus, Alicent.
“There is no charge, no proof, we can’t simply abscond the witchling or trial her.” The priest grew weary by the sounds of things. This discussion had been happening for a long while before you happened to stop by and eavesdrop. “Though… we may still be able to help Aegon. A procedure a higher devout can perform, through the word of God, to banish any and all devils that possess a human.”
The silence was thick, almost as though there was a fourth person speaking amongst the three until it was broken, “send one of the stablemen to Durrenden, I want Aegon back here tonight for the procedure. I also want Ser Criston sent to the swamp bitches abode and have her apprehended for maleficium, devil craft, seduction and heresy. She has poisoned my son long enough, I want her burnt in the square.”
A threat against your very being didn’t seem to spark fear within you like it should have, it had quite distinctly the opposite effect, a giddy smirk tugged at the corners of your lips. You’d never been a part of a witch hunt before and it sounded rather exhilarating.
“She is right, I will not have another of my children marr this house with shame. Do what must be done,” Viserys weary and tired seemed to want to put an end to the conversation - or arguing - you weren’t entirely sure.
You make a face, once again feeling that you should be fearful or somewhat scared but instead find the ordeal quite amusing. Mayhaps the confidence in Lady Alicents imperious tone about your persecution was what tickled at your humour. Auntie was sure to have cackled if she were present, but the nagging feeling stirring within drew your smirk down to a thin line.
Aegon could not be taken tonight, that was of utmost importance — The nebulous ‘procedure’ the holy man spoke of did well to cause unease within, if anything about this religion was clear is that many of this belief did horrendous acts to justify and uplift their false idol.
Durrenden. The small village southwest of Oldtown, bordering the edge of the swamp was all you seemed to know of it, not being the one you occasionally pass through for fresh produce. But Alicent’s comment on sending their Holy Knight there gave answer to why the Fortress was so barren of life, as to why Aegon and the swordsmen were down there, remained a mystery.
With little time left you close into yourself, disappearing within a blink and reappearing on the outer edges of the swamp. Durrenden a short walk, silhouetted by the sun that had begun descending behind it, haloing golden edges around the small huts and buildings. Temporary battlements had been set up, tents scattered close to the town's walls and many swordsmen wearing the insignia of their God.
One might think they were ready for war, though you had no time to ask or answer hypotheticals inside your head. Time was running low if the colour of the sky was any indication. Hurried in stride and purposeful with your steps, Durrenden surrounded you quickly with its townsfolk sneering and occasional swordsman wearily casting gazes. None of the strangers blurring past you had violet eyes nor silver locks of hair which caused unsteady panic to brew within, there was a small voice in the back of your mind that cast doubt. What if he was already at the hut? Perhaps he snuck away without anyone seeing him, but the surplus of men and eyes around indicated that the task may be unfeasible.
The steady stream of armored men flowing to and from the village tavern served as a good starting point, remembering Aegon mentioning that he’d sneak into the Howling Keep (a poor mans tavern) in Oldtown. The naming convention humoured you greatly at the time, though Aegon grimaced and looked at you with a deadpan expression.
You push open the Oak doors, not caring for the two patrons you cut off by doing so causing a slight commotion. Everyone within turned their heads and fell silent once their gaze fell on you — from head to toe not a single thing about the attire you adorned or markings drawn into your skin indicated you were a commoner or local.
Scanning the room, your eyes fell on a pair of violet ones, familiar but not Aegon’s. They were deeper violet, one slightly off colour and colder, narrowed down to a cautious glare. Aemond. Dressed in dark leathers, chain mail glinting from beneath the studded black vest with a different insignia. Not a symbol of their God but a house crest. A Three-Headed Dragon.
“Where is he?” You demand, disregarding all others in the tavern, speaking to him as though you were the only two in the room.
He is still for a moment, though you aren’t able to decipher if he’s wanting to argue back or is merely conflicted in aiding you. As far as you were aware he had at least a vague idea of what occurred on full moons, and must know that was the reason for your intrusion. Yet, he hesitates.
Two swordsmen step forward before he holds a hand out and dismisses them, there is a soft grumble in displeasure while he strides toward you. He brushes past you, heading back out the way you came, and you follow quietly behind him. Many of the locals and swordsmen watch with attentiveness, judgment passing through their cold glares as if you were on your way to lead Aemond to eternal damnation right before their eyes.
Neither of you exchange discussion as there was little need to do so, yet the question of why Lord Targaryen’s men were out in Durrenden as though an invasion was due hung at the tip of your tongue. It never passes your lips, even as he leads you to one of the larger tents, the same house crest embroidered on the tent door.
Inside, unlike sleeping quarters like you anticipated to see, there sat a large cage manned by a single guard. Within it, Aegon sat slumped against one of the bars in some type of drunken stupor though his pained groans carried to your ears instantly. The cage is far too large for something like a lycanthrope, your first thought followed by, they’re going after Ornmir.
Your question was finally answered but there was much too little time to reprimand Aemond and the men of the battalion. In a quick sweep, you fade from beside the younger brother and appear beside Aegon who hadn’t quite processed your arrival just yet. “Apologies, we must make haste — I don’t have time to explain,” your voice is softer than you expected, voice cradling him as though he were an injured animal.
He looks up at you, eyes half lidded but attentive when they search your face. Sweat beaded down his forehead, down past his flushed cheeks, “bumble,” he whispers in a drunken slur and it takes you a moment to realize he is addressing you.
“I’ve nothing to give for the pain,” you fumble with the pouch on your belt before gently placing a hand at the base of his neck to cradle his head and the other to grip his arm tightly. You cast a pointed look at Aemond before your surroundings fade away, no longer encaged and inside a tent but now surrounded by dozens of trees on an old faded trail. The furthest south of the Swamp, knowing it was too risky to return to the hut.
It seemed as though you had mere minutes to spare, the sky no longer streaked with orange and yellow, completely covered in darkness with the moon rising over the horizon.
***
Faint mildew and damp earth fill your nostrils as you awaken, there is initial panic when your eyes fly open to surroundings that weren’t the decrepit interior of your abode. Condensation dripping from rocky walls subtly glimmering in the flickering light of a waning lantern, you are reminded where you have taken temporary refuge.
Everywhere ached, the muscles around your shoulders and neck yearned for some tension release while your legs felt stiff from a night of keeping the wolf entertained. Surprisingly, Aegon being inebriated hadn’t done much to effect the transformation or behaviour from your observations aside from a comment he made after dawn broke and he laid on the swamp ground, chest rising and falling after shakily becoming normal again.
“My fucking head,” was all he groaned before promptly passing out. A massacred hand resting atop his forehead as though that would do much to alleviate his pain.
Now, his breaths were simple and consistent like any other noise within the deep cave you chose as sanctuary. His head rested on your lap for lack of a proper bed for him to rest and gain some strength back — at least that's what you tell yourself. Nevermind you are aimlessly combing fingers through his hair, detangling the ends riddled with sweat and blood.
It must have been mid afternoon when he stirred awake, eyes fluttering open to take in the surroundings. You had half expected him to sleep for the entire day and well into the night, looking down on him you offer a smile in the dimly lit cave. A flourish of one hand and murmur an incantation, materialising four orbs of light that float nearby to brighten the area.
“You came for me,” He croaks, voice crackly no doubt from straining it the night prior, turning his head in your lap to look up at you. The first thing he says is not to question where you had taken him, he trusted you without question and this statement wasn’t lost on you whatsoever.
There was something very innocent in the moment and perhaps it had been the fact you were still raking fingers through his hair despite it had long been detangled.
Casting your gaze downward it was becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore the feelings that stirred within, no matter how hard you tried to reason that it was something else entirely. You cared for him. The revelation should not be one that is shocking, half a year in tending to him would indicate this truth and yet it still shook you to the core.
Loneliness was a bitter thing, you had plenty of loneliness over the course of your life that it seem only fair to rid yourself of it.
”An unfortunate twist in fate has me caring for you, it seems,” you admit dryly, feeling lighter and less wound up upon saying the words aloud. “A most ill-fated outcome considering it is I who put this burden on you.” A sardonic smile mocking your own misfortune, of course it would be fated that the cure to loneliness would be in the form of a man you had inflicted a most painful blight upon.
He is silent for a moment, so still that you'd have thought he fell back asleep if it weren’t for his attentive violet eyes looking up at you, he finally says, “I tried to leave them at the road before Durrenden — They wouldn’t let me.”
”So they encaged you?”
“No,” he smiles meekly, “that was after I stole two carafes of wine from our reserve.” A flash of something must have passed through him causing the corners of his lips drop, eyes suddenly dimming with resignation as he looks away for the first time, “I thought if I was too drunk to feel anything I wouldn’t be in pain.”
Stupid. You admonish silently, but your chest tugs at the words of a man who simply wishes for the pain to fade. It was the first time you considered that he isn’t just talking about the pain of transformation. Without jostling him around too much, you reach into the small pouch off to the side and pull out a small phial, the best you can offer considering you weren’t in the hut.
After passing it over to him wordlessly you sigh and look around the cave, “your family’s Knight was sent to fetch you, the holy man mentioned to your mother a procedure to ‘purge you of sin’.”
”You went to the castle?” He asks, sitting up as though he were startled by the notion. Wincing at the sudden movement, he steadied himself on the wall beside you. At some point between your fated first meeting and now, he stopped complaining or questioning whenever you handed him things to consume. Since there was little resistance when you handed him a small bottle of sanguine liquid.
”To look for you,” a simple answer and yet it still caused your stomach to flutter, “your mother seems to be of the belief I have corrupted you with devil work… I wasn’t aware she was so… pious.” As amusing as a witch hunt sounded to you yesterday, it felt more cumbersome in reality and you had only really been forced into hiding for a mere day.
Your words struck him as amusing, a dry laugh falling from his cracked lips and you curse yourself for not thinking to get water amongst the hubbub of yesterday. “In the bigger picture, you have done little to push me into the devil’s clutches, my lady.” He addresses you, as if a highborn and not a witch of the woods or at the very least; a Commoner. The phrase catches you by surprise, so much so there is a physical reaction akin to a slight recoil. It sounded foreign to hear it, but you didn’t hate it.
A connection in your head seems to click, instantaneously dismissing what you were going to say about what he called you and in comes a flood of thoughts so incredibly obvious that you are almost ashamed to say anything about it now. But, your mouth moves much quicker than your mind and a sharp, “oh gods,” falls from your lips.
He stares at you, looking embarrassed as if you were lambasting his choice of words but that couldn’t be further from the truth. “I might — well it is possible to relieve you of this curse but the chances may not be in our favour.” It wasn’t some magical cure out of nowhere and it wasn’t without risks involved but if done right it could be done.
There’s confusion etched into his facial features, for that you couldn’t blame him, “but this is a blood curse —,”
”It is not a cure, per se…” Trying to find the words seemed difficult, especially ones that wouldn’t be insensitive, “if you recall this ailment was imparted onto Aemond and I moved the curse. Blood curses attach themselves to the essence of a person which is why they can be moved to family members — which is why I could rid him of it.”
”Be that I dislike my brother, I do not wish for him to suffer monthly —“
“Sibling blood is closer entwined than other familial relatives but much like I restored Aemonds eye, I could attempt to move the curse to someone else… someone who is already on the cusp of death.” It would be all too easy to say his name aloud, but there was a part within your aware conscience that felt it rather evil for suggesting second hand patricide.
