I loved Project Hail Mary so much I decided to get the book and it arrived yesterday and i made it a new cover I am by no means an expert but I think ot turned out pretty cool 🥰⭐️
@thecritter so as I said you don’t need any special skills for this
First step I got some colorfull paper it can be carton (this adds a bit of stability but it doesn’t have to be) like this
You can do any color you like you know do your vision 😄
Then you trace the front the back and the spine of the book onto the paper like this
I like to do them separatly (as in cut them separatly and not do one long piece) because it allows for more flexibility when opening the book
Now you can just start decorating them how you like you can use stickers, i like to cut out pictures out of old magazines and stuff and for some parts I just tape a piece of paper to my laptop and trace it first with a pencile then I take it down from the laptop and trace it with fineliner
But if you’re not good with drawing or tracing you can just print out a bunch of stuff I also like to add little details like drawing small stars and stuff like that to bring the whole thing together
To arrange the different elements on the page I keep them lose so I can rearrange until I’m happy then I glue them down
The glue that works best for me is like a glue roller because it holds the pieces in place and it doesn’t make the paper all wrinkly like liquid glue does (also you don’t need to glue everything on perfectly this is just to hold everything in place for the last step)
If you are done with the design and happy how it turned out now is the time to glue the rectangles with the design on them onto the book.
Now for the last step I got some (I have no idea how the correct english translation is in german it’s buchschutzfolie) book protection film (?) it’s just a transparent plastic film that is sticky on one side I’m 100% sure you can get that on the internet if you can’t find it in stores and it’s not expensive
So you wrap the book in this (this time I do one long piece) you place the book onto it and then make the cuts as needed
Something like this, if you struggle with this I’m sure there are youtube tutorials for this but it shouldn’t be too complicated
This can be a bit tricky as you need to make sure you don’t trap any airbubbles but with a bit of practice this shouldn’t be an issue (even if you get airbubbles you can prick them with a needel or make a small cut and smooth it out)
And that’s how I did it, you can try things a bit differently see how it works for you but as I said you don’t need any bookbinding skills or tools for this and you can 100% improvise on the things that you don’t have at hand if you find an alternative that works for you
The most important thing is to have fun with it I hope this helps 💛⭐️💛⭐️
Notes: Welcome back to accidentally-created-a-series-Monday
Not beta-read.
Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, angst, fluff, explicit sexual content
Summary: You glance at the man, then freeze, eyes widening. There’s no way that the goddamn Prince of Gotham is on your counter right now. Luckily for you, he’s focused on the tie clips. Maybe he knows you’re staring and is just ignoring it. Maybe he’s just so used to the sensation that he simply doesn’t register it anymore.
Your first Thanksgiving with your husband Jason becomes hosting Thanksgiving for his entire family. Between cooking and dealing with the Wayne boys, you have plenty to be grateful for.
fluff, soft!Jason, Damian loves you, banter, 1.1k+ words
A/N: Happy Thanksgiving to my American friends!🦃
When you bought your first house as Mr. and Mrs. Jason Todd (who, for the record, offered to take your name if you preferred), your husband Jason tried to convince you that telling his family your new address was a bad idea. He spent hours telling you about all the times his brothers came over to his apartment uninvited, then took to watching you constantly to ensure you didn’t have an opportunity to invite his family while he wasn’t looking. It was - in his opinion - a glorious six weeks of a brotherless existence in his new home and new life with you.
And then the first break-in happened, and you simply smiled, shrugging as you invited Damian to join you for a cup of tea.
Now, Jason’s family is in his living room, sitting on his couch, looking at his pictures, and stealing his wife’s attention. He swears he’s never experienced treachery like this in his second life.
“How big?” you ask Damian. You look at him over your shoulder as you stir ingredients together. He spreads his hands proudly, smiling when you nod, impressed. “Well done, Dami.”
“Sword?” Dick asks from the other side of the kitchen.
“Sketchpad,” his brother corrects.
“I didn’t expect that,” Dick mumbles, drawing a laugh from you.
Bruce is on the couch with Tim, both looking at various Thanksgiving recipes to find technical issues, or so they said. Duke is flipping through channels on the television, and Stephanie is wearing your apron, her tongue peaking past her lips as she measures sugar. It looks like a normal family holiday, like another year in a long tradition of being together in one place to give thanks.
“How may I assist you?” Alfred asks you.
You turn one direction, then twist the other way. “Uh, can you finish this for me?”
Alfred takes over, nodding kindly as he takes the spoon from your hand.
“Thank you,” you tell him. As you exit the kitchen, you point at Dick. “Don’t you dare try to taste it before it’s done.”
He lifts his hands, a shocked look on his face, like you’ve scandalized him by even suggesting such a thing. You roll your eyes, pat Tim’s shoulder as you pass, and then venture deeper into the house. The overlapping conversations fade as you step into your bedroom, muting when you close the door.
“You’re hiding from your family,” you accuse.
Jason looks up at you, his legs stretched out across your shared bed as he sends you a lazy smile. “They’re exhausting,” he groans, reaching his hands toward you.
“Jay,” you sigh.
“This is why I told you not to invite them.”
“It’s Thanksgiving, baby. The one day of the year you’re really, really supposed to find the good.”
“I found the good,” he argues softly, punctuated by a kiss to your knuckles.
You soften, then lower to the mattress beside him. “Look, it’s almost two. Bruce is leaving by four to do the Wayne Enterprises food bank, and your brothers will probably be right behind him.”
Jason grows heavier against the bed when your fingers brush through his hair. He grumbles against your leg, shifting toward you.
“Think you can be a team player today?” you question.
“Asking a lot,” Jason says.
“Not what you said when I woke you up early to watch the parade with me.”
“‘S different,” he explains.
“I get it,” you promise. “But they’re my family now, too.”
Jason groans at your logic, then nods. You stand from the bed and wave for him to come with. He shakes his head and doesn’t move.
“I thought-“
Jason stretches his left arm out. With a dramatic sigh, you smile and take his hand. He follows you back to the living room, clutching your hand in his as you move toward the kitchen.
“Next year,” Dick tells Damian, “we should have a turducken.”
“Are you having a stroke, Grayson?” Damian inquires. “That is not a word.”
“It’s turkey, duck, and chicken.”
Damian cringes, then runs when Dick tries to hug him in apology. You smile as they rush past you, then take your husband into the kitchen.
“Master Jason,” Alfred greets. “I believe I recall you and I engaging in a special Thanksgiving ritual once upon a time.”
Jason’s eyes widen, so you release his hand. Standing by Alfred, you watch him pull the fridge open. Your husband pulls a plate from the bottom shelf, smiling as he sets it on the counter. He pulls Alfred into a quick hug, then checks that none of his brothers were watching. When he sees it’s all clear, he thanks Alfred.
“Thank you,” you whisper to Alfred.
Jason grabs your waist and tugs you to the corner of the kitchen. He removes the cover from the plate and offers you one of Alfred’s world-famous mini soufflés. You’ve heard that they’re only for special occasions, but when Jason was younger, he’d get stressed out by the size of Wayne Thanksgiving events. So, Alfred gave him “something to assist with” during the event - really, it was an excuse to hide in the kitchen and enjoy himself. Now, he finds that same comfort in you.
“I need food,” Tim demands, suddenly in the kitchen.
You brush the front of your apron and chuckle. “We’re getting ready to set the table, Tim.”
“That’s why we’re glad you married into the family. Imagine if we tried to do this alone.”
“I can only imagine,” Alfred deadpans.
“You know what I mean, Pennyworth.”
With the help of Bruce, Dick, and Jason, you set the table and welcome the Wayne family to a proper Thanksgiving dinner.
Jason wraps his arm around your shoulders as Bruce asks what everyone is most thankful for.
“The minute they leave, you owe me,” Jason murmurs in your ear.
“I’ve been cooking all day, Mr. Todd,” you argue.
Jason smiles at you, then looks up to say, “I’m thankful for my wife, and the life we’re building together.”
You can barely hear your brothers-in-law groaning as you smile at your husband until your cheeks hurt. This is the best Thanksgiving ever, even if your husband did claim to be miserable less than an hour ago.
“Wait,” you interrupt.
Leaving the table, you knock on the guest bedroom door, then step inside.
“Pack it up, Dami,” you sigh. “Time to eat.”
“Let me finish the shading,” he murmurs, reaching for a different pencil.
“Dick will eat all the sides you said you wanted.”
He jumps lithely to his feet, then takes your hand and follows you to the table.
“Needy kid,” Jason grumbles.
You decide not to point out he did the same thing earlier. It’s the life you chose. The life you’re forever grateful for.
Summary: Superman takes you to Kansas to tell you the truth about why he disappeared. When you accuse him of breaking your heart, Clark makes the decision to tell you everything, and let you decide what comes next, even if he doesn't include him or his cape.
Warnings/Word Count: angst, arguments, crying, mentions of injuries and scars, fluff and comfort, happy ending. 3.1k+ words
A/N: I have a few ideas I didn't get to in this series so I think there's going to be an epilogue!
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“You okay?” Superman checks over a vast, lightless plain.
The stars seem closer, big enough that you could reach out and hold one in your hand. Despite the beauty surrounding you, your mind drifts to the man holding you, then to Clark, the sweetheart from the coffee shop who didn’t leave. But Superman deserves a chance. He’s brought you this far, and you want to know why.
“Honey?” It seems to slip out when you don’t answer. Superman rushes to add, “Sorry.”
“I’m okay,” you reply softly. “What, uh, what’s the prettiest place you’ve flown to?”
A rooftop in Metropolis because you were there waiting for me, he thinks. “I’ve been to a lot of beautiful places,” he says instead. “There’s a little island at the Pacific-Atlantic border that most maps don’t even show; it’s really nice.”
You hum, then rest your head on his shoulder again. He relaxes beneath you, one hand wandering back to hold your ankle.
“We’re almost there,” Superman assures you. “Thank you for coming with me.”
You want to thank him for coming back, but you’re a little worried that it might jinx everything. A porch light in the distance catches your attention, and as you near it, Superman slows.
“Hold on,” he instructs you.
His hands hook under your legs as you press your hands to his chest. Superman drifts upward, hovering vertically above the ground. After he steps down, his boots pressing into the damp grass, you drop your legs and step away from him. You stay in one place to get your bearings, looking at the farmhouse and the barn.
“Kansas,” you muse.
“Smallville,” Superman offers.
Nodding, you press your lips together and wait. Superman brought you here for a reason. You want to know what it is.
“I didn’t mean to abandon you,” he begins.
“I asked to see you and you left Metropolis,” you argue sharply, crossing your arms over your chest like it will keep Superman from breaking your heart further. “How did you not mean to do that?”
“I had this plan,” he explains, “an elaborate plan to tell you everything.”
Your brows draw together. With no idea what he means by everything, you have to push down your sad and angry responses to hear him out.
“I don’t want to lose you,” Superman admits. He drops his gaze to the cape covering your arms, heaving a sigh when he hears your heart beating. Maybe not for him anymore, but it’s still beating. “Please believe me when I say that I didn’t mean for it to end up like this.”
