Serene

[serenemlhotd]

𝓑𝓮𝓽𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓑𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓭

SUMMARY Y/N lives life on a knife's edge. She is the bridge between the two most powerful Targaryens of her era, Daemon Targaryen & Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her story is one of calculated risks. The scent of stone and woodsmoke, the lingering evidence of her secret nights. While she tries to smell of the lavender Rhaenyra gives her, she inevitably carries the scent of the castle's foundation and Daemon's leather. She's the quiet handmaiden of Rhaenyra, whilst also, privately, Daemon's bold lover.

The hallways of Dragonstone are drafty, but Y/N feels a warmth under her skin that has nothing to do with the hearths. She’s just left Daemon, and as she walks toward the Princess’ chambers, she has to consciously pull her face into a more "appropriate" expression. She doesn't hide who she is; she just softens the edges. When she enters, the room is filled with the scent of lemon water and parchment. Rhaenyra looks up from her seat, looking tired from a long morning of petitions.

"You're late with the tea,Y/N," the Princess says, though there is no bite in her voice. She genuinely likes the girl.

"The kitchens were a den of dragons today, Princess," Y/N replies. Her voice is gentle—like silk—but there’s a tiny, playful spark in her eyes as she sets the tray down. "Everyone was snapping at everyone else. I had to wait for the fire to die down before I dared grab the kettle." Rhaenyra offers a small, weary smile. "You always did have a way of avoiding the flames."

As Y/N begins to move around the room, tidying the silks and arranging the cushions, her gentle nature shines through. She hums a low Valyrian tune her mother taught her, her hands moving with a grace that Rhaenyra finds soothing.But inside, Y/N is a bundle of nerves.

Every time she hears boots clicking in the hallway, her heart leaps. Is it him? Did he follow her?

While she’s pouring the tea, she accidentally pours a bit too much, her mind drifting to the way Daemon’s hand felt on her waist.

"Careful,Y/N," Rhaenyra chuckles, reaching for a napkin. "Your mind is on the moon today." "Perhaps just the stars, Princess," Y/N teases back gently, her cheeks flushing a faint, pretty pink. It’s a bold little comment, but delivered with such sweetness that Rhaenyra just thinks her handmaiden is having a harmless crush on a stable boy or a guard.

Y/N reaches up to adjust her hair, and her fingers linger on the obsidian pin. She feels like she's sharing a joke with punishment. 

She leans over to adjust Rhaenyra’s cloak, and for a split second, she catches her own reflection in the bronze mirror. She looks like a proper, quiet handmaiden. But she knows that under that modest dress, her heart is beating a rhythm that matches the wings of Caraxes.

The Great Hall of Dragonstone is chilly, the air smelling of salt and roasted meat. Y/N moves like a shadow around the high table, her steps light and practiced. She approaches Rhaenyra first, tilting the heavy silver pitcher with a steady hand. "Your favorite, Princess," she murmurs softly, her voice like a calming breeze. "The Arbor gold with the hint of honey."

Rhaenyra looks up, her eyes tired but warm as they meet Y/N. "Thank you,Y/N. You always remember." The Princess reaches out, patting Y/N’s hand for a brief, sisterly second. Y/N feels a sharp pang of guilt—a twist in her chest that she quickly smothers. She genuinely loves the Princess's kindness, which makes what comes next feel like playing with wildfire.

She moves six inches to the right. Daemon is slouched in his chair, his violet eyes bored as he watches the candles flicker—until Y/N steps into his space. The air between them instantly changes. It’s no longer cold; it’s electric. Y/N leans in to pour his wine. She keeps her gaze down, respectful and demure for the benefit of the guards and the other ladies, but as the wine swirls into his cup, she lets the tip of her pinky finger graze the back of his hand. It’s a tiny, bold strike.

Daemon doesn't move, but his posture shifts. He sits up straighter, his eyes locking onto the side of her face. "A diligent servant," he says, his voice a low, dangerous purr that vibrates in Y/N’s ears. "Though perhaps a bit... distracted tonight?"

Y/N feels her heart hammer against her ribs. She looks up, just for a second, and gives him that playful, secret flash of defiance he loves. "The wine is heavy, My Prince," she says, her voice sweet and innocent, though her eyes tell a different story. "A girl must be careful not to spill a drop of something so... precious." She sees the corner of Daemon’s mouth twitch. He knows exactly what she’s referring to.

"Indeed," Daemon replies, his gaze dropping to her hair, where the obsidian pin glints in the torchlight. "It would be a shame to lose something so finely crafted." Rhaenyra, oblivious to the subtext, sighs and turns to Daemon. "Leave the poor girl be, Uncle. She’s worked since dawn." 