Though you needn’t say his name, Aegon understood wholeheartedly, “Viserys.” Not ‘Father’, not a hint of endearing or love in his tone. The relationship between father and son had long severed before you had waylaid the noble family with magic interference all those months ago. It may have not been your intent to send the Lord to an early grave, the fates seemed to have planned for it anyway.
You just hoped they planned for him to suffer one last time.
There was an already inherent distaste for the man, one that was imparted to you from Aunties bias but it only increased tenfold when Aegon would regale you with stories of how absent and horrible of a man Viserys seemed despite the public opinion being otherwise. How does a man have five children and only care for one? Even for that one child, the care presents as thinly veiled kindness at best from what you’ve heard.
He mulls over the idea, you can sense his hesitancy to answer and it is something you don’t hold over him considering what you are suggesting could be coercive murder in the eyes of the church.
“Forgive me, if I spoke out of turn.” You say softly, smiling at him as if silently understanding the conflict within him. If anyone had been present to hear such blasphemy you were most definitely not avoiding the accusations of being a harbinger of chaos and devil whisperer.
”No,” he shook his head, there was uncertainty in whether he was denying your suggestion or if he disagreed that you’d stepped over a line. Even you were self aware enough of how bad it sounded, but over the course of half a year the two of you seemed to slowly understand the inner machinations of one another enough to know when something was laced with malicious intent or not. While he understood to a degree your distrust and ire toward the head of his family, he has never had reason to believe that you worked with an ulterior motive. Initially, perhaps, but now? No.
”I want to say yes,” he begins, a pained look within his eyes laden with guilt, “but what option remains for me? I am his eldest son. He is destined to pass, sure. But my path lay already ahead of me. To become Lord of the city regardless of if I’m afflicted by a curse or not. This —,” he gestures to himself, riddled with grime and filth, “— this is physical pain but no matter my options I will suffer.”
The strain in his voice gave quite a clear indication that he was hesitant to be so vulnerable, not for a lack of trust, it seemed as though the cause for his trepidation simply grew from a lack of someone around to listen to his complaints. You tactfully reach over and clasp his hand. Entwined it was easy to see how the dirt and muck complimented one another on each hand with wayward splatters and streaks like paintings on parchment.
He seldom spoke of duty, opting to spit in the face of it whenever the topic broached but you knew what lay ahead of him when the inevitable arrival of death comes to consume Viserys. A strange custom, you noted. Many families had long abandoned succession through eldest offspring, a handful of Lords (Targaryens included) seemed to keep the tradition, whether it be in honour of tradition or it aligned religiously though you were unsure of.
To be a Lord and be ailed with something as unforgiving as Lycanthropy would become harder to hide, a bigger burden, one that would turn the devout folk on him in an instant. Public opinion on the man beside you, already sat lower than the other siblings, in a cruel string of fate it almost feels as though he were destined to fail.
“But you are second to oldest, what of your sister?” You ask.
“Rhaenyra?” His voice was laced with surprise, he spoke very little of her and though you never prodded further there was uncertainty of if he held disdain toward her and that had been the reason for his little mention of her or if there was something else. “He may love her more than the rest of us but she will never inherit after what she’s done to the family.”
I will not have another of my children marr this family with shame. Viserys had said this the previous day, now with context it seemed to make sense. You were in no position to question further and you didn’t, though little pieces of information you’d gathered over the months fell into place, albeit disjointed but nonetheless sensical.
The oldest of the siblings, born to a different mother was free-spirited and rather outspoken, if the rumours of the common folk were to be believed then she ran off with Viserys’ brother and her Uncle for love. You’d initially taken the slighted gossip with a pinch of salt but could think of no other reason Rhaenyra could bring shame to such a proud and religious family.
You spare Aegon a look, not pitiful or full of sorrow and despair but one that was at least hopeful.
“If you ever wish to disappear, far from here, say the words and I will make it happen.” A grim solution, but it was the only thing you could think about that would keep Aegon’s conscience intact with the least amount of bodies in the process.
“Threat of death? After all this time? Here I was beginning to think you tolerated me,” he found it within himself to jest, a smile on his lips that etched into your mind long after he turned away sullenly, “I couldn’t… I can’t leave them.”
The unspoken burden of the oldest remaining sibling weighs heavy on him, you have come to learn many things about Helaena and Daeron in passing comments or quips. Aemond fiercely sits in the peripheral of your thoughts often when you think of Aegon and wonder how different things may have been if you didn’t help Aemond.
“I tolerate you no more than a crocodile tolerates a drowning wildebeest in his river,” you jest, suppressing a coy smile. You squeeze his hand reassuringly and as if responding to a question, he squeezed yours in return. “Threat of death is not so awful, death is not the end we believe it to be,” you muse, eyes cast down the expansive cave mouth, a very characteristically cryptic moment from you.
Down the cave, a seemingly tiny dot in the distance was your only indicator of an exit, a light that specified the sun's bright rays was what awaited you when it was time to leave the soggy cavernous hole.
Deep rumbling shudders through the cave, a great force rippling through the ground no different to how an earthquake unmistakingly rips through the earth indiscriminately. Though it is a force of nature, it is not what one might think as queit relief washes over you. Aegon looks to you in search of an answer or reaction, you remain unbothered and look to him with a sincere smile, “you’re a good man, Aegon… I only wish for others to see you the way I do.”
He is stunned a moment, possibly wondering where that came from as you were thinking the same but he looks past you and back nervously, “this isn’t the moment where you leave me at the mercy of whatever thing has crawled in here?”
You laugh and shake your head, a sound so foreign to even you it was a wonder how you managed to share a space with Auntie who was decidedly humourless for so many years. “This cave may be Ornmir’s own domicile but she won’t hurt you, and I won’t leave you here either… I believe it isn’t safe to return to the hut. Your holy knight might still be on the lookout for you and I’d prefer you rest before I release you back to those den of wild dragons.”
What you wanted to say more than anything was, stay, stay here with me and never go back to the wretches who seek to ruin you. But it was hard, hard to even admit that first and foremost and hard to be so vulnerable with someone. Auntie kept you at arms length always as if preparing you for the inevitable time she left you, feeling attached to someone always seemed forbidden.
But with Aegon, it was easy. So easy it was terrifying.
“What are you thinking about?” He asks quietly, when you turn to him his eyes are already trained on your face as if trying to pry into your very thoughts.
The words can’t form in your mouth, the admission that perhaps loneliness wasn’t what fulfilled you any longer refused to leave your mouth so you search for another answer quickly. Despite not finding a way to express your inner thoughts you find your body leaning in toward him, hands cupping the sides of his face and pressing your forehead against his in a manner that was more intimate than expected.
Noses brushing against one another, your eyes look down at the curve of his cheeks from the smoothest point to where his stubble had started to break through.
“Let me make this right,” you promise, thumbs brushing softly over his cheeks, “the least I can do is try and take away the curse I put on you. I cannot cure the ailments of the future but I can undo my own wretched infliction.”
“Okay,” he breathes out in a voice so small you wouldn’t hear it if it weren’t for his breath lightly fanning your face. “What about you?” He asks almost painfully, and you selfishly think it’s at the thought of the monthly visits coming to a stop.
”You are no stranger, I wish for you to visit on your own terms, not because you’re forced too.”
“Okay.” He says again, hands coming up to sit atop yours over his face.
The two of you remain there for an uncertain amount of time, you don’t fully recall disengaging from the embrace but you do. Quietly going over the plan for the evening, you stated many times throughout that the likelihood of success was slim and the results wouldn’t bear its fruit until a month away, but you’d be damned if you were going to at least try.
Aegon assured you he was well rested and in fact argued he should accompany you. Him joining was not the problem, it was the prospect of his mother or holy knight finding him before you could finish the ritual. There was little else you could do to convince him otherwise as he held onto your hand firmly when you whisk the both of you away through darkness and into the Fortress.
Night had fallen a couple of hours prior, the sun no longer commanding the skies but the moon. Her rays of silver cascaded through stained glass and created prismatic shapes of colour on the carpet below your feet as they quietly roamed the West Wing corridor together. Aegon still held onto your hand.
Much like it had been the day prior, it was desolate bar from the occasional servant who eyed the two of you but made no comment or haste to alert anyone.
“Aransmore wrote to us about their cattle getting eaten and the farmers being terrorized by a great beast in the swamp… that is why we set for Durrenden.” Aegon whispered cautiously, you had guessed he felt as though he owed you some degree of explanation for why the castle was bare and Durrenden had so many swordsmen.
”Yes.. Ornmir… She’s — She’s still angry and I am unsure what the cause is. Her shrine has been repaired yet there is an ire that remains present. I shall visit her again in time…once this has been settled,” you nod at him, quietly responding.
Once outside a large set of oak doors, gilded gold edging and embellishments, there was little mystery left at who lay in the chambers beyond them. Neither of you make the first move, both merely staring at the door as if it would open on its own accord.
You look over at Aegon, “we need not go through this, if you wish it so.”
“No,” he says softly, looking down, then back up to the door, “no I want to.” His voice is hardened, more determined and you wish more than anything you could read his thoughts but you turn away and nod.
He surprises you more, taking the first step forward but you are the one who opens the door. Both of you have an unspoken kinship bred from months of understanding each other slowly.
The room is dark, save for the silver light of the moon cascading through the open window. Despite the cool breeze flowing through, the room stank distinctly of mold and must, as though the windows had been sealed shut for years. Your eyes settle on Viserys, the first time you’ve seen him since ailing him with his son's mangled eye. He was less man than he was rot, you decided, the cause of the smell being him.
Half of his face blackened with necrosis, the infection taking a rather nasty turn. The leeches on his face had no more incentive to keep eating away at the flesh, not when it had shrunk down to the bone and exposed part of his skull. It was grotesque, really, but your face remained unmoved as you stood beside the bed and looked down at him. Only then did your face twist into something unpleasant.
You turn to Aegon, face pulled to a frown that half indicated disgust, nostrils slightly flared and eyebrows crossed together into a sullen expression. “He’s dead.” You say, defeatedly.
I have had BIG OL writers block this week but it looks like im getting slammed at work so im not confident I'll get the next chapter of witches brew out on time !! Maybe a day late 😭😭😭😭 APOLOGIES ALL
The state of the fandom is understandably (and rightfully so) shaky right now. I don't want to come into people's messages who are on hiatus, taking a break from hotd, moving on from hotd, or generally not interested in writing/fics/brainstorming. So! I make this post to ask: if you're okay with me coming to you with ideas, idea shares, brainstorming, etc, about fic writing, can you please let me know? 😊 I've got some ideas I kinda wanna bounce around! Thanks!
Summary: To practice magic is to slight God with the devil's embrace. It is evil, sin, consuming and the price one pays is never worth what one seeks. Yet people, in times of desperation often turn to desperate measures, in Aegon’s case, medicinal remedy is not an option. No healer can undo what has been done. But the Hag tucked away behind reeds, water topped with algae and the voracious bog may be able to. For a price.
