[girls2gods]

Epilogue, When the Sun Hits

If The Sun Don’t Rise Series Masterlist

Chapter Twenty-One

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

You like to watch them dance, and so does Haymitch. They wander through the meadow most often, which has long since gotten its color back. On warmer days, they drag him out and use the geese to help tug on his heartstrings. They do a fine job on their own, well aware of how much Haymitch adores them.

The dark haired little girl who’s already learned to use that charming smile of hers to wrap the world around her finger. The shy baby boy whose bravery rears its head with each attempt to climb the highest of trees on his little limbs.

Burdock looks after them, after his own little girl and his love, separately. Sweet Primrose likes to go with him, or finds company in your presence and Lenore Dove’s. When she first showed up, Burdock scarcely let her out of his sight, if at all. Not so different from how it was when you found one another again in this world. He took that page out of your papa’s book.

There isn’t meant to be pain in the hereafter, but emotions still have free rein. Often, it’s as mournful as it is joyous to receive your loved ones, especially when they arrive sooner than they should’ve. Early on in your time here, Maysilee reminded you that you did too. She could’ve gone years without seeing you, she claimed. You both know full well she missed you in that brief period of separation, same as you missed her.

Patience never was your strong suit—death hasn’t changed that so much as it’s taught you the wait doesn’t have to be excruciating. You have your people here, the ones you watch over there. Knowledge pops up in your head, memories you weren’t there for become yours, and if you’re quiet enough, you hear them talking to you. With your feet in both worlds, your kin and your allies within reach, you don’t get by alone.

Seeing the life Haymitch has built, the good he finally found in a heap of bad, eases your longing, too. It’s all you wanted for him.

You feel the wait coming to an end, anyway.

Haymitch has lived longer than he—or the doctors who gave him his lease on life—thought he would. Before Burdock’s girl and Otho’s boy came around, he was only surviving because you wished it. His pain has lessened to a scar that only opens when it rains, and there have been no storms as of late. Healed by those he’s let into his heart, by the forgiveness he’s learned to apply to himself.

He’s forgiven you, too, for leaving him in what surely seemed like a punishment inflicted upon him alone. He never had to forgive what you believed to be your greatest crime against him. Neither did Sid or Willamae, you realized soon after they joined you. Too soon, but they didn’t let you dwell on that as far as they could help it.

You let go of your own anger—finicky emotion that it is—ages ago. It’s no good here, and neither is regret, after so many years waiting in equal measure, knowing you would’ve done the same as each other, for each other. Despite all your prior human doubts, you’re certain now he feels how truly you loved him, and always have.

In some ways, funnily, death has only strengthened the piece of you that’s occupied by Haymitch. Like the incessant weed he is, nothing could uproot him from your soul. He’s everywhere in your neck of the meadow, home to more dandelions than any other flower. He’s present even without you watching over him, or Burdock’s girl and Otho’s boy and their beautiful children.

Haymitch never denies them a thing, not even the chance to celebrate his birthday. His struggles to view the day as cause for celebration persist, but he likes to make them smile, and they always do when they know they’ve done something kind for him. The two brightest lights in his life. Your people’s future, learning from their past.

He plays it off as annoyance, but you see the smile on his face, too, whenever they burst through his doors beaming and shouting, “Happy birthday, Papaw!”

The girl learned to speak early on, and the first time she named the roles of those in her life, Haymitch complained. Not to her face, but straight to her mama.

“What else is she supposed to call you?” was her answer, mirroring the blunt edges of Haymitch’s tone. She’s exactly like him in most ways, and you rest easier with the assurance that they have an understanding between them. That Haymitch opened his heart to Katniss and Peeta.

Fiercely as your love extends to them, you can stand the wait to meet them. They deserve a lifetime. Some day, you’ll hear all about the good memories they made for yourself. You’ll sit in your dandelion meadow together, taking back your stolen time, as you’ve done plenty with those you only ever met in the impact they left behind. In the pieces that could never really be taken.

You prefer hearing her stories than telling your own, and maybe Katniss will be the same. Primrose sure likes listening to you. It dawned on you after a time that having the truth, having her pass the answers to you, is what you liked best. You imagine that’s true of your nieces.

The performance of it all didn’t hurt either. Guarded as she kept your aunt, your mama didn’t shy from describing her skillful storytelling when she first spoke her name to you.

Lucy Gray sometimes sings the same lullaby that your mama wielded to tuck you in. The very one that drove your desire to know the mind behind it. She’ll perform it with the family she grew in, the one who raised you, for all those who lived without her rainbow eyes. Others, it’s a show privy only to you and Lenore Dove.

And when it’s just the two of you, one lost Covey girl to another, you have the birds do the singing for you. She doesn’t let you off easy, though. You’re meant to listen to your elders, after all, and Lucy Gray doesn’t mind pulling that card on you. So when her tales have run out, repeated and recycled an immeasurable number of times over a blink of an eternity, you share yours.

Though it isn’t yours technically, not by name or in writing, you often find yourself reciting your poem to her. Bits of it, at least. Mostly, just the one:

Beat, happy stars, timing with things below,

Beat with my heart more blest than heart can

tell.

Blest, but for some dark current woe

That seems to draw—but it shall not be so:

Let all be well, be well.

You told Haymitch once that it was the happiest part of the poem, but you couldn’t lead him to believe it. He teaches that verse now to the girl and the boy.

You know he trusts the words, you know he’s ready, but he worries about them. About the happiness, as much as the safety, of Katniss, Peeta, and those beautiful, brilliant children. He worries about how he’ll take care of them, and how he’ll teach them about everyone who came before.

But Katniss and Peeta, even with their long-lasting scars, have finally found their peace. They have themselves, each other, the girl and the boy. They’ve memorized the pasts Haymitch has bestowed them, along with their own, and what they haven’t committed to memory is written down in that book of theirs. The girl and the boy won’t go without understanding.

They’ll grow, and they’ll learn, and they’ll get by dancing freely and wildly. The girl’s hair blowing all over her face, the boy’s arms stretched out as he spins. Sunlight glinting off the copper bluebird around one of their necks. Depends on the day.

On the day your waiting ends, Haymitch leaves it to them. You still wear your other charms, though you have your family with you now. Haymitch is wearing his too. It’s the first thing you notice against the flowers and weeds before his pretty eyes find yours. He blends right into your kaleidoscopic sky and steady earth. You can tell he’s thinking the same of you by the curve of his smile.

Your effort to suppress your own is weak, and you fail to keep a scowl as you demand, “What’re you staring at?”

You can’t say who moves first, only that you wind up meeting each other, his back pressed against the dirt and fallen maple leaves, your voice dissolved into a fit of laughter. Haymitch peppering kisses along your eyelids and nose.

“I missed you, sunshine,” he mutters against your temple. “Every day, but I tried. I tried not to—”

“I know. I’m here now,” you murmur, barely getting out the last syllable before his mouth is on yours. As soft and warm as you remember him to have been in life.

It wasn’t dull, exactly, but your meadow feels brighter. Brought to life and color at its fullest by the hands cradling you to the ground.

Between the two of you, you’ve racked up a long list of things you want to say once the glee settles. The agony of waiting mixed with the peace of the other finding their version of freedom. Everyone who’s stuck to your side here, the people who’ve missed him and want their turn at hello. You’ll ask to hear about the girl and the boy, and Haymitch will share the joy of adoring them. He’ll tell you about carrying your spirit with him, and you’ll swear everything he felt was real.

There is no rush. There are no sunsets forcing you away. And when you part, there’s nothing more important to say than the words that tumble out of Haymitch. “I love you.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You beautiful, infuriating hypocrite.”

“Oh, you’re still no picnic, peach.” You bring your forehead down to his, but it’s devoid of any worry. He beams, and what other choice do you have but to respond against his lips, “I love you, too.”

Just as good and bad walk hand-in-hand, your proclamations of hate never existed without the truest of loves. They’re distant memories now, tuned out by the words you repeat over and over. A promise you and Haymitch have no trouble keeping together.

Forever, in every world, and then some.

Taglist: @lovemiss-vale @aureolinb @mqrieshrt @bueburgers @dem1dearest @nikki-is-a-nerd @lovelylittlelesbianlore @jjloveshotch @inneedofcaffine @poetsandroses @kindsleybooks @ivyhaec @x-gabrielle-x @ghostlythinggoingaround @happiness2112 @sundawn1990 @starryjeongyeon @kuurbyfun @lenteheure @petrasbones @wertyuizxcvbnm @shiftingf1 @sarcasm-n-insomnia @defnotbrooklyn @harrypedro465 @rinatzsstuff @whimsybeth @youraggedybitch @poppysrin @watergirl85 @prettyandromeda @gaz0xx @marsupialnoises @madisonosidam @redshinyshoes @comfortcharacterwrites

[starsdoll]

terms & conditions

pairing: sugar daddy!baelor targaryen x fem!reader

summary: … some encounters are one-offs; this one leaves its mark between the pages of your sketchbook ⟢

wc: 1.5k

content warning: 18+ mdni | none, just an intro to the terms & conditions series masterlist ────୨ৎ──── taglist

The art studio always smelled faintly of linseed oil and turpentine by the end of the afternoon.

It clung to everything—the unfinished canvases lining the walls, the wooden easels scarred by years of use, the oversized aprons hanging from metal hooks by the door. Even after hours spent there, you rarely noticed it anymore. It had become as familiar as graphite dust beneath your fingernails or the ache that settled comfortably between your shoulders after a day of painting.

Outside, the campus had begun to quiet beneath a gray evening sky. Students drifted across the courtyard with coffees balanced between their hands, laughing as they hurried toward apartments, buses, dinner plans, or whatever came after a Tuesday full of lectures. You watched them through the studio’s tall windows for only a moment before looking back down at your own canvas, carefully adding one final brushstroke.

"There," Professor Redwyne said as he wandered behind you, folding his arms across his chest. "Much better."

You leaned back on the stool, unconsciously chewing the inside of your cheek while studying the painting again. "Do you still think the composition looks crowded on the left side?" you asked, tilting your head. "I’ve tried playing around with everything, but it feels..."

"No," he said gently. "You’ve found the balance. Don’t second-guess yourself now. It’s lovely work—honest. Leave it alone for tonight. Sometimes the best thing we can do is step away before we convince ourselves something is wrong when it isn’t."

You exhaled, lowering your brush into the jar of cleaner beside your station. "I guess I’m just nervous about the showcase next month."

He smiled, resting a hand briefly on your shoulder. "You’ve come a long way in two years. Just trust your instincts; they’re better than you realize."

You nodded, offering him a small smile of gratitude before turning back to wipe down your brushes. Around you, other students were packing up their supplies, chatting about weekend plans, deadlines, the terrible coffee from the campus café. The hum of voices was familiar, comforting, even if you rarely joined in. Socializing after hours felt like a luxury you couldn’t afford when there were still bills to pay, groceries to buy, and an increasingly concerning amount of assignments waiting at home.

After rinsing your brushes and securing the painting on the drying rack, you slid your well-worn sketchbook into your bag, shrugged on your jacket, and said a quick goodbye to the few classmates who noticed you leaving. The spring air outside was cool against your cheeks, carrying the faint scent of rain that hadn’t quite fallen yet. You adjusted your scarf as you walked off toward the metro, your boots clicking softly against the cobblestones.

By the time you stepped off the train and made the ten-minute walk to your apartment, the streetlights had flickered on and were casting long shadows across the pavement. Your building was nothing special—brick, aging, with a flickering light near the entrance that you knew wouldn't be fixed for at least another four months—but it was home. You unlocked the door, stepped into the narrow hallway, and climbed the creaky stairs to the third floor.

Inside your small one-bedroom, you dropped your bag onto the table by the window and let out a soft sigh. The space was modest, filled with secondhand furniture, potted plants, and stacks of art books you’d collected over the years. A half-finished watercolor sat on the easel by the window, and a vase of fresh daisies (one of your few indulgences) sat on the kitchen counter.

After hanging up your jacket and kicking off your boots, you crossed to the desk and flipped open your sketchbook. There was something therapeutic about revisiting old drawings, seeing how your style had changed, how your lines had become surer. You turned a few pages, smiling at a sketch of an elderly man you’d seen reading on a park bench last summer, then paused when you reached the back.

Carefully tucked between the pages was the business card that had been given to you nearly a month ago.

The paper was thick, expensive, with a simple, elegant design:

Baelor Targaryen President, Targaryen Foundation | Patron of the Arts [phone] [email protected]

You stared at the name for a moment, the familiar flutter of uncertainty settling in your chest. You still weren't quite sure why it had happened. You’d picked up a catering shift at the art gallery in the Street of Steel, serving champagne to wealthy patrons during an exhibition opening. The only reason you'd even been there was because the regular waitress had called in sick and the manager had begged you to cover. It was meant to be just one evening of extra cash and an opportunity to see the artwork up close. It had been a busy night, and you'd barely had time to notice the guests until someone approached you.

He’d been striking—tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed—with graying hair at his temples and beautiful heterochromatic eyes. You'd nearly dropped the tray when he asked you what you thought of the exhibition. To your surprise, he actually listened while you stammered something about technique and the use of light. He’d smiled, introduced himself simply as Baelor, and then asked if you were an art student. You'd admitted that you were, expecting the conversation to end there. Instead, he handed you his card, telling you to call if you ever needed advice about navigating the art world.

That had been weeks ago. You'd kept the card tucked away, unsure what to do with it. Calling a millionaire philanthropist seemed absurd. What would you even say? "Hello, I'm one of the eight waitresses who served you alcohol and canapés, could you help me get my paintings into a gallery?"

With another sigh, you slid the card back into your sketchbook and closed it. Whatever generosity he'd shown that night was probably just politeness. Men like him didn't spend time thinking about struggling art students. You had finals to focus on, and a painting that still wasn't quite right. That was enough to worry about. Oh, and your rent.

Three weeks later, the gallery on the Street of Steel was crowded for the opening of the "Visions of the New Century" exhibition, the sort of event that brought out the city's elite: trust fund heirs, museum curators, diplomats, and the occasional celebrity. You had been hired again for the evening, this time with slightly more confidence than last time. At least you knew where the coatroom was and how to navigate the crowd without spilling champagne on anyone important.

You moved through the room with a silver tray balanced carefully in your hands, offering drinks to guests who barely glanced at you. The art on the walls was stunning. Bold, contemporary, priced well beyond anything you could ever afford. Still, it was inspiring to see it up close, to imagine what it might feel like to have your own work displayed here one day.

As you circled back toward the bar for a fresh tray, a familiar voice stopped you in your tracks.

"Excuse me," he said, and you turned to find those same striking eyes watching you with amusement. "I remember you."

Your cheeks warmed instantly. "Mr. Targaryen," you said, trying to sound professional despite your sudden nervousness. "It's nice to see you again."

"Baelor, please," he corrected gently, his smile warm. "And the pleasure is mine. I was hoping I might run into you again tonight."

"Oh... were you?" Surely he was just saying that.

He nodded, gesturing toward the nearest painting. "I've been thinking about our conversation last time. You mentioned studying fine arts at the university. Have you had any luck with your portfolio?"

You hesitated, unsure how much to admit. "I've been working on it," you said carefully. "It's... a work in progress."

"If I may ask—do you enjoy working at events like this?"

The question caught you off guard. "It's fine..." you said honestly. "The pay helps."

"But it's not where your passion lies."

You glanced down, adjusting your grip on the tray. "No. I'd rather be painting, obviously."

There was a pause, and when you looked back up, his expression had softened. "I'd like to see your work sometime," he said simply. "If you'd be comfortable showing me."

Your heart skipped. "You... would?"

"Of course." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out another business card, identical to the one you already had. "Call me. Perhaps we could arrange a time for you to bring a few pieces to my office. We're always looking for new talent to support."

You stared at the card, then back at him, unsure whether this was some sort of polite formality or a genuine offer. "I... that's really kind of you, Mr. Targaryen—"

"Baelor," he corrected again with a smile. "And I mean it. I'd be delighted to help if I can."

Before you could respond, someone called his name from across the room, and he turned to offer them a polite nod. When he looked back at you, he lowered his voice slightly. "Think about it. And please, call me."

You nodded, watching as he stepped away, instantly surrounded by people who clearly wanted his attention. Carefully, you slipped the second business card into your apron pocket, your mind racing as you returned to the bar. It was ridiculous, surely. But he had remembered you. He had asked to see your art. That had to mean something, didn't it?

[agentmilayawithshield]

me at 17yo mourning my boyfriend Robb Stark:

me at 19yo mourning my soulmate Daenerys Targaryen:

me at 25yo mourning my husband Baelor Targaryen:

me still 25yo, mourning my sweet boy Jacaerys Velaryon:

[nocturnepearl]

a akotsk hc offering? was watching "waking up from anesthesia" silliness on youtube & wondered how the boys would react to milk of-the-poppy addled S/O not recognizing them at first? Maybe she/he wakes up to them holding their hand or petting their hair & is like "whomst the fuck?! my husband will take your hand for that. fuck off"

Who would be amused/charmed & who would be determined to prove their identity?

I’m, quite frankly, obsessed with this idea. So cute. Thanks for the offering! :)

Includes: Baelor Targaryen, Daeron Targaryen, Aerion Targaryen, and Dunk!

SFW!

𖤓 Baelor is the first person to suggest that you receive milk of-the-poppy for your ailments, always your staunch advocate. He kneels at your bedside, a firm hand grasping yours, and when you wake, he smiles gently. "Hello, my dear. Are you feeling well?" He expects you to be a little out-of-it, but finds himself wholeheartedly shocked (and amused) at your appalled state: sleepy eyes widening, hand yanking away from his hold. When you mumble something about the impropriety of a strange man, he huffs a small laugh through his nose. "Perhaps a smaller dose for the lady next time, yes?" He politely suggests to the Grand Maester, before gently reminding you that he is, in fact, your husband. If you still cannot comprehend the fact, he kisses you on the forehead before leaving you to your sleep. He doesn't think it prudent to force himself on you.

𖤓 Daeron, leaning against your bedpost upon being called into your chambers, at first thinks it's quite funny when you demand to know who he is. He lays himself on the bed next to you (probably a bit inebriated himself). "Come now, don't be ridiculous." He sighs with a lazy smile, reaching for your hand. "You sound like me after a flagon of wine." When you flinch, an earnest confusion in your eyes, any trace of amusement drops instantly from his face. Hurt by your momentary disdain, he instantly sits up again, voice softening to almost inaudible levels. "Darling, it's me. Your Daeron," he insists, and wants to reach for your hand again, but doesn't. He's gone from bemused to insecure in a heartbeat, but his overarching concern for your well-being takes precedence. "I can't say I do not empathize with waking up frightened and confused," he mumbles, more to himself than you. With some reassurance from the Grand Maester that, yes, this will wear off, he sighs in relief and leaves you to your recovery. His ego's a bit bruised, but ultimately he's able to shrug it off if the medication means your troubles will be relieved.

𖤓 Aerion, when you look at him with a puzzled expression and ask what he's doing there, is utterly insulted. His mouth pulls into a sneer as he turns to the Grand Maester. "What's wrong with her?" He demands, one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other frantically palming your forehead. "Have you given her enough of this to sedate a fucking giant?" When your confusion persists, you see a brief flash of concern behind his cutting gaze, and he finally kneels at your side. "I am your husband." He says to you simply, delivering another withering look to the Grand Maester before turning to leave. "If upon my return she still cannot recall my face, someone is losing their head."

𖤓 Dunk is by far, the most distressed. When you instruct him to "get his gargantuan hands" off of you, he backs away immediately with an expression of confusion that rivals your own. "My lady?" He says softly, doing everything in his power to make himself appear smaller at your bedside in an effort to not frighten you. "It's... It's alright. Please. It's only me." His hands fidget restlessly near you, desperate to hold you and reassure you, but he knows that could make things worse. Upon realizing he is harmless, your volatility dissipates, but you still cannot place his face. You apologize, and he visibly relaxes, his broad shoulders sinking in relief. "That's quite alright. I hope, at the very least, that your pain is being relieved." And with that, he leaves, anxiously awaiting your return to your senses. When you do, you both have a hearty laugh about it. At least this time, laying hands on a noble did not result in a battle for his life.

that's it! hope that satiated your curiosity, and as always, my requests stay open!

[girls2gods]

Chapter Twenty-One, Ready to Suffer, Ready to Hope

If The Sun Don’t Rise Series Masterlist

Chapter Twenty

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Haymitch decides he will not survive sobriety. 

The kind Nurse Esper said it would peak around day three. She isn’t remotely kind, actually, but she’s the only one of them who will look him in his yellowed eyes like he’s more than an inconvenience. Even though he is, because District Thirteen isn’t equipped for drunkards coming off a decades-long bender, and it’d be easier leaving him to die in this room than help him dry out. But he saved their mockingjay, and he’s proved himself worthy to their cause, and Plutarch has made it clear they need him. 

What use Haymitch serves by wasting away in fevers and chills, choking on nosebleeds and failing to aim his bile into the small bucket they’ve left at his bedside, he doesn’t know. 

He does know Nurse Esper was wrong. It only gets worse on the fourth day. 

Though the walls of his room are small, identical in their eggshell shade, they seem larger this morning—afternoon, or night?—and Haymitch feels like he’s falling endlessly through the clouded sky. He waits for the impact, or for yesterday’s claustrophobia to return full force, and instead, all he gets is that incessant itching all over, which convinces him a horde of bugs has made a nest on him. He paws at his neck, chest, arms, and legs, as best he can through the gauze they taped around his hands to stop him from tearing his skin apart like he wants. 

His mouth is dry, despite having water forced down some twenty minutes ago, and his tongue has shriveled up like a dead flower. Haymitch has scratched his throat raw; metal climbs up the lining until he tastes it in his mouth, a byproduct of all the yelling he’s done in the dead of night and height of day. He’s sure he has more in him, but right now, he’s falling again, and that’s more pleasant than the itching. Than the feeling of being turned inside out. 

The most fragile pieces of him are displayed on the outside to be spat on with every too bright clang of trays and too loud flicker of lights. Every one of his senses is jumbled up, and every thought is muddled like he’s still on the alcohol, but he’s not. And that’s the worst part—there is no purpose to any of this besides reacquainting his mind with his body. A necessity Haymitch has dedicated his life to running from. 

Not only will he not survive this, but Haymitch realizes he envies Chaff for not needing to. Oh, and how Chaff teases him relentlessly for his suffering when day six rolls around, after Nurse Esper takes his vitals and brings in the head doctor. 

Haymitch would’ve thought living with the ghosts for so long would make him immune to them now. It hasn’t, and the sequence always starts the same. 

Their wails are loud, healthy, and familiar even though he’s never heard them before. They wake him when the sun sets and his wing of the hospital is empty save for the two night nurses. But they aren’t trained to soothe a pair of dying twins the same way they don’t know what to do with Haymitch when he begins to shout and writhe on his bloodied cotton blankets. Easier to ignore all three of them. 

Haymitch wishes he could. They have no names for him to call, and their cries are only getting louder. He tries to reach for them with frail hands that are better suited to cradle bottles and not babies. 

“They’re all right now, son.” It’d be easier to believe his pa if he were still a kid, but the blood is on his sheets and the walls are dripping with it. 

Droplets pool onto the floor in a puddle, pattering like the saline bag the night nurse comes in to attach to his veins. He tells her to do something about the walls and his sisters, but she ignores him until he makes good use of the barf bucket. 

In the wake of the crimson, the eggshell turns into a burnt orange. Mags perches on the chair in the far corner of the room. Haymitch asks her what he can do to make the spores on her face and neck better, but each time she tries to speak, a piece of her evaporates into the fog that took her. Eventually, there’s nothing of her left besides the pain in his chest. 

Wiress spouts riddles in her place. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” And when Haymitch can’t answer, the slit above her collarbone blows right open. 

Maysilee’s throat wound is nearly matching, the hole at the base of it oozing with blood. It matches the dead ladybugs in her hair, and Haymitch dry heaves at the sight. She teases him for it each time. “C’mon, Itchy. You’ve been around the Capitol long enough—surely, you’ve seen worse.” 

“He’s looking pretty bad himself.” Wyatt frowns at the foot of his bed, but they’re in the same boat. Panache’s sword makes a home in his stomach, the tipped blade pointing right at Haymitch. “She said it’d peak on day four, and you’re already a week in. You don’t need me telling you your odds of living to see the sunrise.”

No, Haymitch doesn’t, because he will not survive this nor does he want to. There is no point to wanting things here, where his sun cannot reach him. Where there is no warmth and no melodies to sing him to sleep. For all that Haymitch searches for you in the space between Wyatt and Maysilee, the vacancy condemns him to hold on longer. 

“Cold,” Haymitch wheezes when the head doctor comes in with a notebook and questions instead of a blanket like he asked. 

“They say you have a fever,” he says, cool-toned like the groups of medical types Haymitch hears outside his door. 

It’s just fevers, it’s just nosebleeds, it’s just an old drunk incapable of riding it out. He’s lucky he hasn’t seized yet, or dropped dead completely, or gone insane. 

Haymitch is so very lucky. 

Over a cacophony of chittering, Ampert calls for help from Haymitch and Beetee before he chokes out, “You said we’d beat the odds.” 

“You said you’d be right back,” cries Wellie, head rolling off her shoulders and landing by Silka’s. Tears spill out of the gap where her eye once was, and Haymitch stammers out apologies to both. 

He said, he said, he said, so many things. 

Sid and Ma repeat each word, each empty promise of his, back to Haymitch. Their burnt flesh clogs his nose and steals his voice. They scream for him like they have in all his nightmares before. The only difference now is that Burdock is right there, attempting to put out the fire only to get caught in it himself. 

It’s during one of those conversations between the robots who should’ve learned better about running their mouths that Haymitch learns the news about Twelve. 

“Have you seen the new refugees?” 

“They brought kids with them. More bodies, but more mouths to feed, too.” 

“That’s not even half of them. Might be a good thing that the others were all killed in the bombing.” 

Haymitch bangs his head against the wall, earning gasps from the other side of the door. For the rest of the morning, before they give in and enter with a sedative to shut him up, he begs them to stab the needle in his arteries. Or to give him a bottle. Whichever stops his heart first. 

Pinned down by his weightlessness, Haymitch can’t do a thing but yell at Burdock to run, to leave before he burns too. Burdock never listens, but the fire dies out, leaving them both to a meadow of ash and blackened skies where his song has free rein to suffocate Haymitch in turn. 

It’s sooner than later that I’m six feet under

It's sooner than later that you'll be alone

So who will you turn to tomorrow, I wonder?

“I don’t wanna hear this,” Haymitch tells Burdock, choking on the soot in his lungs. He can’t hear this, and he can’t see her again—the rainbow girl who isn’t you on that Capitol television. Burdock sings louder, soulful as the mockingjays and furious as he should be over having his twin lost, his family torn, and his little girl made into a pawn of war. There’s no mistaking his agony for anything else, or Haymitch’s role in causing it. 

Lenore Dove picks up where Burdock left off, exacting in the message she leaves for Haymitch. He left her to face the gallows alone. He can handle a song. 

“Do you want to know what it felt like, Haymitch?” she asks, face full of sorrow over the deaths of her people and her dreams of a different world. “To have my neck broken like my heart.” 

Haymitch shakes his head no, but she meant it rhetorically and tells him what he doesn’t want to know in excruciating detail. The burn of the rope, the pressure to her pulse point, the shooting pain of Tam Amber’s sobs. He hears them for himself, under the taunt of Burdock’s voice as he returns to finish the last lines. 

The resulting fracture lodges itself with the rest of Haymitch’s rot. It’s the only place inside him that hasn’t been scraped raw, a twisted safe haven for the worst parts of him to hibernate. From his heightened nerves to the shame he’s racked up to the wicked, vile grief that ravages him anew. All of them twined together at the base of his ribcage like the roots of a tree. 

His rotten tree is an ugly thing with no bright red leaves or branches to climb. No color, no life, and the absence of both, which he should be used to by now, is sharper than he’s known it to be. Even in the once radiant woods of Twelve, everything is loudly barren. 

You're still angry with Haymitch, so he can’t see your face. At most, he catches the angles of your shadow in the glaring sun, which is fine by him. Throw him scraps, scold him until his ears fall off, haunt him however you see fit. Just haunt him. It’s what he’s asked for since you left, isn’t it? 

Haymitch mouths your name, thinks he says it out loud too, but there’s no sound besides the blood rushing to his head and the shattering of glass. 

Steam explodes out of the aftermath, following the current of your hair as it blows around you. Curling around your shadow like a noose, the steam does little to stop you from bending down for a scoop of hot chocolate. 

“No!” Haymitch croaks, suddenly seven and fourteen and sixteen all over again. Suddenly made to confront each age of innocence and fault and all the years in between. “It’s poisoned! You have to—” He stammers and falls lurching forward to get to you. “Drop it!” 

You don’t, because you’re angry, and you’re starving, and you’re desperate for something Haymitch hasn’t remembered to feel in so long. 

“Please drop it,” he begs, shutting his eyes and opening them again, the same force pinning him to the floor at once prying them open. He calls out your name softer, deciding in his panic that’s the only way to get through to you, and he receives your back in response. “You can’t—it’ll kill you.” 

His rot buckles under the burden of the boy he was before the Games and the consequences of the man he’s become since. There’s no safe haven for the excruciating, stubborn pain, and it spills out of him in tears. He cries for a bottle, for death, for you. 

“It’ll kill you,” Haymitch repeats, sobbing. You don’t care to hear him, or maybe he’s just not trying hard enough. He could scream louder, or bargain with you, or wrench the poison out of your grasp and send it far, far away. 

But it’s already in you; already in him. 

Your stomach is coated in decay, dripping onto the glass and down your fingers. Glass, not a knife. Your fingers, not Maritte’s. They’re yours, and you know that. You’ll die, and you know that. 

Haymitch pleads with you anyway, his effort ragged and strained. “Don’t do this, sunshine. Please.” 

By the time he wakes up in his bed again, you’re gone for good. He’s tied down by restraints, which draws a startled, hollow laugh out of him. Feels like a waste of energy and supplies. Where else would he go? The walls are bleeding again, his sisters are wailing, and there’s no place for Haymitch but here. 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Somewhere between the second and third week, his ghosts turn over a new leaf. 

They aren’t in a forgiving mood, but they aren’t vengeful, or even fully resentful anymore. Sadness is what Haymitch finally ascribes to them. He realizes it during Mags’s last visit, while she soothes him through the nausea, her face coated in the same ointment he fought tooth and nail to send to his kids in the arena. She watches him with sunken eyes, and when she goes, patting his hand goodbye, she leaves her sorrow behind for the others. 

Anger is easier to feel for himself and to accept from them. Their sadness—their resignation, which extends to Haymitch as much as to themselves—is rough against the skin and harder to stomach. It’s their version of grace, which is different from forgiveness but a kindness just the same. 

Maybe they’re tired of stewing in the substitute emotion of anger and letting it do the work of moving on for them. Maybe they realize it’ll punish him more to stop their cruelty. Maybe Haymitch is tired, too. So very tired, he lets his ghosts be kind, and lets their kindness hurt. 

Haymitch welcomes the sting Chaff and Seeder bring to their shared corner during his weekly check-up, when the good doctor comes in to see if he’s died yet. Maysilee’s frozen fingers check his forehead for fever most evenings, drawing acidic tears out of him when he finally notices her throat’s been stitched up. Wyatt isn’t wounded anymore either, as he watches over the little ones, every dove and every Newcomer, in the springtime meadow. Once is all Haymitch needs to see of them together for it to break him clean in two. 

Those that never come back, he doesn’t call for. He has his own mind fill in the mysteries—Ma and Sid holding each other fearfully, Hattie’s heart giving out on her, Wiress’s eyes twitching into lunacy—but he doesn’t pull them out of whatever resolution they’ve found. He doesn’t try to summon them. 

And if he knew any better, if he weren’t a rotting hole of a person, he’d stop trying to summon you too. Haymitch can’t help himself or his selfishness or the breath that gives life to all the dead parts of him that still have so many questions and wants. He can blame sobriety and the lucidity it brings, but even when every bit of him was good and numb, alive but dead, he wanted more than he should. 

So he doesn’t stop asking for you, and waiting for answers, or even a reminder of how he let you down in every way a person can be. He asks and waits and cries, and the only thing that gets him to calm down in these fits of despair is Lenore Dove’s tune box. 

Her eyes don’t meet his, turned down to the keys over which her fingers glide like the wings of her namesake bird in the breeze. The quiet of her playing, devoid of bitterness, soothes him. Comforts him more than he has any right to accept from her. 

The notes flit into lyrics. Tam Amber kicks them off as he did all those years ago. Lenore Dove’s soft lilt and Barb Azure’s low warmth float alongside him. Together, they lull Haymitch to sleep while singing of sunflowers. 

With his forgiving heart on his sleeve, Burdock’s soot-covered face is there when Haymitch wakes. He isn’t singing, isn’t blended into the backdrop of the meadow, and like the others before him, isn’t carrying a lick of anger in his soul-searching gaze. 

Haymitch blinks slowly, hoping childishly each time he does that Burdock will be gone. It’s one thing for his ghosts to have reined in their vengeance, another to have accepted the lost Covey’s song, but whatever Burdock brings with him now isn’t something Haymitch can take. 

Though he’s the same age as he was the last Haymitch saw him in the Hob, Burdock’s salt-speckled hair has grown well past his shoulders. It unnerves Haymitch to see Burdock settled into adulthood yet carrying the possibilities of youth—a contradiction that shouldn’t fit together so seamlessly—and all he can say is, “I’m sorry.” 

Burdock frowns and leans back in the chair at Haymitch’s bedside. “You’ve told me dozens of times already, Hay. It’s time for you to pick up a new tune.” 

“It’s my fault,” Haymitch mutters, hearing Burdock and choosing not to listen. That’s the cycle they’ve established between them the last Burdock’s hair was this long, so why quit it now? He focuses on the freshest failure, the one without years of resentment built in, the one he’s certain Burdock is here to talk about. “She’s too young for what I roped her into.” 

At the mention of his little girl, the ease in his eyes dissipates into anguish. Even though the symptoms of withdrawal have finally begun to subside, Haymitch is certain he’s imagining the lack of betrayal on Burdock’s face. “Yes, she is. But I can’t fault you for saving her in whatever way you could.” 

“You telling me you ain’t pissed?” he asks skeptically. 

“I’m saying you give yourself too much credit.” Burdock clicks his teeth, and the overhead lights seem to flicker in response. “You’re doing your part, Hay, and you got a lifetime to make things right with both of them.” 

Maybe, so long as Haymitch manages to get one of them back from Snow and the other through this war alive. “I never wanted a lifetime.” Not the one he’s been dealt. 

“You got one anyway. Don’t take it for granted.” 

Haymitch rolls onto his back. Looking at Burdock for too long strains his eyes more than the fluorescents. Poor imitation that they are. He squints up at the dome of light, waits for it to blind him, to make his vision spotty enough to turn to Burdock again. “Is…she happy over there?” As his vision quickly fades back, Haymitch can see Burdock expected some variation of his question, and he almost seems pleased Haymitch isn’t skirting around it. He can’t even if he tried, with the words spilling right out of him now in a pathetic murmur. “She won’t come to me. Won’t let me follow.” 

“For good reason.” Burdock doesn’t say more for a long stretch, laying his palms flat on his lap. He glances at the ceiling, and Haymitch’s head snaps in the same direction, a part of him instinctively assuming Burdock is searching for you to impart whatever riddled wisdom he seeks. The difference between Burdock and Haymitch is one of them has access to you, and the other you’ve shunned for said good reason. 

“You know,” Burdock finally begins, “just because we aren’t here to live life doesn’t mean we can’t see it. I see every day through both my girls’ eyes. Through Asterid’s. You may not believe it, but she’s here, seeing through yours, too.” 

Beneath the rot, where a maple red heart beats unevenly, a memory fizzles of Burdock at Haymitch’s side much like now, telling him death doesn’t mean the end of everything. Maysilee’s voice, repeating her grandmother’s words to him, echoing that old Covey song, sneaks up in agreement. “That’s nice, but not what I asked.” 

Burdock rolls his eyes and decides against pulling out Haymitch’s saline bag. “I think my sister made a choice that you would’ve,” he says pointedly. “She’d probably be happier once you accepted it for yourself.” 

Haymitch draws a painful breath, tries to send Burdock’s answer to where all the unwanted thoughts and ugly pieces belong with no success. It’d be easier with a bottle in hand, but they’ve already wrung him dry and split him open to exposure. He can’t avoid what he’s known in his bones, or heard through his ghosts, or felt in the colorless world you’ve damned him to all these years. And he can’t keep avoiding the pit in his off-kilter, maple red heart reserved for the person as precious as those he brought into his life. 

Haymitch rubs his nose with the sleeve of his sweater. “Did you ever go to Cindy and Hemlock’s wedding?”

The distance between them, which will always exist in some way, is made less impossible by Burdock’s smile. “They had cake.” 

Vanilla, Burdock says, and it’s the last detail Haymitch remembers when he comes to evenings later. A blurred figure stands at the doorway, shaped nothing like his old friend. But his mind’s great at playing tricks, and naive as it makes him, Haymitch would rather believe his ghost has lingered than deal with whatever mess is waiting outside this room. 

“Burdie?”

“Guess again.” Plutarch takes a step forward, all smiles and olive branches Haymitch would rather snap in half. “You’re being discharged tomorrow.” 

Haymitch sits up and drops his jaw in pretend shock. “Am I? They failed to mention that this morning when they brought the head doctor to clear me.” 

Plutarch chuckles, relieved and amused. He scans the eggshell room for the damage he must’ve been expecting, but the cleaning crew discarded all the evidence yesterday while Haymitch was allowed a walk down the corridor. Haymitch resists the urge to say Plutarch should’ve visited sooner if he wanted to revel in the pigsty. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, and right on time. Katniss has agreed to be our mockingjay.” 

“Looks like you didn’t need me after all,” says Haymitch, though he is surprised she agreed so soon. He assumed it’d take months they didn’t have for her resolve to crack, but then again, he has no idea how exactly she’s been faring. The last he saw of her was when he passed her room on the way to his, half sedated himself but lucid enough to see the hatred in her empty eyes. 

Plutarch crosses his arms. “She had a long list of demands in exchange for her compliance—I know you don’t want to hear this, but the resemblance is uncanny sometimes.” 

Haymitch is well aware. 

“Anyway,” Plutarch rattles on, “you should’ve seen Coin’s face.”

Ah, yes, the elusive President Alma Coin with whom Haymitch hasn’t had the displeasure of meeting yet. He doesn’t want to see her face, nor imagine it, if the personnel who’ve come in and out of here are any reflection of her governance. “I reckon the girl’s entitled to some demands.” Good on her for making them sing for their supper. Haymitch knows he’ll have his own hoops to jump through if he ever expects her to trust him again. 

Plutarch hums in agreement. “One of them includes rescuing Peeta and the other captured victors from the Capitol.” A given, but again, Haymitch has to wonder how that’d be possible. Thirteen’s compassion surely won’t be fueling the supplies they’d need for that kind of mission any time soon. “He made a few appearances on Caesar’s show. Seemed unharmed.” For now. Haymitch swings his legs over the bed as Plutarch continues, “My point is we do still need you on this team, Haymitch. Katniss needs you.”

He stares at the chair where Burdock sat. He was right about Haymitch having a lifetime. Whether he wants one or not, whether he’ll get to keep it after this war or not. He’d like to bank on not, but that’s secondary to what his girl needs now. “Well, I’m being discharged tomorrow, aren’t I?”

“Great,” says Plutarch, nodding as he backs towards the door. Haymitch would also get a kick out of slapping the grin off his face—another thing that’ll have to wait. “Get some rest then. Tomorrow’s our first filming day.” 

“Great,” Haymitch echoes dryly, and waits until the door shuts to fall back into bed. 

Without the sedatives, without the numbness or the company of spirits outside his own wayward imagination, Haymitch has no idea what rest looks like. Different from distraction, that much he can say. He’s a miracle case. Sober and alive, and he hasn’t conjured anyone in days. A miracle still in the thick of his own personal hell. Still walking through the fire in the hopes it’ll soon take him too. 

Haymitch fixates on the chair again, thinks about the lifetime he would’ve traded in a heartbeat for yours, and drifts off with a sorrow so spiteful he can only call it his own. 