“How did you want it to end up?” you whisper. “Because you hurt me, and from my perspective, it seemed pretty avoidable.”
Superman raises his hand to the back of his neck. “It was avoidable. I’m sorry that I was too caught up in what I thought would work to realize that I was losing you.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I wanted to be yours,” Superman says. Simple, concrete, honest. “I wanted you to see how much you’ve impacted me, show you that I can’t go back to life without you.”
“But you did. You left without a word, and I had to find out from Gary that you were ‘perfectly fine, just taking a break.’ From what? From Metropolis? From fighting bad guys? From me?”
“No,” he replies immediately, shaking his head rapidly as he steps toward you. “Never from you.”
You manage a laugh simply to keep yourself from crying. Tossing your arms up, you demand, “Then what happened?”
“I was trying to find a way to tell you that I love you!” Superman bellows. His chest heaves as his shoulders drop. Softer, he repeats, “I wanted to tell you that I love you, that I need you. The goal wasn’t to leave you or to lose you, it was to bring you into my life. My real life, not just the cape I wear.”
“And how exactly were you going to do that? Fly me out here? Give me flowers and tell me you love me?”
Superman cringes, scrunching his nose in a way that tempts you to forget about the misery he put you through.
“So, the, uh… you know how rooftops are kinda our thing?” he mumbles.
Fighting a smile even as tears prick at your eyes, you answer, “Yeah. Or they were for a while.”
“Yeah, I had some help commandeering a rooftop. I was going to take you there Friday, tell you everything about me, why I left…” He flips his hand out and concludes, “All that.”
“You were gone for a while,” you remind him. “What if I had plans on Friday? What if I’d moved on and was going to different rooftop with somebody else?”
Superman’s lips purse as he looks down at his hands. It’s the guiltiest you’ve seen him look, and while it’s admittedly adorable, you step back in preparation for whatever he’s going to say next.
“Do you want the truth?” Superman checks. “Or the explanation first?”
“Are they different?” you question.
“Technically, no, I just think the explanation might…”
“Superman, just tell me,” you request.
“Superman’s not my name.”
“You’re kidding,” you deadpan. “I had no clue.”
“My name- my Earth name, I should say-“
“Wait,” you interrupt, raising a hand. “You have a Kryptonian name?”
Superman nods. You really want to know his first given name, but he seems committed to telling you something else, so you nod to encourage him to continue.
After a deep inhale, he meets your eyes and says, “I’m Clark Kent.”
You freeze. Your arms are halfway to your sides, your lips are parted in shock, and your eyes are stuck on the emblem of Hope against his chest.
“Breathe,” Superman demands suddenly.
He takes a measured step toward you before you even realize what he said. Then, you notice that you are in fact holding your breath.
“Hey, eyes on me,” Superman requests, reaching out for you.
You obey his command and take a breath, but you move away from him, shaking your head as your foot slides in the grass. Superman abandoned you, then donned a pair of glasses and a too-big shirt in attempt to… what? Dupe you? Confuse you?
“Don’t,” you warn when Superman – or Clark or whoever he is – moves forward again. You point at him, your vision blurry, and whisper, “Don’t.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
He sounds genuine, but as you think through the time that has passed since you met him, you find you can’t be sure of his intentions. You’re not even sure you can trust him to take you home.
“For what?” you ask, ignoring the first tears that break past your lashes. “For making me think we had something? For taking it away? For making me miserable because I fell in love with one man but thought I had a better chance with another?” Your voice rises as you press him, but your feet move backward, creating more distance between you. “You told me to call out to you if I needed anything. Right now, I need you to tell me what possessed you to think it was okay to do this to someone!”
Superman is breathing heavy, his own eyes glassy as he watches you cry. He doesn’t care that you yell at him, doesn’t question why you move away from him, but he’s never experienced pain, not like the feeling in his chest at the sight of tears he caused streaming down your face.
“Running into you in that coffee shop was a coincidence,” Clark says. “I just… It felt different, you know, to be seen by you without the cape and somewhere that it wasn’t just us. I guess I thought it was closer to being real.”
“What we had could have been real if you’d just told me the truth,” you point out.
“I know. I know. So, when I, as Clark, asked you to that rooftop dinner, the plan was to tell you everything.”
“Let me get this straight, you approached me as Clark because we weren’t hidden away, it felt real,” you bite back. “But the first date with Clark was going to be us alone, on a rooftop so you could pull out the cape and mesmerize me? Not only is that stupid, Superman, it sounds practiced.”
“It’s not,” Clark assures you, his voice as firm as when he was fighting a robot-controlled creature the day you met. “I messed up and I thought telling you the truth was the best option. Then you could choose what happened next.”
You scoff. Still, you believe him. Despite everything, you can’t imagine that Superman or Clark would hurt you like this on purpose.
“And if I said no?” you wonder softly. “If I wanted to walk away, would you let me? Even knowing your secret identity?”
“Of course I would.”
“I…” You take another step back, nearly tripping over a tree root. Superman curls his hands into fists like it’s the only way to stop himself from catching you. “I need a minute,” you murmur.
Superman nods. “The farm goes acres in every direction,” he tells you. “My ma and pa are inside, there’s probably food, if you’re hungry.”
The idea of going in to face Clark’s parents with tears streaked down your face immediately after yelling at Clark is laughable, yet you know that he means what he says. You could probably walk inside, have dinner, air your grievances, and feel as if you belonged here. That’s why you turn and move toward the barn. Superman calls your name, so you stop without turning.
“If you need anything… call out,” he invites.
You nod, then continue walking. When you reach the barn a few minutes later, your mind has quieted. The fresh air seems to be doing you good. With your back pressed to the faded wooden boards, you slide down until you’re sitting in the dirt.
There’s no phone service, but you can look at your saved messages. Hovering your finger above Inny’s name, you change your mind and open the text thread with Clark. As you read his messages now, it seems so obvious. He and Superman are so alike, yet the approach he uses differs enough that no one would notice. That, combined with the glasses, the hunch of Clark’s shoulders, and the differing speech patterns, makes it clear why no one has connected the dots between them.
Dropping your head back, you stare up at the stars and sigh. In a way, it’s a good thing that Superman and Clark are one and the same. You fell for Superman, but there was something about Clark that drew you in. Now you understand.
With your fingers tangled in the cape, you look down. Superman saw something heroic in you, something you’d never bothered to see in yourself. Clark saw an opportunity to have more than hidden rendezvouses and stolen moments. Deep down, you know why he didn’t just come out and tell you, not right away. If you had a secret identity, you probably wouldn’t even tell Inny, and not just because she’s nearly incapable of keeping a secret.
You stand and tug the cape off, holding it over your arm as you walk back toward the tree where you left Superman. Your palm stings, so you press your opposite hand against it as you wander through the grass.
Clark is standing beneath the trees, his cape exchanged for a worn flannel and a pair of black pants. He’s not wearing the glasses, but you still know it’s him. He smiles when he sees you, then sobers when he sees your cape.
“Did you lie?” you ask as you approach him. “Was anything you told me a lie, no matter who you said it as?”
“No,” he promises. “I meant it all.”
“And you were actually going to tell me on Friday? About all of this.”
“Yes. B- I have a friend who can confirm that, if you want.”
Shaking your head, you look down at the cape and sigh, “I believe you.”
Clark nods, stepping toward you slowly. “So, what now?” he asks. “Do you want to go home?”
“Not exactly.” You look at him again, smiling softly as you remind him, “You owe me a rooftop date.”
“Do I?” he checks before clicking his tongue. “Well, we have to do something about that.”
You smile, trying to hide it as you rub your hand. Clark steps forward and holds his hand out until you place your palm on his. He flips your hand carefully, frowning as he looks at the bandage. His other hand reaches forward, his finger tracing the scar on your elbow.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs, dropping his head forward.
Lifting your other hand, you tip his chin toward you. He meets your eyes and inches closer, trapping your hands between you.
“Tell me again?” you inquire.
“Which part?” Clark asks.
You smile and whisper, “You know.”
“That I love you? I do love you. And I’m sorry.”
“I know you didn’t mean for it to be like this,” you assure him.
Clark sighs, relieved, then falls to his knees. You gasp, then laugh when he takes your hands and repeats, “I love you.”
“I love you,” you whisper. “Now get up, please.”
He laughs as he stands, then pulls you into a heavy hug that warms you better than his cape ever has. You close your eyes and press your face into him, his warm, soft flannel comfortable against your skin.
“Which rooftop should we go to?” he asks, rubbing your back kindly.
“You pick.” You lift your head, brows furrowed as you ask, “What should I call you?”
“Whatever you want. Clark, Superman, Kal-El, yours.”
You smile, but not at his flirty conclusion. “Kal-El? Kryptonian? That’s so cool.”
“You’re so cool.” Clark’s eyes narrow, and then he says, “You’re hungry.”
“Don’t listen to my stomach growling on our first date, Supes,” you plead.
He tips his head back and laughs, then spreads his hand on your back and leads you toward the house. You may not forget about the pain quickly, but with Clark’s hand on you, you know you will eventually.
Mere minutes later, you’re sitting on the barn’s roof with a homecooked meal and Clark’s muscular arm pressed to your back.
“Inny tried to bribe me with a Superman’s Hope Tea to get me out of the house before you showed up,” you confess.
“That thing cannot taste good,” Clark murmurs.
“Well, you and your iced lattes can think whatever you want.”
“I had to throw that shirt away,” Clark says, leaning toward you.
“I offered to dry clean it,” you remind him.
“You offer to dry clean a lot.”
“I ruin your clothes a lot.”
You laugh, then lean against Clark’s side and look at the stars. He points out where Krypton was, tells you about some of his adventures as Superman, and interlaces apologies into every story he shares.
The farmhouse is dark when you leave, the cape secure around you and your hand in Clark’s as he flies over seemingly endless fields.
“I just thought of something,” you murmur against his neck.
“Good or bad?” he questions.
“When I need something, or want to talk to you, which number do I call? Superman or Clark's?”
Clark tips his head toward you and hums. “You don’t have to call at all. I can hear you.”
“What?” you question.
“Super hearing.”
“Yeah, I know that; I live in Metropolis. I just thought you had to be listening for that to work. Seems like you’d go crazy if you just heard everything all the time.”
“I’m always listening for you.”
Smiling against him, you close your eyes and trust Superman completely. He’s flying slower than he would if he was alone, conscious of you, your safety, and how you’re feeling. You’re nearly back to Gotham when he tips his head away from you.
“I need to make a pitstop,” Clark tells you. “Is that okay?”
“Sure,” you reply. “Is everything alright?”
“I’m going to get yelled at.”
“By whom?”
Clark lowers to a rooftop, then steps to your side and murmurs, “Him.”
“Superman,” Batman greets gruffly.
Your eyes widen in shock, and you clutch Clark’s cape as you look at Gotham’s dark hero. Batman glances toward you, his head moving slightly before he grunts.
“I told you so,” he tells Clark.
“Was that all you needed?” Clark sighs, rubbing his jaw.