Warnings: GORE, graphic descriptions oh bodily harm and maiming, magic described as visceral, catholic-centric monotheism demonised, 18+ minors DNI
Tags: DnD Homebrew Fusion AU, Targaryens are noblefolk, Aegon is a werewolf
Word Count: 4.6k
Chapter Song: Quagmire - Satin Puppets
Series Masterlist
Thayhelm passes almost as quickly as Melthare, the two seasonal holidays sneaking out from nowhere like an unseen strike where once you would be on top of the yearly festivals. Perhaps if Auntie had been around, she would have had a better sense of the time around her and urged you to join her in celebration of the spiritually sound holidays. You still celebrated, only barely recognizing the Autumn Equinox on account of the spiritual vestiges that roamed around the swamp in search for nothing you could provide.
As a child Thayhelm was your favourite holiday, the spirits in the swamp came from many and took on shapes that weren’t of the prime material realm. It was as close to Fey as you could imagine without falling victim and becoming a lost and trapped soul within the cursed labyrinth of the Feywilds. The spirits often flocked to the Elder Tree, its beacon of energy attracting those roaming near like moths to candle fire.
Dead Winter Day was fastly approaching and you’ve made a point to remember to travel out to the shrine of Ornmir and celebrate. The first Midwinter you will be alone, no Auntie to help guide you through the hymns of winter and the offering you’d need to prepare. It wasn’t as though you felt incompetent, you - like the spirits that roam during Thayhelm - felt lost.
And yet, you found yourself feeling the opposite when the moon became full and Aegon would arrive on your horribly deteriorating porch — what would Auntie think? Firstly, she would go on an admonishing rant about the state of the hut which had only worsened since her departure. What once lay a stately cottage, now groaned with wood rot and crackled from the termite infestation. ‘Look after your belongings’ You can hear her reprimand in the shrill voice of your mind, as though any of the hut felt like it belonged to you.
Secondly, she would lecture you on your attachment that had grown toward Aegon over the months since meeting him, warning that things like this may be highly sought after but they were only a means to distract oneself from embracing full potential. ‘Magic makes us whole, not the inevitable absence of others’ She had once said, cryptic as Auntie was known to be, you could easily decipher that it was a warning to sway far from the whims of earthly attachments.
You reluctantly and silently agreed, magic is what made you who you are. A man who barely crossed your path months ago was not something to become attached to. But, the thought flew through your mind like a sin, a flash of wickedness and betraying the memory of Auntie — she was no longer here, it wouldn’t hurt to humour the feelings of warmth or fullness that came whenever Aegon was around..
And that is where your mind lingered, on harmless guilty pleasure. Trivial, menial things like brewing a different potion to help him sleep better after a grueling transformation under the moon or to be more mindful of cooking meals that were less of the slop that mirrored the marshy quagmires but more familiar to him. For comfort, you told yourself when the creeping feeling of embarrassment washed over as though it was foolish for thinking like this.
A knock at the door pulled you from spiraling further into the paralysis you found yourself in more frequently. A slight hiccup bloomed in your gut and heart, who could it be? A face flashed in your mind and it became clear who you wished it might be but the footsteps and the knock weren’t familiar to your ears. And the full moon had only passed a mere week ago.
Appearing, from thin air, as you so often did behind the guest on the porch and it was quite the surprise. The broad and tall Holy Knight was almost unrecognizable, but that wasn’t the cause for the feelings of unease and trouble brewing within you. His holy sigil branded on the tunic beneath his shining armour and imprinted on the cloak that swayed softly in the breeze.
“Squire boy,” you muse, teasingly. The nickname you recall Auntie used when he had visited a decade prior, he was a young man then, though now he had grown more into his features and looked regal in the armour he donned.
He turned to regard you, a steely look in his eyes and it occurred that there was no longer the boyish charm he once had when he first visited. Time had been kind to his features but not to his mind, it seemed. Repugnant religious interference had snuffed out what gratitude and reverence he had prior as he looked down on you with the same look of contempt you get from the villagers whenever you descend into the towns.
“Hag,” he sneers, it was clear he was not here for niceties anymore. Once a young man, now a Holy Knight. “Where is your elder?” His dark eyes watch you carefully meander around him, as if waiting for a chance to strike you down or even an excuse to do so.
Gods, you restrain yourself from rolling your eyes, he’s become boring.
“Gone,” shrugging lazily, you look at his greatsword, far too big to be sheathed. The pommel molded with the same sigil as his cloak and tunic. “Has the church decided to retroactively smite her for helping your master all those years ago?” You taunt, thinking that his arrival was odd enough without his dreadful aura bringing a damper to your day.
He ignores your jape, completely, eyes scanning for any signs of life in the hut. “Gone is she? Gone where?” He accuses, as if you were hiding her away or simply being dishonest about her whereabouts.
“Somewhere,” you shrug, “but not here.”
“Hm,” his jaw tightens, reaching across his body to a concealed pouch and presenting a small wicker doll. “This be your handy work then, witch?” It was made with care for the craft, no amateur could bind the twigs together with an astute precision like this but it was definitely not of your own creation. The weave pattern was unfamiliar, different than what you’d seen before. Not even Auntie’s technique looked like this.
“Afraid not dear Squire,” not even the runestone tied to the chest on the doll looked familiar. It wasn’t troubling to you however, many travelers come and go and it wasn’t the first time a witch or wizard passed through and left signs of their presence.
“You may call me Ser Criston – and how is it that Lord Visery’s suddenly falls ill, no recovery in sight and one of our lord priests finds this?” He presses, clearly trying to milk some confession from you but your resolve remains unchanged. It was benign if anything, a wicker doll could mean anything from good tidings to something as malevolent as blood magic – which you were versed in but this was not your doing.
Plainly it very well might be a targeted attack on the Lord of Oldtown, but the possibility of it meaning good health was higher.
Your shoulders rose and fell in another lazy shrug. To be perfectly honest, it seemed on par for the zealots to make something out of nothing to this degree for the purpose of fear mongering. They denounce magic as devil work and try to ignore its existence but the moment it seems targeted they are suddenly believers.
“Clearly I am an innocent, though I can sense how badly you wish to have me burnt in the city square. No evidence means no charge, even a religious fanatic as yourself can honour law. Or has your false God decided he is above law?”
He reached forward, in an attempt to grip the hem of your cloak. But as his fingertips grazed the top of your collar bone, you had disappeared in a puff of mist, materializing behind him with a grin, tisking his behaviour. “My my, your temper has risen Squire boy. Run along back to your iron castle and false god empty handed… The Witch of the Swamp has no answers for you here.”
“You may be proven guilty yet,” he spun around to face you, upper lip curled in a nasty sneer, “tell me this then – what bewitchment have you put on the Lord’s son Aegon? I was aware of his lustful escapades to the whorehouses and taverns yet he returns to the swamp. What vile deceit do you poison him with?”
Hah, you snort, face contorting into a grimace, “and you care oh so much about the little lordling? Feigning concern does not exempt you or the people for what lay in truth; He was a sinner long before he found me in the eyes of you zealots. But it is ever convenient to have a reason to blame for his frivolities, is it not?”
He nods, a faint smirk on his lips that waned into a contemptuous smile with nostrils flared, “count your days little hag, once the church finds you guilty of maleficium and magical interference you will burn in the square.” His broad torso had begun twisting as he made his descent down the rickety steps of the porch.
“If,” you say aloud, causing him to turn back, a smug smile spreads across your face that twists into a sinister snarl, “get out of my swamp.”
A threat he happily obliged.
***
The winter winds that cast down from the nearby mountainous ranges brought a merciless bite, winter had come with a vengeance and it had only been steadily getting worse. You had yet to see Aegon since the incident of the Holy Knight, Criston, who had darkened the doorstep of the hut and brought with him empty threats under the guise of religious intervention. Perhaps in the beginning, your intention with Aegon had been merely a spiteful jab at the Lord of the land and his family. Even then, your intention was to never cause death even if it would be incredibly easy to do so.
So the Lord Visery’s fell ill? That couldn’t be helped. It was in the hands of fate now whether the man lived or died. All you did was take a mere part of him, the fault should not befall you if his own wounds weren’t tended to properly because the healers were inept.
The harmonious bleating of a distant Nymphernal carries you from your thoughts, a soft reminder that while the creatures of the Swamp were friendly, you were out alone and trudging barefoot through thick marshy glades of still water. It was not quite Dead Winter Day, the midmark of winter and yet you felt a pull to the shrine of Ornmir to pay respects and present an offering. It would be the first time you would venture alone to this area of the Swamp, no longer under the guidance of Auntie who had long disappeared.
To where? That was unclear. One morning you awoke and she had simply gone.
Perhaps on another worldly pilgrimage, or perhaps to take her own life. The only indication you had ever known that this may happen is when she instructed you to not miss her if she were to ever leave. But you did.
Hidden behind the thick shield of clouds, the sun sat at her highest though her warmth nigh be felt from down below where you silently yearned for it. Though you trudged triumphantly, mud and clag squishing up between your toes and sticking to the bottom of your dress where the rips and tethers sat. The hunting song of the Stymphalian echoes through the treetops, no doubt as it prepares to descend on its prey, you were just a girl when nursing the small bird back to health, now you could only imagine the monstrous size it got to.
A local superstition cited, to hear the hunting song of the Stymphalian was a bad omen, and despite never feeding into the poppycock drivel of townsfolk, there must have been some merit to this superstition. The overgrown path that many years ago was used as a trade route between two of the smaller towns now lay abandoned and its only purpose served as the spiritual shrine of Ornmir.
Only the shrine had been destroyed. By what or who was unknown.
Perhaps the townsfolk are right, the only thought you had upon setting eyes on the blighted site. But now, it seemed, you finally had an answer for why Ornmir had grown aggressive. Only a person with intent can wrought this much destruction on a stone and wood shrine, but that hardly narrowed down the culprit.
That afternoon you spent silently restoring the shrine back to its original form, proving to be more difficult than initially thought but your resolve strengthened despite it. Blood Magic came easy. Green Magic, even easier. Mending spiritual monuments to appease a now wrathful spirit? Harder than one would think.
When you finished and bowed your head, the sun began waning and with it; her light. With darkness approaching it was wise for you to return to the hut, yet your feet carried you elsewhere. An unseen feeling tugging at you in the form of soft incomprehensible whispers. You weren’t being bewitched that was clear, you could still control yourself but the feeling was one that couldn’t be shaken.
In the distance, another hunting call from the Stymphalian cawed tauntingly.
Urgently, you walk through the swamp, a feeling of light distress that felt foreign as though it weren’t your own. The thrumming drone of the tree drowned out your own heartbeat and singled in on an anomaly, as you drew near it became clearer what– who the anomaly was.
“Aegon?” You whisper softly, a hand bracing the trunk of a tree as your eyes cast downward on the man in a curled up position. Hardly recognisable and it wasn’t on account of the muck that covered him from head to toe or his ripped clothes. His torso was grotesquely hunched, spine malformed and breaching through the skin similarly to his limbs that disproportionately elongated, causing the skin to tear.
His eyes, though, remain the same as they look up at you, beading with tears. You drop to your knees and understand immediately what’s happened, and partially blame yourself for not warning him that this would happen some way or another. This soon though? Was what caught you off guard.
You place a gentle hand on his arm, “this will be greatly uncomfortable, I apologise.” A string of words fall from your lips in a hiss that echoed in a whirlwind, coming from every angle and direction that encased the both of you until shrouded and the surroundings melt from the deep swamp. He cries out in pain but the strain on his vocal chords doubled over each other creating a monstrous yawp that sounded anything but human.