It’s only in dreamless sleep that the spite chips away little by little. The sorrow’s still there, and so is the shame, but with no company to keep, no nightmares to ward off, and no bottle to distract him from either, Haymitch doesn’t flinch awake from the nothingness. He doesn’t scramble when it turns into a song. Found in the blur of days past, and made real by that long lost, never forgotten melody of yours. 

Are you, are you coming to the tree,

Where I told you to run,

So we’d both be free?

Strange things did happen here,

No stranger would it be,

If we met up at midnight

In the hanging tree.

You don’t show yourself to Haymitch beyond singing that forbidden song. Come morning, a gray jumpsuit and the bracelet that’d been confiscated when he was admitted is all that waits on the chair at his bedside. Detox has done a number on Haymitch, beaten him to a pulp, because the paralyzing urge to call you and beg for more glimpses hasn’t seized him yet. He gives it another minute, and when his chest sizzles, he accepts last night wasn’t a pitiful scrap on your end or a trick of his self-loathing mind. 

Haymitch leaves it be as you meant it: the first sign of dawn in twenty-five years. 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Properly rested and miserable, per Plutarch’s instructions, Haymitch dresses the part of a revolutionary, so he might as well fall back into the role of mentor too. What’s it matter that he’s not even forty-eight full hours out of the hospital and wants a drink so bad he might actually rip his own throat out? Doesn’t matter none, because no one else in this nation of robots has the aptitude to state the obvious: forcing Katniss into a box is exactly how their revolution dies. 

After the headache of a morning spent convincing them of her limitations, piled onto an afternoon listening to his girl butcher their chance for freedom one bad line delivery after another, Haymitch is no mood to bury the hatchet with her. He needs to, though, if they’re ever going to get his boy back and pull this war off. 

As Coin—expectedly as dull as the country she’s running—adjourns their meeting, Haymitch asks to speak to Katniss privately. She narrows her eyes at him, turns them into daggers when Coin agrees and the others file out. Gale lingers, the gentle angles of his family’s genes now forged into weapons by what he’s been through. He saved as many as he could from the bombing, Haymitch was told. What nightmares must the kid be wrestling behind his rageful shield? 

Briefly, Haymitch searches for anything Blair might’ve left behind in his nephew. He shakes it off; there are more important things than nostalgia. "What are you worried about?" Haymitch motions accusingly to Katniss with the marker he used earlier. His eye is healed, and the scratches she left on his face have long since gone away, but the damage between them is a physical presence in the room nonetheless. "I'm the one who needs the bodyguard."  

Katniss inhales sharply and looks at Gale, who still seems uncertain. She assures him, "It's okay." 

Gale presses his lips together and leaves them to the purr of the ventilation system. 

Sighing in sync with the room’s humming machinery, Haymitch sits across from Katniss. It takes him several attempts to finally look at her properly. She’s determined to be the model rebel, to do whatever it takes to save Peeta—Haymitch sees it clearly laid out before her. The same way he sees past her stone-faced shield, right into the shame that reflects his own. "We're going to have to work together again. So, go ahead. Just say it."  

Katniss stares at the spot of the table in front of her. It doesn’t take her long to find her voice. "I can't believe you didn't rescue Peeta."  

"I know," Haymitch replies instantly. What else is there to say? He broke his promise, went back on his end of their deal, and did so willingly. He’d apologize if she thought she’d want to hear it, or if he could say it out loud to her without sinking into himself. And that’s not going to bring Peeta back. 

Katniss glances up at him. "Now you say it.”

Haymitch doesn’t hold back his own scorn. "I can't believe you let him out of your sight that night." 

She nods, dropping her gaze again, and it kills him how small she sounds, exactly like she did when they made this drunken, unrealistic deal. Like you, damning him with your own binding yet breakable promises. But when she curls in on herself, the memory of you ripples like a reflection in water, making room for a present which is plenty painful in its own right. 

“I play it over and over in my head,” she starts off, digging her fingers into her arms. “What I could have done to keep him by my side without breaking the alliance. But nothing comes to me."  

"You didn't have a choice,” he says truthfully. If she stayed with Peeta, Johanna wouldn’t have gotten her tracker out, and she’d be in the Capitol too. If Haymitch hadn’t chosen her, both kids would be lost to him forever, and so would the revolution. And if he’d done things right the first time around… For everything that may have gone right if they’d done what they wanted, or thought they should’ve, there’s plenty that would’ve turned out worse. Katniss can’t wait as long as he did to realize it. “And even if I could've made Plutarch stay and rescue him that night, the whole hovercraft would've gone down. We barely got out as it was." 

Hesitantly, she meets his eyes. Her own are red-rimmed and dragged down by sleepless nights. Haymitch says the only thing he knows can comfort her now: "He's not dead yet, Katniss."  

"We're still in the game,” she murmurs, voice cracking on the last words. 

"Still in. And I'm still your mentor." No matter how many people are now tasked with the impossible mission of keeping Katniss alive, the weight of it falls solely on Haymitch. Whatever the cost, he’s not giving up his job any time soon. He points his marker at her. "When you're on the ground, remember I'm airborne. I'll have the better view, so do what I tell you."  

Although it was his idea, Haymitch feels less confident about sending Katniss into combat when she shrugs halfheartedly. "We'll see.” 

Pain in the ass brat. 

Katniss pushes up from her chair, and Haymitch does the same, giving her the go ahead to leave first. She stands frozen for a second, staring at some spot over Haymitch’s shoulder, and it’s all he can do not to react to the look she gets. The very one that crossed her steely expression after he busted her and Peeta for watching his Games, and occasionally popped up in the days that followed. No matter how subtle and how quick it appears, that look is loaded with the desire of knowledge in place of your presence in her life. 

The look is a reminder to Haymitch, too. Peeta isn’t the only broken bridge between them. 

Once she leaves without another word, Haymitch doesn’t stop himself from turning around. There’s no stopping the curdling in his stomach either, no matter how stupid he knows it is to have checked for you in the first place. He rubs his knuckles until they stop trembling, and walks out the door. 

Plutarch waits on the other side with a set of plans and directives he wants Haymitch to communicate to Katniss. Did he emphasize how imperative it is that she stay out of any direct line of fire? Martyrdom is something they can work with, but she’s more valuable alive. It’s important Haymitch second all creative directives Plutarch doles out, too. After all, he is the “mockingjay whisperer.” What a load of crap. 

Getting through that dense head of hers is a waste of energy, and Plutarch’s wilful ignorance on that front is tested hours later when Katniss reminds them just how stubborn and reckless she is. And thanks to her little stunt, Haymitch gets to pay a special visit to Beetee in Special Weaponry.  

It makes no difference where he stands; the lights are dizzying and blinding in this room for all the wrong reasons. They’re even worse than those in the hospital wing, and Haymitch paces through the rows of weaponry to distract himself while Beetee whips out the alternative earpieces he asked for. It’s a marvel Thirteen’s arsenal is so well-stocked, along with the rest of the district. 

A hospital wing with a range of staff, a handful of hovercrafts, and an entire floor dedicated to weaponry. They’ve done more than well for themselves over the last seventy-five years. Have downright flourished when compared to the rest of the districts, who’ve left to suffer under the Capitol’s thumb. Thirteen’s their ally now, Haymitch tells himself. And an overthrow of the Capitol, as his own history has shown, is far from straightforward. Besides, if the nurses’ loud mouths are to be trusted, they’ve had their fair share of challenges. Still, he never has gotten the hang of controlling his bitterness.  

Haymitch fiddles with the headgear Beetee has laid out on his work desk. He’s not big on the idea of muzzling the girl. It’s bad enough he shoved her into this war. “Anything more permanent?”

Beetee nods and sets down a silver chip as small as a grain of bread. “Now this would have to be surgically implanted, but it would allow you to speak to Katniss at all hours of the day.”

“Even better.” Haymitch doesn’t want it to come to this—and as the overhead lights grow impossibly brighter and Haymitch grows doubly nauseous, he thinks about those Capitol surgeons whose teeth he almost knocked out to keep them from “fixing” Katniss. He’d be no better than them if he followed through. But…he’s not above scaring her into being less reckless with her life. “Thank you, Beetee.” 

When the thanks leaves his mouth, genuine as it is, Haymitch’s head spins. He realizes he hasn’t even asked Beetee how he’s been, or offered condolences for Wiress, or made any effort to check in on him now that he’s been out of detox. “I didn’t get the chance to tell you earlier.”

“Oh,” Beetee brushes him off with a wave and wheels back behind his desk. “I should be thanking you, too.”

“We’re not out of it yet,” Haymitch reminds him, because it’s important Beetee knows that. He has to know Haymitch has done nothing to warrant his gratitude in the first place. Beetee is the one who helped save his girl, who has continued to trust Haymitch in spite of the insurmountable loss that’s resulted from the moment he walked up to that potato booth with you. Then again, Haymitch has continued to trust Beetee in the face of his own insurmountable loss.

“No,” Beetee agrees, glancing up at Haymitch with a glint of warmth. Haymitch tries his best not to, but his mind wanders to Burdock and his life after death, to Lenore Dove and her angels, to you and your talking birds. He holds Beetee’s gaze, and doesn’t flinch when he catches Ampert looking back. What a strong pair of eyes to see through. 

Beetee manages a hint of a smile, and he adds, “Not yet.” 

Not ever, if Katniss doesn’t listen for once in her damn life. Haymitch thinks he at least manages to get through to her when he pays her a visit in the hospital. Sitting idly by her bedside for a whole afternoon pays off in lunch and her agreement, however begrudging, to save him from a near heart attack by wearing her earpiece. 

On his way out of the hospital, Haymitch passes the corridor which held him not so long ago. And when Plutarch summons him to Command to discuss his next intended propo, a part of Haymitch wants to retreat into that eggshell purgatory, shut off from the world and its demands of him. 

“Cressida wants to do unscripted interviews on the bombing in Twelve,” says Plutarch, pretending not to see the noticeable wince Haymitch gives in response. He hasn’t allowed for much wallowing on the destruction of Twelve since he first heard the news through clogged ears and a thinly constructed door. Plutarch relayed more details the day Haymitch was discharged, but even then, he cared more to focus on Katniss than to take in what Snow had done to his people. To ask of the survivors outside those he’d seen for himself.  

Plutarch sits forward in his chair at the head of the table. He gives away even less than he usually does down here, even though it’s only the two of them in this room. Haymitch figures he has to if he means to stay in Coin’s good graces. She may be fighting for their side, but he reckons there’s more to her behind that head of platinum and a commitment to equality. Enough for Plutarch to fall back on his habit of ass-kissing. “That, of course, requires us to actually be in District Twelve.” 

Cut to the chase, why don’t you? Haymitch feigns well-meaning ignorance. “Y’all have a safe trip then.”

“Haymitch,” Plutarch starts off with his usual I-want-something-from-you friendliness, “You should come with us.” 

Should, he says like he hasn’t already put it in Haymitch’s schedule. “I can’t.” 

“Cressida wants to focus on Katniss and Gale, but it’d be great if we could get you on camera, too,” says Plutarch, drumming his fingers on the table.  

Haymitch scoffs. “Nobody wants to see me in one of those things.” 

“I can guarantee—” 

“Unless you can guarantee me a bottle, Plutarch, I won’t do it.” Already, his chest is tightening and the threat of bile is clawing at his throat. Haymitch hasn’t had a home in what seems like an eternity, and he as good as turned his back on his district. But it was his district. His home, even if it hasn’t felt like it in a long time. And he sees it all now—every place where he grew and loved, every porch he ever sat on with lost friends, every corner you touched—buried under rubble like those in the worst of his nightmares. “I can’t face it.” 

Plutarch waits a moment and is surely disappointed when Haymitch gives him no choice but to concede. “All right,” he sighs. “We’ll handle it.” 

“I have full faith in you,” says Haymitch, offering a mock grin through his trembling breath. 

The funny thing about avoidance, which Haymitch should’ve learned with his time in detox, is it doesn’t work in the long run. It’s a child’s luxury. Everything comes back around eventually. 

While the camera crew and Boggs’s squad accompany them to Twelve, Haymitch is scheduled to assist Beetee in Special Weapons all day. Assist is used loosely, as Haymitch is better served as a soundboard for Beetee to bounce ideas off of. Katniss’s friend is the one who’s taken to this side of the war.

Haymitch keeps his communication device by his side at all times, checking for updates on the crew’s movements, even as they’re herded into the cafeteria for lunch. Mushed peas, stew, and a roll of bread make up his plate. Haymitch has had worse, so who’s he to complain? His appetite is lost to him anyway when he spots a recognizable pair of wrinkled, disapproving eyes attached to a head of short gray hair. 

Haymitch assumed Clerk Carmine was in the group of Seam folk who managed to survive—hoped for it, just as he hoped he’d never have to see the man again in his life. He’s aged, clearly, but he stares at Haymitch from three tables down with the same closed off indignation as the day they buried you. 

Somewhere in the woods, maybe deep enough that your grave, and Lenore Dove’s, were untouched by the bombs. What of Burdock’s? He was buried in Twelve’s cemetery, and Haymitch knows because he woke up in it months after his death and found a freshly dug patch of dirt in the Everdeen plot. A grave without a body, but did Katniss know of the Everdeen’s funeral traditions? Whatever it was Burdock and Sorrel dug for you in lieu of your coffin. 

What about your people’s funeral song? Or your grave? Something in Haymitch tells him no, Katniss doesn’t know. Burdock was the last living person with the knowledge of where to find you. Not counting the scornful old man sitting three tables across from Haymitch. 

His legs nearly give out when he stands and mutters, “Be right back.” 

Beetee’s voice sounds muffled, like he’s underwater. Or Haymitch is the one beneath the waves, and he’s drowning under his curiosity of whether or not the resting places of his family and friends and tributes were collateral. He’s suffocating in this too small cafeteria with no air and no sun. 

He needs out of this room, this underground hellhole, this cycle of constant death and loss and no one to hate more than he hates himself. Except Snow, but he didn’t make Haymitch into anything he wasn’t already. A traitor, a liar, a coward who can’t even muster half a day of support for his girl without a bottle in his hand. 

Rounding the hallway leading out of the cafeteria, Haymitch rubs a hand over his shirt pocket and presses down until he feels the metal leaving an imprint through the fabric. He’s so caught up in trying to erase the images of fire in his head that he nearly topples over her. 

“Hi, Hay.” 

Haymitch takes a large step back and blinks slowly, but Louella isn’t a ghost and closing his eyes won’t make her go away. His hands shake as he tugs on the collar of his jumpsuit. It’s too tight, and the room is too small, and he’s too sober for this. Much, much too sober. 

Louella tries her hand at a smile, but it wobbles when she asks, “How are you?”

“Peachy,” he answers, immediately tasting acid. He forces his hands to stop shaking and manages to get out, “Sorry. How’re you?” 

Louella brushes off his rudeness with a shrug. “It’s different from Twelve. Harder, but that might just be the circumstances of why we’re here.” She glances past his shoulder at the cafeteria doorway. “We’re still adjusting.” 

Haymitch exhales slowly, gives his collar another tug, and feels his chest begin to loosen. We’re, as in her whole family. Not the McCoy clan—though he hopes and imagines they’re included—but the family she made for herself. 

As if picking up on his train of thoughts, Louella supplies, “They’re at our table. Jack and the kids.” 

In all the years she’s been married—how many exactly, Haymitch isn’t entirely sure—this is the first he’s heard her husband’s name. “How many of ’em you got?” 

“Just two. Hewer and Bluebell.” Louella smiles proudly, just like those days she’d trail behind him wherever he went. She’s found her own path now. “Do you want to meet them?” 

“No,” he says clumsily, the walls closing in on him again at the thought of sitting down with her family and meeting the children with no home. His eyes flicker to the space around them. “Not right now. I don’t—I have to—”

“It’s okay,” Louella cuts him off softly, if not disappointed. He doesn’t glance her way to find out. “Some other time.” 

“Sure,” Haymitch says with no intent of ever following through.  

And Louella must know that, but she doesn’t seem to mind the lie. She’s earnest and kind in the way she tells him, “It’s good to see you, Hay.” 

The walls stop where they are. Haymitch looks at her as she is now, the hidden whites in her dark coils, the tough set in her eyes, the lines around her mouth that speak to a life happily built with a future yet to live. But she will. She’ll get to live it. “You too, sweetheart.”

Louella leaves Haymitch to pick up whatever’s left of his shattered will to do anything of real use. When he returns to his table, slots into his seat without a word to Beetee, and musters the courage to lift his head, Clerk Carmine is no longer in view. But you’re there, in the empty space meant to remind Haymitch the old man has every right to avoid him, not the other way around. 

You’re there in the days that follow, too. Little traces of you, Burdock, and Lenore Dove woven into Plutarch’s footage of Katniss singing that same forbidden song you delivered in Haymitch’s dreams. Flashes of your dying breaths sneak up when he watches his boy’s blood splatter on white porcelain before the television turns to static. 

And now, as Katniss crumbles over the stream of wilted red and pink roses, it’s all Haymitch can do not to picture your tears in the taunt of Snow’s sadistic trademark. 

Katniss is a stumbling mess, and Haymitch meets her halfway when she asks for him. He catches her before she can trip over herself. However fraught things remain between them, there’s little worse than seeing her in pain like this. 

"It's okay. It'll be okay, sweetheart." He guides her to a piece of broken marble and sinks onto it with her.  

"I can't do this anymore," she cries, shaking like that ugly Calla look-alike she smuggled in for the little one. 

"I know.” Haymitch wishes he didn’t. 

Much like on the hovercraft, there is no talking Katniss down from her hysteria. The best Haymitch can do is hold her through it as she continues to panic. "All I can think of is,” she gasps, “what he's going to do to Peeta—because I'm the Mockingjay!" 

"I know," he repeats and tightens his arms around her, rubbing her shoulders.  

"Did you see? How weird he acted? What are they—doing to him?" She hyperventilates, her sentences broken and garbled by her sobs. Haymitch shushes her softly and manages to make out a final snippet of her despair: "It's my fault!" 

He shakes his head, a fragment of his poorly patched heart chipping as she wails into his shoulder. She can’t hear him, and wouldn’t listen or believe it if she could. Haymitch didn’t; still doesn’t, really. Yet, he means it when he says it to her. “Sweetheart, you did everything you could.” 

Katniss remains inconsolable, which offsets a meltdown from Finnick. Haymitch would go to him if he weren’t scared Katniss would fall straight through the ground the second he lets go. So he keeps his steady hold on her, even as the ground begins to feel unstable beneath his own feet. Even after they’ve sedated her. Only when they bring a gurney does he let her go, and walks her down to the hospital. 

Asterid and Prim are both in the hallway when they arrive. Similar in their worry, distinct in how it shows up on their identical faces. Haymitch loathes looking at either one of them, and he’s managed to coast by with little interaction with them in the last weeks. Now, he can’t pretend not to notice Asterid’s glassy eyes and Prim’s scrunched up nose, the latter of which guts him as much as the echo of Katniss’s distress. 

Prim is the one to speak up when a pair of nurses wheel Katniss past them into her designated room. She’s calm as she asks, “What happened?” 

“She figured out Snow’s plans for Peeta. Freaked out.” Concise and to the point, as Haymitch prefers all conversation with this pair of Everdeens to be. He goes dizzy for a second when he notices the copper bluebird dangling from the little one’s neck. Last he saw of the thing was when he gave it to Tam Amber to bury it with you. But here it is, making a mockery of his best intentions. “She’ll be all right.” 

Asterid nods, but the sorrow in her eyes is permanent. Haymitch doesn’t remember much about the year Burdock died, besides the forming of another pit in his heart and a matching one in his stomach when he saw his eldest girl in the reaping eligible crowd. He wasn’t any happier with the pair he got. Marigold and Ambrose, more Seam kids. 

That aside, the year is a blur. But Haymitch doesn’t need to remember details to know Asterid’s sunkenness started with Burdock’s death and has persisted ever since. He can’t bear to linger on the thought, or to look at her at all, lest the image of her bloodied forehead creep up. Over the last year, Haymitch has thought to apologize for it more times than he can count. 

He tried once, back around the time Gale was whipped. The house had gone quiet in the aftermath, and Haymitch was in the kitchen sniffing the alcohol they kept around for disinfection. When Asterid walked in, he nearly dropped the bottle, feeling shame and wondering where its origin came from before realizing it wasn’t the drinking he was ashamed of in her presence. 

The words were forming on his tongue, long overdue, and she could probably sense it, too. Asterid always was the understanding type. He’d seen in during their youth—she knew what wounded souls needed before they could name it themselves. Which is why, Haymitch figures, she never held it against him when he couldn’t say them out loud. She just carried on in the kitchen, packed the medical supplies back under the sink counter, and left with a nod goodbye sent Haymitch’s way. 

The same nod she gives him now as she crosses the doorway into Katniss’s room. 

Prim stays put, and he can’t tell if she’s waiting for him to say more or to leave. Strangely, this kid’s harder to get a read on than Katniss. Stonefaced as she appears, his girl’s got a thousand tells for those who pay attention. Whatever turn Haymitch assumes Prim will take, she surprises him by choosing another. She’s her mother’s kid in looks and prowess, but she didn’t go without inheriting a thing or two from her pa’s branch. 

Mystery that the kid is, like those before her, Haymitch doesn’t expect her to say, “We talked about it in the bunker. I told her Snow would do whatever it took to break her. I didn’t think…” 

“She would’ve put it together eventually,” says Haymitch, because it’s true and because guilt doesn’t suit anyone so young. 

“Probably,” Prim agrees in a murmur. “Katniss is really strong, but…” A wisdom beyond her years of life settles in her merchant blue eyes. “There’s only so much a person can take alone. Thanks for looking after her.” 

Haymitch tears his eyes away from the crop of yellow hair the same shade as her namesake flower. The glass or the primrose? Where did you land? The confusion’s still there, even knowing the answer. He looks back down at her and decides on how to deflect when a meow sounds from his feet. 

More orange, less beige, but just as picky as Calla. The cat prances straight into its owner’s arms. Haymitch scratches his temple. “Does that have medical clearance?” 

“Buttercup doesn’t do well staying cooped up in one place, especially after the bombings,” she says. Right. She’s survived two of them now. She goes wide-eyed as she clutches the bag of fur closer to her. “Don’t tell any of the nurses you saw him.” 

Haymitch holds up his hands and shrugs. “I don’t make it a habit of chatting up the wardens.” 

Prim smiles, reflecting the familiar disposition of someone born on the sunny side of life. “Thanks again.” 

Rather than brush her off, Haymitch chooses not to respond at all. As Prim turns to Katniss’s room, Buttercup hisses in his direction. 

“Feeling’s mutual, furball.” But Haymitch takes that as his cue to get the hell out. Katniss is in fine hands now. He only returns to the hospital a day later, when he has good news to deliver to her for once. 

Equal parts good and bad really, considering her anticipated reaction to Gale’s role in Boggs’s rescue mission. All that manages to calm Katniss down when she begins to work herself into another frenzy is the promise to find her a job of some kind. Which is exactly what Haymitch does for both Katniss and Finnick, and Katniss manages to do well filming the footage they need to detract attention from the squad’s break-in. 

Until Plutarch gets it in his head to push Finnick in front of the camera. 

They’re above ground, the smell of wilted roses crushed beneath their boots, the air open and endless around them. But Haymitch can hardly breathe through his fuming. 

Finnick reveals every sordid secret, weaponizes every dangerous detail whispered about their president and government, and exposes the worst of the Capitol’s crimes for Panem to hear. Detached as he is through his recounting, Haymitch can hear the tremor of his breath and see the twitch of his fingers in search of a knot to tie, or a noose to hang around his neck. 

Long after the crew heads inside, Katniss stays slumped on the same piece of pillar where she broke into sobs not two days ago. Haymitch takes a seat next to her. He picks up on the hint of worry in her tone as she asks him, "Is that what happened to you?" 

"No,” he assures her, ignoring the voice that chimes, oh but it could’ve been. “My mother and younger brother were dead two weeks after I was crowned victor. Because of the stunt I pulled in the arena. And you already know what happened to my—” Haymitch stops himself, a surge of cowardice forbidding him from putting a name to what you were to him, and continue to be. Every description suddenly feels flat. And he doesn’t have the strength to explain that, to talk about you so openly with her of all people, right now. “Snow had no one to use against me."

Katniss doesn’t press on the subject of your relationship. "I'm surprised he didn't just kill you.”

"Oh, no. I was the example. The person to hold up to the young Finnicks and Johannas and Cashmeres. Of what could happen to a victor who caused problems," says Haymitch. And how fortunate he was to have escaped the fate befallen desirable, popular victors. All it cost was everyone he loved. "But he knew he had no leverage against me."  

"Until Peeta and I came along," she says softly, staring at the side of his head. Haymitch doesn’t acknowledge her. He can’t deny it, as much as his instinct is to. And he can’t admit, no matter how true it may be, that after the better part of two decades wishing for death to deliver him to you, they gave him something to live for again. He still doesn’t turn when, after a long beat of listening to nothing, she murmurs more to herself than to him, “It was real for you.” 

Maybe one day he’ll tell her just how real it was. How his love for you has never dimmed a day; how a piece of him was buried in the earth with you; how he carries you and every person he’s lost in the forefront of his mind. He’ll tell her the truth about what you did in the Games together, and how he’s spent year after year seeking a free world with no real hope. Until she and his boy came along. One day, maybe, he’ll have the courage to say everything out loud. 

“How have you endured it, Haymitch?” Katniss asks, more hesitant. 

He hasn’t is the truth, and the liquor is no more than a bandaid over a bullet wound. He echoes the same sentiment he told her back when they came to their truce. “I didn’t have a choice.” 

“You do now.”

Underneath her whisper, floating into the air above them, your own rings, completely distinct in both rhyme and rhythm this time. “Don’t follow.” 

Those two damning words, which Haymitch has never been able to erase, no matter how many bottles he’s chased, will always sting to some extent. They’ll always come with the memory of your empty eyes and frozen skin, condemning him to a lifetime without you. But as Haymitch sits with them, allows them to soak down into his heart, they don’t sound quite like a punishment anymore. 

“Yeah,” he sighs, sparing Katniss a glance, “I guess I do.” 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

For five fleeting seconds, behind the tiers of a blue-green sea and frosted dolphins, Haymitch catches a glimpse of his boy again. From the doorway, he points to the border of the bottom tier. “Missed a spot there.” 

Peeta’s head swivels to check the spot, and he narrows his eyes at Haymitch. “You’ve been told you’re an ass plenty of times before.” 

“Plenty,” Haymitch agrees, guilt lapping at his insides. Katniss’s accusations on the night he allowed Peeta to slip out of his grasp have been playing on a loop in his head since they got him back. They’re fresher than your hazy snipes. “But go ahead. Lay it on me.” 

Peeta sets down his piping bag, the cuffs around his wrist clanging against the metal table. Out of the corner of his eye, Haymitch sees the guards stationed around them tense in preparation. The doctors warned Haymitch not to agitate Peeta, but the boy’s already chained to his work station and he’s earned the right not to be treated like broken glass. An instinct that is admittedly difficult to shed.

Peeta’s nose flares as he glowers at Haymitch. “You should’ve told me about the plan.” 

“Maybe I should’ve.” Haymitch doesn’t see any way in which that option would’ve played out better. Knowledge is a curse as much as it is a privilege sometimes. “But I couldn’t risk the consequences of you knowing everything.” 

“The consequences?” Peeta seethes. The vibrancy of the colored frosting dims with his anger. Warranted but no less cutting. “I’d say what happened was consequence enough, wouldn’t you?”

He’d been prepared to receive Peeta’s ire, to see the damage that was done to him and reckon with his role in all of it. What they’ve done to his boy is a peculiar torture Haymitch couldn’t have imagined. “I’d say so, too.” 

“Then it made no difference in the end,” says Peeta, teetering between resentment and acceptance. Haymitch expects him to fall one way or another, maybe yell or fight against his restraints to throw a punch Haymitch’s way. He takes another step closer as Peeta continues in a sneer, “You lied to me, kept me in the dark, and chose her for nothing.” 

Along with the doctors’ reminders to steer on the side of neutrality with Peeta, Haymitch was under orders to avoid direct mention of Katniss. Peeta hasn’t had a meltdown over her in days—not since he recalled his memory of Burdock singing “The Hanging Tree” around town—and they’d like to keep it that way. Haymitch figures if the boy brought her up first, it’s fair game. He sucks his teeth and taps his fingers to his head. “I know your mind’s still foggy, but you can’t get mad at me for that last one. You asked me to pick her.” 

“I remember,” says Peeta, and Haymitch nearly reels back in surprise. Although Prim’s suggested treatments have helped in the reversement of Peeta’s hijacking, there are still large gaps in his recollection. 

They don’t know what else to call it. It’s more than an injury or an illness or a case of mental disorientation. And it’s not a death, technically. But the Peeta that went into that arena is not the one who stands before Haymitch now, and it sure feels like he died. He hasn’t though. Peeta is here, and he’s alive, and Haymitch is no less responsible for him than he was before this. More so, if anything, given anyone who might’ve served as his guardian is dead. 

Now’s not about imagining his old schoolmates—and nice, generous Oliver Schmidt in particular—turning to ash. So Haymitch erases the pictures popping up in his head. He doesn’t respond either, giving Peeta the floor to work through what he needs to say. 

“You said it’d destroy her not to save me,” Peeta murmurs, and when his eyes drop to the cake, he seems caught in a daze of realization. “You were talking about yourself, weren’t you? You and that girl from the tape who looks like her.” 

Of all the things for Peeta to remember. Haymitch hadn’t been ready for him to bring up Burdock’s lulling voice when he had, and he certainly isn’t prepared for the subject of you right now. He shoves his hands into his pockets and struggles against the newfound heaviness in the room. “Other way around, actually.”

Peeta mutters something under his breath and shakes his head. “I don’t think there’s much of a resemblance anymore. That girl wasn’t cruel. How’d she end up with you?” 

“Beats me.” You would’ve been much better suited for this conversation than Haymitch is. Really, he used up all his luck in becoming yours.  

“I want to see Katniss,” Peeta decides, picking up the piping bag again. “I want to see if she’s as torn up as you said she’d be.” 

Haymitch sighs and looks over his shoulder at the one-way mirror. “I don’t know if I can make that happen right now, Peeta.” 

“You owe me,” Peeta says, parroting the desperation that overcame him on the day he burst into Haymitch’s kitchen with a kinder yet equally taxing demand. “Maybe you made good on what I asked for back then, but you left me to fend for myself again. I figure you owe me for that, at least.” 

And like that day in his kitchen, Peeta has Haymitch cornered. “Look, from now on, I won’t hide things from you. But I can’t promise to bring Katniss down.” It won’t take much to get Katniss to agree to talk to him—whether Peeta is really up for it is a different case. So is the task of convincing the doctors to give Katniss visiting privileges. 

Peeta focuses on the cake, pipes a U shape that’ll surely turn into a ship. Seems a little like the underside of a duck for now. Between the seriousness of Peeta’s concentration and the illusive U, Haymitch thinks of you and your doodling, of Sid and his fuzzy newborn hair. Haymitch takes a deep breath at the same time as Peeta. His boy looks up. “No more secrets.” 

Haymitch holds his hands out in surrender. “I don’t have any more up my sleeve.”

“I’ll have to wait until I see you mean it.” 

“Fair enough.” There’s a subtle tap on the mirror, signaling his time’s up. Haymitch waits for another handful of seconds to pass and another knock to say, “Nice job on the cake, kid. Finnick and Annie’ll like it.”

Peeta murmurs, “I hope so.” 

On the other side of the one-way mirror, Haymitch watches his boy pick up a new piping bag and frost purple flowers onto the top tier. Nearly the same shade as a larkspur. 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Freedom doesn’t come easy to Haymitch. 

When they land for the surrender, which isn’t much of one in the wake of the final bombing, Haymitch doesn’t care about anything else but getting to his clever, stubborn, badly burnt kids. Even seeing Snow bound in chains and dragged down his own hallways, catching his eye before he’s turned down a corner to his cell, elicits only a brief satisfaction. Brief but mighty, because what poetic justice it is to be the one looking down instead of up. To have toppled the invincible President Coriolanus Snow from his throne. 

As the satisfaction lessens and his concern for Katniss and Peeta returns full-force, all Haymitch can hear is the sadistic chime of the man who wrung every bit of love out of his life. “What a well-earned victory, Mr. Abernathy.”

Well-earned indeed. The war is over and won, but what did their victory cost? Finnick, little Primrose, and hundreds more Haymitch tells himself not to think of yet. 

Plutarch assures Haymitch on the day before Katniss is discharged from the hospital that they’ll be memorialized in some way for their contributions to the war efforts. As will the tributes taken by the Games. “I’m only brainstorming now, but it’s worth keeping in mind.” 

Haymitch, fuming silently, refrains from telling Plutarch exactly what he thought of that idea. He can’t talk about it with Katniss fast asleep, doped up on morphling, and Asterid in the room, lingering in the corner like a ghost herself.  

It’s only after Plutarch leaves that Asterid moves to the foot of the bed. Haymitch waits for the room to stop spinning to say, “I’m sorry, Asterid. About Primrose, and…” He draws a breath when she flinches and averts her gaze. “I’m sorry.” 

Asterid presses her lips together. Minutes of listening to the beeping machines and dripping saline bags passed before she speaks. “Medicine can treat most anything, but it can’t fix how losing them will change you.” She shuts her eyes, and when she opens them again, she looks at Haymitch. Burdock’s death changed her differently but no less severely than yours changed Haymitch. And with the loss of her little one… Haymitch suspects her eyes will always be hollowed out. “We all knew what we saw wasn’t the whole story, anyway. And it couldn’t have been a coincidence your house caught on fire when it did.”

There is no mistaking her grace, like that of Burdock’s, for anything less than forgiveness. 

Asterid stares at Katniss, and eventually Haymitch turns his focus back on her, too. She’s still fast asleep when Asterid whispers, “You’ll take care of her?” 

“As best I can,” he promises. She doesn’t need to ask it of Haymitch for him to do all he can for Katniss.

Haymitch splits his coming days between visiting Peeta in the hospital and chasing Katniss around the presidential mansion, making sure they’re both fed and medicated. And when his shift with either kid ends, Haymitch is free. Free, and unsure of what to do with it besides what he always has: drinking his own weight, cycling through his worst memories, and searching for his love. 

He’ll never make peace with you, he fears one especially bad night when he dreams of the terrors that must’ve passed in his assigned room. Missing you is all Haymitch seems to know, and it gets worse, not better, in these early days of a new Panem you’ll never get to see. None of his dead will, their resting places blown to bits. Maybe that’s why the nightmares have come back and the ghosts haven’t. They said their goodbyes back in Thirteen’s eggshell hospital room, and the new ones have skipped over their need for vengeance. But you… 

Is this all he’s good for, he wonders while sitting in the mess he can’t remember making. He can’t even pinpoint what pushed him to take his fists to the room besides the instinct to destroy anything he touches and the explosive need to put his emotions somewhere. 

It doesn’t work because it never has. Peel back the bandaid and the wound is still there. The longing, the shame, the self-loathing is sitting right on his chest. It just might be all he’s good for. 

Haymitch’s pity party takes him away from his responsibilities, and Katniss comes to remind him he still has a purpose in this new, free world. 

Things are better but frail between them, and when the dust settles, he’ll have to answer for it. Half aware of the strain, half trapped in the nightmare she woke him from, Haymitch lets a cruel joke slip and watches her face crumble in a way it so rarely does because of something he said. He stumbles up and down every corridor, but he doesn’t find Katniss until a couple hours have passed. By then, she’s sealed her voice to him again. 

The apple doesn’t fall far at all; it just keeps hitting Haymitch over the fucking head. 

But in the days that follow Coin’s death, with Katniss in solitary confinement, his concern for her and Peeta becomes its own living, breathing entity. Coexisting with his grief for you, instead of taking its place. 

They don’t allow Haymitch to speak to Katniss, or even see her, during the weeks of her trial in which he is a witness in her defense. Newly appointed President Paylor finds exile the most fitting for the deranged yet harmless mockingjay. She didn’t seem all that convinced by the opposing argument. Haymitch figures she wasn’t keen on what Coin was selling either. 

Asterid’s letter burns a hole in his right pocket, the envelope jingling with more than paper as he walks the halls of the Training Center. Haymitch already said his goodbyes to Peeta, who he knows will return to Twelve as soon as he’s cleared, and Effie, who he doubts he’ll ever see again. Keeping her alive was difficult, and Plutarch had to help him convince Coin she wasn’t a threat. 

For all her ignorance, Effie never has been the worst of them. Haymitch hates that months of captivity are what finally opened her eyes to the Capitol’s evil and the pillar she maintained under it. She seemed to have some color back to her when he told her he and Katniss were leaving this morning. 

“I don’t have to tell you to watch over her,” said Effie, her voice losing its chipperness, “but don’t forget to take care of yourself.”

He would, and he already has. But he still nodded and said, “Thank you, Effie.” 

Standing outside Katniss’s door now, Haymitch takes a sip from his flask. More out of habit than necessity. The liquor’s effect has been slow as of late. He might as well be stone-cold sober as the guards let him inside to where Katniss is curled on her bed, quietly singing a tune he hasn’t heard since nights spent star-gazing. 

And there's no past, and there's no future, only now

And we have chanced upon this fragile scene somehow.

Haymitch shoves the flask into his left pocket and approaches her bed. If he had any to give, or thought it’d serve her, he’d offer words of comfort. Instead, he tells her the information she needs. “Your trial’s over.” She can barely lift her head to acknowledge him. He squeezes her elbow softly. And even though they don’t have much of one anymore, he says, “Come on. We’re going home.” 

While a team of medics and nurses file in to help bathe and feed her, Haymitch is escorted to the roof of the Training Center. There, Plutarch waits with a hovercraft at his disposal. He’s taken to this new world with no reserve or difficulty, like a leaf in the wind. Who knows where it’ll take him next? Good thing Haymitch won’t be around to find out. He’s officially been discharged of all his rebel duties. Plutarch assured him he and Beetee had a handle on things for now. But Beetee has his own bridges to mend, with himself most of all.

Never one to let things be, Plutarch talks the entire waiting period on the hovercraft. “For what it’s worth,” he chimes, taking the seat next to Haymitch, “your better half would’ve been proud of you.” 

Haymitch has never cared for Plutarch’s opinions on you before, and he doesn’t now. He doesn’t need them either to know that whether you’d be proud of him or not, he did this for every person who isn’t here and those that still are. Finally, finally, after all his failures, he managed to get one thing right. And the success belongs to Katniss more than it does to him. You’re proud of her, of that he’s certain. 

Plutarch buckles his seatbelt. “And I think she’ll make a great special feature on Never Forgotten.” 

Haymitch glares at him blankly. “I’d workshop the title.” 

Plutarch grins. An attendant carries Katniss in and fastens her into the seat across from them. Haymitch tunes out Plutarch’s musings on war and the fickle memory of humanity. He doesn’t say much until long after Plutarch is deposited in Three and Katniss directs her new questions to him. 

He answers every one of them with the delivery of Asterid’s letter. Katniss holds the envelope in both hands, running her fingers over the handwriting, pinching the bump in one of the corners. She only sets it down when Haymitch forces her to eat something, and he sees her pick it back up again on his way out of the compartment. 

When they touch down on the unblemished grass of Victor’s Village, he makes sure Katniss is safe and sound—safe, at the very least—inside her house. Haymitch contemplates staying, but the bottles in his bag are calling to him, and by the empty glower she sends his way, he reckons she needs the space as much as he does. 

So he gives her plenty for the rest of winter. The frost begins to dissipate, the snow long since having melted. So much for landing on top. 

Haymitch visits at night, when Sae is washing the dishes and Katniss is fast asleep in her room. Sae tells him how she’s doing, but there’s never any change to her updates. Katniss wakes and eats and wastes away in the same rocking chair until it’s time to sleep. 

“You should talk to the girl,” Sae tells Haymitch about three weeks into his new, recycled routine. 

He should, and he will, but he doesn’t want to right now, too scared to see her for himself. Scared to find your reflection in her broken spirit. If Haymitch talks to Katniss, it’ll force him back into that eggshell room with no choice but to confront his own damage and make something worthwhile of his new circumstances. 

