You are reincarnated into the House of the Dragon universe, only you’re not a princess, or a lady, or even a royal maid. You are the daughter of a Blacksmith in Flea Bottom; and you are determined to change the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.
Even if it means risking your second chance at life.
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OF STARLILYS AND ELM TREES
You are the adopted daughter to Maekar Targaryen and Dyanna Dayne, a blessing found by your mother, sent to your family by the gods she had said. All your life you have known yourself to be different, to be on a separate path than those of your House. That path presents itself when, during a tourney at Ashford Meadow, one hedge knight happens to gain your favour, and perhaps eventually, your heart.
Duncan the Tall x Fem!Adopted-Targaryen!reader
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OF WINTER’S FLAME
GOING THROUGH RE-EDITING, ON A HIATUS.
What if Daemon Targaryen married Cregan Stark’s sister instead of Rhea Royce? What if instead of murdering her, she died in childbirth…giving birth to you.
Y/n Targaryen, a dragon raised by wolves. You grew up knowing only the North as your home, Cregan acting as your mentor and elder brother throughout your life.
Now you have been summoned to join the court of Viserys Targaryen a few years after the grueling incidents on Driftmark with no knowledge of why. A Stark rides South at the behest of a King.
What a familiar story.
Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Targaryen!Reader
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TRUE HEART, TRUE SOUL
ON HIATUS.
True heart, true soul. Those were your house words; to be true to your heart and your soul would follow. So why is it that when your heart finds itself entangled with a Blackwood, your soul refuses to accept?
Benjicot (“Davos”) Blackwood x Bracken!Reader
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ONESHOTS/REQUESTS
A CAPTURED ROSE
In an attempt to finally meet the Princess Rhaenyra you accidentally find the King, but this mistake may not end up being a mistake after all.
Viserys I Targaryen x fem!Tyrell!reader
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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃
CHRONICLES OF A LONELY BIRD
ON A HIATUS.
You were used to being alone, ever since the beginning you’ve been alone, but when you accidentally stumble upon two little girls and a baby in the woods, you’re suddenly swept into a group of hardened survivors — and unintentionally right into the arms of their leader.
Rick Grimes x younger!fem!reader
Begins during S4 E10
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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒/𝐓𝐁𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐒
THE ART OF WEAKNESS
When you were a child you had a best friend, a little blonde boy who you used to do everything with until the reaping came and he was stolen away from you. His face is muddled in your memory now, his name a whisper on the tides you roamed in District 4 until his horrible fate became your own. Katniss Everdeen was not the first girl to volunteer for one she loved. This is the story of a girl and a boy, a tribute and a game, a victor and a rebellion;
This is your story.
Finnick Odair x District 4!fem!reader
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𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐈𝐍 (𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓)
PROVENANCE ETERNAL
——Geneva, 1827. Baron Victor Frankenstein absconds from his birthplace of Switzerland upon the death of his father to research surgery in Great Britain, marrying a woman born of a mysterious land known only to his family as the ‘Lady of Hearts’ in 1830. The Lady, most say, was a woman of wealthy means and held a charmingly peculiar disposition.
——London, 1838. Baron Victor Frankenstein returns to his home one evening without the woman of bewildering origins and instead bears the fruit of his marriage bed in his only daughter, Y/n Frankenstein. She too bears the peculiar disposition of her mother.
——Edinburgh, 1855. The Baron and Miss Y/n Frankenstein reside near the Royal College of Medicine where Victor plans on conquering the bounds of life and death, while his daughter is committed to a life of craft in her studies at the Edinburgh College of Art. It is among these blood-slick streets, my dear reader, where our Garden of Eden begins.
The Creature/Adam Frankenstein x Fem!Frankenstein’s daughter!reader
Chapter Summary: With the revelation of a childhood memory and waking with unimaginable grief, you’re forced to take up desperate methods in order to beat the careers.
Pairing(s): Finnick Odair x District 4!fem!reader
Warning(s): MDNI! Canon typical violence, descriptions of gore, a less kid-friendly take on the Hunger Games universe, mentions of SA and forced prostitution (Finnick is the love interest guys bfr), future chapters contain smut, read the hashtags for the rest!!
Word count: 3.7k
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“Duck, come back!”
You were ten again, still tiny since you hadn’t hit your growth spurt yet, and chasing after a wiry-coated dog. It yipped as you chased it, treating your desperate attempt to retrieve him as a game, tail wagging rapidly. The air smelled like salt and metal, the nearby conversations from other people accompanying your mad dash for the dog in the streets of District 4.
“Easy Duckie!” A young boy’s voice said, and you saw the dog run right into the arms of a wandering boy, the kid jumping out in front of the puppy and grabbing its collar.
“Guppy!” You smiled, looking up at him, but the glare of the sun behind his head made it impossible to distinguish his features.
“You shouldn’t let him off-leash, Shortcake. He’s not trained yet, he could run off and get lost.” The boy, his blonde waves brightened by the blue sky, scolded gently. You frowned, reattaching the leash you held, and nodded slowly.
“Sorry—” You said his name, but it came out muffled in your dream, garbled beyond recognition, “I just want him to be happy, and he seemed so sad on the leash.”
“He’s happy enough, isn’t that right boy?” He cooed, petting the wriggling puppy as it yipped in response.
That's right, by then you and your father hadn’t trained Duck, only having recently nursed him back to health. Duck, how could you forget Duck? How could you forget the way he would pant after swimming with you at the beach, or the way his brown-and-white dappled coat would shed when you brushed him? How could you not remember his sparkling golden eyes, or the wiry beard that would scratch your face as he tried to lick you?
Where was he all this time? Where had he gone after your father died? Where was your Duck?
The chime of a Sponsor gift woke you from your dream the next morning, and you blinked your bleary eyes open in time to see it float through the crack in the room’s window. You watched it land just past your feet, clinking softly on the concrete floors. You reached for it, ripping it from its carrier and finding a large flask within, and you opened the flask with a sigh of relief when you saw the dim sparkle of fresh water within it. You downed a few tentative gulps for yourself, but left the majority still inside, looking back at the gift to see a small note sitting at the bottom of the package. You took it out, reading the few words typed on the pristine white paper.
‘Win. I’m sorry. -F’ Was all it said, and your brows furrowed. You turned to Magnolia Blue, shifting gently so that you could peel the cool piece of cloth off of the girl’s forehead. You wiped away the excess moisture gently, putting it on the ground as you angled the flask towards her mouth.
“Magnolia Blue, wake up. We got water.” You muttered, quiet at first. When she refused to budge you let out a short burst of air from your nose.
“Magnolia Blue, c’mon, you need to drink something.” You said louder, pinching at her cheeks with a laugh. Yet her body remained still.
“Magnolia Blue…?” You questioned, putting down the flask slowly. It was only then you noticed how still she was, how the gentle rise and fall of her chest seemed absent from the child in front of you. No. No, no, no it was too soon. Blythe had just—he was…this couldn’t be happening—
“Magnolia Blue.” You breathed, shaking her more violently. You choked back a scream as her eyes rolled open, looking up into the back of her head while her mouth slacked in an unnaturally loose way. You howled, you couldn't help it as you tipped back on your knees to put space between you and your friend’s body, ugly groans and whines rumbling from deep within your chest. You bit your hand, screaming into it so that the skin muffled the hoarse noises you couldn't hold back. Fat tears began to roll down your cheeks, and rivulets dripped down your neck and to your nose, choking you silently. You let your hand go, taking in a desperate gasp of air, before you finally crawled back to Magnolia Blue. Shaky hands gripped onto her coat, bringing her into your lap as you bent over her limp form. She was finally cold, white-hot skin dulled and cracked tongue clogging the back of her throat with no mind to control it.
“Magnolia…Maggie please no…please…You have to stay, you have…hav’ t’..” You wailed, incoherent ramblings heard over the hammering beat of your own heart.
“Oh god, Maggie, please please please please…” You whined, rocking her back and forth. Back and forth, back and forth, you rocked her like you rocked the twins. Like she was one of your precious little girls.
A cannon echoed through the arena, and that's what made you stop in your tracks.
You looked up, eyes locking onto the camera in the corner of the room, its lens spinning and narrowing in on you as you held Magnolia Blue. They could have done that at any time throughout the night. They could have set off the cannon hours earlier, even minutes before you woke up if that’s when she had died, but they didn't. They waited for you to discover it, waited for you to touch the corpse of your ally and capture your reaction to seeing her rot. You took a deep breath, inhaling the rust and concrete of the room, and gently allowed for Magnolia to rest against the backpack again. You moved almost mechanically as you wrung out the cloth and closed her eyes and mouth, placing the fabric over her face. Nobody would see her face for the rest of the games just like they couldn't see Blythe’s, not the sponsors, not the Capitol, not even the President himself. They would suffer as you will, with only her memory intact.
You leaned down to kiss her forehead, lips trembling when you spoke next, “As the waves guide her journey.”
You wished that you knew what people in District 12 would say in this situation, but it was only you left now, and that hit you like a truck as you collapsed back onto the concrete floor, staring up at the ceiling. It was only you, and you alone, in an arena where the odds were never created in your favor. Five tributes still roamed, with skills that far outweighed you in hand-to-hand combat and probably distanced combat as well. Your ankle was still aching, and your eyes stung red with grief. The careers were out there somewhere, laughing, celebrating a victory for one of them that hadn’t even happened yet—and that made your jaw tense. They were probably laughing at your friend's deaths.
“Get up.” It came out as a pathetic whimper, tears still carving a path down your temples when you spoke.
“You get up right now, Crawford.” You gritted out, clenching your fists so hard you were sure you might draw blood. Your head lolled to the side, to where your backpack sat idle with all of the miscellaneous supplies you and your allies had collected over the days. Your knife weighed heavy in your pocket, and a plan began to form in your head. You might’ve thought that death was the only thing that awaited you in this arena. That realistically, you were just a girl from District 4 who clung to hope rather than reason. But you came here to win, and that’s exactly what you were going to do. As you forced yourself back up, you kept repeating what had gotten you through the past week in the games; You made a fucking promise.
So you forced yourself up, slugging your way out of Magnolia Blue’s grave with a limp. The cane she made for you was gone, lost in the pursuit from the previous day somewhere between the school and the sewers. You bit back a whimper of pain as you left the warehouse, cautious of making too much noise when the careers could be behind any corner. The imposter-sun did not care for your grief, in fact you would not put it past the gamemakers to make the heat more intense because of your current circumstances. It made your clothes soaked with sweat as you clambered to an open sewer entrance, your injured foot creating a subtle drag path behind you.
The sewers were damp as ever as you entered them, thankfully colder than the cloudless sky above, with little light penetrating the grates above and the squeak of distant rats echoing down the long systems. You placed your bag down at the chamber walls, being sure to check the fastening of Magnolia Blue’s necklace on the nape of your neck before you approached the water. It was dark as ever, calmly rushing from an unknown source to an unknown endpoint in rhythmic waves that etched greening waterlines at the edge of the funnel. You picked up a pebble, tossing it in the moat and watching the sharp-toothed fish jump at the surface to get it, blood-red scales piercing the shroud of murky waves. In hindsight you still didn't know if you were stupid or genius for doing what you did next, but desperation can make even the most ludicrous ideas sound perfect.
“Safe and warm in Mama’s chest,” Your tone was pitchy, fear and grief mixing into one as you kneeled by the moat's edge. You took a deep breath, lowering your arm so that your fingers skimmed the surface.
“Sleep, my love, the sea’s your friend.” You winced when one of the fish darted past your hand, quick as a whip with fangs twice as sharp.
“She’ll sing your songs until the end.” Your forearm was in now, and the water was unnervingly warm. You began to regret your last-ditch plan when the fish became aware of your presence, a group of them slithering over with mouths already open.
“Oceans deep and skies so wide,” You breathed, singing louder so that the resonance would spread in your entire body. The creatures arrived at your hand, and though you braced for pain, it never came.
“Safe in Mama’s arms tonight.” Your eyes widened, and you couldn't help the crazed smile that spread over your tired features. Exactly like the rainbow fish in the pond, these ones responded positively to singing, brushing past your appendage but never biting into it. Earlier you had remembered the information from training, how some muttations were inclined towards ‘certain vibrational frequencies.’ At the time you didn't know what that meant, but sticking your entire arm into the water you knew now. It was your way to win.
You raised your arm from the water, scrambling back as you stopped singing in case they would retaliate by jumping out of the water, and laughed. You couldn't stop yourself, exhaustion and elation making your sides hurt as you realized the way the rest of the games would play out if you worked strategically. You sprung up, wiping your arm on your pants and yanking your bag from its place on the floor. You peeked out from the entrance of the sewers, looking around and keeping your breathing as steady as possible in case any careers or muttations were around. When nothing of the like showed up, you fled from the sewers, keeping close to walls and edges as you tried to map your way back to the Cornucopia.
You thought about Finnick as you walked between two apartment buildings, about the plan he made to ensure your victory. Thought about his art of weakness, and how you hadn’t been following Finnick’s guidance entirely. You killed the boy from Seven earlier that week, not ideal, but so far it was your only substantial kill. It was a safe assumption that those in the Districts and the Capitol still viewed you as their pure-hearted pearl.
“At first you’re too sweet for violence, too innocent for the carnage…and then you’re going to slaughter in the arena.” Finnick’s voice was gravelly still in your memory, vibrating through his broad chest when you interrupted him.
“I-I don’—I don’t know how to kill people.” You had shook your head. You recognized now how childish you were barely two weeks ago, how your upbringing sheltered you far too much from the reality of your country. It made you sick.
“You’re going to learn. I need you to promise me that when the time comes, you won’t hesitate. My plan relies on you working with me, not against me.” His eyes became serious, flirty nature dissipating into the mentor of dozens of fallen tributes, dozens of lights snuffed out before their time. You nodded, swallowing down your fear.
“Okay, I promise.” You made too many promises, you still believed that. You only hoped that your oath to him would not be your first one broken.
“That girl from Twelve looked halfway to death, the cannon was definitely her—” A high-pitched laugh came from the end of the alleyway, the other side of the two buildings leading to a pot-holed road. Your heart skipped a beat, your thoughts dissipating when you saw Silver, Ruffle, and Claudius turn down the alley, heading in your direction. They hadn't spotted you yet. They were busy mocking your friends.
“What makes you think it wasn't the girl from Four? That kid might’ve realized her ally wasn't going to keep helping her if she was sick. I say the coal-miner stabbed little-miss-lover while she slept.” Claudius smirked, until his eyes landed on you. You were near the middle of the alley while they were still by the opposite end, and you felt your eye twitch as you paused, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up like a rabbit caught wandering by foxes.
“Well shit.” He breathed out, all three of them stopping. “I guess little-miss had some guts after all.”
When the time comes, you won't hesitate.
You turned tail and ran, not as fast as you could thanks to your fucked up ankle, but it was enough. You weren’t trying to lose them anyways, only lure them. They took off a second later, two scrambling for their concealed weapons when you emerged from the alleyway, turning sharply towards the end of the street you had come from. A spear lodged itself into the ground in front of you, and you nearly ran right into it, sparing a moment's glance behind you. Silver looked wrathful, her hand empty and her main weapon failing to hit, while Ruffle and Claudius both held blades of differing sizes. The entrance to the sewers was at the end of the street, open and waiting like the maw of a sleeping beast, and you heard Ruffle curse from behind you when you didn't stop running, your ankle feeling like someone was ripping every tendon it was attached to.
“C’mere, Y/n!” She hollered, and you didn't dare look back, not wanting to lose your momentum as you entered the sewers, tossing your bag against a wall without much care and stopping shy of the flowing moat. You dashed to the side, going deeper into the sewers and checking behind you. Not a moment later the three tributes came barreling into the sewers, looking around frantically until they spotted you, standing where the sewers turned a corner, continuing on further into the system. Your left foot grazed the edge of the moat, and you planted yourself firmly against the grimy stone.
“You can’t outrun us forever, little-miss. That ankle of yours won't hold out.” Claudius pointed with his machete, and your brows knitted together.
“Come and get me, then.” You goaded, sucking in a sharp breath. Ruffle was the first to approach, though the other two were right on her heels, the dull reflection of the water against their weapons a small comfort. Ruffle held a dagger, serrated edge like a dog’s bite pointed towards you, stepping closer and closer and—“What the fuck?!”
You lunged at her, closing your eyes as you used your entire bodyweight to send you both tumbling into the moat, feeling the dagger cut your shirt's material at the ribs as you did so. Ruffle yelped as the two of you submerged beneath the water, its unnatural warmth engulfing you like a blanket. You held your breath, Ruffle thrashing and fighting against your grip, dagger long forgotten and sinking to the bottom of the sewers. You let her go without issue, swimming back from her and beginning to hum loudly. You hadn't known how deep the sewers were until now, you thought that perhaps you could plant your feet properly on the bottom, but not even your toes could reach. It was better than anything you could have ever imagined.
“Help me up!” Ruffle ordered when you crested the surface of the water, still singing the tune of Magnolia Blue’s song. You chose her song with lofty hopes that her spirit might help you succeed. Claudius offered his hand to Ruffle, and Silver made the move to help as well until Ruffle let out a bone-rattling scream. Her hand clamped onto Claudius’s, and for the first time instead of disdain or rage, you saw fear flash across Ruffle’s face.
“Ah—It hurts! It hurts!” She cried, and Claudius nearly had her up until he saw the water begin to change colour, his eyes widening as blood poured from Ruffle’s body, flooding the moat in horrific waves. A dozen large bite marks were all over her torso, chunks of her body gone as if they had never been there in the first place, allowing you to see into the cavity of her organs until blood began to fill the empty spaces. Then, a flurry of the sharp-toothed creatures leapt up from the moat, latching onto anything within their radius including Ruffle’s throat, her screams dying with a final crunch. A cannon shot went off in the distance.
You’re going to slaughter in the arena.
His foot slipped.
Claudius, the great and powerful career from District 2, second only to Kairos, slipped. You watched him crash into the moat, hand still in Ruffles, as he tried to claw his way out, reaching for Silver who kneeled by the edge of the water.
“S—” He wasn't able to get a syllable out before his voice was muffled underwater, bubbles blossoming from where the fish had dragged him into the surprisingly deep moat. Crimson was everywhere, from the outpouring of Claudius and Ruffle’s blood to the two-toned scales of the fish. A second cannon shot.
“Oh god—ohgodohgod.” Silver looked nauseous, and you saw her begin to back away from the moats edge, hand blindly reaching for her spear that she dropped to help Ruffle, but she was in a state of shock. She couldn't move as fast as she needed to, and that was your greatest advantage. You propelled yourself to where she was scrambling to stand, using the sewers edge to push yourself up, the same way you had done a thousand times in hidden grottos or training pools, the same way your District taught you. You reached out to Silver, clamping your hand down on her ankle. Silver snapped back to look at you, eyes wide, her normal cruel smile nowhere to be found.
“There once was a girl named Magnolia,” You continued the final verse of Magnolia’s song, dragging yourself back into the water—Silver with you. She scraped and clawed onto the concrete floor, her pleading overlapping your song.
“She was bright as the sun and dark as the night…” Her foot touched the water's surface, “KAIROS! ADORATION! HELP!”
“…this girl named Magnolia left us one thing, her heart’s blossoming tree.” “—Let GO! H-help! Not like this, please!” Her cries for help fell on deaf ears, bouncing around the sewers like a taunt as you pulled her into the waves, the girl tumbling in with a whimpering cry that was swallowed up by the water. Silver tried to swim back up but it was too late, the crimson-scaled fish latched onto her, swimming past you and straight down to where she struggled beneath the surface, the sound of her final moments and the creatures frenzied swimming joining the last few notes of your song.
“Yes her heart, now forever free.” You concluded, hauling yourself out of the moat with a sing-song shout so the muttations wouldn’t get any ideas. You crawled to the sewer walls before you stopped singing, instead sucking in desperate gasps for air and letting all your muscles relax. Your clothes were soaked in water and blood, and the entire sewer smelt less like waste and more akin to a butcher's shop. A third cannon shot.
Your head fell back against the wall, eyes closed as you listened to the fish feast on your enemies corpses. You stayed like that for a while, listening to the sounds of victory, until there were no more. You could almost see Finnick when you heard the whir of a camera lens. How a grin would spread wide across his face, pointed canines glinting in the light of whatever Capitol watch party he was at. You imagined Seraphina squealing with joy, grabbing onto Dominius as the two of them watched the feed, Filly popping a bottle of fizzy wine to celebrate. You nearly heard the way Varuna let out a relieved breath, eyes watery and hands clasped with her husbands.
“C’mon Crawford.” You spoke aloud, groaning as you forced yourself back to your feet, bones aching and body heavy from exertion and the added weight of your water-logged clothes. Your tired eyes found Silver’s spear and Claudius’s machete, tossed haphazardly out of the way. You scooped them both up before you dragged yourself back to the entrance of the sewers, picking up your bag and listening out for any footsteps before you fled into a nearby apartment building. You sat in one of the stairwells, catching your breath and waiting for your clothes to dry, while you formulated the rest of your plan.
Luring the careers into the sewers worked, but it was still extremely lucky that they happened upon you when they did. The two District 1 tributes might’ve been arrogant but you doubted they would be as easily shocked or out-maneuvered like the others. You would have to go back to your original plan—with a few minor changes, that is.
You only hoped, as the smell of copper dried its way into your clothes, that this time it would be less bloody.
Okay so this is the final scene from Chapter Three of “Of Starlily’s and Elm Tree’s” that I just loved so much I had to draw it!! Guys Dunk and Y/n are having ten kids idgaf they’re having eight trillion babies and living happily ever after JUST YOU WAIT!!! I’m also obsessed with all of the dresses I describe Y/n in so you know I had to have an excuse to draw this one!!
Chapter Summary: You party like a Baratheon the night before your family arrives at Ashford Meadow.
Pairing(s): Duncan the Tall x Fem!Adopted-Targaryen!reader
Warning(s): MDNI!! Dunk is a lunk and I love him (pls be kind world he’s only 3 minutes old), Canon typical gore, abuse, violence, etc. Tooth-rotting yearning and fluff, Repressed-jealous-and-also-possessive/protective!Duncan the Tall, Future chapters contain smut, read the hashtags for the rest!
Word Count: 4.7k
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The tent was alive with laughter once more not two minutes after you began to eat, the musicians happy melody bringing about loud conversation and one wooden-sword fight held between two noblemen chasing each other about. Chandeliers and candelabras held dozens of candlesticks, their fires whipping with each breath of those gathered and washing the tent in a comforting glow. It was a welcomed change to your family’s quiet suppers or cordial luncheons, you could not remember the last time a feast this lively was hosted by your father—outside of namedays, of course.
