ames!

18, she/her, lit lover 🪽💌📖

[libraryofaladybird]

masterlist! 🌷

akotsk ⚔️

dragon & swan.

dragon & swan ii.

stranger things 🔦

back to me.

[libraryofaladybird]

jesus christ, don't be kind to me.~ aerion targaryen 🦢🕯️

pairing: aerion targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis: After your interesting encounter with Aerion, you confide in the gods for advice on how to soothe the ache of feeling as though you do not belong. The gods do not answer your prayers. Whether that is from your lacking of faith or the looming presence of a vengeful dragon polluting the once holy space, you do not know.

read chap 1 here!

warnings: aerion, canon typical attitudes, violence, slightly suggestive, my writing!

notes: hi! first off i would just like to say a HUGE thank you for all the likes on the first part of this silly fic, it means a lot!!! this is the second chapter of that same fic following the aftermath of whatever the hell happened in chap 1...once again please let me know what you think!!! pride and prejudice ref...not proofread YET!

love,

a!

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It has been nearly a fortnight since that evening on the balcony.

A fortnight, in which, you have scarcely seen Aerion. Lest it was at dinners with the whole family or passing in corridors, both of which were met with passing glances and nothing more. It unsettled you. Annoyed you, too.

After that night, Daeron had been suspicious. Rightfully so; it was not everyday that you saw your wife and brother entangled in a bloody embrace, chests heaving and skin painted in each others blood. You had told him the same story - that you had disagreed over a game, gotten carried away, taken out your anger on Aerion.

He had looked at you, seated parallel from you in a dusty, secluded corner of the library and had told you it was best if you kept out of Aerion's path. A warning you had heard before, from him and his father, serving girls who had been on the receiving hand of his cruelty and squires who had been the objects of his wicked tormenting.

You nodded at him, smiling easily and returning to the history book in front of you, which, funnily enough, detailed the history of the dragons. In all their fiery, fearsome glory. You had thought then; had this book been held by Aerion too? A younger, softer Aerion who found comfort in these great, growling beasts.

Daeron, when he was softened by wine, had reminisced on the past more than once in your company. Head fitted in your lap, sprawled in a chair across from you, strolling in the gardens. About when his mother were still alive, how fiercely Aerion had loved her, and how, after her death - something changed in him. A once glad child, turned bitter and cruel.

You had felt sorry for him, then. Understood the pain of losing what you loved most, your own mother's passing a wound still fresh in your heart. But then you had seen him. Experienced that bitterness, that cruelty. And after that, it was hard to feel anything but anger towards him.

Sometimes, late at night with Daeron dozing next to you, you would recall the events of that night. The words he had said, the feeling of his hands on you, hot and firm, and the sensation of his breath on your face like the smoke of a dragon after burning its prey to ash. The glint in his eyes, his promise to have your tongue.

Even now, kneeling at the figure of the Mother in an almost empty sept, your mind begins to wander. The hard press of his body over yours, sealing you to the stone floor. Better, the shocked expression that fitted his face when you had pushed your mutilated palms together. A smile works its way on to your face, the gossamer of your veil whispering against your upturned cheeks.

Your clasped hands are warmed for once, seemingly perpetual in their coldness, the flames of the candles a welcomed warmth. You had come to pray to the Mother more often after the passing of your own, finding it a comforting way to feel again connected to her. Asking that she watches over you, but also watches over your mother too and relays the advice she would have given you if she were there.

Foolish girl, she would say, striking a prince! But her face would wear that fond expressing she reserved for her girls, you and your sisters sequestered around her knees, begging for another story. She would have reached out, grabbed our hands, said, listen closely, now. And you would have. Listened, raptly focused on the way she weaved a story from paper to life.

For a moment, you are struck with a deep sorrow, which settles heavily in your chest. Forcing your head to hand over your tightly clasped hands, tears stinging your eyes. Sucking in a shuddering breath, you swallow a sudden sob that eclipses your throat, muttering prayers under your breath. Mother, I miss you. Mother, I am sorry. Mother, where are you?

Behind you, you faintly acknowledge the sound of the heavy, oak doors of the sept creaking open. The empty sept echoes the sound greedily, unhurried footsteps adding to the noise. You do not raise your head, thinking it to be just another person coming to pray. Your shoulders curve inward with the weight of your grief, amplified by the loneliness of the empty room.

The footfalls come closer, hesitating at what you realise later is the figure of the Stranger, then approaching the Mother with those same languid steps. It is only when they come to stop right behind you, to the side of your shoulder, that your spine straightens. Recognition dawns, and you feel your stomach drop. You lift your head, setting your shoulders. And turn.

Aerion.

He is not looking at you, but at the figure of the Mother, in all her alabaster glory. His gaze then flickers to the candles, a handful of flames which glow in the lilac of his eyes. He seems to get lost for a moment, posture relaxing just slightly, then coming back to himself, straightening into the posture befit of a prince.