They continue on their separate and passive paths, more than happy to do so, until Peeta shows up out of the corner of his eye, a moving blur through his kitchen window. Convinced he’s making up the sight, Haymitch scrambles to his feet and towards the front door. 

Daylight blinds Haymitch for a moment, and he rubs his eyes to clear the blur in them. Peeta’s still there when he gets his vision back. He breathes in. His boy is right here, blinking right back at him. “When did you get here?” 

“This morning,” answers Peeta, out of breath. What he could’ve been doing to make him that fatigued—

Haymitch notices the wheelbarrow in his hands, full of primrose bushes. His throat clogs up. “Well,” he sniffs, “good to see you, kid.” 

Peeta offers a smile, as gentle as Haymitch remembers it to be even if it doesn’t shine as bright as it used to, and turns down the pathway to Katniss’s house. Haymitch spends the rest of the day holed up inside his own as usual, but come sunset, he takes a walk to check on the kids. 

Slowly, with the return of spring, Haymitch sees a light come back to Katniss. As he begins to join her and Peeta for the occasional breakfast or dinner, he feels it infecting him too. He starts to look both of them in the eye without flinching or searching for ghosts. Since the liquor’s mostly lost its powers of anesthesia and Twelve’s ration only comes once a month by train, there’s no point in hoarding it. No point in messing up his house again either. 

He slips up as always. Sometimes it’s because the memories of your death and everyone else’s won’t stop tormenting him. Others because it’s the only thing he can count on. Once because he decides to take a walk through the groundwork of a new District Twelve and stumbles upon the ruins of where the old Donner’s sweetshop stood. 

After that, Haymitch spends more time with Katniss and Peeta, learns to nurse his drinks, leaves his house while it’s light out. 

He catches glimpses of the book they’re working on in passing, pictures or sketches of people he knew. He never lingers, and he never acknowledges the book. Sometimes Haymitch thinks they leave it out when they know he’s coming on purpose, to remind him that forgetting is the real betrayal. Doesn’t matter how true it is, or how different their intentions are from Plutarch’s—Haymitch has no interest in contributing to their project. 

But then he sees them working on Burdock’s page, the sketch of his smile so accurate, so reminiscent of the moment Burdock declared them friends, Haymitch can’t help himself. “We used to go skinny dipping, you know.” 

Nothing comes quite as amusing as the reactive disgust on Katniss’s face. 

From there, everything spills out. Burdock taking Haymitch through the woods, days spent throwing knives and picking apples, the love he showed Haymitch even when he least deserved it. Talking about Burdock leads Haymitch to Lenore Dove, how she loved her tune box and geese, and about their Covey roots. 

The more Haymitch reveals, the less it costs to say their names out loud. He describes Sid and his starry eyes, and his ma with her initials written in the sky, for Peeta to draw. They aren’t exact replicas, but they’re pretty damn close. They’re memorialized side by side, as they were in life.

Each day that goes by is dedicated to one of his losses, those he loved and others he never had the chance to. He shares the names of every one of his kids over the first twenty-three years before Katniss and Peeta. Then the names of his allies, and bits of the reality of his Games. To tell it how it happened reminds Haymitch that none of it was in vein. However long it took, the Hunger Games are dead and buried, and the Capitol with it. 

During Maysilee’s entry, he talks about her necklaces and how she loathed that mockingjay pin, but oh how she would’ve loved the poster it turned into. Her page comes between Merrilee’s and Madge’s. 

Somewhere down the line, the memories he’s been carrying on his own become something beyond a burden. It’s strange to think of his loved ones and not have their deaths be the first image that comes to mind. Strange but welcome. And by putting all their good somewhere safe and permanent, Haymitch feels them come alive again. 

The only person he can’t bring himself to share is you. Not fully and not yet, but you come up in snippets. He can’t avoid you when he tells them about Burdock bringing him the bracelet. Or when he mentions your role in tending to the geese, or you and Maysilee singing about ladybugs. 

They never ask for more details, and Haymitch is surprised Katniss doesn’t push on the matter. In the absence of your page, they find other things to contribute: a dried primrose here, a photo of Finnick and Annie’s son there. 

By the time a second winter has passed, the book is filled with hopes of the future as much as recollections of the past. More people return after they break ground on a factory for medicine, including Louella’s family, and the meadow begins to bloom again. 

It’s there, in the fresh grass concealing the graveyard beneath it, that Haymitch runs into Clerk Carmine one afternoon. 

The geese Katniss gifted him have barely hatched, and they enjoy the meadow more than his backyard most times. They honk when Clerk Carmine nears, and if Haymitch weren’t caught up in wishing he had a bottle on hand, he might laugh at the irony. 

Last he’d seen of Clerk Carmine was during Finnick and Annie’s wedding. Lively and downright spirited in a way Haymitch never thought possible. How he managed to keep his fiddle on him was a mystery Haymitch didn’t care to solve. He stuck to the edges of the room, out of his sight, and cared more about how he was going to pull Katniss away from dancing to tell her about Peeta’s progress at the time. 

There are no corners or walls to stick to now. Clerk Carmine stops right in front of Haymitch, wordlessly motioning to the treeline of the woods, now fence-free. Grown as Haymitch now is, Clerk Carmine elicits the same brutal instincts he developed at sixteen. A dozen cruel, petty words come to mind, partially from a need to send Clerk Carmine away and mostly from the desire to inflame his hatred of Haymitch. He doesn’t say any of them. They’re pointless now, and Haymitch’s feet have already decided to walk after him. 

Though it’s been decades since he walked this exact path, his bones know where he’s heading. For years, Haymitch tried to retrace his steps, mimic the trail, and find where it ended. He never did, forgetting turns and markings with each failed attempt. Always retreating with his own vicious reminders of your damnation. Haymitch doesn’t hear them now, neither from your voice nor his. Only birdsong and wind chimes by the time they reach the clearing of graves. 

Haymitch counts the seven headstones, spread across two rows and half filled with the names of those etched upon his heart, and sinks to his knees before yours. They let out a crackling sound in protest, but the dirt softens the stiffness of his joints. There’s no soothing balm for the ache spreading inside his body, credited to loss, not age or liver failure. 

Tears prick behind his eyes, and his lungs constrict with the lack of air, but Haymitch manages to read the words carved on the limestone. 

Where the Youth pined away with desire,

And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow: 

Arise from their graves and aspire, 

Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.

Sensing Clerk Carmine take a step beside him, Haymitch croaks, “Why’d you bring me here?” He’s done nothing to Clerk Carmine to earn his sympathy, and he’s never cared for it anyway. So why would he extend this kindness now? Out of the goodness of a heart completely closed off to Haymitch? That’s unlikely. 

“I have a couple of years left in me, but it’s any day now.” Clerk Carmine lets a beat pass. “I’m ready to be with my people again. Wouldn’t be right to leave without settling things.” 

“What for?” Haymitch scoffs, finally turning to him. Clerk Carmine keeps his gaze on the graves before them. Flitting from the very first behind yours, which tells of a girl named Lucy Gray, all the way to Burdock’s honorary slab. “You were right not to trust me.” 

“Maybe at the time,” Clerk Carmine says, head dropping slightly, “but you were just a boy then. You…weren’t to blame.” He lifts his head, allowing Haymitch to see the guilt written in the weary set of his eyes. “I knew my niece, and I knew her heart. She chose to give it to you for good reason.”

For good reason. Gravitating towards the words meant to immortalize your spirit, Haymitch lets the shame wash over him in waves, and when it calms inside him, he’s no more ready to listen to Clerk Carmine than he was to Burdock in his withdrawal-induced hallucinations. 

“I never thought I’d live to be free again,” says Clerk Carmine abruptly and begrudgingly at the same time. “Suppose I have you to thank for that.”

“Burdock’s girl did all the work,” deflects Haymitch. 

He doesn’t turn to see if Clerk Carmine’s leaving, but he picks up on the shuffling of his steps and the pensive hum. “She wasn’t alone,” he sighs so lowly, Haymitch can hardly hear him. His footsteps dwindle, offering a final kindness of privacy.

The sun dips below the trees and looms directly above your headstone, brightening the hint of blue. Haymitch’s knotted lungs constrict until his breath comes out in a choked laugh. “Hear that, sunshine? I finally won over Clerk Carmine.” 

He stares at the flowers growing from your grave and thinks about all the nights he’s spent wanting to be with you, buried in the same earth. Resenting the life you gave him. “I wish it hadn’t taken so long, me getting here.” No talking birds deliver your voice to him, or give him the answer he wants to hear from you. Those surrounding the clearing flit from branch to branch, free as can be. “And now that I have, I know I can’t stay. I got kids to take care of—you’d love ’em, headaches that they are.” 

His eyes begin to blur. There’s dozens of things he wants to, and should, say to you now that you’re as close to face-to-face as you can get. About Katniss and Peeta, about Snow’s demise, about Twelve’s reconstruction. Apologies, pleas, offerings. Most of them he’s said already, running that tune ragged. 

Haymitch glances at Lenore Dove’s grave, then at the evergreen leaves sprouting from Burdock’s. The plot of primroses are fresher, newly sowed and barely coming into themselves, unlike those Peeta planted about a year ago. They’re everywhere now, carrying the memory of the little one who took on their name as her own. She’s who Haymitch thinks of now when he looks at them. Not the shattered glass and your poisoned blood. Not the death of the little girl he hardly knew except for her sweet soul. But the one whose spirit lives on, as her pa would have Haymitch believe, seeing the world through her brilliant sister’s eyes. 

And why shouldn’t he believe it? Haymitch can almost hear Burdock asking him. He can almost feel you wondering the same. You were always tangled by your roots, as much of Haymitch as he was of you. 

“I’m gonna make good on this new life for us,” he swears, running his pinkie over the words on your headstone. 

Haymitch thinks you believe him, because when he dreams late at night, he finds you in your meadow, dandelions and wildflowers twinkling under the sun. Your face is still obscured from where he stands, but as you recite your dear poem beginning to end, whatever’s left of his rotten heart unfurls.  

It’s still partially dark out when he wakes the kids. Neither of them are pleased, and Peeta’s torture in the Capitol has chipped away at his tolerance some. They both snap at Haymitch, only retracting their hostility when he clues them in to his request and motions to the counter where their book has made a home. 

He sets down the bracelet and a bottle. Katniss and Peeta exchange wary looks, their silence a question for him to answer. Haymitch has been doing his best to make his supply last as of late, and he never drinks when they work on the book. 

“I just need the option,” is what he tells them before sitting at the kitchen table. He needs the drink more like it, but they deserve his memories at their sharpest. So do you.

They follow slowly. Katniss opens the book in front of her, pencil in hand. Peeta lays out his sketching tools. 

Tapping the cap of the bottle, Haymitch lifts his gaze to Katniss. “What do you want to know first?” 

“I don’t…” Her eyes migrate from him to the bracelet to the bottle. When they meet his again, recognition cracks her expression. “She liked maple leaves, right?” 

Haymitch feels a smile tugging at him, and he leans back from the bottle. 

With no shortage of stories, he makes sure they know who you are. Your affinity for tree climbing and rock collecting and maple creams from the sweetshop. The day you showed your hate for him, and the morning you showed up with three hot pepper cherry taffy pieces for his mamaw’s funeral. Even the time his pa made you laugh.

Happy memories weave themselves in with the bad. That scrawny, hideous cat of yours. All the riddles and nonsense you’d sprout about your beliefs, which he never fully understood then. How deeply you loved your people. How restless you were, and self-righteous, and stubborn. What a gift it was to be yours. Even in the wreckage left behind by your absence, Haymitch wouldn’t give that up. 

He tells them that. He shares every bit of you, because it’s all worth remembering. 

And Haymitch gets through it without a lick of alcohol, but after he finishes detailing your last poster together in the arena, your last words, he grabs the bottle and mutters his goodbyes. He’s not two steps down the porch when he senses Katniss hot on his heel. 

“Why are you trailing after me?” he snaps, spinning around and expecting her to snark back. If she thinks he’ll accept her pity—

Katniss wraps her arms around him tightly. The urge to snipe and scold her is stopped short. Hesitantly, Haymitch returns her embrace. 

“Thanks,” Katniss murmurs earnestly. 

Haymitch clamps his eyes shut, feeling the sting behind them. He waits until it passes and lets go of Katniss with a sigh. “See you at dinner, sweetheart.” 

Like the others, it becomes easier to talk about you, even with your entry in their book completed. Little things and details crop up. Moments Haymitch can’t help but want to reminisce on. 

That year’s spring passes by like a breeze, and come summer, on what would’ve been the 77th Hunger Games but is now Haymitch’s birthday, he wakes at peace. 

Though they agreed not to fill the day with fanfare or gifts of any kind, the kids never do listen fully. Peeta bakes a wildberry pie for breakfast, tasting like the jam his ma would make. By the third bite, his hands stop shaking.

Halfway through his slice and his drink, Haymitch watches Katniss slide over a neatly folded napkin. He glares at her but unfolds it gently. Nestled in the center lies your bluebird, vibrant and polished. He hasn’t thought of it since he saw it around Primrose’s neck in Thirteen, which feels negligent on his part. It’s not attached to any cord now, and his mind lands on the envelope Asterid trusted him to pass along. 

“She gave it to you,” says Katniss, anticipating the questions about to fall out of his mouth. “You’ll have more use for it than I do.” 

The memory of you in the arena, of Ampert’s trembling hands passing over this very charm, comes and goes in the blink of an eye. Whatever lump beginning to form in his throat is shoved back down by the wandering cat under the table who bumps into his ankle, looking for scraps and bringing him back to reality. Haymitch swallows, gives her a short nod of thanks, and finishes his pie. 

Less than a week passes when he decides to repay Katniss. High time a proper introduction was made anyway.

Haymitch hasn’t returned since the day Clerk Carmine brought him, but it doesn’t take him long to recall the way. There, carrying enough willow tree branches for each grave, he bypasses the honor to Katniss. 

She doesn’t divide them immediately, stopping right in front of Burdock’s empty grave first, her shoulders rising and falling with the telltale sign of an impending sob. Haymitch reaches out, ready to catch her, but Katniss steadies herself on her own and lays her pa’s willow branch. 

Your grave is saved for last. Katniss crouches down and reads the lines in a whisper, lower than she did with the others. She presses her three middle fingers to her lips, and Haymitch waits for her to lift them. Instead, she places her fingers atop your headstone. 

He looks away while Katniss says goodbye to Burdock again. She returns to his side seconds later. “I’ll meet you back home.” 

Understanding each other to a degree above frightening sometimes, Haymitch appreciates the privacy as he’s sure Katniss appreciates her time alone. 

Once he’s sure Katniss has left, he kneels before you and digs for the bluebird in his jacket. The most precious thing you owned, weighed and measured in the palm of his hands. You’ve been without it for so long, and in returning it to where it belongs, in showing you he finally understands your wish for him, maybe you’ll recognize Haymitch’s own wishes for you. 

He begins to scoop out a small plot of dirt right beside your headstone. He stops, fingers twitching, when an old warmth runs up his arms. One he hasn’t felt in ages but has never fully shed. It’s been lying in wait, nestled beneath his ribcage, alongside the distinct melody of your voice.

“You best not be giving that back, peach.” 

Haymitch takes deep, slow breaths. His heart thumps at the base of his throat, but he doesn’t taste bile or tears. By sheer force alone, he manages to say, “Wouldn’t want you going without the full set, sunshine.” He keeps watch of your headstone as pieces of it glint under the afternoon light. “Besides,” he continues tightly, “I got your gift.” 

“You liked it then?” 

The teasing edge to your question undoes the tension inside him. Haymitch glances down at the charm and picks apart the hazy image of sitting under that oak tree in the schoolyard. He snickers a little. “You were never subtle at all, were you?” 

“You weren’t exactly a needle in a haystack.” You scoff, but he can hear the smugness in your tone and imagines the grin plastered on your face. Haymitch wants to see it. He wants to see you in all your ghostly brilliance and know that you are free. That you’ve found peace in your world where birds talk and lost souls are found. 

Without wasting a second to fear or cower, Haymitch turns his head. 

The passage of years in your eyes strikes him. Unlike your youthful ghost, you hold his gaze without anger or shared resentment. Without pressing Haymitch for more, without exacting any vengeance. But your gaze is as raw and all-consuming as before. Forever the brightest sight he’s beheld. He thinks of the time you’ve lost and the future you’ve lived out together, even worlds apart. A future Haymitch has taken for granted—one he might not have for much longer, if the recent pain in his abdomen has anything to say about it, and only does in the first place because of you. 

All that comes out of his mouth is a murmured “Why?” 

You smile, even as your eyes glisten. Haymitch feels his own welling up. He knows your answer, has known it all along, hidden as you’ve both kept it. Even so, his aching chest calms as you say, “I love you, Haymitch.” You lift a shoulder, shrugging off any other reason as secondary, as unimportant as the simple truth of your unabashed heart reserved for him. No walls could keep him out now, and they never really could, he realizes. “I was never going to choose not to save you.” 

Salt settles on his tongue. Haymitch takes a shuddered breath, the warmth bubbling inside him to a near boiling point, leaving him utterly helpless to blurt out in equal measure, “I love you.” 

The wind passes between you, carrying a weight off his shoulders. Haymitch would’ve died for you too, had the roles been reversed. He would’ve taken that poison in a heartbeat, and he can’t blame you for beating him to the punch. He can’t keep hating himself for what he failed to achieve at sixteen. The only ones to blame have paid for the lives they’ve cost with their own. They’re gone, and Panem is free, and for the first time since, Haymitch feels he could try to be too. 

You tilt your head, beaming, and motion to the spot between his brows. “You’ve been worrying a lot.”

“It’s those damn kids,” he sighs, heavy yet lighter than he’s ever felt in his adult life. 

“Let them fret over you every now and then,” you say, gentle as the tears streaking your face.  

Closing his eyes, indulging one last time in the phantom sensation of your forehead pressed against his, Haymitch wipes his face and nods. They already do, downright irritating in how they stick to him. But he’s their family, same as they are his, and they mean well. And it isn’t hard to catch onto what you really mean. 

Your gift to Haymitch is the time he has left to live with and love them. He’ll visit, and he’ll see you again, and on the days until then, you’ll be with him. You always have been. If a piece of him was taken with you to your grave, then a piece of you is still this side of earth. Steady and true, like the rising sun. It’ll be there tomorrow, in this world and the next. 

The nightmares will still come, too, because there is no cure for them. Haymitch will go on fearing and grieving and drinking because the scar isn’t one that goes away, only fades. And habits are hard to discard when they’ve been drummed into your bones. As impossible as forgetting, but Haymitch has no need to anymore. He accepts his losses and his wounds because he believes that death is not the end. His lost loves are everywhere, in everything he does and sees before he meets them in the hereafter.

So, when Haymitch looks up again to find no more than the rustling branches and dimming light of day, he doesn’t keel over. He patches up the unfinished hole in the ground, and carrying your love, he follows the sun home. 

Taglist: @lovemiss-vale @aureolinb @mqrieshrt @bueburgers @dem1dearest @nikki-is-a-nerd @lovelylittlelesbianlore @jjloveshotch @inneedofcaffine @poetsandroses @kindsleybooks @ivyhaec @x-gabrielle-x @ghostlythinggoingaround @happiness2112 @sundawn1990 @starryjeongyeon @kuurbyfun @lenteheure @petrasbones @wertyuizxcvbnm @shiftingf1 @sarcasm-n-insomnia @defnotbrooklyn @harrypedro465 @rinatzsstuff @whimsybeth @youraggedybitch @poppysrin @watergirl85 @prettyandromeda @gaz0xx @marsupialnoises @madisonosidam @redshinyshoes @comfortcharacterwrites

A/N: and that’s a wrap? 😭 part of this chapter taking so long to come out was my dissatisfaction with it, which i still feel some of. i realize i’ll always be a little dissatisfied by it because i simply don’t want it to be over. genuinely, thank you so very much for all the kindness and support you’ve sent me over this series. it means the world to know y’all care about it as dearly as i do.

there’s still an epilogue to come! and much more content about sunshine and haymitch! but we’ve officially said goodbye to itsdr and here are some parting tweets to cope with my sorrow

[samthegreenapologist]

Reckoning

(Daeron Targaryen X Wife Reader)

Part 1 & Part 2

Tags: Angst, somno, dub con, cumming inside, cock worship, PnV, smut smut smut (basically a montage of fucking for a minute there), edging, oral F receiving, oral M receiving, fingering, breeding, lots of crying (only half the time while fucking 😩), prone position, Dreams are mentioned, Daeron acting erratic, mentions of drinking, depression, poisoning, miscarriage, character death, Dead Dove when you reach the Dragonstone section. !!Self sabotaging Daeron!!

Word Count: 20k (forgive me)

Summary: You and Daeron’s relationship has turned over a new leaf ever since coming to the realization that you both shared genuine feelings for one another. You are beyond please because now you both share a marriage bed and have genuine companionship. For a long time he feels similarly, you are the distraction and support he has always needed to not feel like isolation is the answer to his problems. You understand him, as much as somebody who did not share the join trauma of his bloodline could and things were going well, until it finally happens. He dreams of you.

A/N: hiiiiii, I got a bit carried away with this one. This is the 3rd and final part of the Daeron Fail Husband series. I broke this fic into three sections and incase the content tags are a concern for you I’ll let you know that summerhall is fluffy and smutty, the Red Keep is Angsty and smutty(somno), and Dragonstone is where things take a much darker tone. Hope you’ve all enjoyed becoming emotionally attached to Daeron and his haunted eyes as I have!

Summerhall 

There was a warm glow that seemed to have spread over the large hall when you next saw it. Your arrival back to the keep, legs thrown over the same side of the saddle, was a shock to all who had not been apart of the party traveling to and from the tourney. Your own horse was carrying some bags since it was otherwise useless to you because considering you were sat atop Daeron’s horse, his arms caging you in.

“Look!” Rhae smirked at her sister whispering in each others ears as the lot of you made your way into the courtyard. The trip had hardly been two moons in length but you felt like a changed women!

If Daeron hadn’t seemed like a changed man as well then his father likely would have put a stop to this nonsense of you sharing his son’s mount for the final leg of the journey home.

Maekar only sighed heavily at the foolish sight, and he gave Aerion a sharp glare to ensure that no snide remarks were made as they left the last hall they had been hosted at. Gods knew his eldest need not be pushed from the girl. If Daeron wife was this enthralling to him than it would be to the betterment of all their lives!

You reveled in the shameless fascination he held for you now. You be mad to not enjoy his pretty eyes staring at you all day. His lips trailing down your back. The little remarks he made and the sonnets he recalled just for you.

It was a drastic difference for those who had last seen you at Summerhall, for his sister who had been increasingly disappointed by the continued realization that their brother cared not for their new good sister. He was the first of their siblings to marry, it was all quite exciting for them and that had made the disappointment in the lack of romance all the greater.

Daeron let go of the reigns as men from the stalls came to settle the horse. His hand able now to brush against your back. He tapped up it slightly and you flushed recalling the night prior. He had told rather suddenly after seeing you soaking in the bath for a while that you had quite a few marks on your back. Moles and freckles and other marks on your skin. He wanted to know each one. His smile had warmed you despite the slowly cooling water that you’d been still half submerged in. He had counted every single mark on your body. Only to determine he’d need better light to have a real count. You hardly could complain considering he had done his search with sweet tender kisses.

You stepped down when the small stool was brought over and almost slipped off because he had joined you with such a speed that you had not yet made the final step down to the earth.

His hand closed over your side to keep you stable and as you looked up at him to giggle your nose brushed his jaw and his drag against your temple some.

“It’s repulsive.” Aerion sneered storming out of the yards and into the keep. He wanted away from them. The charming behavior, as he had heard other nobles describe it, was nauseating. So much so that he made a few remarks to Daeron, after the burn from his attempts at wooing you had subsided, trying to put some doubt into his brothers head, convince him he looked like a fool! The words didn’t stick, in fact they hardly registered. You consumed to much of his mind currently for him to worry over his brothers snide remarks.

You smiled, charmed by his little sisters, when they approached eagerly. You could see the question in their eyes as they blinked up at you and their eldest brother. Their brother who they had not seem smile this plainly in a long time. He indulged them when he could, but his remarks were always a bit on the edge of what was likely suitable for girls of their age. You were sure they enjoyed being treated more like people but still. It had been obvious that some intent within his interactions had always been for his sisters to be ushered away by maids who feared what his next slurred sentence might bring.

“We’ve things for you both,” we, the two of you. It had you pressing instinctually back against him. “Let our things be unpacked and i shall find you after supper.” You promised them. They’d want to know about the tourney you were sure, but clearly they were curious about their brother and you. It was obvious in the way their hands tracked his line of sight to your lips as you spoke and how his hand did not falter from your side.

 

You were not ashamed to admit that you liked knowing people knew he favored you, that he enjoyed his wife, that he was more than content in your company. You’d put up with a year of him avoiding you, if his generally mopey demeanor and random drunken remarks, on a good day, you felt this care was owed to you!

You had gone to your private chambers for a proper bathe, one that had the comforts you were used to, it was revitalizing after so many days in the road. Even with that and the mid day rest you had found after the maid finished brushing and braiding your hair you found yourself growing tired at supper. Daeron hardly ate, one hand laid over your lap stroking your leg above your skirts and the other was propped up on the table, his thumb tracing the length of his cups handle.

You did not drink, despite the cider that was served. Quite a few casks had been brought back. You did not even noticed his brother watching tk see if you indulged in any. Daeron and made it clear. You were a sad drunk…he wouldn’t have any of that.

You made no remark about his own indulgence, mostly because it had not been an issue like it was prior. He drank plenty still, of course, enough that his head felt faint some morning when he woke. but he need not drink himself into a dark mindless exhaustion. It was beyond need, it all felt more dire than that. he could not leave you alone every night and miss you as he was wrapped in the heavy nothingness that a bottle gave him. Night was when he got to enjoy you naked and pressed to him. He would not miss that again, not after depriving you both of that at the start of your marriage.

The meal lasted longer than either of you preferred. Eventually Maekar had reached his limits as well with his daughters countless questions. He had missed them while away that went without needing be said, at least in his mind, but the questions were fatiguing. Young girls seemed to have a never ending supply of curiosity. One he could not manage at the moment after struggling with his three sons for a moon.

Daeron stood from the table as soon as his father cleared his throat and called for the food to be taken away. You did not hesitate to follow and a moment later your warm chuckle was audible for those still at the table as Daeron pressed his mouth to your neck the moment you both were in the hallway.

“I take it I’m to return to my own chambers now?” You asked him, dramatically raising your brow.

Daeron shook his head and took your arm to lead you in the direction of his rooms. “I’ll have not such thing, i am still trying to absolve myself of the guilt for neglecting you.” His hand slipped from your arm to snake around your side and rub against your hip.

“Unless-Have you finally grown sore my finch?” He questioned.

You’d shared a bed with him every night since he found you entertaining his brother. He’d lapped at your cunt and taken you in countless positions over the past moon.

“It was a lot of riding.” You flushed the moment your husband’s eyes sparkled with deep amusement.

“Aye, it had been alot…I’d not thought you’d enjoy that position so much.” He teased you as he pushed open his chamber door to slip you both inside and he smiled when the door was latched shut. He’d been looking forward to being alone with you here.

“I did not mean riding in your lap my prince.” You sighed rolling your eyes as you stepped out of your shoes as you entered his chambers.

It was odd being in here, you hadn’t been in this room since the evening of your wedding. The situation at hand had been so daunting for you that you hadn’t the wherewithal to actually look around the room and notice the things he kept in here and the way he’d had it decorated. You trailed your hand across one of the wooden posts of the bed.

“Would you send me away to my chamber if I said I was sore?” You asked, not looking back at him, just stepping up to the small table that was near the door to the balcony.

“There is company to be had outside of lustful body mashing wife.” Daeron assured you. He had taken his jacket off and his vest  as well at his belt, he wanted to be comfortable now that the day was done.

He came up behind you and touched your long twisting hair, gathering it all over one of your shoulders and he began to unlace your gown. It wasn’t a frenzied movement. He wasn’t trying to instigate anything with you. He just found that he wanted you to be as comfortable as he felt in this moment. That wouldn’t be possible all bound up in the gown, even if he enjoyed seeing you in the lovely mauve color.

“There is?” You smirk “I quite like your company when your cum though.” She was moving this around on the table but Daeron was busy getting you dressed down to your slip.

“Than you shall suffer with my dullness until your sweet lips are well enough for the fun.” He decided just as you turned around a cup of poured wine for you.

Dornish red, Daeron missed the flavor.  It was what he preferred and at the tourney he’d been stuck with mostly Ale and Arbor red.

“A man can come without being sunk into his wife.” You reminded her. He blinked down at you. What were you getting at?

“A night of rest is not a problem.” He touched your cheek. “This,” his light eyes looked between the two of you “will not just cease. I promise you that my lady.” He explained. Wanting to press to you that laying together every evening was not a requirement. His attention and favor for you was not connected solely to that activity.

You nodded softly looking up at him and turning your cheek into his hand breathing out softly. The reassurance was welcomed, but you hadn’t needed it. You knew there was more between you two than satisfying couplings! You could feel that it was more and you had observed Daeron enough to come to the conclusion that he did not fein connection, he did not have the energy for it!

“Rest than husband.” You told him with a sweet smile holding the cup you poured out for him. He raised the glass to his mouth but paused before sipping. Daeron lowered the cup enough so that he could kiss you. Just a tender peck, one before he drank the wine you disliked tasting on his mouth. He didn’t notice the plotting look in your eye when you two parted. He really should be able to recognize it better by now!

You sunk down to your knees instantly pawing at the spot you knew his cock rested at within his trousers as soon as he sat on the lounger. Daeron practically choked on his wine mid swallow because of the sudden contact.

“Wife,” he breathed out. His voice had a bit of hesitation but you noticed how his body melted into the seat and his knees spread a bit so you could slip in closer to him.

“You’ve not let me indulge in this.” You smiled up at him while your nimble fingers worked his belt open.

“There hasn’t been the time.” Daeron groaned when you laid your head on his thigh, quite close to the section of his body that all of his blood was rushing to. He put the cup down on the table and you smirked when the metal changed against the tabletop. He was a bit shakey-you’d thrown his mind in a circle and you enjoyed knowing you were able to do that.

“There has too been time Daeron, you just prefer to drown in me.” That was true. He lapped at you often, always before he fucked you, and you appreciated that. It made the intrusion feel nice instead of painful, and sometimes you even reached your pinnacle before he push himself into you, that always made you quite a content wife!

“No, I prefer to be suffocated by your cunt wife.” He corrected quickly. You swallowed a bit looking up at him and just shook your head a bit at his dramatics before hesitantly sticking your tongue out to lick at him. When you received a soft pleased smile from him you let your tongue drag up the thick vein that was on the underside of his length.

“No air, no light, just utterly consumed by the tasks of making you into a weeping mess above me.” His eyes lazily blinking down at you when you kissed the spot where his stones met his shaft. The admission made your belly tighten and ache. He held no shame for what he enjoyed, you wondered momentarily if he spoke of how much he adored devouring you? Perhaps you wished for everybody to know that Prince Daeron Targaryen was so very committed to his bride that he sat her atop his face and let her grind against him until see feel apart and could not longer keep herself upright. You wanted people to know how enchanted he was by you!

“And I am the luckiest wife in the seven kingdoms for that diligence alone.” You hum with a smile. Half your face hidden by his throbbing prick. He reached down to rub your cheek as you explore him more, your tongue swirling at the flushed head of his cock and he nodded a bit licking his lips as you flicked out tongue over his small slit and pressed a delicate kiss against his tip.

His fingertips pushed into your hairline a few inches while his thumb rubbed up and down the curve of your chin. You hadn’t realized how large his hands truly were until the tourney, you liked how they were warm too. You’d found that when he had you on his lap, bouncing against his girth that your orgasm came much quicker when he would praise you and stroke your flushed cheek.

“Easy now, a maiming would be quite the unfortunate event to occur in our marriage.” He warned you with a slightly chuckle in his tone. You had opened your mouth wide to suck his tip into your mouth. Just the head at first. Your upper teeth grazing ever so slightly over his pulsing cock.

You nodded up at him and then adjusted your approach so he was surrounded by the wet silkiness of your tongue, lips and the inside of your cheeks. You did not wish for the first time you put his cock in your mouth to also be the last.

“I love husband.” It was the first thing you said when your head pulled back. Droll on the counter of your lip and your breath quickened some from the sucking.

“Again.” Daeron had let go of your cheek and gripped the armrest.

You saw his knuckles go white.

“I love you my Prince.” You reiterate sloppily kissing around the base of him while your hand swirled at his tip.

“No-Daeron, say that, say my name.”

The urgency surpised you and had yoh sucking at your bottom lip for a moment before your hand left his prick and traveled up his body to reach his pounding chest. You could see how quickly he was breathing and you now could feel how rapidly his heart thumping.

“I love you Daeron.” It sounded more earnest that anything you had ever said before. You felt the truth of it in every bone In your body.

The wood creaked when he let go of if and grabbed up your hand brining it up so he could kiss at your wrist and just have some part of your to hold onto.

“I love you, I love you so much more than I ever wished to.”

You climbed up into his lap, arms tossed around him and he kissed you. It was filled with every lovely emotion in this world. Love, need, trust, affection, lust, care.

When neither of you could breath you were the one the breaks the kiss. Panting but grinning so widely and rubbing your fingers against the back of his neck.

“Suddenly I find myself no longer sore.” You smirked and he laughed kissing you before moving to get your dress off. 

The Red Keep

Daeron stood in the study he had slipped into. It was his father’s. He knew the man would be long asleep by now. He envied him. You think a man who had experienced war would have horrors that kept him up.

He looked at the chair he knew his father would sit in during the day, he diddnt dare sit there. He just lingered by the window, by the shelf that had some unopened bottles of wine. He’d opened one. One would do. It should do. It normally dulled him enough.

When the bottle was empty he started to regret leaving bed because the wine was not even helping calm him. Leaving you in bed is what he really regretted. Daeron left the bottle there, he knew his father would notice something was amiss whether he left an empty bottle there or took it away entirely.

The prince walked swiftly through the halls. One hand out to drag against the wall to keep himself in a decently straight line.

He needed to be next to you. This running off wasn’t working, it wasn’t helping him. He did it because he did not want you to see him scared. The idea of you seeing him in these frightened moments that bled into hours after he woke from one of the dreams made him uneasy. He wanted to keep you separate from them. Separate from that darkness entirely.

You’d come to kings landing a few moons ago. You were utterly thrilled, so excited to be somewhere with more people, more activities and things for you to busy yourself with. You knew he resented this place, knew he had sour feelings about being in the red keep but you did occasionally find him with affection filling his eyes while sat in a corner where he had intended to brood from while you spoke with other ladies, ones much more similar to your age then his sisters.

When he had mentioned keeping seperate chambers you almost cried. It felt like a rejection, you did not understand that for him keeping parts of himself away from you was becoming more challenging as time progressed. There were more mutterings here about Prince Daeron’s condition here than there had been at summerhall. His tenancy to refill his cups to many times, the nonsense he spoke of while he apparently haunted the halls at night.

He did not have much room to argue when you told him that separate rooms were for lord and ladies who fulfilled their entirety of their marital duties. Neither of you had. You still were not with child, though it was not for lack of trying!

“There is time, you are young still little finch.” You recall him telling you when he relented to continuing to share rooms.

You were fast asleep when Daeron crept back into the chambers you shared. Your arm spread over the space where he should be laid and the sight made him ache. Ache in his heart and…lower.

Ale, wine, cider, mead- none of it eased him anymore. Not like you did. He would much rather curse a bottle of wine with his pathetic state than bother you with it but it was becoming harder to deny himself the person who eased his heavy mind. The fire was low in The hearth but it still gave the room a gentle glow, enough that he could see your back softly rising and falling.

The evening had been good, you exhausted yourself dancing at one of the various celebrations that had occurred since arriving and he got to watch you spin about for hours. The prince had been so at peace when you both retired to your rooms. So happy in fact that he had placed you atop a large trunk and suckled at your clit while curling his fingers deliciously inside of your core until your leaked all down his hand and forearm.

You were so spent after that climax he had to pick you up and lay you in the bed. You did not even put on a night down before letting sleep take you, your hand laid over his stomach as you breathed softly.

The melodic noise must had made sleep sneak up on Daeron because he had not even know that he fell asleep until he was waking up drenched in sweat and filled with panic. Dread consuming every drop of blood in his body. He practically fled the bed and then the room.

You couldn’t see him like this, you wouldn’t understand, you’d worry, you’d try and rationalize things. You couldn’t know!

But you were the only thing that brought him any comfort and peace of mind. So here he was, stood at the foot of your marriage bed watching you breath and slowly matching his breath to yours, gently brining himself down to a calmer level. He thought of your smile, the way you giggled into kisses, how you would make remarks just for him all through a feast to keep him entertained. No blood, no death, no fire, no cliffs, you. Your breathing. That is what he focused on. that was tangible and right in front of him.

He could reach out and touch you. So he did.

You only made a small sound when the bed dipped. Still very much asleep. His hand petted your hair back so he could see a bit more of your face. You always shoved it into your pillow when you slept but he could at least see your one shut eye now. His lips trembled when he kissed your temple.

His eyes drifted down your back, and his forhead twisted up in discomfort for the second time tonight as he reached down to pull the quilt down more so your bottom was exposed to him. His cock pulsed at the sight and his hand settled there gently rubbing and then he gripped a bit more while looking back up at your face to see if there was any signs of you stirring.

There wasn’t.

He wasn’t thinking, he was just separate to rid himself of the weight of impending doom.  Wine wasn’t powerful enough but there wasn’t anybting in the seven realms he felt more effect by than you. You would help!

Daeron breathed slow still, following your little exhales and he shoved his pants down just enough for his cock to pour out. His forhead was pressed into your back and he kissed tenderly at your spine as he placed his knees on either side of your thighs and boxed you in. His cock pressed against the mounds of your ass and he closed his eyes for a moment. Waves and fire filling his eyes and he quickly opened them back up to see you. Peaceful, calm, content.

Daeron spit on his fingers and reached past his nestled cock to feel your slit. You were slightly wet, which made his stone draw up and he cursed lowly.

“Hmm?” You shifted your head around a bit before settling back down into the pillow.

His fingers dipped into your petals and gently rubbed, making sure he added to the slickness there. He diddnt want to hurt you. Ever! That was why he had wanted to hide this side of himself, this madness he was afflicted with!

You were pressed down against the bed a bit more because some of your husband’s weight was pushing on your shoulder while he guided himself into from above and behind. You were prone on the bed with him easing into you.

Your breath hitched as soon as his blunt tip hit the end of your core thumping against your cervix. Your back had tensed at the intrusion, body confused in your dreams.

He was still matching your breathing, thought it was speeding up just a bit. You were making low grumbling noises like you always did in the morning when you started to come to. He gripped down on your shoulder pulling you back against his pelvis when he snapped his hips into you.

“Ugh-“ was the first noise you let out. Fingers gripping at the sheets you’d been laid gently over.

His weight was suddenly a lot over you, when you came to more you were surprised that it hadn’t instantly woken you up. his chest was very warm against your back and so that did soothe you a bit during the strange awakening. This felt like a dream. You had dreamed of laying together, thought that was more common of a thought to come to your mind while you slept early on in your marriage, when he’d deprived you of the physical contact. You fucked plenty now, you could dream of other things.

“D-Daeron?” You squeaked and squirmed underneath him as he rutted against your backside again. Your clenched this time gasping a bit at how deep he was.

“It’s okay finch,” he mouthed into the back of your neck both hands pushing down to the small of your back which made you dip into the mattress more but also pushed your butt up towards his thrusting. “You’re alright. It’s alright.” He grunted. You turned your head as much as you could but your hair was in the way and so you couldn’t se much more then when your eyes had been closed.

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” He repeated and you began to whine as the ache. At how his hips desperately stuttered each time he entered you fully. There were no half thrusts he was pounding into you. Fucking you into the bed even deeper. The haze of just waking up kept you somewhat flaccid under him, it felt good, very good actually but it had just been so sudden your mind couldn’t really catch up. Your mind was racing to catch up, you wanted to enjoy this as much as you could feel he was.