“I reminisce often about when I named you Queen of Love and Beauty,” Lyonel began, refilling his goblet, “you were so adorable then, and you have grown into a fine lady of the kingdoms now, if I may be so bold.”
“I thank you, my lord. Your boldness is not misplaced.” You smiled, taking a few berries off of your plate and popping them into your mouth. Lyonel smirked, and your brows raised a fraction. He was certainly keeping up his reputation of being a rakish nobleman.
“I have heard whispers that you are promised to a Wolf of Winterfell—” He said, and you responded before your good manners could form.
“Whispers?” You coughed, grabbing your own goblet to take a tentative sip.
“Rumours, courtly gossip, but I did think that if you were betrothed to one of those Stark boys, it would be a fucking shame.” Lyonel drawled, gulping down half of his goblet as you responded.
“And why is that, Lord Lyonel?” You mused, an attempt to hide the discomfort that the rumours brought you. Had your father truly promised you to a Stark without your knowledge? Bound you to a life away from your home, away from your family—away from him?
“You would do much better staying in the South, a Starlily is not known to bloom amongst the snow.” Lyonel finished his cup, wiping his mouth with the ends of his cape.
“You are a kind man for thinking of me, but these whispers have led you astray, I fear.” You mumbled, looking up at him through your lashes.
“I am not promised to anyone.” You asserted, and Lyonel grinned, the type of grin you knew would produce many bastards in his lifetime.
“Wonderful fucking news.” He chuckled, and you elegantly dabbed the corner of your lips with your napkin.
“I would remind you, however, that in spite of its name, the Starlily is no fragile flower.” You turned to him, squaring your shoulders.
“It was cultivated by the first Dayne King, born of the remnants of a fallen star. It blooms with the moon and her company, my lord. Wherever there is night, there will be Starlily’s…Snowfall or no.” You watched Lyonel’s eyes widen, surprise and a mix of uncouth arousal playing on his face.
“I am sorry if I have offended you, princess. T’was not my intention, please accept my humblest forgiveness.” He grabbed both your hands, kissing them profusely while you laughed.
“You are forgiven, my lord.” You giggled, pulling your hands away to place them in your lap.
“You are full of welcomed surprises, princess.” Lyonel sunk into his chair, “I did not know dragons could be so agreeable.”
You would have replied to his statement, if he was not suddenly occupied by the man to his left, starting a heated debate about traditions and which region produced the best wine. You observed the party-goers for a short while, occasionally being handed a new type of wine to try by the preoccupied Baratheon lord, until his booming voice sounded across the tent.
“I’ve had a profound thought, if anyone would care to listen!” He threw his hands up in exasperation, head lolling in a familiarly tipsy way as the crowd quieted. The musicians stopped their hands, their song coming to an abrupt end.
“Four thousand years ago, our ancestors gathered in that…” He half-heartedly pointed in the direction of the Meadow, “big field…outside..”
“..To blood each other with sticks, and have a little bit of gay fun.” He huffed, pulling at the chain that kept his golden cape secured to his shoulders.
“And they say it was this country’s first-ever joust. Well, I say…” He shifted, leaning against the table and opening his mouth to continue, until a bewildered look came upon him.
Lyonel looked at you, then back to the crowd, and then to the man on his left before muttering, “Uh…the fuck was I gonna say?”
“First-ever joust…” He began to mumble, the crowd stayed in a stagnant silence, the only sound being the guzzling or pouring of alcohol. You let your eyes wander the group again, brows furrowing as you looked at the captive audience. You were being watched, it was no secret, a princess amongst noblefolk always was, yet you felt something different now. You felt…you felt…
“Ah!” Lyonel’s epiphany stopped your train of thought, and your gaze snapped back to him.
“Men could not have devised such a joy.” He grinned, giddy at his own foresight.
“So who was it?” Lyonel posed the hypothetical question, yet those in the room looked around at each other like one of them might have created the tradition of jousting thousands of years ago.
“Huh? Who was it?” He accused, eyes narrowing as he surveyed his guests. He then looked at you, brows raising as he shrugged his shoulders with a little “Hm?” and laughed.
“Ahhh…Fuck it—a hundred gold to the man, beast, or god who sticks me best!” Lyonel reached into his breeches and threw a sack of gold onto the table just past your own, earning a mighty cheer from the tent and the beginning of another song from the musicians.
“Now eat your birds so we can dance!” He ordered, and a lineup of servants brought out heady trays stacked with goose and chicken and all sorts of seasonings to the awaiting crowd. They even took away the carcasses of what the lord’s table had already eaten and placed new meats in front of you.
“Eat, my lady. I wish to have your first dance of the evening and I am an impatient man.” Lyonel insisted, tossing a large goose-leg with crisped skin onto your plate. That time came soon enough, not a half-hour later when you were cleaning the sides of your mouth with a napkin and most of the other attendees had cleared the centre of the tent for dancing. Humphrey Beesbury, if you recalled correctly, was jumping in all sorts of fantastical ways and shooting back spiced wine every time he took a break. A lady was rhythmically dancing atop a table, and the circle that had formed around all the chaos was clapping with the beat of the strings and drums of the band. You were surprised that Lyonel had not dragged you into the mess yet, but you were grateful nonetheless, your stomach still had to settle and you would be mortified if you threw up anywhere other than in the privacy of your own chambers. Which you had done, on multiple occasions, and mostly due to Kiera’s insistence that you try mysterious liqueurs from Tyrosh each time.
You were speaking with a Baratheon cousin when Lyonel spotted him, hunched in a dark corner, stuffing his face with a bread roll and washing it down with a pint of ale. He stuck out like a sore thumb in retrospect, dressed in old cotton coloured dull green and beige from years of wear with little washing. His belt, not made of leather or fine metals but instead braided rope, draped sadly around his hips and might’ve been held together by stalks of straw. He was practically begging to be noticed by the host of the evening. You had evidently downed one goblet more than necessary, the sweet wine buzzing through your body as you laughed far too loud at the horrible joke your conversation partner said. Something about Valemen fucking their sheep or other, you did not have the motivation to remember.
“My Lady, have you ever seen a man piss himself in fear?” Lyonel interjected, and you turned to him, half-lidded eyes meeting his own.
“I do not believe I have, unless a knight’s armour catches it all.” You snickered, and Lyonel grinned, cheeks flushed from the ale and wine he had been switching between all evening.
“I believe you are about to witness it.” He hummed, leaning back in his chair and turning towards where a figure was approaching, large and hesitant in their movements. Lyonel’s face suddenly became serious, hands clasped in front of him as he rested his elbows on the armrests of his chair. He held a dagger in his grasp, twirling it as he watched the steel reflect the surrounding candlelight. You let your gaze shift to the approaching party, and your eyes widened when they met with his. Dunk, standing thick as a castle wall, opened and closed his mouth as he tried to form a sentence. He appeared just as shocked as you were, holding a half-eaten blueberry pie with a coltish look on his face, eyes quivering between you and Lyonel when the lord spoke up.
“You ever been punched in the face before?” He asked, and you gasped.
“I beg-I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?” Dunk sputtered, big blue eyes wide as twin moons the same as when you last saw him.
“Big men get punched more than little men, did you know that?” Lyonel finally looked up at Dunk from where he sat, continuing to twirl the dagger between his fingers.
“No, but—but I believe it.” Dunk cracked a tentative smile, one that extinguished when he looked at your shocked face. The two of you maintained eye contact, even when Lyonel spoke next.
“That why you slouch?” Lyonel gestured at him with his dagger, “So you don’t get punched?”
“I d—I don’t slouch.” Dunk muttered, looking down at his feet and straightening his back.
“Ohhhhh you’ve been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night.” Lyonel chuckled, looking at you, and you flashed the briefest smile so as not to upset the Lord.
“I-I meant no disrespect, ser, honest.” Dunk lowered his head, eyes still catching yours even as he tried to stay focused on the lord.
“Where I grew up, you—you learn to go unnoticed, is all.” He explained, and you felt your heart clench at that. You had a bleeding heart for the commonfolk, one Aerion often teased you for, but you could not help it. You thought of yourself amongst them, how if the gods did not favour you, you might have been born in a whorehouse or a shack, left to fend for scraps or sell yourself to get by. You felt a certain empathy that you found lacking amongst the rest of your spoiled kin.
“The seven above gave you tallness,” Lyonel pointed up with his dagger, grinning from ear to ear, “so, be tall.”
“Or I will name you a heretic and burn you…drown you, drop you off a tall pl—I don’t know, what do they do to heretics?” Lyonel threatened, and his kinsman spoke before you could protest.
“Burn them, my lord.” The kinsman assured, and Lyonel threw his blade onto the table, making Dunk jump.
“Lord Lyonel, surely you do not mean to actually kill the poor man?” You questioned, and the soft authority of your voice made the lord’s gaze swivel to you.
“It would displease me so to see such violence at such a joyous occasion, and I’m sure Lady Ashford would curse your name if you ruined her nameday in such a way.” You giggled, and Lyonel let out a long sigh. Clearly he realized that his teasing of the man had not brought you as much elation as it brought him.
“Fine, fine. What have you brought me, man?” Lyonel drawled, and Dunk’s mouth was open for a few seconds longer than it should have been before he answered.
“Um…Uh, ser, I—” He cleared his throat, his grip on the pie becoming tighter so that the jelly spilled onto his fingers, “beggin’ yer pardons I-I didn’t realize…”
“You wish to curry my favour some, yet you come with an empty hand?” Lyonel was struck with disbelief now, and it was only then you noticed the way Dunk’s hair stuck out atop his head, messy and unkempt from the night before no doubt. It was charmingly adorable.
“Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red,” Lyonel pointed to the lord, and Dunk followed his gaze to where Lord Cafferen was swinging around with a Lady, pint full and smiling wide.
“He is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shined up this…bauble from his family’s cellar’s, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help or your head.” Lyonel picked up the dagger, swinging it around lazily as he spoke.
“You’ve come for my head then?” Lyonel pointed the dagger at Dunk. His tone was serious, yet you saw the subtle crinkle around his eyes, the malicious revelry he was getting from torturing the poor man.
“W-what? N-no! No!” Dunk shook his head, brows furrowing.
“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?” Lyonel threw the dagger onto the table, and you looked up at Dunk, watching the gears turn in his head before he said perhaps the most sweet yet stupid thing you had ever heard a man utter.
“S-Supper?” He held up the blueberry pie, a small pastry in his wide hands, and you laughed. A real, honest laugh, that drew the attention of everyone at the table. Lyonel watched you, shocked, before he began to laugh as well, the two of you grappling onto each other as you tried to stop yourself from tearing up.
“Seven hells! Supper!” You wheezed out, wiping the corner of your eyes as you separated from your host-lord.
“Actually makes sense…” Lyonel shrugged under his breath as he stopped laughing, and Dunk nodded his head a few times before he repeated what he said, visibly relieved that his real reasoning was seen as an intentional joke.
“Supper.” Dunk smiled, still apprehensive.
“What is your name, man?” Lyonel asked.
“Dunk—Ser Dunk.” Dunk responded, and you grinned at that. He had made the same mistake when introducing himself to you.
“That’s ridiculous.” Lyonel scoffed, and your grin was wiped from your face.
“It is a fine name, Lord Lyonel. No more ridiculous than whatever drivel pompous noblemen name their firstborns.” You grumbled, and Lyonel giggled.
“Thats-That certainly is true, my lady.” He agreed, and he looked past Dunk, to the lively crowd of dancers.
“I believed I am owed a dance, sweet Starlily.” Lyonel rose, offering you his hand, and you took it in kind.
“Do you dance, Ser Dunk? Or are you perhaps too heavy on your feet?” You smirked, and Dunk sucked in a sharp breath.
“I…I dance, light as a feather, honest.” He cracked a half-grin, and you looked at Lyonel, then back to Dunk, who had shoved the pie in his mouth and was cleaning his fingers of jelly.
“Then we must dance!” You cheered, dragging Lyonel by the hand and catching Dunk by his sleeve. When you arrived in the mix of dancers they were doing a choreographed dance, a common one that most in the Kingdoms would have been taught by the time they were ten and one. Lyonel twirled you around the room, the two of you weaving between other couples with ease in spite of your drunkenness.
“This is perhaps the most fucking fun I’ve ever had with a Targaryen!” Lyonel whooped, and you were grateful for the loud ambiance of the night and the fact that Dunk stood clapping at the other end of the room.
“This is perhaps the most fun I’ve ever had with a Lord!” You squealed as he dipped you in his arms, sticking out his tongue playfully as the dance ended. Lyonel, ever the man of the evening, hopped up onto one of the tables when you were finished, ridding himself of his cape so that he was left only in his black tunic and doublet. He danced like a bird, waving his arms and cocking back his head as another dance began.
“Do you know the steps?” You asked Dunk when you found your way to him, pulling him into it without waiting for a response.
“I-uhm, yes!” He said, and the two of you interlocked your elbows, spinning for a chord before you separated in two lineups, one for women and one for men. All of you weaved together, the men taking hands and holding them up while the women crouched and skipped underneath, until you had all switched sides of the formation. Then each woman met hands with her dance partner, gallivanting in pre-destined steps while onlookers cheered and clapped.
“Your hair is…are you…?” Dunk began, the music so loud that only you could hear him, and you let the half-lie slip out of your mouth before you could stop it.
“Dyed! It is dyed, with materials from Tyrosh. I am one of Kiera Targaryen’s Ladies in Waiting.” You smiled sheepishly, and Dunk appeared to release all the tension from his body at that. It was a good thing, as the final step in the dance required him to spin you above his head, your skirt floating as you braced yourself on his shoulders. When he laid you back on the ground the two of you found your way outside the dancing circle, catching your breath with nearby ale.
“Is that why you are named Starlily?” Dunk asked, and you raised a brow.
“I-I mean no offence, M’lady, it is only that Westeros does not have such…um..” He was turning an awful shade of red, from his ears to his neck, and you gave him a sympathetic smile.
“We Tyroshi are a queer bunch to those of Westeros, I do not blame you for thinking so as well.” You hummed, and Dunk nodded, cooling himself with the ale in his cup.
“No! No, I don’t think you’re anything like that at all, I was jus’ curious is all.” He spoke quickly, “It’s a beautiful name.”
“Thank you. My uncle named me.” You chuckled, enjoying the moment of anonymity that your veiled lies brought.
“Who named you, Ser Dunk?” You asked, and Dunk shook his head, biting his lip.
“I know not. I am, um, orphaned, you see.” Dunk sighed, and you wished you had never asked him when you saw the pain and embarrassment that passed over his face.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” You took his free hand, squeezing it with your own. He looked down at where you touched, as if when he looked away you would no longer hold him.
“I lost mine own mother at an early age, I know how terrible it is to go without.” You confessed, completely earnest for the first time that night. Dunk finally met your eyes, and the noise of the party faded away. It was as if you were the only two people in the tent, your breathing aligning and his eyes flickering between yours.
“Ser Dunk, we must dance!” Lyonel’s command took you out of your trance, the lord grabbing up Dunk despite his smaller stature and dragging the poor man back into the fray, leaving you to laugh as you watched Dunk try and keep up with the over-excited nobleman. Eventually you found your way back to Lyonel’s table, where at some point he had left his antlered-crown, alongside a surprisingly full decanter of…Honeywine, you concluded after you had poured yourself a goblet full. You sat down at your place, taking the crown and placing it atop your head. It was heavy, but not as heavy as you were expecting all things considered.
“Do you suppose I would do well as a Baratheon?” You asked Lord Lyonel when he stumbled over, Dunk in tow. The night was beginning to wind down, softer more intimate melodies coming from the musicians as you downed your…third? goblet of Honeywine. Lyonel and Dunk collapsed into the seats beside you, and the lord scratched his jaw.
“Oh, yes. It’s a shame that I have a wife, the name—” He began your true name, and you interrupted him before he could finish.
“My lord! It is uncouth to dishonor your wife so.” You scolded, and Lyonel’s lips split into a tired grin.
“Naturally.” He acquiesced, “Only I wonder if you could handle the fucking insanity it takes to be a Stormlander.”
“How so?” You goaded, and Lyonel began a story of seafaring adventures, one that ended in storms and tragedy and Lyonel appearing stronger for it. During the story, Dunk revealed himself to be a knight—a hedge knight, albeit—but a knight still. You nodded intently, and took the crown off your head, placing it instead on Dunk’s.
“I believe you could stand to be a Stormlander, ser. The salt and sea might do some good to that timid personality of yours.” You huffed, and Dunk licked his lips, “Sorry, not to say you have a horrid disposition, it is only that you are so—”
Lyonel stuck Lord Cafferen’s dagger into a stray potato, bringing it up to his mouth as he interrupted.
“Scared?” Lyonel finished for you, mid-bite, and you smacked his arm lightly.
“No. Well, yes, but you ought not to be. You have a great deal too much bottled up in there,” You pushed your index finger into Dunk’s chest, “to keep your true self hidden from the world forever.”
“I…I…” Dunk stammered, and Lyonel let out a long groan.
“Right.” He said, taking his crown from off Dunk’s head and placing it back on his own dark waves. Lyonel turned to you, standing up and kissing your hand with a mumbled, “Princess.” That you hoped Dunk did not hear.
Then, Lyonel stood on the seat of his chair, stepped onto the table, and made his wobbly way back into the dispersing crowd, no doubt to find a whore or willing noblewoman to spend the rest of the night with. Dunk ran his hand down his face, sighing until you stood abruptly, drawing his attention.
“You will escort me to my family’s lodgings.” You said, matter-of-fact, and Dunk stood up in the blink of an eye.
“Of course, Milady. I would not let you wander the tourney unprotected.” He puffed up his chest
“Thank you, ser. Your stallion, Chestnut, is also housed where I stay. You may collect him when we arrive, I am a woman of my word.” You took his hand, linking your arms together as you stumbled out of Lord Baratheon’s tent, Dunk stopping for a moment to grab his cloak from a nearby pile. He put it on, and patted his shoulders for any dirt, not looking you in the eyes when he next spoke.
“Thank you for keepin’ him safe. I’ll be needing all three for the lists on the morrow.” Dunk rested one of his hands on the hilt of his sword, one that you had not noticed throughout the night. Perhaps he had tossed it with his cloak, you thought.
“Why is that?” You asked, linking arms with him once more. The sky was beginning to brighten ever so slightly, a sign that dawn was soon to come.
“Well, you know.” He shrugged, and you shook your head, eyes wide as you waited.
“With the loss of a joust I’ll need to give my horse ‘n armour to the champion, so having three is better than one.” Dunk explained, looking down at you.
“Though Sweetfoot, I don’ know if I could ever send her into the tiltfield.” He trailed off, and you nodded slowly, not bothering to clarify who Sweetfoot was.
“I must be transparent, that has never been a concern for anyone in my family.” You mumbled, seeing Ashford’s keep getting closer and closer in the distance.
“‘Course not, Milady. You are of noble blood, with riches to your name. I have no such status.” Dunk stated with a light laugh, one that made your stomach roll with butterflies.
“What if you did, what would you do then?” You asked, a throwaway question, but the answer made your chest feel heavy.
“I ought not to imagine, only makes me regret that I was born how I was and not in a Lord’s Keep.” He sniffed, and you frowned as the two of you neared Lord Ashford’s home. When he realized you intended to approach the Keep, he stopped, looking between it and you.
“That is your lodgings?” He gawked, and you pulled him further despite his body’s protests.
“That is where Lady Kiera is staying, alongside her husband's kin on the morrow, and she has insisted that my family and I stay with her.” You said gleefully, leading him through the arched gates and to the stables, where Chestnut had his face halfway in a water trough.
“Please prepare Chestnut for Ser Dunk when he returns.” You said to the nearby stableboy, whose reason for being up at this hour was beyond you. He nodded, and Dunk followed as you went to one of the smaller doorways of the Keep. It was quiet now, no longer was there any music or lively conversation from within the castle walls but only the soft silence of early morning.
“Thank you, ser, for the gracious kindness you have shown me over the past days.” You curtsied mid-way through stepping up the stairs of the doorway, and Dunk lowered to one knee, hanging his head low.
“Anything for you, Milady Starlily.” He said, and based on the way his shoulders went stiff afterwards you knew he did not mean for that to slip out. You reached out to him, gently shifting his gaze back up to yours by a featherlight hand on his jaw.
“Are you a good knight, ser?” You asked, heavy gaze admiring the way the rising sun gave his blushed skin a golden glow.
“I—well, I would like to think so.” He tripped over his words, and you could see how difficult it was for him to not look at where your hand rested on his jaw.
“Then be my champion. I shall die if you refuse me.” You smirked, and his eyes widened, as if he truly believed you would perish if he denied you.
“Your champion?” He breathed, and you nodded.
“Indeed. I know many knights wish for my favour, and I wish to give it to you.” You brushed your thumb over his cheekbone one final time before you retracted your hand, still feeling his skin’s warmth on your palm.
“Better yet, if you knock Aerion Targaryen off his horse I will give you my hand.” You snickered, and Dunk began to lose all colour to his face.
“I-uh, Milady—” His breath quickened, and you waved your hand to give solace to him.
“‘Twas a jape, Dunk.” You reassured, and he blinked a few times before he remembered what you had originally asked of him.
“Milady,” He began once more, and you held up your hand to stop him.
“Call me Starlily. I will die if you refuse that, as well.” You grinned, and now he recognized your teasing tone, allowing himself a gentle smile.
“I cannot accept, I must still find a lord who will vouch for me if I am to enter the lists, you see, I am a…an unknown hedge knight. I am not worthy of a Lady’s favour.” He said, steadfast despite your insistence.
“Then find a lord who will back you and I will consider you worthy, and you may have my favour. Are we in agreement?” You asked, a challenging glint in your eye. Dunk looked up at you, like you were a blazing star in a lonely night sky, before he answered.
“I…If it pleases you.” He took his sword from his hip, flattening it in his palms and raising it up to you.
“I am your man, Starlily. Yours, from now until you have no further use of me.” He swore, sheathing his blade back in his belt.
“As you say, ser.” You hummed, hearing the morning birds begin their storied songs.
“Away with you now, you must be well rested in order to win.” You dismissed, and Dunk stood, watching you disappear into the darkened halls of the Keep until he could no longer make out your flowing figure.
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Taglist (Request to be added!): @qardasngan @nedanky @scmdsblog @moonmaiden1996 @lvspedri @bluerrie @thhriller @lehlyx @nixandtonic @janedukiesworld @lenasdmns @rebeccawinters @neenieweenie
Chapter Summary: You arrive back at camp, eager to set off for Ashford on the morrow to find your mysterious man, so long as nothing goes wrong.