His eyes land on you. His head tilts, catches on the shine of tears on your cheeks. He laughs.

"My, my, what a sight. Weeping like a little girl. What have you done with the lady who maimed me only a fortnight ago?" He sneers, mouth twisting in a cruel smirk. You roll your eyes, turning back to the statue.

"I am not in the mood to entertain you today, Aerion. Go torment someone else." You answer, taking a match and re-lighting one of the candles that had blown out. You hear him huff behind you, like a petulant child not getting their way.

"In truth, I had come to make right on my promise. You remember it, do you not?" He asks, still looming behind you, his figure casting a shadow. You turn to face him once more, catching his sword strapped to his hip, his hand resting on the pommel. If he means to frighten you, it does not work.

"Yes, I heard you well enough. You would have my tongue. If I take your sword and cut it off myself to give to you, will I then be relieved of your presence?" You wonder aloud, watching as his face transforms minutely to show his frustration, perhaps at the fact that you did not cower in fear or beg for his forgiveness.

"And miss out on the best part? Watching you struggle as I wrestle you into my arms, take my blade, part your pretty pink lips and..." He trails off, now bent at the waist to whisper into your ear. A shiver dances down your spine, but your face remains bored and impassive. You direct your voice over your shoulder, weary of turning your face too close to his.

"It is custom to kneel in the sept. It is a slight to the gods to stand in their presence, to threaten a maiden in the face of the Mother herself." You remark passively, expecting him to scoff or insult you. Instead, it is silent for a moment, and you think, naively, that you have lost his interest.

But then he shifts, gets down to one knee, swiping his cloak behind him. His other knee follows suit, leg brushing against your own. He is warm to the touch, even beneath all the layers of your skirts and his pants. You watch him from the side of your eye as he picks up a match and lights a new candle, blowing the match out with a soft breath.

"You are right, my lady Swann. Forgive me, my manners escaped me for a moment." He intones slightly, and your head just about unhinges from your neck when you turn to stare at him in bewilderment. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a Sister kneel at the statue of the Stranger, head bowed and back turned. Ah, an audience reminds him he is also a prince and not just a dragon. He turns his head, breath fanning across your face.

"I do not pray to gods, I pray to dragons. Gods are for fickle men who need faith to reassure them. You will find that I am not fickle, and need no gods. Only myself." He lowers his voice, eyeing you intently. Watching as you register his words, rolling your eyes as you do so, turning from his once again.

"And what of your mother? Do you not pray for her?" You ask quietly, without venom. His breath hitches, you feel it rather than hear it, the subtle halt in his shoulders. You do watch him then, as he glares into the flames as though they hold an answer.

"Do not speak of my mother. Not to me. I am not a wounded boy who needs your pity. If you wish to coddle someone, perhaps go in search of Daeron. Although, last I heard he was...quite occupied." He sneers, face pushed to yours slightly. You do not flinch, only smile sadly at him. He frowns, and looks away quickly.

"I...I still pray to mine, even though it has been many moons since she passed. I will pray for yours, too, if you wish. Seeing as you are so devoted to your dragons." You counter, bowing your head to show your sincerity. He frowns once more, fingers reaching out for the candles, hovering over the flames. You hedge further.

"Sometimes, I feel as though she speaks to me. I hear her voice, at banquets, in the gardens, in the dead of night when I cannot sleep. But other times, there is only this...emptiness, where she once dwelled. I find it more difficult on those days." You confess, almost whispering in your vulnerability. You do not know what compelled you to be so honest, with Aerion of all people. But here, in the warm glow of the sept, his face is less harsh and as you speak, he softens just slightly.

Suddenly self-conscious, you blow out your candle, smooth down your veil and make to rise from the floor.

"Good day, my prince-"

"Wait." He commands, hand shooting out to your wrist closest to him, binding you to the floor. The Sister is still praying quietly in the corner, back to the two of you. Aerion hesitates, mouth clamped in confusion.

"Your mother...was she...what was she like?" He questions, like the words pain him to say. His brows pinch in discomfort, but the press of his hand on your wrist says otherwise.

"Well...when we were children, she would take my sisters and I..."

The doors burst open, and you both turn towards it, his hand dropping from your wrist. A group of ladies come in, adorned in veils like you, speaking in quiet voices to one another. Aerion stands, his fingers find the flame of his candle and pinch it, dousing the flame. You blink and then he has already made it four paces towards the exit of the sept. He does not look back, does not say any parting words.

Only his hand, the one that held your wrist, not the flame, flexes by his side only to return to the pommel of his sword. The ladies clear from his path, bowing low, muttering greetings. He breezes past, and is gone from the sept.

A lady approaches you, smiling kindly.

"Lady Swann..."