Someone peeks out from behind Batman, then disappears just as quickly. Batman sighs beneath his cowl, then shakes his head.
“Thanks for the assist, Batman,” Clark says, smiling. “I don’t think I’ll be needing that rooftop now.”
“Well,” you interject softly.
Clark turns toward you, smiling as he rolls his eyes. “Or maybe we’ll keep the option open.”
“As you wish, Superman,” Batman replies.
“She knows.”
“I told you so.”
“I know!” Clark groans. “Good gosh, are you going to let me forget it?”
“No!” someone calls from behind Batman.
You glance at Clark, but he’s still looking at Batman.
“If you’re not going to ask, can I?” the same voice whispers too loudly.
“I’m not asking, Nightwing,” Batman says, sounding more like a tired father than someone who strikes fear into the hearts of criminals.
“Fine.” Nightwing steps out from behind Batman and waves excitedly. “Hi, I’m Nightwing.”
“Yeah, I know,” you answer happily before offering your name. “My roommate loves you.”
“That’s precisely what I was hoping to talk to you about.”
“Wing,” Superman sighs.
“Oh, so you can go after a girl, cape and all, but I can’t? That’s messed up, Clark.”
“You don’t even know what she’s like,” you point out.
“She’s a girl… that likes Nightwing… She has good taste. She sounds perfect.”
Clark rolls his eyes, then wraps his arm around your waist and tugs you closer. “Maybe we can set something up.”
“Wait!” Nightwing exclaims. “Give her this.”
He passes you a small stuffed Nightwing plush, with a white tag bearing a phone number.
“Do all you heroes use the same move?” you inquire.
“Not all of us dupe the women afterward,” Batman grumbles.
“It works out sometimes,” you point out.
“Only when the hero in question has the loyalty of a golden retriever.”
“We’re leaving now,” Clark announces.
He pulls you up into his arms, then launches off the rooftop.
“So, he tried to convince you to tell me the truth?” you ask.
“He did. I would have told you anyway,” Clark promises.
“Oh, I know.”
When Superman drifts down to your rooftop, it’s reminiscent of the beginning, yet so much better.
“Thank you,” you tell him.
Clark drops his gaze toward your lips and nods. Before you can do anything, the door to the stairs opens roughly.
“Start talking!” Inny demands, storming out in a Nightwing hoodie.
You produce the plush, and she squeals, forgetting about any questions she may have.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Clark tells you.
“I’ll be here waiting,” you assure him.
“Cape and all?”
Smiling, you kiss his cheek, then answer, “Cape and all.”
What video game has the best opening scene or level?
Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.
detroit: become human has a really good one honestly! (i mean, just connor’s coin tricks? more than enough for it to be the best!) i think it’s the best one that comes to mind for me right now.
(i’d also like to note that skyrim is definitely up there cause that intro is so iconic lol)
his eyes strayed from his sister, instead flicking over her shoulder to find you across the gardens in talks with the likes of jasen celtigar. you were gorgeous, dressed in a sleek white gown with traces of your house colors, the neckline modest but inviting, with a single necklace resting on your collarbone. it was gold, small and dainty, the way you preferred your jewelry to be. unlike cersei, you weren't a fan of large pieces, a true believer in the power of simplicity.
cersei paused, following his eyes and immediately rolling her own matching ones. her hand found his arm, drawing his attention back to her. "get a hold of yourself, jaime. you're in the kingsguard," she told him, lips pulling into a thin frown. "and even if you weren't, she's not interested."
"not likely," he muttered in return, looking back to you and frowning as you laughed at whatever the celtigar boy had said.
"the ladies of court say she's to be betrothed soon," she continued with a hum. "she's of age now."
"so are you, and you're not betrothed," he pointed out, glancing back to her.
it was true. tywin lannister hadn't provided matches for either of them, though jaime wasn't necessarily available anymore. but, he was sure that as soon as it was advantageous for them, his father would request a pardon from the king and he would be married away, providing an heir to the lannister name that would eventually become the lord of casterly rock after him.
"father is being particular," cersei said, frowning openly at him now. "he can't marry his only daughter away to just anybody."
jaime shrugged, eyes finding you again. "he could. it's not you who will be carrying on out name."
she stiffened, brows knitting. "oh, will it be you, then? forsake your vows just to do father's bidding?"
"whatever the lord lion wants," he answered, shooting her a cheeky grin that only had her rolling her eyes.
"you're ridiculous," she muttered, crossing her arms.
he laughed. "you love me, cersei."
her eyes traced over his features and her posture relaxed a touch, a short smile tugging at her lips. "that i do." she played with the little white scarf she'd embroidered over the last week before waving it his way. "i've made my favor for you."
it was true. most of the time, he took his sister's favor with him instead of one from you, not wanting to draw attention to the sneaky love he had for you. cersei was more than happy to do it too, excitedly tying it to his armor or lance once the tourney began.
jaime hummed. "perhaps you should give it to another. if father won't find you a husband, you certainly should get a start on it."
she frowned, whacking him with the scarf. "don't be a problem, jaime."
"i'm being realistic," he corrected with a grin as cersei scoffed and rolled her eyes.
"you're ridiculous."
your eyes flicked past jasen celtigar's large stature, finding instead the taller, leaner figure of the eldest lannister boy. clad in a handsome maroon tunic and slacks instead of his usual white and gold armor befitting of a member of the kingsguard, he was even more captivating than usual today.
"is something the matter?"
you turned back to jasen, brows raised in surprise as your eyes met his again. you let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. "no, sorry. i thought i saw a friend."
"no worries, my lady," the boy answered with a smile too large for the instance. "was it who you thought it was?"
in an instant, your gaze was back on jaime and your smile softened. "it was."
jasen was quick to follow your gaze, brows knitting just slightly. he laughed. "i can't say i've heard many ladies call the lady cersei a friend, but i suppose your kind disposition is able to befriend all, even stiff lionesses. would you like to say hello?"
your brows raised and you looked back to him. you cleared your throat and mustered a new smile. "you wouldn't mind?"
"of course not," he answered. then, he dipped a little closer to you, a sideways smile on his lips as though what he was going to tell you was a sort of inside joke. "a good man doesn't keep his betrothed from visiting with her friends, especially at a tourney party."
you did your best not to still, breathing out an uneasy laugh.
rumor was that your fathers had been in talks, and that soon a betrothal would be formed. you hadn't gotten a straight answer from your mother or your father, but all of jasen's actions and words this morning made you wonder at the progress of those talks.
"i'll see you later," you promised simply, giving him a short nod before stepping to the side.
"don't be too long," he said, and it almost sounded like a tease with the smile he gave you, but his eyes said he was serious, the golden irises deepening into a dark pool that made your heart thump.
you didn't answer, clasping your hands in front of you as you brushed past him and began to make your way across the garden.
there were so many people here for the tourney, men and women from all across westeros, most of whom you'd never seen before, dressed in their finest clothes and smelling of bright perfumes that were unfamiliar to your nose.
you'd lived at the red keep for most of your life, your father sitting on king aerys' small council and your mother an influential lady at court, expert at spreading gossip and finding miniature truths good enough to justify it. it was a talent cersei lannister had grown to develop as well, and you hated it in the both of them, vowing to be a simple and truthful woman.
unfortunately, that made you one in a million in king's landing.
the women you passed on your way to the lannister twins proved that even more, leaning close together and whispering or laughing way too loudly, obviously disingenuous as they waved one another off. it made your chest grow tight and your steps quicken, eager to reach the singular person you felt would be honest with you.
he always had been.
you needed it to refresh you before the actual tourney began and he'd be whisked off to compete, leaving you in the mass of false, two-faced people of court, the likes of which you'd both known your whole life and never met once.
by the time you stopped in front of jaime, he'd placed cersei in the hands of lady ashara dayne, both women heading to converse with robert baratheon and eddard stark, who you were surprised to see actually attended the tourney. with one glance to your father, you saw quickly that jon arryn had come to compete, and you knew then why their presence was required.
"hi," you said, unable to resist the true smile that pulled at your lips as you met the lannister boy's piercing green eyes.
his smile matched yours, his hand twitching at his side as though he was going to reach out for you. "hi." a beat passed and then he glanced away, nodding to where jasen was awaiting your return. "enjoying the party?"
you shrugged, refusing to follow his gaze and give jasen the satisfaction. "enough," you answered. "and you?"
"i'm ready for it to be finished so we can get on to the tourney," he said, meeting your eyes again and sending your heart jumping.
"of course you are," you teased, tilting your head as you looked up at him with a grin. "always anxious to fight."
"at least this kind is moral," he told you, matching your teasing smile.
"if you want to call it that," you hummed, laughing lightly. "at least both parties are willing."
he shrugged. "isn't that all you need?"
you laughed, shaking your head. "to make something moral? i don't think so, jaime."
his smile softened and he shifted just slightly towards you. his voice dropped a bit as he looked down at you, gaze warm as he finally reached forward, knuckle brushing over your arm. "no titles today, love?"
"ser jaime," you corrected quickly, glancing to the side with the hopes that your mother or her friends were no where nearby. luckily, the gossips were on the other side of the gardens, eyes on the teenage daughter of lord tully, watching her watch the young stark boy standing with robert baratheon and whispering excitedly. "or is it lord? i can never be sure."
"whichever you like, love," he hummed in answer. "i just like hearing you say my name."
you glanced away again, tucking your hair behind your ear as you tried to push down the blush that inevitably rose to your cheeks. no matter how long you'd know jaime, and that was a long time, and how often you saw him, which was frequently, he always managed to say something surprising.
"i'm sure you do, my lord," you answered, grinning a bit as he frowned at you.
"not 'my lord'," he told you, brows furrowed. "'my lord' is for the likes of my father, and for men like jasen celtigar."
you laughed in shock. "you sound jealous, jaime."
"i don't get jealous," he told you. he glanced around then, and, when he found that there were no watching eyes, took your hand and pulled you with him out of the gardens and into a nearby hall that led to the servants' quarters. he tucked you both into an alcove, free hand coming to your cheek. "i get possessive," he corrected quietly, and then he kissed you.
jaime lannister was the only boy you'd ever kissed, and the only boy you'd ever wanted to kiss. he'd been so gentle the first time, a small smile on his mouth before he finally dipped to capture your lips in a slow, sweet sort of kiss that you'd always be fond to remember as your first.
since then? since then, he'd become more confident and much more needy, dragging you into corners like this one to claim your mouth, hands holding your hips as he held you tight against him. it only got worse once he joined the kingsguard and your times together were few and far between, his actions nearly desperate now when he got the chance.
it was near instinct at this point to kiss back, leaning into him as your hands found his hair, pulling at the smooth strands the way you'd learned he really enjoyed. this only had him pulling you closer, his lips moving more insistently even as you broke for breath. he moved right back into you, grip tightening on your hip as he pressed you back into the wall.
"jaime," you breathed out as you pulled away.
"damn right," he mumbled, pulling you back to him, but you pushed him back with hands firm on his chest.
you shook your head, but your smile betrayed you. "not right now. my mother's ladies are watching and they'll put it together if they notice."