Pairing(s): Duncan the Tall x Fem!Adopted-Targaryen!reader
Warning(s): MDNI!! Dunk is a lunk and I love him (pls be kind world he’s only 3 minutes old), Canon typical gore, abuse, violence, etc. Tooth-rotting yearning and fluff, Repressed-jealous-and-also-possessive/protective!Duncan the Tall, Future chapters contain smut, read the hashtags for the rest!
Word Count: 5.5k
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On your way back to the procession you could not help the pounding of your heart as you thought of Ser Dunk at Ashford Meadow. You imagined his shy gait, the way he slumped when speaking to you, the way he would most like hunch over again when speaking to others. A sweet attempt to make his size less intimidating, a trait that other men you knew would use to terrorize those around them.
You thought of his big blue eyes, and how they softened when he placed you on his horse, wide as twin moons. You shivered at the memory of his calloused palms resting against your back, his sturdy chest soft and pliable beneath your fingers as you scrambled away. He fascinated you, puzzled your mind in a way you could not quite understand. He was generous, yet you could tell he had not a silver stag to his name—and what a name it was; Dunk. Short for Duncan, surely, you mused as you continued down the path, eyes locking onto a figure in the distance.
“Princess!” Yorkel called, coming upon you with a look of relief. Princess, the word unnerved your ear. You did not always feel as though you were a princess of the realm, even though you had been titled as such throughout your life. You wondered as a child why your mother was not a princess, and you had an aversion to the thought of being higher than her in rank. You much preferred Lady Y/n, but your father would have set fire to anyone who introduced you with a title other than Princess Y/n of House Targaryen. At the least you were not branded with such frivolity as Aerion Brightflame or such shame as Daeron the Drunken.
“Yorkel, you have found me at last.” You smiled, waiting for him to spin his horse around so the two of you could ride in tandem.
“Princess, you mustn’t run off in times such as these.” Yorkel huffed, adjusting the hilt of his blade at his waist.
“Peace times, you mean?” You countered, looking over at him.
“I…no, but—” Yorkel looked down at Chestnut, screwing up his face, “…What happened to your horse?”
“Nothing you must worry about, Yorkel. Now, if my father is to ask, you were by my side dutifully the entire journey.” You said, picking up pace back into a canter.
“If it pleases milady.” Yorkel grumbled, too tired to squabble. The two of you rode into camp as the sun was kissing the horizon, and you felt your fathers steely gaze before you saw him, watching you unmount from the horse. When he saw it was you returning he turned on his heel, marching into Baelor’s tent where supper was being served, no doubt.
“Where is Umber?” Lysa questioned as she walked up, seeing the clear difference between the purebred stallion and Chestnut.
“I will explain after supper.” You smiled widely, and Lysa knew by the dirt on your cloak and wild look in your eyes that something had gone amiss.
“Take great care of him, ser,” You said to the footman that you handed Chestnut’s reins to, “he is called Chestnut, and he is the most valuable of companions.”
The footman bowed solemnly, taking Chestnut to join the rest of the horses, and you linked arms with Lysa.
“I met the most interesting man, Lysa,” You whispered, and Lysa’s eyebrows shot up.
“He must have been as tall as an elm, if not taller!” You recalled, and Lysa scoffed.
“Tall as an elm? Did you meet a giant come down from beyond the wall?” She asked, and you took off your headscarf, freeing your hair and handing the fabric to Lysa’s open palm.
“I would not be surprised if his father took one to wife, if that is your question.” You snickered, and Lysa let out a hearty laugh.
“Shall we get you cleaned up before supper?” She asked, and you shook your head.
“No need, my family will not care for a bit of mud gathered on the ends of my skirts.” You dismissed, and she shrugged, sending you off into your uncle's tent where hushed conversation was being had. When the Kingsguard pulled back the tarp you saw your family sitting around a modest table to the left of the entrance, goblets full and eyes snapping to you as you entered.
“There’s our girl.” Baelor smiled, and you went around the table to give each of them a kiss on the cheek, bouncing about as if you were a child again. Aerion sucked in a sharp breath when your lips brushed his cheekbone, pin-prick pupils following your path across the table.
“I had the most wonderful ride, it was—” You paused, smile faltering for a moment as Valarr pulled out your chair for you.
“Where is Aegon and Daeron?” You asked, looking at the three empty chairs on one side of the table.
“And Kiera?” You turned to Valarr, and he shrugged.
“My wife is…indisposed.” He coughed, downing a few gulps of wine. His eyes barely met yours, and the tension in his shoulders got tighter at the mention of his wife.
Oh. Oh. By the grim expression on your cousin's face you knew what kept Kiera locked away in her tent, and you reached out to squeeze Valarr’s hand, offering him a sympathetic smile. Your cousin and his wife had yet to conceive a living child, though not for lack of trying. Every instance of pregnancy ended with the child bleeding from her womb before it could take root or being delivered without breath as your first incarnation was all those years ago. She was happy when last you saw her, tired but happy still. Now you knew why.
“I see…what of my brothers?” You turned your attention to your father, who was cutting his veal with a sour frown.
“Daeron elected to ride out to Ashford early while you were gone, Aegon with him. He wants to have time for himself to prepare.” Your father said, gaze never leaving the metal of his plate. Your eyes narrowed as your meal was placed in front of you, a servant pouring you a goblet of honey-wine as you analyzed your father.
“I am here, sweet sister.” Aerion tilted his head with a smirk, locking eyes with you.
“Do you not feel fulfilled by only one brother?” He pouted, and you took a sip from your goblet.
“I do not.” You stated simply, and you saw Baelor look down to hide his grin out of the corner of your eye.
“Don’t fucking start or I’ll have you both with the whip.” Your father warned, and though you sat up straighter, you knew his threat was hollow.
“Sorry, father.” You apologized, while Aerion rolled his eyes, continuing to eat his food. Supper went on without any further fuss, pleasant conversation about tourney activities and plans for the coming months sending you into a peaceful stupor. By the time you regained your mind it was just you and your uncle left in his tent, saying your final goodbyes for the evening.
“When you arrived you said that you had a wonderful ride, how far did you get before Yorkel caught up with you?” Baelor grinned knowingly as he took off his rings, laying them on top of the dining table. You stood by the fireplace now, warming yourself a little before you braved the short walk to your tent.
“Uncle, do you think me such a foolish girl that I would ride out alone after my father commanded I take a guard with me?” You side-eyed, sarcasm lacing every word.
“Of course not, of course not…but hypothetically, if you were such a foolish girl, how far would you have gotten?” Baelor ambled beside you, jostling your shoulder with his.
“Hypothetically, far enough to be knocked off my horse by a wandering hedge knight, or perhaps squire though he did not have anyone else with him.” You confessed, and your uncle’s eyebrows shot up.
“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” He turned you to face him, examining your features while you giggled.
“I am fine, uncle. This imaginary man was honourable, he took the brunt of my fall by protecting me with his body, and he gave me his own horse after mine had run off. He was quite charming, actually.” You sighed, and Baelor pursed his lips.
“However charming a man may be, he is still a man, and all men are capable of great evil—especially those who you do not know. You must be more careful—” He began, and you could tell this was going to turn into one of his ‘fatherly’ uncle lectures.
“Uncle.” You said, and Baelor caught himself, biting his lip as he shook his head.
“I know what evil men are capable of, I have dear Aerion as a brother.” You reminded, and Baelor let out a pained chuckle.
“I only want you to be safe. I would not be able to live with myself if anything happened to you, Starlily.” He let out a deep sigh, eyes searching your own as they often did.
“You are as much a daughter to me as you are to my brother.” Baelor’s thumb grazed over your cheekbone, and you welcomed the comforting warmth that bloomed within your chest. You and your uncle always had a closer relationship than most in your position, and though your father was annoyed to no end when you called Baelor ‘Papa-uncle’ in your youth, he could not deny the kinship that you and your uncle shared. It was an unspoken bond, the kind that pulled you towards one another during a feast to gossip about the guests or radiated from Baelor whenever an over-confident lord attempted to charm you.
“I know, uncle.” You breathed, leaning up to kiss his cheek.
“I love you, and I will keep your concern in mind, however I must dismiss myself. If we are to arrive at Ashford in time then I must have the wherewithal to rise early.” You hummed, and Baelor planted a chaste kiss to the crown of your head.
“Smart girl,” He said, “go on, I bid you good night.”
You curtsied swiftly and left your uncle's tent, arriving at your own less than a minute later. Lysa had a bath already drawn, the large barrel filled to the brim with steaming water that you did not hesitate to sink into. As she went through the knots in your hair, you regaled her with tales of the tall stranger, fawning like a fresh-faced maiden as you recounted the chivalry and sweetness Dunk displayed.
“How do you plan on finding this mysterious man from Flea Bottom then?” Lysa asked as she helped you into your shift, and you answered as your head popped through the neck of it.
“By using my eyes. He will not be hard to miss, even you would be able to pick him out in a crowd, and you have never seen him.” You reasoned as you walked to your bedside, wrapping your hair in a silken scarf so that it would not frizz overnight.
“Anyway, you are dismissed for this evening Lysa. Do not stay up too late catering to my things.” You pleaded gently, sitting on the edge of your bed.
“As you wish, M’lady.” Lysa dipped into a curtsy, grabbing up the last of your clothes to give them a final washing before her night was done. When she left you sunk into bed, not the most comfortable given the circumstances, and willed yourself to sleep faster. The next morning you would be riding off to Ashford, arriving by sunset gods-willing, and one step closer to seeing your charming curiosity of a man. You credited Dunk for the wonderful dream you had that night, good memories brought back by your delightful encounter with him following you into sleep.
“Again Mama! Again, again!” You giggled, jumping up and down while you tugged on your mothers skirts. By five you were nearly the height of her knees when she sat down and full of enough energy to put armies to shame.
“Again? Are you not tired of the same melody, my heart?” Dyanna asked, readjusting the small harp on her lap.
“No, I want again please!” You requested, turning to where your father was catching his breath, kneeling on the soft grass of the Red Keep’s gardens. He gave your mother a look, asking for mercy from his wife, before she began to strum her harp with a grin.
“Oh, have you seen the sunrise, flying above the sea?” Your mother began the energetic song, and you ran to your father, jumping on his back with a delighted yelp. Maekar let out a disgruntled huff, before he rose from his knees, keeping you steady on his back as he held his arms to the side.
“With wings of blushing beauty, and a maid as fair as can be.” Dyanna hummed, watching as your father ‘flew’ through the gardens, flapping his arms like wings while you nearly strangled him with the hold you had around his neck.
“Yes sweet Rhaena of Pentos has captured the dawn, and rides her to and fro, for none but Rhaena have the charm to tame the Morning’s glow.” Your mother got up, spinning around the two of you while you commanded your father to screech as if he were a real dragon.
“With scales like pearls and eyes like diamonds her beast cannot be shunned, though night may carry darkness, Morning is soon to come!” Your mother chortled, rounding out the melody before she began it once more, repeating the song while you cackled atop your father’s back.
“Quickly, Morning!” You said, only for your father to gently correct you after an out of breath dragon cry.
“It is Aderī, I am a dragon! I do not take commands in the common tongue.” He asserted, stern in spite of his humorous position beneath you.
“Skorī dāeragon, ñuhys Dāria?” What command, my Princess? Maekar asked, stopping where he was.
“Aderī!” You pointed towards your mother, who had stopped her song in favour of placing the harp on the bench she once sat on. Your father let out a bellowing roar, ‘flying’ towards your mother with a wide smile and capturing her in his arms. He shifted you from his back to his chest, holding you in between them as he let out an exhausted sigh.
“Shall we have lunch?” He suggested, and you pouted, eyes getting glassy until your mother spoke up.
“Every Dragonrider must eat to stay strong-willed. In fact, Rhaena was known to be fond of fruits and tea.” Dyanna confessed, as if it were a secret only the three of you knew.
“Fruits!” You smiled, and your father hiked you up further on his hip.
“Fruits it is.” He nodded, and that was where your dream ended. You could not recall the very last time your father played Dragons with you, perhaps that was it.
Lysa had come back to wake you the next morning, a half hour before sunrise as you oft preferred whenever you needed to rise early, and helped you dress in time to stand by the edge of camp, watching the sun appear from the east. You stood there for a long while, listening to the birds chirp and rustle in the trees, admiring the way purple night dawned into pink morning, then settled on orange day once the sun crested the distant horizon. You closed your eyes, breathing in the dew and firewood from the evening before, imagining instead that it was dragon's fire which lit the hearths of your small procession. Dreaming that with dawn came Morning, your Morning, crying out from beyond the clouds.
“You leave yourself too defenseless, cousin.” Valarr’s cheeky quip made you jump, turning to be met by his face mere inches from yours, the man fully dressed with a mischievous grin.
“Valarr!” You admonished, hitting his chest and forcing him to stumble back with a laugh.
“Haven’t I told you since we were children to stop daydreaming when you are not in your chambers?” He scolded, resting his hand on the hilt of his blade, a habit you noticed in many knights, but the most in him.
“Have I not told you to announce your presence? You move like a viper in the sand.” You tsked, looking back out to where the clouds were stained with warm hues by the sun.
“Do you remember when we used to train in the yard together? Before you moved to Summerhall?” Valarr reminisced, and you cracked a small smile.
“Of course. My father was worried I would scar my face with a wooden blade, and no man would ever take me to wife.” You said, looking back at Valarr.
“I suppose I’m no good now. I was never allowed to continue in Summerhall, though I do think I can evade a long sword if I’m put to the test.” You tapped his sword as you passed by, and Valarr turned to catch up as the two of you made your way back into camp.
“Perhaps, though I would prefer to keep my hand rather than lose it striking you.” He teased, and as you went to respond you heard a frustrated shout, halting your train of thought as you turned to see your father storming out of Aerion’s tent, face red as his sigil.
“Father?” You called, picking up your skirts so you could run to him, “Is everything alright?”
“No. That idiot I call a son refuses to rise. He means to delay our arrival by a day because he is too exhausted to continue, the fucking child.” Maekar cursed, eyes flickering to where Valarr had stayed standing, silently observing the two of you.
“What? Tell him he cannot keep us here, we must get to Ashford, I must—” You stopped yourself, tripping over your words for a moment.
“Will Lady Ashford not be distraught on her nameday if we are to arrive late?” You questioned, and your father shook his head, scratching his beard as he cracked his neck. The tourney at Ashford Meadow was meant to be inconsequential, a small tourney held by a small lord that your family happened to attend, you knew your reasoning held no substantial value to your father.
“Seven hells, I need to speak with your uncle.” Your father cursed, stomping past you to his brother's tent while Valarr sauntered up beside you.
“I suppose we’d better get comfortable again.” He whistled, leaving without waiting for a response when a footman called out for him. You stood there for a long moment, eyes trained where your father had disappeared into your uncle's tent, until Lysa interrupted from a few feet away, peeking out from your tent.
“Milady?” She took a tentative step towards you, and you let your gaze turn to find hers, brows set low on your face.
“…Gather Chestnut and a horse for yourself, and summon Yorkel. We are to depart for Ashford within the hour.” You began to walk towards your uncle's tent, determined with every step.
“Milady?” Lysa repeated out of shock.
“Pack a few bags, enough for the three of us until the procession arrives on the morn.” You shouted, throwing open the tarp to your uncle's tent before the Kingsguard had the chance.
Baelor’s eyes snapped up to you when you entered, him and your father speaking heatedly in the centre of the room, “Y/n?”
“If you all wish to bend to Aerion’s every whim then I cannot fault you for it, however I cannot bear to spend another moment waiting.” You said, exasperated as you went to grab your fathers hands.
“Y/n—” It was your fathers turn to speak, “I will not risk your safety by sending you out for a day's journey alone.”
“I desire to leave for Ashford now, father. I will take Lysa and Yorkel with me, but I cannot wait another moment in this bore of a field because Aerion whines.” Your brows turned upwards, and Maekar sighed, bringing one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“Kepa.” Father. You breathed, and you watched the way your father’s shoulders loosened. He had always been a more pliable man whenever you addressed him in High Valyrian.
“You permitted leave to Daeron and Aegon, why not me? I am twice as responsible as you well know.” You squeezed his hand, watching the hair on Maekar’s jaw shift as he clenched it.
“I…” Your father ground his teeth, violet eyes burning into your e/c ones.
He let out a loud sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat, “I suppose there is no harm. But you will take Yorkel and Sam, and if you are not waiting for us on the morrow with Lord Ashford I swear by the seven I will lock you up and make a Maidenvault in Summerhall.”
“Thank you, father! Thank you.” You pulled him into a tight hug, one that smelled of your childhood, before you turned to leave.
“I will be the picture of health and grace when you arrive!” You promised, practically skipping out of the tent.
“That girl could ask you to give her all seven kingdoms and you would bend the knee, wouldn’t you?” You heard Baelor laugh, and your father let out a groan.
“Godswilling she’ll never ask.” Maekar sighed wistfully, and you allowed yourself a small smirk. By the time Lysa had packed your things, and you had found Sam, it was barely mid-morning. Yorkel had suggested that you use your wheelhouse, but you refused, insisting on travelling on top of Chestnut to ensure his safe return.
“Princess, are you sure you wish for us to refrain from hoisting the banners when we arrive?” Yorkel asked in the afternoon, after a few hours into your journey when you brought up entering Ashford quietly.
“Undoubtedly. I do not need the attention nor the coddling that comes with my father’s banners.” You waved, looking up to see the sun centred above your head. It beat down on you with a ferocity you could only calm with your mother’s scarf, the fabric loosely pinned to your crown.
“As you wish, Princess.” Yorkel nodded his head, and you pet Chestnut’s thick coat, earning a nicker from the horse.
“When we arrive I would like to spend some time on my own, the three of you are free to do as you please. Enjoy the festivities and relaxation before the rest of the procession arrives.” You permitted, squinting your eyes to see if Ashford would magically appear in the distance although you had a handful of good hours to go.
“I seldom see any of you having a moment to spare once they come galloping into the meadow.” You chuffed, and Lysa gave you a small smile.
“If it pleases our Lady.” She looked pointedly between the two guards, and they nodded in unison. From then on you only stopped twice, both times so that everyone could privately relieve themselves and the horses could lap at water. As the sun disappeared behind the western horizon, painting the sky like your mother’s colours, the four of you trotted into Ashford Meadow.
The meadow was brimming with life, lodgings of all sizes dappling the green grass while their canopies glowed warm firelight from within. As you got closer you could hear the revelry that came with the eve before a tourney, knights’ bellowing laughter and whores’ coy giggles followed by the familiar slosh of ale hitting the bottom of a pint. There were equal parts of dancing outside tents as there were inside, the crowd of tourney-goers parting when Sam commanded their attention, leading you carefully through the path that fed into Lord Ashford’s keep. The keep was modest compared to Summerhall, but no less proud, Lord Ashford’s banners billowing high above the dark stone of his home that rested near the outskirts of the temporary tents.
“Watch where you step!” Sam barked when a man nearly tripped into Chestnut’s path, obviously drunk despite the night only beginning.
“I apologizzzzzzzee.” He slurred, stumbling back onto his arse while you stopped Chestnut from rearing back. When his bleary eyes saw you, or more accurately your hair, they widened, and he pointed with a shaky finger.
“T-Targaryen!” He balked, and your head swiveled the other way, gesturing for Sam to continue leading you through to Lord Ashford’s keep.
“Astute observation, ser!” You teased as you rode off, your mothers scarf long since tucked away in your belongings when the sun was covered by a layer of thin clouds in the hour before. You searched the meadow when you heard cheers, louder than the cocophany of excitement that buzzed in your ears and split the quiet of the night. Your gaze caught on a nearby tent, dyed vibrant yellow with stag heads on top of each spire that held the canopy up, and your eyes lit up. Now that you were here, you reasoned, there was no harm in enjoying yourself while you searched for your mysterious hedge-knight-or-squire.
“Princess Y/n of House Targaryen!” Yorkel announced when you came riding into the courtyard of Ashford’s keep behind him, a few stableboys scrambling as they prepared to take your group's horses.
“My Lady!” A worried looking man came running out of the keep as Yorkel was easing you from Chestnut’s back, bowing as you were placed on the muddy ground. He was of average height, with a pudgy belly covered in fine fabrics and a greying beard accompanied by a receded hairline. His bulging eyes regarded you with slight fear, and you gave the reins of Chestnut to Yorkel as the man introduced himself.
“I am Lord Alan Ashford, my humblest apologies that I was not here to greet you, we had thought that you and your family had been delayed until tomorrow.” He explained, taking the hand you offered him and kissing it with light reverence.
“Do not fret, my lord. The rest of my kin do not arrive until the morrow, you are correct.” You assured, and you saw the tension leave his body. You could hear music echo from within the keep, no doubt an event which saw Lord Ashford having one too many goblets of wine to properly articulate himself now.
“I was simply too eager to enjoy the festivities, so I rode ahead. Please, go back to your party, I am sure your daughter misses you.” You nodded towards the entrance of the keep, and Lord Ashford’s red face became even redder.
“You are welcome to come join us! I insist—” He began to usher you into the castle but you pulled back, shaking your head.
“No need, my lord. I want to experience all your great tourney has to offer, and I have pledged my company to Lord Baratheon tonight.” The harmless lie slipped easily from between your soft lips, and Lord Ashford brushed his beard with his palm a few times before he answered.
“Of course, of course. Do not let me keep you, I will have my servants bring your things to your chambers and they will be waiting to escort you when you return.” He promised, mouthing something to one of the servant girls behind him before she bounded over to Lysa, helping her unload your small bags.
“Thank you, my lord.” You curtsied, walking to Lysa. Lord Ashford departed with haste back into his home, and you smoothed out the skirts of your dress. You would have worn your riding clothes, however in girlish anticipation of seeing your man from Flea Bottom and under the assumption you would be riding in your wheelhouse, you had selected one of your nicer gowns. It was one that was fashioned after Morning, the main body of the dress threaded blush-pink, alongside the overskirt that trailed behind you similar to a dragon’s tail. Beneath where your silver girdle rested, inlaid with shimmering pink diamonds, your overskirt split open to reveal a black velvety underskirt. The black dress peeked out at your collarbones and shoulders, complimented by the string of pink diamonds and pearls you wore at your neck and ears to match with your girdle. The long flowing sleeves of the dress appeared pink from the outside, but if you were to raise your arms the black velvet fabric of your underskirt was sewn into the lining, mimicking the appearance of the ancient beast. It had a matching tiara, however you felt it too formal for the current occasion. Besides, it was easier to slip into the debauchery of the night so long as you did not reek of the road.