[libraryofaladybird]

a swan's scorn, a dragon's promise. ~ aerion targaryen. 🦢 ⚔️

pairing: aerion targaryen x fem!reader, slight daeron targaryen x fem!reader

WC: 2k+

synopsis: You are married to Daeron, yet being the wife of a drunken prince does not make your life easy. Certainly not when Aerion tries to make you question your position. An encounter, blood is spilled, secrets are formed. What does a dragon do to a swan? It devours.

find chap 2 here!

warnings: blood, violence, suggestive???, aerion, drinking (daeron), my writing!

notes: hi...i know he's EVIL pls don't hate me...but he's got potential okay??? ummm this was inspired by the infamous scene in isolation by bexchan and there's also a little intertextual ref to king lear...idk if i will make this a series but yeah! ALSO my first time writing for asoiaf so pls bear with me! i have watched akotsk and read it, but this takes place after it okay? okay. pls lmk if you like it and if you spot any mistakes!!

love, a.

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Aerion is bored.

Aerion is a prince of the blood, a dragon and he is oh so bored.

The scrawny squire across from him shifts uneasily in his chair, his bony shoulders curved inwards. Aerion eyes him with disinterest, hand flicking out to incite him to make his next move. The squire startles, eyes blinking quickly shut, as though the minute movement of Aerion’s hand caused him great fear. Cowardly creature, Aerion thinks. The keep seems to be full of cowards these days, cowards who keep clear of Aerion with the dedication of men knowing to fall into his path is akin to falling into the maw of a dragon.

His mouth twists in quiet, indulgent amusement. Fear, he finds, makes men most useful. Like that of the squire, whose trembling hand inches the Cyvasse piece forward. A predictable move, one only made to appease him. Not challenge him. Aerion sighs, a puff of hot breath escaping his lips. The squire, whose gaze is cast downward, looks up, sees Aerion’s displeasure and retracts the piece, lips turned inward in thought. Aerion sprawls deeper in his seat, the cushioned back scratching against his red doublet, and stares out of the balcony, the dusk sky painted a deep orange.

Footsteps echo down the corridor to the side of him, soft enough to confirm it is not a lord or gods forbid, his father coming to scold him for terrorizing the staff. No, these are steps he knows, ears sharpening to the familiarity of the footfalls. He swings his gaze to the corridor, the low light of the flames in the lanterns aligning the stone walls doing little to illuminate the approaching figure. The squire follows Aerion’s attention and also turns in his seat, peeking down the corridor with the hopeful look of a man eager to escape the clutches of an apathetic Aerion.

An outline of a woman comes into view, scarlet skirts deepened by the warm glow of the firelight. Aerion recognises that silhouette. The clasped hands, perfect posture, hair that trails down her back and is adorned with rubies to match her dress. A dress he saw when he broke fast with his family this morning, seated across from him, next to a drooling Daeron dozing on the wooden table, snores escaping his gaping mouth.

He sits up.

“My lady Swann, to what do I owe this pleasure?” He drawls to her approaching figure, which seems to have quickened pace, turning into a flurry of skirts. Her face, now in the light, is thunderous, brow furrowed in fury and her lips are pink and pouted. She does not even regard the squire, who swivels his head between dragon and swan, wondering who will strike first.

She stops in front of them, chest heaving. Her eyes shine in the warm glow of the balcony, and her hair, curled and unruly for once, seems to halo around her head - an embodiment of the Mother’s grace and the Stranger’s promise. The squire rises from his seat, which scrapes back noisily against the stony floor - of which he lowers to in a deep bow as he utters a meek greeting. Her gaze wavers and settles on him.

“Leave us. I would like to speak to the Prince - alone.” She utters with all the courtesy of a lady, though her demeanour begs otherwise. He nods quickly, bows to them both and scuttles out of the room like a rat. Aerion has not looked away from her once, waiting for her careful restraint to give. She swings back towards him, chest still heaving, the necklace around her throat glinting.

Most likely a gift of Daeron’s from when he actually deigned to put effort into being a husband. He opens his mouth, a question of why she sent his squire away or what has ruffled her feathers so when she raises her hand and strikes him boldly across the face, ringed hand catching on his carved cheek. At once he tastes the familiar tang of metallic blood on his tongue, coating his teeth and painting his mouth red.

He smiles.

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You have just struck a Prince.

Albeit it is not the first time you have done so. Yet, the first time you did it had been a different one. Daeron. Your husband, by law but not love. He had returned to your chambers, stumbling and bumbling on about nothing. Muttering about his dreams of dragons and fire and you, as he unlaced his breeches and threw his shirt across the back of a chair. You were sitting in front of the fire, reading a book you had read a million times over, for you had so much time to yourself here in the keep and had exhausted the library for all it had to offer.