"notice what?" he asked, brows furrowing as he searched your eyes with his usual smirk.
you reached up, thumb running over his lip and wiping it clean of the cherry colored stain you'd put on only hours ago. you grinned as his face fell. "that, maybe."
he grabbed your wrist before you could pull your hand away, pressing a gentle kiss to your thumb and then letting your hands fall together, interlacing your fingers. he shrugged, smirking again.
"let them see," he mumbled, free hand coming to the back of your head, messing up your hair as he pulled you back up towards him.
you had to indulge for a few moments before you pushed him away again with a heavy sigh. "they can't, jaime. you know that."
his face fell, but he did know. reputations were on the line, and it wasn't his that brought him any sort of worry. "am i supposed to just let you go back to jasen celtigar while i'm left here wanting?"
"your tourney will begin soon," you said, trying at a small smile. "and if you win, you won't be left wanting for long."
he grinned, tilting his head. "you going to wait for me, love?"
"if you win," you told him, shifting so you were chest to chest with him again as your hands came to grip his arms. "and only if you win, go to the dinner for a few minutes and then go to your room. i'll make an excuse to my parents."
"and you'll be there?" he asked, brows raised.
"and i'll be there," you said with a nod. you raised to your tiptoes, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips before dropping back down with a grin. "promise."
he bent to kiss you again, managing to catch your lips for a split second before you pulled away with a laugh.
"only if you win," you said again, pushing him away and stepping back into the hallway.
he rolled his eyes, huffing as he followed you back out. "i better win, then."
you hummed, nodding and running your fingers through your hair to hopefully fix the curls. "you better."
"i have something for you," he told you, shoving a hand in his pocket and glancing down the hall before pulling a small golden bow from it. he held it out to you with a small smile, and your heart jumped in your chest.
"tie it for me?" you asked, turning and smiling as he immediately began placing it at the top of your braided half up.
when he finished, he pulled your hair to the side and pressed a kiss to your neck. "you're beautiful."
a shiver ran down your spine and you turned to meet his eyes, softening a bit as he smiled so warmly at you. "thank you, jaime. i'll see you soon?"
"you will," he promised with a nod, head tilted as he grinned lopsidedly at you.
you left him in the hall with a grin, entering the gardens again and near immediately being found by jasen who had been wondering where you disappeared to. jaime followed a minute or so later, eyes following you as you crossed the gardens to where cersei and ashara stood, starting conversation up with robert and ned instead, who you'd met many times as children.
his chest filled with a sort of possessiveness that was unique to you and a heavy frown pulled his lips down as jasen reached for your hand. it was replaced with a sly smile when you sidestepped him, hands clasping in front of you as you turned completely to speak with robert, polite smile on your lips as jasen was left to cersei and ashara.
he was going to win this tourney, and he was going to win you.
you cheered loudly beside your mother and lord jasen, who had insisted on sitting at your side, when jaime rode out, beautiful in his golden armor and striking atop his white horse. all the rest of the ladies cheered loud as well, flustered smiles on their lips as he rode around the arena, earning an increase in the roar of the crowd.
"is that a new hairpiece?" your mother asked, brows knitting as she eyed the golden bow in your hair.
this caught jasen's attention, his eyes flicking to you and a frown settling on his lips at the sight of the gold fabric. you reached back to touch it gingerly, unable to resist the smile pulling at your lips. "yes. do you like it?"
she hummed, fingers running over the silk edges. "it's very nice. seems expensive."
you shrugged and jasen continued for her, eyes narrowed a bit as he wondered. "who got it for you?"
your gaze returned to where jaime was finishing his round of the stands, making his way to where you were sat on the sides with the courtly ladies. "a friend."
"which friend?" he asked, but jaime had your full attention by that point. and the attention of every other lady in the stands.
slowly, his horse trotted along the way, and you watched with a surprised smile as he passed the corner where cersei and ashara were sat, cersei's face falling as his eyes skipped over her completely.
jasen tensed as he watched at your side, hand shifting to reach for your arm, but you'd folded your hands in your lap, knees pointing instead towards your mother as you avoided his touch.
jaime slowed to a stop in front of you, his grin wide as he met your eyes, unable to resist the cocky look he shot to jasen. you raised a brow, smiling still as he lowered his lance towards you, head tilted as he grinned his usual confident way.
"might i ask the lady for her favor?" he asked loudly, all of the audience watching you with excited whispers.
jasen scoffed, but you ignored him. you smiled as you nodded, standing and moving to the edge of the stands, dress brushing the rope fencing, to tie your favor to the end of his lance - a shimmering maroon ribbon that was a near perfect match to the tunic he'd been wearing earlier in the day.
the whispers of the ladies filled the seats behind you as jaime grinned wider, bringing his lance back to his side as he gave you a sure nod. after a moment of holding your eyes he took off again, and his opponent entered the arena, earning cheers again, though not nearly as loud as the ones for jaime.
"maroon?" you heard behind you, jasen murmuring to your mother with an obvious frown. "why does she have a maroon ribbon?"
when you sat back next to your mother, she looked at you with pursed lips. "expecting ser jaime to ask for your favor, were you? with that color ribbon." she almost seemed impressed at your audacity, but you knew her better than that.
you shrugged, smiling as you looked back out to where the men were readying to joust. "a girl can hope," you answered coyly.
next to you, jasen stiffened, though he said nothing, merely looking away to the tourney once more.
you always grew more stressed when jaime jousted, though you knew you didn't have to be so anxious. the nerves only increased the farther along he got, though, fighting against stronger, better men. he was good at what he did, but these knights had years of experience on him, and you were always worried something would go wrong and he'd get hurt. or worse.
accidents weren't unknown to the king's tourneys, and you'd seen many yourself. a man died once from a lance to the throat, and in the meleys men died all the time. someone even accidentally got shot during the archery portion once, though you didn't have a clue how.
you just prayed jaime would be alright.
he jousted well, and even you were surprised when he unseated jon arryn, though it made sense due to his older age, and got himself into the finals.
against ser arthur dayne.
"your knight is lost," jasen hummed in your ear, a grin on his lips. "a boy of his age has never won a tourney. especially not against ser arthur."
"i wouldn't put it past him. ser jaime is an excellent jouster," you answered, watching intensely as jaime readied himself, adjusting his armor and straightening the straps on his lance.
your mother watched you, a curious smile on her lips. "your father has bet on ser arthur. are you saying you would've put yours on ser jaime instead?"
"only if i wanted to win," was your easy answer, and it earned a great laugh from her and a frown from jasen.
the two men charged at one another, helmets down and lances pointed, and they both landed square in the chest. jaime held on for dear life, as did arthur, and they both rounded to go again. you held your breath when they ran again, and the same thing happened.
"equally matched, it seems," your mother hummed, but you were hardly paying attention to her.
the third charge changed things. ser arthur's horse started off wonky, and as it adjusted its footing in its gallop his lance shifted. when jaime's landed square in the man's chest, his own merely scraped the side of jaime's torso, and the knight was unseated.
a great roar filled the crowd as jaime turned, victorious as squires ran to help ser arthur rise. when he was given the small bouquet of flowers by his squire, he crossed to you, which earned many, many looks again.
his grin was wide as he jumped off his horse and came to stand directly in front of you, bowing slightly as he offered the red roses to you. "my queen of love and beauty," he said, smile widening as you stood to accept them.
"thank you, ser jaime," you answered, smiling gently.
he shot you a wink and then he was back on his horse, making one final round to appease the roaring crowd.
"good friends, are you?" jasen asked, turning to you with knitted brows.
you smiled small, watching as jaime left the arena and shrugging. "i've known ser jaime all my life. we grew up together."
your mother hummed next to you as she stood, collecting her things and chuckling. "oh, yes. most of her childhood was spent ogling the lannister boy. it's a wonder my husband didn't make the match before the boy was knighted."
that caught both yours and jasen's attentions, both of you looking to her.
"really?" you asked with raised brows. "father spoke of this?"
"your father's spoken of many things," she answered, gesturing for you to stand and so you did. "come, child. the feast comes now."
you nodded and followed her, jasen still struggling for an answer behind you. "i think i might skip supper, actually. my stomach feels a bit uneasy."
"it's the butterflies," she said with a laugh.
"i'll walk you back to your chambers," jasen offered, completely missing your mother's tease.
you shook your head. "there's no need, my lord."
"please, my lady, i insist," he said.
"thank you, but i must refuse," you told him, smiling thinly. "ready yourself for the feast. i'm sure it will be splendid."
you quickly ducked out of his view, pulling your mother through the crowd and back towards the keep. she frowned, but followed. "he's to be your husband, child, you cannot-"
"that's not a sure thing," you told her quietly, letting out a breath of relief as you slipped beyond the walls surrounding the castle. "i'm going to steal an apple from the kitchens before i rest. have a good night, mother."
"girl-"
you giggled as you bolted away, walking briskly through the halls as quick as you could. the thought of jaime fueled your escape, turning corners with careful looks over your shoulder and discreetly pushing your way into his chambers.
of course, he wasn't there, but the remnants of him were. the roll of ribbon which he made your bow with sat on his desk with a few papers covered in his barely legible scrawl. you always teased that he should try being left-handed since his right hand was so terrible at writing in a pretty manner, to which he always rolled his eyes.
you made yourself comfortable on his sofa, leaning back against the familiar cushion and smiling to yourself as you thought of him, clutching your flowers tight in your hand.
my queen of love and beauty, he'd said. my.
you wondered at the possibility of his father making the arrangement with yours, annulling his oaths to the kingsguard and letting you provide the next generation of lannisters to uphold the name. there deserved to be more jaime lannisters in the world, you decided then, and you hoped you'd be able to do that.
the door pushed open and you turned, setting the flowers on the table in front of you as jaime stepped in. he grinned, undone of his armor and back in a basic white tunic and brown pants.
"hello, love," he hummed, shutting and locking the door behind him. he sauntered in, your maroon ribbon swishing as he walked, now tied to his wrist like a badge of honor. he held it up with a grin. "i won."
"i noticed," you answered, crossing quickly towards him with a smile. "well done."
he shrugged, tilting his head. "i had some good encouragement."
"and my favor," you noted with a short laugh.
"that helped too," he said, reaching to tuck a stray bit of hair behind your ear. "it was maroon."
"i thought it'd go nice with your look," you answered simply.
he laughed at that, stepping closer and pulling you more fully into his arms. "i imagine your mother and her ladies found it suspicious."
you shrugged, tilting your head as you let your hands rest around his shoulders, toying with the ends of his hair absentmindedly. "let them talk. what harm will it do us anyways?"
he grinned, fingers finding the end of your golden bow and pulling lightly along the silk. "none."
and then, as he'd been waiting to do the whole afternoon, he kissed you, and you were never happier to have given a knight your favor.
thanks for reading! leave a request in the comments or message me privately! i love writing, so if you've got an idea you need fleshed out on paper i'd love to be the one to do that for you
Content: PURE FLUFF!! you want sleep, Dyanna died shortly after giving birth to Rhea, Egg is seven, Rhea is two, mentions of how Aerion treats Egg, eggs fear of it happening to Rhea, EGG HAS HAIR, talks of having children, Daerons drinking.