The swamp seemingly disintegrates from the power of your unwavering muttering, a black void filling its place for a brief time before the inside of your hut melts into the view. Your head spins for a short second, a stabbing pain following in your chest but that did not concern you nearly as much as Aegon.
“What is happening to me?” He bleats, voice strained through his gritted teeth which were more jagged and fiendish than human. His body trembled incessantly though he tried to suppress it by hugging himself, looking to you for an answer. It almost felt cruel to tell him, on top of monthly transformations and mood swings, that there was yet another caveat for this curse.
“Let me help first, I’ll take away your pain.” You promise quietly, rushing over to the cabinet collecting jars of phoenix ashes, slime mucus, hydra scales. All of them became a blur as you quickly swiped them into your arms and collected the mortar and pestle. “This… this is highly unusual to occur so early.” You murmur quietly, shakily pouring ingredients into the mortar.
He groans aggressively, chest rising and falling with each of his staggered breaths as if he were urging you to hurry up. You unclasp the obsidian dagger attached to your belt and another set of ornate tools, similar to that of pliers and look on the writhing man with sorrow, “my apologies for this, it will help I promise.” With a gentle touch you hold his hand and stretch his malformed fingers, black claws poke out of the ends where his nails would otherwise be.
Your lower lip is sucked between your teeth in a deep concentration when you settle the pliers on one claw. “What are you–” he barely pants out when you rip the nail from his finger with a brutal force, he screams out in agony and the immediate response is for him to retaliate but he can only writhe further in pain. Bones cracking harder, bellows becoming breathier.
Adding the nail to the paste marked that it was nearing ready for consumption. You had only ever seen this type of healing solution made once, and the very process of it left a scar embedded into the recess of your memory. Sparing Aegon a glance, you look at him cautiously, “I advise you to look away, this is unsightly but necessary.”
Though you do not keep a gaze on him to confirm if he watches on or not, bringing the obsidian blade to your throat and in a swift motion, slit through your throat and lean forward over the paste. The gurgling sounds made the process appear far more worse than it was, as you recall Auntie doing something similar when tasked with healing a Holy Knight who visited after losing his fighting arm in battle while you were tasked with distracting the young Squire accompanying him. Needless to say, you were unsuccessful. Auntie’s gurgled grunts and waterfall of blood forever etched into your mind, a reminder that the magic you do was part of you.
Once the mortar is filled, thick with the crimson viscous of your own blood, you place a hand over the self-inflicted wound and mutter to yourself, still gurgling through the iron tang sitting in your mouth. A witches body could handle damage tenfold so long as it were for ritual, protection or magic, as it was a vessel for said magic, every aspect of it. Torso drenched and sticky now remain the only indicator of the injury placed on yourself, not even a scar remained in its place.
Finally, mixing everything together, you smear the repugnant salve on the back of a dreamlily leaf and bring it to his lips. Though you could not blame his apprehension after witnessing the obscene display before him for not wanting to ingest the mixture you held. “Trust me, it will help.”
He was fearful, ever so slightly and his nod was almost so non-existent you nearly missed it. With a gentle hand, you begin to slowly feed it through his lips. Your other hand, despite besmirched with blood, ran softly through his once pristine silver hair to help soothe him, just as Auntie often would to help lull you after night terrors or when you fell ill. It was unusually maternal of her but it was the only way to get you to settle.
There was rescinding silence as his groans of pain ceased, one could almost mistake it as if he had passed away, but his tearful eyes with blood vessels burst highlighting the violet within them were open and looking around the hut. Physically he may be present and well, but mentally and spiritually the paste had sent him elsewhere, to a realm of existence that exceeded physical barriers like pain. The husk of his body remained, vulnerable to anything including yourself which is why you set off around the hut to cast protective wards, sparing him several glances as you did so.
***
A vast void thrumming with echoes of magic assaulted your senses. It was jarring. Everywhere you looked there was nothing. Inside the centre of a dying star. Within the core of the prime realm. Imbedded inside the darkest pit of the underdark. Neither of those were quite right, no, the airy feeling as though you were made from gas indicated otherwise. Dreamlike as the sensation was, it was anything but. You were trapped deep within your mind, a hidden pocket dimension tucked away and concealed by magic that was not your own.
“Auntie?” Your voice carried on, repeating for what seemed like leagues ahead of where you stood into the bottomless and endless void. The sound of magic rippled and cracked, like vines being snapped, the volume of it causing you to cringe and cover your ears. Is this what being consumed by magic felt like? At its very core, is this where your magic lie within?
Though no answer to your thoughts or calls. Just you and the Void. It was surreal, a surge of fear shot through you like a jolt of electricity. Am I stuck like this? The sensation, the oppression of it all felt overwhelming. Am I dead? You begin to think and wonder if during your slumber Aegon or someone else ended your life—
“Bramble.”
The softest whisper, distorted through the shadowy abyss. Though it bounced all around and was difficult to pinpoint the direction of its origin. Left? Right? Up? Down? Perhaps there was one God after all, and this was the eternal punishment for blasphemy and devil craft.
”Bramble.”
Much clearer was the voice now, to the right, you affirm and feel yourself move though you do not appear to walk, merely you just are heading right. And though the void felt all encompassing all at once, there was loneliness stowing away within — the voice was not an indication that someone was close.
”Bramble.”
It was right behind you now, like a vacuum of space and time that pulled and ripped you from the chasm of oblivion. Blinding light searing deep into your eyes along with the acrid smell of familiarity binding you to the prime realm once again. Eyes of an angel come to vision, a battle beaten face of someone who must be of celestial ancestry but the unmistakable violet colour of the eyes say otherwise.
The voice pulling you from limbo belonging to the very creature before you. No longer the monstrous amalgamation of man and beast, but a light at the end of a cavern, ascending you from the deepest crevasse within your mind. His very being a beacon of hope coiled within the remnants of a broken man, and you begin to think for the first time that fate has intertwined the two of you somehow for this feeling to be so pure.
His face is close, commanding your field of view but even without him doing so you could tell very clearly that the void was no more and you had returned to the present realm.
”You ‘lright then?” He says before leaning back into the bed, his expression one that could be either concern or inconvenience it was hard to tell. The dark circles under his eyes looked as bad as the ones you felt under your own eyes. Sleep clearly evading you both.
“Yeah,” You softly utter, clearing the collating gunk from the bottom of your throat with a cough. The windows displayed a distinctly dark bog from the outside though it was difficult to tell if only a few hours passed or if a whole day had passed. “You’re back to normal,” it felt less like a comforting observation and more like a jipe considering he would never be back to normal. But, you supposed this was to be his new normal.
He laughs dryly, wincing while shuffling to a spot of more comfort, seemingly like he read your mind and was inclined to agree with you. “Your eyes… did this strange thing. Like there was light trapped inside you, wanting to get out… I thought for a moment divine intervention happened and your soul was being exercised.”
A laugh escapes your lips, “piety does not suit you very well.” Your eyes graze along his body, inspecting for any signs remaining of his partial transformation. The clothes that lay on him were barely holding together, his torso might as well be laid bare and his pantaloons left nothing to the imagination. Your scrutinizing gaze must have made him uncomfortable as he seemed to flush red with embarrassment and cover himself with the thin blanket.
Sighing, you stand up, his gaze following you carefully and curiously. He did this often, everytime he would arrive for the full moon and the two days that followed he did a lot of watching. At first you thought you disliked the constant eyes, peering over your shoulders or beneath the kitchen table but the longer he did it, the less it felt like surveillance and more just curiosity.
You return to him with two identical bottles in hand, wax sealing the corks at the opening to prevent them leaking but also to prolong the viscous liquids effects. “Take these back with you when you go, it’ll help,” placing them on the table, your fingers linger over them for a moment, “do you know what happened… yesterday?”
His head falls back against the pillow, staring up at the various dried herbs dangling from the ceiling, “I have an idea… I was transforming, wasn’t I? Is that — that’s not normal, is it?” His eyes dart around the hut, craning his neck to watch you by the hearth heating up a cauldron.
“Somewhat,” you answer quietly, the heat from the fire encasing you in a warm caress before abandoning it to return to Aegon’s bedside, a hot cloth in hand. “To suffer under the curse of the Lycan is to surrender body and soul to the beast. The moon commands you yes… but there is a beast within you, and if controlled properly can extend to hybrid forms that don’t require the full moon's command.”
“But… I didn’t have control,” his eyebrows crease together, “I was… I was angry. My mother… she —,” he stopped himself, the look that fell from the frown pressed into his lips to the creases on his forehead indicated it wasn’t something he wished to speak about, and it wasn’t something you wished to press him on so you nod silently.
With the steaming cloth in your hand, you softly begin to pat away at his forehead, gently removing the dried up flecks of blood after the day prior’s harrowing ordeal. “A beast is quick to anger,” the saying was something you recall Auntie musing about once, though in reference to the ever grumpy crocodile that frequented its favourite sunspot by the elder tree.
“Don’t let Aemond hear you say that, he may show offense,” Aegon tiredly jested, a smile tugging at his cracked lips.
”I fear if he had been stuck with this burden then perhaps Oldtown would end in ruin,” the thought had occurred many times since that woeful night, “alas, infant lycanthropes tend to show signs of hybrid transformations after an entire seasonal rotation. It was not something I anticipated happening so soon… it will get easier over time and less painful.”
“How do you know?”
”Because that is what I do, I gather ingredients, cast spells and know things.” You smile at him, hand absently caressing his cheek above the steaming cloth and begin to wonder what it would’ve been like if fate entwined the two of you earlier than the blightful event that brought your lives together.
Summary: To practice magic is to slight God with the devil's embrace. It is evil, sin, consuming and the price one pays is never worth what one seeks. Yet people, in times of desperation often turn to desperate measures, in Aegon’s case, medicinal remedy is not an option. No healer can undo what has been done. But the Hag tucked away behind reeds, water topped with algae and the voracious bog may be able to. For a price.
Series Tags; DnD Fusion Style fic (the biggest homebrew nonsense I EVER MADE), Targaryen's aren't royalty but noblefolk, no use of Y/N
Series Warnings: HEAVY mentions of blood and gore, magic is visceral, catholic-centric monotheism demonised, body horror, language, 18+ Minors DNI
Series Song: The Drone Interlude - Sleep Walking Animals
Summary: To practice magic is to slight God with the devil's embrace. It is evil, sin, consuming and the price one pays is never worth what one seeks. Yet people, in times of desperation often turn to desperate measures, in Aegon’s case, medicinal remedy is not an option. No healer can undo what has been done. But the Hag tucked away behind reeds, water topped with algae and the voracious bog may be able to. For a price.
Warnings: Catholic-Centric monotheism demonised, language, 18+ Minors DNI
Tags: DnD Fusion AU, Targaryens are just noblefolk, more vagueness
Word Count: 5k
Chapter Song: Harbinger - Kiki Rockwell
Yurisa and Ornmir aren't in a DND pantheon I just made them up for the purpose of the fic!
Series Masterlist
The power of words came from the ability to heed what is said, the Holy word of God revered by many and feared by others denounces the practices that don’t abide his word. Yet, your words — the words of a heretic, a pagan, a ‘devil worshiper’ — haunted the brothers, resounding in disembodied whispers cruelly reminding them of the events that transpired in wake of a seemingly ordinary day.