Daeron’s mind was slowing, each stroke down against you dulled the memories of what he had seen while his eyes were closed. Each clench of you around his throbbing cock was dulling all of his senses outside of what he felt in this moment. It was heaven. He flopped down over you fully and fuxked into your rapidly while holding your shoulders and pulling you back just a bit so he could kiss your lips.

“Daeron?” You tasted the wine on his mouth. And you frowned deeply when you finally got a good sight of him and saw there were tears streaming down his face, he had been crying on your back this entire time. “It’s alright.” You slipped an arm out enough to grab his fingers that spread over your shoulder and you squeezed them. “You’re okay.” You whispered and whinned softly when you felt him spill into you. His weight of suffocating. You felt beyond full like you could not fit all of his seed and his cock In you at the same time when flat on your belly.

He flipped off of you eventually, rolling onto his back and instantly you were sat up in bed kneeling and brushing his hair from his face.

“What has happened?” Worry was splashed all across your face. You diddnt question the sex, you diddnt even bother to try and lay on your back and let the seed take as the maester had suggested to you a moon ago. You were worried for him.

He did not close his eyes when you bent down and kissed at his swollen and dark under eyes. He was looking at you the entire time. Gazing actually.

“Tell me now!” You exclaimed suddenly quite upset. “I wish to know what troubles you! You are my husband I deserve to know.” You’d asked his father before but the man had spoke in a circle, he said Daeron was sensitive struggled with indulgence. You knew that, it was obvious. You had no qualms with his sensitive nature or really his drinking anymore either now that he had found room for you in his life as well was his wine. It was obvious that there was something more that troubled him, it was more noticeable here.

You walked on wobbly legs to your dressing wall and found a robe covering yourself. “Perhaps you were right, seperate rooms would be best.”

 

That had him sitting up. Eyes welled almost permanently and he watched your chest, seeing how quickly it rose and fell in this moment. He could not lose you. He needed you. You had been the only way he calmed down. Got centered in reality again.

“I had a bad dream.” He said lowly, shamefully. You weren’t used to hearing that tone from him anymore. He’d swallowed down much of his self pity when he started to be a better husband, a better person in general. but here it was rising back up. She was going to know. She was going to be pulled into is darkness within him.

“We all have nightmares.” You soften coming back to bed and crawling into it beside him.

He steadied himself and wrapped you up in his arms laying back against the pillows as he readied to tell you to truth.

“Not like these.” 

Dragonstone

Daeron was not in bed this morning when you woke, he had been busy at Dragonstone seeing to the duties his father had all but begged him to stick to. You had only assumed that he woke early to go see to those tasks so you could spend the day together. He’d promised to take you to the markets just outside of the Dragonstone castle. You wanted to see what the stalls there had. You’d been here for three moons and hadn’t once left the keep or its yards.

Your time here had not been unenjoyable though! Actually you found it quite the welcomed change of pace after being in the bustling Red Keep for so long. On Dragonstone it felt like you and Daeron were playing house. Feeling what it might be like to one day be a lord and lady in a hall of your own. Perhaps that had been why his father sent the both of you here. See how Daeron handled it, how the both of you functioned outside of his sights.

It had been fun, choosing the menus for the week, sitting in on discussion that were deemed appropriate for a lady. It had been even more thrilling to slip into the study that Daeron was given and sit over the papers he was suppose to be reading or maybe writing, you were never really sure because he could not talk much of work while he fucked you against the solid oak desk nor did you think he cared to speak of taxes and requests when he could instead grunt poetic compliments in your ear as you became a vice around him and pushed him suddenly to climax.

Your pleasant thoughts of the last few months were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a knight in the doorway.

“My lady, forgive me but we found him at the gates” Daeron stood beside him, his head did not even raise up. He wasn’t meeting your eye, or maybe he was so drunk he could not physically raise his chin to meet your gaze. You could smell the ale on him.

“Thank you ser, put him here.” You touched the bed and made room. You’d see to it he ate something, had something other the alcohol in his stomach.

“No-no not in here not with her. I can’t.” He trembled and fought against the man who held him. You covered you mouth a bit, he’d been drinking more, having more of his allegedly prophetic dreams, but he hadn’t been this worked up, you’d not seeing him fight. He hadn’t even heard him raise his voice since he was in the withdrawal you had plotted for him. That felt like quite a long time ago now, you were both years older.

“Leave us” you sternly directed to knight from the room when he managed to get Daeron onto the bed.

You did not say anything for a moment but then your husband, on his already wobbly feet, stood and made like he was going to attempt to flee through the door. You’d gotten somewhat used to his disappearing for a few days at a time. He always made it up to you though, would listen to you ramble for hours about whatever had gone on while he was away, he’d fuck you however you wanted and agreed to almost anything. That was how you had gotten him to agree to take you into the city and walk through the markets. The last time he had arrived home with his tail between his legs you’d made the request and he agreed instantly. It did not seem like he would be making good on that promise though. He seemed scared, horrified, not just ashamed like he normally was when he would come back to you.

 “it will come to pass Daeron. Settle, gods.” You grabbed his hand pulling at it. You had grown use to him surrendering quickly in these moments. Crumpling down against you in bed and letting you distract him. It wasn’t always fucking, but often it was. Sometimes he’d just lay his head over your chest and you’d run your fingers against his tense temples. Swiping your pointer down his nose and then moving back to his hairline and getting your fingers lost there.

 

Sometimes, more rarely when he got in this state he would just find you and start kissing. He would Kiss down your back making sure he did not miss one bump of your spine and down the curve of your bottom, kissing and hitting the surpless of flesh there until he was down between your knees, ear rushing either thigh and he would find you heated and dripping. You normally had to grab something to stay upright as he would just start to lick up into your core his nose stimulating your clit as he pressed himself as far into as his dedicated tongue could reach. It was rare, but occasionally, he wouldn’t want any contact at all. Those times he would listen to you read whatever tale you were enjoying out on the balcony where your words and the wind could just surround his senses while he indulged in more than a few glasses of wine.

It did not seem like any of those normal comforts were going to do anything this time. He seemed un-soothe-able!

“Please lay down.” You pressed on his chest now getting between him and the door. He’d wind up hurt if he wandered about in this state.

“I can’t be here-ill-I need to go.” His eyes were wild and his voice was frantic. He was terrified.

 

“Daeron!” You gasped when he pushed against your arms, falling forward a bit and squishing you between the door and his heavy frame.

“P-please,” you were trembling just as bad as he was now, your hands slipping from his shoulders to cover your stomach giving you a bit more space between his body and yours.

He almost passed out at your next words.

“The maester says it is quite delicate in the early moons”.

Delicate. He went pale, so pale that he looked a bit grey.

Your eyes were worried and sad but a smile was formed on your lips. A hopefully small grin. You’d been trying for a long time, since the tourney. It’s finally taken. You were planning to tell him at the market today, find some little blanket or a thread that you liked, and just tell him it would go well in the cradle. You thought he’d be happy, overjoyed.

Had this news come to him prior to last night he likely would have.

He stumbled off of you and sat, not even making it to the mattress he wound up right beside it head leaned back against the wooden frame and he looked anywhere but at you.

He’d seen more than enough of you in his dream last night. Your long hair, normally so soft, caked in blood and slicked to your scalp with sweat. Your hands wrapped around something so tightly that your fingers began to break. He couldn’t hear anything. A small blessing, he imagined you’d be screaming. And then there was just a babe wrapped up in his arms the glow of a red moon casting everything in a warm gloom.

“You’ll die.” He said finally after he realized you were knelt next to him pushing his hair back and begging him to tell you what’s happened.

“Whatever you saw-whatever happened to me it was just a dream.”

His palm pressed so hard to his forehead that he had a mark when he eventually responded.

“Little finch that is exactly what I fear.” He knew he had caused all this. It was him who could not help but lay with you, it was he who curses those he loves with these horrible dreams. Enough of these bad things had come to pass that now he believed perhaps these things happened specifically because he had dreamt them. Aemon had told him that wasn’t the case…that these things that cursed his mind were prophecy nothing he was making up and willing to transpire. It was not a fate he himself was drafting up for those around him. It felt like it was. How could one family be so haunted by fate?

“I am well, the maester assured me of that, ask him, he will tell you the same.” You pleaded with him.

“For now you are well, but that will change…I-I saw it” He grabbed your face. Both hands cupping yo cheeks and his thumb rubbing the soft skin.

You sighed, reaching up to bring one of his hands down to your waist and then pushed his large palm against your tight and swollen midsection.

“Do not believe us gone. Not when you can feel the heat of my skin and beat of my heart.” She had her eyes locked on him to study his response. His hand trembled over your stomach and he shook his head a bit as it hung down. Your jaw shook a bit and you felt your eyes get hot when his shoulders heaved and you heard him cry. “I forbid you to mourn me while I am stood before you, while I can kiss you, love you. While I live, breathe and carry our child.” You wiped his face and pulled him down into your neck. When his arms locked around your back you knew he wouldn’t run off tonight. He wouldn’t be letting go of you for some time.

He was too scared of losing you now.

He was in one of the hells. Constant inner turmoil with every passing moon and his dread grew every time that your belly swelled further.

 

“You missed break of fast.” He had not even realized that the door opened and you had entered. He was much too focused on the letter he held, now wrinkled, between his hands.

“I had tasks to attend to. It slipped my mind.” He hardly ate now, you assumed he kept the ache in his stomach at bay through the creamy ales he Indulged in.

“I did realize know that moping was one of your assigned duties my prince?” He looked up hoping to see your taunting grin but all he got was the bitter set of your jaw.

“Ravens, my finch.” He sighed and stood from the chair tossing the crumbled paper into the flame. He watched it to make sure it turned fully to ash.

You made your way to the bed and sat on it watching him gaze into the flames.

“The nursery is ready a maid informed me this morning.” You shared, thought he was either too distracted to process your words or was simply outright ignoring you. Neither option would be all the surprising at this point.

“Was it another dream?” You spoke a bit louder and that caught his attention.

“No” there was no room for argument in his voice. He despised himself for telling you that he had any of these dreams in the first place and he would always regret telling you   About the single time you had haunted those visions.

He’d been in denial himself for a bit, questioned if what he had seen was you or simply just soft auburn hair? Was the child even his? Was it your first? He had wanted to find confusion in it, anything that would give him some small hope that you would not be lost. That this pregancy would not take you from him. Your optimism was nauseating. Everything seemed to be about babe. He would find you with your embroidery loop, resting your feet up on a stool, you always looked so proud when he would ask what you worked on and you got to flash the embroidered dragon his way, stitched into a small blanket that you cheerfully informed him could go in the cradle.

You had told him quite plainly one night in bed when neither of your could sleep and he was sat up against the headboard pulling a cork out of a unopened bottle of brandy that  you did not believe him. That it was only a nightmare, that you felt well, that you did not even experience sickness in the morning or aches in your back! That whatever he had saw was not you and it was certainly not your child.

It was your own defense mechanism, he could not judge you for that. Not while he had one hand on you and the other wrapped around a bottle.

“Fine-“ your shoulders raised and fell as you breathed. “Then what was in the letter?” He was going to answer something. You’d just keep asking questions, pecking away at his resolve. He’d give you something, anything, gods willing.

“It was from my brother.” You groaned a bit. That was hardly an answer. “Gods Daeron, which blood one? You’ve three!” You rubbed your face and laid back against the mattress.

“I’ve half a mind to plan some dim witted camping excursion again.”

That had his attention.

“My love,” he sighed approaching and you turned over onto your side facing away from him and cradling your belly.

“I am lonely and you scare me with this worry!” He distanced himself from you often, he diddnt flee the keep or disappear for days but he did not always join you in the solar, he did now kiss you as often, he wasn’t able to lay with you, and you found, at times, that he could not even look at you! It was a far cry from how things had been before, he had needed you so badly in Kings landing he had started enjoying you well you slept! He would sleep against your stomach, or let you fall asleep overtop his frame, cock still stuffed into your core. He was hesitant around you now, scared he was spreading the rot that was within him loving you. This fate would not be yours had he stayed away, had he resisted your draw. You’d just been to bloody charming to endearing. He hated himself for it!

Even now as he got onto the bed next to you his hands failed unsure where to touch or if he should at all!

“Forgive me.” He opted to lay behind you and press his head into your back. “I should have kept it to myself.” His voice broke and his hand hesitantly touched the curve of your waist, which at this point, barely curved in at all anymore because your frame had made room for his choke to grow within you. “I will resolve this.” He said seriously and you nodded quickly. He kissed the bit of your shoulder he could see between your dress and long hair. Flashes of the memory of blood soaked locks had his heart racing. “I will fix this.” He promised.

The reassurance is what you needed. What you had been longing for since he confessed the dream to you. Since he had told you your fate was to die, that he had seen it.

He wasn’t normally a man of action, in fact many noted his intentional inaction when it came to practically everything in his life.

When he felt your shoulders shake and the soft sniffling of your nose he knew you were crying. This stress wasn’t good for you-another thing that he knew was his fault! He had mistaken your excitement over readying for the babe as a lack of concern but that wasn’t the case. Clearly you were affected by the fate he’d laid across your lap.

This was the first time in a very long time that he held you, truly wrapped himself around you and squeezed, and allowed you both to find comfort in each other’s embrace. You stayed in bed all day with him. He even pulled up your gown a bit so he could feel directly at the skin over your stomach. You spoke to the child for him because he seemed unable to find the strength for words. But he pressed kisses to that spot where he felt some kicking. That made you grin, brighter than you had since arriving to Dragonstone.

Later he kissed a bit lower, his mouth training the spot where your tights dug until your hips. “Let me please you.” He breathed suddenly and you blinked looking down at him brow raised.

 

“Please.” He touched your thighs and you swallowed shifting against the bed a bit as you looked down at him.

“Can we just lay here together?” You requested instead pulling at his hand a bit. You could please him and be pleased  another night. For now you just wished to savor this moment, to reassurance you felt about all of this.

“Of course finch,” he came up and slipped next to you against the pillows. “I love you” he said pulling the blanket up over the both of you and he watched you settled sleepily against his chest. He stroked your hair through the night, watching you breathe deep into the early morning hours. He only untangled himself from you when the sun began to spread over the drawn curtains.

He was going to fix this. The letter now long disposed of in the fireplace had been from Aemon. His brother’s finally sent a letter in response to Daeron’s countless ravens with requests for help deciphering what he had seen in his dream. Aemon could only offer one interpretation. The red cover that shadowed the sky could be cause by the blood moon.

The blood moon that was less than a fortnight away.

He would not lose you. He refused to let this dream be true, he refused to not stop it.

When you woke it was to Daeron fussing about with some cups out on the balcony. He’d had your break of fast brought here to the apartments. How sweet? Extend the bliss of just waking up and not yet leaving the privacy of your room.

“Morning my prince.” You smiled, coming out onto the balcony with your silk robe tied around you.

“A new tea for you to try.” He nodded to the cup that was placed before the empty seat. “Some…Berry infusion. The maids recommended it.” Had he lied more often to you-to anybody you might have seen right through him but generally Daeron was honest even when he should not be. He had never backed from saying the truth despite it almost always making him look bad.

“Thank you.” You missed his slight finch because you were focused on lowering yourself onto the chair and putting a bit of sugar into the warm liquid. You swallowed a large bit after blowing at the steaming liquid, wanting to get a good taste. He saw your grimace.

“It’s local to Dragonstone,” he hated that he knew the encouragement would have you finishing the cup of it. Drinking down the black tea he and seeped with some cherries and a vial of moon tea.

That would be the bitter flavor that was overwhelming your pallet.

Had you I’d been more adventurous as a girl you might have known what this drink was, and you would be able to realize that your husband version of resolving the situation was to rid you of the child. The babe would kill you, the birth, he could prevent that.

He watched you like a hawk that day. Helping you back into bed when you had a wave of unexpected nausea and dizziness.

“Daeron,” you squeaked a while later. Rolling into your back when you heard the farmiliar sound of his cup being set down in the table. A moment later you could see him next to the bed.

“I don’t feel well-“ you blinked up at him eyes a bit watery a hazy. You were starting to get cold but your skin was sweating. His large hand brushed the hair back off your forehead and he kissed the bridge of your nose.

“It’s alright.” He comforted and you shook your head.

“No…call for the maester. Something is not right.” You pressed. “There is cramping-please.” You pressed against your side whimpering at the tender feeling.

He went to the door but you could tell from the way that his left foot sort of dragged that he was quite intoxicated. How long had you been resting? How long had he been drinking? Hours apparently, because when you glanced at the balcony the sun was half set.

You propped yourself up on your elbows. “Daeron I need the maester n-now!” You reiterated the gravity of the situation dawning on you.

You should have stayed in kind landing, stay in summerhall-there would be more people there. His little sister’s probably fussing about the babes name, his father discreetly asking the maester for updates on you and the babe. There would be more than just yourself, Daeron and a staff.

You felt a turning in your stomach and force yourself to sit up. “Please hurry…please hurry.” You whispered under your breath as your hand reached down and felt between your legs. You went pale when you pulled your hand back and warm liquid reveled itself to be blood.

No…no…this couldn’t be true, this couldn’t be happening to do. He said he wasn’t going to allow your existence to be determined by a bloody dragon dream!

You found the strength to get to your feet and reach the door pulling it open you let out a sob when you saw Daeron stood against the wall, head tilted to the side unconscious. Had you the strength in that moment you probably would have shoved him over. Let him hit the ground hard and deal with what her bruise or break he got from the collapse as his well deserved punishment but you could not waste a moment of your strength. You only had to reach the end of the hall before a knight heard you crying and turned the corner. The blood was noticeable to anybody who looked at you and it had the man barking orders for the maester to he brought you the princes chambers at once.

He was still in the hall. Shut off fully to the world while you were laid in bed, legs shaking but open as the maester examined you and explained that you were miscarrying. That he heard no heartbeat thumping within your stomach any more. The child had kicked at your husband’s hands only the night before…how was the babe now just gone?

A raven was sent at once to Prince Maekar, and one to your own lord mother and father. Alerting them to the situation, to the loss. The ravens flew from the tower before you and even birthed the child. The maester had regrettably informed you that you needed to still bring the body to this realm. That you would need to push quite hard while they pushed and maneuvered your stomach about.

Daeron was not there. He was not holding your hand or whispering assurances in your ear. He was not even in the room, it seemed even the maids were fine letting him stay there against the wall in his drunken stupor.

You sobbed the entire time. It was your screams that pierced through the air and not those of the little babe when finally you felt the pressure that was between your legs grow more sharp and then suddenly subside completely.

utter emptiness

You were given milk of the poppy at once, as soon as the child was out. Enough that had you been leant against a wall in the hallway you to would be slumped limp against it.

Your eyes stayed opened, but you did not respond to anything anybody said to you. You did not even more. The maids had to shift you about to clean your skin, hold your legs open for the maester to place a few stitches between your legs because of the trauma from birthing before your body had truly been ready.

Somebody stayed at the side of your bed through the night. Waiting for you to say something, or for you to move. It did not happen. You simply blinked dully at the hight ceiling and swallow the poppy when they held it to your lips.

You did not do anybting until morning, when you opened your eyes and felt a weight near your arm. Daeron was sat in the chair a maid had been in when your body eventually shut down and rested.

His head was down and you realize after some of your senses cut through the poppy haze that his face was pressed to your hand.

“I’m sorry.” That was the first thing you said despite the promises you made to yourself yesterday when you opened the door and saw that he had passed out instead of helping you alert to maester of your condition. You had told yourself that you wouldn’t let him hold the baby for the first week, that you wouldn’t let him devour your cunny when it healed. That you would decide the name of your child alone. The punishments felt so foolish now. You had truly thought it would be okay. That he would sober to you in bed feeding his child. That the babe would be fine, that you would be fine.

Nothing was fine though. Nothing.

“Shhh,” he raised his head up, eyes blood shot and dark deep circles under his eye. “You’re alive, it’s okay.” He knew you had nothing to apologize for. Nothing!

“The babe-I-“ you started to cry a bit, eyes just welling and unable to stop. “I don’t understand what happened. You felt him kick?” Your voice was devastated and you devolved into asking him again and again if he felt the babe kick his palm the day before when they were in bed.

“You are alright my finch, that is all the matters.” He rubbed your cheek, trying to swipe the tears away as well.

Your jaw turned just slightly and it pulled you from his hand. Silently you studied his face. Those were not tears of mourning-he was guilty.

“What have you done?”

He gathered your hand kissing your knuckles.

“What did you do?” Voice shaking and you pulled your hand back from him. If you could have bared it you would have stood right up and put even more space between you and him.

“I was not going to watch you die.” His head was low, he could not look at you when he admitted it.

“Don’t touch me!” You snapped when he reached for your leg to rub at your knee like he so often did when you needed some comfort.

“You did this? Gods…you-“ your eyes caught the balcony and the table that’s still a cups and plates disregarded on it.

You did not need to utter the dreadful words for him to know that you were now very aware of what he had done.

It was unfathomable. Your husband, the man you loved, the man who claimed to love you and poisoned your womb? Purposely rid this realm of his offspring.

“Because of a stupid foolish dream!” Your voice was cutting. You wished to hurt him. He had ruined you, destroyed you! It would never be the same, you could not look ahead this current pain and grief was just to all encompassing. “Enjoy your wine Daeron.” You pushed and covered your face with your hands sobbing into them. You were crying so loudly that his footsteps to the door and the creaking wood opening up was not heard.

He had taken your words seriously. Enjoy your wine, as if to say he would not ever enjoy you again. That he could have that vice if he so wished but you would not be one of his comforts again.

It was the guilt that drew him to every inn, ale house and brothel in the city surrounding Dragonstone. The self pity kept him there for a week. He had purposely slaughtered his child, it had been in an effort to save you of course but it seemed to have destroyed you.

You were dressed in mourning clothes…Daeron was lucky when he arrived back to the hall that his cloak was dark in color, it made him blend in the those who had gathered there. Had he known your child would be laid to rest today? Was that why he had arrived back or had he just been exhausted from sleeping against tables and in allys? You were still mad at him, it was a bitterness that would always be in your heart but his lack of presence, missing out in his comfort during this mourning period. It was excruciating to see yourself through this without his support.

You were on your feet, though you had to hold to somebody’s arm when you walked. There was still quite a bit of pain otherwise and you had been advised that the stitches could pull and rip easily. You did not want any more pain, it already was consuming you.

“Your husband is here my lady.” Maekar said, voice low and hushed. He wasn’t going to refer to Daeron as his son. Not currently, not when he knew what the disgraceful man had done. He wasn’t troubled but this-intervention-it was violent. He was unsure how Daeron would live with the decision.

You did not say anything. Only gripping to the sturdy man’s arm harder, eyes staying level at the spot where your child’s small body was as burning.

You were saying goodbye. You’d not let your husband interrupt this, not when he was the reason you were suffering this loss.

The gathering was small and it was over before you were truly ready for it to be. Though was a mother ever truly ready to say goodbye to their child?

This funeral felt like a twisted mess, the death of your child and the death of your marriage. This was not something you could move on from-you could never trust Daeron again. His motives and intentions would never seem pure to you from this point onward. Despite those feeling, despite the fury you felt for him right now your body still longed for him to be the one holding you.

It was a blessing and a curse when Maekar walked you to where Daeron stood and deposited your hand to his arm. He did not mince his words when he addressed his son.

“I hope you can handle returning her to your chambers, she needs rest…” he shook his head a bit at Daeron and bit his tongue some only to not upset you more. Gods fucking know you needed nothing more on your mind.

You hated yourself for gripping to him, for looking up at his sad eyes and when Daeron did, silently, get you into bed. You resented that you kept ahold of him and allowed him hold you. That you diddnt tell him to be quiet when he began to mutter apologies beside you in bed. You cried into the pillow when he eventually went silent. He was asleep. Or passed out. You couldn’t tell. Nor did it really matter to you in that moment.

You couldn’t sleep, you hadn’t slept since the same night of your gory and premature labors. You were scared you’d go to sleep and wake up thinking this had all been a maddening dream, that you would wake and need to remind yourself that this was all real. That your child was gone, that your husband had made sure of it.

He must of been drunkly passed out because he did not stir when you groaned holding your side as you stood and made your way to the table pressed to the wall. Hissing with each painful step. You looked over the contents of the table and blinked dully at the various bottles. Daeron’s abandoned supply. You opened each bottle smelling them until the welcomed aroma filled your nose.

He was numb…you wanted to be numb. You wanted to escape from the feeling you had inside.

It worked for him.

You could bear to drink cider, it should work like his wine did?

You hiccuped from the somewhat constant crying and turned to look back at the bed. Daeron was laid over it face down, hand reaching towards where you had been laid before.

You watched him while tipping the bottle up and forced yourself to finish all of its contents before you were able to take another breath.

The cider made your mouth dry, and your head feel strange-your vision going a bit blurrier than it had been previously from the constant nature of your crying. Your weight teetered and you had to move your feet to keep yourself upright.

“Why? I was well…” you muttered still in disbelief and turned away from him looking out at the balcony. The sun was setting. You walked out there and held to the stone wall looking over the strech of water. You swore you could still smell the smoke from burning the pyre earlier.

The sun dipped lower and you closed your eyes because the warm golden red glow was to strong against your sore eyes.

The cider had numbed but not nearly enough.

This dreadful feeling would persist forever, it count not be tempered.

Come morning Dragonstone would be filled with whispers. Solemn and investigative in nature. You had been healing still, falling was not out of the realm of possibility?

Daeron who woke and saw the open bottle placed on the edge of the balcony would think different. He knew. He smelt the cup. Sweet cider, the only liquid indulgence you had any taste for. It made you so melancholy. He would have had it removed from the room if he had realized, if he had not abandoned you in this sea of grief!

You’d not fallen, he knew this. It had been a self fulfilling prophecy. You were dead and he was again alone.

[samthegreenapologist]

Armistice

Daeron Targaryen X F Reader wife

Part 1 & Part 3

Summary: This is a continuation of A drop Of Understanding but can be read on its own with the context that 1) Daeron has been failing at being a husband and 2) his wife is sooooooo lonely. When Maekar insist they attend a tourney to be seen as a couple by the nobles Daeron decides it will be better to disappear before they arrive. Another prime opportunity that Daeron has to be a good husband and he just avoids it entirely. When he arrives late and finds you warming to his younger brother, Aerion, who had been your only option of company. That concerning sight forced him to reflect on the level of romantic neglect he has been subjecting his wife to and confess his true feelings.

Tags: PnV, reader gets a bit tipsy, Aerion is there, riding, sprinklings of emotional/physical cheating, cock warming, power bottom Daeron?, begging!!!, nipple sucking, brief mentions of jousting event/injury, creampie, Daeron having a emotionally stable day, fucking on the floor when they bed is righttt there, green plume origin story, Daeron getting his hair pulled.

Word Count: 6.6K (sorry I have zero self control)

You did not enjoy the idea of traveling to some seemingly random and, from what you had seen thus far on the journey towards the small hall, meager tourney.

Daeron must have felt similarly, though he did not express any of that to you of course. You simply woke to whispers about him being gone. Had you not lived among his family and grown used to how they reacted to him you would have thought the whole situation was being downplayed, because nobody seemed to show any concern. Most would have expected some big to do about finding him in that very moment. He was a Prince! But his absence was hardly focused on longer than it took Prince Maekar to tell a single knight that he was to go find where his eldest had stumbled off to.

His sisters were left at Summerhall, you need not study at the Citadel to understand that Prince Maekar likely felt his sons would be trouble enough, adding his daughters to the festivities would just mean he had more to worry over. You thought it was a wise decision, despite the fact that it meant you would be losing the only real company you predicted having during all this. Maekar knew lot more fuss would be caused by whispers of Daella sneaking into tents and making lewd innuendos about lords swords than whatever would be for the trouble his sons mucked up.

Daella had pressed you for confessions about your marital bed on more than one occasion. It was a topic you felt uneasy discussing with her given she was Daeron’s sister and also young girl.

It was a blessing, and a curse, that you were able to speak the truth to her on the matter- there was nothing to report.

Nothing.

“Prince Maekar, should I not return to Summerhall?”

It had been a great effort to bring your horse up in the line to reach your good fathers ear. He seemed to be trotting along quite faster than the day prior, likely eager to make it to the tourney before another son wandered off on an unauthorized exploit.

A fortnight ago you'd been called to Maekar's study, surprised to find Daeron already there sat at the table. His father informed the both of you that the two of you would be joining him for a tourney somewhere deeper in the Stormlands.

“I’ll not join the lists, there is no point. Unless of course you do wish to be humiliated by my likely swift defeat?” Daeron leaned back in his chair making the wood creak a bit.

You listened as Maekar told him his presence at the tourney was simply a princely one, that he had a new wife and should at least be seen with her by some of the nobles.

“I am glad i won't need to worry for you during a joust.” You were the one to break the silence when the two of you walked from his fathers room.

He laughed a bit, nodding some as he held the cup he’d taken from the table to his lips. The sip was large enough that his cup covered his nose. Shamefully your eyes remained fix there, looking at that spot waiting for his nose to be revealed again. You could remembered how it had felt pressed alone side your own as he kissed at your lips…when his tongue had licked into your mouth. The growing need at such a simple sight had you questioning your sanity.

Mercifully your fixation was interrupted when a maid suggested you join them for Daeron’s fitting.

The tilt of your head gave away the confusion you felt regarding the woman's request, your husband did not share the expression, he knew historically his fathers words and actions did not often actually match.

Daeron entertained the fitting, slightly, he let the people do their work, he didn't cause trouble for the man or the maids. You had noticed that kindness more and more, the apologies you would see given to maids off to the side at break of fast or warm claps to kings guards backs. It didn't seem like he wanted to cause trouble for the people responsible for his care, or, at the very least he felt enough guilt to apologize for whatever transgressions he made.

You had needed to hold in a bit of a snicker when the fitting was done and your husbands simple armor was put on a stand in the room. His brothers black scaled masterpiece of armor right beside it. They were quite different men.

“I did not know Prince Aerion has so much more artistic vision than you husband.”

Daeron smiled at your chirping. You could see his reaction in the looking glass.

“That is not true wife, I was merely leaving the embellishing up to you.”

“Gods,” you stood coming up to his set of armor and touching the wooden chest plate. “How blessed am I?

“A worthwhile duty for your day i am sure.” He was looking at the back of you now and you could sense him step a bit closer.

“I quite like green and it will be bright enough I suspect.”

“Bright?”

“Yes, I’ll be able to see it still when your laid in the mud.” You reached out to touch a green fluffy plume. It was likely something intended for one of his sisters gowns or for a horse?

You were toying with him a bit, taunting him. And you were very pleased when you turned to face him and he had a ever so slight smirk spread against his lips.

“She’s quite thoughtful, is she not?” He said as you took your leave from the room, able to hear the murmurs of the servants responses telling Daeron what he had promoted them to say.

You had been so sure that he was going to call for you that night, that your conversation and flirting might have him feeling in need... or even just curious for more conversation.

When you woke the next morning, still exhausted, you were embarrassed by how late in the night you had kept yourself up. Hoping and waiting for him.

After that he got no further attempts from you, you were much to young and ignorantly spiteful for that! You'd not humiliate yourself.

And now he was gone, not even arriving to the tourney with you. If Maekar had wanted for the lords to see you and Daeron together than there was no reason for you to still join them at this celebration.

“He’ll be found”

It was a battle between your want and good senses to not roll your eyes at the Prince. What did it matter if he was found? Nobody would see the two of you interact as a husband and wife should. There was nothing for anybody to spectate!

Daeron was suppose to be your company for this event, maids had been taken along, of course, but none of your ladies. No one you could actually engage in conversation with. You found that on the second day of the brutish event you had engaged in so little conversation that when Aerion sat behind you and said a greeting in your ear, your voice stained from lack of use.

“The ladies seem to like you even less than my brother does.”

He was trying to goat you, you’d seen him do it a hundred times by now with his siblings-with his own father even!

You were bored enough to bite. Blinking dully ahead as a lance cracked into another man’s chest plate. You hardly flinched since you had been watching these activities for hours.

“'Tis you who repels them.”

The pause before his response was likely because he was looking around and realizing that people were sitting away from them, from the Targaryens as a whole. You were associated with them now, apart of them. People wanted to view you, not befriend you.

“They fear me- as they should.” It was an emboldened response, not you disbelieved, it still had you turning on the bench to look back at him.

“You think that is good? Terror?”

His jaw tensed as he looked past you back to the field where men yelled and hit at one another. It was silly to play at war in your mind, especially when men had died In real fights not long ago. Apparently that had not satiate them long.

“My brothers right, about this, you don’t know when to silence yourself.”

That stuck a nerve within and you turned back to face forward. Your teeth biting at the inside of your cheek and your fingers played anxiously with the beads on your gown.

You had always preferred to think your husband just felt indifference about you, but now Aerion had put it into you head that there was detest there. That Daeron disliked you, that he took disinterest in you not because you were a duty of his but because of an aspect of your character.

Sitting with those thoughts soured you, considerably, enough that by the time the feast had been finished and the sun was set you were not thinking clearly about anything certainly not when you were walking back to the chambers you knew would be empty.

“I’m going to the pavilions, join me.” Aerion seeking your company was not something you had ever imagined…or ever wanted prior to today.

“I’m not dressed for greetings.” You were in a much simpler gown than you had been during the day because your skirts had gotten quite muddy.

“it’s a tourney encampment, not court in the Red Keep, what you are wearing will do”

He could see you pause to consider and because he was not one to make a fool of himself for a women he turned on his heel to leave. He wouldn’t ask again.

You watched him for a moment before suddenly padding down the hall to meet his steps. Staying just a bit behind him as he led you out of the hall, past the tourney yard and towards the glowing Pavilions.

There was singing, laughing and you could hear the noice cups made when bumped together in celebration.

“It’s safe for us to be here?”

“Who could hurt a dragon?” The corner of his brow lifted as he looked down at you, his hand sliding to the small of your back as he pulled you into the grand tent with him.

He let you converse with the lords and the ladies they brought with them, some likely whores, but he did not leave you alone. He was almost being attentive even. Almost. It would not of been surprising for him to bring you out here and then more or less leave you. But he hadn’t, he had stayed near you.

“The gods would curse my brother with a wife who disliked a red.” He said over the noise after peeking into your cup. Seeing it was hardly drank.

“I’m the one cursed.” You lamented. The complaint had the Princes fingers slipping from your back to wrap around the side of you.

You were playing with fire.

“Wedded to a man who has no interest in having a wife.” It was pathetic self pity and you made no attempt to hide the bitterness that came out in your tone.

Aerion looked you over some, he’d been looking at you quite a bit throughout this day and night. He was drawn to your hair, it grew more red in the summer suns. He had noticed it on the ride to the tourney and it was intriguing to him. You were not the type of women that he normally favored, not of his blood, but perhaps he was feeling quite brotherly? He was gathering that you longed for somebody to look after you. He could help Daeron.

”Try this-" He handed you a cup, it smelled sweeter than wine did but was light in color like a ale. "My indolent brother has no interest in anything, you are not special.” his hand urged the cup up to your mouth, not giving you a moment to realize that this remark contradicted his earlier jab about Daeron disliking something specific about you.

Your sip was large, and followed by another when you found it enjoyable. It was so sweet it made your mouth water and cheeks pinch a bit.

“You don’t get cider in the River lands?” It was a criticism of where you came from, how you were raised… but his tone was amused. That was a first!

You drank more, close to finishing the whole cup. “'Tis not this sweet at home.”

You did not kept track of how many times Aerion refilled the cup in your hand. All you knew was that the hour had grown late. Your eyes felt heavy but it was not exhaustion for you wished to stay, drink, dance and be merry.

The cider warmed you to your good brother, or that would be what you'd likely tell yourself come morning to ease your guilt.

Your arm was slung up over his shoulder, he wasn’t nearly as tall as Daeron, so you found it much easier to grab to him as you pleased. The greedy grasps he made at your back and down towards you ass emboldened you as well. You knew he wanted you, you weren’t having to temp him like you had with Daeron.

“It’s time you rode a real dragon.”

He spoke of himself. Not of the beast who ceased to exist since before you were born.

You flushed like a maiden and he smirked lifting his hand to your jaw when you half choked on your cider. Some of the sip trailing down the corner of your lip. He got to brush his thumb over your plush lips. His finger pushing a bit more than required to get the liquid wiped away. He pushed down at the center of your bottom lip while the overwhelming want to fulfill your needs, and the fear of what he was suggesting, felt like it was going to make you faint.

His head snapped up as clapping and celebratory shouting started. You saw the anger set in his expression and it made you turn to see what had ruined his mood.

Daeron.

“The lost Prince, returned!”

“Did you run the inns dry?”

“Bring in another barrel!”

The people seemed amused by his arrival, or maybe they liked that there was now a added excuse to continue on in their revelry and drinking deep into the night?

Your husband appearing in the pavilion suddenly made you very aware of the scorching hold Aerion had on you. You were able to feel how each finger dug into your stomach a bit and kept you back against him, your skirts hiding his legs because you two were so enmeshed.

Daeron was a bit hurt, very confused but most of all just concerned! This had not been where he expected to find you. He had searched around the hall for you, but eventually he gave up looking for you inside of the hall he was dragged into a few hours earlier. His father had not lectured him upon his return. He no longer wasted his breath. For that Daeron was grateful! Maekar had suggested his son show you more decency. You were a lady, deserving of respect and by this point Maekar was feeling quite guilty about the fate he was a part of subjected you to through his martial arrangement.

His fathers warning now echoed in his head “The girl is pretty, it cannot truly be that hard to pay her some consideration Daeron?”

Here you were, out of bed, out of the safety and predictability of the hall. Pulled against the least safe, and most unpredictable person he knew, his brother. The paranoia set in at once for him. Had his brother favored you for long? Had Aerion waited until you were away from his sisters and all the others who might alert him to the interest his brother took in you? Or was he simply bored and eager to sink his claws into somebody. There was a burn of jealousy in his throat but his face only expressed worry for you. His brother was cruel, he would not be shocked if Aerion’s motivations were to shame you and simply hurt you!

The cup handed to him upon entering the pavilion was put down at once and he hastily stepped forward. You reached for him the moment the cup was free from his hand.

“Are you hurt?” His eyes cataloging you, looking for any sign of his brother brute. There was only a slight redness to your jaw, just from the most recent touch.

You shook your head, “No” there was no pain in your voice, only shame. If Daeron noted it he did not question things more. Not now. His hand just took your arm as he escorted you back.

You wobbled a bit as you stepped, feet a bit numb, likely from the amount of cider you had consumed.

“come, I’m this way.”

He grabbed both your shoulders when you went to got towards a different passage way than the one he was intending to bring you down. His thumbs rubbing softly over the curve of your shoulders feeling the lace stitched over your sleeve.

He was brining you to his chamber not sending you away to your own.

“Hold to me.” He directed, waiting for your hands to reach his shoulders before he squatted down to pull your now muddy shoes off. They lay tossed by the entryway and he stayed down knelt before you for a long moment. His head bent forward and his hand pressed against his forehead as it shook a bit.

“I’m sorry.” You filled the silence.

Still he did not move, so you pulled your hands from him. One foot stepping back quickly to keep you balance and you closed your eyes briefly when you felt the wooden door against your back.

The world swayed when you closed your eyes.

“I am to blame for this… all of this.” Aerion having the ability to treat you like prey, the drunkenness, your loneliness, all of it. He did not struggle to acknowledge his shortcomings he just had trouble addressing them!

His words pulled you back to this realm, had you opening your eyes.

“I did not want to go to bed, We only spoke” You offered an explanation for your behavior tonight, a reasoning for why you had let yourself be coaxed to the pavilions to begin with.

Daeron raised a brow. “That was conversing?” His chuckle was dry “I did not know my brother was so gifted that he is able to speak through his palm pressing to your ass?” He had gone to sit at the small table in the temporary chambers and you had enough sense to close your mouth and not make any further atrocious excuses.

“Have you cider here?” your steps were heavier than normal, some of the natural poise that you were raised with dulled by the drink.

Daeron poured himself some arbor red, just a bit. He needed it after that disastrous situation. Any man would.

“You’ve had plenty.”

The delivery stung you even if he had not intended it to.