He had come to you, dropping to sit by your knee, right in front of the flames. Being a dragon, perhaps the warmth bothered him little. He smelled of wine, sour and pungent, and his hair was matted with some sort of substance. Looking up at you, he read your face - the quiet exhaustion of appearing to lords and ladies as a thriving lady wife to a prince and, underneath, a wretched inkling of contempt for him. The man who had been promised to you since you could remember. The prince who you had left your home for, abandoned all that was comforting and familiar - for the cold court of the keep who saw you as nothing more than an extension of the failing prince. The unlikely heir. And the man who has all but abandoned you after the ceremonies and court appearances, in favour of his cups and whores.

As he stared up at you, his lilac eyes distant and misty with wine or dreams. The fire in front of you highlighted the curve of his jaw, the white of his hair, the slope of his nose. And also, the faint mark on his neck, purple and still glistening with spit. You stood, turning from him as tears filled your eyes and your breath hitched. You had given him your all, and he comes back to you like this? Devoured by some whore and too drunk to talk to you, ask about your day, debate some silly topic that interested you both.

Behind you, you heard him struggle to his feet and groan as he did so. He came up behind you, cold hands sliding around your waist, chin nuzzling into your hair and exhaling hot puffs of air. He was not stupid, despite what others thought. He knew that you knew.

“I only fuck them if they look like you.” He confessed to the back of your head, hands sliding against the thin fabric of your shift, pressing into you. You whirled around, tears finally spilling free, dragging down your cheeks. You slap him, palm connecting harshly with his pale cheek. His head had snapped to the side and he stumbled back, clutching his face. He looked back at you with something like an apology in his eyes, and turned and collapsed onto the bed.

Aerion did not stumble. Nor did he turn his cheek or run from you. Instead, he stared at you with something unreadable in his eyes, and slowly came to stand. You were already looming over him, so the distance between you two is almost nonexistent. You did not step back. Neither did he. He smiled, which should have unnerved you - but it just infuriated you more. Inciting you to swipe the cyvasse board from the table, his unfinished game scattering across the floor. He did not react but dragged his gaze across you, as if you were the most interesting thing to happen to him in days.

“Come now, you needn’t resort to such childish measures. Tell me, what displeases you so?” He queries, an almost belittling lilt to his voice, head tilted as he licks his teeth clean of the blood that has gathered there. You go to grasp his collar, angered by his calmness. He has taken hands for less. He seems to realise this, because his own snap up to encircle your wrists, grip bruising. You struggle against him, hissing under your breath and only drawing closer, so close that you can feel the heat of his breath. His smile vanishes, replaced by something much less patient.

“Childish? I heard what you said, to those lords. About the inferiority of my house, how you think your father was mistaken in his decision to make the match between me and Daeron. What right do you have to question that, let alone in front of others?” You counter hotly, watching as realisation dawns on his face. His frown deepens as he sighs.

“Is that it? I make a passing comment and your insecurity takes it as a slight? Are you really so weakened by the opinion of others? I thought you had more pride than that, little swan.” He drawls, pushing your hands from him, fixing his ruffled collar. You push back into his space, teeth bared.

“It matters when it is an opinion I have had to earn! I came here and faced their judgements and comments for weeks before I got even a fraction of the respect I deserved. And you! That insulting name and your comments and looks - all of it - I will not take it any longer.” He seems taken aback, looking between your eyes like he can find the answer there.

“You married into the house of the dragon, of course you had to earn it. Daeron is a prince of the blood, as am I. Surely you realise that no matter what, you will never be one of us. No matter how many ladies you flatter or lords you impress. You can coddle Daeron all you wish, play his nurse, but even that will not save you.” He sneers, face twisting in that familiar fire of his. You watch as his hands come up to grasp your throat, his stare unflinching. Scratching at his hand, you struggle against him.

“Coddle him? How can I coddle someone who is not there? I do not need saving. What I need is for you to keep your opinions to yourself, and stop calling my position into question when I have earned it!” You say roughly, his hand tightening as you spit your fury at him.

“I never wanted to be one of you! Why would I? Would I have my pick from the litter - madman, drunk, kinslayer-” Your tirade gets cut off my Aerion slamming you into the balcony wall, holding your upper half over the edge. His body presses into yours, all hard lines and hot skin beneath layers of finery. You scramble for his shoulders, digging your nails in.

“Now, now, little swan. That insolent tongue of yours will be the death of you. I am a dragon made flesh, a prince. How dare you speak to me in such a way? You want to know what your problem is? You hide behind your caution, all poised and perfect - the pillar for Daeron to lean on. But I know what you truly are, beneath it all. You are nothing.” He utters, mouth brought close to your ear. He pushes you bodily into the balcony, hands still fastened around your neck. You screech in rage, pushing his chest with all your might, sending him stumbling back from the ledge, landing on the floor.