Your woken from your peaceful sleep by the sound crying. For a moment you think it’s your husband having another one of his dreams but when you hear his light snores you open your eyes to check you see him sound asleep face buried in your hair. Before you can investigate further you see a crying Egg holding a sleeping Rhea.
“Egg? What’s wrong sweetheart?” You ask holding your arms out and moving closer into Daerons side of the bed who just roles over not waking, so the kids can fit. When he climbs into bed he doesn’t answer immediately he just curls up in your arms still holding his younger sister but his crying does start to slow.
“I had a nightmare.” He confuses quietly still sniffing. “Aerion wanted Rhea and-.” He cut himself of by crying again.
“It’s ok sweetheart, we won’t let anything happen to her.” You say quietly brushing his light hair out of his face giving it a light kiss. “I’ll kill him myself if he tries anything. I promise.”
“It felt so real.” He whispers as if he thinks speaking of it will make it come true. “What if I had a dragon dream?”
“Did you see everything?” You ask knowing how to calm someone after a dragon dream. He shakes his head. “Then if you did have a dragon dream, which I don’t think you did, we’d have time to stop it from going too far. Is that why you brought her in here?”
“Yes.” He answers quietly checking to see she was still sleeping in between the two of you. “I thought she’d be safer with you than in the nursery. You’re the closest thing she has to a mother and mother used to protect me so I thought-.”
“I know sweetheart.” You say softly stroking his messy hair knowing how much the little prince missed his mother. “Why don’t you stay here for the night? I can read till you go to sleep, and that way you know Rhea is safe.”
“Are you sure? Daeron won’t be mad? Father said I’m not meant to sleep in here anymore Daeron doesn’t like it.”
“That bullshit.” Daeron mumbles sloppy rolling over to face you both. “I don’t care, just try not to kick me. Oh, hello Rhea.” He says in a lighter tone seeing the little girl start to wake up. “Come here darling, let’s have some cuddles.” At that the sleepy toddler climbs over you into her big brothers arms and nuzzles her face into his shoulder wanting to go back to sleep.
“See?” You whisper to Egg hoping the girl gets back to sleep quickly. “We don’t mind, if anything we like it.” You tell him trying to get him to sleep.
“Why don’t you have any children?” He asks yawning with the tact only a child could have. “You act like a mother.”
“We’ve spoken about it. But after Rhea was born we thought it best to wait until she was older, and we didn’t know how your father would cope without your mother so we wanted to be there for all you kids.” You tell your tired boy answering honestly instead of the lie of ‘it just hasn’t happened yet’ that you tell everyone else. “Now get some sleep we’ll be here.”
“Night.” Egg mumbles nuzzling himself into you just like his brother and sister do, falling asleep almost instantly as the adrenaline of his nightmare has worn off.
“Is she asleep?” Daeron asks you quietly as he can’t see Rheas face. When you look you see the toddler sound asleep sucking her thumb with her hand in Daerons hair.
“She’s sound.” You whisper with a smile loving the sight of him with a child.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He asks with a grin knowing exactly what you’re thinking, he also knows for a fact as he’d just woken from a dream of you pregnant holding a baby dragon before Egg woke him.
“Do you think it’s time?” You question as you move slightly trying to get comfortable with a seven year old asleep on you. “Do you think we’re ready to be parents?”
“Well I’ll need to slow down the drinking, but isn’t want we’re doing now being parents?” He asks seriously moving Rhea slightly so he could properly look at you. “Isn’t this what being a parent is? Not being able to sleep because one had a nightmare and the other wants cuddles?”
“I think there’s a lot more to it than that.” You answer with a giggle still looking at him with complete adoration. “Should I stop drinking moon tea?”
“I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be.” He says lifting your hand to give it a kiss. “We can start trying soon then.” He winks sleepily. “If the kids weren’t in bed I’d say we start trying now but-.”
“Shut up.” Egg mumbles sleepily snuggling into you even more. “It’s sleep time.”
“Yeah Daeron it’s sleep time.” You tease with a whisper. “Good night my love.”
there wasn't a single sound from rickon when you woke, surprisingly enough. as the sun slowly began to stream through the cracks in the curtains, not one noise came muffled through the cobblestone walls.
you groaned as you rolled further into cregan, using his chest to shield you from the light. "all it took to get rickon to sleep in was put him in his own room?"
he chuckled, arms winding tighter around you as his thumb began to rub gentle circles into your hip. "i told you it'd be a good idea."
you settled into him more, mumbling, "yeah, but not for this reason."
he laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "maybe not. but still, you can't be too mad at the outcome."
"i suppose not," you answered.
a steady silence filled the space for another few moments, and you felt all too comfortable relaxed in cregan's arms. the feel of his skin against yours was soothing and invigorating all at once, and you were consistently surprised at how electric your life with him continued to be - even after having a baby and while managing the whole of the north.
when it was the right person your life really couldn't be poor, you supposed.
but, the callings of your station still filled your mind and you let out a great sigh, kissing his chest gently before pulling back enough to meet his deep grey eyes. he blinked down at you, still a bit sleepy, but a small, lopsided smile already on his lips.
"yes?" he hummed boyishly, leaning down to kiss you slowly.
you let him, all too content with how the day had started, before you had to be the bad guy and ruin it. "we ought to get up soon."
"why's that?" he asked, raising his brows and kissing you again.
you giggled into his mouth as he pressed further into you, your back soon hitting the mattress as he hovered on top of you. "because," you managed during a break before his lips captured yours again. you pushed him up with firm hands on his chest, a little greedy as they ran down his skin. "we have work to do. and we have guests. multiple, now."
he shook his head. "the prince won't care if i'm there or not. he has my sister now to occupy him."
"perhaps," you chuckled. "but, i'm almost certain that alysa-"
"don't say her name here," he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder as you began to laugh again.
you ran your hand through his hair as you shook your head. "you're right, i'm sorry." he pressed a kiss to your shoulder and you forgot for a moment what you were going to say, hand stilling in his dark locks before it finally returned to you. "all i mean is that we need to get up. and, anyways, if rickon sleeps any longer he won't nap when i need him to."
that, at least, made sense to your husband, even though he was still reluctant to agree. he sighed, rolling off of you. "alright. fine." you watched as he pushed off the mattress, crossing with lazy strides to your wardrobe, a knowing smirk on his lips as your eyes chased him.
he pulled the doors open, tossing a glance over his shoulder as you finally stood as well, drinking you in for a moment before you laughed and came to his side.
"i hope today goes by quickly," he murmured as he leaned down to kiss you again, earning another short giggle.
"yeah, me too," you agreed, finally pushing him away so you could find your smallclothes. "what plans do you have for today?"
"jace and i will be with maester castor, mostly," he said, pulling his own undergarments on. "he'll come speak with you, likely. i've thought to have a hunt before the prince leaves."
"when is he leaving?" you wondered as you pulled your slip over your head.
"in a week or so," cregan answered. "said his mother will be needing him back to dragonstone soon."
"he seems to like it here," you said, shooting him a sideways grin as he rolled his eyes.
"you mean someone, love," he corrected.
you nodded. "sara, of course. though, she hasn't told me much about what they've been up to as of late." he scoffed, shaking his head, and you continued. "but, he's a fan of you as well. i think this is the first time i've seen you make a genuine friend in all the time we've been married."
"i have friends," he defended lamely, but one raise of your brows had him turning away. "i have a friend now."
you laughed, wrapping your arms around his torso and pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade, all too impressed with the way his back was built as you did. he relaxed slightly as you squeezed his middle, turning back to you when you pulled away.
"i'm glad you have a friend now," you said, beginning to rifle through your many dresses. "though, i didn't mind being your only friend for a long time."
he chuckled, slipping into his trousers. "don't worry, love. you're my best friend."
"i better be," you answered, pulling out a light blue gown that complimented your skin in a way you knew cregan loved. his gaze focused on the dress watching as you stepped into it and reaching to hold it open for you. you smiled small, pulling the sleeves up your arms and then turning without question so he'd do it up for you. "i birthed your son for sixteen hours. if i weren't your best friend i think i'd run away."
he laughed, fingers gentle as he laced your dress for you. "you'd run away?"
you nodded. "sara would help me. we'd go to riverrun." you paused. "or maybe dragonstone. i'm sure the prince would allow us stay."
"yes, but if he were my best friend instead of you, he would tell me where you were and i could come retrieve you," he answered, leaning forward to press a kiss behind your ear. he shifted back again only to finish the ties. "this tight enough? or too tight?"
"no, that's great, love, thank you," you hummed, smiling small as he tied the laces into a quick bow.
when he was finished, he let his hands rest at your waist, feeling your curves with a greedy sort of obsession as he pulled you back into him. "this day better go by quick," he muttered again as he kissed your neck before settling his chin on your shoulder and wrapping his arms around you.
you relaxed into him, hands coming to hold his as you let your eyes shut comfortably. "it will," you promised. "i've just got some letters to write back to the bannermen about positionings, and then i have meetings with the heads of house, will likely need to organize for more supplies for them, and then whatever things castor will need from me after he meets with you, and then we have supper and it's back here."
he groaned, temple pressing into yours as he dropped his head. "i didn't used to complain about my day and duties, you know," he muttered. "not until i had a reason to want to be away from them."
"i'd also like to think that i'm a reason to keep up with them," you answered, smiling small as you squeezed his hands.
"very much so," he said.
he pressed a kiss to the side of your head and finally let you go. you took the opportunity to turn in his arms and kiss him fully before stepping to your vanity, letting your hand run across his still bare torso as you left, feeling the muscles tense momentarily and grinning at it.
he chuckled as you took your seat at the vanity, glancing at him through the mirror and reaching for your brush.
"you know," you hummed as he began pulling the rest of his clothes on. "i like it better when all your hair is down. maybe don't pull it up today?"
"or," he answered as he tied his tunic up and reached then for his leathers. "i keep it down just for you."
you knew it was a cop out just so he could still keep it up and out of his face during the day, but you didn't mind that idea. you hummed as you brushed your own hair out, trying to get it to wave in a pretty way but struggling due to the massive bedhead that came after a heated night with your husband.
"i think that'd be alright," you said, smiling as you met his eyes through the mirror. "but, it comes down as soon as we're through the door, yeah?"
cregan, ever the romantic, crossed his heart with a grin. "promise."
he pulled his boots and cloak on and you bailed on your hair, pulling it back into an easy braid instead. he worked on his sword then, securing it over his back as you stood and slipped your boots on.
"rickon will be with me most of today," you told him as he offered you your own fur-lined cloak, beginning to tie it around yourself. "except for his nap, of course. i think i'll let wynnie have a bit of a day to herself."
he snorted. "should i let lonnel have the day off as well, then?"
you raised your brows, smirking a bit. "has he told you something? wynnie hasn't told me anything. last night was new for me."