Neither spoke of what happened, in fear that speaking it outloud would make it a reality. It almost felt as though they shared a deranged and highly realistic dream that stubbornly did not disappear into the back of their consciousness when they were awake. A nightmare they were forced to reckon with when their Lord Father fell mysteriously ill, an infection that appeared seemingly from nowhere had him bedridden for a tenday.
His left eye had begun to fester and rot away.
Troublesome as the sudden ailment came, it all but made the brothers’ blood run cold when they soon realized the eye that had begun its necrosis would have been the same side on Aemond’s if he lost it that day. He did lose it that evening. And then a miracle — dark blood magic — brought it back. This had been the price. The saying ‘Eye for an Eye’ appeared to be most taunting in this instance.
Cycles of the moon that once meant nothing but something to measure time with became a looming presence for Aegon. A beacon of light in the night he looked onto with resentment and disgust where it once bore witness to his acts of sin and debauchery. Each phase a creeping reminder that he must return back to the decrepit hut, a threat he considered hollow until he felt the pull of the moon the closer to full it became.
The swamp surprisingly looked more harrowing during the day, perhaps it were because under the shield of darkness the night brings, many creatures were hidden away. The afternoon sun seared through the treetops, warming the marshy waters and in doing so lifted a pungent odour, souring the deeper into the bog it got. Sulfur fumes so strong it was hard to believe the sounds of nature indicated life thrived blithely, undisturbed in the thick mud pits, reedy bushes or trees when it so easily brought tears to Aegon’s eyes and made his lungs burn.
Fungus, abnormally larger than the toadstools that littered the edge of the Kings Road sat in halo’s of spores it created. Demanding reproduction and relentlessly over taking the grounds of which they grew, the damage a single spore can do to an entire ecosystem of plant life once it infected a single limb of a plant.
Nature was hideous and beautiful, harrowing and wonderous, unforgiving yet forgiving all at once. Amongst it all, as if tying the cacophony of life, death and all that sat in between nature oscillating and constant; A blissful humming. So subtle it was almost easy to miss the gentle caress in the area getting stronger, coaxing more fervently as it neared the epicentre of the swamp.
The Elder Tree and the Hut entwined in its roots.
“Hello little lordling,” You appear behind him, but Aegon doesn’t jump. Almost as if he were expecting you to be exactly there. The same presence that plagues his thoughts, you could tell how restless he had become over since you last met. A smile pulls at your lips, tauntingly smug, “the moon is not full and yet here you are. Five moons early.”
He regards you slowly, though out of fear or caution you can’t quite tell until he speaks, “my father has fallen ill.” There is no sadness in his voice, no guilt, no indication that he is upset by what you’ve done to ensure his brother became whole again.
You drag your feet toward him with a tilted head as you stare into his eyes of Violet, curling a hand around his jaw to look at him with far more scrutiny, your fingernails like thorns into his skin. Part of you is disappointed, the younger brother seemed to be a far more amusing moon servant with his boiled temperament, but when you look into Aegon, you see someone far less self involved — self serving perhaps but not one who uses a holy shield to look down on those who refute one God.
He is as much a sinner as you were but for different reasons.
“That is the price, to meddle with the forces of nature.” You muse, taking away the hand that clawed into his soft cheeks, crescent moon indentations mark where your fingers had previously sat. Head tilted once again, you inspect his rugged appearance, the dark circles under his eyes and how stringy his hair looked. Leagues different in comparison to how he had looked the last time he had enlightened you with his presence. The moon gives and the moon takes, just like magic, just like nature.
”I didn’t come here to hear riddles, hag.” His lips downturn into, what you could only assume was, a frightful grimace with his brows casting downward. Haggard in appearance wasn’t the only change you could note, where he had last been in the clothes of a nobleman now he was wearing commonfolk garb. Though you are inclined to believe this is his choice to do so and not an artifact of disowning from the Lord and Lady of Oldtown.
“I’ve jokes if you would rather,” you smile tauntingly, though he looked less than amused on account of his eye twitching with an ire you had only previously seen with his brother. It must be the Moon. Though you don’t concede in your jest,“forgive me, I was under the impression you were the fun brother.”
He snapped, grabbing the scruff of your cardigan and pulling you up off your feet with a strength that seemed to surprise even him briefly, “there is nothing fun about what you did to me.” His eyes were wild, animalistic like he might just snap a little further over the threshold of man and monster. This anger appeared foreign on him, you could tell. The creases worn into his face like ridges in a tree were that of someone forlorn and closely recognised misery as a friend, not someone who was quick to anger and enmity. His ire was not of desperation as you had seen once before, it was an artificial plague of your making by bestowing him the curse of the moon in your actions of removing it from his brother.
As if reading his thoughts you shake your head, “I cannot undo what has been done.” You have said this many times to many different people who seek you out, an echo of the woman who raised you, as she would say the same to similarly lost souls. This time it filled you with feelings distant to you but not entirely unheard of, it stirred a deep sorrow that you could not understand the origin or why.
“Why not?” His grip loosened, a crack in his voice indicated that he will not lose himself to the beast that lives inside his very being now.
“What is taken, must be returned. Your brother's eye was returned to him, but only because it was taken from someone else,” his father, you don’t need to say as he is sure enough to understand on his own, “the curse bequeathed to your brother removed, but only because it was parted onto someone else.” You, Aegon. Your eyes watch his with great interest, his pupils begin to shrink and the violet in them return, and a faint whisper that barely passes as a thought but still registers in your mind are three simple words that shake you to the core: I’m so sorry.
***
Blood curses on their own are incredibly hostile in nature, to meddle magically with the very rivers that bring a soul life, is to be inherently evil. You recall the night of your eleventh winter, the moon at its highest and forever etched into your memory was that it was red. A Blood Moon. Auntie, (as you referred to the woman who raise you as despite her being anything but) would regale you with stories of the various cities she had visited, the travels she would get up to and despite the discrepancies in her timelines you would always listen with a grin on your face and wide eyed.
While the Moon was the symbol of the wolves, the goddess commanded her soldiers and servants when it was at its fullest. A Blood Moon was the symbol of petrifyingly beautiful harbingers of death, lustful creatures seeking blood to keep their souls appeased and their hunger satiated. Though, to your recollection, you weren’t sure what a moon decorated in a blue hue meant and who served the Moon when she turned blue.
The bones of your beloved childhood pet ferret laid out before you indicated troubling signs for the evening's full moon, it warned of uncertainty and danger. “Gods be good,” you whisper and gather the bones of the late Yurisa, you had named her after the Goddess of Winter aptly because of the fur as white as snow. The Goddess of Winter was known to be cruel and calculating, worshippers often regarding her as the Mistress of Atrophy, for when she brought her touch upon the land, it withered beneath her.
To you, Yurisa was merely a name to call your furry companion.
Now you are well and truly alone. No Auntie left to gently guide you through the mystical arts or teach you kindness and compassion. No more Yurisa to cuddle up with when loneliness crept up like a misfortune or to scuttle around your feet when you went foraging for ingredients. It seemed as though you were destined to be alone, abandoned by a mother, abandoned by another and left alone when death crept up and seized the soul from your small companion.
Perhaps that may have been the reason your thoughts lingered to mournful and sorrowful when lamenting on the impromptu visit for the lordling Aegon days prior. The same reason that voice whispered to offer mercy the night the brothers arrived. Though, you could lament no further out of frustration of not getting any answers and by happenstance due to Aegon’s arrival.
His footsteps were weary, despite being at the hut for a third time, though the weight with each carefully placed step had an adjustment to its cadence that piqued your interest. Blood curses with transformative properties were cruel and unusual on the body and the mind, the ebbings of change often appearing in those infected a few days before and after the Full Moon. It was already taking a toll on him.
You opened the door at the moment he raised his fist to knock, startling him slightly though you don’t notice behind how disheveled and unwell he looked, “little lordling.”
Through his tired eyes rimmed with red from exhaustion, he narrowed them, “stop calling me that.”
“Would you prefer Moon Servant? Wolf Pup?” You are hardly smiling or even joking for that matter, as you stepped aside and waved him through.
”Just Aegon is fine,” he grumbled, compared to last time his anger was at a low level — still foreign on him but low nonetheless. His face was more sunken in, hollowing at the cheeks and under eyes as if he were more skeleton than flesh. One of many unfortunate side effects he was about to endure and he was none the wiser about how awful it was about to get for him.
By the hearth you boil water and whisk around your cupboards for the right ingredients when the question in your mind suddenly fell past your lips, “how are you feeling?” It felt like a mistake to ask such a question, as it often is only asked when endearing someone, “the pain, I mean. Fevers? Anything out of the ordinary?” You quickly add, while fussing about the pot of boiling water and various ingredients swirling in a maroon brine.
”I feel…” He had to think about it, eyes lifted to inspect the ceiling while thinking, “I feel like I’ve been hung, drawn and quartered. Though I s’pose that is meant to be normal right, witch?” His tone laced in a particular type of venom, calling you a witch as if it were derogatory but it was nothing except a label of what you are. Sorceress, Enchantress, Hag, Witch — they all meant the same thing; Heretic.
You remind yourself that as far as he was aware, he was not here of his own free will which was far removed from the truth. The lapse in your wrath the night you had crossed paths with him had you wavering conviction and offering mercy. That mercy being that he would not have to face the Moon’s Curse alone and could do it in a place that concealed him far from the eyes of the many zealots within the walls of Oldtown.
Extending a clawed hand out, you gesture for him, “show me your fingernails.”
”Why?”
”If I wished ill fortune on you or even death, I’d have done it by now, no? Show me your fingernails.” You grew impatient.
He reluctantly holds out a hand for you to grab. Unexpectedly, they were red raw around the nail but not because of the impending transformation, this was purely habitual, a very human trait that indicated he was nervous and anxious often. The nails themselves though, were beginning to blacken at the nail bed and were more hardened than what was normal.
Holding one of his hands steady, you manifest a small jar of medicinal salve and begin to lightly swipe it over the affected areas. It wasn’t going to lessen the pain of his impending transformation, but it would help stave off infection. You feel his gaze on you, not hard or weary, rather just inspecting carefully as you silently tend to his fingers.
”Erm — I’ve had joint aches and mood swings. I haven’t eaten either.” He admits shrewdly, the violet in his eyes washing away from colour in his iris slowly. It felt rather ludicrous, hearing his ailments like he was a patient and you were a healer. Though to a degree you may have been just that, even if the circumstances were very different.
You don’t answer him, merely nodding and turning back to your boiling concoction, opting to add a touch more Docrut ash before scooping a cup full of brine into an aged bowl. It is not grand nor lavish like what Aegon may be used to, but you didn’t care, offering it to him, “drink. It will help with the pain.”
Lifting the bowl to his lips, he grimaced with flared nostrils and took a gulp only to immediately splutter it back out and cough it all over you. Unsure if he was being overdramatic or he simply wished to indignify you for his shortcomings, nevertheless, you wiped your face of his spit silently.
”That tastes like piss,” he gagged, covering his face and mouth as though it would shield him from the steaming brew in his hands.
”I never said it would taste nice,” you smile with slight amusement, “though if you forgo what is helpful simply because of its taste, I can assure you, you will regret it come morning.” He was an interesting individual, thrust into a circumstance out of his control and yet finding ways to nitpick it like the true highborn soul he was.