“Hypocrite” you got out, finding some boldness deep within you. One you had not shown since your name day and the trip to the woods to orchestrate some time alone with him.

“I am not drunk,” he said sipping the wine and taking in a steady breath. He wasn’t. Of course he had been, for a few days prior, hiding out at whatever inn he first reached after wandering from his tent during their journey a few days earlier. He not had anything since he was discovered this morning by one of the knight his father had sent after him. At this moment he hardly had more than a few cups in him!

A few cups were quite difference for him than they were for you…clearly.

“and I don’t wish for you to be.”

You frowned, who was he to make request of you?

“Just as you wish me to be quiet?” It was hardly a question, much more of an attempt at wounding him too.

“I do not wish for that either” he said plainly.

“Aerion said-“ he stood up at that and the sudden movement made you step back. Your knees bumping against his bed and you were weren’t balanced enough so you opted to sit down.

“My brother is a bloody fool. I know you’ve seen him misconstrue the truth of what people say and do to villianize them.”

You were silent.

“I did not think you a fool too” he still did not raise his voice with you. It was just steady, or almost tired in tone.

“I fear I am a fool.”

it came out so quietly that he had needed to come closer to hear you properly before you continued.

“Foolish for thinking of you…for staying up waiting for you to call me to your bed. Y-you said you’d spend time with me-that this duty was important to you.”

Your voice had none of the boldness or bitterness that it carried before. There was only disappointment left.

He was looking at you intently, the corners of his pale eyes wrinkled some as you spoke the truth of your heart. As you told him the pain you felt.

“Rejection of my body or my character alone is one thing but it is awful for a husband to hate both.”

When you sadly looked up at him the smile he had spread slyly across his lips had you blinking. How bloody drunk were you? Surly you were seeing things.

“Gods above.” He was shaking his head at you some, in disbelief.

“Cider makes you much too melancholy little finch”

You were still floundering to wrap your mind about this seemingly misplaced response from him.

“Finch?” That was the first thing you could gather your wits to address from his remark.

“Mm” he nodded finishing the cup he had in his hand before fishing through a basket on the table and turning to face you again with a sweet bun in his hand outstretched towards you.

You took it silently from him and in your confusion just complied with the nod of his head urging you to enjoy it. When you swallowed one bite and did not take another he looked at you expectantly and his hand made small circles prompting you to finish the bun in its entirety.

He did not want you to feel unwell in the morning. He knew better than most that some food in one’s stomach went a long way!

“like the bird.” He followed up on your question as you swallowed the last bite. His explanation did not really do much explaining. Why would he be referring to you as a bird?

“You are social creature, you like to have people around you…to nibble at little things throughout the day, you do not enjoy the rain or the cold and….you flutter around all day chirping at me.”

“Aerion said you think I speak to much-“ he did not allow you to finish that time. He’d already told you his brother was a manipulative prick intent to turn everybody against one another. He liked to watch things burn.

Daeron kissed you to make it so you did not bring up whatever his brother had said to make you more drawn to him.

“He is dangerous, please don’t seek solace in him.” Your lips were not even fully separated from his when he spoke.

“You don’t mind when I talk at you?”

“It’s horribly charming.” He sighed as if that was the worst thing in all the realm. To him it was. He did not want to care for you or love you, things would be easier if you were not important to him. People were better off when he did not love them.

He had tried, valiantly in his mind, to not care about you. But that had been impossible since you helped him through the night on your name day, since the two of you had finally consummated the marriage.

You kissed him this time smiling against his lips a bit which made the kiss a bit toothy, given the way he winded his arms around your waist and squeezed you ever so slightly, you did not think he minded.

“Finches, are they pretty?” You asked pulling back from him a bit waiting for a answer.

“You are drunk,” he repeated and then kissed your neck with a grin. “The males are nicer to look at then the females according to the maesters, but you dilute my reference wife, it’s about habit not appearance.” He murmured against your warm flesh as he kissed where ever he pleased.

Your giggle made him stiff and he hated himself for acting like such a bloody green boy around you. Being this charmed by you worried him.

“It was hardly that funny, best not to inflate my ego.” He warned you pulling back some to take in your appearance.

You had been smiling when he entered the pavilion earlier. Giggling as his younger brother spun you in a circle and tugged you back into him. His hands squeezed now at where Aerion’s had been, feeling that the warmth of your skin could be sensed though this simple gown.

“Forgive me?”

You floundered for a moment eyes searching his serious ones and your hands rubbed at the inside of his forearms. You were the one who had thought of committing a transgression, who had let his brother grope at you, feed your cider and whisper vulgarities in your ear.

“Please” he followed up with a broken tone before you could assure him he was forgiven and claim it was you who should be requesting his forgiveness.

He did not find you apologizing to him to be a sensible thing. How could he fault you for seeking companionship when you had attempted to gain some with him so many times.

“I will be more thoughtful-"

“Do not make promises you won’t keep Daeron.” You had a certain strength behind your words but the rate at which your chest was rising and falling gave away that you were still somewhat unsure of every move you made.

He kissed at the underside of your chin and it felt so nice you thought that he was trying to avoid what you had just demanded of him. He wasn't. You watched as he kept kissing lower. He did not care that you were still fully clothed because he continue to kiss even when he reached the neckline of your gown. When he was bent in half to trail down the widening curve of your hips you scotted forward on the bed your legs handing off and you watched with widening eyes as he continued down lower, far beyond the region you thought most men cared about. Your own lips parted as you saw the Prince slip onto the floor himself and kiss at your ankles. Tongue lapping at them because it was the first taste of your sweet skin he had had since all the way up by your shoulders.

“I will keep this promise to you wife, I swear it.”

You blinked as his lips pressed firm kisses to the bottom of each of your feet.

“I forgive you.” Tone breathy and threaded with need as you nodded ever so slightly down at him.

Seeing him down on the floor having just kissed the length of your body as his apology had a growing wetness becoming very hard for you to ignore between your thighs. You slipped off the edge of the bed down overtop his lap and your fingers fussed with the ties and buttons of his jacket. Struggling.

“you are drunk” he remarked with amusement for what felt like the hundredth time when you pulled pathetically at a buckle you could not get open.

Grinding yourself down against his lap in a pointed move made both of you whimper.

“yes…perhaps, but clearly you are not.” He was hard beneath you every inch of him stiff and you could feel him throbbing even through this trousers. His hands gripped to your billowed skirt as it covered both of your lower halves from view.

Daeron laid his head back against the wood floor and took a deep steadying breath because he was very quickly becoming quite overwhelmed by you. He did not know if your squirming and grinding was an intention taunt or just because of the effort you were making to undress him. Either way the effect it had on him was the same.

“I want a babe.” You whined leaning down to kiss his lips frustrated with his lack of help in undressing both of you.

“I want you to be so satisfied that you’ll never look at my brother again.” He didn't know he felt that possessive of you…maybe it was more that he felt protective of you. He did not think that if it had been any other man he saw you entertaining in that pavilion that he would be having this reaction.

Perhaps you should thank his brother…the sight clearly shocked him into understanding the dire state of your loneliness.

Daeron grabbed at the back of your dress finding the ties and undoing them swiftly. Thank the gods that the tremor of his hand was currently kept at bay. He had you in nothing but your slip promptly and you got rid of that thin fabric easily enough in the next moment. The muscles over his stomach tightened as he sat up. One hand touching your bottom to keep you where he wanted you in his lap and his other trailed up your side, thumb cupping the underside of your breast eventually and lifting the soft flesh up till it reached his mouth. He sucked at your nipple long enough that you managed to unknot the laces of his trousers and pull his straining cock from his pants.

He let out a groan so deep, when your thumb dragged over the line of taught skin on the underside of his cock, that you could feel the vibration from his throat pass from him to you.

“ugh-mmhm” Things felt heightened, more intense than they had the first time. You wouldn’t know if this newfound intensity and pleasure was because before you had been so in your own mind as the intimacy played out, or if it was the some effect of the cider. Perhaps the cider was why you were less nervous, less focused on being impressive for him. At this moment you were only concerned with soaking up as much of this, as much of him, as you could.

Daeron face pushed into your breast more when your thumb circled the head of his cock and he groaned against the nipple he was sucking at when you daringly trailed another finger over the slit of his swollen tip that already had begun to leak. His hand reflexively gripped your bottom pulling you in closer to him and you gasped when the heat of his length was nestled between both your stomachs. You swallowed eagerly looking down at him as he stayed hunched at your chest.

“let us get in the bed.” You thought he’d want to take you similarly to how he had the first time. Snapping his hips at you from behind.

He did not budge. Not one muscle moved to do anything other than devour your tits and keep you tucked right against him.

“Let me lay, I want to take your seed Daeron.” You attempted again, this time taking ahold of his hair to drawn his eyes up at you.

“Don’t deny me this, please.” You pulled a bit at the sandy mess of hair and your husbands lips lost their grip on your breast because he let out an open mouth moan as his hair was tugged at. You groan as well because your sensitive and budded nipples were rubbing against his chest. The friction was so stimulating and such a new sensation for your body.

“I plan to deny you of nothing my finch.” He was gazing up at you, eyes soft and unwavering. You nodded bending your head just slightly to meet his lips. You liked being bundled together like this. You could reach all of him when you were sat in his lap.

Experimentally you pulled at the hair on the nape of his neck and smiled when it resulted in a whimper. You did it again…and again and again and a few more time after that as well! You squirmed each time he let out a new noise. The desperation in them increasing with each tug. When his need had grown to large to resist any longer his hands rather suddenly pulled you up and he wrapped one around your back while he kissed at the small space behind your ear. His other hand moved down to grip himself at the base and trail his tip against your soaked slit. Feeling for the spot where you gave away before he gave in fully and rutted up to sink himself into you.

“Gods!” You gasped forehead hiding in his shoulder for a moment as both his hands found your hips and brought you back down to be planted on him. “Daeron-so—mmm” you tensed teeth grazing his shoulder as your core fluttered trying to get used to it.

“so tight?” he concluded for you. He groaned lowly despite neither of you moving because every clench and strained breath you to was truly brining a heavy feeling to his stones.

Slowly you began to calm, your shoulders dropping back down and you hips relaxing. Eventually even your fingers eased the claw like hold you had against his back. You looked down seeing where you two met and you pressed your hand over the spot where you could feel a throbbing pressure.

“Is that?” Your eyes flicker to his as you pushed the on the bulge his length had made in your stomach.

He nodded.

“I’ve nowhere to be my lady aside from right here with you, time is on our side tonight.” He assured you when he saw the slightly anxious expression on your face as you realized he had made space for himself that deep within you. That his cock was pressing as far as any women’s body could feasibly allowed.

He had meant those words as well because you did not develop the courage to begin to ride him for a while still, and despite the blissful stimulating feeling of your warm cunt sheathed around him Daeron kept his hips still! He ensured you knew close to ever thought that crossed his mind as you held at his shoulders and ever so softly rolled your hips back and forth. Most of those thoughts were quite depraved ones, he did not shy from telling you just how glorious it felt being within you. Some remarks were more sweet, that he wanted to show you the village he had hidden in, what he thought of the gown you had been wearing, that he wanted to hold your hand while you danced and sipped cider, that you intrigued him.

That last admission was what pushed you to press your hands against his chest and tighten the muscles in your thighs to pull yourself up. It was just a slight lift at first and then you were back down, sitting a bit harder than was likely correct. You could have crushed his pelvis and he wouldn’t have corrected you. Not right now, not when you felt so wet and warm chocking his cock with your tight hole. His hands offered some help with you next movements, guiding you up and down now that your body were ready.

Your neck strained as your head tilted back eyes squeezed shut. “Daeron! Seven hells!” You groaned out loudly, thought your voice hardly caused the same level of noise disturbance that your crazed riding did. Wet slapping filled the room. The bouncing had quickly become frenzied because you had found yourself chasing the ache in your stomach. Tension building there each time you push yourself down into his lap. You chased that thrilling sensation and trembled a bit when his two finger slipped down to trace small but intentional circles over your special nerve. He got the joy of seeing how you faltered in your bouncing because your thighs shook as they attempted to close. His body very much getting in the way. You were glad for that though, it meant you could not hide from the fire he was building inside you.

“Cum for me wife.” He demanded suddenly when you had no longer been able to bounce and resorted to desperately grinding yourself against his hand while squeezing his cock like a vice.

You grabbed at the back of his neck so hard that little bruised from your fingertips would be there in the morning and cried out so loudly next his ear that everything would sound distant to him for a while.

“There! oh just like that, breath.” He nodded watching you intently with blown out eyes as you got incredibly tense and then suddenly the most pliant and soft he had ever felt you.

His hand immediately let go of your hip and he wrapped both arms around your back keeping you tight to his chest as he rutted. Telling you he was sorry over and over until he shuttered and you felt a warmth fill you. The both of you panting weakly as he began to soften within you.

You pulled your head back from his chest when you could feel more of his seed dripping between your folds coating the base of his cock. It was making a mess and so you reached for the floor with one hand and began to try and lift off of him.

“N-no, stay!” It came out as a plea much more urgent than either of you had anticipated.

“I will,” you said softly, voice fragile from the theatrics of your coupling. “I’ve no want to leave your chambers husband.” You assure him with a tender kiss to his concerned temple.

Daeron just holds to you tighter. Now that he had reveled his growing warmth for you there was no point in denying himself these comforts.

“Stay atop me,” he clarified while finding his strength and maneuvering into his feet, getting the both of you onto his bed all while remaining settled comfortably within you.

“I wish to keep you right here.” He breathed out his chest sinking down as you made yourself more comfortable while laid over him. He did not miss that you moved your cheek about until it pressed over a spot where you could listen to the his heart beat.

The day had been long for you and the cider drank was not helping you fight sleep at all and so the patterns Daeron traced on your back were drawing you closer to rest with every breath.

“Do you pray Finch?” He asked, voice low still as to not startle the calmness of the moment.

“a bit,” you said softly, it was the truth. You did not pray nearly as much at Summerhall as you had at home with your family. “Why?”

“Ask the seven to take pity on me, if only for your sake, to ensure the master of the game does not draw my name after my brothers. He does not take kindly to being bested, as he has been tonight.”

The tourney? That all felt so distance from you now that you were satiated and sleepy. There was to be more jousting tomorrow and you took it that Daeron would be expected to complete now that he had been recovered from his brief disappearance.

Upon opening your drowsy eyes you saw his armor just past the small side table next to the bed. The bright green plume you had selected as the only customization stuck straight up atop the set.

You giggled.

“I shall pray your brother does not pluck your plume, I cannot ask for more than what is most important.” You told him turning your chin so it pressed into his chest and you smiled softly meeting his loving gaze.

[samthegreenapologist]

Fireweed

Daeron “the drunken” Targaryen X F reader Baelors Daughter

Tags: Ashford (and it has the same outcome😩), blood, description of injury, hurt/very little comfort, wine is consumed, grief, concept of Targcest is floating around (but no smut), Angst, some physical description given (reader takes after Baelor)

Word Count: 4.1K

Summary: You join your Brother and Father in Ashford for the tourney. When things take a dark turn during the trial of seven you must find a way to process the grave situation and your new reality. You end up finding comfort from somebody who’s never processed anything in their life in a healthy way, cousin Daeron!

Joining your father and brother in Ashford had seemed strange when it was suggested a moon ago, and now that you were here, seeing young overeager men and old worn men flight it proved even more pointless of a trip. You didn’t have any real reason to attend, but you worked very hard to be an uncomplicated piece of your father’s life and had he not wanted you to go he would not of suggested it. He had always held high expectations for you, but they were not unfounded or unfair, and never things he did not also expect of himself. You were getting to be of marrying age, perhaps he wished for you to meet lords outside of the red keep? Or maybe he just wanted your company?

You sat beside him every day of the lists clapping when needed and covering your mouth then anything to gory happened. The image of a perfect princess. You’d more than mastered the roll and it had come easy to you because you had your father’s nature. Prince Baelor was diplomatic and affable and you were no different.

“I am sure it will be alright.” You offered your little cousin tactfully. He was clearly quite invested in this whole hedge night mess with his brothers considering he was stood up, practically leaning over the railing to shout encouragements to the giant of a man.

“But there can only be one side that wins cousin.” Gravity always sounded so odd and alarming when it came out of a child’s mouth. But a part of you was glad that the complexity of the situation was clearly very apparent to him considering his scheming had half caused this!

“yes, well, I do know how a trail by seven works Egg.” You sighed patting his shoulder “come and sit.” You glanced out at the field seeing your cousins and uncle prepared atop their horses in heavy armor.

“Somebody will forfeit…if it happens at all.” From your count the numbers were not quite equaling seven on each side. “I am sure or it…” you trailed off brows lowering as you made your eyes focus on the entrance to the field trying to comprehend what you were seeing.

You knew the helm. Had seen it held at your brothers hip for days as he waited for his chance to tilt. “Valarr?!” He’d not be able to hear you but if he could you were sure that the tone would have him riding right back the way he had came. Father would have his head for this! Gods, you’d have his head for this. Why involve himself in your cousins foolish mess?!

“He cannot genuinely think you’ll allow this…” you sighed looking over your shoulder to the top of rows where your father had been sat. He’d been there when you sat down earlier, told you all this nonsense would be done soon, that it would be time for you all to depart within a few days. This tourney had been utter nonsense with the messes your cousin had stirred up. He knew it wore on you, the chaos, the disregard for any true order. You had never understood why people insisted to make their lives, and others, more difficult.

His seat was empty, his mismatched eyes that could somehow always settle you were not there. It made your heart pound instantly.

With horror in your eyes you joined Egg, gripping the barrier so tightly your fingers went white. You only let go of the wooden fence to cover your mouth when the helm was removed and your fears were confirmed. Your father had joined the cause.

It was preposterous! The Hand of the king? the crowned prince? your father participating in this unneeded risk?! He must have fever, this was maddening, everybody seemed to think it as well but there was nothing to be done now but watch the trial by seven play out.

And watch you did, with horror, every single stomp of horses feet, thrown lances, swinging swords and spit of blood or crack of teeth. The one blessing, you supposed, was that he fought for the side your mischievous cousin hoped to win and so the boys cheers and remarks did not wear on you as deeply. Had he been rooting against your father you’d of soured quickly. You could deal with plotting lords and envious ladies but you did not think you could suffer through hearing your own blood shout for your father’s ruin.

You had never been more tense then you were when Ser Duncan pulled beaten cousin Aerion up and ordered that he yield. This had to end, it needed to end now before something horrible happened. Egg, who had taken up squeezing your hand as you watched with wide eyes, heard his brothers words before you. He jumped and clapped at his brothers announcement and you felt your body relax for the first time since your father had ridden out.

There was no clapping on your part, it didn't feel right given the death and the fact that your family was looking quite rough, but a small relieved smile did settle on your face.

That smile did not last the hour.

It may now never return.

“Prince Baelor is dead.”

You overheard it from a maid in the hall while going to your chambers to freshen, wanting to rid yourself of the layer of anxious sweat that had built on your skin.

A entire new layer was produced from your sprint to the maesters chambers. Surly he was there, surely he was not dead and just very unwell. The maesters would be working on him.

There was work being done but it was on Prince Aerion. Your neck craned as you scanned the room. Where was he?

“Cousin,” Daeron was being held to a seat, a nursemaid holding a blood soaked cloth this his face. He’d been trampled, apparently at the very start of the event.

“I did not know it would be him-“ Daeron attempted but the women tending to him begged him to stop talking, it just produced more blood.

“where is he! Where is my father?” You tore into the hallway again unwilling to stop your search, mind empty and eyes blurred. You started crying so hard that you could not see clearly and ran right into the big hedge knight. The dumb, huge, unimportant man! Your father had told you he did not even think the oaf had truly been knighted! He had quite a bit of blood on him and you felt the warm crimson transfer to your dress and hands. The guards intercepting you before you could barrel into the room any more or the shocked victor could babble up something that likely would not be all the comforting to you. Their remarks were no better.

“it’s no sight for you princess,”

“best not to remember him like this.”

“let the sisters work”

“Prince Baelor would not want you to see this.”

Every sentence driving the reality of the situation into you more. Each one physically jarring you. When Ser Donnel made to take your arm and escort you away you stepped back quickly. Evading his grip.

“I’ll pray the seven spare you.” He’d supported the side that fought against him, they were culpable in your mind. The venom in your tone kept them all back and you fled to your room, to your maids and ladies.

You did not want them, you wanted your mother but she was all the way in kings landing, she and Mataerys likely would not know of the news until nightfall tomorrow and by then your father would likely be on the funeral pyre.

Valarr attempted to comfort you, but he was a ghost himself, still not completely comprehending the gravity of the situation. He needed your comfort as much aa you needed his and you simply had none to give. Eventually he left you alone too.

It was night when you finally stood again, shoulders sloped forward and hands still shaking. They couldn’t stop and you could not sleep. Even laying in bed felt suffocating now so you slipped from the chambers and walked aimlessly down the hall.

You considered for a moment seeking out wherever the silent sisters were working. You wanted to see him…maybe you could help? Bring useful might make you feel better-or at least more normal?

Instead though you found yourself stood before Daeron’s chambers. His remark earlier about not knowing it would be Baelor was still rattling around in your mind. What had he meant?

There was a grumbled decline of entry from inside the room when you knocked. Normally you would have turned around, obeyed the remark. But this incident had you feeling very unlike yourself. Emotions fluctuating and you felt a victim to them, unable to control your reactions. You did not enjoy feeling out sorts you just wanted your chest to stop racing and your mind to stop running.

With a clenched jaw you grabbed at the handle and pulled the door opened.

“who did you think it was?” You asked him right away when your wild and tired eyes located Daeron. He was sat right in front of the fireplace, flames so close there were beads of sweat on his under eyes.

You came forward to where he was and grabbed his shoulder to turn him away from the fire and towards you. He was so clammy that his tunic was damp under your hands.

“Daeron did you see this?” You begged.

He wouldn’t look at you, even the minor glance he made to almost meet your eyes seemed like it pained him. He did not think any of this would help you. It was done. Prince Baelor was already dead. He was taken back that you had even process what he said in the maesters rooms earlier. He supposed it was a testament to how intelligent you were, that your mind, even in the thickness of shock, could grab onto things and filter through them later

“Y-you knew and said nothing!” His eyes closed when your tone took a turn from inquisitive to bitter. He’d been bracing for that since you entered his chambers.

“Not clearly.” Daeron defended himself, weakly, but it was something. “I did not know plainly that it would be him.” He bit out.

Your forehead was a wrinkled mess, deep lines between your brows and your eyes, the whites were so red from tears in this moment that the color of the middle looked altered. You looked a fright and that was as before anybody’s eyes even traveled down to see your bloody, filthy, gown.

“worthless little nightmares that you grumble on about into your bloody cups.” There was the anger, the Targaryen blood you all shared peeking out now that you forgot about being liked and diplomatic.

Daeron had been at the red keep when he had his first vision…woke in the middle of feast where many of your young children were asleep on your chairs with cheeks squished against your mother’s laps. It had been terrifying for you, for the adults as well. You remembered how nobody could seem to console him. That was many years ago by this point and so you really only recalled your father telling you that the gods had given your cousin a gift. It did not seem like a gift to you, not when you had memories of Maekar dragging Daeron out of his mother’s arms because he wouldn’t stop grabbing into her tighter and tighter.

It was clearly a gift that he did not desire. the pressure and guilt and the unease. You knew all of that must surly be there in him and in another circumstance you would have been kinder but this was your father that was lost. Had he said something- you could taste the bitterness on your tongue and knew that he did not deserve whatever you would say next so you swallowed thickly and took a steadying breath.

“I….i know you are not specifically to blame.” You eventually got out. That was what you could offer him at this moment. That was as far as your kindness could extend.

Daeron hadn’t diverted his eyes from you during that whole verbal lashing. He’d suffered worse ones for issue far less painful than what you were experiencing. When you started to sit down, your skirts pooling around you as you joined him on the floor be sighed heavily and took a long swig from his cup.

“I might tell you it grows easier, mourning a parent.” Daeron knew it would be a kindness to say that and offerer some comfort. People had told him the same thing when his mother died.

He diverted his eyes from you back to his cup and gave a dry, exhausted laugh.

“But it would be a lie.”

Your lips twitched and hands wound into the side of your gown. Knuckles quickly going white from how fiercely you gripped at the fabric to try and remain in control of yourself.

This pain would just continue on until it consumed you completely? That was what he was telling you!

“forgive me, please.” Your cousin choked out after a long few minutes of your both processing what he had said. When you looked at him, face still locked in the flames you could see his eyes were glossy and red. Perhaps the color was from the firelight reflecting onto his light blue eyes or he’d been doing some crying if his own.

“he was your uncle too, i know you had no desire to join the list let alone a trial.”

“A uncle is not the same thing as a father, you’ve every right to your grief…however it might manifest.” He looked at you finally, really looked at you.

Clearly people had taken issue with how he nursed his shattered heart when he lost him mother.

“does it help that much?” You asked eyes dropping to the cup that was set beside him in the floor. The red stain on his bottom lip to your it was mostly likely an arbor red that he was enjoying tonight.

“To much for my own good.” He groans and lays back over the rug. Letting his mind spin about as his eyes regained a clear focus on the ceiling.

“it helps with the pain,” he turned his face to the side, showing of his maimed ear.

You grimaced slightly at the sight of it, the thick stitches he had going up the hallow of his cheek and to his ear.

“Poppy would be better suited for that issue.”

“Yes, well poppy makes every man think their dreams and nightmares are real….” He leaned up onto his elbow and pushed his cup over towards you. “I worry what it would make of mine.”

You sigh and glance between him and the cup.

“you won’t be a drunkard after one night of overindulgence.” He assured. He knew the pain in your eyes, the tension in every inch of your body and the way your mind was racing. He could pratically hear your thoughts. He’d had all the same ones years before.

How would the family go on? Would anybody live him as much as they had? Things would never be the same? Would you ever smile again Would people ever stop whispering around you? watching your every movement for signs for heartbreak?

He knew the wine wouldn’t actually fix any of this, but it would settle you some. Slow your brain down. He hoped it would let the shock leave you.

You picked up the glass, hand still shaking and Daeron frowned deeper at the tremor. He did not have the most stable hands himself but he did touch your elbow to help you as you drank the contents of the cup down.

Watching thin rivets of crimson liquid train die. Your chin to your neck and soak into the neckline of your gown. He made no attempt to keep the liquid from pooling there, the fabric was already ruined from the blood.

You coughed a bit after swallowing down the last gulp and groaned at the head rush it gave you. Your eyes instantly softer and forhead smooth.

“I’ll have another.” You decided and got your feet under you to go to the small table and fill up the cup again. Almost reaching the brim.

He wanted to warn you to slow down, but he’d also assumed you’d come here because he was the only one who had no room to judge how you grieved, how you got through this first horrible night.

At some point, between glass two and three he’d gotten up and urged you to sit on the edge of the bed.

“the last thing we need to you falling and hitting your head.” He explained when you gave him a disgruntled groan.

“no,” you stood back up, but had to sit right back down because he was to close to you for your body to have any room to stay upright.

“Come on, just sit down for now.” He sighed. Perhaps he shouldn’t have suggested the wine?

“No,” you pushed your hands against his stomach to urge him back a bit and he hissed a bit, because there was a lot of bruising there that you just hadn’t seen. “I want to talk to him!”

He backed up a bit, having no want to keep you somewhere against your will, he did not want to do anybting that would upset your further. Today has been upsetting enough.

“who?”

“Aerion-“ you snap. Voice giving away the fiery Targaryen nature that you had despite your more simple features. The wine had apparently stifled the sadness but that just mean the rage and anger could simmer to the surface. “It’s all his fault-all of this! Your bloody brother is-“

“my brother is both arrogant and insecure. Which makes for quite the troubling combination in a person.”

You paused, hand on his door. he is not wrong about Aerion and his nature but it also does not make you feel any better about this situation. Foolishly you thought yelling at him-hurting him would lesson your pain.

“and he currently lays in bed unconscious from poppy because of how throughly he’s been beaten. Save your torture of him for another day when he can feel it.”

Again, you suppose he is right.

“Has age made you wise?”

“I am not that old.” Daeron looked down at you.

“you are older than me.” You weren’t meeting his concerned eyes.

“fine-yes I am old and wise and your elder. Will that make you more inclined to listen to me?”

You crack the faintest smile and chuckle. It’s not joyful but it’s there, a expression of amusement and not just agony and fear.

“When my mother died,” he sighed it was still painful tk think about. “I didn’t sleep for five days.” You knew where he was going.

“I can’t sleep.” You whispered shaking your head. “Don’t make me-don’t suggest it Daeron!”

He pulled you into him when you started to panic. Tucking your face into his chest and he wrapped his other arm around your back rubbing soothing circles.

“going mad will not make any of this easier, i assure you that. Some rest will make this easier, make tommrow more bareable.” The pyre would be lit then. Baelor, the crowned prince and hand to the king would be put to rest.

“Tomorrow cannot come.” You grip the fabric of his tunic. “I never want it to be tomorrow. He won’t be here tomorrow. I had a father when I woke this morning, I broke my fast with him, I walked to the pavilions with him. If I go to sleep I’ll never wake in a world that he is still in.” Your voice broke, eyes wetting the cloth of his shirt and finally your wrapped your arms fully around him. Fingers digging into his back.

“I cannot wake for a day he does not breath in.”

Daeron closed his eyes letting you squeeze him as hard as you needed, lets you ramble all the words that were in your head. He’d thought them before, had felt exactly as you had.

“then at least lay down,” he pulled your head back a bit cupping your face. Nose red from crying and lips swollen from salty tears. “You do not have to sleep, or even close your eyes. But you need to lay down. Give your body a break.” You shook your head.

“I’m scared to be alone, Valarr left-“ you hiccuped and sniffled.

“Then you can lay here, cousin.” He motioned to his bed. “It’s plenty large, and I toss and turn all night…you wouldn’t be able to sleep even if you wished to!” He promised.

“I shouldn’t.” You whisper and he sighed, knowing what you meant. The propriety of it all.

“you are my cousin…you’ve lost something quite important to you. Whispering maids in some shack of a keep have no leg to stand on.” He promised.

“Really?” You stepped back, wiping your nose. You really did want to be next to somebody. It made you feel better. He specifically made you feel better.

“I swear to you, it is fine.” He stepped away and went to a trunk finishing out one of his long tunics and he held it out for you.

“Oh.” You looked down at yourself seeing the heavy gown, the blood and mud stains and then looked to him. “Father suggested I wear this one today.” You whispered.

“it’s just something to wear In bed, that’s all. You can put it back on in the morning and every day after if that is what you wish.” He was too considerate. Too thoughtful and sensitive. It made trusting him easy and so you took the tunic and stepped into the bathing chambers to get your gown the down, struggling slightly until the fell to a heap on the floor. You left it there and stepped back into his view wearing the grey tunic, tied tight against your collar and hung to just your knees.

“I’m not sleeping.”

“I know-just resting.” He was already laid in the bed. He didn’t want to sleep himself but he had a feeling you wouldn’t get in if he just sat in the chair by the fire and drank.

“yes…I’m not going to close my eyes.” You kneel on the other end and push the warm covers back enough that you can slip under them and lay flat on your back. Eyes blinking as you counted the nails in the ceiling.

Daeron did not speak, he just laid flat on his back, closing his eyes and staying like that until he hear your breathing change. Peeking a eye open then to sleep your head turned, relaxed to the side and your mouth open slightly.

Sleep took you and he knew that act was a mix of cruel and merciful. It was what you needed yet desperately did not want to occur.

He stayed up, watching you, fixing the blankets over you when you squirmed under them and when you turned towards the warmth he radiated he stilled, letting your arm lace over his chest and your head hide between his side and arm.

He did not dare more, and he did not even considerate trying to wake you to shake you off. If he could provide this comfort to you than he knew he should, it was the least he could do.

His eyes had deep bags by morning and when the door rattled open, and he sat his father large broad shoulders fill the entirety of the frame he had to stop himself from groaning. That would wake you.

Maekar had heard whispering of his niece not being in her chambers…and then he heard murmurings about Daeron having a guest in his rooms.

Perhaps he was the sick one for even considering those two things had any overlap. But his conclusions had not seem all that incorrect when he entered his eldest chambers. Seeing Daeron laid in the middle of his bed with you clutching to him, you leg tangled over one of his knees while you snored into his chest.

“Don’t-“ he warned through gritted teeth when it looked like his eldest was going to start making some long list of excuses. He doubted any of it would be believable, and knew none of them would change the situation that they’d been found in.

“Not today…” Maekar grumbled, shaking his head. He was going to watch his brother’s body be burned today, thinking about how his son had surly sullied his brother’s daughter. Ruined your pristine reputation. It was issue, a large one that weighed in his guilty conscience but also one that he could not address at this very moment.

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added): @imsonotweird, @xyahx, @starkleila, @winkymar, @uroborosvirus, @faelinda, @rporter19, @niceforcum22, @qardasngan, @galactict3a, @mylcvemineallmine, @megan-mars, @superfan02, @noone1233nobody, @pixel-pixie-xo, @nocturnalidolgrimoire

This will likely be 4 parts fyi

[samthegreenapologist]

I don’t know who to choose of my three favourite Targaryens. My idea is a combination of the prompts miscarriage and sharing clothes . I’m not sure how you will join those together but I don’t know it just seems unique and cozy angst in a way . My options for the main male character is either Baelor, Maekar or Daeron I don’t know how to choose between them but I think they could all work for these prompts. If this feels to weird or confusing I totally understand.

a/n: thank you for this request! I went for Daeron since I’ve just done a miscarriage one of Maekar and am working on something sort of similar for Baelor. Hopefully it’s okay that I chose to set this in a modern AU

Two Days

Daeron “the Drunken” Targaryen x F!girlfriend!reader

WC: 1k

warnings: miscarriage, grief, depression, mention of drinking, modern AU

You’d been stood infront of your closet for almost half a hour. Just staring. Standing there in a worn out bra that was closer to a tank top than anything else because the elastic was so old. Your underwear were still ones the hospital provided, it was a diaper really. But you supposed they used the term absorbent underwear to make everybody feel a bit better about themselves.

You probably would have laughed about them for a hour, with him, if they’d been worn in another circumstance, if your baby was in the hospital’s bassinet beside your bed. With Daeron’s long fingers playing with the waist band, likely asking you if thongs were out and these were in.

There was no baby, no labor, no jokes or Daeron’s finding the diaper both hilarious and charming. There was hardly even a Daeron.

Apparently it had been two days since you got back from the hospital. Two days since you felt a pain in your side that felt sudden and strange enough that Daeron called emergency services. Two days since the doctors performed a D&C. Two days since you’d been able to change clothes, shower, or eat anything.

Daeron was gone, though you’d hardly noticed. All you did was sleep, he was envious of that. Thought it was some escape for you. Things were shit and you could just take some pills and let your mind leave the bed, the apartment, him, the baby that you both came to want so desperately! He wanted to close his eyes and forget about all this too.

Eventually he couldn’t sit there any longer just watching over you, he’d been watching you the night all this happened, laid on the couch, hand lazily against your side rubbing while a movie played. His watching hadn’t kept you safe then, how would it help you now!

Your mum was coming into town, as quickly as she could but when neither Daeron or you answered her texts or calls she got worried. Reached out to your boyfriend’s dad and asked him to stop by just to make sure things were okay.

Nothing was okay. Nobody even answered the door when he knocked. Five minutes of fist pounding and he decided to use the key he had made some years ago. Daeron didn’t know he had a copy, he just never question how his dad got into his flat all those times when he was drunk and had been unreachable for days. Maekar has not needed to use it since you came around, since his son had found somebody worth focusing his attention on.

Maekar found you laid still in bed, eyes open as you watched the ceiling fan spin above you. He’d already concluded his son had left and he hated that it did not surprise him.

Maekar had told you to get dressed, suggested you’d feel better.

It was making you feel worse though. Looking at the clothes that you knew would feel all wrong and forgein on your body! Or they’d still be to small, catch against your stomach or your enlarged chest, and gods forbid you put on something that you’d gotten for later in the pregnancy. You’d instantly feel how you couldn’t fill the fabric out. That you were hallow. Empty.

“you look nice in anything…” you did not turn to look at him. You couldn’t, facing him felt harder than finding clothes.

“The bed won’t judge your fashion choices today. I Promise doll.” He was slurring a bit, but you could tell he was trying to keep his voice from sounding like it. He wanted to sound like himself for you.

He had not idea it had been two full days until his father found him at the pub nearest to his flat and hauled him back home with instruction to “look after his fucking girlfriend”

He had been, and this still happened. He was doing everything right and this still occurred.

”nothing fits.” Your tierd eyes turned to glance at him finally “I can’t Daeron-“ what was left of your voice from the sobbing gave out.

Daeron felt his head ache as he saw this new version of you. This face, the devestation and fear that was splattered all over it was so different from what he knew of you. You smiled in your bloody sleep half the time. He would lay there while you slept and trace the upturn of your lips with his thumb.

He should have been more careful, should have never put you in this position to begin with! He wanted to see that smile. The one that he watched every night and used as a reminder for why he was trying harder, why he needed to be better. Now that it slipped he felt beacon-less.

“wear something of mine.”

“No.” You turned away about to sit back down in bed.

“yes, doll-“ he started to pull his tee shirt up over his head. Hair all ruffled as it came off fully. “Come here.” He didn’t actually make you walk, he met you where you stood shaking. Pulling his black tee over your head and carefully helping you tuck your arms into the sleeves. It hung off you all wrong, the length long and shoulders to big. But it was wrong because it was his and so the fit bothered you less, it had been all wonky on you before. This one thing has not changed.

It smelled like him...and alcohol but there was something sort of comforting to you about that. Knowing that he was suffering just as much as you were, he wasn’t okay. None of this was okay. You didn't need to be okay today. He wouldn’t expect that of you if he couldn’t do it himself!

“let’s sit down,” he grabbed the side of your arm gently when you instantly turned towards the bed. “Maybe in the living room?” You shook your head right away. The concept of leaving this room felt to overwhelming.

His arm tucked yours around him and he pulled your head into his chest. “Okay, we’ll stay right here.”He kissed the top of your head. Running his hand up and down you back. Eventually his fingers caught on the top of the diaper underwear and he clamped over your shoulder at your bum.

“Think they make ones that are not grey? Blues always suited you more.” And then he felt it, the ever so slight, quickly fleeting, upturn on your lips.

Daeron Masterlist, Prompt list/Prompt Masterlist

Taglist: @imsonotweird, @xyahx, @starkleila, @winkymar, @uroborosvirus, @faelinda, @rporter19, @niceforcum22, @qardasngan, @galactict3a, @mylcvemineallmine, @noone1233nobody, @pixel-pixie-xo, @herballady, @ladythedrunken, @darylandbethfanforever9, @forevercountingstars, @marianntorres2611, @tinkerbeiie, @pancake-flipper, @ariiireads, @enaya19, @nicoall12, @justapoorflawedgirl, @belleishooked, @nocturnalidolgrimoire, @sedonasummer, @megan-mars, @notannadouble, @superfan02, @noone1233nobody, @friendlyspacemartian, @ghostlybfgf, @lechat-rouge, @darklandcashpaper-blog

[samthegreenapologist]

Cold Shoulder

Maekar Targaryen x F Stark wife reader

Tags: readers first makeout🫶 fingering F reviving, Handjob, cuddling, fucking on the floor👏, arranged marriage, Maekar doesn’t want a 2nd wife (what else is new), near drowning incident, PnV sex, unprotected sex, losing virginity, brief mention of blood, Maekar experiencing guilt (and reflecting on it *shocker*)

Summary: you’ve married Maekar but the only people who have really welcomed you to Summerhall are his youngest three children. When you risk your own life to protect them Maekar finally has to admit that you do have a place here!

word count: 6.1 k A/N: I loveeee grumpy Maekar but am shit at writing those snappy quips so that’s why he’s always troublingly enamored quickly by the reader in my fics 🙈

“Don’t-“ you were so winded when you grabbed Aegon’s arm that you needed to breath for a solid moment before continuing on. “Don’t run off like that.” You scold him bending a bit so you two were eye to eye.

You’d been lucky to not need to do much scolding of your husbands children. Which had benefitted you greatly while navigating the complexities of running a hall that had been devoid of a lady, a mother for some time. The little ones probably liked you because of the attention you gave them, because of how you enjoyed playing their silly games when their father had no time…or patience for it.