"no, love, he hasn't told me anything," he answered with a chuckle. "but, it's not hard to tell when a boy likes a girl."
"and you think he likes her?" you probed.
he rolled his eyes. "potentially. but, i'm not letting him have the day off, i was joking. that boy can't have a single day to himself or else i'll have to reteach him everything he's learned thus far."
you chuckled. "you're too hard on him."
"it takes hard to learn to be a proper northman," he told you then, smiling small. "don't expect anything less when rickon grows. life isn't easy here."
"i know, love," you answered, resting a hand on his arm as you stepped closer to him. "i'm just going to really embrace these few years before you steal my baby boy away to learn to be a northman, then."
he nodded, smiling. "you do that, then." he kissed you gently, hand cupping your waist gently before you pulled back to step to the door.
"i'll see you later," you said with a nod and a smile. "today will go by quickly."
"hopefully," he chuckled.
he followed you into the hall, squeezing your waist once more before making his way down the corridor to meet with jace. by the looks of the sun in the sky, he likely was, in fact, late to meet with the prince. not that it mattered much - he was the lord of the castle. the clocks ran on stark time around here.
you pushed the door open to rickon's room quietly, a gentle smile on your lips as you turned your eyes left to where his crib was.
and instantly your face fell.
standing there in all her lannister gold and red was alysanne, your baby boy on her hip as she pushed her fingers through his dark stark locks that had grown quite a bit since his birth.
"alysanne," you said shortly, frown pulling your lips low as you stepped fully into the room.
she offered you a sweet smile as you marched up to her, turning a touch so rickon was closer to the crib than to you, restricting your access. "good morning. feeling a bit slothful this morning?"
your frown deepened impossible lower, sidestepping and reaching for rickon. he held his little arms out to you and you quickly stole him from her arms, settling him on your hip as you took a step away. "as winter furthers the sun rises later, and so do we. it's something learned quickly in the north."
she stiffened a bit at that, the reminder of her limited experience with winterfell despite her ravings of it. her smile thinned. "apparently not by your son. little stark here was wide awake when i found him."
"and why did you find him?" you asked, adjusting the boy in your arms.
"well, i came to find you, initally, but you were still asleep," she answered with a poised tilt of her head. "i assumed your boy would be restless, and he was. these starks, always restive, very different from you. i imagine it's jarring waking up so at ease and finding the men already chomping at the bit and racing away from your hall."
the comment was sharp and laughably incorrect - cregan was the one who wanted to stay in bed the longest, but you didn't feel the need to correct her.
you hummed, turning to the door. "you've expressed your familiarity with the grounds much in the past. i imagine you'll be able to find something to occupy yourself with while i work today?"
"and here i thought the lady of winterfell was gracious with her guests," she said with that same half-teasing tone from the night prior.
"i did not have ample opportunity to prepare for your arrival, so forgive me for continuing the work my people need done," you answered with a short raise of your brows.
"i could help," she offered. "i'm very familiar with the duties of the lady of the household. especially this one."
you smiled amusedly. "the duties of a southern lady and a northern lady are awfully different. has winter even crossed your husband's mind?"
"winter is a season, sweet friend, not an army," she told you with a condescending smile.
"in the north it is," you said simply. "it's the fiercest enemy we'll face. so, excuse me while i go to deal with it. you'll find breakfast in the great hall."
"oh, but i insist-"
"alysanne-"
"i could help with rickon at the leas-"
"if you haven't noticed by now, you're not wanted here, alysanne," you finally told her shortly, frowning. she faltered, surprised at your northern bluntness. "you've disrupted our routine, insulted our house, and inserted yourself in business that is none of yours. now, we have hospitality in the north, but it is not endless. squander it, and you'll find the door."
she was gaping at you like a fish out of water and you didn't care enough to stay, turning on your heel and moving quickly towards your office. you passed a handmaiden as you went up the stairs, asking her quickly for some food for you and rickon, and then you collapsed in the comfort of your own space.
seven hells, that woman was going to be the death of you.
the day dragged on your end as you dealt with your agenda. sara was off doing a few errands for you in wintertown and wynnie had chosen to go with her with her day off, mumbling something about finding a cake for lonnel to try as she slipped off with the stark girl and earning a giggle from both of you. it was just you and rickon for the day, which you were extremely glad for.
the boy was good at entertaining himself, playing with his toys on the sheepskin rug in your office, trying to push himself up into a crawl and maneuvering around the room best he could. he was a quiet baby, didn't cry very much, just did his thing with the same still look on his face.
he was like his father in that.
cregan's day was just as boring, speaking with the maester and attending to citizen hearings, handling disputes and training for a few minutes when he finally could.
he caught a quick meal way later in the day when he should've slipping from the kitchens into the private halls that led to his study whilst jace continued conversing with sara, who had returned from wintertown with several cakes for everyone to try. she did, after all, owe you one.
lonnel was also distracted from cregan, all grins and giggles as wynnie insisted he try the peach and vanilla cake she'd brought for him.
"women," cregan chuckled lightly to himself as he pushed out of the kitchens, intent on heading to his study to finish his work as quickly as possible so he could return to his own woman.
"women."
he let out a breath, eyes falling shut for just a moment as he prepared himself for the conversation that was about to occur. slowly, he turned, brow raised as he came face to face with the lady of lannister.
"i'm sorry?" he asked.
she smiled and walked towards him, brunette curls a harsh contrast to the white and gold gown she wore. she seemed intensely out of place in the dark cobblestone corridor, and her presence was massively uncomfortable as she neared the stark lord.
"you said it first," she said, voice a little musical as she tilted her head at him. "you tell me."
cregan frowned, refusing to step away and instead folding his hands in front of him, staring her down as she stopped only a few steps away from him. "what are you doing in the private halls, lady lannister?"
she shrugged, glancing around as if just realizing where she was. "your wife has left me to my lonesome the last hours." she tilted her head then, a slow smirk pulling at one corner of her mouth as she knitted her brows at the lord. "were you aware what hour she rose this morning?"
he wanted to roll his eyes, but diplomacy told him not to. "yes, we tend to rise with the sun. it's less about the clock in the winter and more about daylight."
"yes, she said that too," alysanne hummed, glancing away for just a moment. and then, when she looked at him next, her gaze was much more piercing. "she seems different. don't you think?"
"i'm not sure what you mean," he said, frown deepening.
"she's changed," she answered simply. "children change a woman, lord stark. they flatten the curves, dampen the fire. you deserve more than lullabies and milk."
his brows raised high and he breathed out an incredulous laugh. "lullabies and milk?"
she took a step towards him. "a man like you - strong hands, strong name - shouldn't be made to sleep next to a tired, milk-soured woman."
"you cannot speak about my wife-"
"she's a kind woman, i'll give her that," alysanne said shortly, nodding once as she met his eyes. "but, kindness doesn't give a man what he needs."
"and how would you know what a man needs?" cregan asked, tilting his head. "how would you know how children change a woman, either? how would you know how a husband would react to such changes, or how having a son would change him as well? you've no experience in any of these things, if i'm recalling correctly."
"you're right that i haven't directly experienced these things, my lord, but i'm experienced in other, more important aspects of marriage and love," she hummed in return, brows raising slightly as a small smirk pulled at her lips.
his brows shot up, understanding instantly what she was suggesting.
"i pity your husband, then," he said shortly, stepping back again.
her face fell and she frowned, following him backwards. "i give my husband what he needs and in return he keeps me and my house safety."
"by bending the knee to a usurper? by breaking his oaths?"
"by playing on the winning side," she said with furrowed brows. "there's courage in joining the winning side, my lord. though, i suppose bravery looks different on a lannister banner than a stark."
footsteps echoed through the corridor and they both turned to watch the dragon prince push through the kitchen door and stand at the end of it, both hands clasped over the hilt of his sword as he clenched his jaw, meeting the eyes of the blackwood girl. his deep brown eyes flickered with violet and gold, his features sharpened by the thin light of the hallway.
his eyes remained on alysanne as he spoke, voice stern and dark in a way exclusive to he, shoulders settled in a comfortable, regal way that made her shrink, "mind your tongue, lady lannister. there's a thin line between counsel and insult, and it seems you've crossed it."
she tensed, glancing between he and cregan as though the north lord would come to her defense.
"i meant no insult," she said as she looked back to the prince, hands clasping in front of her as she gave him a short smile. "i'm only here to advise lord stark as you are."
"i wasn't sent here to advise him, i was sent to call him to my mother's aid," jace answered plainly, shifting his weight on the other foot as he tilted his head at the girl. "i imagine that's your purpose as well."
"i'm not here to call the northern banners to king aegon's-"
"he's no king," he said shortly, gaze sharp. "he's usurped my mother's throne."
"he's the firstborn son of king viserys," she said.
"and yet the entire realm was called to swear themselves to his firstborn daughter," jace answered, tilting his head the other direction. "curious."
"before the king's birth-"
"my grandfather declared her his heir long after aegon was born," he said. "don't attempt to speak on things you know nothing of, my lady. i was raised in that keep. i was raised alongside your so-called king. he is no king."
cregan watched the exchange carefully, and when she turned to him, he simply raised his brows. "how does your nephew benjicot feel about this change of yours?" her expression shifted and she opened her mouth to retort, but he shook his head. "if you've come to convince me to abandon my oaths, it's best that you leave, my lady. i'm sworn to queen rhaenyra, and the north will fight for the dragon queen."
alysanne shook her head. "i'm not here to convince you-"
"why are you here, then?" he asked.
"tell me, lord stark," she said, turning to him completely now, jacaerys fuming behind her. "do you truly believe the north will rally behind a woman weakened, who is soft, who feeds on whispers and the strength of the people around her?"
"queen rhaenyra is-"
"i'm not talking about the princess," she said shortly, meeting his eyes intently.
and that was what sent cregan over the edge.
he stepped towards her, face settled into a terrifying sort of steel smoothness, a single hand raising to point at her chest.
"my wife is the strongest woman i know," he said, his tone chilling. "she has worked hard to do the best she can for me, for our son, and for the north."
"her best isn't what mine would-"
"yours would be significantly worse, as we've seen," he told her, glaring now. "your husband sent here to convince me, or seduce me, perhaps, into joining the greens? and now you will return to him a failure. the north doesn't bow to usurpers, or oathbreakers, or temptresses. go on, little lioness, run back to your husband with your tail between your legs. your time in winterfell is done."
he held her eyes as she deflated, utterly shocked that the composed, diplomatic cregan stark would ever say such a thing to her. especially her.
jace, at her back, was openly grinning. he gestured to the side. "go on, then. be gone."
she faltered, glancing between them before finally looking back to cregan. "i do want to be friends with y/n again. that part is true."
"your comments to her haven't proved that," he answered. "you've barely been here a day and you've caused more discourse than we've had in our halls in a year."