“Perhaps if you hold your nose and drink it won’t taste so bitter,” you offer, remembering when as a child how much you despised the mushroom bark stew Auntie made. She would tell you the same thing, because out in the Swamp you either ate what was given to you or went hungry. Choice was not a luxury you grew up having.
He seemed taken aback by how childish you sounded, or, you thought, it was because you had said something that wasn’t inherently monsterous in his eyes. So you decide to bite a little, a smile curling at your lips, “what? Even us Hags have to eat disgusting things despite ourselves… I’ll drink some with you, if it helps.”
You scoop yourself a bowl, holding it up as if mocking a ‘cheers’ and bringing it to your lips. He wasn’t wrong at all, it smelt awful, eye wateringly awful and as pungent as the acrid scent of the swamp outside. Gods, don’t think about the swamp water. Yet, with a pinch of the nose to seal your nostrils shut, you tilt the bowl up and begin to drink. Eyes flicking over to Aegon who is dutifully following despite the exaggerated expression of disgust.
”See,” you cough and wince as the brew burned your throat and assaulted the senses, “it wasn’t so —,” an onslaught of coughs prevent you from finishing the sentence, though when you came too it wasn’t the fact that he had finished his bowl that came as a surprise. It was the simple and disturbingly pleasant fact that he was actually laughing - at you, yes - but laughing nonetheless.
The feeling of delight, something as plain as hearing him laugh sent troubling waves of nausea within you. Stop that, you insisted to yourself for thinking too long on such a factor but unfortunately for you it seemed to imbue you with a sense of being.
“I’m pleased to know it isn’t poison at least,” he jests half heartedly, setting the bowl down on the table beside him. His moment of weakness, laughter, subsided and his walls were back up, though as you look out the window you are reminded that he will very much be a very different kind of man soon, and even more come the morning.
There was still some time left before a long night began, a question that had been plaguing you since that night a month ago and had never found a suitable answer by speculating, “why did your brother get attacked that night? The Lycanthropes in the swamp… They are usually docile because of Ornmir.”
He looked over at you, brow raised in confusion that was met with your annoyed sigh, “right of course — The Swamp Spirit, she has domain over this area, nurtures the land and watches over the creatures.” You explain as if it were the most obvious answer, but recognise you were being unfair on someone who most likely had no idea there was a spirit of the swamp.
There’s a moment of slight humour back in his eyes, a scornful snort exhales from his nose as he laughs dryly, “I suppose then this fabled ‘spirit’ is responsible for the attacks on the nearby village then? A beast descends on a village to kill their livestock, that feels rather opposite to being watched over and docile, like you said?”
”hm,” you hum momentarily, letting his words settle, “perhaps it’s God’s will then?” You weren’t mocking him specifically, rather his family and those who sought to eradicate the magic in the world. The surrounding village’s littered on the outskirts of the swamp were often benevolent in the few times you had passed through to get seeds or fruit, yet the cathedral spires of Oldtown were a beacon that infected many people with prejudice and it reached as far as the closest Village.
Ornmir’s domain was relatively benign despite the creatures that reside, so it did strike you as odd that something had been thought to attack the villages, just like it struck you as odd that an attack happened to Aegon and his brother. Though, your question would remain unanswered for a while longer with the light fading to blackness settling outside of the hut’s windows.
It was always darker in the marsh long before the Sun had fully set, which was natural given the thick cover provided by trees taller than Oldtown's giant Cathedral. Though nightfall would turn within mere minutes, and with that, Aegon would be more monster than man. With great haste you beckon him outside of your hut and take him behind the Elder Tree. A lantern in one hand to illuminate the way and an old dagger in the other.
The humming that vibrated throughout the swamp seemed to permeate from the very roots of the Elder Tree; it was the largest and most intricate looking tree in comparison, even shrouded in darkness. Around it, the ground littered with moss and deceptively hidden soft mud that would encase your foot had you taken a wrong step.
You close your eyes and listen softly, to the wind and its direction, to the symphony of creatures and bugs that coexist within the heart of the marshy swamplands, the humming that never ceased. The moon was on the rise. You felt it, like a presence that made the hair on the back of your neck stand, like a feeling deep within the pit of your stomach. Many serve the Moon, but all life somehow feels its pull.
“Aegon,” you address with a softer tone than necessary, “this may very well be the worst thing you will ever go through. It’s excruciating. It’s difficult. You will begin to recede back, as though no longer in control because you won’t be in control yet will feel, see, taste everything. You’re a shattered soul belonging to two now. A man and a beast.”
A Primal beast that will exist on urges that would make men weep at the thought.
”We are going to have quite the night together I believe,” you smile wearily, bringing the obsidian dagger to the palm of your hand and cutting deeply into it. He grimaced at the sight of crimson dribbling down your forearm, but in the macabre lighting of the lone lantern and a cluster of fireflies you watch his eyes wash away all violet colouring.
Black consuming even the whites of his eyes, you gave him a playful smile, one that certainly wasn’t appropriate for the situation at hand and darted off through the swamp
***
Lycanthropy is one of the few curses that shattered both body and soul, and contrary to what is believed that the only instance of change occurs under the full moon, the blight is a month long ailment. To have bones, tendons and muscle rip, warp and rearrange to a completely different structure was harrowing enough to watch, though scholars tend to only source that this happened one night per month.
Mending bones and muscle was no easy feat, nor was it something that could be done in a mere day. Especially under someone’s first transformation. Aegon had slept for a day and a half before awakening to what you could only assume was the worst pain ever to be put through.
He complained, immensely, but you took that as a sign of him feeling better than anything to be annoyed about. Two days after the full moon his fingernails had finally regressed to their normal sizing, and both his hair and eyes had a semblance of life brought back into them.
You had forgotten how nice it was simply having another person around, not even just to talk too, but another presence that made the hut feel less lonely. Though, you remind yourself that much like your Mother, Auntie and Yurisa — loneliness appeared to be your curse to bear.
”I promise this tastes better than it looks,” you hand over a bowl of seemingly beige modge podge that looks less than enticing and more like vomit. Aegon immediately grimaced but seemed to have caught himself and shook it off, probably in hopes that you didn’t notice. But you did.
His eyes widened in surprise when he shoveled a tentative mouthful of the unappealing looking soup, “this is delicious, what’s in it?”
Snake and Eel. Against your better judgment you decide to refrain from telling him, lest he lose his appetite, “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” A sly smile pulling at the corner of your lips as you tend to the daily chores around your abode. His watchful gaze never felt intrusive or rude, it was your understanding that he merely enjoyed people watching though he hadn’t said it, it was your own reticent observation that led to that deduction.
“You are strange, witch.” Without a hint of malice in his voice, it may have been the first compliment you received from him, one that you gladly took on. Invigorating you in a way that was unexpected and worrisome. Auntie had warned you that you had a tendency to grow attached too easily, a facet that rang true for all the creatures you helped mend themselves when they were injured or the travelers that passed through that you assisted her with helping them.
“Strange is good,” you smile earnestly at him, and though your mind was yelling for you not too, your mouth opened on its own accord, “Bramble… Auntie called me Bramble because that's where she found me.” Though you refused to elaborate when he gave you an inquisitive glance. The memory of Auntie was somewhat sacred, that was something you wished to keep to yourself above all.
”An even stranger name…” he murmured, as though in his thoughts and you weren’t supposed to hear that.
The remainder of the morning went as such, light chatter that felt more akin to a strategic game of droughts learning a small thing about the other as the morning progressed. He was a first born of four, wildly incapable of the pressures and responsibility of a first born, liked to drink his body weight in Ale and Fine Wine and was horrid at day to day tasks as you came to learn when he attempted to help you with something as mundane as hanging freshly washed linen out.
”Good lord what the fuck is that?” His exasperated tone caused you to turn, his eyes fixated in the distance and a finger pointed at the flying abomination in the air near a cluster of identical looking creatures. Features that looked not of this world, making it appear as though it was the gruesome victim of alchemistic cross breeding, beady eyes and a rat like face of a bat but its body looked like a giant mosquito.
You looked at it, unfazed and turned back to what you were doing, “Stirges, awful creatures…” While the flying monstrosity didn’t worry you, its presence did unsettle you greatly, having not seen a nest of them so close by before. Something strange was happening and it had started from before the night of the lycanthrope attack. You wished to know what events occurred that caused such a chain reaction. An attack on a human, an attack on the village and now an incursion of horrible blights that aren’t native to the lands.
“Aegon,” you slowly lifted your head to meet his gaze which was already fixed on you, “why were you in the swamp the night your brother was attacked?” It felt as though you asked this question several times before and never got a real answer out of him or the conversation naturally diverted elsewhere.
While he was mostly open about his admissions already, you could sense him hesitate to answer this question. Perhaps he was gifted at deflecting and that was why you hadn’t received an answer for your question yet. Though the trepidation was not for lack of honesty or a need to conceal the truth, his eyes glassy and a slight tremble in his lip indicated guilt more than anything.
“Whatever is eating away at you, is not my concern. The reason is all I care for. Something isn’t right.” You hum, the nagging feeling eating away your insides like a looming sense of dread that was hard to pinpoint and it alarmed you grately that it took this long to figure out something strange was afoot. The humming of the Swamp droned gently, undisturbed and constant and yet there was a disturbance, over by the reedy shallows where the Stirges set their nest up. It was as though they came undetected, unseen.
He sighed, drawing your gaze to him, a look of shame and guilt marred his face, “I want not for ownership of the land, nor title or to become a Lord… but such is duty,” he was resentful and cutthroat, as if the word duty was an unholy word to be spit out. “Yet my father forces upon me what I push away — it’s my fault Aemond was hurt, he should never have been out there.”
Aemond, you repeat in your head, finally putting a name to the younger brother you healed a month ago.
“The village, Watercroft, asked my father to rid them of the beast that started killing their livestock and I was supposed to lead the hunting party. I would not do as he said, I cannot,” he looked away, gritted teeth as he spoke about his father like poison to the tongue. You couldn’t blame him, since you’ve lived in the Swamps his father has ruled Oldtown and whilst the locals revered him for peace, you had vehemently disagreed.
“So I drank, complained and let Aemond take the lead — he’s the one who deserves the power, the title, everything. And we’ve heard stories about beasts within the swamplands from travelers and locals, but this was different. A monstrous scourge that devoured six of our men whole before I sobered up enough to realize what was going on. Aemond.. he… he grabbed me and we ran… right into a den of Direwolves.”
You shake your head correcting him, “not Direwolves.”
“Right.” He agreed quietly.
His story, while jagged and a mess to make sense of slowly began to click into place for you. It was unsettling at best and at worst borderline apocalyptic for the ecosystem within the Swamp and all the land around. There was only one beast in the Swamp capable of doing what he had described and that was Ornmir herself, in her natural corporeal form as a Swamp Drake. But this revelation only offered more questions than answers, the biggest one more alarming than any other speculation you had gone through prior to this.
Why was the spirit of the Swamp so angry?