“Lysa, do I smell of sweat and dirt?” You asked when you came upon her, and she leaned in and took a deep breath.
“No, Milady. Fresh as a Lyseni summers night.” She established, and you grinned.
“Good. I will be in Lord Baratheon’s tent if you have need of me, though I wish for you to not have need of me tonight.” You whispered, and Lysa kissed your forehead as your mother used to.
“Of course, Milady.” She curtsied, and you shot her one final smile before you left the courtyard, pace quickening as Lord Baratheon’s tent came closer in view. He was not expecting you, and you had no gift to offer him other than your presence, but you suspected that would be enough when you entered the tent and multiple nobles began to bow or curtsy in your direction. The honour of hosting a Princess was a gift not all lords had the pleasure of bragging about during a tourney, and knowing Lord Baratheon, the ego boost he would get from it would be considerably better than a trinket from Summerhall.
“Princess.” A Lady curtsied, her husband bowing in tandem, and you nodded in acknowledgement. A few more greetings of the same ilk followed you as you approached the head table, where Lyonel Baratheon was laughing as loud as thunder until your presence was made known. He was a tall man even now as he sat, older than you but not as old as your father, his black hair running in messy curls over his head and his beard beginning to grow salted streaks. His skin was shaded ivory, mischievous blue eyes crinkled as he cracked on about a joust he had participated in. He was dressed in black and gold, with a golden crown of stag’s antlers following the motion of his head as he spoke, boisterous as ever. You had met him briefly on occasion, and once during a solstice celebration when you were young he named you his Queen of Love and Beauty, if only to gain your grandfather's favour—you assumed, at least.
“My Lord.” You said, and his eyes snapped to you, the entire table going quiet for a moment while the only noise was the chatter of guests and the calm strum of the band huddled in the corner of the tent.
“The Breakspear’s Starlily graces my humble tent, men. We should all count ourselves amongst the lucky few.” Lyonel grinned, standing and guiding your hand to his lips, never breaking eye contact as he did so. Ah, that one. You had nearly forgotten how many Lords and Ladies knew of your uncle’s nickname for you. Nearly.
“You flatter me, my lord.” You hummed, and the men at his table all rose to bow, following in their liege lord’s footsteps.
“May I join you for supper?” You asked, and Lyonel immediately snapped his fingers towards one of his men, pointing beside him.
“Get out of the fucking way and make room for the Princess—move you cunt—” Lyonel hissed, shoving his friend to the side so that a servant could sandwich another chair in the lineup.
“You know I love you, fucking idiot—this cunt right here!” Lyonel slapped the man's cheek a few times, and the two of them laughed while you allowed yourself to be ushered to your seat. Once you were settled beside Lyonel you were handed a hefty goblet of wine, alongside an empty plate.
“Help yourself, my lady. What is mine is yours.” Lyonel gestured towards the spread before you all, fruits and meats and stuffed pastries lining the table.
“Your kindness is greatly appreciated, my lord. I have been travelling all day, I am weary for a good meal.” You grabbed up a few items, placing them on your plate and taking a long sip of your wine.
“Let us make you right again—” Lyonel rose from his seat, taking you up with him by the hand as he held up his goblet to the room.
“To Princess Y/n Targaryen and a fucking grand night!” He cheered, and the room echoed his sentiments, the rowdy group raising their goblets and pints and downing them in a few sips. You followed suit, finishing your goblet as you sat back down, only for Lyonel to refill it without a word. A grand night indeed, you thought, not noticing the tall lumbering figure that entered a few minutes later.
A fucking grand night.
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Taglist (Request to be added!): @qardasngan @nedanky @scmdsblog @moonmaiden1996 @lvspedri @bluerrie @thhriller @lehlyx @nixandtonic @janedukiesworld @lenasdmns @rebeccawinters @neenieweenie
A/N: And guess who didnt realize they gave Baelor and Valarr heterochromia in the show?? 😊That’s right, ME!!! I DIDN’T!! I DIDN'T REALIZE AND I ALREADY WROTE THEIR EYE COLOURS SO I HAD TO GO BACK AND EDIT THE FIRST CHAPTER. Sometimes I be mixing book canon and show canon like I’m a producer, Ira Parker step aside please (I hope ya’ll liked this chapter LMFAO)
AND ONE MORE THING!!! They made Chestnut a girl in the show but Chestnut is a big lunky boy just like his father in the books and I’m keepin it that way
“Though Prince Baelor ‘Breakspear’ Targaryen had no daughters of his own, he often spoke of how his brother’s daughter, Princess Y/n Targaryen, was akin to his child. The two of them found kinship within one another, with the Princess calling him endearments such as ‘Papa-uncle’ well into girlhood, and Breakspear in turn referred to her as his ‘Starlily’. On the Princess’s sixth nameday, Baelor gifted her a dress decorated with the Dornish flowers of her namesake, wearing a matching blouse and tunic in what all could see was a deceleration of love and care from the heir to the Iron Throne.”
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Guys Baelor and Y/n’s relationship is so so so so dear to me ya’ll don’t understanddddd…but you will 🙈
anyways enjoy this drawing and pls don’t feel excluded if this ‘Y/n’ doesn’t look like you, this is just how I imagined her because I absolutely despise drawing that paper-white featureless reader insert who is BALD and WEIRD when I’m doing my little portraits. So just imagine she’s you shhhhh don’t think too hard shhhhhhhh she can be anything you want her to be shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh she could even be me who knows maybe I’ll just keep changing the way she looks with each drawing hushhushhhhhh
Taglist (Request to be added!): @qardasngan @nedanky @scmdsblog @moonmaiden1996 @lvspedri @bluerrie @thhriller @lehlyx @nixandtonic
Chapter Summary: You are the adopted daughter to Maekar Targaryen and Dyanna Dayne, a blessing found by your mother, sent to your family by the gods she had said. All your life you have known yourself to be different, to be on a separate path than those of your House. That path presents itself when, during a tourney at Ashford Meadow, one hedge knight happens to gain your favour, and perhaps eventually, your heart.
Pairing(s): Duncan the Tall x Fem!Adopted-Targaryen!reader
Warning(s): MDNI!! Dunk is a lunk and I love him (pls be kind world he’s only 3 minutes old), Canon typical gore, abuse, violence, etc. Tooth-rotting yearning and fluff, Repressed-jealous-and-also-possessive/protective!Duncan the Tall, Future chapters contain smut, read the hashtags for the rest!
Word Count: 5k
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You preferred to wear your mothers colours more often than your fathers, you found that the purple hues of House Dayne brought you more comfort than the bleeding crimsons of House Targaryen. The lavender of your current dress was detailed with silver stars, flowing sleeves and draped skirt complimenting the shape of your figure as your handmaiden finished styling your hair. Your hair which, before today, had begun to grow back its natural colour rather than the strands of silver you meticulously dyed it.
“You are no sister of mine, look at you! Your eyes are dull, and your hair duller. You are no true Targaryen!” One of your brothers, Aerion, then a cruel boy of ten and two, had told you. It was after a fight the two of you had over who would hatch their dragon's egg first, and though your brother was an irritable creature, at the time he had yet to say anything about your lack of noble lineage. You, being no older than seven, went running to your mother who scooped you up in her arms and hushed your sullen cries.
“You are my daughter, sweet girl, and your fathers as well. You have the right to the name Targaryen as much as all of your siblings.” Dyanna kissed your forehead, “The gods gave you back to us out of all the families in the seven kingdoms, never forget that.”
You held onto those words to this day, even after a visiting delegate helped you conform to what you thought would legitimize you in the eyes of your family. When you were ten and four a delegate-lord of Tyrosh was hosted at Kingslanding, a peacekeeping effort on behalf of your grandfather King Daeron II. This visit naturally led to a great gathering of nobles within the Red Keep, and when you rose from your seat to greet the lord you couldn't help but gawk at his unusual fashion. He was covered in jewels, fine silks and linens adorning his body in smooth drapery that shimmered with designs you had never seen before. The delegate's hair was bright blue all over, though his beard was manicured with his natural shade of black, and when you spoke with him at the feast you asked how it was possible for his hair to be such a colour when his beard was not.
“In my home we have dyes that stain your hair for weeks, in all colours. This month I am blue, but next I will be golden.” He grinned, one tooth winking-diamond, and your eyes sparkled at the possibility of silver hair.
“Do you have silver dye? I would be eternally happy to dye my hair silvery-gold, like my fathers.” You sighed dreamily, imagining yourself also with the bright lilac eyes of your mother—perhaps even the burning violet of your father.
“But of course, my Lady. I will send you the gift of enough dye to colour the Narrow Sea.” The delegate bowed, and you had never been more excited a day in your life. That was until the afternoon that the dyes arrived, along with the extra gift of a dwarf elephant calf, pale as snow who came with a small letter about how you ‘simply enchanted’ the Tyroshi lord. You named your elephant Whitestar for your mothers house, and dyed your h/c locks with the help of her that same day. Since then you had kept a consistent schedule of oils and dye, making sure the faux silver-gold never dimmed past rusty gray.
“Done, M’lady.” Your handmaiden curtsied, stepping back to pull your chair out, waiting behind you as you shimmied from your vanity.
“Thank you, Lysa.” You smiled, as you always did when Lysa attended to you. Lysa was a stout and fat woman, with ample cheeks red as tomatoes and freckled like a fieldworker during harvest. Her hair was once a fiery red, the colour a distant childhood memory now that grey and white had begun to seep from her roots, dulling the loose braid she always wore. She had been your mothers handmaiden since Maekar and her wed, then transitioned to yours when Lady Dyanna passed on. She was a constant in your life, someone you trusted with all your secrets and scandals, though you did not have many.
“How long until we leave for Ashford?” You dabbed a Lyseni oil behind your ears, then put a few drops on your wrists and rubbed them together. You wore the same perfumes since you were a girl of six and ten, when your mysterious great aunt—Shiera Seastar—made a rare debut at your nameday celebration. She gifted you the Lyseni scents with the promise that with your flowering, they would bring men to heel, and women to beg.
“Within the hour, M’lady. I would recommend that we make haste to the courtyard.” Lysa answered, glancing at the level of the sun outside. It would take just under a week to reach Ashford Meadow for a tourney your brother was to participate in, an event dedicated to Lord Ashford’s daughter. She was turning thirteen, if you recalled correctly.
“As you say.” You hummed, letting Lysa open the door for you before you made your way to where a procession of guards and servants bustled about in the lower courtyard, fastening horses and securing trunks to wheelhouses. They bowed when you passed by, drawing the attention of your uncle and father who stood by their stallions. When you saw your uncle your eyes lit up, and he already had his arms open for you by the time you picked up your skirts and ran to him, embracing him in a tight hug.
“Uncle Baelor!” You squealed, and he twirled you in his grasp. You could always tell him apart in a crowd, olive skin and strapping shoulders putting him a head above others, along with his Dornish chestnut hair. Your uncle laughed, twinkling eyes looking down at you. They were two different shades, your uncle's eyes, one a deep brown for his mother and the other a striking lavender for his father.
“My dearest Starlily,” Baelor sighed contentedly. He gave you that nickname not long after Dyanna told him where she found you placed by the gods, crying among her garden of Dornish Starlily’s.
“I did not expect to see you until we arrived at Ashford!” You breathed, “Is it not out of your way to come here beforehand?”
“It is, but we spared the time.” Baelor cupped your cheeks in his calloused hands, pressing a soft kiss to your hairline, before your father interrupted.
“She never fucking runs to me like that.” Maekar grumbled, and you shot him a careful glare while Baelor only laughed more.
“Father.” You broke away from your uncle, steadying your hands on your fathers shoulders before you leaned to kiss his cheek, avoiding the scruff of his beard.
“I see you everyday, Uncle Baelor does not frequent Summerhall.” You gazed into his violet eyes, and they narrowed for a moment before he let out a resigned huff.
“Even amongst my children you are favoured, brother.” Maekar bemoaned, and you opened your mouth to comfort him until a familiar voice caught your attention.
“Cousin!” You gasped at that, turning on your heels to see your elder cousin, Valarr, approaching with a wide smile.
“Valarr, your hair!” You pointed, slightly undignified, as he pulled you into a hug. Valarr was ever your uncle's son, with the same chestnut hair and big eyes and penchant for laughter. He differed in that though his eyes were as loving and held the same double-colour, they were shaded one blue like his mothers and one brown like his fathers, and his hair—though chestnut—held a single streak of silver that you loved to play with growing up. You encouraged him to keep his hair long, as you had a fondness for braiding the silver strand into the brown, but before you now his hair was cropped.
“What have you done to your beautiful hair?” You whined, examining the damage as you ran your fingers through the short strands. It was barely past the top of his ear, and the last time you saw him, it was flowing past his waist. He swatted your hand away gently, linking his arm with yours as the two of you dismissed yourselves from your fathers’ presence.
“It is better for battle, and for tourneys…and my lady-wife complained.” Valarr whispered, and you couldn't help the pout that formed on your lips.
“Lady Kiera would never do such a thing, she and I are too alike in countenance.” You jokingly refused, and Valarr shook his head once more.
“I told her you would be distraught, but she claims it was simply too long.” Valarr reasoned, and you looked around, trying to spot your good-cousin. She too was almost as easy to spot as your uncle, thanks to her deep brown skin contrasting her soft pink curls. You did not know if she realized that your hair was dyed with Tyroshi colours as hers was, many in the seven kingdoms had forgotten what your hair used to be. Most who whispered when you were first found were older now, and they did not want their children to be tried for treason against the Crown by mocking a lady of House Targaryen.
“Where is my good-cousin?” You asked, and Valarr pointed to a distant wheelhouse, its horses nickering as they waited to be freed from the courtyard.
“She is resting, and I do not wish to disturb her. I’m sure the two of you will reacquaint when we arrive at Ashford.” He answered, eyes floating to your own hair.
“Besides, I no longer complain about your grooming habits, you should not complain about mine.” Valarr raised his brows, and you looked at the ground to keep yourself from rolling your eyes. Valarr did not like when you first started to dye your hair, he felt that it took away from your ‘natural beauty’, but to you no beauty was greater than that of Valyrian’s. True Vayrian’s.
“I suppose you are right. A rare occurrence.” You teased, and he held a hand over his heart in playful hurt.
“Valarr.” A cold voice came from behind you, and you turned to see your brother, Aerion, walking towards you. He was true Valyrian beauty, ghostly skin and silver-gold hair, with piercing violet eyes like your fathers. It was a shame that his sirenic beauty did not reflect within.
“I’ve heard a rumor that you intend to fight in the tourney, is that true?” Aerion smirked, giving you a brief once over as he arrived.
“That it is. I intend to represent my father and our House with honour, as a true knight does.” Valarr’s smile was tight, and Aerion simply hummed as a response, shouldering past your cousin to where his horse was lapping at the trough.
“Do you intend to fight for my honour at Ashford Meadow?” You teased, and Valarr lowered his head with a grin, the tension of Aerion’s visit dissipating. He was still there, in the corner of your eye and within earshot, but he was too proud and preoccupied to continue the conversation.
“Your honour has never been in question, dear cousin, but I will fight for you if you wish it.” Valarr bowed deeply, almost mockingly, but from him you knew it to be sincere.
“There is no knight I would wish for more in all of the seven kingdoms.” You giggled, and Aerion’s shoulders tensed. You smirked, and for the third time a voice called out to you. This time you did not hesitate to turn, running towards the person with open arms.
“Y/n, Y/n!” Aegon, your youngest brother of ten, ran into your waist, burying his head at your naval. Your brother Aegon, or ‘Egg’ as you were used to calling him, was the apple of your eye. Your mother passed away when he was barely six, and you took it upon yourself to rear him the same way in which she reared you. You did it with all your younger siblings after your mother died, since your father did not have the gentlest touch and your elder brothers were too set in their ways to care. Only your older brother Aemon ever took the time to help, but he was a Maester now with little time for family.
“Father says I must squire for Daeron, I don’t want to.” Egg spoke into your stomach, so it came out more akin to, “Faduh shaysh I musht shquire foh Daerum, I don’ wan’ to.”
“But you want to be a great warrior, do you not? You want to grow into a strong knight one day—perhaps my sworn shield?” You stroked his back slowly, and he raised his head so he was looking up at you, chin resting on your ribcage.
“Yes…” He said, blowing a stray silver-gold hair from his face.
“Then you must squire first. ‘Tis the way of things, Egg.” You stated matter-of-factly, and Aegon turned to your cousin.
“May I be your squire instead?” He pleaded, big indigo eyes blinking up at Valarr.
“I’m afraid I already have a squire, Aegon. Perhaps when he becomes a knight himself you may squire for me.” Valarr clapped Aegon’s shoulder, and he detached from you, rubbing the nape of his neck.
“Daeron does not even want to enter the lists. He hates jousting, all he wants to do is drink and make me fetch him more wine.” Egg grumbled, and you thinned your lips. For reasons unknown to you, your father was intent on shaping Daeron into the perfect foil to Valarr. The urge to best his brother was perhaps your fathers greatest flaw, always grinding his teeth around Baelor though he would never admit it aloud. It stemmed from something deep within him, something that had been rooted in his soul before you were a thought in the heavens.
“I’m certain he will warm to the idea on the journey there.” You assured, leaning down to grab Aegon’s face and plant a flurry of kisses over his red cheeks. He pushed you away with little success, squirming in your grasp until you planted one final kiss to the crown of his head.
“What do we always say, hm?” You raised your brow expectantly
“Iā zaldrīzes gaomas daor pryjagon, iā qēlos gaomas daor obūljarion.” A dragon does not break, a star does not surrender. Aegon parroted the words your own mother had taught you when you were younger, a phrase meant to give you strength and confidence during hardship. You had repeated that phrase nearly a hundred times by her sickbed.
“And?” You prodded.
“And what?” Egg snapped, though there was no bite behind his tone.
“Don’t be shy because Valarr is here, and?” You encouraged cheekily, watching as he rolled his eyes and mumbled the next words.
“And…Avy jorrāelan.” And…I love you. Aegon said, and you squeezed his shoulders.
“Go on, I’m sure Daeron will be in need of his squire for the weeks ahead. If he becomes too much, dilute his wine with warm grape juice. He does not have the insight to tell the difference.” You shooed, sending Egg off with a comforting grin.
“Gods be good to that boy.” Valarr breathed out, placing his hand resolutely on the hilt of his blade.
“He is smart, I have faith in him.” You hummed, clasping your hands together.
“Mmm…your sworn shield, really?” Valarr cracked a sly smile.
“He is eager to prove himself, but who has not had childhood fantasies? I once wished to be your wife, if only to find myself as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” You chuckled, remembering when you played with your dolls and acted as if you were hosting luncheon with your courtly ladies.
“I think you would make a fine Queen,” Valarr kissed your cheek, “but not a fine wife.”
Your mouth became slack, and before you could respond Valarr was turning heel and walking to his stallion, flashing you one last playful smirk while you stood agape. You puttered to your wheelhouse, settling in with Lysa across from you, and not ten minutes later the procession departed Summerhall. You gazed steadily out the window, watching the horses of your fathers guard as well as the Kingsguard saunter beside you, occasionally whipping their tails to deter flies.
Your gaze shifted up to the sky, past the armor and flesh of man, to the freedom the clouds provided. When you were a girl you promised yourself that you would claim a dragon of your own, and through the bond prove you were a Targaryen as much as any of your siblings. Prove that the gods did send you for a purpose rather than as a cruel jape. You had hoped to claim the beautiful dragon Morning, previous mount to Rhaena of Pentos, but that hope was dashed when your father crudely informed you Morning disappeared across the Narrow Sea nearly five decades ago. She was rumored to have nested and subsequently died in the ruins of Old Valyria after Rhaena’s death, her sullen cries carried across the distant tide. You understood her, despite your disappointment, you too wished to have burrowed yourself under rock and earth after your mother passed, and you concluded Morning must have felt the same way for Rhaena.
You often thought about Morning, on early sunrises when the horizon was painted in shades of purples and orange, how beautiful her pale-pink scales and black detailings must have been soaring amongst the clouds. You thought of her so much that when you did choose to wear your fathers colours, you more often draped yourself in hues of pink and black to emulate her long dead image.
“I’ve heard whispers,” Lysa began from across from you, stitching up one of your riding dresses, “that one of Lord Stark’s sons is in need of a wife.”
You looked at her, raising a brow, “Is that so?”
“Mmh. His middle son, the one they say is most honourable and kind out of all his siblings.” Lysa smiled, threading her needle with practiced form.
“Northmen are seldom cowards and wretches.” You huffed, adjusting yourself in your seat.
“Indeed, Milady, indeed.” Lysa nodded, and you fell back into a comfortable silence. You knew your time to wed was nigh, with talks of strengthening alliances in peace times being of paramount importance to the realm. Your father had yet to speak to you about such things, but you were not naïve. You had hoped to stay south, though, stay close to Egg and your sisters.
The days of travel after that were uneventful, a restless sort of quiet that you knew would not last once you arrived at the tourney. You considered how your sisters would have fared, the two being too young to accompany your family on the brief trip. You considered how your sister Daella would have clung to your skirts, and how little Rhae would swoon over the valiant knights and pageantry. On the day before you were set to arrive at Ashford, Lysa completed the repairs on your riding dress, presenting it to you with a proud puff in her chest. Your procession had stopped for the day, when Aerion had declared himself sick of riding and refused to move forward unless the trip was delayed so that he may rest his feet.
“Good as new, Milady.” She patted it for dust that was not there, and you took it with a grateful smile. The dress was a sturdier material than you were used to, coarse fibers built to keep you warm against the winds that thrashed at you on horseback or the weather that could change in the blink of an eye. It was a dulled lilac, with pink trims and a leather girdle that held your fathers sigil, though it was covered most of the time by the matching cloak you wore.
“This is magnificent, thank you Lysa. Call for a horse to be prepared, I wish to ride.” You stated, already rushing to your trunk by the bed in search of your mother’s riding headscarf.
“Of course, M’lady.” She obliged, calling in another handmaid to help you change. After the handmaiden helped you secure the headscarf, you looked at yourself in the reflection of the small hand-mirror you brought with you. Your hair was bundled underneath the thick plum-coloured scarf, its silken fabric draped along your shoulders as well as tasseled with white diamond. You remembered the days when your mother would take you riding to get away from it all, to spend time alone with you amongst the Red Mountains, and how she always chose that scarf to keep her long hair protected. When you emerged from your tent you saw Lysa in the distance, petting a horse by the snout and calming it with handfuls of oats. You made your way over, but not without being stopped by your father who sat by the firepit in front of his tent, sipping on wine with Baelor.