"i never meant-"
"you did," jace said, his signature sort of sass in his tone again as he tilted his head. "we all know what you meant, and to be honest i'm almost embarrassed for you. it'd be best if you collected your men and returned to the south. i hear there's a storm brewing."
behind him, the door to the kitchens was pulled open again, and sara emerged. she raised her brows, looking between the three with great interest. "what's happened?"
no one said anything. all alysanne did then was push past the prince and the wolf girl, ducking into the kitchens and out of the intense sight of the lot of them.
sara looked back to cregan and jace as a wide grin pulled at jace's lips, cregan's settling into a slow smirk.
"what's happened?" she asked again.
jace just chuckled, reaching an arm out and pulling her into his side. "just the cowardly lioness doing what she does best."
as soon as you put rickon to bed and you were in your own room, cregan was hot on you, locking the door tightly and molding his lips to yours as he pulled you straight into him.
you were half confused and half excited, giggling as he walked you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the mattress, and then he flattened you against it awfully quick.
"what's happened?" you asked quietly as he dropped his mouth to your neck, his hands slipping beneath you to tug at the laces he'd done up that morning. "long day?"
he breathed out against your skin, pausing for just a moment to meet your eyes. "longest day of my life."
you knitted your brows, frowning slightly as your hands came to his hair. "i'm sorry, love."
"it's not fault of yours," he answered, leaning up to kiss you again. simultaneously, he helped you backwards to be more completely on the bed and pushed himself onto the mattress with one knee, hovering over you expertly. when he dropped his mouth back to your neck, he murmured. "alysanne's gone."
"what?" you asked, eyes wide. you laughed. "how'd you manage that?"
it was then that he got your dress undone, letting out a breath of relief as he reached to tug your sleeves down your arms. "she got pushy. came onto me. tried to get me to break near every oath i've made."
you rolled your eyes, helping him undo the rest of your dress before reaching up for the ties of his tunic. "can't say i'm surprised."
"jacaerys told her off," he said then, grinning a bit. "just made me all the more glad to be fighting at his side."
you paused. "you're not, though. the greybeards are. you're staying here."
"aye, but wars escalate," he told you quietly, dropping to kiss you fully. your mind stayed on the idea of him leaving to war, even as his hands ran over your hips and waist. he pulled back with a small, teasing smile. "stop thinking so much."
"i can't," you answered even quieter than he had.
he brushed some hair out of your face, expression softening as he realized exactly what you were thinking. "it'll be alright," he promised you surely. slowly, he lowered his lips back to yours. "let me help you stop thinking, yeah?"
your breath shortened a bit and you met his eyes. you nodded slightly, voice barely there as you agreed. "yeah."
summary: An imperfect bride for a flawsome man – it was not a tragic match by any means, but the heavy shroud of expectations made affection morph into doubt. It felt like a choke, the duty imposed by House Rosby, tightening on the necks of Daeron and his wife.
tags/tw: Rosby!reader, arranger marriage, +18 & suggestive themes, child abuse, awful awful father!, talks of children & forcing women into being mothers (surprise it's asoif), established relationship, domestic violence (not Daeron), Aerion being a creep, no use of Y/N, English is not my first language
word count: 9.2k
a/n: friday the 13th must be a daeron day. I am such a cruel woman for that one... also Maekar should only be a girl dad, but he's forced to have sons as well (reader being forcefully mentally adopted by her father-in-law because her father is a lil b*tch)
“Did you ever believe in freedom?”
At first, it sounded like a jest. A cruel one, if he intended to remind you that you could never truly know such a thing as freedom. Prince Daeron didn’t appeal to you as a cruel man, but it would be unwise to assume too soon. You were used to being reluctant in your judgments… You were also taught to never voice your strong opinions, and you failed too often to call it a mistake.
The corners of your lips twitched down against your wish. A heavy breath left them, as you braced yourself. What a tragedy it would be to have a cruel husband…
But Daeron looked genuine when you looked to your side. As genuine as a tired man with eyes glossy from wine can look. You noticed he tended to keep his sight on the crowd, barely ever moving it to you. Like getting lost in the turmoil of lords and ladies was enough to also hide from you.
Now he forced himself to look, when the silence worried him. There was something in him… something you saw as a deeply buried remorse, that you could not understand yet.
“I know it exists. Just never knew it,” you admit honestly, trying to keep your voice slightly inert, in case he would mock you.
Reasonable withdrawal of a girl too aware of man’s ways in this world… You heard it over and over again, that you would make any bond impossible, but putting yourself unguarded out in the tempest so soon, on your wedding day – wouldn’t that be foolish?
The worry felt foolish, too, when you thought about it later. Daeron could tease and mock, yes, but it was never said out of rudeness.
“It’s not for people like us, yes?” His lips twitched up in a weak smile of understanding.
Your heart trembled more than you let it show, but not answering with the same look of silent shared sorrow was impossible.
Like us. There was a strange sensation in hearing him talk about us already.
You avoided rumors and whispers on purpose, but still you expected the man to be gone from the stiff feast as soon as possible. It was far too late in the evening for the event to remain formal, and with the court used to the eldest prince’s customs, no one would even notice his disappearance. Even if it was his own wedding… or perhaps especially on such a day.
Yet here he was, barely sitting up, but still trying to make civil conversation with you.
“I’d offer wine to soothe your nerves, but…” He didn’t finish. There was no need to when he looked at you with such shame. Not like he tried to show it to you or put on an act. No, on the outside he was a stately man, but somewhere inside; there laid the disgust.
There was no truth in the tales about his daftness. You never saw a drunk so aware of his surroundings. It felt like the eyes covered by a maudlin haze could still see right through you. At the same time, they weren’t piercing. Sheltering, maybe. Or maybe it was the ale in your blood too.
“My nerves?”
“You were shaking for most of the evening. Made me feel bad, really,” he said, letting out a pathetic short sound of an idiotic giggle. He tried to make it about himself, to not disconcert you. It would not cross your mind if he didn’t turn back to seriousness in the span of a second. “You look calmer now. Are you feeling better?”
“A lot. Now, that he’s…” Your head moved immediately, and there was no point in pretending. “Now, that he’s moved his attention away from me.”
Daeron turned his head to follow your look to the side. There he sat, the lord that he thought it would be best to avoid as long as he could.
“Ah… Fathers.”
He looked like a brute dressed in the skin of a distinguished man. He was distrustful of such men ever since he was a boy. There was always a strong honesty about the lords that surrounded him in the Red Keep or Summerhall. Heir, king, adviser, fool, madman – they all knew their places and rarely put on a mask. Fair, Aerion tried to play their father into believing in his honor, but it was so unsuccessful, that Daeron didn’t even consider it a mask.
Lord Rosby, though… Many would say, right from the first look, that he hid the fury worthy of a beast under fine robes and elegant hairstyles.
“A man who answers violence with violence?” Daeron asked, not even sure why he was prying.
“Do you know men who don’t do that?” You scoffed with little reproach, yet he didn’t answer, his face unreadable. “I would say it’s more like he answers everything with violence…” you added.
The idea of never belonging to him again felt unchaining. Perhaps the sense of freedom Daeron spoke of wasn’t so far away, after all. It didn’t matter to you, as long as you were separated at the table by your new husband, Prince Maekar and his brother.
The hand of the father weighed heavy on your shoulder earlier that day. The feeling made you realize that your wedding day would be the last moment you would ever feel that tension. Naive thought, but it made you live through the ceremony. The belief that there was now some higher strength that would protect you from his touch: the title, some respect… You didn’t think much of your husband in that matter.
“Family can be the greatest foe for one's sanity…” Daeron muttered under his breath.
“So it’s the same for the royal family, then?”
He smiled into his cup.
“Oh, you will see. It is so much worse.”
Without the means to lessen his words, you doubted that. The memory of today only proved your point of view.
Your Lord Father didn’t hold you like a careful protector, like he was there to uphold you if you quivered. Offer consolation if you hesitated. Instead, he held you like a rough guard. His grasp was to keep you away from running, even though he knew you wouldn’t. Why would you…? There was nothing better anyway.
You thought– Well, you hoped that you would no longer have to fear that man. You weren’t sure if he would be replaced by your husband, maybe another man to be afraid of, but at least it won’t be the cruel Lord Rasby that you knew so well. But it wasn’t that easy.
Even after months, despite living at a royal court, despite being a wife – your father was still a man who made your hands tremble. A proof that the first man in a girl’s life would always uphold his position.
He must have passed some of his infamy to you, because even as a child you prayed to be freed from him, but death never answered.
“I do not mean to worry you. It is not that bad at all.”
You jumped in your place when Daeron’s hand brushed yours under the table. You thought it was a mistake, and wanted to move your arm, but he found it again before you could. He didn’t truly hold it, just caressed it with his fingers. His eyes were somewhere far, expression still in thoughts about his last words of his family. Then you understood what he could possibly mean. He would not say it just yet, but you were never facing the hostiles that dared to call themselves kins on your own.
Daeron has broken many promises in his life. Probably broke more than he kept…
But not this one. For the first time in his life he felt the need to fight for it. Like this one small show of remaining dignity could save his name.
Perhaps it could, when you looked at him with trust and no fear. The lack of disgust in your eyes – the same disgust that he held, but learned to accept in his gut – was something he noticed, but decided to ignore, in case he was wrong.
Summerhall was a place where you felt like you could finally breathe. For the first time in your life, air wasn’t hurting your lungs. No hand was raised at you, and you were silently promised that such a hand would be chopped off immediately. Evil looks were just looks… “Dream of a life”, joked one of your handmaidens, but you knew she felt bad for you.
The mist around the crownlands could hide the worst sins and heal most broken souls. The city of Rosby was different, unfortunately. It was the exact opposite of the place where you spend the last few moons. Even without looking out the carriage, you could feel the cold earth around you.
Home might be a young woman's first grave, but Rosby was yours for sure.
“You will not be left alone with him,” Daeron promised while keeping his fist pressed between his eyebrows. The rocky road didn’t make his headache any better, and he barely looked up when there was no shadow to hide in.
You didn’t speak much of your worries, but he knew.
“He will call for it.” The shallow answer didn’t seem to satisfy your husband, and he moved his hand a bit to glare at you.
His miserable look made you want to take his face in your hands and hold him close. “That is not something you should burden yourself with,” you said with a forced smile.
“I don’t burden myself. I worry, simple as it is.”
“You shouldn’t–”
“Of course I should,” he cut in before you could finish, and sat up, grunting his teeth to muffle a groan. “If he wants to speak to you alone, I can demand for a servant to be present.”
“It would only mean putting an innocent person at the mercy of his anger.”
“Then you should face it alone?” He scoffed, leaning in to hold your hand in his for a short moment. “I would stand just outside the chamber for hours if it meant reassuring you…”
For some reason, you knew it to be true. Honestly, Daeron certainly preferred to linger outside like a fool, rather than face the man… It’s not that he was scared of him, gods no. It was simply suffocation to be around him.
“I forbid you,” you said quietly but firmly.
“Forbid all you like, wife.” He sent you a wink that was barely there, before hiding his face in his hands again.