"I am only admiring the craftsmanship, Niece," Daemon says smoothly, his eyes never leaving Y/N as she pulls back. Y/N retreated into the shadows behind Rhaenyra’s chair, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched the pitcher to her chest. She is back to being the "quiet one," the reserved handmaiden, but her skin is flushing. She has just touched the most feared man in Westeros while standing a hair’s breadth away from the Future Queen. She feels like a dragon-rider who hasn't quite learned how to land.

The feast ends with the scraping of chairs and the low murmur of weary courtiers. Y/N performs her final duties with practiced grace—snuffing the candles in Rhaenyra’s chambers and smoothing the silk sheets of the Princess's bed. "You look flushed,Y/N," Rhaenyra says gently, rubbing her temples as she unpins her crown. "Go to sleep. You’ve earned your rest."

"Thank you, Princess. Sleep well," Y/N replies, her voice soft and sincere. She bows, her heart doing a nervous little dance. She slips out of the royal apartments and into the drafty, torch-lit corridor. The stone walls of Dragonstone are damp, smelling of salt and ancient fires. Y/N walks quickly, her servant’s slippers silent on the floor. She just wants to get to her small, modest room and breathe.

But as she turns the corner into the narrow passage leading to the servants'quarters, she stops short.

A shadow—tall, lean, and draped in black leather—is leaning against the damp masonry. Daemon.

He doesn't move, but the moonlight from a high slit-window catches the silver of his hair. He looks like a predator waiting for a stray lamb. Y/N feels that familiar rush: the gentle girl who served wine at dinner is replaced by the bold woman who matches his stare.

"A diligent servant indeed," Daemon purrs, his voice echoing off the stones. He pushes off the wall and stalks toward her, his boots making no sound. "Rhaenyra thinks you are dreaming of stars. But I saw you at the table,Y/N. You were dreaming of fire." Y/N doesn't shrink back. She tilts her chin up, a playful, defiant smile tugging at her lips. "I was dreaming of a Prince who doesn't know how to sit still in his chair," she whispers back.

Daemon reaches out, his gloved hand moving with terrifying speed. He doesn't grab her; instead, his fingers find the obsidian pin in her hair. He slides it out slowly, letting her silver-brown locks spill down her shoulders in the dark. "You took a risk tonight," he murmurs, stepping into her personal space until she can feel the cold metal of his belt against her apron. "Touching me in front of the Realm’s Delight."

"The wine was heavy, My Prince," she repeats his own words back to him, her voice low and teasing. She reaches up, her small hand resting against the dragon-embossed leather of his chest. "I simply... slipped." Daemon lets out a short, dark laugh—a sound he saves only for her. He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "If you slip again, Y/N L/N, I might not be so inclined to catch you. I might just let you burn."

"Then we shall burn together," she whispers, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm. She knows the danger. She knows the stakes. But in the dark, away from Rhaenyra’s kind eyes, she isn't a handmaiden. She is the girl who tamed a dragon’s heart. Daemon's hand moves from her hair to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. "Ñuhor līr gūrēnna," he growls, the High Valyrian vibrating against her skin.

Daemon’s hand doesn’t let go; instead, his fingers lock around her wrist, his grip firm but not unkind. He doesn’t lead her toward the servants' quarters. Instead, he presses his hand against a seemingly solid stone carving of a dragon’s coil. With a low, grinding groan of stone on stone, a narrow seam opens in the wall—one of the many secret passages of Dragonstone that only those of the blood truly know. "Come," he commands, his voice dropping to a gravelly silk. Y/N hesitates for only a heartbeat. She glances back at the empty hallway—the world of Rhaenyra, of damp laundry, of curtsies and "Yes, Princess"—and then she steps into the dark with him.

The passage is tight, smelling of old dust and dragon-fire. Daemon leads her upward, his internal map of the castle flawless even in the pitch black. Y/N has to catch her breath, her silk slippers tripping slightly on the uneven stone. "Careful, little bird," Daemon murmurs, his hand finding the small of her back to steady her. "We wouldn't want you to bruise that pretty skin. Rhaenyra might ask questions."

"The Princess sees what she wants to see," Y/N whispers back, her boldness returning as the walls close them in. "She sees a girl who likes stars. She doesn't see the man who hides in the shadows to steal her." Daemon stops abruptly. They are in a small, circular chamber high in the drum tower, lit only by a single guttering candle he must have left earlier. He turns her around, pinning her gently against the cold masonry.