You drop to the floor, pick up a jagged edge of the broken cyvasse board. You crawl over to him, settling over him, your hips pinning him with all your weight. He tries to surge upwards, face flanked by fury but is stopped in motion by the sharp stick of the broken piece nestled right over his jugular. Your chest heaves, in thrill or fear you cannot know, as you level your face with his. He growls, mouth still stained with his own blood, a deep red that makes an idea take form. You take the broken piece from his neck and bring it to your palm, slicing it forcefully into the flesh. Aerion watches you, watches the blood pool in your palm and drip down your wrist, licking his own bloody lips.

“You have finally gone mad, then. Was I too harsh in reminding you of your place, I wonder?” He heaves out, eyes glistening with a sort of mad delight, which flickers as he feels you snatch his hand and bring the same piece of wood across his own palm in a line. He roars, tries to wrestle his hand from you. But you keep a tight grip, tossing the piece of wood away and bringing your palms together with a wet smack! He feels the warmth of the fresh blood, and cannot decipher whether it is his own or yours. He watches as you stare at it, the grotesque collision of your hands. You feel a faint sting, but it matters little in the moment.

“See! Our blood is the same, we bleed the same! I see no flames in yours, nor do I feel the heat of fire from it! If I am nothing, then so are you!” You screech, pushing your conjoined hands to his face, which he turns, allowing for blood to smear across his cheek. He nods once, like something has clicked into place. And for a moment, you think he has accepted it, accepted you.

He surges upwards, knocks his forehead into yours, and whilst you are dazed - flips the two of you over. Slamming you soundly into the stone floor, the coolness of it a contrast to your still connected hands that have grown sticky with blood slotting between your fingers. He snatches his bloody half, grabbing your chin and coating it with blood. You snarl in his face, feeling blood drip down your head from when he hit it with his own.

“I am the blood of the dragon! A little cut changes nothing. My soul, my heart is that of the dragon. And do you want to know what dragons do to swans?” He asked, tilting his head like a predator examining its prey.

“Is your flesh scales? Do you breathe fire or huff smoke? Can you take flight? No! I do not see a dragon before me but a man trying to make up for his failures as a son, as a prince by pretending to be a dragon. A childish farce!” You say, watching as his face transforms from anger into something quieter, colder.

“I will have your tongue for that.” He vows, reaching for the dagger on his belt. You battle against him, but he gets the dagger notched right at your pulse. Can feel it hammer against the blade. Sees your eyes, filled with fear and something he cannot name, reflected in the blade. Looks at your undone hair, the sweat that shines on your skin, the blood from your head mixing with the material of your dress. And your lips, parted, tiny breaths huffing out of them.

“Aerion?” A voice hedges from behind him, a shadow falling over their huddled forms. Your breath hitches, and your eyes glimmer with recognition. Aerion glances at you as your eyes meet and a silent promise passes between the two of you. He sits up slightly, the moment his weight shifts you scurry out from under him, brushing against him.

He glances over his shoulder, and there at the entrance, is Daeron. You do not approach him immediately, instead fixing your hair and smoothing down your dress, hiding your palm behind your back. Daeron’s gaze is still locked on Aerion, the blood that marrs him and the blade he wields.

“What the fuck is going on?” He asks incredulously, hand coming out towards you. You step closer to him, watching as he glances at the cut on the side of your head and the small scratch on your neck from Aerion’s dagger. You smile at him, and pat his chest with your free hand. He is not drunk, for once.

“Aerion and I got into…a disagreement. Over cyvasse of all things! How silly of us! You know how competitive I can be.” You explain, laughing stiffly. Aerion puts the dagger away, and slouches back into his chair.

“Yes, your lady wife is right, brother. We got quite carried away, as you can see.” He utters tonelessly, twirling a rouge cyvasse piece on the table, gaze flickering between the two of you. It settles on you, though, and his eyes are ablaze. He has also hidden his hand under the table.

“You drew blood over cyvasse? Do you think I am a fool?” Daeron questions, glancing between the two of you. Your smile wobbles, and Aerion watches as you calculate the best way to get out of this situation.

“Come, husband. It is late and I am tired, let us go to bed. Aerion and I merely disagreed on who won, that is the truth of it, I assure you!” You reassure smoothly, grabbing on to Daeron’s arm, pulling him towards the end of the corridor that led to your joint chambers. As you drag him down the path, Aerion hears Daeron ask you more questions, reaching up to prod the wound on your head. You swat his hand goodnaturedly, and whisper something in his ear that makes him laugh uneasily.

Aerion watches the two of you retreat, fingers smoothing down the laceration on his palm. He also feels the tightness in his breeches and the excitement stirring in his stomach. He has not felt this invigorated, this wound up since he was merely a boy. Aerion swore he would have your tongue. He intends to have it.

After all, only a fool comes between a dragon and his wrath.