“Where are you going?” He barked, standing up from his seat. You jumped, not expecting such a volatile reaction, and held your hand to your chest to calm your heart.
“Riding! I do not wish to stay in my tent all day.” You breathed, watching as he approached with stern steps.
“Where exactly do you plan to ride to?” Maekar questioned, scowling at the idea of you leaving camp.
“I know not, but I won’t be far. I’ll be back in time for supper.” You gave him a pleading smile, looking behind him at your uncle for support.
“I don’t think—” Maekar began, but he was interrupted by his brother.
“Let her go, Maekar. She is a good child. Send her with an escort, one of my guards if need be.” Baelor sighed, taking a long sip from his goblet.
“Thank you, uncle.” You said, turning back to Maekar, “Please father?”
“Fine, but you’d best tell Yorkle to join you.” Maekar sniffed, eyes darting between you and Baelor.
“I promise I will not run off, if that is your implication.” You joked, but you did not miss the discomfort that crossed your fathers face.
“Where is Aegon? He mustn’t be practicing with Daeron at this hour, surely.” You asked, looking around to see if you could spot his tiny head of silver hair. He enjoyed riding with you, and the two of you found great enjoyment from pretending to ride Balerion the Black Dread across fields and mountains. Over the past four days of travel, however, he had always been off with Daeron squiring or asleep in his tent.
“He is…they are practicing. Daeron has begun to finally take things seriously, gods be good.” Your father cleared his throat, waving his hand in the air as he sulked back to his chair.
“Go on, but I expect to see you returned before sunset.” He dismissed you, and you turned away from him before you allowed yourself to roll your eyes.
You heard his last complaint as you walked to Lysa and your horse, “May the fucking seven bless me and my runaway children.”
“Milady!” Lysa greeted, holding onto the reins as a footman helped you onto the stallion.
“Lysa, will you tell Yorkle I am making my way towards the road and that if he wishes to join me, he should depart with haste?” You asked as you secured your cloak around you, being sure to check that your skirts had not ridden up too far on your thighs.
“If it pleases Milady.” Lysa flashed you a mischievous grin, smacking your horse's rump and sending it on its way as you galloped past the campsite. You veered onto the nearby road, the path narrow and small enough that you doubted your procession would fit within it. However, the trees that lined the dirt-path were beautiful enough you wanted them to try.
“Aderī!” Quickly! You laughed, leaning into the neck of the horse as it pummeled its way through the underbrush, hooves pounding the ground in a rhythmic power. You closed your eyes for the briefest time, imagining instead you were commanding Morning under your hand and soaring high above Westeros. Your eyes opened when you rounded a corner, met with a man and his three horses walking at a leisurely pace. He walked between them, head whipping around to see you as he realized what was about to happen. You screamed, pulling back so hard on the reins you thought you might hurt the stallion’s bite, before he reared up and flung you from his back, toppling over the side of the path to avoid running into the other horses. You braced for pain, for feeling your bones twist or break, but you were instead met with the soft muscles of a man.
“Are—are you alright?” The man who was leading the three horses asked, presently lying under you with his hands wrapped around your body, splayed so wide you thought he might have four. You scrambled away, disoriented and concerned for your stallion whose thunderous footsteps seemed to get farther and farther away.
“I-I apologize, I was not, my stallion he is—” You held your head, closing your eyes for a moment, and when you opened them a palm was extended to you. You took it, steadying yourself with the help of the man, and looked up to give him your thanks.
“Gods be good.” You breathed, faced with a chest thick as a pillar. You looked up once more, but still you were met only with broad shoulders rather than a face, and so you were forced to crane your neck further up and up and up.
“M-Milady! I did not mean to—” The young man began when you locked eyes, stuttering over his words as he tried to form the right sentence. He was a healthy sort of pale, the type you find with rosy cheeks—cheeks made redder by his current situation. Although, his face was covered in a thin layer of dirt and grime, allowing you to conclude that this man was not of noble descent nor of the merchant class. His hair was straw-blonde and cropped in a ruggedly handsome way, no doubt done by himself without the use of a mirror, and his eyebrows were a thick ashy-blonde. They were drawn together in concern, framing his large blue eyes in a way that stole your breath from your chest.
“Do not apologize, you have saved me from immeasurable harm.” You interrupted, watching the way his strong squared jaw blubbered up and down as he tried once more to search for words. You curtsied deeply, and his eyes widened in shock.
“I’ve never had a lady curtsy to me b’fore.” He blurted out, his rough fleabottom accent thick, and you shot him a small smile.
“It is common that you might bow in return.” You whispered, and he instead dropped to one knee, kneeling before you with his head hung low. From where he knelt, however, his head still nearly met your chest.
“I beg your humblest uh, forgiveness for being in yer way, M’lady. It was no bother anyhow, I’m big enough to handle a little fall.” He coughed out, clearly inexperienced in the department of courtly courtesy and manners.
“Rise please, ser.” You commanded, and he hesitantly did so.
“What may I call you?” You asked, clasping your hands in front of you.
“Dunk—n-no, Ser Dunk.” He answered, and you giggled before you could stop yourself.
“Dunk?” You held your hand to your mouth, hiding your smile.
“Yes, M’lady.” He sighed, clearly embarrassed.
“I did not mean to offend. Dunk is a fine name, for a fine man. I owe you a great debt, Ser Dunk.” You hummed, looking to your left to where his horses stood, shaken but still there. You looked behind you, to where you expected to find your stallion, only to see an empty field going on for leagues.
“Shit.” You cursed, and your hand once again smacked itself to your mouth as you turned back to face Dunk, eyes wide.
“I apologize for my brazen tongue,” You said, mortified, “It is only that my stallion has gone and I cannot get back to my family otherwise. My father will…oh gods my father…”
You started to spiral, to think of the lecture you would get if Yorkle found you or the even bigger lecture you would get if you were forced to walk back to camp, assuredly arriving well after sunset.
“Your family is nearby? A-are you headed to the tourney at Ashford Meadow, by any chance?” Dunk questioned, and you nodded.
“Yes on all accounts, though I doubt I will be able to show my face. My father will have me locked away within our lodgings.” You bit the ends of your nails, and Dunk thinned his lips.
“I have no need for three horses. Take one, and if we meet again at Ashford, I will take him back.” Dunk offered, walking over to one of his horses. He brought over a stallion from what you saw, a stot with a brown coat and shabby saddle.
“I cannot ask such a kindness from you, ser.” You rejected, yet he insisted.
“It would be dishonorable for me to leave a lady such as yourself stranded as night draws near.” He said it as if it were that simple, as if giving away what was surely one of his most valuable assets was a small favour.
“I…I will return him to you, ser. Find me at Ashford and he is yours again, I swear it by the old gods and the new.” You said, and he smiled for the first time. His smile was like the sun, all slightly crooked teeth and earnest light as he helped you onto the horse. It was easy, he had said, you practically weighed nothing to the giant.
“What—what name shall I call if I see you again?” Dunk asked when you dug your heel gently into the horse. Chestnut, the stot was named. You looked back at the kind man, considering your answer for a moment.
“Starlily!” You laughed, and you were off, whipping the reins and sending Chestnut into a steady canter back to camp.
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A/N: ignore the fact I accidentally spelt Yorkel like Yorkle the whole time LMFAO I won’t do it in future chapters 😘🙏
Taglist (Request to be added!): @qardasngan @nedanky @scmdsblog @moonmaiden1996 @lvspedri
Chapter Summary: You are the adopted daughter to Maekar Targaryen and Dyanna Dayne, a blessing found by your mother, sent to your family by the gods she had said. All your life you have known yourself to be different, to be on a separate path than those of your House. That path presents itself when, during a tourney at Ashford Meadow, one hedge knight happens to gain your favour, and perhaps eventually, your heart.
Pairing(s): Duncan the Tall x Fem!Adopted-Targaryen!reader
Warning(s): MDNI!! Dunk is a lunk and I love him (pls be kind world he’s only 3 minutes old), Canon typical gore, abuse, violence, etc. Tooth-rotting yearning and fluff, Repressed-jealous-and-also-possessive/protective!Duncan the Tall, Future chapters contain smut, read the hashtags for the rest!
Word Count: 1k
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You were not of noble blood, despite the fact you carried the name Targaryen.
Your origins were unknown, a mystery to all but the gods, yet none of that mattered when your mother found you. It was a warm summer evening nearly twenty years ago, cooled by a pleasant breeze that brought with it the sweet scents of Dornish flowers, a garden of her favourite species planted for your mothers comfort. Your mother, the Lady Dyanna Dayne, found respite in Summerhall during the later years of her life, before illness struck her down amongst the ashes of her husband's ancestors. It was there, surrounded by the flowers and manicured hedges of the castle, that your mother first heard your cries.
“Do you hear that?” Your mother hummed as she walked with her Handmaiden, stopping in place at the briefest screech.
“Hear what, M’Lady?” The handmaiden had asked, furrowing her brow. Then, louder, a cry came from within the hedges.
“That, there!” Dyanna breathed, rushing to the edge of the gardens where the cries became louder and the wails unbearable. She reached into the bushes, scraping against the thorny branches until her hands wrapped around something soft, something moving.
“Take care, M’Lady!” Her handmaiden, who you would come to know as Lysa, warned. In that moment your mother pulled a hot-faced babe from the shrubbery, tears flowing from its eyes in fat drops and gummy mouth wide with pained screams—the babe that would be you.
“Gods be good.” Your mother gasped, cradling you gently in her arms, attempting to secure the tattered blanket you were wrapped in against your soft skin.
“Be still, sweet child, be still.” She observed you, looking over your s/c complexion and brushing back your h/c hair, smiling down at you when your big eyes opened to reveal a shimmering e/c. She pulled the blanket away for a moment, confirming your gender as you quieted.
“Look at her eyes, Lysa. She has my girl's eyes.” Dyanna teared up, showing you to Lysa who’s lips pursed with concern.
“But she is not your daughter, M’Lady. She is an abandoned whelp, assuredly born from one of the servant girls who cannot afford the burden of a child.” Lysa reasoned, and your mother shot her a severe glare.
“Who is to say who bore her? Who is to say the gods have not sent her for me to find? Are you a Septon?” Dyanna snapped, and Lysa hung her head low. Understand, your mother had laboured with a child who was delivered without a soul, dead in the Midwife’s arms before your mother had the chance to hold it. The child was born a daughter, not one week before you were found.
“No, M’Lady.” Lysa said, averting her gaze.
“Fetch my husband, I will be in our chambers. Tell him it is urgent.” Your mother ordered, and Lysa curtsied swiftly, running off to beckon your father from one of the many chambers in Summerhall. Your mother saw you as a gift from the gods, a divine intervention made to replace the child she had lost in the birthing bed. The timing was certainly undeniable, with the nurseries prepared months in advance, the wet-nurses summoned weeks beforehand, and your mother’s instincts waiting eagerly for a babe that would never suckle at her breast. Even now the dragon's egg they had procured was sitting as a shimmering, melancholic shrine to their lost daughter. Your father was shocked, to say the least, when he came rushing into their chambers.
“What is this madness?” Your father, then Prince Maekar Targaryen, held the bridge of his nose.
“A blessing that the seven have sent for us. A daughter, healthy as any child, with the eyes of our lost girl.” Your mother laughed, and your father screwed up his nose.
“A blessing? Dyanna this is fucking—” He began, and your mother shook her head, interrupting him.
“She is our daughter, the gods have made it so, you cannot deny this.” Dyanna pleaded with her husband, hushing you when you fussed in her grasp.
“Look into her eyes, she is our child come again.” Dyanna passed you to him despite his protests, and as you were placed in his arms your eyes wandered to his own. He cringed down at you, stern demeanor unwavering even as your chubby arms reached to grasp at his beard. He carefully removed your fingers from the silver threads, watching them instead grip onto his index.
“Hmmm…” He grunted, passing you back to his wife. When she was alive, Lady Dyanna was the only person your father made any exceptions for.
“Fine, keep the girl, but I will summon the High Septon to be sure the gods have sent her to us.” Maekar waved, and your mother pulled him into a grateful hug. Maekar let out a heavy sigh, and your mother twirled with you in her arms.
“You shall be mine and mine alone, darling girl, and those of good nature shall call you Y/n Targaryen.” Dyanna kissed your forehead, and the deed was done. Maekar arranged for your naturalization after the High Septon confirmed your holiness, and named you his daughter before the King, solidifying your place amongst the great Valyrian household.
Though nobles gossiped and giggled, no one had any true objections to your adoption. You were the daughter to a fourth son, inconsequential in the line of succession and the game of power that the other noblemen played. So it would be that you were the first daughter to Prince Maekar Targaryen and his Lady-wife, and as the years passed you grew into the grace of your mother, the steadfastness of your father, and the love of your subjects. You were the commoner’s lady, the sweet she-dragon, the foreign flower, endless titles and assessments followed you from girlhood into womanhood, until the moment you were in now; a Targaryen lady in every right, poised to achieve anything you desired.
It just so happened that what you desired lay in the heart of an orphan from Fleabottom, whose antics on a night of debauchery would rewrite your destiny forever.
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Taglist (Request to be added!):
A/N: And so it begins!!!!!! So hype for the next episodes of AKOTSK and the adaptation of the Hedge Knight series, and even more excited to write this newest x reader story! See you all soon with the first chapter <3
Summary: You are the adopted daughter to Maekar Targaryen and Dyanna Dayne, a blessing found by your mother, sent to your family by the gods she had said. All your life you have known yourself to be different, to be on a separate path than those of your House. That path presents itself when, during a tourney at Ashford Meadow, one hedge knight happens to gain your favour, and perhaps eventually, your heart.
Pairing(s): Duncan the Tall x Fem!Adopted-Targaryen!reader
Warning(s): MDNI!! Dunk is a lunk and I love him (pls be kind world he’s only 3 minutes old), Canon typical gore, abuse, violence, etc. Tooth-rotting yearning and fluff, Repressed-jealous-and-also-possessive/protective!Duncan the Tall, Future chapters contain smut, read the hashtags for the rest!
I had three ideas for x reader fanfic’s after seeing Westeros return on screen last Sunday, so expect some AKOTSK fanfics coming up!!
Adopted-Targaryen!fem!reader x Duncan the Tall | Moodboard
Summary; You are the adopted daughter to Maekar Targaryen and Dyanna Dayne, a blessing found by your mother, sent to your family by the gods she had said. During a tourney, one hedge knight happens to gain your favour after an evening within Lyonel Baratheon’s tent (edit: series published here!)
Beesbury!fem!reader x Aerion Targaryen | Moodboard
Summary; You are not known around Westeros. You are the youngest daughter to Lord Beesbury and oftentimes find yourself fading into the background with the other ladies from minor houses, waiting for the day you are married off to a bold knight or wealthy lord. That is, until Aerion Targaryen sets his sights on you after a particularly rough day. (Planned series)
Lyseni Preistess!fem!reader x Lyonel Baratheon | Moodboard
Summary; Your religion was one of hedonism, of joy and indulgence despite the way of the world. You were dedicated to spreading your faith across continents, so when the bannermen of a great Westerosi lord came knocking at the door of your temple seeking the best performer in Lys, who were you to deny the laughing storm? (Planned short-series)
Chapter Summary: As the days draw on in the arena, your small group experiences a horrific event.
Pairing(s): Finnick Odair x District 4!fem!reader
Warning(s): MDNI! Canon typical violence, descriptions of gore, a less kid-friendly take on the Hunger Games universe, mentions of SA and forced prostitution (Finnick is the love interest guys bfr), future chapters contain smut, read the hashtags for the rest!!
Word count: 7.8k
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Your dream that night tortured you.
Before Blythe woke you up to take watch, you had been back in District 4, by the seaside wearing one of your favourite dresses. Your mother had left you many things before her passing; little sentiments and phrases Varuna knew from their shared time in school, her hair and skin reflected in the mirror each morning, but none were as precious to you as her clothing and jewelry. When your father passed, and you were put into the care of your mistress and her husband, they took the time to collect your parents’ things and store them in the spare room for when you were old enough to grow curious. That day came a year after they took you in, during your first reaping.
You had been worried, as all twelve year olds were, to attend your first reaping ceremony as a potential tribute. That was why you ventured into the spare room, rummaging delicately through old photographs and dusty trunks until you found one with writing scratched over the top that read ‘My Best —Calista Reed’. You wanted something nice to add to your skirt and blouse, to find comfort in whatever was left of your mothers finery. The latch of the trunk coughed open with a rusty squeak, and you felt a strange weight settle on your chest looking down at your mothers belongings. Inside were clothes folded and rolled to fit in the trunk, dresses, skirts, blouses, hair-ribbons, anything expensive or good-quality your mother might have owned. Atop the small collection was a simple jewelry box, and when you took it out to go through it, your eye was caught by a glint of fabric hidden in the corner of the trunk. You’d placed down the jewelry box and tugged at the fabric, maneuvering the rest of the clothes until a billowing dress rested in your hands.
From the moment you held that dress that morning, it was your favourite, although it would be another three years until you would grow into it. As you stood now in your dream it fit you perfectly, the light material nearly melting in your hands as you toyed with the silken layers. The waist was high, resting snug below your breasts which were hidden beneath a gentle off-the-shoulder neckline. The sleeves were ruffled, with white-lace trim that matched the bottom trim of the dress. Embroidered on the bottom hem, a few fingers above the trim, was a line of starfish who danced together through hand-stitched threads. The starfished also circled the lining below your collar, so small and fine that one might miss them upon first glance. The garment itself was shaded buttermilk-yellow, its soft colour a contrast to the intense azure of the ocean you looked out upon. With your toes covered in sand and your cheeks warmed by the sun, everything was in a haze of light, a dreamy filter put over your eyes as you walked along the shoreline and allowed the waves to lap at your ankles. You had days like this during your misty childhood, moments in the frothy water with people whose faces you could no longer recall. Now, though, the water was as crystalline as glass and the people around it were just as clear.
“Sweetheart.” Finnick, dressed in a loose blouse and pants, called for you from his spot on the beach. His blouse was the same shade of yellow as your dress, and as you approached you noticed the tiny embroidered starfish on his breast pocket. You wondered if you were to survive the games how likely it would be that Finnick would agree to have a shirt like that made. Your mentor sat with a cheeky grin, beckoning you to his waiting lap. You obliged, sitting next to him and allowing for your head to fall against his thighs. He languidly stroked your cheekbone, big blues taking in every feature on your face before he spoke again.
“I love you.” He said, and he smelt of fresh laundry.
“I love you too.” You replied, twining your hand with his and taking a deep breath of the salted air mixed with Finnick’s scent. In the distance you could hear Scylla laughing with Gillian. You could hear Pearl and Mist babbling to their parents while Varuna and Thestus humoured them, as if they sat only a few leagues away.
“Do you think life will always be this perfect?” You asked.
“If I’m with you? Always.” Finnick leaned down, using the hand that caressed your cheek to hook under your head and gently hold you up. Then, with soft lips tasting of coffee, he kissed you. When he pulled away you felt the weight that had been following you your whole life lifted, as if none of it mattered now because you had each other. He gently moved you from his lap, rising to his feet and offering you a hand in return. You took it, and with measured steps he led you through a dance. The dance was familiar, a traditional waltz from District 4 normally only practiced at courting ceremonies or weddings. You’d watched one of your older classmates do it on their wedding day after the reaping passed and neither of them were chosen. As he danced you through the sand dunes you couldn't help the giggle you let out, twirling in his arms without a care.
That was where the dream ended, when Blythe decided he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer and woke you up. It was all you thought about during the early hours in the arena, all you could focus on as Blythe and Magnolia Blue roused after a few more hours. It replayed in your head when the three of you packed up your little camp and began the treacherous journey for more supplies.
“Thank you for this again, Maggie.” You said through a tight smile, gesturing to the cane that balanced you as you walked. It had taken a few minutes to coax yourself to your feet, downing two more painkillers before you left and leaning heavily onto the cane Magnolia Blue had made. It was a miracle you were even able to walk, but you refused to become a burden further than slowing the group down by a couple of minutes.
“You’re pretty resourceful.” Blythe complimented, eyes squinting against the brightness of the sun. You walked between buildings, making sure to stay off the main roads and listen for any stray mutts or tributes that might be hiding amongst the debris. Some paths ended up being dead ends, turning you in circles via collapsed warehouses and bricked-off entryways.
“You gotta be in Twelve—‘specially if you don’t got enough money to replace what you broke.” Magnolia Blue shrugged, kicking a rock out of her way.
“Y’know, I’ve never thought much about Twelve. You’re so far away from us in Four, all I knew was you mined coal and that's about it.” Blythe commented, adjusting the quiver on his back.
“We do a lot more than coal. We got blacksmiths and farms and charms of our own, matter-of-fact my grandpa was one of the best blacksmiths in Twelve before he died.” Magnolia Blue said proudly.
“That's where my momma learned how to carve, ‘nd where my papa nearly lost his head tryna get my grandpa’s blessing.” She giggled, toying with the end of her braid.
“Is he where you got your singing from as well?” You smiled down at her.
“Yes ma’am! He taught my momma everythin’ she knows, and she taught me everythin’ I know.” Magnolia Blue puffed up, and you looked towards Blythe, who was stoic as ever leading the group.
“Why don’t you sing something for us? I’m sure Blythe could use a song to loosen the stick up his—” You didn't get to finish, interrupted by Blythe turning around rapidly.
“Hey!” Blythe snapped, all bark and no bite. You held your hand up in mock-surrender, and he rolled his eyes with a grumble, before continuing his walk.
“Hmmm…” Magnolia Blue contemplated for a moment, before her eyes lit up with the choice she had made.
“You can’t take my past,” She began, light lilt carrying over the crunch of your footsteps.
“You can’t take my history. You could take my pa, but his name’s a mystery. Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keepin’, Oh nothing you could take…was ever worth keepin’.” Magnolia Blue trailed, before her steps became heavier and she started a fast-paced clapping rhythm.
“Can’t take my charm, can’t take my humour! Y’can’t take my wealth, ‘cause it’s just a rumour! Nothing you can take was ever worth keepin’, no, nothing you can take was ever worth keepin’!” She hooted, skipping around Blythe as you smacked your thigh with the rhythm of her claps.