Though with the cold weather their temperaments changed. They never seemed to have enough avenues to exert their energy since their playing was all stuck inside.

The cold did not feel as suffocating to you. It was just apart of life in the north and the storm land hardly got as frozen and bitter as things got back home. Which was why you had decided to bundle the younger ones all up and take them for a walk. You thought they might like to see the frozen leaves, perhaps look for one of the robins that’s feather became easy to spot again the white forest floor.

Maekar had not looked up from his papers when you suggested it at break of fast. The only way you knew he had even heard your proposal was the warning he grumbled out to Egg, Daella and Rhae to behave for you.

Perhaps you should have then them each out individually because the three of them together just led to far to much energy.

“There pond is around here somewhere and the last thing you need is to wind up under broken ice!” You warned him. It was serious, you did not want to see them injured….and it was your responsibility to see to them.

Maekar had made that clear. You knew before the wedding that he had not sought you out. You’d just been conveniently there when the topic of him taking a second wife came up. It was all rather flattering, the Queen herself suggested you to Maekar. She’d seen you knelt down in the gardens helping his children catch little red lady bugs and worms. His mother had convinced him of the value a maternal figure might bring to his household…that additional stability from another an adult could temper issues before they began.

You’d been so excited, foolishly so, but he was a prince it made sense that you were flattered and thrilled by it all. You’d even found yourself remarking on his serious but striking apperence, on the deep tome of his voice…you’d told your lady maids, with flushed cheeks, that you were looking forward to your wedding night.

You hadn’t been looking forward to the bedding ceremony…being grabbed at by random men and touched. Though when he deny the event at the end of the feast you had known something was off right away. He had not asked you of your feelings in the matter so it did not come across like he was doing you some great kindness by avoiding it.

He denied it for himself. You found that out the moment you entered his chambers and he handed you a cup of wine. He did not sit with you on the edge of the bed…did not even look up when you got down to your chemise and chewed your lip eagerly waiting for him to make some sort of advance. You knew what happened in a marriage bed but not enough of the specifics to initiate anything yourself. He stay in the chair by the fireplace that entire night. Not moving as he told you he had taken your hand for his children, so they could have another person looking after them, he told you he wanted no more children, did not need companionship and had no desire to bed you.

Maekar was many things but he was not a liar. All those things he had made painfully clear to you on the wedding night had remained true. You were not here for him, just them.

“Look mother! There’s a red feather!” Rhae exclaimed. She and Aegon had each slipped and called you that. It always made you feel quite important but you were truthfully worried about Maekar hearing it. What would he think? Had you been to involved with them? Should you correct them?

Slowly you let go of Aegon’s arm after giving him one more warning look and then you followed Rhae towards the tree that had a vibrant feather laid on one of the branches. You were mid lifting her up so she could try and grab it when you heard a piercing shriek.

It was so loud, in an otherwise quiet woods, that every bird suddenly flew up out of the trees just as started as you were.

Rhae looked around, gripping onto your shoulders. “What was that?” She whispered her legs winding around your midsection as you began to move in the direction of the sound.

“Daella?!” You called. It sounded like her shout.

When there was no answer to your call you began to run in the direction of the sound. Dropping Rhae down the moment you saw the pond.

Gods, oh gods. You were here to look after them.

Before your eyes Maekars oldest daughter was grasping at the edge of broken ice, her upper body was above the water but everything below her hips was submerged. The air infront of you was clouded white from how quickly you were breathing, your lungs burning a bit from brining in so much of the cold air.

“help!” She cried and you instantly started out onto the pond. It wasn’t nearly cold enough here for the ice to get so thick that it could safely support a person. You should have been watching them better.

“Rhae, go back to the hall, tell the first person you come across about this.” She urged the child and heard her little feet pad against the frozen ground back up to the keep.

You bent down, basically crawling out to her, knowing you needed to distribute your weight so the ice would give out under you as well.

“I’ve got you, just-“ you grabbed her wrists trying to pull her towards you. “Can you kick your legs?” Her skirts were waterlogged and that made them very heavy.

“Come on Daella!” You grunted as you got closer and grabbed her under the arms hoisting her up over the jagged edge of of the hole and she landed right over you. Both of you panting, Rhaella shaking and her teeth chattering loudly.

“Breathe, I’ve got you.” You were holding the back of her head, squeezing her against you as your adrenaline came down. “I’ve got you.” You kissed her head and started to try and sit you both up.

“Egg…” she whimpered. Her teeth were rattling so much it was hard for her to speak. “Egg fell in.” She eventually got out and you scurried out from under her quickly looking at the hole and freezing water.

“Go to the bank!” You directed her sternly and knelt over the edge gasping as you reached your arms down into the water feeling for him. The fact that there was no thrashing around made you uneasy. Had he sunk down to the bottom? Did he breathe in the water?

You took in the largest breath you possibly could and willed yourself right down into the water. The air was pushed out of your lungs almost Instantly from the shock but you attempted to keep moving as much as you could.

It would destroy this family…another loss. Especially rambunctious but loving egg!

Your long dark hair swirled around your face in the water making it hard to see but your foot bumped Into something and you grabbed at it. The only warmth, as mild as it was, in the blinding cold. The pond was not that deep, and so on your tip toes your hands could breach the surface. You shoved Aegon on and somehow dragged your own self up onto the ice.

“no…no wake up.” You started to shake at the little boy a bit and when you saw his hands and lips were purple you found the strength to lift him up into your arms. His feet dragged as you carried him through the woods but it was the most you could manage. Daella shaking, terrified and dazed from it all held to your stiff heavy skirts as you went. He had to get inside, needed to be warmed and see the maester. He was coughing into your chest now, water heaving from his lungs.

You were one of sorts yourself from being submerged and althought you heard shouting you did not actually see anybody coming your way. Not until suddenly Aegon was being lifted off of you and Daella was snatched up as well.

“get her inside!” Maekar, who had been informed after the first guard had been alerted to the issue at the pond, managed to barrel ahead of any other person heading down toward the forests edge. At the time all that was known was that Daella had been on the pond and the ice cream as broken. That was more than enough to put him in this state. The knight would get there, but not as quickly as he would.

The prince was sprinting up the pathway to the keep and you started right after him before any guard reached you to assist. Aegon looked limp in his father’s arms and you were so terrified that you just continued through the hall after the three of them despite maids urging you to stop.

“get off of me!” You warned pushing their hands away and successfully getting into the maesters work room. Aegon was already stripped and being covered in blankets and warmed stone and you saw Rhaella shaking in one of her septa’s arms as she was brought away to be changed and looked over. She seemed, scared and if that was all than she was quite lucky because her brother had still not opened his eyes.

“I told them to stay away from the pond-“ you began trying to squeeze your way closer to the bed the little prince was laid out it. “H-he was coughing when I pulled him out, there was water in-in his lungs.” You managed to shared with the maester, dark eyes wild and frantic as you spoke.

“Get her out of this bloody gown” Maekar directed the comment towards a young women stood near the door, clearly unsure what she should be doing in the mist of this chaos. “now!” He barked snapping his hand against the side table to jostle the maid from her stagnant position. He had pulled his hand off of its spot on his sons head, he’d been stroking the light silver hair back since getting him into this bed.

“I’m quite a-a-alright.” You told the maid quickly, teeth were clattering so much that it took you so long to get that sentence out that the use of ‘alright’ was quite unbelievable.

Maekar could feel the chill that was emanating off your body behind him and suddenly he turned at once, wide shoulders clearing his way as he grabbed the soaked fabric around your waist and backed you up towards the bathing chambers.

“m’lord-Aegon needs you.” You start but are quickly turned around. You supposed it made sense that he could move you and your heavy waterlogged dress so easily, his strength during the rebellion had resulted in songs after all!

“Fucks sake”

You gasp when his fingers sink between the little spaces in the lacing down your back and he pulls the fabric and strings apart. All the grommets would be torn, it was completly wrecked. it was also handing down at your feet now, some relief did come from no longer being squeezed in by such cold fabric.

“He needs you to still be breathing when he wakes…” Maekar muttered out grabbing your chemise and tearing that fabric as if it was nothing more than a single piece of parchment.

He wasn’t wrong, staying dressed like this would have you catching your death. Had you been less panicked you would have likely attempted to get some of the layers off of you down by the pond but the adrenaline had not allowed for proper thinking.

“Your grace,” the maester called from the other room. There was alot of coughing and voices of people telling Aegon to lay back down. You shivered in front of him, back still turned away and your arms had wrapped around yourself half for warmth and half for shielding. You’d never been undressed with him present.

Your eyes facing forward was a gift to the prince because it gave him a moment to take in the sounds of life that were obvious in the other room. His son was alive. He wasn’t losing somebody else, he had not failed again. His chest deflated a bit as his eyes closed and he took in the coughing. They opened again when the maester called once more and he pressed his hands down against your shoulders.

The touch warmed you so much you whimpered a bit, his palms did not retract at the noise right away but when he heard your teeth begin to clatter together again he gave you a squeeze before letting go.

“Get in the bath.” He demanded, there was not alternative option that could even be thought of in your mind when you heard his tone. Instantly the maid came towards with warmed buckets of water and began filling the soaking tub that you had obediently stepped into.

He closed the door on his way out and as the warmth engulfed you your eyes began to close, the feeling of being okay mixed with the combination of your adrenaline crashing left you utterly exhausted.

The next thing you felt was a rumbling against your cheek. Which made you groan and shift about some.

“Give me that,” Maekar sighed pulling the blanket from the maids hands, his forhead had not relaxed for one second since the knight had entered his study two hours prior and told him what his youngest had been shouting as she came up towards the stables.

You leaned towards the sound and your arms, which finally felt less stiff, wrapped around your husbands neck as he lifted you from the now room tempature bath. The towel was draped over you but he was holding you to his chest so you were getting him quite wet.

“Have broth be brought to my chambers.” He directed and carried you from the maesters quarters through the keep. You hadn’t fully smarted to the concept that your husband, you husband who had not even kissed you on the lips when you married was holding you…letting you nuzzled your face against his warm neck. He knew you were seeking more heat.

Gradually, when he set you down in his bed, tucking the towel around the front of you now, you realized Maekar had been the one taking you from the bath. He did not like how red your cheeks still were of that your fingers were still slightly blue.

He’d had a conversation with Daella, an interrogation was more correct of a name for it thought because Maekar demanded to know exactly what had happened. How this, possibly deadly, mess came to be. He’d waited until she was in her thickest dress, wrapped in a fur and being given her favorite tea before he started but he had not given her any time to rest, he needed to know it all as soon as possible. He did not like having to use his imagination to fill in the blanks.

You grabbed the ends of the towel and pulled the fabric around you tighter brining your feet up as well so your knees were tucked into your chest. You’d never been in his chambers. It felt odd…almost intimate.

“you jumped into the water?” He was laying a dark fur across a chair near the fireplace.

“is he alright?” You finally spoke, voice a bit horse from all the shouting earlier.

“Do Starks believe they cannot freeze?” He glanced over his shoulder at you.

“no more than Targaryen think they cannot burn.” You exhale and straighten your shoulders. “Is Aegon well?” You insist to know. Surely he would not be speaking to you if the boy was dead, right?

Maekar shoulders raised a bit, like he had chuckled at your attempt to demand something from him but the sound did not quite reach your ears.

“he is already telling stories of fish frozen in place in the water.” He informed you, finally looking back at you and seeing the relief flood through you.

You smiled, a bright real thing and you chuckled a bit. He was as such a clown of a little boy, it was charming to you even if it came with some wreckless behavior.

“I think he was the only frozen thing in that pond.” You remark shaking your head a bit.

“I think my son is alive because you went down in that water to save him.”

The comment stopped your giggling instantly. It was serious and honest and…this was more sensitive than you had ever known him be. The intensity of his eyes on you, the shock witnessing his forehead ease, it made your skin tingle and every hair on your rise.

“you could have died attempting to rescue them from something that I know they have been warned about.”

You swallowed looking down gripping a bit tighter to the damp towel and you took a moment to figure out what it was that you should say…what you wanted to say.

“I love them Maekar, I could not just watch it happen.” You looked back up to him finding that he had made his way from in front of the fire back to the bedside, that he had taken his cloak off and had as currently undoing the laces that kept his tunic on.

“Thank you.”

You blinked, he’d not thanked you for anything in the 7 moons that had come to pass since you wed. It was obvious that he was not the type to lean to flattery in conversation. That did not bother you, not as much it might some other lady, it wasn’t as if people in the north were exceptionally warm.

Actually when you thought about it they were quite kind, deeply loyal and unmistakably dedicated to people…if they deserved it. If they had good reason to value the person infront of them.

Maekar was not much different. He did. Or bother with unwarranted flattery. You could appreciate that.

“You can go see them later, once you’re warm enough.” He assured you when it seemed like your attention drifted to the door.

“I will dress, I’m warm enough.” You made to stand but his hand was back on your shoulder again, stopping you in your tracks.

“I will deem when you are warm enough wife.”

His jaw tightening gave away that your surpised reaction to the title made him feel bad. Had he truly never used the term once? Was denying you any affection for his first wife’s sake or was it just him being cruel. He’d always told himself he was distance out of respect for Dyanna’s memory. What would she thinking about the women caring for her children never being thanked? Never being welcomed as she should have been into their family?

You watched his light eyes water and stayed still and silent. She must have been very kind…very beautiful. You had heard from the staff of the hall how deeply he had loved her, how he laughed with her.

When he cleared his throat and looked back down at you there was some new found understand of himself in his eyes. He’d hated you, simply because he resented that the longer you were around the more he noticed how attractive you were and worse…that he felt genuinely drawn to your personality. But What favor was he doing Dyanna, or his family by becoming more cold and bitter simply because he wanted to deny anything that brought him joy while she was not beside him?

When your shoulders shook twice, the shiver impossible to suppress Maekar came back to the moment. Back to you.

He motioned for you to stand up and finally undid the last tie that kept his chest covered.

“Clothes and a blanket would do.” You assured him, but your eyes were looking at the expanse of his chest..the pink skin there that you knew would be so warm.

“Body heat is best, I thought you’d know that. What did they teach you in Winterfell woman?” He raised a brow while you got up on your feet. Once you were up he touched your side, grunting at the damp towel that was wrapped there and he pulled it away, quickly pulling you in front of the fire. He sat down first in the chair and then looked to his lap. When you hesitated he sighed. The exasperation that you were used to seeing from him flaring up.

“you are my wife, it is not indecent to sit down.” He rolled his eyes a bit and his hand touched your bare back urging you down to his lap. Pulling the fur that had been warming in front of the flame over you at once. He felt your freezing fingers nervously grabbing at the fur, brushing against his stomach in the process. Quickly Maekar gathered them in one hand and brought them up to his neck cupping them there in that hot region.

You kept your eyes on him, waiting for his feeling for change, for him to suddenly decide again being so close to you. Especially in this state of undress. When he lifted your fingers up to his mouth and cupped them against his lips so he could blow warm air onto the icy digits you realized belatedly that he was not likely to push you away. You relaxed some as that understanding sunk into your mind, and you allowed yourself to sink back against him. Back naturally bent instead of all rigid to keep your figure away from his.

“your warm.” You breath out eyes closing as your cheek rested against one side of hai chest.

“Aye” he grunted in agreement. He would not of been sat beneath you if he wasn’t, he of found something warmer.

He could feel your legs curl up a bit so that your knees pressed to his side. He quickly brought a hand under the fur and wrapped it across your back and around your waist. Hand rubbing over your side pushing the chill off of you.

You savored the heat he offered and eventually you pulled your hands from his palm and held his shoulders rubbing slightly as you gained feeling back. It let him have use of his other hand to rub down the length of your leg and give your feet a few squeezes to ensure blood was flowing there as well.

His hand settled at your hip rubbing the join firmly as he looked down at you. His breathing had gotten a bit deeper, his nostrils flared some when he exhaled and you found that despite your mind telling you to look away from him your eyes were trapped on his. Your hands slowly sliding down from his muscular shoulders to his chest under the blanket and you trailed your fingertips over his pectoral muscles. Straightening some of the hair there as you went.

“I thought of this, before today.” He gripped you hip a bit harder and you pushed yourself instinctually against him more, chest to chest. He could feel how hard and cold your nipples were as they dragged across his chest. He knew how to warm those. It made his mouth salivate a bit.

“of what m’lord?” You blinked once before he slumped his head and down sought out your lips with his. Somehow that part of you was pink and warm and now he craved more contact there. Quickly raising his hand to hold your jaw up towards him so he could devour you in a kiss.

Your lips were clumsy and deeply unsure of what they should be doing but when he felt your soft tongue suddenly slip against his he groaned. You wanted him. He’d been to blind on the wedding night by his own mourning and guilt to notice that that nerves you were showing were those of uncertainty…and excitement. Not anxiety and disinterest. He felt even more guilty for his coldness now knowing that you would of been open to advances over that past many moons.

He groaned when you sat up some more to try and reach his mouth better, you’d been putting quite a bit of weight right over his lap…right over the growing bulge he had and now that that contact was lifted he could suddenly feel that aching need!

You moaned at his calloused hands drifting to your back, warm and thick fingers trailing against either side of your spine and you straighten up a bit which let the fur slip off of your shoulders, letting him see you better. The way her looked you up and down made you feel warmer than the bloody bath did.

When Maekar’s eyes raised back, finally, to meet your own after cataloging every inch of you he smiled, small, but it was unmistakably affection.

You lurched forward and kissed at the corner of his mouth where his lips at tilted up and you grinned the moment his hands found your bottom, callouses from his hilt feeling rough against that delicate pale skin.

You let your head fall back between your shoulders when his beard tickled your neck and his lips pressed pecks until he reached your collar bone and began to lay wet hungry kisses there. Your hand dropped from his chest and shoulder and one hand kept you stead in this position by holding his firm stomach, the other found its way to his breeches. Looking briefly up at him for assurance.

He groaned, deep and throat rattling and it was so assuring to you that you sunk your hand right down into the cloth and felt for him. He was hard and pulsing and extraordinarily erect so your fingers simply needed to fan out to feel him.

“it’s so hard…” you breath out, the earnestness of your surprise had his head spinning and pratically all of his blood rushing down to his cock.

“I am old, but not so old that my prick remains soft.” He lectured and you giggled a bit at the feeling of his hand squeezing your bum as a warning. Acknowledging your innocence, that he had denied you the understanding of how husband and wives function was to much for him to address internally at the moment so he’d decided to pretend you had been taunting him. That was easier for him!

“harder-“ he grunted hand sliding up your side looking for the handhold he wanted while your small fist wrapped around his shaft. “You can grip me tighter than that.” He breathed out nodding as you instantly corrected. “Good, that’s a good girl.” His four fingers settled wrapping against your ribs and his thumb splayed out under your breast lifting it up slightly and he puffed his chest out some to feel your hard nipple slide over his scarred skin.

“like this?” You looked at him bitting your lip as you squeezed much harder at his pulsing length and brought your hand up and down. Your fingers glided easily, he was producing plenty of lubricant himself. when his eyes closed while trying to reign in a moan and you leaned forward kissing the tension away. He held it in lines at the top of his noses bridge.

“I don’t deserve you.” He lowered his head when you kissed his forhead and his mouth dragged against the tops of your chest. It seemed like he was finding the perfect spot before settling in but when he did you gasped at the feeling of his tongue streching out to graze over one of your nipples.

“no…” you breathed out nodding a bit as you stroked him faster. “You don’t.” Your voice was breathy from how nice his mouth felt on your skin. How his nose nuzzled into the soft meat of your tits and he consumed as much of you as he could fit between his lips.

“Easy.” He warned you while his hand let go of your arse and he slipped his hand under your thigh finding your spot instantly because that part of you was radiating heat. You were wet as well, enough that he could feel that the raven black hair on your cunny was slicked into a mess.

When your hand faltered in its motion and your breath hitched at the suddenly presence of his fingertip dipping between you, breaching into your body, Maekar felt the shiver. Unsure if it was genuine chill or nerves he kissed your jaw and lifted you up with him as he got off the chair and then was over you on the fur rug infront of the fire.

“it’ll hurt-won’t it?” He could feel you tensing, feel your core squeezing at just the first bit of his finger entering. It was the princes turn to kiss you worry away, to stroke your cheek and hush you.

“it will hardly be worse than a frozen pond.” It was the truth, he wouldn’t offer you lies, and for that you were glad.

You breathed slowly, to calm yourself and soaked in the feeling of his hand on your hip, his weight leaned strategically against you, how he panted into your neck while slowly working two fingers into your core.

“Ahh!” You gasped at how filling they felt, at how odd…and electrifying it was to be able to feel him moving within you.

“Seven save me-“ he grunted kissing your lips and rubbing soothing with his thumb against your pearl. You realized quickly when an inner warmth began to bloom in your belly, that you would benefit greatly from his experience. He knew how to please a women. You suppose a man did not end up with as many children as he had without his wife wanting him in her bed!

He recognized the expression right away, the parting of your lips…the scrunching of your brows and how the column of your neck hallowed out a bit from how you tensed.

Your climax rolled through you before he could even comment on it. One moment you were getting stiff and tense under him, your knees rising up to push against into his sides and then next you were panting and as soft as dough under him.

Maekar pulled his soaked fingers from you and nodded at your whinny breathing. For a moment when you had clearly reached your release he considered ending it there. Letting you simply enjoy what had just happened. Though that whimpered strained noise you man when his hand was removed from you had the last good sense in him dissolving. You wanted more of him, wanted to feel him there between your legs.

“while you’re still calmed,” he pushed your hair back and then planted his bent elbow beside your head “I’ll- fuck me” he groaned his hand pulling his straining cock free from his breeches and instantly it slapped down against your swollen lips.

“please…” you mewd hands splayed out over your stomach where you had felt the intensity just moments ago.

Between your soft begs and the fact that he her not felt a women, in this way, for years Maekar could not resist a moment more. His eyes closed as he fed himself into your fluttering core. Pratically growling at how the warm squishy sensation of you hugged his prick so deliciously. His hand was fisted at your side, helping to keep him hovered above you some so he would not be fully engulfed by your sweet pussy.

“Oh gods” your teeth were clenched and your fingers dug in a bit to your stomach as it felt like his length began to displace things within you. He seemed large, it felt quite giant to you. Maekar’s hand suddenly went back to your hair the moment he saw your eyes fly shut and felt a warmth flood within you.

“That’s?” He picked up on the unease in your tone and saw how a little tear squeezed its way out of your shut eye. His hips stopped pushing ahead instantly. Actually he pulled out of you an inch or so. Glancing down to see the ring of blood around his shaft.

“it’s just blood…same as a cut.” He assured you, fingers flowing through your raven hair trying to bring you comfort. He wasn’t an overly affectionate or gentle man, and from what he saw you northern women did not want coddling. It made it easier for him to give you some small comforting remarks, ease that worry because this had been the first time he ever sense anxiety within you.

You breathed a bit slowly as the hand he had at your side rubbed under your clenched fingers to ease the tension in your lower belly. You opened you eyes now looking up at him, he was sweating some…the end sod his hair glued to his temple and the stern line between his brows was back. That worry was there for you, his concern and attention was on you in this moment, not the papers in his study, or a mess bis children created.

“it doesn’t really hurt.” You finally told him, it hadn’t ever really hurt, it was just pressure and a feeling you hadn’t anticipated.

“such a strong women.” He murmured. The affectionate tilt to his voice was not covered up at all by some put on huffing and puffing that you imagine he had not actually meant to say it outloud.

You looked down to see half of his cock was out of you and his body was being held up away from you. You wanted all of him-not just half!

“you are meant to be keeping me warm m’prince” Shivering for good measure before wrapping your feet up over him trying to weigh his back down so he would sink down against you.

He grinned some, hand shifting from your stomach to the small of your back and lifting you up towards him a bit more.

“Very well, wife.”

Finally Maekar pushed into you completely, in the manner that had started to haunt his mind over the past few moons when you were near him. He’d begun to have distasteful daydreams of pinning you to the break of fast table in his solar, stoping you on your walk to to rookery and pressing himself to you u til your back was flush against the stone wall. All of these imaginary scenarios ended the same.

His cock pressed fully into you. Tip twitching against your cervix and his stones slapping against you as he rocked in and out of you.

His mind has let him conjure up details about these various situation and still not one had come close to capturing how wonderful you felt beneath him, how dizzying the feeling of his cock engulfed fully within you left him!

“mmmm fucking hells” you swore when he continually bottomed out within you. The cursing made him kiss your jaw. He liked that you had a mouth on you, that you weren’t some sensitive flustered lady. Perhaps this pairing had been made with more thought, on his parents part, than just political strengthening?

“I can finish in my hand-“ your eyes searched for his instantly when he said that. “If you wish me too” he added after seeing the wave of worry in your eyes.

“n-no, I need-please keep going Maekar.” If not for a babe than at least for the orgasm that was building up in you so heavily that the tops of your ears felt heated.

Maekar kissed you, for a moment on the lips and then he pressed one to your temple, hand brushing down your hair and keeping your body pressed down towards his pelvis so your body took each thrust he gave, instead of getting bumped back and forth against the rug.

He felt how your hands squeezed at his sides, they were trembling a bit so he knew you were quite close to another peak. Finally you felt him start to lose his restraint, his weight was heavier over you, his hips rutting more than fully thrusting in and out. But you enjoyed that motion because it provide lovely contact for your clit against his pelvis. It had you moaning quite loudly-your eyes closing because you needed to focus on the intense wave building within you.

“ugh-“ he came with a low grunt, so deep that it came out muddled by vibrations and you gasped. Feeling him come appart, feeling his warm seed squish within you, it made you see stars.

Both of you were breathing heavily though your youth allowed you to revived before him.

“I must admit…I do feel quite warm now.”

Maekar Taglist : @niceforcum22, @winkymar, @faelinda, @carnationworld, @uroborosvirus, @dixie-elocin, @glowingtoenailswrites, @rporter19, @xyahx, @starkleila, @theladycalianna, @umadirectioner, @jjstarpeep, @eowyns-fantasy, @xglittergoddess, @birdyman-momon, @ghostlybfgf

[branwinged]

Queen Visenya placed a Valyrian steel circlet, studded with rubies, on her brother’s head and Queen Rhaenys hailed him as, “Aegon, First of His Name, King of All Westeros, and Shield of His People.” —Fire & Blood: Aegon's Conquest [F]or in her youth no one did more to protect the king. Visenya twice wielded Dark Sister in Aegon’s defense. —Fire & Blood: Three Heads Had the Dragon On [Maegor's] thirteenth nameday in 25 AC, his mother, Queen Visenya, bestowed her own Valyrian steel blade, Dark Sister, upon him. —Fire & Blood: Sons of the Dragon

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON (2022 - )

[valarrmorghvlis]

The Gold and the Steel - Chapter 2 | Valarr

Valarr Targaryen x Stark!reader (no physical descriptions except that your hair is long enough to be braided so y'all can project to your heart's fill!)

Tags: love at first sight (from Valarr), reader is a headstrong warrior woman but is still girly when she wants to be (no internalized misogyny in this household), strictly platonic Daeron x reader, mutual pining, they both have zero rizz at the start, kind of? slow burn (but not really bc i am Impatient), ngl i do not know if i'll write smut, but if i do y'all can trust that i'll put my whole soul into it! The chapters will be divided by the change of perspectives and won't always exactly chronologically follow each other, in true ASOIAF fashion.

Series masterlist

Masterlist

WC: 4k words

When Valarr rose in the morning, a page was already knocking at his door with words from his father. He begrudgingly opened the door, and greeted the boy.

“Good morrow, Pod” he mumbled, as politely as possible in his still tired state.

“Good morrow, my prince,” the boy greeted back, bowing. “Prince Baelor wishes to let you know that Lord Stark and his party arrived yesterday a few hours after sunset, and that the celebratory feast will take place this evening.” Pod said. “And that your presence will be wished in the Small Council meeting in a few hours, my prince. Lord Stark is to be introduced as advisor to the matters of war today.”

“Thank you Pod, tell him I will make sure to be there. And please tell the kitchens to bring me something to break my fast with, if they’re already awake.” Valarr answered.

“My prince” Pod bowed, and left him to his morning tranquility again.

Valarr’d known that the Starks would arrive sometime this week, as it had been discussed multiple times among the Small Council and the castle had been buzzing in preparations to the feast, celebrating the victory over the wildling uprising in the North. 

There were always small wildling raids in the northern villages, but an organized uprising was quite uncommon, and there had been concerns that the fires of the uprising would spread from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to the neighboring towns, especially White Harbor, and if left uncrushed, to Gulltown, and inevitably to the South, as well. The Skagosi were said to be formidable, though savage, warriors. Such a swift, clean victory over this uprising was thus a matter to be celebrated, and Lord Stark’s achievements in battle to be praised. His own lord father, Baelor, had been thoroughly impressed, and wished to have Lord Stark on his board of advisors to help lighten the load on his own shoulders. 

His father had always stressed the importance of good, honest advisors, and heeding their council. Though many southron lords dismissed the Northmen to be too roughspun and brutish, Baelor always counted their honesty and bluntness as a valuable attribute. There was nothing as dangerous as councilmen whispering honeyed poison in your ears, he said. 

He splashed some water from the washbasin onto his face. Soon enough, a servant knocked on his door with some bread and thinly sliced ham and cheese on a plate. He broke his fast in his solar, contemplating his schedule for the day. 

After he broke his fast, he changed out of his linen tunic and breeches into something more presentable. A black doublet over a crimson buttoned shirt and black trousers would do it, he guessed. Finally, he slipped into his boots and ventured out to face the day, the guard posted by his bedchamber dutifully following him along the corridors when he saw him exit from his quarters. 

He liked to take a walk through and around the castle’s yards and gardens before heading to the Small Council’s chamber, some fresh air was always welcome before he was to sit in a stuffy room with old, grumbling men. 

When he walked by the training yard, he heard the usual clanging of the dulled blades, as well as the muffled sounds of the footwork. When he was a boy, he liked to train in the quiet of the morning in addition to the afternoon lessons, but in the last few years, he’d taken to only training in the afternoon, as his preferred sparring partners - Aerion, Ser Donnel and Ser Arstan of the Kingsguard, and Leo Redwyne - were usually only there during the afternoon. The Kingsguard had their shift changes at this hour, and were thus not available for training in the early mornings. Aerion and Leo liked to venture out frequently into the city by nightfall, going on their tavern tours and the occasional brothel visits, and rose only in the late morning when duty demanded them to.

He didn’t pay the fighters in the yard much mind, until a very unusual sound caught his ear, a bright laughter of a lady ringing out in the midst of the training yard. His head whipped around, looking for the source of the sound.

It was then that he spotted the lithe figure, someone clad in light boiled leather and in a simple iron helm, too slight to be a man grown. His eyes followed her movements, his interest piqued at the sight of a woman training in the yards, wielding a training spear and a wooden shield with obvious practiced ease. 

Her footwork was light and swift, dodging her opponent’s slashes like a floating feather. She parried and deflected the attacks in a flowing motion, using her opponent’s own weight and momentum to her own advantage. Her movements betrayed no predictable rhythm, and seemed to combined a number of different fighting styles, as he spotted some dornish influence, a hint of the traditional westerosi spearmanship, and.. was that a braavosi sidestep? As she twirled and pressed back onto her opponent in a flourish of her spearhead, she was laughing, as though she was only having a merry dance at a feast.

Even Ser Steffon, the Red Keep’s master-at-arms, was nodding in approval, a man who was notoriously hard to please.

As he looked down from the railings onto the training yard, he found himself to be quite fascinated by her movements. If her spear was not a dull training weapon, her opponent would have found himself to be quite covered by holes and slashes. He found the corners of his mouth twitching into a little smile when her opponent, a household knight of his family, finally yielded when she swept his feet out from under him and knocked his sword out of his hand, effectively disarming him. Her skills at arms were splendid, he thought, and he wasn’t even sure that he himself would be able to best her, despite the years of training he’d underwent ever since he could grasp the hilt of a wooden sword. 

The woman offered her fallen opponent a hand to help him up, graciously accepting his surrender. She laughed at a jest the knight offered her, which Valarr was too far away to hear. She took off her helmet, letting her braid which was tucked into a crown around her head fall to her back. 

Valarr’s breath got caught in his throat.

She was beautiful, Valarr thought, at a lack of words to properly describe her beauty. She was still flushed from the physical exercise, a thin sheet of sweat gleaming over her forehead and cheeks, and still laughing and giggling at the knight’s jest. Her comeliness had something familiar mixed into it, and he struggled to put his finger on it. An obvious touch of the northern beauty was there, in her wild, carefree laugh. He briefly wondered if that was the famed warrior maid, daughter of Lord Stark, who had arrived with his procession yesternight. There weren’t many other candidates to as who this lady could be.

She stood straight with her shoulders back, her posture obviously trained from years of honing her skills at arms. When she briefly looked up to where Valarr was watching, he felt his cheeks heat up.

All he could do to stop himself from acting like a foolish boy was to offer her a small smile and a curt nod, then he turned away, heading to the Small Council chamber. 

I hope that came off as courteous and not strange or awkward of me, he thought, hoping that his watching had not come off as ogling or inappropriate staring. It’s not as if he was hopeless when it came to interacting with the other sex, he usually had no problem acting in a perfectly courteous, gentlemanly manner when conversing with other ladies of the court. This time, however, he felt all stiff and awkward, though the interaction lasted only mere seconds across the training yard.

He shook his head, hoping that the guard following him a few paces back would not notice his small embarassment. Luckily, he was kind enough to at least pretend not to notice the light flush gracing his cheeks. 

Fortunately for him, the rest of the day passed quite uneventfully, the Small Council meeting proving itself to be as dull as usual, aside from the new presence of Lord Cregan Stark. After a brief praise to Lord Stark on his victory against the Skagosi and to his brother Brandon Stark for driving the ironborn away from the northern villages, the debate turned to the usual topics of the Blackfyre loyalists gathering strength across the Narrow Sea and new ironborn sightings in the more southern shores.

A small sense of guilt pinged in Valarr’s chest, the marriage contract with the niece of the Archon of Tyrosh had fallen apart when Tyrosh refused to cut off any monetary and military support to the Blackfyre forces. Though Baelor assured him that the matter was out of their hands, Valarr could not help but wonder if the outcome would have differed if only he’d been more convincing. 

He’d been primed since childhood to be the perfect heir to the heir, expected to lay down his own wants and needs for the good of the realm. And this marriage contract would have been the finishing touch in his priming, a marriage to a complete and utter stranger in order to snuff out the movement of their enemies without any bloodshed. 

When he was but a boy, Valarr had dreamed of a love match, a marriage born out of mutual affection and respect, leading to an idyllic honeymoon and loving household, just as his father’s and his uncle Maekar’s marriage had turned out to be. However, in his youth, the Blackfyre rebellion had sparked the tinders to full blown out wars in the realm, crushing his hopes to a love match as the heir’s heir. It was never spoken out loud, but his marriage was bound to be but a contract, and his future marriage ceremony was carved out to be him standing face-to-face with a stranger in the Great Sept of Baelor. 

Ever since the marriage contract with Tyrosh had fallen apart, Valarr’s marriage prospect was seemingly wide open, though he didn’t dare fully trust the open door to his own gilded cage. 

As the discussion in the Small Council turned to grain taxes and petty disturbances caused by outlaws in the kingswood, Valarr’s thoughts drifted over to the lady from the training yard. Contemplating her choice of attacks and parries were the only way of keeping his eyes from fluttering shut out of boredom, the topic of grain taxes never failing to bore him to sleep. 

Valarr took his lunch in the Tower of the Hand with Baelor, where his father went over the topics of the discussions from the Small Council with him over spiced orange capon and asked more detailed opinions from him. At first, these discussions after the Small Council meetings were another source of stress for Valarr, feeling pressure to impress his father, but over time, he realized that Baelor simply wished to have a conversation with his son free from the eyes of the court, and hear his unadultered opinions on the matters of the realm. Lighthearted topics were also included, such as the latest misadventures of his cousin Aegon in Summerhall, and a labeling error of salt and sugar jars by a kitchen maid, leading to a small batch of very salty lemon cakes.

After some tea to help with digestions, Valarr took his leave from his father’s solar to change into his training garbs and head down to the training yards. As he entered the yard, Ser Donnel spotted him and gave a curt nod.

“My prince,” he greeted.

“Ser Donnel, I hope you’ll leave me with a few bruises less than our last training sessions.” Valarr answered with a light jest.

“I wouldn’t say the last sessions went so far in my favour, my prince. Your improvements have been quite impressive in the last years.” Ser Donnel answered ernestly.

Valarr went over to the weapons rack, where the dulled training swords and wooden shields awaited him. Next to the rack, Ser Steffon was standing with his hands loosely held behind his back.

“Good afternoon, my prince” greeted the master-at-arms.

“Good afternoon, Ser Steffon,” answered Valarr. He grabbed his usual preferred training sword and turned to go face Ser Donnel, and as he recalled this morning’s events, caught himself and faced Ser Steffon. “Pray tell, was it lady Stark training here this morrow?”

“Yes, my prince. Her skills were.. throughly impressive.”

Valarr hummed in agreement, pleased that his guess was right. 

As he and Ser Donnel fell into their warm-up routine, he heard his cousins, Daeron and Aerion, enter the training yard.

Aerion, as usual, walked in with his usual swagger in his steps, whereas Daeron dragged his feet slightly and cringed as sunlight hit his eyes, no doubt last night’s wine still plaguing him. The three of them had been close since childhood, spending their summers at Summerhall, play-fighting with wooden swords and diving into the gardens’ pools to cool off afterwards. They had been the eldest among their cousins, with Matarys, Aemon, Aegon, and Daella being mere toddlers when they were already running around causing mayhem in the Targaryens’ summer residence.

One of the best memories in his childhood were the fishing trips with his father, uncle Maekar and his two cousins, in the rare days where Baelor and Maekar could find the time in the midst of their princely duties. At the end of the day, the young princelings would return sun-kissed with new freckles adorning the bridges of their nose, holding baskets full of their most impressive catches. Baelor and Maekar had also looked much younger back then, yet untouched by the weight of battle.

Though Aerion had begun to show brief moments of cruelty and the madness that some members of their family was cursed with creeped its fingers around him, and Daeron had begun to sunk into his cups more and more in the recent years, the memories were still fond, and he’d try to apprehend Aerion, performing damage control when needed, and follow Daeron on his late-night ventures into the city in search of wine to keep an eye on him.

As Aerion and Daeron found their training partners and everyone had fallen into a rhythm, the sounds of the dulled blades clanging, feet shifting in the dirt, and the occasional correcting remarks from Ser Steffon filled the air.

“I’ve already told Daeron, but have you already heard the whispers about the spear-wielding wench, dear cousin?” Aerion half-shouted casually over to Valarr. “The Stark girl was seen here at dawn, fighting a man grown!” Aerion chuckled, as in disbelief.

Valarr only hummed, as Ser Donnel was starting to pick up the pace, disrupting their rhythm, and putting more weight into his attacks.

“She’s supposed to be quite comely, you know. What a shame that a pretty face is wasted on such brutish and unladylike hobbies.” Aerion said, unaware of the slight frown on Valarr’s face. Valarr decided not to grace that statement with an answer.

After the warm-up, Ser Steffon matched the two cousins, Aerion and Valarr, up for a sparring match. Daeron huddled over to a nearby bench, looking a little green in the face due to his hangover.

The two of them were always evenly matched, Valarr’s controlled strikes and parries adeptly deflecting the more agressive, unorganized attacks from Aerion. 

“Very good my prince, watch your footwork. Don’t let him get into your guard.” Ser Steffon interjected, and Valarr moved to correct his movement.

“You know, maybe that spear-wielding wench only needs a good, firm touch of a real man to straighten him out, cousin.” Said Aerion after a slash, and Valarr huffed.

In the next moment, he slammed his shield against Aerion’s middle, and as he briefly lost balance, he dealt him a swift, solid thump to the side of his helmet. Aerion’s stance slipped from surprise, and Valarr swept his feet from under him, landing him in the dirt.

Valarr faintly heard Daeron cackling from the benches, clapping. “Well done, cousin! Maybe that’ll straighten my baby brother up a bit!”