And you, you were the most foolish of them all.

[libraryofaladybird]

back to me ~ s.h

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medieval ish au~

pairing: knight!steve harrington x fem!reader (could be considered oc coded at times tho).

warnings: canon typical violence, dreamscapes/alternate reality, foul language, medieval setting (?), trauma from both respective worlds.

synopsis: Not long after Steve and the rest of his rag tag group faced and supposedly defeated Vecna, the crack that schisms Hawkins in two splits open, sending Steve Harrington tumbling back into the hell hole that is the Upside Down. Yet, the weird dude in chainmail is swinging a sword in Steve's face and shouting about a "trespasser in His Majesty's Holy Kingdom". Where the hell did that hole in the ground send him?

ramblings: hi so this idea came to me in a dream...kidding. it came to me on the bus actually, amidst my deep steve harrington/joe keery phase, as per the release of S5 of stranger things soooo. yeah. this is a very loose following of canon and the whole mechanics of the upside down holding other realities is just a vessel for me to write a knight!Steve au, okay? pls don't hate me. Thx.

new ramblings: this has been gathering dust in my drafts and was initially gonna be a long one-shot. but now i feel like i want chapters so, this is chap 1 ok okay. lots of setting the scene sorry... he's also not a knight yet! all in due time! hope you like it!please be kind this is my first time posting on here and doing an au! any mistakes lmk (kindly) .

love,

a!

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Tumbling down a dark hole, whilst obviously disorienting and fucking terrifying, funnily enough feels a lot like flying. How ironic.

The swoop in Steve's stomach threatens to upend the cheeseburger he'd scarfed down earlier that day, when the world seemed full of hope and the victory over Vecna, slimy bastard, filled Steve with a relief that finally allowed his tense shoulders and ever present frown to lessen.

Colours blur past him, flickering in and out of focus. He hears the distant screams of Robin and Dustin, flashes of their hands clawing for him as the crack in the ground swallowed him up greedily.

After free falling for what feels like forever, he lands unceremoniously and brutally on a patch of grass, a field he thinks, groaning as the impact knocks the wind out of him and his head smacks against the grassy floor.

His head spins, gasps of breath spilling from his lips. Too busy clutching his ribs and feeling the blood from a crack on his head glide down his face, pouring into his eyes, he fails to hear the clang of metal as something approaches him.

Shouting pounds against his head, and he tries to push up from the ground, but is met with a sharp point dug into his shoulder that is already pulsing with pain from his journey down.

"State your title, boy. Lest I cut you down where you lay. You trespass in His Majesty's realm, what say you of this crime?" A dignified yet gruff voice booms down at him. Steve struggles to process the words, head pounding and breath shortening. His lips form the words but are interrupted by the rise of bile in his throat.

"I asked for your name. Surrender it to me or you shall witness his Majesty's wrath." The mysterious voice warns, and Steve hears the threat laced within the words.

"My name is...is..oh god, I'm gonna..." He groans, but doesn't manage to finish his sentence or accept his fate of throwing up in front of these dudes in chainmail as one of them raises the end of his sword and knocks it into Steve's head.

The world goes dark.

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Handmaids flutter and fuss around you, pressing lavender oil against your neck and slotting pins into your hair, which pull at your scalp, a lesser discomfort in comparison to the corset you were pestered into. Your dress, a light, delicate blue, flows around her, the sleeves brushing against her wrists.

The castle is aflame with commotion; courtiers and lords and lady's bustling about, all joined for the very same event. Your betrothal to the heir of the throne, 6 years your elder and well liked by the masses. Your Father, a pious and pragmatic man, had insisted that this match was a miracle, a divine gift from the gods of old. The very thought makes your brow furrow. A gift, perhaps, or secretly (when you are alone) a curse.

The Prince is not...unkind. He made sure your rooms were sufficient and comfortable, turned about the Royal Gardens with you, talking not only of himself but inquiring about you and what you liked and hoped for in the future. The truth, you did not see a future beyond marrying the heir and baring him babes to continue the line, as was your duty.

And yet.

You did have hopes. Dreams. Silly, childish dreams of adventure and learning. Of things beyond the Kingdom. Of marrying a man for love, not duty. But that was all they were, dreams. Your reality is this; getting ready for your betrothal dinner.

"I heard that he defied the order of Sir Harold, and retched all over his boots..." One of your maids, Lya, whispers to another serving girl who is pinning the hood onto your head. The other girl shakes her head, fingers deft and practiced.

"Well, I heard from one of the kitchen staff that they dragged him to the dungeons and plan to flog him for trespassing." She replies, tone twisting with distant excitement at the prospect of more gossip and scandal. Another girl turns her head, sighing loudly.

"You are both wrong, they say he is from a distant, peasant land and that he had no knowledge of the King. I mean, what fool does not know his King? My brother says he is still refusing to acknowledge the King." She hastens to add, the other two girls looking at each other, stowing the information away for later.