“Thinkin’ you’re so fine, thinkin’ you can have mine, thinkin’ you’re in control—thinkin’ you’ll change me, maybe rearrange me, think again if that's your goal!” She trilled, and you saw Blythe’s facade begin to wane at the cheeky tune.
“Can’t take my sass, can’t take my talkin’, you can kiss my ass, then keep on walkin’! Nothing you can take was ever worth keepin’, oh, nothin’ you can take was ever worth keepin’.” Her voice was strong despite her youth, and as you watched her dance around Blythe you saw a glimpse of the girl she was before the reaping. The bright girl who only concerned herself with songs and school.
“Nothing you can take from me is worth dirt! Take it ‘cause I’d give it free, it won’t hurt…Nothing you can take was ever worth keepin’, no, nothing you can take was ever worth keepin’.” Magnolia Blue finished with a long note, jumping in front of Blythe with a flourishing bow.
“Alright, alright, you’ve had your fun and proved your point. Good job.” He cracked a grin, mussing up the hair on her crown.
“We have as much of anything in Twelve, you just ain’t heard ‘a none of it till now.” Magnolia Blue asserted.
“I’d love to hear more,” You entertained, “that song reminds me of a shanty my teacher once—”
“Shh!” Blythe stopped abruptly, holding up his hand to signal silence. He crouched, peeking around the corner of the alleyway you were walking down. There was a narrower alley to your left, but it twisted in a way that made it impossible to see fully down, which is why you wanted to continue straight. Blythe’s eyes widened and he sprung back, your blood running cold as he mouthed his next words.
“Careers.” He hissed, turning into the narrow alley and beckoning for you and Magnolia Blue to follow. It was a tight squeeze, made tighter by your need for a cane and the echoing chatter of the careers. The alley was dark, multiple tall buildings crashed together to form the path you took. You were behind both Blythe and Magnolia, slower than the two although you bit back the dulled pain of your ankle and the burning in your lungs. You only hoped that this didn't lead to a dead-end.
“I don’t hear them anymore.” Magnolia Blue spoke up once you’d made a few twists through the alleyway, a distant stream of sunlight beginning to break through the darkness.
“Stay quiet.” Blythe ordered, stopping in anticipation of the exit. He peered out, assessing all sides before he tentatively went into the open. You and Magnolia Blue followed, and you blinked a few times to readjust to the light. The alley had led you all to what appeared like a park, overgrown and long abandoned with tall grass and willowy trees. The rat-birds perched upon branches, hiding from the mid-day sun between thick bushels of leaves. It was sort of beautiful, a hidden paradise within the confines of the sickeningly brutalist arena.
“C’mon. Nowhere to go but straight.” Blythe pointed to the path ahead, mossy cobblestones forming a beaten path between crumbling benches and lamp-posts.
“Who was it that you saw?” You asked, avoiding a tree-root that broke through the stones.
“It was the girl from Two and the boy from One.” He answered, and your eyes briefly met Magnolia’s.
“Oh…” Was all you got out, your eyes wandering through the shrubbery until a glimmer past a collection of bushes caught your attention.
“Hey, wait.” You pointed, carefully hobbling to the bushes so you could peer over them. What you saw made your heart nearly leap from your chest, and you had a wide grin on your face when you turned to your allies.
“It’s a pond!” You squealed, pushing past the bushes to where a surprisingly pristine pond lay hidden amongst the overgrown greenery. The water was clear, rippling gently against the lightest of breezes that came by.
“This must be drinkable, I mean look at it, the water is practically iced.” You reasoned, taking the water bottle from the bag Magnolia Blue held. You lowered yourself with your cane and dipped the bottle into the water.
“Careful,” Blythe warned, and you raised the steel to your nose, sniffing it for any foul odor.
“Smells fine.” You said, passing the bottle up to him. He too smelt it before taking a cautious sip, swishing it around in his mouth for a second before swallowing.
“Tastes fine.” He contemplated, and Magnolia Blue snatched the bottle from him, skimming the top of the pond and downing the water in one go.
“It is fine! You two are softer than my sister at her weddin’.” She teased, and you might’ve assumed your eyes were going to fall out with how much you had been rolling them recently. You bent over the pond, cupping your hand so that you could scoop water into your mouth as Blythe did the same. As you dipped your palm in again, you felt a small pinch—like a nibble or kiss—before something came jumping out of the water and nearly smacked you in the face.
“What—?!” You stumbled back, and your eyes widened at what they saw. The creature leaped from the water a few more times, glistening scales like a rainbow in the sun. It was the same type of fish as the one in the sewers, large mouth blubbering open—only it had stubs for teeth instead of needles, and its scales were more akin to a palette of paint than to blood.
“Get back!” Blythe said, pulling Magnolia Blue from the water. You shook your head, holding one hand up while you dipped the other back in the water.
“I don’t think they’re dangerous, look.” You swished your fingers around, watching as a few of the fish began to circle the digits, occasionally nipping at them—harmless. In fact, they were beautiful as sunlight spilled into the pond, turning the water into a prism of colour through their scales.
“I’m not sticking my hand in there, maybe they only like you.” Blythe shivered, stealing the bottle from Magnolia Blue and taking a swig.
“I doubt that, unless I’m secretly a siren.” You chuckled, beginning to hum a wobbly tune of Magnolia Blue’s song. However, as your pace became steadier and your voice louder, the fish appeared to still. They swam slower, serene in their movements rather than the bursts of energy they displayed earlier. You sucked in a sharp breath, and as soon as you stopped humming the fish dispersed again, some jumping out of the water as if to protest the end of your melody.
“Maybe we can stay here? I mean, it's somewhat covered, I doubt the careers have found it yet—and we have an endless supply of water.” You suggested, wiping your hand on the canvas of your pants.
“But what if they do find us? What if anyone finds us? We don’t have high ground, we don’t have walls to protect us, hell, we don’t even have a tent to pitch. This is a good place to remember when we need water, but we can’t stay here overnight.” Blythe shot down your idea quickly, and you were grateful yet resentful for his intellect.
“Okay, then you better drink as much as possible before we leave because—” Your sentence was cut short with a cannon shot, the echo of gunpowder floating in the air for a beat before anyone spoke again.
“…because like you said, it's not safe.” You breathed.
“And it's hot out here too. I ain’t never felt the sun like this before.” Magnolia Blue complained, wiping her forehead with her sleeve.
“C’mere.” You gestured, and Magnolia Blue kneeled beside you. You skimmed the top of the water, rubbing a few splashes of water on her forehead and the back of her neck.
“Doing that a few times should help cool you down for a bit until we get to shelter.” You smiled, and Magnolia Blue cracked a tiny grin.
“Thanks.” She said, and you held your hand out to Blythe for the bottle of water. The three of you only stayed for maybe an hour more, drinking as much water as you could before filling both bottles you had and continuing on to any nearby building. Something close enough that you would still be able to see the park and navigate through it, ideally. As you avoided a fallen lamppost, you heard a rustle behind you, piquing your senses. You turned, scanning the foliage you passed for a moment before Blythe spoke up.
“What is it?” He asked, and you squinted your eyes.
“Nothing, I just thought—” Your sentence of dismissal was cut short when a boy jumped out from the bushes, lunging at you with messy steps. You let out a loud shriek, narrowly dodging his attack by throwing yourself to the side. He scrambled up, and as his gaze shifted rapidly from you, to Blythe, to Magnolia Blue, you recognized him. He was the boy from Seven, Alpine Arkwright if you remembered correctly. His shaggy brown hair was skewed in all directions, pale skin near deathly as he clenched his jaw, preparing for another strike. When he chose his next target, your blood ran cold.
“Magnolia Blue!” You leapt back to your feet as Alpine let out an unnatural snarl, jumping onto Magnolia Blue with such force that he knocked back Blythe in his attempt to protect her. She screamed, though the sound was silenced when Alpine wrapped his hands around her throat, mouth foaming and teeth clacking.
“H…he….” Magnolia Blue wheezed, trying to claw at Alpine's forearms but it was no use, he was far stronger than she was and spurred on by whatever was happening within his system. Your body moved before your mind had a chance to catch up, practiced movements taking you to Alpine’s back with your knife raised high in a smooth arc. His body turned to try and combat you but he was too late, your arm coming down in a heavy thrust to his spine. As you twisted the blade he let out a near animalistic wail, and you removed the knife to pull him off of Magnolia Blue, throwing him to the ground and keeping him pinned with your knee on his chest. His breathing became laboured, and through the haze of insanity you saw him, the boy who was reaped trapped underneath over-blown pupils and frothing lips.
“I’m sorry.” You whispered, and you took your knife to his throat, cutting a deep slice through the chorded musculature. You saw the layers of muscle for a brief moment before they were overcome by blood, his esophagus opening and closing in an attempt to breathe. He convulsed, thick crimson rushing from his throat and joining the pool of blood from the wound in his back. After a moment he stopped struggling, eyes becoming unfocused and lungs deflating in a final death rattle. When the cannon sounded, you lifted yourself off of him, eyes trailing to where a viscous string of blood dripped from your knife.
“Magnolia Blue, are you okay?” Blythe asked from behind you, and you snapped out of your trance, turning to face your allies. Blythe was helping Magnolia to her feet, assessing the damage on her throat while you sheathed the knife back in your pocket. You ran up to them, kneeling in front of Magnolia Blue and wiping away the tears that had formed in her reddened eyes.
“I….I’m f-fine..” Magnolia’s voice came out hoarse and scratchy, quiet coughs following her statement.
“Here,” You searched the ground for the bag Blythe had discarded in the struggle, taking out one of the water bottles once you found it. You handed the steel bottle to Magnolia, making sure she took a few good sips before she handed it back to you.
“C’mon, let's go.” You urged, looking around warily. You didn't know what made Alpine act that way, nor if it was something from inside the park, and you didn't particularly want to wait and find out. When you went to stand, however, your body buckled under its own weight. You let out a pitiful noise, clutching your ankle while tears gathered in the corner of your eyes.
“Fuck!” You cursed, breathing in and out heavily while you tried to deal with the adrenaline wearing off. You inhaled a shaky breath, wiping your eyes so that you could drag yourself to where you had dropped your cane. You didn't even remember dropping it, your pain receptors delaying any feeling until you knew the threat was eliminated.
“Blythe, grab the bags, I can take one just…just gimmie a second.” You winced, sitting yourself up.
“Y/n, stop.” Blythe ordered, walking over to where your cane was and handing it to you. He then stripped you of your boot, lifting your ankle up gently so he could see if any further damage had been done.
“It doesn’t look like the splint got displaced, you should be fine. I’ll get you more of the pain meds—you too, Maggie.” Blythe surmised, rooting through his bag and shoving two pills into your hand. You popped them in your mouth, taking a small sip of the water Blythe offered so that the whole bottle wasn't gone in a matter of minutes. He gave Magnolia Blue two of the medications, making sure it went down before he helped you to your feet, Magnolia hiking her bag onto her back, giving you a pained smile.
“I…I’m no…not useless.” She assured, rubbing her throat. You leaned heavily onto Blythe for a moment, while he steadied you with his good hand.
“Never said you were.” You winked, using your cane to balance yourself once more.
“C’mon Crawford, your cannon hasn’t gone off yet.” Blythe encouraged, and the three of you began to make your way through the park again.
*
The next few days passed with little sign of other tributes, you and your friends mulling about the arena like a wounded pack of dogs while you tried not to stay in one place for too long. A gift had come for the three of you on the fifth night, food and water with a signed note from Mags reading ‘Be strong’. It was hard to be strong, you thought on the morning of your sixth day in the arena. It was a burden to keep yourself from climbing the highest skyscraper and jumping off, but that was the burden all of you carried.
Nearly a week in the arena and almost everyone was gone. On the day of your run-in with Alpine the night sky displayed him and Annabelle Wyatt from District 11 as the fallen, and you had no doubt her end came with the arrival of the careers. On the third day only one tribute was slaughtered, and you thought you may have heard her death echo from one of the nearby buildings, which is why all of you quickly fled the area at sunset. That night projected on false stars was Faraday Everest, the pale freckled girl from District 5. By day four you could no longer be outside during peak sun hours, since Magnolia Blue had begun to develop a heat fever from the exposure. On the fifth day you received the sponsor gift, but not without three cannons going off while you ate. When you peeked out from the dilapidated school you were staying in, you looked up to see Marrow Shepherd from District 10 and the two siblings from District 6, Kastel and Amaryllis Owens, honoured beyond the clouds.
Now you were stagnant in the school with Magnolia Blue, caressing her head which rested on your lap, her breaths coming in shallow pants. You did a recount in your head when you woke up, trying to figure out how many tributes were left, when you came to the unavoidable horror of the truth. The only tributes still alive were you, Blythe, Magnolia Blue, and the careers. Kairos, Adoration, Silver, Claudius, and Ruffle, all five of them had yet to be projected above you at night. When your gaze lifted from Magnolia’s raven hair to where Blythe sat looking out the window, you knew he had reached the same conclusion. Magnolia began to shake, her lungs coughing in a deep rattle that made your eyes flicker back to her.
“Shhhh, shhh…” You soothed, moving the cool piece of fabric on her neck you’d been soaking with water every few hours.
“There once was a girl named Magnolia…” You began a soft melody, shaky at first.
“She was bright as the sun and dark as the night.” You sang, remembering when she taught you the ballad only a day ago. It was over the sponsor-gifted dinner when she asked if you would learn a new song for her, one from Twelve that was the origin of her first name. Apparently, she said, most of her family had names inspired by a poem or ballad.
“Her mother was nature, and her father, time,
and when she came around the world would shine.
This Magnolia had such sad eyes, for the man she loved had died
She lay by a tree, with barren branches, and cried for days and nights.
Magnolia begged for her mother to help, for her pain was too great to bear.
So one evening nature claimed her child, and sunk the girl beneath her soil
When her heart was taken by roots, and her skin wrapped in dirt
The tree she lay by bloomed once more, and held her soul forevermore.
There once was a girl named Magnolia
She was bright as the sun and dark as the night
This girl named Magnolia left us one thing, her heart’s blossoming tree.
Yes, her heart, now forever free.”
You finished on a quiet note, the melancholic song seeming to settle Magnolia Blue back into a state of meditative calm. You looked back to Blythe, who was still analyzing the horizon.
“Is she any cooler?” Blythe turned to you, as if he felt your eyes shift onto him. You let the hand which was trailing through Magnolia’s hair fall on her forehead, keeping it there for a few seconds before you pulled away. You shook your head, and Blythe nodded grimly. The light fever Magnolia caught on the fourth day hadn’t let up, evolving into a beast which kept her lethargic in your arms, her little body drenched in sweat and her eyes twitching open despite the fact she was asleep. You had found the school on the fourth day, only meaning to be there for one night, but when Magnolia woke up worse the next morning you’d decided to stay put to let her regain her strength. So far, it wasn't working, and for every moment she stayed unmoving on your lap your heart broke a little bit. She was clutching the baby bear from the toy store, a small comfort that you hoped might’ve revitalized her.
“Y/n, do you think you can actually win this thing?” Blythe asked softly, his seafoam-blue eyes back on the hellish landscape outside. You had been avoiding this conversation since the beginning of your allyship, avoiding the inevitable moment when friends become strangers, and strangers become enemies.
“I think I could, but that doesn’t mean I will.” You hummed.
“Why?” Blythe asked, orienting himself towards you.
“The careers haven’t lost a single member, and I might be able to outsmart them but that's highly unlikely.” You said, ever the realist.
“And you’re obviously stronger than I am, so if it came down to it, I don’t think I’d come out the victor. Then there’s…” You looked down at Magnolia Blue, brushing your thumb over her cheekbone, “If I had to choose between myself and Maggie I would send her back to Twelve in a heartbeat. Scylla would never forgive me if I killed her.”
Blythe chuckled, dragging a hand down his face, “You’ve always had a soft heart, d’you know that?”
“What?” You cracked a confused smile. Blythe and you were classmates, sure, but you didn't remember ever being close to him—at least not close enough for him to know whether your heart was soft or not.
“When we were ten? The puppy?” He trailed off, expecting your memory to be jogged. You felt the heat of shame creep up to your ears and cheeks, averting your gaze from his.
“I don’t…I, uhm, I don’t remember.” You mumbled. Blythe’s eyebrow quirked up.
“When…when we were ten years old Celeste Kane found a litter of puppies with their mom dead from eating rat poison near the schoolhouse, and when she came running to the teacher you were the first to run back out to help the puppies. As it turned out, only one puppy was still alive since they had been out there for so long, and you begged for the teacher to let you take it home.” Blythe explained, seeming to remember it all as if it were yesterday. You envied him, in that way.
“Oh…” You managed, nodding slowly.
“Well, your dad came to pick you up, the teacher talked to him and he agreed to take in the puppy. From what you told Celeste, and then what Celeste told me after that, the little guy was doing just fine. Don’t you still have him?” Blythe asked.
“The dog?” You weren’t following, and Blythe saw that in your expression.
“Yeah, your dog? Duck?” Blythe drawled.
“I…no, no after my dad died…” You blubbered, blinking rapidly, “…I never even knew I had a dog.”
“What?” It was Blythe’s turn to be confused, and you sucked in a sharp breath.
“I guess if one of us is going to die there’s no harm in you knowing.” You laughed darkly, and Blythe crossed his arms.
“I don’t remember anything before twelve years old. I woke up one day after my dad’s death and I didn’t remember fucking anything. I remember vague feelings, associations, but nothing specific, and only the mayor and Mrs. Payne knew that…until now, at least.” Your words spilled out at a mile a minute, vomiting your secrets out like you’d eaten something rotten.
“That makes a surprising amount of sense. Shit, Y/n, that makes so much sense.” He spoke like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
“I always thought you were a bit off after your dad died because….well, who wouldn’t be?” He confessed, running a hand through his rusty waves.
“Yeah.” Was all you could muster.
“I can tell you more stories, if you want. We weren’t friends or anything, but we had a few moments where our circles collided.” Blythe offered, and you felt your heart skip a beat.
“I would like that, a lot.” You nodded. Your mistress could only tell you so much, after all, she only saw glimpses into your life whenever you would visit—she probably didn't even know you had a dog.
“I—” Blythe stopped mid movement, head piquing up when the slam of a door echoed down the school hall. You sucked in a sharp breath, eyes locking with his as the first footstep landed.
“Y/n—” Blythe began, and you shook your head, your hands becoming unsteady as they gripped Magnolia Blue.
“We can’t, she can’t be moved—” You pleaded, hoping that the distant chatter and footsteps of the careers was in your head, that perhaps you were the one with a fever and this was all an elaborate dream concocted by your sick mind.
“We have to. I’ll barricade the door, you take Magnolia Blue through the window and run, I’m right behind you.” Blythe huffed, jumping from his spot at the window and grabbing one of the tipped over desks, beginning to pile the discarded items around the room in front of the creaky door.
“Maggie, you have to get up.” You urged, lifting her head from your lap and shoving the cloth and bear in your bag. You heard a shout in the distance, no doubt one of the careers excited that they heard something denoting life, a life that they could take.
“Mmmmmmm…” Magnolia Blue groaned, slumping over as you propped her up against the wall.
“‘M tired, Y/n…” She coughed, blinking open her bleary eyes.
“C’mon Magnolia Blue, you said you were strong so be strong for me.” You hauled your bag onto your back, leaning on your cane for support while you dragged her up by her wrist. You wished that you could’ve been gentler, that you could’ve had more grace for the girl but there was no time for that. Not when the first hammering knocks came from the other side of the classroom door, accompanied by Kairos’s voice.
“You can’t run now!” Kairos laughed, slamming into the door with such force it displaced one of the desks. That was when you heard another voice pipe up.
“Come on out you fish-breath skank! I want you to watch as I kill your other little pet!” It was Silver whose cadence you recognized next, and you bit back returning the insult when Magnolia Blue spoke up.
“I am s..strong! I ain’t no liar.” Magnolia Blue insisted, barely leaning on you as you led her to where one of the floor length windows was smashed open, allowing you to hop out into the overgrown schoolyard.
“Good.” You smiled, the two of you staying close to the brick walls as you hobbled away, occasionally checking behind you to see if Blythe was following yet.
C’mon…You paused at the edge of the school, nearly by the back fence that had been brought down by ‘time’ and ‘weather’. You and Blythe made multiple exit strategies when you first chose the school in case of this situation, and your best bet now was to escape through the forest that lined the back field and try to disappear in the sewer system. A swift figure leapt out from where you once were, looking around until he spotted you.
“Let’s go!” You mouthed towards Blythe, who sprinted towards you with his backpack and bow slung over his shoulders. Once he reached you he helped balance Magnolia Blue, the three of you weaving through shrubbery and bark until you were spit out onto a street. You didn't recognize the area, but where there was a street there were entrances to the sewers, so all you needed to do was find one quick enough and—“There!”
Your breath hitched in your throat, eyes widening as you turned to see Adoration pointing directly at the three of you from further in the forest. The other careers stood by her side, and you made direct eye contact with Kairos who was already staring at you. He cracked a haunting grin, and before you knew what was happening Blythe was pulling you and Magnolia Blue away, the three of you doing your best to sprint further into the city. It was made difficult to keep a quick pace, your ankle throbbing in pain and Magnolia Blue’s sickly body nearly tripping over itself. The careers taunted like jackals from behind you, obviously playing up the theatrics of the chase rather than the killing itself.
“We can’t outrun them.” Blythe breathed under his mouth when the three of you rounded the corner of a building, the entrance to a sewer not far off.
“Yes we can, we can lose them in the sewers.” You gritted out, and Blythe stopped suddenly. The careers were still a few paces behind, not yet rounding the corner of the skyscraper, too busy gloating together over what they thought were their final kills as a group.
“Blythe James, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Let’s go!” You snapped, and Blythe took in a deep breath, unclasping the bracelet on his wrist and shoving it into your pants pocket.
“Get that back to my family, please, and tell them I love them. You guys got a real shot at this, Y/n, a shot that I never did.” He spoke quickly, leading you and Magnolia Blue to the sewer entrance and shoving you in there.
“Blythe—?” You began, however you were once again interrupted by your ally.
“Run, now!” Blythe ordered, vaulting his bag over to the opposite end of the street and readying his bow.
“We’re not leaving without you, Blythe!” You countered, keeping Magnolia Blue steady against you. She looked up at him, brows furrowing as the dots connected in her mind.
“Y/n, I knew I wasn't going back home from the moment I was reaped, you two still have a shot. You made promises, I made nothing.” His voice broke when the careers rounded the corner, cackles similar to that of jabberjays growing closer to the sewers.