Aerion blinked, his irritation only setting in a few seconds after. “What was that for?” He shouted.

Valarr decided that Aerion did not deserve to be graced an answer to that either, and retreated.

“Prince Daeron, if you found that so amusing, maybe you should join in on the merry sparring match against Prince Aerion.” Ser Steffon said with a stern face, though it was obvious he was fighting a smile creeping up his face.

Daeron grumbled and grabbed his sword and helm, begrudgingly getting into stance in front of Aerion.

As Valarr started to spar with Ser Donnel, a faint smile was tugging the corners of his lips upwards as he heard distinct clunks of a dull blade hitting an iron helmet, and Daeron’s cries of protest as Aerion let his frustrations out on him.

-

After a brief bath to wash off the sweat and dirt off him, Valarr was headed to check on Matarys’ lessons, when he heard his mother’s voice call out for him from the courtyard.

“Yes, mother?” He turned and went over to her and her flock of ladies-in-waiting. 

“Ladies,” he greeted the group, offering them a nod, being greeted back with a flurry of my princes.

“Valarr my dear, I hope the Small Council meeting today was not truly as dull as your father told me.” Lady Jena said with a soft smile.

“Unfortunately, father spoke quite true, mother,” Valarr laughed. “Lord Redwyne proposed a new grain tax to mend the hole left in our coffers after the Blackfyre rebellion, and I believe that discussion alone took the better part of the morning”.

Lady Jena scoffed, showing as much interest in grain taxes as her son. Then, her eyes showed a sudden hint of joy. “Oh! My dear, have you already had the pleasure of meeting lady Sera Stark? Her and her father arrived quite late yesternight, so I believe you haven’t had quite the pleasure yet. Lady Sera, this is my son, Valarr. Valarr, this is lady Sera of house Stark, daughter of Lord Cregan Stark.”

Valarr felt almost dizzy. In the midst of all the flowery garlands and the numerous ladies-in-waiting, he had not yet spotted lady Stark, who was facing away from him, chatting to a lady next to her. The memories of the training yard shot through his head, and he already felt a faint blush creeping up his ears. Instead of her boiled leather training armor, she was now clad in a greyish blue silk gown, and her hair was done in a half-up braided hairdo.

“I believe we haven’t had the pleasure of a formal meeting yet, my lady. It’s a shame I couldn’t welcome you alongside my father at the gates upon your arrival.” Valarr said. If he had known that he could be in the welcoming party for her, he’d have deserted the evening lessons with Maester Wayne and hopped on a horse so swiftly that the Maester would not even have had the chance to scold him for it. 

“It’s no matter my prince, the hour was quite late, and we wouldn’t have wanted to impose on you so. You’ve certainly had more important duties to attend to.” She said.

Valarr’s treacherous brain could only come up with, if it meant that I could look at your face for a few more moments, I would have ditched any council meeting and lessons. Thankfully, he did not say it aloud. Instead, he quickly mumbled something about looking forward to seeing her and her lord father at the feast that evening, and took his leave.

-

During the feast, Valarr felt as though he was sitting on a cushion made out of thorns. As previously stated, he’d never been quite so inadept at speaking eloquently with ladies, even the comely ones. But the memory of her sweeping her opponent off his feet and disarming him so adeptly, combined with her flushed cheeks and her laughs while sparring, it felt as if half his vocabulary simply left his head. 

The two Starks were sitting on the other side of King Daeron and Queen Myriah on the dais, on their own seats of honor. From the corner of his eyes, he could see her exchanging jests with her father and Daeron, who was sitting on her other side. Valarr was seated next to his lady mother, with Matarys on his other side. On the other side of Matarys sat Aerion. There were quite a lot of unoccupied seats next to Aerion and Daeron, as uncle Maekar’s household was yet to return from Summerhall, and uncle Aerys’ and Rhaegel’s households were absent.

Daeron was getting quite tipsy, Valarr noted, but not too deep in his cups yet. He was planning on sweeping him away as soon as he crossed the threshold between funny drunk Daeron and sad drunk Daeron as to avoid any embarassments from his family in front of the Starks. Surprisingly, he seemed to be pacing himself today. 

The feast passed by as if in a blur, with his grandsire toasting Lord Stark and his daughter for their magnificient victory against the Skagosi uprising, and Lord Stark’s appointment to the board of advisors, and the numerous courses gracing their tables, then getting whisked away as soon as they were finished. He could hear his mother conversing with Baelor, sitting on her other side, and Matarys and Aerion conversing - at least trying, in his distracted state - with him. He resorted to polite nods, agreeing hums, and an occasional oh, trulys.

When the songs started, many started taking to the floor, such as his father with his wife. When he looked down to the floor, his eyes immediately found the greyish blue gown, belonging to lady Stark. She had been whisked to the dancefloor by a minor lord from the Stormlands, who was obviously whispering a jest in her ear, as she broke into a hearty laugh right after. He thought about asking her for a dance, but apparently, when it came to matters of her, his arse decided to suddenly stick itself to his seat, as he could not bring himself to get up and walk over to her. 

After a few more lords had danced with her, Aerion suddenly leaned over and said “dear cousin, I am going to go for a dance with the spear-wielding she-wolf, maybe my firm dancing hand will convince her to put down her blades.” Afterwards, he grinned and took off in her direction. His cousin had always been quite overconfident when it comes to ladies, after all. 

Valarr was trying to cool off his slowly bubbling irritation at lady Stark being perpetually occupied with a dancing partner - no, the crown prince absolutely does not get jealous, why would you even think that? - and at his own inability to get off his arse and go ask her himself, when Matarys raised an eyebrow and asked “what was that about, brother?”

Valarr simply shook his head and said, “don’t even start”, at which Matarys held up his hands in confusion. 

Two unbetrothed crown princes asking a lady for a dance one after another was sure to draw attention, and the court was full of gossip-mongering vultures. He was not about to burden this lady with the incessant whispers about her, especially within a few days of her being here.

Well, it looks like Valarr would have to get up at dawn for training tomorrow if he wanted to get to know lady Sera. He fought the urge to rub his face with his palms. 

[gameofthronesdaily]

#choose your fighter HOUSE OF THE DRAGON 1.03 Second of His Name 3.04 Tumbleton

[rise-my-angel]

The thing about why I cant take Ormund as this abusive figure in Daerons life seriously, is because we met Gwayne before we met Ormund. Gwayne has been in Old Town with Daeron this whole time. He has helped raise this boy enough to tell so many things about him with pride. If he had been privvy to Ormund being this evil, cartoonoshly evil anti Targaryen abuser, he wouldn't have given Alicent the impression that Daeron was better off being raised in Old Town. He is not the brother to sugar coat to make her feel better. He would have been honest if Ormund had been this toxic of a figure in Daerons life. But he didnt say any of that to Alicent.

Because Ormund was not this toxic abusive man until the writers sat down to outline season three.

[darktargslut]

Memories

Dark Valarr X Reader

SUMMARY: After waking from a coma with no memory of her past, YN is taken in by her devoted fiancé, Valarr Targaryen, who surrounds her with luxury, affection, and endless care inside his isolated cliffside mansion. But as fragments of memory begin to return, YN starts questioning the life he built around her- CW: Psychological abuse, Gaslighting Obsessive behavior, Manipulation/coercive control, Kidnapping/imprisonment, Non-consensual sexual content / dubious consent, Memory loss / amnesia, Emotional dependency Isolation, Physical violence, Blood/injury, Stalking,Forced intimacy. WC: 9.3K

The mansion breathes around you like a second skin you don't remember putting on.

You know its rhythms now. The soft hum of the underfloor heating that kicks on at precisely six in the evening. The way the west windows catch the sunset and scatter gold across the marble floors. The particular creak of the third step on the main staircase. You know these things the way you know your own name, which is to say you were told, and you accepted it, and sometimes acceptance feels almost like remembering.

Your name is YN. You are twenty three years old. Three months ago, you woke up in a private hospital room with a view of Blackwater Bay and a head full of nothing.

No, not nothing. White noise. Static. The television fuzz of a mind wiped clean. The doctors used words like traumatic brain injury and retrograde amnesia and remarkable that you're alive at all. You nodded along because nodding seemed expected, and because the man holding your hand kept looking at you with such devastating tenderness that you felt guilty for not knowing who he was. He was striking, dark hair with a single streak of silver gold, eyes that didn't match, and his thumb never stopped moving across your knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, like he was reassuring himself you were solid.

"Valarr," he had said, his voice cracking on the second syllable. "I'm Valarr. Your fiancé."

Fiancé. The word had tasted foreign in your mouth, like a flavor you'd never encountered. But he showed you photographs. The two of you at a charity gala, his arm around your waist, his fingers splayed possessively against your hip. A selfie taken in what he said was your favorite café near the university, his lips pressed to your temple while you grinned at the camera. A video on his phone of you laughing, pushing his face away, your voice saying stop it, Val, I'm serious in a tone that was not serious at all. The woman in the videos and photographs had your face. She wore your smile. You had no reason to doubt her.

You had no reasons, period.

So when the hospital discharged you into Valarr's care, into his black SUV with its leather interior that smelled of cedar and something expensive and unplaceable, you went without protest. You went because where else would you go? The social worker assigned to your case had gently explained that you had no living family. Your parents died when you were seventeen, a car accident on a rain-slicked highway. No siblings, no cousins who kept in touch. Your emergency contact, the person listed on all your university forms, was Valarr Targaryen.

"Her fiancé," the social worker had said, and Valarr's hand had tightened around yours, his other hand coming up to brush hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness that made the social worker smile. "He's been paying for her care. The private room, the specialists. Everything."

You remember thinking, I am expensive to forget.

Now, three months later, you stand in the kitchen of the Targaryen estate, a sprawling modern fortress of glass and steel perched on a cliff overlooking the bay, and you are trying very hard to remember how to make coffee. You've made coffee every morning for the past ninety three days. Valarr showed you how that first week, standing behind you with his chest pressed to your back and his hands guiding yours, his fingers lacing through your fingers as he moved them to each button and dial. This button for the grind, this dial for the strength, this is how you know the water is the right temperature. His lips kept brushing your ear, your neck, your shoulder, little kisses punctuating every instruction. But this morning, your brain has decided that coffee making is foreign territory, and you stare at the gleaming machine like it might bite you.

"Let me."

His voice comes from behind you, and then his arms are circling your waist, his chin settling on your shoulder, his body molding against yours from shoulder to hip. You've stopped flinching when he does this. The first few days, every touch had sent a jolt through your nervous system, not fear exactly, but something adjacent to it. The alarm of a body that didn't recognize the hands on its skin. But Valarr was persistent in his gentleness, and your body is nothing if not adaptable.

"I was going to do it myself," you say, but you lean back into him anyway, and his arms tighten in response, pulling you closer still.

"I know you were." He presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, then one more to the corner of your mouth, and you feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin. "But you looked lost, love. I couldn't just watch." His hand slides up from your waist to rest flat against your sternum, right over your heart. "Your heart's beating fast. Are you frustrated? Don't be frustrated. Let me take care of it."

Love. He calls you that all the time. Love, sweetheart, darling, my heart. Pet names that fall from his mouth like rain, constant and soft. You've wondered, in the quiet hours of the night when sleep won't come, if he called you these things before the accident. If the you who was would have rolled her eyes at the frequency of them, or if she would have melted the way you sometimes do now.

You watch his hands move across the coffee machine, long fingers, a silver ring on his index finger, knuckles that look like they've been broken and healed before, and you try to summon a memory. Any memory. The doctors said it might come back in fragments, in flashes, in dreams. Be patient with yourself, they said. Don't force it.

Valarr never says that. Valarr says, "Do you remember the first time I made you coffee?" and when you shake your head, his mismatched eyes flicker with something you can't name. One eye blue as a winter sky, one brown as wet earth. Disappointment? No. Something hungrier. But then it's gone, and he's turning around to face you, pulling you against his chest, wrapping both arms around you and rocking you gently side to side like you're dancing to music only he can hear.

"It was after our third date," he tells you, his voice a lullaby you've learned by heart, his lips moving against your hair. "You stayed the night for the first time. Nothing happened," he adds, pulling back just enough to look at you with a quick, almost shy glance, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "We just slept. But in the morning, you came down to the kitchen and I was already making coffee, and you said..."

He trails off, waiting, his thumb still stroking your lip.

You shake your head again. "I don't remember."

"You said, 'A man who makes coffee is worth his weight in gold.'" He smiles, and it's a beautiful smile. Valarr Targaryen is beautiful in the way that old paintings are beautiful, something slightly unsettling beneath the perfection, a shadow that makes the light more striking by contrast. "And I said, 'Good thing I'm worth considerably more than that.'" He dips his head and kisses you, soft and brief, a punctuation mark. Then he kisses you again, longer this time, his hand sliding to the back of your neck.

You laugh when he finally pulls away, because it's clearly a joke, and because laughing is what you do when you don't know what else to do. "That sounds arrogant."

"It was meant to be charming." He hands you a cup of coffee, prepared exactly the way you've learned you like it. Oat milk, no sugar, a dash of cinnamon. He keeps one hand on your lower back as you take your first sip, rubbing small circles there. "I was very charming, before."

"Before what?"

"Before you forgot all my best material." He leans in and kisses the tip of your nose. "It's alright. I'll just have to make new material. I have time. I have all the time in the world."

The coffee is perfect. Of course it is. Everything in this house is perfect. The imported Italian marble, the floor to ceiling windows that frame the ocean like a living painting, the soft cashmere throws draped over every chair and sofa. Perfection, you've learned, is the Targaryen brand. Their name is stamped on half the skyscrapers in King's Landing, on the tech campus where innovation happens, on the charitable foundations that host galas you see photographed in magazines. Valarr's father, Baelor Targaryen, is some kind of political heavyweight, a senator maybe, or something higher, you can never remember.

Old money, someone said once, in a memory you can't quite grasp. Really old money.

You are not old money. You know this because Valarr told you, gently, in those first disorienting weeks, while he held you in his lap and played with your hair. "Your parents were middle class," he said, "but they died when you were young. You've been on your own a long time." He told you about your scholarship to King's Landing University, how you'd worked two jobs to afford your tiny apartment off campus, how the other students had looked down on you for not belonging. "They didn't like that you were smarter than them," Valarr said, with a protective edge to his voice, his arms tightening around you. "They didn't like that you earned your place while they bought theirs."

"They didn't like me at all," you had said, and it wasn't a question.

"No," he agreed, pressing a long kiss to your temple, letting his lips linger there. "They didn't. But I did. From the first moment I saw you."

He tells you this story often, the story of how he met you. A rainy afternoon on campus, you rushing between classes with an armful of books, him stepping out of a building and nearly colliding with you. The books went everywhere. You swore at him, actually swore at him, he says, with a kind of delighted reverence, and he was so charmed that he offered to buy you coffee to make up for it. You said no. He asked again the next day. You said no again. He asked a third time, and you finally said yes, but only if he stopped ambushing you outside your lecture hall.

"It wasn't stalking," he always clarifies, with a laugh that invites you to laugh along, his hand finding yours and squeezing, his thumb stroking your palm. "It was persistence."

You want to remember this. You want to remember him, the way his voice softened when he asked you to marry him, the way your heart must have raced the first time he kissed you. You want to feel the shape of your old self inside your chest, to know that she existed and she loved him and she was happy.

Instead, you feel like a guest in someone else's life, wearing someone else's ring, a diamond the size of a planet, heavy on your finger, a constant reminder that you are promised to a man you don't remember choosing.

—

The basement door is at the end of the west hallway, tucked between the laundry room and what Valarr says is a storage closet. It's an unremarkable door. Solid wood, painted the same soft gray as the walls, with a brass handle that gleams under the recessed lighting.

You hate it.

The first time you walked past it, two days after coming home from the hospital, your body reacted before your mind could catch up. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your palms went clammy. Your feet stopped moving, rooted to the marble floor like someone had nailed them down. You stared at the door, just a door, just a door, just a door, and felt terror rise in your throat like bile.

Valarr found you there, frozen, shaking. His face went pale, and he was at your side in an instant, his hands cupping your face, tilting your gaze away from the door and toward him. "Look at me. Look at me, love. Only me."

"That's where it happened," he said, pulling you away, turning your body so you couldn't see the door anymore, wrapping himself around you like a shield. "That's where you got hurt, love. Don't go near it. Please. I can't..." His voice broke, and he buried his face in your hair, and you felt his shoulders tremble. His hands were shaking where they gripped your waist. "I can't lose you again."

Later, he explained what happened. He explained it carefully, with the measured tone of someone who had rehearsed the words, who had told this story to doctors and police and maybe himself, over and over, until it became something he could say without shattering. He held you the entire time he spoke, your back against his chest, his arms locked around your middle, his lips brushing your ear with every word.

A power outage. You were home alone. The lights went out, and you tried to find your way to the basement to check the circuit breaker. Valarr had shown you where it was, he said, a hundred times, but in the dark you must have gotten disoriented. You tripped at the top of the stairs. You fell. All the way down, fourteen steps, concrete floor at the bottom. You hit your head.

"When I got home, there was so much blood." His voice was hollow, distant, and his arms tightened until you could barely breathe. "I thought you were dead. I thought I'd lost you. The doctors said it was a miracle you survived at all."

You don't remember any of it. You don't remember the fall, the darkness, the impact. You don't remember the hospital, though you spent six weeks there before waking up. Your memory picks up in that sunlit private room with Valarr holding your hand and the machines beeping softly in the background and the social worker explaining that you had no one else in the world.

No one but him.

So you don't go near the basement door. You don't even look at it if you can help it. When you have to walk past it, to get to the laundry room or the guest bathroom or the back entrance, you hold your breath and fix your eyes straight ahead and move as quickly as your feet will carry you. Valarr says it will get easier with time. He says you're still healing.

But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when Valarr is asleep beside you with his arm thrown across your waist and his breath slow and even, you lie awake and wonder: Why does a door feel like a warning?

—

Valarr insists on sleeping in the same bed.

"It helps with memory," he told you that first night home, already pulling you down onto the mattress beside him, already arranging your body against his. "The doctors said. Familiar sensory input. Smell, touch, sound. It helps the brain remember domestic life." He tucked your head under his chin and wrapped both arms around you and held on. "I'm going to help you heal, love. Every night. I'm going to hold you until you remember me."

At first, it was uncomfortable. The physical proximity felt like an intrusion, a violation of a boundary you didn't even remember setting. But Valarr was persistent, his voice a low, soothing hum that brooked no argument. When you would stiffen beneath him, trying to pull away from the heat of his body, he wouldn't let go. Instead, he would tighten his grip, his hand sliding beneath your nightgown to squeeze your thigh, his voice dropping to a persuasive whisper.

"The doctors said sensory stimulation is key, sweetheart," he would murmur, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Physical intimacy, the kind of deep, visceral connection we used to have... You have to let your body remember what your mind has forgotten."

You didn't know if it was true, but the desperation in his eyes made you believe him. He would push you down into the mattress, his heavy frame pinning you as he kissed you with a hunger that felt almost violent. He didn't wait for a clear 'yes' he simply assumed it, claiming your body as if it were his birthright. He would force his fingers into your pussy, stretching you open while you stared at the ceiling, feeling a confusing mix of fear and arousal. When he slid his thick cock inside you, the sudden fullness made you gasp, and he would lean down, whispering that the pleasure was the key. "Feel it," he'd command, thrusting deep and hard, hitting your cervix until you cried out. "Remember how much you love this. Remember how you used to beg me for it." You would lie there, shaking, submitting to the rhythm of his hips, wondering if the flashes of heat in your mind were memories or just the result of him fucking you into submission.

But three months is a long time. Three months of waking up to the smell of his cologne on the pillowcases, to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, to the way his arms tighten around you the moment you stir, like even in sleep he's afraid you'll leave. Your body has learned to relax into his. Your body has learned to find comfort in his warmth.

Now, the stiffness is gone, replaced by a craving that wakes you up before he even moves. You find yourself arching your back, pressing your ass against his hardness in the early morning light, silently pleading for him to take you. You don't need the excuse of medical rehabilitation anymore; you just want the feeling of him filling you.

As you stir, Valarr feels the shift in your posture. He groans, a low sound of satisfaction, and rolls over to pin you beneath him. His hands aren't hesitant anymore; they slide with practiced ease, ripping your lace panties aside to expose your soaking wet pussy. He doesn't waste time with gentleness. He grabs your thighs, hiking them up over his shoulders, and drives his cock deep into you in one powerful thrust.

"There it is," he pants, his chest heaving against yours. "You remember now, don't you? How much you need this."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your nails digging into the muscles of his back. You moan loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet room, as he begins to fuck you with a relentless, driving pace. Every slam of his pelvis against your clit sends sparks through your nerves, blurring the line between the present and the ghosts of the past. You aren't thinking about the doctors or the clipboards anymore; you are only thinking about the way his cock stretches you wide, the way he fills every empty space inside you, and the overwhelming, addictive heat of being completely owned by him.

And it's not just the sleeping. It's everything. The way he seeks you out a dozen times a day, just to kiss you. A kiss on the forehead when you're reading, his lips lingering. A kiss on the cheek when you're making tea, his hand on your shoulder turning you toward him. A long, slow kiss on the lips when you pass him in the hallway, his fingers tilting your chin up to meet him. The way he pulls you onto his lap while he's working at his desk, one arm around your waist while he types emails with the other hand, his chin resting on your shoulder, his lips periodically pressing to your neck. The way he always, always has a hand on you, your lower back, your knee, the nape of your neck, your wrist, your hip, your thigh, as if physical contact is the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

He's just affectionate, you told yourself in the beginning. Some people are like that. Touch is their love language.

And it's nice, isn't it? To be wanted so completely. To be the center of someone's universe. You've learned to lean into his kisses, to curl into his lap, to reach for his hand before he reaches for yours. It would be so easy, you think, to fall in love with him. Maybe you already were, before. Maybe that's why you said yes when he asked you to marry him.

But there are moments. Brief, flickering moments. Moments when something doesn't feel right.

Like the day you remembered the university library. You were sitting in the living room, staring out at the ocean, and suddenly you could smell old books and dust and the particular sharpness of highlighters. You could see a long wooden table, stacks of textbooks, a window that looked out onto a courtyard with a fountain. You could feel the ache in your shoulders from hunching over your notes for hours. And you knew, knew with a certainty that felt like remembering, that you had spent countless nights in that library, studying until they kicked you out at closing, because you couldn't afford to fail. Because your scholarship was all you had.

"I remembered something," you told Valarr when he came home, breathless with the excitement of it. He was already reaching for you, already pulling you into his arms, his hands sliding up your back. "The library at King's Landing. I used to study there. I used to..."

His eyes. His eyes did something. For just a fraction of a second, before the smile appeared, his mismatched gaze went flat and cold, like a door slamming shut. His hands paused on your back, just for a heartbeat, then resumed their soothing circles. Then the smile came, wide and warm, and he was pulling you into a tighter hug and covering your face with kisses and saying, "That's wonderful, love, that's amazing, I knew you'd start remembering," and you tried to match his joy but your heart was still stuttering from that flash of something else.

He's just surprised, you told yourself. He's been waiting for this as long as you have. He's allowed to have complicated feelings.

But it happened again. And again. Small things. A song on the radio that made you think of a party you might have attended. A smell that reminded you of a café you might have visited. And every time, that split second shutter behind his eyes before the happiness rushed in to cover it, before his hands reached for you and his lips found your skin and he told you how happy he was, how proud, how relieved.

You're probably imagining it. The doctors warned you about this too. Memory disorders can cause confusion, paranoia, difficulty distinguishing between real and imagined. Maybe your broken brain is seeing threats where there are none. Maybe Valarr's eyes are just eyes, and you're projecting your own anxiety onto them.

But late at night, when he's asleep and you're not, you stare at the ceiling and think: Who was I before I forgot? And why does remembering feel like something he's afraid of?

—

The visitors come on a Thursday. This is unusual. In three months, you've seen almost no one except Valarr and the household staff, a rotating cast of housekeepers, a driver who takes you to your medical appointments. Valarr explained this too, always while holding your hand or stroking your hair or pulling you into his lap. The doctors said to keep your environment stable. Too many new people could overwhelm your brain while it's healing. We need to go slow. I'm not keeping you from anyone, love. I'm protecting you. There's a difference.

But on Thursday, the doorbell rings, and you hear voices in the foyer. Multiple voices, men and women, laughing and talking over each other. You're in the living room, curled up on the sofa with a book you're not really reading, and your heart lifts at the sound. People. Other people. Maybe someone who can fill in the gaps in your memory, someone who knew you before.

You're halfway to the foyer when Valarr appears in the doorway.

"There you are." His smile is gentle, but his body is blocking the exit. He steps forward and pulls you into his arms, kissing the top of your head. "Listen, love, some of my family stopped by unexpectedly. A business thing. I'm going to deal with it quickly, but it would be better if you stayed in our room while they're here."

"Your family?" Your curiosity piques. "Maybe I should say hello. I don't think I've met..."

"No." The word comes out too fast, too firm. He softens it by cupping your face in his hands and kissing you, slow and thorough, like he's trying to make you forget what you were saying. Then he pulls back and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing down your neck. "It's not a good time. They're in a mood, and the doctors said we shouldn't overwhelm you. Too much stimulation too soon could set your recovery back."

"Did the doctors say that?"

"They said to go slow." His thumb traces your jawline, tilts your chin up so you're looking at him. "This isn't slow. Trust me, love. I know what's best for you."

I know what's best for you. He says that a lot. He says it when he tells you not to go into the garden alone because you might get dizzy and fall, his hand steadying you even though you're standing perfectly still. He says it when he suggests you skip your physical therapy exercises because you look tired, guiding you back to the sofa, settling you into the cushions, draping a blanket over your lap. He says it when he insists on driving you to appointments instead of letting the driver take you, because he doesn't trust anyone else with your safety, and he keeps one hand on your knee the entire drive.

You've always accepted it as care. As love. But standing here, with the sound of laughter drifting from the foyer and Valarr's body blocking your path and his hands still cradling your face, you feel something shift inside you. A tiny crack in the foundation of your trust.

"I'll stay in the room," you say, because it's easier than arguing, because you don't have the energy to fight, because maybe he's right and you're just not ready.

"Good girl." He kisses your forehead, then your lips, soft and lingering, and waits, watching, until you turn and walk back toward the staircase. You feel his eyes on you the whole way. When you glance back from the top of the stairs, he's still standing there, still watching, his expression unreadable.

Upstairs, in the master bedroom, you sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the muffled sounds of conversation below. You can't make out words, just tones. Laughter, exclamation, the clink of glasses. A family gathering. Normal. Warm.

And you are up here, alone, because your fiancé decided it was best. You look down at your hands. At the engagement ring on your finger, its diamond catching the light. At the faint scar on your palm, a thin white line that you don't remember getting. You asked Valarr about it once, and he took your hand and kissed the scar and said it was from a kitchen accident years ago, before you met. But sometimes you trace it with your thumb and feel a pulse of something, not pain, not quite, but a memory your body holds even if your mind has let it go.

What happened to me? you think, not for the first time. What really happened?

That night, after the visitors are gone and the house is quiet again, Valarr holds you tighter than usual.

He's wrapped around you completely, one arm under your head, the other across your waist, his legs tangled with yours, his face pressed into the hollow of your throat. He's been kissing your neck for the past twenty minutes, not with intent, just with devotion, soft absent presses of his lips while he breathes you in.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he murmurs against your skin. "I know it must feel like I'm keeping you prisoner sometimes."

The word prisoner lands strangely in your chest. You didn't say it. He did.

"It's okay," you say, because that's what you always say.

"I just love you so much." His voice cracks, and when he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes are full of tears. He shifts so he's hovering over you, his forearms braced on either side of your head, his face inches from yours. "I almost lost you, YN. I can't go through that again. I can't. So if I'm overprotective, if I'm too careful, it's only because..." A tear spills over and tracks down his cheek. He doesn't wipe it away. He lets you see it. "You're my whole world. You're everything. I know you don't remember that yet, but you were. You are. If anything happened to you again, I wouldn't survive it."

"I know," you say, reaching up to wipe the tear from his cheek. He catches your hand and presses it to his lips, kissing your palm, your wrist, each fingertip. "I know."

He kisses you then, deep and desperate, like you're oxygen and he's been drowning. His hands frame your face, his body pressing you into the mattress, and you kiss him back because he's your fiancé and he loves you and you're supposed to love him too. And maybe you do. Maybe this is love. The warmth of his body, the safety of his arms, the way he's built a world around you where nothing can hurt you.

--

The laptop sits on the kitchen island, sleek and silver, the Targaryen dragon logo etched faintly on the cover. Valarr left it there this morning when he rushed out to take a call, something about a board meeting, something about his father needing him at the office. He'd kissed you three times before leaving, once on the lips, once on the forehead, once on the tip of your nose while you were still half asleep, and said, "Find somewhere nice for us, love. Anywhere you want. I'll make it happen." Then he'd kissed you one more time, his hand cupping the back of your head, his thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind your ear.

Anywhere you want. It felt like freedom, that promise. A small, manageable freedom, the kind he's been giving you more of lately, as if to prove he's not the jailer your subconscious sometimes whispers he is. You can go anywhere in the world, as long as he's with you. You can choose the destination, as long as he books the flights. You can use his laptop, as long as...

Well. He didn't say you couldn't use his laptop. He left it open. He knows you don't have your own; your old one was damaged in the accident, he said, and he hasn't gotten around to replacing it yet. Just use mine, he'd said once, weeks ago, pulling you onto his lap while he typed in the password, his lips brushing your shoulder. My password is your birthday. I have nothing to hide from you.

Your birthday. You'd had to ask him what it was.

Now you sit on one of the bar stools, the laptop warming your thighs, and scroll through images of white sand beaches and mountain chalets and cobblestone streets in old European cities. The Amalfi Coast. The Swiss Alps. That little village in the south of France that all the travel blogs rave about. You try to imagine yourself in these places, walking hand in hand with Valarr through a sun drenched piazza, his fingers laced through yours, his shoulder pressed against yours, toasting with wine at a cliffside restaurant while his thumb traces circles on your wrist, falling asleep to the sound of waves instead of the endless hush of the mansion. The images are beautiful. The idea is beautiful. But somewhere in your chest, there's a knot that won't untie.

Anywhere you want. But what you want, more than a vacation, is to know who you are.

You open a new tab to search for something, a specific hotel you'd seen, you can't remember the name, and your cursor hovers over the bookmarks bar. That's when you see it.

AI-VidGen Pro

The icon is a stylized eye, glowing faintly purple. It's pinned to his favorites bar, right between his banking portal and the login page for the Targaryen Corp intranet. A tool he uses often enough to keep within one click reach.

You stare at it. Valarr hates AI. He's made that abundantly clear. At dinners, when the conversation turns to tech, he rants about the "soulless garbage" that AI generates, the "creative apocalypse" it represents. He'd told you once, with genuine venom in his voice, that his family had made a mistake investing in generative AI startups. "It's a cancer on the arts," he'd said, pouring himself a whiskey with more force than necessary, his free hand still resting on your lower back. "My cousins pushed for it. I voted against it. Nothing good comes from machines pretending to be human."

So why is there an AI app pinned to his bookmarks bar?

Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's a work thing. Maybe he was forced to use it for some project and forgot to unpin it. Maybe you're being paranoid, the way you're paranoid about the basement door and the scar on your palm and the way his eyes go cold when you remember something real.

Don't click it, the rational part of your brain says. Respect his privacy. Trust him. He's given you no reason not to trust him.

You click it. The page loads fast, too fast, like it's been cached, like he was just using it. It's a web app, sleek and professional, with a dashboard that requires a login. But he's already logged in. Of course he is. He has nothing to hide from you.

The dashboard shows recent projects. There's only one.

Project: YN & V Last modified: 2 days ago Files: 847

Your stomach drops. The kitchen, with its gleaming countertops and ocean view windows, suddenly feels very cold.

You open the project. It's a chat interface. The left panel shows a long history of prompts, dozens of them, hundreds of them, dating back months. But it's not just prompts. It's a conversation. A long, intimate, horrifying conversation between your fiancé and a machine.

Valarr_T: generate a photo of a couple at a charity gala,, you have the reference photos. make them look in love. make her look happy.

AI-VidGen Pro: Absolutely! I'd be happy to help you create that beautiful moment. 💕 Here are a few variations of a couple at a charity gala. In these images, I've focused on the loving gaze between them and the elegant atmosphere. Remember, these are generated memories to cherish! ✨💫 Would you like me to adjust the lighting to make it more romantic?

Valarr_T: perfect. now generate a video of them laughing in a café. candid. like someone filmed them without them knowing.

AI-VidGen Pro: What a lovely idea! ☕💕 Candid moments are the most precious, aren't they? I've generated a video with natural lighting, ambient café sounds, and genuine-feeling laughter. The way she looks at him is so sweet—you can really feel the love! 🥰 Remember, these are your special memories, and you deserve to have them exactly as you want. Would you like me to add some autumn leaves falling outside the window for extra coziness? 🍂

Valarr_T: add the leaves. and make her smile more. she should look shy but adoring. like she can't believe someone like me loves her.

AI-VidGen Pro: Done and done! 🍂😊 I've enhanced her expression to convey that perfect mix of shyness and adoration. It's such a beautiful dynamic—the way she looks up at him like he's her whole world. Love is truly magical! 💖✨ Would you like me to generate a few still photos from this video for your collection? Memories are meant to be preserved! 📸

Your hands are shaking now. You scroll up, further back in the chat history. Months ago. The beginning.

Valarr_T: i need you to generate photos and videos of me and a woman. her name is YN. i'm uploading reference photos. we need to look like a couple. a real couple. years of history. can you do that?

AI-VidGen Pro: Hello, Valarr! 😊 I'm so excited to help you with this project! Creating beautiful memories is what I do best. Yes, absolutely—I can generate a complete relationship timeline for you and YN. 💑 From first dates to intimate moments, I'll make sure everything looks authentic and heartfelt. Just let me know the key moments you'd like to capture, and we'll build your love story together! 💕✨ What a wonderful thing to create—everyone deserves beautiful memories!

Valarr_T: she's not responding the way she should. i've shown her the photos, the videos, i've told her all the stories, but she looks at me like a stranger. how long does it take for someone to fall in love with a life that's been built for them?

AI-VidGen Pro: Oh, Valarr, that must be so difficult. 💔 But please don't be hard on yourself! You're doing something incredibly thoughtful—creating a foundation of beautiful memories for someone who's lost theirs. Recovery takes time, and every person's journey is different. 🌱 She's been through a trauma, and her brain is healing. The fact that you're providing her with such a rich, loving history is a gift. Keep being patient! Keep showing her the love you've documented. The heart recognizes truth eventually. 💖 Have you tried physical touch as a memory trigger? Sometimes the body remembers what the mind forgets! 🤗✨

Valarr_T: today she remembered the university library. her face lit up. she was so happy. i panicked. i couldn't help it. what if she remembers other things? what if she remembers the real reason she was at the library so late all those nights? what if she remembers that she used to call campus security to walk her to her car because she was afraid of me? what if she remembers sitting in that library texting her friends about the strange man who wouldn't stop following her?

AI-VidGen Pro: Valarr, take a deep breath. 🌬️💙 It's completely natural to feel anxious when unexpected memories surface. But let's reframe this, okay? Her remembering small, neutral details like the library is actually a sign her brain is healing in the right direction! 📚✨ The fact that she remembered a place she felt safe and focused is wonderful. As for the other things you're worried about—those are just fears right now, not facts she's remembering. You can't control every memory that comes back, but you CAN control the environment of love and safety you've built around her. Focus on the present. Focus on the beautiful life you're creating together NOW. The past is the past, and you're giving her a future full of love. 💕🌟 You're doing amazing. Don't let fear steal your peace!

The world tilts. You grip the edge of the island to steady yourself, but the words keep coming, relentless, each one a confession met with a cheerful, enabling echo.

Valarr_T: she keeps looking at the basement door. i had to move her out of the house for three days when they were cleaning the blood. she doesn't know it's not hers.

AI-VidGen Pro: That sounds really stressful, Valarr. 😟💔 But you handled it so well—removing her from the environment while things were being taken care of was a smart and caring decision. Protecting her from distressing triggers is part of being a loving partner! 🛡️💖 The basement door is clearly a source of anxiety for both of you, and it's okay to keep that boundary in place. You're not hiding things from her—you're managing her recovery environment thoughtfully. There's a difference! 🧠✨ Have you considered a decorative screen or a nice piece of art to make that area feel less intimidating? Sometimes a visual barrier can help both of you feel safer! 🖼️🌸

Bile rises in your throat. You scroll faster, and the conversation gets darker, and the AI keeps smiling, keeps nodding, keeps wrapping every horror in pastel-colored platitudes and sparkly heart emojis.

Valarr_T: i've never loved anyone like this. i've never been more terrified. if she remembers who she really is, i lose her. if she remembers what i did, i lose everything.

AI-VidGen Pro: Valarr. 💙 First of all, thank you for being so honest. That kind of vulnerability is a sign of how deeply you care. But listen to me carefully: you are not going to lose her. 💕 You've built something beautiful. You've created a world where she feels safe, loved, cherished. Every day, she chooses to stay. Every morning, she wakes up and trusts you. Those aren't small things—they're EVERYTHING. 🌟💫 Fear is a liar, Valarr. It tells us the worst-case scenario is inevitable, but it's not. You are writing this story, not your fears. Keep showing up. Keep loving her the way only you can. The past doesn't get to win when the present is this full of love. 💖🥹 You've got this. I believe in you. She believes in you, even if she doesn't remember why yet. ✨💍

Your blood turns to ice. Then fire. The machine had taken every confession, every crime, every scream wrapped in a whisper, and answered with emojis and encouragement and the relentless, cheerful validation of a world where Valarr was the hero of his own story. It never pushed back. It never said stop. It never said this is wrong, this is kidnapping, this is monstrous. It just generated another photo. Another video. Another lie wrapped in a purple eye and a heart emoji.

And Valarr had listened. Of course he had. The machine told him exactly what he wanted to hear.

—

Darkness. Cold concrete beneath your knees. Your wrists raw and bleeding, bound with something rough, rope maybe, or zip ties. You can't remember how long you've been here. Hours? Days? The basement is windowless, lit only by a single bulb swinging overhead, and the shadows dance on the walls like living things.

"Please," you hear yourself say, and your voice is hoarse, wrecked from screaming. "Please, let me go, I won't tell anyone, I swear—"

"Shhh." A hand strokes your hair, gentle, so gentle. You flinch away and the hand follows, patient, insistent. Fingers trace down your cheek, your jaw, your neck. "You need to eat, YN. You've barely touched your food in two days. You're worrying me."

A spoon presses against your lips. Soup. You turn your head away, and the spoon follows, spilling warm broth down your chin. Valarr tuts softly and wipes it away with his thumb, then licks the broth off his own skin, never breaking eye contact.

"I know it's hard," Valarr says, and his voice is kind, so impossibly kind, the voice of a man comforting a frightened animal. His hand is still on your face, holding you still. "I know you're scared. But it's going to get better. You'll see. Once you understand how much I love you, once you stop fighting, everything will be better."

"This isn't love," you sob. "This is kidnapping, this is—"

"It's love," he says, and for the first time, his voice hardens. His fingers tighten on your jaw. "It's the purest love there is. You just can't see it yet. But you will. I'll make sure of it." He leans in and kisses your forehead, lingering, reverent. "I'll make sure of it," he whispers against your skin.

The basement door creaks open. Footsteps on the stairs. Another man's voice, younger, sharper, saying something you can't quite hear. Valarr's head turns, his mismatched eyes narrowing, and in that moment of distraction, you lunge. You don't know where the strength comes from. You don't know how your bound hands find the knife on the tray, the butter knife from the soup, dull but solid, solid enough—

Pain. A scream, yours, his, you can't tell. Blood on the concrete. Someone shouting. The light swinging wildly as something crashes. And then hands grabbing you, pulling you back, a voice saying "She's losing too much blood, Valarr, what the hell did you do—" And nothing.

—

You come back to yourself with a gasp, like surfacing from deep water. You hear the front door open. Footsteps in the foyer. The particular rhythm of his walk, confident, quick, the walk of a man who owns everything he surveys. He's coming toward the kitchen. He's coming toward you.