~~~~~
Tag List: @karlachs-soldier @serving-targaryen-realness @deltamoon666 @bogbutteronmycroissant
Warnings: HEAVY mentions of blood/gore, magic described as visceral, catholic-centric monotheism demonised, gore themes, Aegon being the epitome of ‘omg i’ll do whatever except tell mum’, Body horror, 18+ Minors DNI
Tags: DnD-Esque style AU, Targaryens aren't royalty but they are Noblefolk, some things are purposefully vague :S :S
Chapter Song: Go Tell Aunt Rhody (RE7 soundtrack) - Michael A. Levine, Jordan Reyne
Summary: To practice magic is to slight God with the devil's embrace. It is evil, sin, consuming and the price one pays is never worth what one seeks. Yet people, in times of desperation often turn to desperate measures, in Aegon’s case, medicinal remedy is not an option. No healer can undo what has been done. But the Hag tucked away behind reeds, water topped with algae and the voracious bog may be able to. For a price.
Word Count: 3.8k
Series Masterlist
Vicious rapping squanders the peace and quiet of a relatively silent part of the swamp. Moonlight splits off, cutting through the canopy of overgrowth that shields a peculiar abode entangled within the trunk of an elder tree. The crickets sing among the toads’ baritone croaks until they cease, abiding by the loud pounding on the wooden door that barely stays on its hinges, splintering from wood rot.
”Please!”
A guttural plea, desperation lingering atop the vowels. No one ever came to the decrepit hut unless they were on the brink, teetering the veil of life, quite literally on death's door. But death hardly answered, in its wake, oftentimes stood you; for those who braved the trek.
He had almost given up, muscles begging him for rest, for a modicum of reprieve from the toil it took just to arrive at the steps of a stranger's hut. The weight, the pain, it was enough to finally buckle his shaky grime covered knees, splinters embedded themselves into the palms of his hands the moment his hands hit the wood beneath him.
“I need —,” a whimper, is all that managed to escape his throat. His eyes flickered to the body beside him — not body, he wasn’t dead yet — to his brother laying beside him, laboured breaths that sucked through his barred teeth in discomfort.
Lips curled into a snarl, he brought his fist down on the decking one final time, “open the door you fucking wretch!”
He nearly cowered when the door yanked open, yellow light spilling out into the dark bog from the hearth that roared inside. No one stood in the frame of the door, no one beckoned him inside the derelict home and despite this, he rose to his feet, scraping his newly acquired trousers. There was little energy left in him, just enough to drag the mauled body of his brother - one that inched closer to the afterlife - over the threshold of the hut.
”Sit.”
He spun on his feet, nearly tripping over the pile of wood stacked beside the hearth when his eyes landed on you, who had appeared, simply materializing from nothing. It was only mere seconds until he was set on you again, a frantic torment that willed him near you, “Hag, you must help him!” Despite his weary disposition, he demanded help.
A nobleman. You think, taking his appearance in. Both men donned the same white hair, similarly crafted attire that screamed wealth and you are automatically aware of who was inside your abode. The township off the Kings Road comes to your mind, owned by a Lord as it had been for the past century.
”Well?! Must I get on my knees?” He was angry, that much was clear, but he was more afraid above all.
You waved dismissively, though not toward the stranger, the Lordling. The table of apothecary jars and dissected creatures vanish, though they never are truly gone, and you gesture for the man to place his injured companion. He’s confused at first, most people are when they come to you. Magic was no longer what it was, you could feel it wane the harder religion sought to destroy it. He most likely has never seen it this close.
But he silently obeys, with great effort hauling his brother up on the table and like you had before, appeared behind him as silently as the fog that began to seep through the crack beneath the door. He flinched away instantly, you fought back a sly smirk but your focus was on the man with long matted locks. The hair was a brilliant white, the same as his brothers, identical as the Lord of the closest settlement, but it was marred with the crimson syrup of blood.
You bring a finger to his mutilated face, your pointed nails more akin to talons than that of humans, they threaten to crack the white porcelain of his skin. Swiping a long line down, coating the pads of your fingertips in blood and bringing it to your mouth for a taste. Bitter. The able bodied man recoiled at the sight, but you pay him no mind as you examine the injured one.
His eye was gone. That was a shame. You were fond of eyes as payment.
”Can you heal him?” The man beside you asked, voice small, almost childlike and feeble. ”Name your price, make him whole again and I’ll — I’ll give you whatever you want. Fix him.” His anguish raked through your ears and rattled against your mind like razor sharp teeth, your neck instinctively lolling from left to right as if to ward off the discomfort that followed.
”They’ll know.” You answer cryptically, caressing the side of the younger man's face much like a mother would when tucking in a babe for the evening.
“Can. You. Fix. Him?” His patience was wearing thin.
You sigh, turning to face him properly for the first time since he arrived. Violet eyes. Magic touched his very heritage and yet his own kin sought to erase it, the irony was not lost on you. “He will be different.” You say as a warning, a politeness he certainly didn’t deserve yet you gave it anyway.
Anger overcame him, outstretching his hands and coiling his fingers around the scruff of your filthy dress to yank you toward him. You happen to catch the brief glint of silver, but you had caught it, the blade with your hand wrapping around it to stop it from piercing your chest. Not that it would have damaged your heart, you wonder if his intent was to scare or if he simply forgot which side the human heart resided.
The blade cut through your skin, rivers of red beginning to run down your wrist. The pain is welcome.
“Fix him. Or else I’ll drag you to Oldtown where you can burn in the circle you filthy animal.”
Animal. As if you were no longer good enough to be likened to a person, a human person capable of human things. ‘They fear what they cannot control,’ the voice is recalled into your mind, a vague memory of the past resurfacing as though it meant to reassure you.
Your lips twist into an awry smirk, and the second he blinks you have once again dissolved through his hands like an apparition. Reappearing by his brother's side, sliced hand outstretched to let your own blood drip tantalizingly slow over the unconscious man’s face.
In your other hand is a surprisingly ornate steel flask, an eyesore amongst the natural clutter. Whatever liquid you have delicately poured down the man’s throat is sanguine, syrupy thick like honey. You sense there is something not quite right mere seconds before the man begins to convulse violently, gasping for air that he cannot breathe.
”What have you done?!” Nostrils flared and ire rising, the able bodied one charged toward you like a boar gone rabid.
You grew tired of his impetulant outbursts, whispering a soft incantation with hurried hand flourishes and his movements ceded. Burnt into the wooden boards around his feet, still smoking with specks of orange embers were runes, etched into a circle. Something felt off, the air reeked of acrid mildew mixed with copper and you knew instantly what triggered the reaction.
Ignoring the binded man’s threats you let the magic sing to you, caress you, consume you while softly speaking in a forgotten and forbidden tongue.
The windows and door fly open, inviting in a malstrom of wind, tempestuous and bludgeoning, the centre it wishes to converge is at the body on the table still choking, still clawing at himself for air. His spirit dwindles at every garbled breath but you sense his will and you could feel his fight, he was a warrior through and through even in the face of imminent mortal peril. Not many of those who seek you, offer the same resoluteness.
The older brother is driven to shield his face from the vacuum of wind battering him against the unseen magical force which keeps him in place. Fear was evident in his eyes, perhaps even a touch of regret and guilt though you don’t linger too long as you shout a final mantra, holding both your forearms with formidable strength that is unbroken until the last word passes your lips, you break your grasp.
And then suddenly, the gale force of destruction dissipates.
Silence follows. And you are sat beside the young brother, placing a paste across the part of his face which had been torn away viciously. “What attacked him?” It was the first time you had spoken so directly, but it was because you knew the answer, the nobleman before you couldn’t possibly know what lurked through the mangroves and stalked beneath the stillwater.
He doesn’t appear to comprehend the question at first, muttering to himself a litany of false truths to explain what had happened right in front of him. His very own trembling brings him back from his prison of thoughts as his gaze lifts cautiously to meet yours, “a Direwolf.”
“How did you know it was a Direwolf?” You ask instantly, predicting that he would say as much. No matter, you step over to the cabinet that housed jars filled with all sorts of assorted components for potion making or spell casting, the moon light coming through the window casting an eerie shadow on the workspace.
”What else do you call a giant fucking wolf, what does it matter?” He grew restless again.
You dripped a small phial of black liquid into the mortar filled with other ingredients with great haste, eyes curiously peering out the window looking at the moon as you grimly sigh and mix together what’s been obtained. “It matters,” you grit, trying to grind the remainder of the paste, “the difference between a Direwolf and what attacked him is an exceptionally vindictive blood curse.”
He blinked at you, “what?”
You discard the mortar and cross the room swiftly, shelves littered with bones, glowing rocks and a variety of ceremonial looking daggers. Though magic and its very history were being erased by the ‘new god’, you still hoped those within the settlement weren’t entirely sheltered.
“He will know no master lest it is the moon, he will know no anger stronger than wrath, he will know only pain and isolation.”
The expression that fell across his face told you all that was needed; He understood fully what was at stake, just as you had moments before. Though his resolve hardened and he met your gaze once more, “cure him. Whatever it takes, I do not care!” Both of you knew he was in no position to demand, not when he was still held in place by unseen magic and you had proven many times how easily it was to simply disappear.
And that is what you did, if only briefly, shooting him a coy smile before vanishing and leaving him in ruination for the moment. In the silence, forced to look at his brother made his lip tremble. He hoarsely called out to him, shaky words choking in half sobs to beckon him awake and rip him from unconsciousness to no avail.
”He’s not here,” You softly say, causing him to jump when you reappear and brush past him. “His soul is in limbo, he won’t hear you.” But I can, you think, the energy sings to your soul in a gentle hymn and your blood sings back to it. In your hand a lock of silver hair clasped in your fist, having come from where you disappeared to, though it caused immediate alarm for the man.
He pointed a finger at your hand and grimaced, his bottom lip still trembling but no longer from hopelessness. Though he doesn’t ask the question out loud, you know what he’s thinking and you were certain he wouldn’t like the answer regardless of how you explained it.
“Whatever it takes,” you gently repeated his words and it was enough to silence him, for far longer than you thought was possible. Though the silence was welcomed, encouraging concentration while you handled the spellcraft with the care and love that had been taught to you. The woman in your memory that provided warmth and affection was not your mother by blood and yet she lived through your very essence as if she were.
She was there with every spell, whispering gently and coaxing a power buried deep within you. She was in the walls of the hut, imbuing you with much needed protection from creatures and men. And she was here, watching you through omniscient delight as you dedicated part of your essence to a stranger and his injured brother.
The serenity only just takes the edge of tension away, as if you weren’t tending to the impossible feat of near resurrection and stitching a man whole together once more. Life was fragile, mortality was inevitable even to those who yearn against it but magic could manipulate it enough even if it took great energy. It wasn’t without drawbacks, though. Transactional in nature, to undo what has been done required blood magic, the type of magic you were versed well in but it almost always came with consequence.
’What is taken, must be given back’ the words of your ‘mother’ echoed superfluously everytime your duty required meddling with the laws of nature. Perhaps that was why many travelers or townsfolk revered you as a hag, if not for the way you dressed or looked or lived, then for your duty as an indiscriminate arbiter of unfairness and misfortune.
Magic was fair, balanced and it obeyed karmic laws, this was why you cradled such energy. Life was not, it was often unfair and that much had been made clear the moment your real mother left you in a swamp to be taken by whatever monsters prowled in search for their next meal.
So you do what needed to be done - if only a little self serving to you personally but - you give back the injured man what had been clawed away and take something from his family locked away in their fortress within the walls of their beloved township. Not without a final twist in the knife for the older brother who demanded your help many hours ago. Appearing beside him like a shade, gripping his wrist abruptly and slicing a line across his palm to draw blood.