“I’m glad it was you I was stuck with in the arena, Crawford. The two of you have made this a helluva time and…and don’t let that soft heart get in the way of winning.” Blythe cracked a sentimental smile, and for the last time you communicated silently with him, pleading e/c meeting with dulled seafoam blue.
I’m sorry, you said with freshly fallen tears.
It’s okay, he said with a deep breath, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment, this was always how it was going to go.
“Now RUN!” He spat, turning on his heels and adopting a defensive position.
“We c-can’t just leave him!” Magnolia Blue cried, resisting against the way you dragged her into the sewers.
“We have to, Magnolia Blue.” Your tone was ice, and you quickly hid the two of you in a dark nook in the sewer wall when you heard the careers get too close for your liking. They would hear your steps in order to track you now that they were this close, but you doubted their ability to analyze the walls around them when they were hyperfocused on chasing you.
“Where are the girls, fishboy?” Claudius asked, and you dared to peek back to where you’d left Blythe. He was guarding the entrance of the sewers from a bit further away, an arrow primed in his palm.
“Safe from you.” Blythe snarled, head whipping between the careers, the five of them trapping him in a semicircle against the entrance. He raised his bow, shooting an arrow that narrowly missed hitting Adoration.
“I would bet they’re somewhere in this sewer, wouldn’t you?” Ruffle hummed, pointing past Blythe with her spear.
“Does it feel good to have the capitol’s hand up your ass? Do they tickle you just right, hm?” Blythe chuckled, and you winced as Claudius jumped at him, ripping him from the entrance and shoving him to the ground. Blythe’s bow flew out of his grasp as Ruffle kicked his head, sending him tumbling onto his elbows with a painful crack. Adoration skipped over to Blythe’s bow while Claudius ripped the quiver from his back, handing it to her with a wink.
“I hope the few minutes you provided them was worth it.” Kairos sniffed, twirling his machete in his nimble fingers.
“Every second.” Blythe spat out blood, rising to his feet. Your heartbeat sped up, your lungs not taking in enough air as Kairos raised his blade, Blythe facing him with a defiant laugh. No, no, no, no, no, no—Kairos’s blade came down sharp, the reflective steel growing tarnished with the red sludge of blood and brain that spurted from where it had cut into the top of Blythe’s head. You watched as your peer, your partner, your protector, your friend, fell to his knees, gurgles of what sounded like it could be a sentence falling short as his corpse splattered further blood onto the sandy stones.
The cannon went off, and Magnolia Blue screamed.
Her cries of anguish were muffled by your hand, and you had to hold her arms to her chest in order to restrain her, though it didn't take much with her state.
“Don’t look Maggie, don’t look.” You swallowed down the bile in your throat, the blood rushing in your ears drowning out the footsteps which stomped past your hiding spot and into the sewers.
“What an annoying…” The complaints of Ruffle faded into the background as they went further into the sewers, but you still waited a further hour before you allowed yourself and Magnolia Blue to leave your hiding spot.
“Stay here, Maggie, okay? Don’t come out until I say.” You ordered, leaning her against the nook. She nodded, still crying what little tears she had left. You breached the entrance of the sewers, holding your hand over your mouth as you took in the scene before you.
“Oh, Blythe…” You whimpered, standing above his mutilated corpse. The blood on the ground had barely dried, heavy crimson soaking into every inch of dirt it could find while fragments of his skull crunched beneath your foot when you stepped too close. You jumped back, turning away for a moment so that you wouldn’t vomit. The hand that was on your mouth moved to your eyes, and you could no longer hold back your tears. You grimaced, hiccuping as you attempted to suppress a full blown sob. Then, hearing a mechanical whir, you whipped around to see a reflective lens emerge from the stone wall beside the sewers. It adjusted itself to look in your direction, and you stared directly at it, eyes wide and bloodshot. You wondered, as you had been throughout your days in the arena, if anyone you loved was watching.
With a shift of your foot you steadied yourself, and the lens followed you. You shouldered off your jacket and placed it on top of Blythe’s head before altering his position, flipping him from his side to his back, and then crossing his palms over one another atop his stomach. You kneeled in front of his head, so that the camera could capture both his body and your own expression, and you let your gaze snap back to the lens.
“As the waves guide his journey.” You spoke to the camera, and you could almost hear the response that was said at all District 4 funerals; ‘The sun guides his soul.’
You kissed where his forehead would be underneath your coat, rising to your feet with careful attention. The only solace you found was that the people in the Capitol wouldn’t know what to make of your little saying, those of your home District would understand, and for now that was enough.
“Magnolia Blue, you can come out now.” You said as you walked back into the sewers, helping Magnolia out of the nook.
“Do you wanna say goodbye?” You asked softly, and she nodded without a word, letting you lead her to his body. She fell to her knees when you reached him, resting her head on his chest and wrapping her arms around his waist with a sob that wracked through her being, bringing on a coughing fit. You kneeled again, despite the fact you shouldn’t be and despite the fact your ankle was radiating with white hot pain.
“H-he’s by the shore, right? H-he’s with Lark, just waitin’?” Magnolia Blue sputtered, lifting herself from his corpse.
“That's right. They’ll be there waiting for us when it's our time, and watching over us when it's not.” You nodded, taking her into your arms. You rubbed her back to soothe her coughs, blinking upwards so that you could prevent the majority of your tears from falling. The two of you stayed like that for a while, and when the sun began to set you decided it had been long enough. You grabbed Blythe’s bag, the one the careers didn't bother to notice, and walked with Magnolia Blue until the two of you reached one of the more unassuming warehouses. You settled in one of the back rooms, barricading the door and scanning outside the window that had a small gap in its corner, before you allowed yourself to sit by Magnolia Blue. You had set her up with one of the bags as a pillow, trying to keep her as comfortable as possible given the circumstances.
“Here, drink this.” You offered her one of the water bottles, the last one that had any liquid left in it.
“You m…might need it.” Magnolia Blue refused and you rolled your eyes.
“Drink. You’re burning up.” You insisted, holding up the steel to her cracked lips. She swallowed it with little protest, and you capped the empty bottle when she was finished. You put it back in Blythe’s bag, setting the pack up as a second pillow for yourself. You reached into your pocket, taking out his bracelet of braided rope before you allowed yourself to lie down. You toyed with it in your hands for a moment, clasping it on your own wrist. You held up your left hand, looking at the bracelet alongside your engagement ring.
“Y/n, if I die—” Magnolia Blue started, and you stopped her.
“Don’t talk that way, Maggie—” You silenced, putting your hand back down.
“Listen to me!” The burst of anger and energy from Magnolia surprised you, and you closed your mouth slowly. She turned to look at you, eyes sleepy and purple underneath.
“If I die, I want you to have my necklace, o-or give it back to my family. I’m lettin’ you, like Blythe did.” She went limp again against the concrete, adjusting the damp cloth on her forehead.
“You get to do the same, then. If I die you get my ring.” You huffed, laying down next to her. She giggled with a small nod, and you smiled.
“I’m happy we’re friends, Y/n. You’ve been real good to me.” Magnolia Blue yawned.
“Me too, Maggie. Now get some rest, I’m gonna look for water in the morning.” You tucked a lock of raven hair behind her ear, brushing your thumb over her temple. Far away the Panem Anthem sent you to sleep, and you imagined Blythe’s freckled face and seafoam eyes and russet curls among the stars. You knew in reality his image was stoic, unfeeling, but in your imagination he was smiling—grinning in that charmingly boyish way he always did.
He was free.
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A/N: WE ARE SO BACK!!!! HAPPY HOLIDAYS AND NEW YEARS TO ALL MY LOVELY READERS!!! I gift you 7k words of fluff and angst to make you want to giggle and cry at the same time <333
Sorry to keep everyone waiting for so long, I just really want to put out the best quality story and writing so this chapter went through hell and back before I finally just let go of all my perfectionist problems and wrote the damn thing. Please let me know what you thought of this chapter and of the story in general if you are so inclined, I always appreciate the feedback and I love reading peoples reactions LOLLLL. See you all with the next chapter soon!!
Chapter Summary: While your father spirals into madness, Heinrich throws you an 18th Birthday Party.
Pairing(s): The Creature/Adam Frankenstein x Fem!Frankenstein’s daughter!reader
Warning(s): MDNI!! Slowburn/build, HEAVYY YEARNINGGG BY BOTH PARTIES!!! Descriptions of gore and abuse, disturbing imagery, period-typical sentiments, future chapters contain smut, a problematic and high-key emotionally abusive father-daughter relationship, read the hashtags for the rest!!
Word Count: 3.4k
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Your fathers stress was starting to become your own, endless months full of manic scribbling and frantic dissecting making it hard to keep the sense of peace you tried to create. He was jumping from place to place, barely in front of you for a moment before he was visiting the craftsmen Heinrich hired or sequestered upstairs poking and prodding the corpse he had displayed on his main table. You remembered vividly when he first hauled in the nearly complete body of a man, the lower half of the cadaver’s face ripped away leaving crimson fibres clinging to the upper jaw-bone.
“Help me, Y/n—” He wheezed from the bottom of the stairs, and you blinked a few times before you let out a heavy sigh. He had the corpse wrapped in blankets for the decency of transport, but they did nothing to help him get the body up to his workshop.
“Let me put on my apron, father. Wait there.” You had grumbled, having been interrupted from stealing one of his wax anatomical figures. You aided your father in bringing the man upstairs, placing him belly-flat onto the table so that your father could force the body into the fetal position, exposing the corpse’s back and nothing else when he removed the final blanket. You had watched your father cut the man open, watched him peel back layer by layer the skin and musculature that hid the spine. You examined the dried blood crusting on the metal clips that held the peeled anatomy in place, and you allowed yourself to take in the scent of death before you bid your father goodnight.
That body stayed unmoving for weeks, and you saw the way that its lack of energy frustrated your father. He pinpointed areas, sticking silver rods into the corpse, attaching them to his batteries and electrifying the rods—yet nothing. Every time, nothing, nothing, nothing! He would scream into the night, waking you a few times with his fury. You dared not comfort him in moments like that, there was no comforting or reasoning with Victor Frankenstein when he became puppeted by his passions. Your only respite as of late came in the form of your eighteenth birthday party, an event that you had been looking forward to since Heinrich had offered to host once he found out how close the occasion was. His quarters in Edinburgh were far larger than your own, the grand house including a grander ballroom where the party was to be held. It was nearing mid-day, and Heinrich had you prepared in one of his spare rooms, maids helping you into your gown and powdering your face matte. You did not know how to feel about the sudden warmth from Heinrich, but you had no doubt it was his way of encouraging your father to work harder. Look at what I can provide for your daughter, he practically said, look at what I can give you if you behave.
“Y/n, may I enter?” Elizabeth’s calm lilt came from the other side of the door, and you nodded for one of the maids to open it.
“Come,” You permitted, turning from the maid who rouged your lips to face Elizabeth as she entered. She was adorned in a deep mauve gown, purple feathers framing her face in the same way they framed yours. On your birthday you decided to wear your fathers favourite colour; green. You had hoped it would lift his spirits to see you waltz around as a figure of natural inclinations, not dissimilar to the forests which surrounded his childhood home. You chose a dark pine-coloured gown, with rich green feathers clipped to your crown that tickled the edge of your jaw when you moved your head, your hair tamed into a bun of braided beauty. The only thing that did not change was your mothers choker securely fastened above the hollow of your throat.
“Eighteen is a very exciting age to be.” Elizabeth reminisced, keeping her hands hidden behind her back.
“Indeed. I am a true woman of society on this day, like you.” You smiled sheepishly, standing from where the maids had you sat by the room’s vanity. Elizabeth came upon you, admiring your visage before she flicked her wrist towards the maids.
“Leave us, please, she is perfect.” Elizabeth smiled, and the sincerity in her voice might have made you cry if you had the sensibility. The maids curtsied swiftly, not wanting to earn the ire of their master's niece, leaving you and Elizabeth alone.
“I have a gift for you.” She grinned wider, revealing from behind her back a caged butterfly knocking on the glass of its prison. Its colours were beautiful, blue and black intertwining in a never ending pattern on the creature's wings.
“Oh, she is beautiful.” You gasped, caressing the glass lightly to get a reaction out of the insect.
“As are you. When your father and I went to the botanical gardens we caught this one, as well as one I have in my own room. Now we will forever be connected by them.” She placed the small enclosure in your waiting hands, and your brows furrowed for only a moment.
“You and my father?” You questioned absentmindedly, placing the butterfly down on the vanity. You would return to collect her once the party concluded.
“Yes, on that day you could not come, when you were ill, but I took it as an opportunity.” Elizabeth reminded giddily, and you bit your tongue despite having no recollection of ever being ill nor asked to go with them.
“Yes, yes of course..” You swallowed, and at that moment there was another knock on the door, this one far more brash than Elizabeth’s had been.
“Y/n, are you in there?” Your fathers baritone came muffled, and you broke away from Elizabeth, opening the door to see your father tapping his foot impatiently. When he saw you, however, his entire demeanor changed.
“My god, Ambraselle…” He breathed, the comment escaping him before he had time to think better of it.
“Father…?” You blinked, bringing Victor out of his momentary shock. He pulled you into a hug, kissing both of your cheeks with a laugh.
“You are the most stunning young lady I have ever seen, you are breathtaking tonight my girl. I don’t know how your debut will top this.” His fingers ghosted over the feathers in your hair, and he offered you his arm.
“Shall we?” He proposed, and you looked back to Elizabeth, who made a shooing motion for you to leave. You smiled gratefully, and allowed for your father to lead you down the hall and through a few doorways until you ended up at the entrance to the ballroom.
“Why was Elizabeth visiting your room?” Your father questioned innocently. You held up your free hand to the servants who went to open the double-doors, stopping them in place.
“To give me a birthday present…a butterfly, from the botanical gardens.” You craned your neck to look at your father, and you saw him grow stiff.
“A butterfly, how quaint.” He muttered, glancing between you and the doors.
“Indeed. She told me that the two of you caught it together, when I was conveniently ill and unable to join you.” Your accusatory tone made your father reach to readjust his cravat.
“How…uhm—strange.” Victor cleared his throat.
“I see her resemblance to my mother in her disposition, do not think me a fool, father.” You turned to look at the doors once more.
“However she is to be William’s wife, and as I have had to reconcile with girlish fantasies in the past, so too do you now.” You scolded, and your father wisely held his tongue.
“All I ask is that you are wise with your attitude towards her, please…for me?” You gave him a sidelong glance, and he let out a huff of frustration mixed with shame.
“I would do anything for you, sweet girl.” Victor cracked a small smile, turning you to face him, “I promise there is nothing I am hiding from you, I see Elizabeth the same way I view you.”
You gave him a skeptical look, and he kissed your forehead with a whisper, “I promise.”
You nodded, slowly, before the two of you resumed the proper entrance position. You took a deep breath, signaling to the waiting men that they could open the doors. When they did, a spectacle of light spilled into the hallway, chandeliers and candles bathing the magnificent ballroom in warm yellows and oranges. At least fifty guests made up of your peers at college and Heinrich’s inner circle were mingling, all dressed in their best coats and gowns. When the door opened everyone’s gaze fell on you, and there was silence for a moment before Heinrich cheered, the surrounding party joining him in his jubilation as he nearly skipped over to greet you.
“My dearest Y/n, happy birthday!” He raised your white-gloved hand to his lips, pressing two kisses to your knuckles as the room returned to polite conversation. As he leaned in on his cane you could smell an air of liqueur and aperitifs, the scent emanating off of him in overwhelming waves.
“Thank you, Herr Harlander.” You curtsied, ever the Frankenstein of manners and decorum that your father was not. Victor screwed up his nose, holding you closer by your arm.
“You—” Heinrich snapped his fingers towards a servant by the wall, “a drink for the lady.”
The servant eagerly came up to offer you a flute of champagne from the tray he was holding, bowing his head as he did so. You took it, and when the man offered the same to your father, he declined.
“Milk, for the Baron, please.” Heinrich’s tone was clipped, and the servant nodded rapidly, disappearing to fetch a glass for your father. It had been years since your father drank, years since he would wobble home drowning his sorrows at pubs or crying alone in his study. Your father did not like vices, and alcohol was the worst of all, he had decided. Your uncle came from behind Heinrich, wrapping you in his arms with the sweetest giggle.
“Happy birthday, Y/n.” William patted your shoulders gently, before his attention was drawn to a figure behind you.
“Excuse me, one moment.” He politely retreated, and from the way his eyes lit up you knew that Elizabeth had made her way back to the party.
“I should make my rounds, it is my birthday, after all. Father, Herr Harlander.” You curtsied to both of them, taking a ginger sip of your bubbling champagne before you floated to greet the nearest guest. Everyone was delighted to see you, some old friends and other new faces equally as excited to indulge in the event dedicated to your birth.
“Miss Frankenstein, may I have this dance?” Your uncle asked when he found you later in the afternoon, the band Heinrich had hired beginning to play their third waltz.
“Of course, uncle.” You allowed, putting your hand in his and striding into the centre of the ballroom.
“Are you enjoying the festivities?” Your uncle asked when the dance began, twirling you to and fro in an effortless sway.
“Immensely, and you?” You asked in turn.
“More than anything. You know, I remember the first ever painting you did for me.” William reminisced.
“Victor sent it to me with the express note that you had painted the landscape to remind me of where to find you when I came to visit.” He laughed, and you bashfully looked to the side.
“It still hangs in my home in Vienna, you know.” He confessed, and you looked up at him with wide eyes.
“You must let me paint you a new one! I cannot allow for the company you keep to think that is what I am capable of today.” You insisted, and William chuckled.
“Whatever you desire on your birthday, my dear, you shall get.” He acquiesced as the melody came to a close.
“Thank you, uncle. What I want most of all now, is the lady’s room. Excuse me.” You curtsied, and he bowed his farewell. You found yourself taking a brief moment alone in the toilet, checking that your lips had not smudged and that your hair was still in place before you went back out into the party. As you were walking through the hallway someone called your name, and you turned to see Heinrich approaching from further down, no doubt finishing a personal trip of his own.
“Y/n!” He grinned, his gray-green eyes hooded.
“Herr Harlander,” You curtsied, the practiced motion second nature tonight, “Thank you once again for hosting this party. It is most generous of you.”
“It is no bother, the war swings in my favour as of late so money is no issue.” He waved his cane loosely, eyes trailing over the feathers that perched stiff beside your cheeks.
“You are so beautiful, Miss Frankenstein, it is a wonder you have not been offered in marriage…” Heinrich hummed, his hand finding its way to your face, toying with a loose curl that had been misplaced from the careful style you sat for earlier that morning.
“My father says it is unseemly to think of marriage before I have been presented to Her Majesty at my debut.” You gave him a lilting smile, eyes flickering back to the entrance of the ballroom, only a few steps away.
“You have yet to debut? A girl as well bred as yourself, I find that hard to believe.” Heinrich chuckled, bringing his hand back down to his side.
“Herr Harlander, I have no female relatives and my governess was dismissed when I was thirteen, it has been…” You hesitated, “difficult for my father to make time for me as of late. I expected my debut to be later than most other girls.”
“Nonsense, I shall arrange everything for you my dear, we are to be family as it were, and I cannot allow a girl of mine be kept from her rightful place in society.” Heinrich assured, waving his gloved hand with an air of arrogance.
“I was there for Elizabeth's debut, in fact I orchestrated the match between her and William after they were acquainted at the debutante ball.” Heinrich offered you his arm, and you took it with a gracious smile.
“I could not accept such a lavish gesture, Herr Harlander. You have already given me so much in this celebration, and I could never repay you.” You rejected gently, but Heinrich only shook his head.
“Do not worry about repayments or debts, consider this promise my birthday gift to you, my darling.” He insisted as the two of you reentered the ballroom. The rest of your party was well spent, a cake two tiers high being brought out for you to cut and share with your guests to a sea of, “Happy Birthday!”
That evening when you went to bed you were the happiest you had ever been, floating on clouds to your dreams with symphonies playing in your head. That was until you were forced awake by a loud noise, the smashing of glass and pained shout of your father jolting you up in bed.
“Father?” You called, heart skipping two beats at a time. When you received no answer you fled to the hall, grabbing a candelabrum that rested on a nearby table and sprinting upstairs to your fathers workspace. When you reached the top of the stairs you saw the outline of your father, kneeling beside the corpse with shaky, bloodied hands. Beside him was something that had broken, or perhaps been broken by him, glass shards dripping with crimson. You ran to him, appearing by his side and placing the candelabrum down on the dissection table, reaching to bring his face up to you.
“Father…?” You gasped, feeling his arms tighten around you as he launched himself up, keeping your stomach rigid to his face and chest while his arms were steady around your waist.
“I am failing, Ambraselle.” He mumbled into your naval, and you could smell the iron of blood soaking into your nightgown.
“Failing at what?” You breathed, in a state of shock from how weak your father appeared. You had seen him in certain states of delirium, confusion—but not like this, never like this.
“Doing what I promised for you, for us. I know I can do it, I know I can!” He whined, sweat-slick curls sticking to the back of his neck.
“I…” You did not know what to say, settling for petting the crown of his head.
“I cannot live forever, I cannot…I cannot…” Victor whimpered, and you took a shaky breath as you pulled his arms off of you.
“Father, you must wash and go to bed. Now.” You ordered gently, helping him to his feet. His eyes, unfocused and blurred, honed in on you all at once. It was as if the rope that held his mind together snapped back into place, Victor looking sharply from the cadaver back to you.
“Good God, Y/n. I was just, I was…” He motioned, and you shook your head, going behind him to untie the apron he wore.
“Save your energy father, you are tired. You have worked too hard on this night.” You dismissed, tossing his apron on a nearby chair.
“Come, let me treat your hands, I will clean this up in the morning.” You comforted, leading him to sit by the fireplace. You went to his workstation, gathering a cloth which you wet alongside bandages. When you sat back down Victor was staring straight at the fire, holding his palms up so that he did not get anymore blood on himself.
“You look so much like her it scares me, you know.” He began once you started to gently wipe away the blood, “Sometimes when I look at you I think I’m seeing a ghost.”
“I know, father. I’m sorry.” You swallowed. As you cleaned away the initial bleed you saw that the cuts were not deep, two shallow slashes on his left palm and one on his right.
“Sorry? You have nothing to be sorry for, I only wish that you could have met her.” Your father teared his eyes away from the fire, watching your hands work on his instead.
“She was a force of nature, your mother—supernatural, some whispered.” Victor chuckled, wincing as you wrapped the bandages around the wounds.
“My Lady of Hearts…” He trailed off, and you secured the bandages.