He holds the obsidian pin he took from her hair up to the candlelight. The tiny Valyrian steel tip glints dangerously. "I didn't steal you, Y/N," he says, his violet eyes dark and unreadable. He leans in, his face inches from hers, the scent of wine and leather surrounding her. "A thief takes what isn't theirs. I simply claimed what was already mine."

He reaches out and, with surprising gentleness, slides the pin back into her hair—but he doesn't do it the 'proper' way. He leaves it messy, her hair cascading over her shoulders in a way no handmaiden would ever be allowed to wear. "You look more like a L/N of Valyria this way," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "Less like a servant. More like a disaster waiting to happen."

Y/N feels a shiver go down her spine. She reaches up, her fingers tangling in the fine silver of his hair, pulling him just a fraction closer. "Then let the disaster happen, My Prince. The castle is asleep. The dragons are quiet."She sees the predatory flash of his teeth as he smirks. "The dragons are never quiet, Y/N. They are just waiting for the right spark."

The stone room high in the drum tower is silent, save for the crackle of a dying candle and the distant, rhythmic thrum of the Narrow Sea hitting the cliffs below. For the first time all day, Y/N doesn't have to keep her shoulders small or her voice a whisper. She stays.

Hours pass in a blur of silver-gold hair and the scent of old parchment and leather. In the dark, Daemon isn’t the Rogue Prince or the Commander of the City Watch; he is a man who traces the lines of her palms as if reading a map of a lost Valyrian colony. Y/N, usually so careful to be the "gentle handmaiden," finds herself laughing softly at his dark jests, her boldness blooming in the safety of the shadows.

"You'll be the death of me, little bird," Daemon murmurs at one point, his head resting against the stone as she braids a small, messy lock of his hair—a playful mirror of what she does for Rhaenyra every morning. "A dragon doesn't die from a bird's song, My Prince," she whispers, her fingers nimble and sure. "No," he catches her wrist, pulling her hand to his lips. "But he might forget to fly." The first light of morning begins to creep through the arrow-slit window, turning the black sea to a cold, bruised purple.

 Y/N jolts slightly, the reality of her life crashing back into the room. The "gentle servant" has to return. She moves to pull away, but Daemon’s arm is a heavy, warm weight across her waist. "The sun is up, Daemon," she breathes, her voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and lingering thrill. "Rhaenyra... She'll wake soon. She needs her lemon water. She needs the fire stoked."

Daemon opens one violet eye, looking unimpressed by the sun. "Let her stoke her own fire. Or let one of the other grey sheep do it."

"I am the only one who knows how she likes her silks laid out," Y/N says, her gentle heart winning over her desire to stay. She sits up, hurriedly smoothing her rumpled apron and trying to pin her hair back into a modest bun using the obsidian bodkin.

Daemon watches her transform. He sees the "Y/N he knows"—the bold, bright-eyed woman—tuck herself away, layer by layer, until she looks like a simple servant again. A dark flash of annoyance crosses his face, but he doesn't stop her. He reaches out and adjusts the obsidian pin himself, tucking a stray hair back with a proprietary touch. "Go then. Play your part. Be the shadow in her hall."

Y/N leans down and kisses his forehead—a gesture so tender it’s almost more scandalous than anything else they’ve done. "I’ll see you at mid-day meal," she promises. "I’ll be the one pouring the wine." "And I'll be the one watching the hand that pours it," he counters. 

Y/N slips back through the secret passage, her heart thudding in her throat as she emerges into the servant’s corridor. She moves like a ghost, dodging a sleepy kitchen boy and slipping into the Princess’s solar just as the bells chime. When Rhaenyra finally stirs, she finds Y/N already there, kneeling by the hearth, blowing life into the embers. The room begins to warm.

"You're early today, Y/N," Rhaenyra says with a yawn, rubbing her eyes. "Did you sleep well?" Y/N turns, a soft, serene smile on her face. Her eyes are slightly shadowed from lack of sleep, but she looks radiant. "I had the strangest dreams, Princess," she says gently, her voice steady and sweet. "Dreams of high towers and dragons that speak in riddles."

Rhaenyra chuckles, reaching for her robe. "Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time in this castle. It gets into the blood."

"I think you're right, Princess," Y/N says, her hand momentarily touching the warm stone of the hearth. "It certainly does.”