He attempted to fight back but he was bound, he could only wince and complain while you squeezed the blood into a medium phial. When you had finished, he snatched his hand back, holding it to his chest as if to soothe the pain and grimaced at you almost childishly, “you could’ve asked.”
A faint smile tickles the corner of your lips, though it was no matter of if his words were amusing or his mannerism when he calmed down were fascinating, there was still a task at hand.
The final part of the brutal rite fell appropriately on the witching hour, where the crow sings thrice while the moon is still high. To complete everything, you dropped several dribbles of the brother's blood into the injured’s mouth and finished off your words of sacrilege.
”He will recover,” You announce, finally after what seemed like hours upon hours of the sounds of your transfixed mumblings and careful spell work.
The man hadn’t heard you at first, in fact he had barely registered the runic circle by his feet had disappeared quite some time ago which meant he was no longer bound in place yet he still remained as if he were. But the only thing that broke him from his trance had been the shallow breath followed by his younger brother lurching forward in a confused panic.
No longer was his face torn, eye gouged, the only indication of that was the faint pink scar that remained. His eyes — both, set on you and he surged forward straight toward your neck. Not that you could blame him for being in such a state, though it would be rather humorous to allow him to indulge in his urges and let him throttle you, you step out of his reach like an alluring treat that only served to frustrate him.
The older one flung himself forward, fretting over the younger and the tension immediately dispersed into quaint relief. Though it lasted no longer than a matter of moments, chaos stalked the two like they were messengers from the god of chaos himself, the energy between them repelling from one another like static in a storm. You could merely watch on in light amusement at the bickering duo.
“— I already think so low of you and yet you exceed expectations once more. Bringing me to this devil whisperer's den?!”
”Well I was simply not going to bring you home marked and dying!”
“If you must lie that you care for me dear brother, at least have the conviction to not pretend you had my interests at heart when we both know you wish to save your skin. Now I have to explain to mother why I stench of sin.”
You laughed, quite loudly it had broken the two from grappling one another to look over. The glimpses of lives you often see when people stop by are often times quite enlightening, just as it appeared in the present between two quarrelling brothers. One who thirsts for recognition and appreciation while the other wishes to disappear and fade to obscurity.
“Do we amuse you, hag?” The younger ones eyes set on you, his grimace was apparent as he did little to hide his contempt.
“Quite.” You hum, barefoot toes curling into the splintered wood while thinking aimlessly. No words followed, not when your gaze cast on the elder who had gone a shade lighter in his face, his limbs beginning to quake and tremble. Cracked lips curling into a smile as you watch him collapse to the floor, writhing in what one could assume was unrelenting pain, the type of pain that embedded itself into a person.
“Aegon — Brother!” The younger falls to his brothers side and you watch curiously, how interesting the dynamic was between the brothers. Their resentment ran deep yet there was still a matter of love beneath it, a bond that weaved itself between them despite such obtuse differences.
The younger was furious, shooting his deadly gaze at you with nostrils flared and he lunged at you, this time for mere entertainment, you let his hands wrap around your neck and press you hard against the cabinet. “You fucking monster! What have you done to me! To him?!” He spat, rightfully so, you thought that someone as pious as him would befall such a fate, though from the little information you’ve gathered on the two, Aegon — as you now know him — did not share such piety.
A weary smirk pulled at the corner of your lips, choking out, “I am no monster, little lordling though it pleases me so, to bestow a mark on your family who seeks to reject their very own heritage.”
The screams and pleas of Aegon in the background fuelled this one’s anger, “we’ll have you burnt for that —“ His hands tighten their grip, leaving you to his mercy for now in his hands like a ragdoll force to move at his whim, jerking you forward and then slamming you back into the cabinet. Glass shattered from the impact around the both of you but your focus remained on him, the only thing to do in the instance was laugh and so you did.
“Quite the ferocious brute you are — you’d have made a fine servant to the moon, though I cannot say the same about your brother.” His hands squeezed down on your windpipe with malicious intent but you remain unperturbed despite the immense pressure building within your head. Like a bubble about to burst.
The elders' whimpers of pain droned on in the background, mixing into the symphony of nature that carried on throughout the marsh. You had a little too much fun toying with people, if they were to treat you a certain way, who were you to not at least get amusement from it?
You laughed, bringing a fist full of powder up and flicking it in his face before disappearing through his fingertips like grains of sand. The powder served distraction enough, staggering him back and you silently thank your motherly figure for always ensuring you carried turmeric. Even if it was to ward off bad spirits only.
When you reappeared, your lips barely skimming the shell of Aegon’s ear as you whisper a soft incantation, it felt lewd and profane but at once his pain ceased. The wrinkling in his forehead and face softened while beads of sweat trickled downward, threatening to sully his eyesight by falling into it.
In your hand was the phial of blood you had taken from Aegon, the other held the scruff of his neck. His brother only just recovered from having powder flung in his face, the searing and burning had barely stopped when his eyes settled on you, hovering over Aegon like an enchantress with ill intent.
You crushed the phial in your hands, glass cutting the insides of your palm mixing two bloods together, placing your bloodied hand to Aegon’s sweaty forehead and began muttering swift words. You turned to the younger one, haggard and crazed with a look in your eye that seemed to elicit fear in both of them, raising a clawed hand up you pointing directly at him.
“I have done what is asked of me, to unmark and unburden you. And the cost has been paid. He —“ you look down at Aegon’s fearful eyes, and something in your mind whispers to you to show mercy, it is not your voice, rather hers the one who taught you the ways of magic, “he may now be a servant of the moon but he is bound to me. Every lunar cycle when the moon is at its fullest he must come to me lest he be made an example from the zealot’s who poison your minds with promises of false salvation and piety.” You were still rather on the theatrical side, not truly enforcing a blood bind on him. And yet, it had the desired effect. Fear.
“And if he doesn’t?” The younger asks in mock defiance, serving as a mask to hide the fear so prevalent in his eyes.
“Then when you pray at night you better hope your false god listens.”
——— Taglist ———
Lemme know if you wanna be tagged for the next update! :D
I recently read Napoleonville by @inthedayswhenlandswerefew (go and read everything they’ve written holy SMONKS) and the swampy, everglade setting just fucking embedded itself in my head for this one.
It’s KINDA a DnD AU, if you squint really hard it sits between something like DnD and I guess???
If you wanna be tagged when the full first part comes out let me know! <3 <3 <3
Warnings: HEAVY mention of blood, Magic described as visceral, magic is outlawed, catholic-centric monotheism demonised, Gore themes, language
Aegon ii Targaryen x F!WitchReader
Summary: To practice magic is to slight God with the devil's embrace. It is evil, sin, consuming and the price one pays is never worth what one seeks. Yet people, in times of desperation often turn to desperate measures, in Aegon’s case, medicinal remedy is not an option. No healer can undo what has been done. But the Hag tucked away behind reeds, water topped with algae and the voracious bog may be able to. For a price.
Vicious rapping squanders the peace and quiet of a relatively silent part of the swamp. Moonlight splits off, cutting through the canopy of overgrowth that shields a peculiar abode entangled within the trunk of an elder tree. The crickets sing among the toads’ baritone croaks until they cease, abiding by the loud pounding on the wooden door that barely stays on its hinges, splintering from wood rot.
”Please!”
A guttural plea, desperation lingering atop the vowels. No one ever came to the decrepit hut unless they were on the brink, teetering the veil of life, quite literally on death's door. But death hardly answered, in its wake, oftentimes stood you; for those who braved the trek.
He had almost given up, muscles begging him for rest, for a modicum of reprieve from the toil it took just to arrive at the steps of a stranger's hut. The weight, the pain, it was enough to finally buckle his shaky grime covered knees, splinters embedded themselves into the palms of his hands the moment his hands hit the wood beneath him.
“I need —,” a whimper, is all that managed to escape his throat. His eyes flickered to the body beside him — not body, he wasn’t dead yet — to his brother laying beside him, laboured breaths that sucked through his barred teeth in discomfort.
Lips curled into a snarl, he brought his fist down on the decking one final time, “open the door you fucking wretch!”
He nearly cowered when the door yanked open, yellow light spilling out into the dark bog from the hearth that roared inside. No one stood in the frame of the door, no one beckoned him inside the derelict home and despite this, he rose to his feet, scraping his newly acquired trousers. There was little energy left in him, just enough to drag the mauled body of his brother - one that inched closer to the afterlife - over the threshold of the hut.
”Sit.”
He spun on his feet, nearly tripping over the pile of wood stacked beside the hearth when his eyes landed on you, who had appeared, simply materializing from nothing. It was only mere seconds until he was set on you again, a frantic torment that willed him near you, “Hag, you must help him!” Despite his weary disposition, he demanded help.
A nobleman. You think, taking his appearance in. Both men donned the same white hair, similarly crafted attire that screamed wealth and you are automatically aware of who was inside your abode. The township off the kings road comes to your mind, owned by a Lord as it had been for the past century.
”Well?! Must I get on my knees?” He was angry, that much was clear, but he was more afraid than anything.
You waved dismissively, though not toward the stranger, the Lord. The table of apothecary jars and dissected creatures vanish, though they never are truly gone, and you gesture for the man to place his injured companion. He’s confused at first, most people are when they come to you. Magic was no longer what it was, you could feel it wane the harder religion sought to destroy it. He most likely has never seen it this close.
But he silently obeys, with great effort hauling his brother up on the table and like you had before, appeared behind him as silently as the fog that began to seep through the crack beneath the door. He flinched away instantly, you fought back a sly smirk but your focus was on the man with long matted locks. The hair was a brilliant white, the same as his brothers, identical as the Lord of the closest settlement, but it was marred with the crimson syrup of blood.
You bring a finger to his mutilated face, your pointed nails more akin to talons than humans, threaten to crack the white porcelain of his skin. Swiping a long line down, coating the pads of your fingertips in blood and bringing it to your mouth for a taste. Bitter. The able bodied man recoiled at the sight, but you pay him no mind as you examine the injured one.
His eye was gone. That can’t be helped.
”Can you heal him?” The man beside you asked, voice small, almost childlike and feeble. ”Name your price, make him whole again and I’ll — I’ll give you whatever you want. Fix him.” His anguish raked through your ears and rattled against your mind like razor sharp teeth, your neck instinctively lolling from left to right as if to ward off the discomfort that followed.
”They’ll know.” You answer cryptically, caressing the side of the younger man's face much like a mother would when tucking in a babe for the evening.
“Can. You. Fix. Him?” His patience was wearing thin.
You sigh, turning to face him properly for the first time since he arrived. Violet eyes. Magic touched his very heritage and yet his own kin sought to erase it, the irony was not lost on you. “He will be different.” You say as a warning, a politeness he certainly didn’t deserve yet you gave it anyway.
Anger overcame him, outstretching his and coiling his fingers around the scruff of your filthy dress to yank you toward him. You happen to catch the brief glint of silver, but you had caught it, the blade with your hand wrapping around it to stop it from piercing your chest. Not that it would have damaged your heart, you wonder if his intent was to scare or if he simply forgot which side the human heart resided.
The blade cut through your skin, rivers of red beginning to run down your wrist. The pain is welcome.
“Fix him. Or else I’ll drag you to Oldtown where you can burn in the circle you filthy animal.”
baratheonpilled
janainaart
blakekathryn
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