“You’ve never told me how she earned that title, ‘Lady of Hearts.’” You sat back, assessing the damage to your nightgown. The splotches were extensive, but you had experienced enough menstruations to know how to deal with blood stains.
“There is not much of a story to tell. She was a mystery to British Society, a beautiful mystery, but still. They saw her wealth, they saw her talents, and they saw her affinity for hearts in her jewelry,” Your father shrugged, flexing his hands open and closed.
“So they decided she must be a lady, and if she is to be a lady she must be the Lady of Hearts. Those of the upper class are not creative with their titles or taunts, sweet girl.” Victor mused. He stood up, and you with him.
“And what were you? Her Lord of Hearts?” You teased, walking with him to the staircase, careful to avoid the mess he made.
“Oh, no, no. The title of Baron was enough for them to quiet their tongues.” He smirked, taking one last glance to his corpse, the dead man still stagnant.
“Hm…” He huffed, turning to head down the stairs. You made sure he was well before he went to bathe, then you changed out of your nightgown, throwing it to the corner of your room to be dealt with later. You wet a cloth and wiped yourself but did nothing more, slipping on another shift and climbing back into bed. You did not mind the scent of blood as some did, you found it oddly comforting—the same way you found the night to bring you peace.
You reached for your nightstand, picking up your mothers choker that you had taken off a few hours earlier. You flipped it around in your grasp, feeling precious stone cool your fingertips.
“Goodnight, mother.” You whispered, closing your eyes and drifting back into a dreamless sleep.
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Miss Frankenstein’s 18th Birthday Portrait, Circa 1855
A/N: Linked above is art I made for Y/n’s 18th Birthday dress if you are interested!! Hope you’re having a wonderful day/night wherever you are xoxo
HEYYYYYYYYY!!!!! So I got inspired by the idea of Y/n’s dress and her mother’s necklace for the third chapter, so I decided to draw it!! Below are versions with the face slashed out as well as with different skin tones, since this is in the format of a ‘portrait’ I thought it would be fun if everyone could feel included! So I hope all of you can imagine your own faces and are loving the series as much as I’m loving writing it!
I'm not trying to be nasty but it seems like the only similarities between ur fic and the other person's is the fact that they have a relative reader, it's ok to think that they stole from you but I've read through both of your guys fics (love ur work) and I personally don't see the similarities? But that's just me Im not saying that they didn't steal I'm just saying that to me personally I don't see how they stole
I totally get that, thats why I blocked out their name so they wouldn’t get any comments or a flood of hate, and I’m happy to hear you like my work!! I read the first few paragraphs and knew there were major differences, but that kinda didn’t get rid of the icky feeling yk?
I think the thing for me is that they basically took my entire warnings list and didn’t change anything except for the wording, it’s the only fic and post in general they have up, and after all that they didn’t even bother crediting me for inspiration yk??? Also from their following list I gathered they only follow me, which I find a bit odd. They definitely went original after the fact with their writing and fic, but the base idea and stuff they got from me and they didn’t credit me for inspo or anything, which def hurts 😭
I Lowkey Crashed Out!!!! (A Provenance Eternal Interlude)
EDIT AFTER SPEAKING WITH THE AUTHOR OF THE FIC: I didn't want to delete this post since I made it to get advice, rant, etc, with those who follow me and my fics, but I have spoken to the author and the resemblance was completely unintentional! They totally understood how it could come off as weird since I was the only person they followed at the time, and they didn't know how to format their fic properly which is why they copied the way I did it, etc.
This author has been so sweet and understanding of my concerns and initial panic when I found their fic, so kudos to them and thank you from the bottom of my heart!!
In the grand scheme of things this is a very small misunderstanding, and they have agreed to credit me in their first chapter when it comes to the things they took inspo from!! Thank you to everyone who both comforted and challenged me in my inbox/comments, I really appreciate when people can have productive conversations with me no matter if we are agreeing or not. I can't wait to publish the next chapter of Provenance Eternal!!!!
XOXO, Lucky 😘
Below is what was in this post before I spoke to the author of the fic in question.
(Edit: I removed the Image that was here because people were finding the author very easily which I did not want in case some might’ve decided to comment hurtful things)
I purposefully blocked out the author and title because I don’t want them to receive any hate, but this is veeerryyyyy similar to my description and concept for my fic ‘Provenance Eternal’, and I’m just wondering if I’m going crazy or not????
Idk it just feels very shitty to potentially have a story concept I was lowkey proud of be ripped off, ALSO to have my entire beginning formatting and warnings taken but only slightly changed is kinda crazy. Let me know what u guys think I should do cause this fic has like over 1k likes 😭
I would understand more and even be flattered if they credited me with inspiring them through my fic, but so far they have not mentioned me on their blog at all…
SOMETHING I FOUND MID-WRITING THIS POST: OMG OKAY SO THE ONLY PERSON THEY FOLLOW IS ME SO THEY DEF JUST TOOK THE CONCEPT AND RAN WITH IT, ALSO THIS FIC IS THEIR ONLY FIC ON THEIR PAGE, the chapters for the fic are the only posts they have up guys…is this the sign of a truly good author??? When my fics are getting stolen and rewritten??? LOLLLL
Anyways guys yeah idk what to do about this, let me know what you think I should do if I should message the author or smthn 💀
EDIT: I do not mean to say the author fully stole from me!!! Our fics are very different once you get into them, but I just find it kinda weird that they took my formatting and concept without tagging me as inspo! Also once again pls don’t go find the author, I made this post to rant and get advice I really just wanna be credited as giving inspo if I’m being so honest 😭 Also an anon brought this question up here as well!
Tagging the taglist for Provenance Eternal because I need some advice from those who love the fic cause I don’t wanna be an unreasonable crashout (I might delete this post later who knows): (I did not delete the post I just deleted the taglist because my panic-induced freakout is over, welcome to my sunshine and rainbows world of unreasonable anxiety and paranoia!!)
Chapter Summary: While you and your father are at odds, Elizabeth takes you into the city for Market Day.
Pairing(s): The Creature/Adam Frankenstein x Fem!Frankenstein’s daughter!reader
Warning(s): MDNI!! Slowburn/build, HEAVYY YEARNINGGG BY BOTH PARTIES!!! Descriptions of gore and abuse, disturbing imagery, period-typical sentiments, future chapters contain smut, a problematic and high-key emotionally abusive father-daughter relationship, read the hashtags for the rest!!
Word Count: 3.5k
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Your father was forcing you from Edinburgh. Far from your college and your studies, giving you little more than half a year to pack your life away. You were to leave for Vaduz, near your fathers birthplace of Switzerland, all because of one man’s promise. When your father had left with Heinrich and your uncle to measure the value of a tower, you thought that perhaps it was to see how wise an investment it might make. You did not think that it was seduction of your fathers mind, nor that a bargain would be struck without consulting you and expecting no consequence.
“Be glad, Y/n! I am finally realizing all I have worked for, all I have dreamed of! Are you not happy for me?” Your father asked while you indignantly sorted through your art supplies. You doubted that the dilapidated treatment plant would have any space adequate to keep all your possessions in good form, so you had decided to take only the necessities, meaning half of your great works would stay in Edinburgh.
“Naturally I am happy, father. I only wish you would have consulted me on the matter first. I was not expelled and I still have a duty to the college here—” You explained, and your father let out a genuine laugh.
“A duty? Oh please, spare me your grievances with that. The college will accept you when you return in a heartbeat, you are their leading student.” He waved his hand dismissively, picking up a small-scale self portrait you’d done. It was made to be able to fit in a pocket, and you’d only just found a frame for it.
“How would you know, father? You never bother to ask about my assessments, I have only been featured in their magazine once.” You bit back, locking a chest full of paintbrushes and palettes.
“I know because you are my child, my daughter, and no offspring of mine is second-best.” He shrugged, placing the portrait back down. You shuddered to think of what your life might have been if you were slow, or ugly, or perhaps both. You dreaded to imagine how the great Victor Frankenstein may have turned on you.
“I appreciate the sentiment but that does not change the facts. What has Herr Harlander promised you that fashions Victor Frankenstein so easily swayed?” You questioned, wiping your hands on the apron you wore.
“He has promised me my Adam, sweet girl. He has promised me a way to create a new Garden of Eden, life made infinite as I hypothesized.” Victor grinned, giddy despite your distress.
“Then it is true? You are to create him?” You knew well of your fathers desires to create a new man, a better man moulded by his hands. He had told you bedtime stories about the soul made from a dozen men, imagining marvellous tales of all the things this man would accomplish one day.
“Yes, mon cœur. Herr Harlander has shown me a new method of healing and giving life, and I believe it will be successful. You need only to trust me—i-in fact, draw something for me.” Victor’s mind was working faster than his words as he picked up a sketchbook and plucked a pencil from one of your desks.
“Draw me my Adam. Make him beautiful, make him something to behold.” He held out the items to you, pleading. Someone, you corrected mentally.
“Why? If he is to be your magnum opus why would I sully him with my image.” You parroted what you assumed he was thinking back to him, and he placed the supplies back down, coming up to cradle your face in his hands.
“Sully? Dear girl, I would have no one else craft his face but you.” Victor whispered, “He will be mine, but he can be ours, if you only put your faith in me.”
You let out a heavy sigh, looking down for a moment before you nodded slowly. Your father pulled you into a warm embrace, rubbing your back gently.
“There’s my girl.” He hummed, and that was the end of your protests.
“Je t'aime ici,” I love you here, He kissed your left cheek.
“Je t'aime là,” I love you there, He kissed your right cheek.
“J'aime ton front,” I love your forehead, He kissed between your eyebrows, “et j'aime tes cheveux.” And I love your hair. He planted a final kiss to the crown of your head, and you cracked a small smile.
“Je t’aime aussi.” I love you too. You giggled, as you always did when he employed this method of endearment. He had used the phrase since you were a baby, sometimes saying it in French, other times in English, but always with the same fondness and sweetness behind the words. Occasionally he would still tuck you into bed with the childhood ritual, even if you reminded him you were far too old to be coddled and fussed over.
Your father was not present much in the house after that, leaving the dismantling of your home to you and the grunt workers Heinrich had hired. Victor was far too preoccupied with finding optimal specimens at hangings and public executions to worry himself with what items he required for his bedroom or kitchen within the tower. That was why, when Elizabeth appeared on your doorstep one afternoon, you leapt at the opportunity to join her at the markets.
“I apologize for the state of our home, we are in the middle of moving, you see—” You rambled, collecting your shawl from where it had been discarded near the doorway. Today you wore a buttercup yellow dress, your shawl a complimentary blush pink. The outside of your bonnet was the same shade as your dress, while the rosettes of velvet fabric that framed your face were on par with the colour of your shawl. It was a dress gifted to you by a Lord who you were commissioned to paint a few months ago.
“Do not apologize, William has told me all about your fathers pursuits and my uncle's meddlings.” Elizabeth dismissed, fingers drumming on the handle of the basket she carried with her. You took a basket of your own, making sure your bonnet was fastened one last time before the two of you made your way to the centre of town. Market day was when the city was busiest, dozens of farmers and townsfolk setting up shop in the mecca of Edinburgh to sell their wares. You did not care for the shouting nor the public exposure on these days, but for Elizabeth you were willing to overlook your aversion. Besides, clouds were beginning to gather ahead and that would mean a delightful spectacle of rain sooner rather than later. Elizabeth first shepherded you in front of a book stall, one of many in the city that carried the leather bound papyrus of those intellectual and curious. She appeared to breathe lighter when you were standing there, her fingers wisping over spines small and large.
“Your father is a man of science, are you?” Elizabeth pondered, pulling a book from the shelf.
“A man of science? Hardly. First, I am a woman,” Elizabeth let out a quiet snort at that, “and second I incline myself to the arts. Everyone assumes that I too will be an intellectual in the ways of biology and chemistry, but the craft has never called to me like it has my father.”
“You and William are alike in that way, then. He is a finance man—in fact he has no desire to search beyond what is already known to us.” Elizabeth hummed, and she appeared a bit disappointed when she spoke of him.
“I never said I did not desire to search beyond. I aim to reflect and redefine the beauty of our world in art rather than radicalizing it in science. I would not presume myself to be God.” You reached for a book, a Dickens novel, called ‘Bleak House’. You had heard it was quite the story, but you hadn’t been able to find the time to read it yet.
“You are a promisingly smart girl,” Elizabeth smiled, “You must make something for me before you rise to join the likes of Raphael and Michelangelo.”
“I doubt I will ever reach such heights, but for you I shall try.” You flipped through the thin pages gently.
“And nothing would make me happier than to paint you a portrait, or perhaps you would rather be immortalized in marble?” You looked up, meeting her dark eyes.
“I did not say I wanted a portrait, I want you to make me something—anything your heart desires. I will cherish it all the same, if you’d like you may consider it your wedding gift to me.” Elizabeth pulled two more books, a series or so it appeared, about insects.
“Do you enjoy the machinations of insects?” You asked, keeping only Bleak House within your grasp when you and Elizabeth went to the clerk.
“I find them a pure form of God's work, creatures who move with nature rather than against it as we do.” She explained.
“Hm…” You answered absentmindedly, already beginning to think of a work that might draw upon the wings of a beetle or the cocoon of a caterpillar.
“Why don’t you stay here in Edinburgh while your father goes to Vaduz? He has plenty of company in my fiancé and uncle.” Elizabeth inquired when the two of you left the book stand, both of you purchasing your chosen novels. You stopped at a fruit stand close by, and Elizabeth plucked an apple from a bushel, turning the red fruit in her palm.
“In spite of our differences he considers me a charm of sorts, I suspect it comes from my resemblance to my late mother. She was his muse for nearly a decade before she died.” You responded, hiking your basket further up your forearm.
“His muse? What need does a man of science have for a muse?” Elizabeth giggled, taking a few shillings out of her coin purse and handing it to the vendor. She put the apple in her basket, pleased with the purchase.
“She believed in his theories more than anyone at the time, suggested new ideas and most importantly funded his explorations of them.” You explained, looking up to watch the clouds thicken above your head.
“Funded? She must have been quite the woman.” Elizabeth surmised, the two of you breezing past a few stalls and coming upon a lowered courtyard. The yard was full, and the townsfolk heckling overwhelmed your senses while they crowded the stairs and cobblestones. In the centre were gallows, a few executioners tying the men who would be hung, drawn, and quartered with stoic expressions.
“She was, or so I’ve heard. She passed away when I was a newborn.” You confessed, and Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath.
“I’m sorry, Y/n. No girl deserves to lose her mother so early.” She sympathized, a small frown playing upon her soft features.
“I have known nothing else, why should you be sorry? I cannot miss what I have never experienced.” You shrugged, coming up to the edge of the guarded platform. You gazed upon the crowd, missing the way Elizabeth looked at you with saddened eyes. You spotted him before the ropes were cut; your father. He was inspecting the lineup of waiting criminals, poking about their person without a care in the world. Your lips thinned into a small frown, and Elizabeth chuckled.
“You are at odds with your father given the conditions, I presume?” She asked conspiratorially.
“Currently, yes.” You grumbled, the two of you turning from the platform to continue down the alley of market stalls. Elizabeth turned her gaze to look at a piece of jewelry, before quickly leaning into your ear.
“I believe he is following us.” Elizabeth said as a smattering of rain began to fall, forcing the two of you to unhook the umbrellas you had hanging from your baskets. You felt your father following before Elizabeth had said a word, felt his familiar presence stalking behind you, keeping an even pace.
“Let him follow, If he has something to say he will make himself known.” You huffed, swaying with the stream of market goers.
“Would you care for a confessional, my dear Y/n?” Elizabeth smirked, sparing a swift glance to the side, “I have a devious idea.”
“You are a pious woman no doubt. I would not keep you from heaven.” You obliged cheekily, hooking your arm with hers and letting her lead you into the nearby cathedral. Church was something of a mystery to you, as if the secrets of God were not meant to be revealed to your ilk. Your blood ran rotten with Victor Frankenstein’s sacrilege, and your loving lord did not take kindly to it, you thought. Even still you prayed every evening and confessed whenever needed, carrying with you a rosary and hoping that perhaps your fathers sins would be washed clean if you devoted yourself enough for two.
“Watch,” Elizabeth said when the two of you passed the confessional booth inside the cathedral. A woman and a priest entered just before you got there, but based on Elizabeth’s reaction that was quite alright. The two of you loitered around the windows for less than a minute before the woman and priest walked by, and Elizabeth turned to look at the confessional booth. She had a mischievous glint in her eye, one you wouldn’t think a lady like her to possess, before she glided over to the booth. She slipped inside, and you heard muffled talking. You leaned in, careful not to disturb the drapery which protected the identity of those inside, when you heard your fathers voice.
“A man, is it?” Your fathers voice, scratchy and soft in an attempt to imitate an older man, asked. You suppressed a giggle, holding your hand to your mouth as you listened.
“Yes. My fiancé’s brother.” Elizabeth snapped.
“Lust?” Your father drawled, and you felt shame creep up to your ears. You knew he felt Elizabeth was a beautiful woman, you saw it in his eyes the first time they met, but you would have never thought him to be so bold as to do anything like this.
“Hatred.” Elizabeth seethed from beyond the booth.
“Hatre—Hatred?” Your father cleared his throat, taken aback by Elizabeth's answer. You too were surprised, despite her mislike of him you would have never assumed it to be hatred.
“The man is appalling, grotesque.” Elizabeth huffed, and you could imagine the way your fathers face fell at that.
“Harsh words, rather uncharitable, wouldn’t you say?” Victor scoffed, scolding her as if he were really a wise old priest.
“Respectfully, father, you do not know this man. He tries to control and manipulate everything and everyone around him. His poor daughter bends to his will despite her desires to become her own woman.” Elizabeth ranted, “and like every tyrant, he delights in playing the victim. His only advantage, I would say, is he’s far cruder than he believes himself to be.”
“Cruder? Uh, pray explain yourself, my child.” Victor grumbled, annoyed by Elizabeth’s answers.
“For one, he’s easy to spot.” Elizabeth trailed, “You can see him…even on a busy street on Market Day.”
You felt the tension between them break, and at that moment you decided to make yourself known, throwing open the curtain your father was sitting behind. He yelped, clutching his hand to his chest while his wide eyes snapped to you.
“Hello, ‘father.’” You grinned before breaking out into a fit of laughter, Elizabeth leaving her booth to join you while your father ran a hand down his face, eventually letting out a huff of amusement.
“Witches, the both of you.” Victor pointed, gathering up his bags and readjusting the top hat he wore.
“Oh come now, father, it's all in good fun.” You kissed his cheek when he ducked out of the booth, fixing his cravat which always ended up askew one way or another.
“Yes, and you were the one impersonating a Man of God. One might argue you to be the witch.” Elizabeth agreed, and Victor shook his head.
“I am absolutely famished, are either of you? How about we head to supper, mm?” He suggested, a ploy to take the attention off of his actions, and it was only then you realized you had not eaten since leaving with Elizabeth early mid-day. So, the three of you departed for a nearby dining establishment, getting yourselves situated when your father took the basket from your hands.
“What did you purchase at the markets? Anything of interest?” He inquired, searching through the basket and pulling out the novel you bought. It was wrapped in brown paper, and when he gently removed the covering he read the title underneath.
“Bleak House? Have you not read it?” Your father asked, turning the book in his hands.
“No, I haven’t had the time. Why? Is there a copy at home?” You hoped not, as that would mean you spent the pounds for naught.
“Oh God no, but my colleague did rave about it once, irritated me to no end.” Victor placed the book back in the basket, handing the wicker to a waiting servant.
“And what books did you buy, Lady Elizabeth? Hmm?” Victor turned to his imminent sister-in-law, reaching for her paper covered stack.
“Guess.” Elizabeth smacked her hands down on the books before he could reach them, quirking a brow upwards.
“Do not be offended by whatever nonsense comes spilling out of his mouth.” You warned, and your father shot you a playful smile.
“A romance,” He lifted the stack, sniffing it with an overexaggerated flare of his nostrils, “drenched in Mediterranean sun and silk and the skirmishes of love—ow!”
You smacked your father lightly on the shoulder, and he put the books back down, all three of you chuckling at his oblivious answer.
“Insulting, but unsurprising.” Elizabeth scoffed, untying the string that kept the books bound in the paper.
“Really?” Victor laughed, clearly amused by his own actions.
“Is this…Insects?” His brows furrowed when he finally examined the books, and you knew that they were the furthest from what he assumed she might have purchased.
“My interest in science leans towards the smallest things, moving with nature, perhaps the rhythms of God…I’ve always searched for something more pure, marvellous.” Elizabeth’s eyes flickered to where you were removing your bonnet, placing it down politely beside you.
“I suppose that is what you sought to find in the convent?” Your father pried, and you let your gaze wander to the centre of the ballroom, where couples young and old danced rather than consumed.
“In a way.” Elizabeth sighed.
“…Was it worth it?” You saw your father lean in out of the corner of your eye, genuine curiosity getting the better of his manners.
“Is anything?” Elizabeth challenged, and as she did so the music crescendoed, ending in a bountiful applause from the watching diners. You looked back to the two of them, your father holding out his hand to you with a smile.
“Dance with me, my sweet girl.” He requested, and you placed your palm in his with a grin.
“Only if Elizabeth does not feel abandoned by us doing so.” You said, shifting to look at your soon to be aunt.
“I would delight in watching.” Elizabeth permitted, and so you and your father glided to the floor, where another waltz had just begun to play. You were familiar with a multitude of waltz’s, as any woman of high society was, your governess had made it her mission to mold you into the most graceful lady. The two of you twirled around each other for one beat, before his left hand came to rest on the lacing of your back while his right held your own.
“You are happier today, I can see it.” Your father spoke when you reconnected, spinning around the room in practiced steps alongside the other dancers.
“Elizabeth is happy company.” You divulged.
“Is she? She appears so sour whenever I’m present.” Victor huffed, though for the time being his displeasure was not directed towards you.
“That is because she sees you as an ‘appalling and grotesque tyrant.’” You teased, and your father furrowed his brows.
“Yes, yes I suppose you’re right.” Your father acknowledged.
“Perhaps you ought to have patience, she has never experienced life beside a man such as yourself, as I have. She has not yet built up a tolerance.” You said, and your father rolled his eyes over dramatically.
“Fine, fine. You are correct once more. Where do you get your discerning talent from?” Victor winked at you, and it was your turn to avert your gaze.
“That is the one thing I cannot discern.” You taunted lightly, the waltz coming to a humming end. Your father bowed, and you curtsied, and when you returned to the table for supper that evening there was a small bit less malevolence than usual.
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