A particularly rough pin against your scalp makes you step down from the platform, ignoring the squeaked protests from the maids, instead slouching down as much as you can in your dress, into an ornamental chair near the window. It overlooks the Keep, and you spy Knights and staff below, preparing for the festivities.

"My Lady, you mustn't wrinkle your dress. Nor undo your hair. I have only just secured your hood!" Lya pleads, hands already itching to mess and fuss. You ducks from her hand, glaring silently.

"I have had quite enough of being preened like a peacock. I am sure I look just fine. Tell me, who is it you speak of?" She questions, eyes darting between the three who have all seemed to admit defeat against her. They look nervously at everything but her, diligent hands suddenly twisting in nervousness. Lya opens her mouth, as if to speak but is interrupted by the door of her chambers swinging open, a gust of summer wind rushing in.

Her brother, all long limbs and ever present smirk strides into the room, dipping his head in a lazy attempt at courtly manners. His eyes linger on Lya, his smirk smoothing into something softer. Lya averts her eyes once again, curtsying alongside the other girls. You stay seated, unaffected by your brother's antics.

"Brother, what brings you bombarding into my chambers like a beast?" You snark, taking the fan off of Dyella, another serving girl, with a nod of thanks. He sidles up to you, bending at the waist to press a kiss against your head, the sound of Lya's worried huff from behind him.

"I came to escort you, my lovely little sister, to her betrothal feast! As any doting brother would. Has the preparations of the day soured you so?" He lilts teasingly, leaning against the wall and popping a lemon cake he snatched from the desert tray sent by the Prince into his mouth.

You roll your eyes, hands out so he can heave you and the weight of your dress up from the chair. He grunts in false exertion, leading you to whack him on the arm.

"That is a yes, then. Come, sister, let me deliver you to the Prince." He settles your arm into the crook of his, nodding again to the maids, eyes holding a minute longer than necessary on Lya.

"I am not being delivered, you oaf. I am to be married and made a Princess. Perhaps then you will afford me the courtesy I am deserving of." You jest, the door swinging open to reveal your guard. He nods once, stepping behind the two of you and maintaining an acceptable distance.

Your brother throws his head back in laughter, making a grin creep onto your face. Perhaps tonight will be enjoyable after all.

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Your gown sticks to your back, the stuffy dining hall making you shine with sweat and your hair curl faintly around your temples. The Prince sits on your left, next to his Father, the King and to your right is your Father and brother.

Your cup of wine is empty, the roasted pig and potatoes on your plate cold despite the heat of the hall. The Prince, having asked you all the courtly questions possible: how do you fare, what do you make of the weather, how are you enjoying your stay? Now speaks into his Father's ear, eyes flitting about the Lords in the hall. Your Father is trying to get your brother to slow down on the wine, but his cheeks are red with glee and he slumps in his chair, looking relaxed.

Dancing is out of the question, having already danced with the Prince thrice and your brother once and some daring lords who ignored the Prince's watchful eye. Your head pounds with exhaustion, and your body itches for the comfort of your bed. Lya, seated below the dais, catches your eye, silently raising a brow in question. Thankful, you nod your head minutely, setting your cup down. She beams up at you, rising from her chair and whispering to another lady on her left.

They approach the dais, bowing low before you. Lya, ever the actor, sports her face into a worried frown.

"Forgive the disruption, your Majesty. But, well..." Her voice shakes with fake anxiety, and she leans forward as if relaying a great secret. Then, she gasps, eyes rolling back and falls hazardly into the arms of the other lady. At once there is commotion, the King calls for assistance and the Prince, ever serving, rushes to her side. But is beaten by your brother stumbling ungracefully to Lya, dropping to his knees and brushing her hair from her face. He calls her name worriedly, and she begins to stir, murmuring.

You stand silently, and slip from the table. Your guard, distracted by the chaos, has his armoured back turned and you flee past him into the corridor. Skirts gathered in hand, you practically float across the floor, a breathy laugh escaping you. As you run, hair flying behind you, the night air cool and welcome, you sharply turn the corner. Coming to a sudden stop, almost tripping over your feet, you dash behind a column, chest heaving.

Your heart pounds in your eyes, a hummingbird in a cage. Up ahead, two Knights stand guard, blocking the path to your chambers. You clench your fists and huff a quiet breath. The sound of approaching footsteps makes your stomach twist and you panic, dashing across the corridor to an alcove. It holds a spiral of stairs, that lead down. Without thinking you scurry down them, the smell of hay and damp is prominent.

When you reach the bottom, you look up the stone stairs, listening intently. Voices fade and the silence is a blessing. You press a hand to your chest and it moves with your quick breaths, the patter of your heart grounding. Brushing your skirts back into place, you turn towards the mystery room, eyes slow in adjusting to the lack of light. A small candle chamber flickers in the corner but you still have to squint your eyes.