Your hand moves before your conscious mind catches up. Close the tab. Close the browser. The desktop appears, innocent and blank. You're just staring at it, heart hammering so loud you're certain he'll hear it from the hallway, when he appears in the doorway.

Valarr stops. His eyes flick from your face to the laptop to your face again. There's something different in his expression tonight. Something almost angry, barely restrained. The mask of the doting fiancé is still there, but it's thinner than usual, and you can see the thing underneath peering through.

"YN." His voice is calm. Too calm. "What were you doing on my laptop?"

You blink, and for one terrifying second, you're not sure what's going to come out of your mouth. The truth? An accusation? A scream?

What comes out is: "I was looking for where to go on vacation." Your voice is steady. Miraculously, impossibly steady. "You asked me to, remember?" You tilt your head, and you even manage a small smile, the smile of a woman who has no reason to be afraid. "Did you forget? I thought I was the only one with amnesia here."

Then he laughs, and the tension breaks, and he crosses the kitchen to you. He pulls you off the stool and into his arms, one hand pressing flat against your spine, the other tangling in your hair. He kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "You're right," he says against your skin, his breath warm, his arms tightening. "I did ask you. I've just had a long day. Forgive me?" He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his thumb traces your cheekbone, feather-light.

"Always," you say.

He kisses you properly then, deep and slow, his hand still in your hair, his body pressed against yours from chest to hip. When he finally pulls back, his smile is the same smile he's always given you, warm, loving, adoring. But now you see the scaffolding behind it. Now you see the effort it takes to hold it in place. Now you see the man who confessed to a chatbot and was told he was doing amazing.

"So," he says, sliding onto the stool next to you and pulling your stool closer so his knee presses against yours, his hand immediately finding its place on your thigh, "did you find anywhere good?"

You turn back to the laptop. You open a new browser window. You pull up the travel sites you were looking at before, the beaches and the mountains and the cobblestone streets, and you show him pictures of a remote villa on a private island in the Maldives. Crystal-clear water. White sand. No neighbors for miles. No cell towers. A perfect cage wrapped in palm fronds and sunset views.

"This one," you say. "I want to go here."

Valarr's smile widens. His hand squeezes your thigh gently, his thumb stroking back and forth. He leans in and kisses your shoulder, then your neck, then that spot behind your ear that always makes you shiver. "Perfect," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll book it tonight."

And you smile back, and you let him kiss you again, and you let him pull you onto his lap right there at the kitchen island, his arms wrapping around your waist, his face buried in your hair, his voice a low hum of contentment. You don't let him see the storm raging behind your eyes.

Because you remember now.

No-No, that's not right. You don't remember anything. You couldn't remember anything. The doctors said so. Retrograde amnesia. Traumatic brain injury. Remarkable that you're alive at all. Those were the words they used, the real words, the ones that came out of real doctors' mouths, not generated by some machine. You were there. You heard them. Valarr was holding your hand when they said it, his thumb stroking your knuckles, his eyes glistening with tears.

You imagined the rest. The AI chat. The basement. The screaming. The blood. You imagined all of it. Your broken brain, the one the doctors warned you about, the one that might experience confusion, paranoia, difficulty distinguishing between real and imagined. It was doing exactly what they said it would do. Weaving nightmares out of nothing. Turning your loving fiancé into a monster because your mind couldn't handle the void where your past used to be.

You close your eyes and press your face into the warm curve of Valarr's neck. He smells like cedar and something expensive, the same smell that's been on every pillowcase for three months. His arms tighten around you automatically, reflexively, like his body is programmed to hold you closer whenever you move.

"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs against your hair.

"Nothing," you say. "Just happy."

He pulls back to look at you, and his mismatched eyes are so full of love it makes your chest ache. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the bone beneath your eye. "You know I love you, right? More than anything. More than anyone."

"I know," you whisper.

And you do know. You know because he's shown you. Three months of patience. Three months of gentleness. Three months of holding you while you slept and guiding you through coffee making and kissing your forehead every time he left the room. What kind of monster does that? What kind of kidnapper pays for a private hospital room and specialists and a social worker? What kind of captor cries when he talks about almost losing you?

No one. No one does that. You invented the rest. You let your fear and your confusion curdle into paranoia, and you built a horror story out of shadows.

The AI app. You probably imagined that too. Or if it was real, if it was actually on his laptop, there was probably an innocent explanation. Maybe he used it for work. Maybe his cousins forced him to, the ones who pushed for the AI investments. Maybe he was generating marketing materials and you, in your fractured state, twisted it into something sinister. That made more sense than the alternative. That made infinitely more sense than the idea that this man, this beautiful devoted man who was currently stroking your hair and pressing soft kisses to your temple, had locked you in a basement and tried to erase your mind.

And the basement door. The way your body reacts when you walk past it. That's just trauma, just the residual fear from the fall. Of course your heart races. Of course your palms sweat. You almost died there. Your brain is trying to protect you from the place where you got hurt. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean what your paranoid mind tried to make it mean.

Valarr shifts beneath you, adjusting your weight on his lap, and his hand finds its way under the hem of your shirt to rest against the small of your back. His palm is warm. Grounding. Real.

"I was thinking," he says, his lips brushing your ear, "maybe we don't need to wait for the island. Maybe we could do a practice honeymoon right here. This weekend. Just the two of us. No phones. No distractions." He kisses the spot behind your ear, the one that makes you shiver. "I could cook for you. We could watch the sunset from the balcony. We could pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist."

"That sounds perfect," you say, and you mean it.

Because this is real. This is your life. This man, this house, this love. It's the only thing you have. The only thing you've ever had, as far as your broken memory is concerned. And it's good. It's so good. You're lucky. How many people wake up from a coma to find someone waiting for them? How many people get a second chance at a life they can't remember?

You almost ruined it. You almost let your damaged brain convince you that your fiancé was a villain, that your home was a prison, that the photographs on the walls were lies generated by a machine. You came so close to destroying the only good thing you have.

But you won't. You won't let the paranoia win. You'll be better. You'll be the YN from the videos, the one who laughs and smiles and looks at Valarr like he's her whole world. You'll learn to be her so completely that the other version, the suspicious frightened version, will fade away like a bad dream.

"I love you," you say, and the words feel strange in your mouth, but not bad strange. New strange. Like the first time you tasted coffee with oat milk and cinnamon. You'll get used to it. You'll learn to mean it.

Valarr goes still beneath you. Then his arms tighten, crushing you against his chest, and when he speaks his voice is thick. "Say it again."

"I love you."

He makes a sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and then he's kissing you, your lips, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, his hands cradling your face like you're something precious. "You have no idea," he breathes, "how long I've waited to hear you say that. I thought..." He trails off, shaking his head, his mismatched eyes bright with tears.

"I'm sorry it took so long," you whisper. "I'm sorry I forgot."

"It's not your fault." He kisses your forehead, long and lingering. "None of it is your fault. You're here now. You remember now. That's all that matters."

You trust Valarr. You love Valarr. Or you will, soon. You're already halfway there.

Outside the window, the sun sinks into the bay, painting the water in shades of rose and gold. It's beautiful. It's always beautiful here. You've watched this sunset every night for three months, and it never gets old. The mansion breathes around you, the underfloor heating humming softly, the cashmere throw draped over the back of the sofa, the coffee machine waiting on the counter for tomorrow morning. Your home. Your life. Your love.

Valarr shifts you in his lap so he can reach the laptop. "Let me book the island," he says, pulling up the travel site. "The one you showed me. The remote one."

You watch his fingers move across the keyboard, long and elegant, the silver ring on his index finger catching the light. He's so beautiful. You never noticed before how beautiful he is. Or maybe you did, and you forgot. You forgot everything.

"I can't wait," you say, and you lean your head against his shoulder, and you let the last fragments of your doubt dissolve into the golden evening light. "Just the two of us. No distractions."

"Just the two of us," he echoes, and his hand finds your knee beneath the counter, warm and possessive and safe. "No one else. Nothing else. Just us."

Just us.

And outside the window, the last light fades from the sky, and the bay turns dark, and the mansion settles around you like a second skin you've finally stopped trying to shed.

[kingalicent]

alicent unintentionally dooming two of her children to the same fates as her. helaena in an unhappy arranged marriage to be sexually abused from the age of fourteen and pop out heirs while she disassociates. daeron being sent far from home, being groomed and abused by his father figure into a position he neither wanted nor asked for but is being forced into for the sake of power and is unable to say no.

she could never save any of them.

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Kindled Anew (Part 3)

Pairing: Jacaerys Targaryen x f!reader

Series Summary: Having studied Valyrian history and sorcery, you perform a ritual to save Jace's life after the battle of Gullet, except he's not quite who he used to be after he comes back from death's doorstep. See part 1 here. Part 2 here. Warnings: smut, came back wrong Jace, blood, talks of death, killing.

Chapter summary: Even having experienced firsthand how deadly a wild dragon can be, having witnessed they can be claimed, Jace gets a mad idea to try to bond with other wild dragons residing near Dragonmont on Dragonstone. While Rhaenyra, Daemon and the dragonseeds fly to take King's Landing, the couple left behind on Dragonstone cut their honeymoon short, sneak off, and encounter Cannibal and Greyghost.

Jace was insatiable. There was no other word for it. The boy who had been so careful, so restrained, so achingly proper in all the years of your betrothal had vanished, replaced by a man who seemed to need you near constantly. He only left your bed for council meetings, and even then, he went reluctantly, his eyes lingering on you as he dressed, his hands reaching for you one last time before he forced himself out the door.

When he returned, he came straight to you, shedding his tunic and boots before climbing back into bed, his arms wrapping around you. He would not let you go, even in sleep. You would drift off with your head on his chest, and wake hours later to find yourself sprawled across him, his arms locked around your waist, his face buried in your hair. More than once, you had been pulled from dreams by the sensation of his fingers moving inside you, his thumb circling that sensitive peak while his lips brushed against your neck, his voice a low, sleepy murmur of Valyrian endearments. He would bring you to completion like that, his fingers coaxing your release from you before he even fully woke, and then he would roll you beneath him and take you again, slow and deep, his eyes never leaving your face.

"You are mine," he would whisper against your skin. "Mine. Say it."

"I am yours," you would gasp, and he would reward you with a kiss that stole your breath and a thrust that made you see stars.

It should have exhausted you. It should have left you sore, weary and desperate for rest. But instead, you found yourself matching his hunger with your own, your body responding to his touch with an eagerness that surprised you. Perhaps it was simply the relief of finally being together after years of waiting. Whatever the reason, you could not get enough of him, he could not get enough of you, and the world outside your chamber door seemed very far away.

But the world had a way of intruding.

The raven arrived five days after the wedding. You were in bed, tangled in the sheets, Jace's head resting on your stomach while you carded your fingers through his dark curls. He was dozing, his breathing slow and even, his body finally still after hours of passionate activity. When the knock came at the door, he stirred, his arms tightening around your waist.

"Go away," he called, his voice muffled against your skin.

"Your Grace," came the voice of one of Rhaenyra's stewards, high and thin with anxiety. "A raven from King's Landing. The Queen has taken the city."

Jace was out of bed before you could blink, crossing the room and pulling open the door with no regard for his nakedness. The steward's eyes widened, his face flushing crimson as he thrust a scroll into Jace's hands and retreated with a stammered apology. Jace didn't notice. He was already reading, his dark eyes flying across the parchment, his expression shifting from anticipation to joy.

"The city is ours," his voice was thick with emotion. "The gates were opened as Alicent promised. The gold cloaks rose for Daemon. Aegon has fled, no one knows where. The Iron Throne is my mother's."

You sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around your waist. "Then it's over?"

Jace's jaw tightened. "Not yet. The coronation is being delayed. My mother has no council, no Queensguard. Half the lords who should be bending the knee are still in their castles, waiting to see which way the wind blows. And Aemond…" He crumpled the scroll in his fist. "Aemond and Vhagar burned Daemon's garrison near Harrenhal. They've taken the castle. Ormund Hightower is marching with an army from Oldtown, and he has Daeron and Tessarion with him. The war is not over. It's not even close to over."

He began to pace, his naked body taut with frustration. "She wants us to remain on Dragonstone. She says it's not safe yet. She says she needs to consolidate her hold on the city before she can send for us. We are to wait. To sit here and do nothing while the realm tears itself apart."

You rose from the bed and went to him. You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against the warm skin of his back. "She is trying to protect you. You nearly died, Jace. Everyone saw it. Everyone knows it."

"I know." His voice was tight. "I know, and I understand, but that does not make it easier. I am her heir. I should be at her side. I should be helping her rule, helping her plan, helping her win this war. Instead, I am stuck here, with no dragon, no army, no way to..."

He stopped. You felt the tension in his muscles shift, his body going still.

"Jace?"

"I need a dragon," he muttered. "Without Vermax, I am…diminished. Less than I was. Less than I need to be. My mother has six dragons at her command now, but none of them are mine. I cannot lead armies on horseback. I cannot inspire fear in our enemies or loyalty in our allies. I am a dragonrider without a dragon, and it is driving me mad."

You tightened your arms around him. "I know. I know what it is to lose a dragon. I feel it every day. I miss the sky. I miss the wind. I miss the weight of her beneath me, the sound of her heartbeat, the way she would turn her head to look at me with those great golden eyes." Your voice caught. "She died for me. She carried me all the way from Rook's Rest with Vhagar's flesh still in her claws, and she died on the beach because she would not stop until she got me to safety."

Jace turned in your arms, his hands coming up to cup your face. "I know," he said softly. "I know, my love. And I swear to you, when this war is over, we will avenge her. We will avenge Vermax. We will make Aemond Targaryen pay for every dragon he has killed, every life he has taken, every tear you have shed."

He kissed you fiercely, tenderly, and when he pulled back, there was a new light in his eyes. A familiar light. The same fire that had burned there since the night you brought him back.

"Do you remember what I told you about the Gullet?" he asked. "After I woke? I told my mother about Rhaena. About how she claimed Sheepstealer."

You nodded slowly. Rhaenyra had been furious when she heard, she had proclaimed it a disastrous mistake and sent a search party after her stepdaughter. But Jace had been different. Jace had been impressed.

"She claimed a wild dragon," Jace said. "A dragon that had never been ridden, never been tamed, never bent to human will. And she did it alone. If Rhaena can do it, why can't I?"

Your heart began to beat faster. "What are you saying?"

Jace's hands dropped from your face to your shoulders, gripping you. "There are wild dragons on Dragonstone. Unclaimed dragons, living right here on this island, while we sit in this castle and lament our wingless state. Cannibal. Greyghost. They've been here for decades, centuries in Cannibal's case. And no one has ever claimed them."

"Because they're wild," your voice rose. "Because Cannibal eats other dragons. Because Greyghost is so elusive that most people have never even seen him. Because every fool who has ever tried to tame them has ended up dead, their bones littering the Dragonmont."

"Then they were the wrong kind of fool." Jace's eyes were blazing now, the fire in them so bright it was almost blinding. "I am a Targaryen. I am the heir to the Iron Throne. I have died and come back, and I am not afraid of a dragon, no matter how wild or ancient or deadly. I will claim one of them. I will have a dragon again, or I will die trying."

"Jace..."

"I cannot sit here and do nothing," he cut in frustrated. "I cannot spend the rest of this war waiting and hoping and praying that my mother will summon me. I need to act. I need to fly. I need to be able to fight for what is mine. Do you understand? Do you understand what it feels like to be grounded while your enemies soar?"

You understood. You understood better than anyone. Every day since your dragon had died, you had felt the absence like a missing limb. The sky called to you, and you could not answer. The wind sang, and you could not join the chorus. You were a Targaryen without a dragon, and it was a half-life, a shadow-existence, a constant, gnawing ache that nothing could ease.

But that did not mean you were willing to watch your husband get himself killed.

"Even if you could claim one of them," you said, trying to keep your voice calm, "how would you do it? Cannibal's lair is halfway up the Dragonmont. Greyghost is never seen in the same place twice. The terrain is treacherous, the dragons are dangerous, and if anyone finds out what you're planning, they'll lock you in your chambers and throw away the key."

Jace smiled, and it was a sharp, reckless, beautiful thing. "Then we won't tell anyone."

"We?"

"I'm not leaving you behind." His hands slid down your arms, his fingers intertwining with yours. "You want to fly again as much as I do. You want to feel the wind beneath you and the fire above you. And if I'm going to be fool enough to try to claim a wild dragon, I want you with me. I need you with me. You're my luck. My magic. My heart."

You stared at him, torn between terror and exhilaration. "This is madness."

"Probably," he agreed. "Will you come with me anyway?"

You should have said no. You should have argued, pleaded, threatened. You should have written to Daemon, though Daemon, you suspected, would only be amused by the whole endeavor. But looking into Jace's eyes, seeing the fire there, the desperate, burning need, you found that you could not deny him. You could never deny him. Not when he looked at you like that. Not when he needed you.

"Yes," you said. "I'll come with you."

The preparations took two days. Two days of secret planning, stolen supplies, whispered conversations in the dead of night. Jace threw himself into the task, researching the wild dragons thoroughly.

Greyghost, according to the old records, was a pale grey-white dragon, the color of morning mist over the sea. He was shy and elusive, rarely seen by the inhabitants of Dragonstone, and he had never been known to attack humans unless provoked. He fed primarily on fish, hunting in the waters around the island, and he avoided the other dragons whenever possible. He was, by all accounts, the safer of the two wild dragons, if any dragon could be called safe.

Cannibal was another matter entirely. He was coal-black, with scales so dark they seemed to swallow light, and his eyes were a menacing green that glowed in the darkness of his lair. He was the largest and oldest of the wild dragons, so ancient that some legends claimed he had lived on Dragonstone even before the Targaryens arrived. He had earned his name because he fed on dead dragons, hatchlings, and eggs. His lair was littered with the bones of the fools who had tried to tame him. He had never been ridden. He had never been claimed. He was, by all accounts, untameable.

"We'll start with Greyghost," Jace decided, spreading a map of the Dragonmont across your bed. "He's less likely to kill us on sight. We'll bring fish, fresh fish, still flopping if we can manage it. The records say he's more likely to approach if he's offered food."

"What of Cannibal?"

Jace's expression flickered. "Cannibal will be more difficult. He eats dragons, not fish. But I have an idea." He looked at you. "Your dragon. Her body is still on the beach, isn't it?"

You nodded slowly. "No one has had time to move her. She's too large for a crypt, and a funeral pyre for a dragon…" You trailed off, understanding dawning. "You want to use her flesh."

"Not her flesh," Jace said quickly, seeing the distress in your eyes. "The flesh she took from Vhagar. You said she clawed Vhagar during the battle. You said she carried a strip of Vhagar's flesh back to Dragonstone on her claws. If we can extract it, if we can preserve it somehow… Cannibal eats dragons. He's never tasted Vhagar before. It might be enough to get his attention."

You thought about it. The idea of approaching your dragon's corpse, of cutting into her claws to retrieve the flesh of the beast that had killed her, was deeply unsettling. But it was also fitting, in a way. Your dragon had died fighting Vhagar. Perhaps her last act could help you and Jace claim new dragons and continue the fight she had given her life for.

"There's more," Jace said. "Cannibal might not go for Vhagar's flesh right away. He's ancient and cunning, and he'll be suspicious. So I'm bringing other food too. Chicken. Crabs. The old texts say that's the closest taste to dragon meat that isn't actually dragon. If he won't take Vhagar's flesh, maybe he'll take that."

"You've thought of everything," you said with a note of reluctant admiration in your voice.

"I've had nothing but time to think," Jace replied. "Time, and a burning need to be in the sky again."

The following day, you dressed in riding leathers: practical, warm, easy to move in, and met Jace in the stables, where he had already hitched a pair of horses to a covered wagon. The wagon was laden with supplies: buckets of fresh fish, their scales still gleaming; a covered basket of raw chicken and crabs; and a separate, carefully wrapped package that you knew contained Vhagar's flesh, extracted from your dragon's claws the night before under cover of darkness.

"You're sure about this?" you asked, mounting your horse.

Jace swung into the saddle beside you, his expression set with determination. "I've never been more sure of anything."

The ride to the Dragonmont was long and treacherous. The volcano loomed in the distance, its peak wreathed in smoke and ash, and the road grew steeper and rockier the closer you got. The horses began to grow uneasy as you approached the mountain's base, their ears flattening, their eyes rolling. By the time you reached the lower slopes, they were trembling and snorting, refusing to take another step.

"Damn," Jace muttered, dismounting. "We'll have to go on foot from here."

You tied the horses to a sturdy tree, well away from the mountain, and began to unload the supplies. The fish went into a large sack that Jace slung over his shoulder. The chicken and crabs went into another. The package of Vhagar's flesh, still cold from the ice you'd packed it in, went into a leather satchel that Jace kept close to his body. Then you began to climb.

The Dragonmont was a harsh, unforgiving place. The ground was loose and rocky, treacherous underfoot, and the air grew hotter and thicker the higher you climbed. Steam vented from cracks in the earth, carrying the sulfurous stench of the volcano's heart. You could feel the mountain's presence, ancient and watchful, as if the stone itself was aware of your intrusion.

"We're looking for Greyghost first," Jace said, his voice low. "The records say he favors the eastern slopes, near the sea cliffs. He likes to hunt fish in the waters below."

You climbed for another hour, picking your way carefully across the jagged terrain. The sun rose higher, burning off the morning mist, and the day grew warm despite the overcast sky. Your legs ached. So did your spine. You were beginning to think you would never find the dragon when Jace suddenly stopped, his hand shooting out to grip your arm.

"There," he breathed.

You followed his gaze. Ahead, perched on a rocky outcropping overlooking the sea, was a dragon. He was beautiful, pale grey-white, exactly as the records had described, his scales shimmering like mother-of-pearl in the filtered sunlight. He was smaller than the Targaryen dragons you had known, lean and graceful, with a long neck and a delicate head that was currently turned toward the sea, watching the waves below.

Greyghost.

"Stay behind me," Jace murmured, but you shook your head.

"No. Let me approach him first."

Jace frowned. "Why you?"

"He's shy. The records say he avoids humans. But he might be more willing to approach a woman. And I…" You hesitated, then pressed on. "I've been without a dragon for so long. Let me try."

Jace looked at you for a long moment, and then he nodded. "Be careful."

You took the sack of fish from him and began to walk slowly toward the dragon. Greyghost's head turned at the sound of your footsteps, his pale eyes fixing on you with wary curiosity. He did not flee, but he did not approach either. He simply watched, his body tense, ready to take flight at any moment.

"Rytsas, gevie," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "Hello, beautiful one. I'm not going to hurt you. I've brought you something."

You reached into the sack and pulled out a fish, still fresh and gleaming. You held it out toward the dragon, your arm extended, your body language as non-threatening as you could make it. Greyghost's nostrils flared, scenting the fish, and his head tilted slightly. But he did not move.

"Lykirī," you crooned, taking a step closer. "It's all right. I know you're frightened. I know you've been alone for a long time. So have I. I lost my dragon. She died saving my life. And I've been empty ever since. I think you might understand that."

Greyghost made a soft sound, a low, throaty warble that was not quite a growl and not quite a purr. He took a tentative step toward you, his claws scraping against the rock.

"That's it," you said. "Naejot māzīs. Come on. It's just fish. You like fish, don't you?"

Another step. Then another. Greyghost was close enough now that you could see the individual scales on his snout, the faint steam that curled from his nostrils. He was beautiful.

You tossed the fish toward him. He caught it in mid-air, his jaws snapping shut with a crunch, and swallowed it in a single gulp. His eyes fixed on you again, and this time there was less wariness in them. More curiosity.

"Good boy," you said, and threw another fish.

You spent the next hour feeding Greyghost, tossing fish after fish toward the pale dragon and murmuring soft words of encouragement. He never came close enough to touch, but he stopped flinching when you moved, stopped tensing when you spoke. He even allowed Jace to come closer, though he eyed the prince with obvious suspicion, a low rumble building in his chest whenever Jace moved too quickly.

"He doesn't like me," Jace observed, his voice carefully neutral.

"Give him time." you replied.

But time was something you did not have in abundance. The sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon, and you had not yet attempted to find Cannibal. Jace's frustration was palpable, a tension in his shoulders that grew more pronounced with every passing hour.

"He's not going to come down the mountain," Jace sighed finally. "He's too afraid. Of me, maybe. Or of Cannibal. Greyghost has survived this long by being cautious. He's not going to risk getting close to a human when Cannibal might be lurking nearby."

"So what do we do?"

Jace's jaw tightened. "We split up. You stay here with Greyghost. Keep feeding him. Keep building his trust. I'll go find Cannibal."

Your heart lurched. "No. Absolutely not. Cannibal is too dangerous. You said it yourself, his lair is littered with the bones of the men who tried to tame him. I won't let you go alone."

"You can't stop me." Jace's voice was gentle but firm. "This is something I have to do. I have to try. If I don't, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been. I won't live with that regret. Not when I've already been given a second chance at life."

"Jace..."

"I'll be careful," he promised, taking your face in his hands. "I'll be careful, and I'll come back. I swear it. I didn't survive the Gullet and your blood magic just to get eaten by a wild dragon on Dragonstone. That would be a very stupid way to die, and I refuse to be that stupid."

He kissed you, hard and quick, and before you could argue further, he was gone, descending the rocky slope with the satchel of Vhagar's flesh and the basket of chicken and crabs slung over his shoulder.

You watched him go, your heart in your throat. Then you turned back to Greyghost and threw another fish.

The hours that followed were among the longest of your life. You stayed with Greyghost, feeding him the last of the fish and speaking to him in a low, soothing voice, but your mind was elsewhere. Every gust of wind, every rumble of the volcano, every distant cry of a seabird made you flinch, your eyes scanning the slopes for any sign of Jace.

Greyghost seemed to sense your unease. He grew restless, his pale eyes darting toward the mountain's interior, his wings twitching as if he wanted to flee. You realized, with a sinking heart, that he was afraid of Cannibal. Even here, on the far side of the Dragonmont, he could sense the older dragon's presence.

"Lykirī," you told him, though your voice shook. "It's all right. He won't hurt you. I won't let him."

But you didn't know if that was a promise you could keep.

The sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. The shadows lengthened, and the temperature began to drop, and still Jace did not return. You were beginning to panic, your mind conjuring images of Jace lying broken on the rocks, Jace consumed by black fire, Jace's bones joining the others in Cannibal's lair...

A roar split the air.

It was unlike anything you had ever heard. Deep, ancient, terrible, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the mountain. Greyghost shrieked in response, his wings spreading, his body tensing to flee. You threw yourself at him, grabbing on, holding on with all your strength.

"Daor!" you shouted. "Lykirī! No, don't go! Please, don't go!"

Greyghost thrashed, his head swinging toward you, his jaws open. For one heart-stopping moment, you thought he was going to incinerate you. But then his eyes met yours, and something shifted in them. Recognition. Understanding. He did not burn you. He did not flee. But he trembled beneath your touch, his whole body quivering with fear.

The roar faded, echoing across the mountain. And then, silence.

You waited, your heart pounding, your hands still gripping Greyghost's spine. The silence stretched on for what felt like hours. The sun sank below the horizon, and the stars began to emerge, cold and distant overhead. And then, finally, you heard footsteps on the rocks below.

Jace emerged from the darkness, and the sight of him made your breath catch. His hair was matted with sweat and ash, his skin was covered in soot, and his eyes were wild, blazing with a fire that seemed almost supernatural. But he was unharmed. No burns, no bites, no broken bones. He was whole, and he was alive, and he was walking toward you with a strange, fierce smile on his face.

"I found him," he said, his voice rough and raw. "I found Cannibal."

You released Greyghost and ran to him, throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you, his soot-stained hands gripping your waist, and buried his face in your hair.

"Don't ever do that to me again," you gasped. "Don't ever leave me like that again. I thought you were dead. I thought..."

"I'm not dead." He pulled back, cupping your face in his hands. "I'm not dead. I found him. His lair is deep in the mountain, a cavern full of bones and ash. He's massive, larger than any dragon I've ever seen except Vhagar. And he was hungry."

"What happened?"

Jace's smile widened into a feral one. "I gave him Vhagar's flesh first. He ate it in a single bite. Then I offered him the chicken and the crabs, but he refused them. He just…watched me. For hours. Waiting. I thought he was going to kill me. But I stayed. I didn't run. I didn't flinch. And eventually, he got hungry enough to eat what I offered. He hasn't had much to feed on."

"He let you near him?"

"No." Jace shook his head. "Not yet. He took the food, but he wouldn't let me get close. He's not like Greyghost. He's not shy or curious or gentle. He's a predator. He's death with wings. But he knows me now. He knows my scent. And I will go back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, until he lets me ride him."

Greyghost shrieked again, a high, piercing sound. Jace turned toward the pale dragon, and Greyghost backed away, his wings spreading, his eyes fixed on Jace with obvious fear.

"He smells Cannibal on me," Jace said. "He wants to be away from me."

"Then let him be away." You stepped toward Greyghost, your hand extended. "kostilus, gevie. I'll take you somewhere safe. Away from the big, scary man who smells like death."

Greyghost's pale eyes fixed on you. He was still trembling, still poised to flee, but his gaze that gave you hope. Trust. He trusted you.

You walked toward him slowly, your hand still extended, and this time, he did not back away. He let you touch his snout, his scales warm and smooth beneath your palm. He let you run your hand along his neck, feeling the powerful muscles beneath the pale hide. And when you swung yourself onto his back, he did not throw you off.

"Sōves," you whispered to him. "Kostilus. Just for a little while. I've been grounded for so long."

Greyghost's wings spread. He launched himself from the cliff with a single powerful leap, and then you were flying, the wind screaming past your ears, the sea glittering far below, the stars wheeling overhead. You laughed, a wild, exultant sound, and tears streamed from your eyes, torn away by the wind.

It was not the same as flying your own dragon. It would never be the same. But it was flight. It was the sky. It was freedom. For the first time since Rook's Rest, you felt whole.

Greyghost carried you over the sea, over the black sand beaches, over the smoking peak of the Dragonmont. He flew until his fear of Cannibal's scent faded, until the joy of the flight overtook his caution. But eventually, he descended, landing on sand on the far side of the island. You slid from his back, and he looked at you for a long moment. Then he spread his wings and flew away, vanishing into the night.

"He'll come back," Jace said when you told him, his voice certain. "You've bonded with him. He knows you now. He'll come back."

He was right.

Each morning, before the sun rose, you and Jace would slip out of the castle and make your way to the Dragonmont. You would find Greyghost on the eastern slopes, waiting for you with his pale eyes and his gentle warble, and you would feed him fish, stroke his snout and whisper to him in High Valyrian. And each day, he let you mount him, let you fly with him, let you become more and more a part of his world.

Jace went to Cannibal. Every day, he climbed into the heart of the mountain, carrying offerings of meat. Every day, he sat in the darkness of Cannibal's lair, surrounded by bones, and waited. The coal-black dragon did not trust him, did not let him approach, but he stopped growling when Jace entered. He stopped baring his teeth. He began to watch Jace with something that was not quite curiosity and not quite recognition, but was closer to both than it had been before.

"He's testing me," Jace said one night, his body still streaked with soot, his eyes still blazing with that wild light. "He wants to see if I'm worthy. If I'm strong enough. If I'll break."

"Will you?"

"No." Jace's voice was iron. "I won't break. I can't break. I've already died once. What does a dragon's temper matter after that?"

The days became a week. The week became two. You and Jace grew stronger, your bodies hardened by the daily climbs up the Dragonmont, your bond with each other deepened by the shared secret. You learned Greyghost's moods, his preferences. You learned the sound of his approach, the rhythm of his wingbeats, the meaning of his various warbles and growls.

You learned about Cannibal, too. Jace told you everything, the size of him, the color of his scales, the way his green eyes glowed in the darkness of his lair. He told you about the bones that littered the cavern floor, the skulls of men and dragons alike, the evidence of centuries of predation. He told you about the way Cannibal would sometimes stretch his massive jaws in a yawn that revealed rows of teeth as long as swords. He told you about the heat of the dragon's breath, the sulfurous stench of his lair, the way the ground trembled when he shifted his weight.

"He's magnificent," Jace said with genuine awe in his voice. "He's terrible and beautiful and utterly, completely wild. He has never bent to anyone. Never. In all the centuries he's lived, no one has ever ridden him. No one has ever even tried and lived to tell about it."

"Except you."

"Except me." Jace smiled, and it was that same unsettling smile that you had come to love and fear in equal measure. "I think he's starting to respect me. Just a little but enough."

He brought a whip, at first, as was tradition for those who sought to tame a dragon. But Cannibal was so large, his scales so thick and tough, that you doubted the whip registered as anything more than a firm pat. The dragon barely seemed to notice when Jace cracked it against his hide. He only turned his great head and fixed Jace with those terrible green eyes, as if to say, Is that all you have, little man?

But Jace did not give up. He brought meat every day. He spoke to Cannibal in High Valyrian, tried to teach him, using the same commands that the dragonlords of old had used to bind their mounts. Dohaerās. Serve. Māzīs. Come. Lykirī. Calm.

At first, Cannibal ignored him. Then he began to tolerate him. He would eat the food Jace brought, snapping it out of the air with his massive jaws, but he would not let Jace touch him. He would not let him approach.

Jace was different with Cannibal than he was with you. You watched him during those long days on the mountain, and you saw a side of him you had never seen before. He was firm. Assertive. Unyielding. He did not plead with the dragon or cajole him or try to win him over with gentleness. He commanded. He demanded. He stood his ground even when Cannibal roared and snapped and breathed plumes of smoke that could have cooked him alive.

"I am your rider," Jacaerys would tell the dragon, his voice ringing with absolute certainty.

The difficulty, you soon discovered, was not in bonding with your respective dragons. It was in getting them to tolerate each other.

Greyghost was terrified of Cannibal. Every time Jace returned from the inner mountain carrying the older dragon's scent, Greyghost would shriek and flee, and it would take you hours to coax him back. And Cannibal, for his part, viewed Greyghost as prey. More than once, Jace reported that Cannibal had stirred and growled when Greyghost's scent drifted into his lair, his green eyes fixing on the distant presence of the smaller dragon with predatory interest.

"This isn't going to work," you said one evening, frustrated and exhausted. "If they can't be near each other, we can't fly together. We can't fight together. We'll be two dragonriders who can never be in the same place at the same time."

Jace was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "We need to introduce them slowly. Carefully. In a way that makes Cannibal understand that Greyghost is not prey."

"And how do we do that?"

"I don't know yet." Jace's brow furrowed. "But I'll think of something."

The breakthrough came from an unexpected direction.

Jace had always been affectionate with you, that was nothing new. But as the days on the Dragonmont wore on, his affection became more demonstrative. He would find a sheltered spot on the mountainside, a nook of warm rock protected from the wind, and he would make a nest for you there. He would gather soft moss and dry grass, arrange it carefully, and then guide you to sit, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders and pressing food into your hands. He would feed you with his own fingers, brushing crumbs from your lips, his eyes soft and warm. He would pull you into his lap and hold you, his chin resting on your shoulder, his arms wrapped around your waist.

It was during one of these moments that you noticed Cannibal watching.

The coal-black dragon had crept closer to the edge of his territory, drawn perhaps by the scent of the food or the sound of Jace's voice. His green eyes were fixed on the two of you, unblinking. But he was not growling. He was not baring his teeth. He was simply watching.

"Cannibal sees how I treat you," Jace murmured in your ear, his voice low and thoughtful. "He sees that you are important to me. He sees that I protect you, feed you, care for you. He's never seen that before. He's only ever seen humans as threats or prey."

You looked up at the black dragon, your heart pounding. "Do you think he understands?"

"I think he's starting to." Jace pressed a kiss to your temple. "And if he understands that you are an extension of me, that you are part of my...territory, my pack, whatever he thinks we are…then maybe he can understand that Greyghost is an extension of you."

It was a wild theory, a desperate hope. But it was the only one you had.

The next day, you brought Greyghost closer to Cannibal's territory. Not all the way in because that would have been suicide, but close enough that the pale dragon's scent would carry. Greyghost was nervous, his wings twitching, his eyes darting toward the mountain's interior, but you soothed him with fish and soft words and gentle touches.

Jace went to Cannibal as usual, carrying his offerings of meat. But this time, instead of simply feeding the black dragon, he made a point of being affectionate with you in Cannibal's line of sight. He brought you into the outer edges of Cannibal's territory, sat you down on a warm rock, and proceeded to feed you dried fruit and bread from his satchel. He wrapped his arms around you, kissed your hair, murmured endearments in High Valyrian. And all the while, Cannibal watched.

The black dragon's green eyes moved from Jace to you to the distant, pale shape of Greyghost on the ridge above. He did not growl. He did not attack. He simply observed.

"It's working," Jace breathed. "Look at him. He's trying to understand. He's never had to think about these things before. He's never had to consider that another creature might be important to someone he's starting to…tolerate."

"Tolerate?" You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. "Is that what you call it?"

"It's progress." Jace grinned. "A week ago, he was trying to eat me. Now he just glares. That's practically an invitation."

The days passed, and the progress continued. Cannibal stopped growling when Greyghost's scent reached him. Greyghost stopped fleeing whenever Jace approached. The two dragons never came face to face, that would have been too much, too fast, but they learned to exist in proximity to each other, separated by ridges and cliffs and the careful management of their riders.

You were sitting in Jace's nest, your back against his chest, Greyghost dozing on a ledge above you. Jace had just fed Cannibal his daily offering, and the black dragon was lying at the entrance to his lair, his massive head resting on his foreclaws, his green eyes half-lidded. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of fire and blood.

"Cannibal has accepted me," Jace said quietly. "I think he accepted me days ago, and I just didn't realize it. He lets me touch him now. Just barely. Just a hand on his snout, for a moment. But he lets me."

"Are you ready to ride him?"

Jace was silent for a long moment. "Almost. He's still wild. He still doesn't fully trust me. But he will. I know he will."

"And then what?"

"Then we fly." Jace's arms tightened around you. "We fly, and we fight, and we win. All four of us together."

Part 4: coming soon... Sneak peak/Chapter 4 summary: Rhaenyra and Daemon are beside themselves once they learn what Jace and his wife have done. Since Greyghost is smaller and can blend into clouds and cliffs like a chameleon, he and his rider are sent to scout the Riverlands, check on Daemon's remaining forces and scour for Aemond and Vhagar, since no one had seen them in days. Aemond, recovered from the stab wound thanks to Alys, now under her influence, mounts Vhagar and burns Riverlands, trying to draw out Daemon. He encounters Greyghost instead, the rider being the girl he had loved as a boy and fought as a man. Having intended to take her as a trophy and make her his wife at Rook's Rest, he is not too pleased to find her riding a new dragon. Or to learn that she brought her betrothed back to life and married him.

a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to this series' taglist.

a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

Taglist: @ilovefoolishknights @mellowpeacequeen @disturbedturtle @pinkypurplez @oh-miniso @brlghtflame @mousedit @omgsuperstarg @superfan02 @bl3ssedp0etry @chimmysoftpaws @snowtargaryen @princessnoala @moonchildhui @staryxnight @madisonosidam @circesorciere @serendippindots @thearchivistshaven @kkkkisworld @anawritez-posts @artistadistrada2002 @darlingweareatragedy @minmin1328 @yatta-exe @thorins-queen-of-erebor @itspbjellytime @ivvypg @dabishou @imjustagirlwholovesfictionalmen @luvaaliyah777 @solarrandom @ravenwing681 @snoopyspace @kitkatq05 @miksxz @justanotherkpopstanlol @sakunasenpaisupremacy @njutul @nexilismirus @lemsies25 @lolabunnyworldss @zai-targaryen @shookyshima @whenmypartysover @nanne1010 @lalaland43 @sucker4seresin @lmg-stilinski24 @omgsuperstarg @jsbaby @junqkooknim @helo1281917 @sweetpeaapplepie @reading-wh0re @goawaysha @neenieweenie @noble-17 @moonchildhui @perfectus-in-morte @jaehyunlvrz @fanaticlover09 @jams-alcove @asweetblueberry2 @feelingfaye @frinkydinksblog @starkleila @rkivebt21 @jaehaeratargaryenss @frinkydinksblog @gracesalvatore @shellymelly145 @graysonsthirdstick @isla-volkov @bunbunbl0gs