[serenemlhotd]

ĐØØ₥SĐ₳Ɏ

SUMMARY Three months after a global nuclear exchange between the United States, China, and Russia turns much of the world to radioactive ruin, Elizabeth wanders the devastated coastal town of Brookings, Oregon, surviving among radiation, abandoned buildings, and feral humans twisted by the fallout. Armed with only a Geiger counter, a gas mask, and dwindling supplies, she hides from these mutated “ferals,” scavenges through the dead city, and distrusts the few survivors she encounters, knowing desperation often turns people against each other. As the ferals grow more organized and the nights grow more dangerous, Elizabeth continues forward not because the world is hopeful, but because survival itself has become the only thing left worth fighting for.

Chapter One: Ash and Silence

The Geiger counter on Elizabeth's hip clicked steadily, a metallic heartbeat that had become as familiar as her own pulse. Three months since the bombs fell. Three months since the world ended not with a whimper, but with the screaming static of emergency broadcasts that cut to silence, one by one.

Brookings, Oregon had never been much—a coastal town of eight thousand souls, known more for its driftwood beaches than anything else. Now it was a graveyard of rusted cars and broken storefronts, sea salt mixing with the acrid tang of radiation that hung in the air like invisible fog.

Elizabeth adjusted her gas mask, the rubber seal sticky against her face. Through the scratched lenses, she watched a feral stumble down Chetco Avenue, its movements jerky and wrong, like a marionette controlled by a drunk puppeteer. Once, it might have been Mrs. Henderson from the bakery. Now it was just another thing that used to be human, its skin mottled gray-green where the radiation had done its work.

Stay quiet. Stay hidden. Stay alive.

The rules were simple. The execution was not. Elizabeth pressed herself against the doorway of what used to be a hardware store, waiting for the feral to pass. In her backpack: three cans of peaches, half a bottle of water, two boxes of ammunition for a gun she'd lost a week ago, and a photograph she couldn't bear to look at anymore.

The news had come suddenly that September morning. China's missiles, launched in a coordinated strike that nobody saw coming. Moscow and D.C. turned to glass in minutes. Then Los Angeles, Seattle, Houston. The Russians fired back before their silos went dark. Beijing, Shanghai—gone.

But it wasn't the bombs that ended everything. It was what came after.

The radiation didn't kill—not exactly. It changed things. Changed people. The first reports called them "the infected," then "the turned," but on the streets, survivors just called them ferals. Wild things that remembered nothing of who they were, driven only by hunger and rage. Elizabeth knew there were others out there. Sometimes, walking through the dead streets, she'd see signs:

SAFE ZONE - EAST TO BROOKINGS HIGHSCHOOL

But she'd learned the hard way that "safe" was a relative term. The last group she'd found had tried to take her supplies. The one before that had someone who'd been bitten, hiding it, hoping it wouldn't spread. It always spreads.

 She moved carefully through the city, keeping to the shadows. The radiation levels were lower near the coast—something about the ocean winds—but never low enough to remove the mask. Never safe enough to breathe free.

In the distance, she could hear them: the guttural sounds ferals made when they gathered. Not quite human anymore, but trying to be. Like they remembered speech but couldn't quite form the words. Elizabeth found shelter in an old bookstore on the south side of town. "Chapters by the Sea," the faded sign read. She barricaded the door, checked the corners for ferals, then finally allowed herself to sit.

In the silence, she could almost pretend. Almost imagine the world before—when her biggest worry was her college applications, when her mother would call her down for dinner, when her little brother would steal her headphones.

But that world was ash now, scattered on radioactive winds.

She pulled out her journal, one of three she'd salvaged from the store, and began to write:

Day 97. Still in Brookings. Radiation holding steady at 6.2 roentgens. Manageable with the mask. Saw more ferals today—they're moving in packs now. Getting smarter, maybe. Or maybe just following old patterns. Hard to tell.

The underground networks are growing. Saw fresh graffiti near the harbor: "TUNNEL SYSTEM - FOLLOW THE YELLOW MARKS." Might investigate tomorrow. Might be a trap. Everything might be a trap.

I keep thinking about what Dr. Reeves said on that last broadcast before the stations went dark: "The radiation isn't destroying us. It's revealing what we always were underneath." I wonder what I am underneath. I wonder if I want to know.

 As night fell, Elizabeth could hear them more clearly—the ferals owned the darkness. She'd learned their patterns, their habits. They were drawn to light, to sound, to the warmth of the living. During the day, they wandered aimlessly. At night, they hunted.

Through the bookstore window, she watched the empty street. Somewhere out there, in bunkers and basements, behind locked doors and filtered air, other survivors were doing the same thing she was: existing. Not living, just refusing to die.

The world had ended in nuclear fire, but it was dying slowly, one empty can of food, one failed gas mask filter, one infected bite at a time.

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