A voice. Not of an old lord, or one of your maids, or the Prince. Unrecognisable, and strange. Slightly panicked and...awestruck.

"Holy shit, are you a fucking Princess?" The voice wonders, deep and breathless. You step hesitantly forward, head held high. In a cell, surrounded by hay and dirt is a man, with hair that curls around his ears and deep, dark eyes that shine in the warmth of the low light. You clear your throat, straightening your back.

"If I was, they would have your head for that sort of language, sir." You say, unsure on if this man was a sir or not. But then you remember, the man who trespassed, the one in the dungeons. You continue.

"Are you the criminal the castle whispers of? The trespasser who renounced the King?" You wonder out loud, head tilted thoughtfully. The man, the criminal, rears his head back and rises unsteadily to his feet, his odd clothes stained.

"Criminal? Sweetheart, I am not a criminal - I mean I haven't even been arrested before. The criminal is the guy who shoved a sword in my face after I..." He trails off, like he thought better of what he was about to say. You curl your hand against the bars of the cell, trying to get a better look at him. But he steps back, arms crossed, making his shirt ride up his abdomen. Your face flushes and you look away quickly.

Seeming to notice, he smooths his shirt down and sits on the small, rickety chair, shoulders hunched. You both look at each other, assessing, curious. He drags his eyes over your dress, the dirt on the hem, the askew pins in your hair. And his eyes do not harden in judgement, no biting comment on decorum. Instead, they seem to soften, and he sighs.

"Listen, I don't know how I got here. I don't even know where here is. I...come from somewhere - far away. And that sword really hurt my head and they keep asking me questions about who I'm loyal to and my intentions against the King and I haven't eaten in...god I don't even know how long I've been down here. I'm sorry for swearing, where I'm from everyone sorta just does it and I've never met a Princess before..." He begins to ramble and you're already confused, so you put your hand up and he pauses, head hanging in defeat. You mull on what to say, questioning if you should just return to your chambers and forgot this ever happened.

But something about this...man captivates you. He's so unlike anyone you've ever encountered before and he is clearly out of place. You eyes drift to the nasty cut on his temple and you wrestle your handkerchief out of your sleeve, looking around you. Spying a bucket of what you hope is clean water, you dip it in the water and turn back to him. Approaching the bars of the cell once again.

"Once again, sir, I am not a Princess. You needn't be sorry for something you did not know. Please, use this to clean the cut on your head." You utter softly and he gazes at you for a moment, mouth opening. You shake your hand, ushering him forward. His hand, dirty but large, reaches through the gap and with a surprising gentleness, takes it and presses it to his temple with a hiss of pain. You wring your hands, unsure what else you can do.

"Thanks. And, um, I'm still sorry. I'm usually...better with the ladies." He offers guiltily with a small smile, the handkerchief now blotched with dry blood. You bow your head, reaching for it as your hand brushes his, the weight of his eyes heavy on the side of your face. He clears his throat, and scratches the uninjured side of his head. It is almost endearing. Your eyes catch on a patch of blood next to his eye, and without thinking you reach through the bars, ignoring all your guards lessons on how men cannot be trusted and that you must remain vigilant at all times.

His breath hitches, loud in the quiet bubble encompassing the two of you, and before your hand can reach his face, his own snaps up to catch your wrist. You gasp, but his grasp is not rough or violent. It is just an encircling of your wrist in his large hand, his eyes darting between yours. Foolish, you remember how he said the Knights treated him, throwing him in the dungeon.

He lets go at once. Steps back and runs his hands along his legs. You pull your arm back, wrist warm and tingling from where his hand had been pressed. You open your mouth to apologise but he shakes his head and you close it. You lower your head and stare at the way his blood blemishes your initials on the handkerchief.

In your periphery, he steps forward again, hand down at his sides, eyes searching for yours. You lift your head and try to smile reassuringly like your Father used to when you were a child. Stepping forward slowly, you raise the still damp rag to his face, barely dragging it against his skin. You see his throat bob, adams apple contracting. His eyes, brown and flecked with a lighter hazel you can see better up close are leveled at you. You focus on cleaning the stubborn dried blood, feeling like a blushing maiden unable to meet a man's eye.

Minutely, you feel him press his face into your hand, his breath cool against the inside of your hand. Your hand shakes as you meet his eyes, tracing the slope of his nose and the moles that are like small stars dotted on his face. Upstairs, the call of voices begins to rise. You startle, drawing your hand away from his face in a jerky movement. He almost tries to follow it, body pitching forward slightly, hands coming to enclose the bars of his cell.

You tuck the handkerchief in your sleeve, bow like you would to any other lord and promptly flee up the same spiral of stairs that led you to him.

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