You moved to sit on the other side of the carriage to rub up the nape of his neck. It was a show of affection caused by an impulse, but your hands didn’t hesitate. A harsh moan escaped Daeron’s throat and he went stiff. You could see the shiver on his exposed skin, as well as his knuckles whitened from the desperate grasp on the armrest. He wasn’t sure if it was the touch or the shamelessness of the sound that surprised him more. Thankfully, you said nothing of it.
You were both too worried to even focus on other things – unluckily for Dareon, who's thoughts suddenly wandered off in a direction he didn’t wish to explore at this moment.
You had bravery about you, but there was no such thing that could resist loss, solitude and Lord Rosby’s oppression.
The visit that you paid to your family upon their wish went just like you have predicted. You felt like fulfilling a carefully prepared plan. Sat in the hall that you knew and feared all your young years and the fine Targaryen gown nor the wedding band on your finger made it any better. You played with your rings, grateful that at least for once your father’s fury wasn’t aimed at you.
Well, not directly.
He paced around the room. His steps were heavy, steps of an angered man that could shake the world if he had a wish for it.
“This is dishonor and a humiliation to our family. To you!” He stopped to point a finger at you, and you only looked down.
You wished to have the strength to protect your husband’s good name like you did on a daily basis. But none of the other lords, none of the servants, not even Maekar Targaryen himself, were as frightening as Lord Rosby.
“If only I knew before, I would never allow you to tie yourself to such a man.” His voice reeked of venom, like Daeron’s drunkenness ever offended him personally.
Allow was a strange word to use about a union that your own father sealed, without hearing any word from you. Also, as far as you remembered, you heard whispers about the eldest prince’s customs long before you were wed, and if you did – so did your Lord Father. He did not complain about it then. There he was, displeased, just when you found yourself reconciled with the matter as much as you could.
After seeing Daeron for the first time as your husband, anger that you could not comprehend has struck him with its all force. He paced around in forced concern for you, for his house… but it was not about it at all. It was just a way for him to let out the wrath that has built up in him over the years. There were never enough reasons for Lord Rosby to spat, threaten and raise fists.
You were sure that somewhere deep in his heart, he was thankful for Daeron’s suffering from forced soberness, then even more pleased by his unsteady steps and desperate hands that tried to clutch to you for balance.
It was the second day of the visit when your husband indulged his need to drown his sorrows in the cup. It was enough to say that even when he was sober, he made a poor impression on your parents. There was nothing to grieve about for you, since their idea of a suitable man would scare any girl in possession of common sense.
You heard the creak of the door behind you, and you saw the prince stroll inside the room, his step more firm than this morning, but the pained expression remained on his face.
It was an instinct, a kindhearted habit, to stand up and secure him, but now you found yourself unable to move.
“Humiliation,” repeated your Lord Father to himself, standing with his back facing you.
“Daeron…” you managed to whisper, before the prince realized he was unnoticed by your father.
He took a moment to look around the chamber and forced a small smile that apologized to you before he could even do anything wrong. He slammed the door to the wall, not loud enough to consider it outrageous or scandalous – just enough to mark his presence.
Perhaps also mark the fact that he has listened enough of your father’s monologue, and it was only his good will to not raise his voice or demand satisfaction. Daeron was not a man fond of arguments, not even when they concerned him.
The disgust on his face was a big reaction anyway. To mockery, he reacted with indifference, and rough remarks of concern made him act like his soul wasn’t even in the same room as the person who admonished him. Perhaps if it would be you who said the words, maybe then he would react differently, but you doubted he would do anything else than showing a look of shame and hiding his face from you.
Your father stopped in his tracks. It was scary, yes, but also terribly rewarding to see his jaw tremble a bit. He knew that he was facing the prince of the realm, and as meaningless as it could be to him, disrespect could be named treason.
And it certainly would. He didn’t consider Daeron the wisest of men, nor regarded him, but he knew the hate was mutual. The younger man would use about any opportunity to end him… That was mutual as well.
“My prince… I apologize–”
But Daeron was forgiving…. Or too tired to act upon his spite.
“Don’t. It is, indeed, quite dishonorable, I imagine.”
It made you want to clutch to him and drag him away from the judging eye of the other man. There was one thing that he hated more than infamy, and it was weakness. Daeron must have appeared in his eyes as an embodiment of weakness right now.
Lord Rosby only hummed, and watched the prince come closer to you.
“I came to steal my wife from you, my lord.”
“She heard enough,” he said dismissively, and you saw that the gesture of permission – a permission Daeron didn’t ask for – has angered him, “you may take her away.”
You held the hand that fell on your shoulder a moment ago, and stood up, holding Daeron close.
He could be called at least eerie, when he sent your father murderous looks from under the disheveled hair that fell over his face.
You would swear your father smiled in victory, when the two of you left the room hand in hand.
“You should have called for me…” Daeron said quietly, looking at you with his head pathetically falling down.
“I didn’t want to… burden you.”
He laughed, but it was full of anguish.
“You’re too good for me, making the effort to put it into nice words.”
He understood. You didn’t come to him because the last time you saw him, he held his head even lower than now, almost inside the horrendously big cup of wine. He never made the promise to make this visit as good as it could, but you knew he wished for it to go well.
He was holding up bravely on the first day. His hands were shaky to the point where he couldn’t button up his coat on his own and his head spun, but he said nothing of it. You wiped the sweat from his temple before you saw your parents and held his hand through the whole suffering of fake smiles and questions on wellbeing.
Truth be told, if you didn’t remind yourself that you will see your beloved sisters soon, you would join him in his drinking. Even if it was a pathetic way to make the time go faster, it would put your mind at ease at least for a minute. You missed Summerhall the same way you thought you would miss Rosby as a child.
“Stay with me…” he pleaded hesitatingly, when he finally sat in your shared chamber, to rest.
“I wish I could, but my mother asked for an audience. I will be back as soon as she lets me go,” you promised, watching Daeron settle on the bed.
“I’ll stay up and wait for you, then.”
You smiled gently, knowing it was impossible. Daeron avoided making promises – even small ones – that he could not keep, which meant he rarely made them at all, but this one was harmless.
“You shouldn’t. Rest.”
This whole social call was a request made by your mother, and seeing her in private for the first time sent shivers down your spine. She was not someone you feared, she was not her husband, but she could harm you so much more. A mother, a vessel of poison that you wouldn’t even notice you drank.
As she told you later, it was the lack of information about a pregnancy that worried her. You wanted to laugh and raise your voice about this arrangement being held over something like that. Something so small… but apparently it was only small to you and your husband. You might have held onto your cup a bit too hard, as she gave you a judging look.
“A child…” she chipped, foolish enough to think her wise words would settle your mind on the right track, “it’s the greatest blessing. There is no bigger redemption for a woman than one achieved through her children.”
“I would prefer not to sacrifice children for the sake of my own redeem… nor anyone else’s.”
A scoff erupted from her delicate lips right away. She might have not shared your view, but she knew what you insinuated. She must have known the fate all her three daughters faced, and the one her younger would face soon. It was strange to see a gentle woman like her, be so indifferent.
“You brought this obstinacy and abhorrence with your very first appearance on this world. Ever since you were born, when you laid in my arms… You will never change, my daughter, will you?”
If she expected you to snap and answer her with screams, she was certainly disappointed. The marriage didn’t change you that much. You weren’t changed into a spoiled princess just like that. The reserved girl that took insults with a pleasant smile was still there.
As you predicted, Daeron was snoring softly when you came back. He passed out fully dressed and the hair around his head scattered like a halo. You made the effort to take off his boots before sitting on the bed next to him.
Even though you hugged your knees close to you like you would when you were a child, there was some solace in the presence by your side. Doubtful presence, yes, especially concerning that his dreams stole his peace, took him away into the world of blood and horror – but his body, its warmth, sweat and smell of wine was still there. Details that would make most ladies grimace or sob.
Affection worked on its own strange terms, there was an unquestionable wiseness to that.
Before your thoughts had quietened enough to allow you to lower your head to the pillow, Daeron’s grasp tightened on the bedding. You felt him stiffen up, before his eyes full of terror met yours. For a moment it looked like he would not find the strength for taking a proper deep breath.
“Good–” he coughed in his sleeve to hide his struggle and give himself a longer moment to calm down, “good thing that you’re here.”
It was a simple thing to say. Shallow, crude even, but it held so much relief that no poem would make you tremble more.
You didn’t face much sleep that night; neither of you. Your head might have slipped a bit when Daeron held you in his arms, but you were quickly stirred out of sleep again. It turned out the nightmares didn’t have to be prophetical to send a person into insanity.
Staying up was safer. Calmness overtook the dim chamber, lit only by a few candles. Daeron sipped his wine suspiciously slow, watching you occupy yourself with embroidery. It was something that you learned to loath in your childhood, but you knew it like you knew breathing. There was no light needed, no guidance. You always watched your mother do it in every single free moment, with her children’s and grandchildren’s clothes on her lap.
Like her faithful inheritor, you embroidered garments for children that you never dreamed of having. It was a thoughtless movement of your hands, taught so early into your life, that it turned into a habit similar to snapping the bones in your fingers to indulge the ache.
“There she is, our little dreamer!” The squeal warmed something in your guts, but also sent a sense of longing through you. Your second-oldest sister’s serious face morphed into excitement worthy of a little girl. It was hard not to smile back at her, when she almost abandoned her own children right at the sight of you.
It was humiliating, really, being enveloped in her teasing love when you tried to maintain your dignified posture, standing by your husband’s side.
“A dreamer, huh?” Daeron raised his eyebrow, when you were freed from your sister’s arms. The crow’s feet around his eyes that came from lack of rest, made him look soft. Humorous, even.
“Don’t you know it about your wife yet, my prince?” The older lady smiled, as she bowed to him, not very concerned about the presence of a royal. She picked on a lock of your hair, and you rolled your eyes. “She was always the least logical of us.”
“The least simple-minded, I would put it,” you bickered.
You hoped that she would now let go of the teasing, making the most of the rare occasion to see each other. She had completed a long travel back to Rosby, just like you did and like your firstborn sister would later that day. You couldn’t imagine making it with the many children that she brought. You sometimes wondered if your sisters traveled with their families – and rarely their husbands – to show off to your parents, or to fulfil their requests.
They both faced difficult marriages, making you find yourself the luckiest, despite your own challenges. Lady Jyanna, a fair woman who had only a few years above you, was wed to Lord Arryn, the Defender of the Vale, on her seventeenth names day. She provided her husband with many babes – you knew her loving nature forced her to care for the crowd of his bastards as well. Within years, she lost the spark that she used to wield like a shield, and she looked much older than she did when you last saw her.
The other one, the firstborn daughter, Moyra… Lost spark was not an issue when it came to her. Bruised face, more so. The Brute of Bracken was her spouse, showing the cruelty of your father’s choices.
The Lord and Lady Rosby called for a feast to honor the presence of their wedded children. The youngest girl seemed to be glad that the attention for once moved away from her, and you didn’t blame her.
You sat at the tables settled in the gardens in the soft sun of the afternoon. The shouts of Jyanna’s playing children allowed little peace, but at least it covered the ominous silence amongst the adults.
Daeron’s hands were clasped as he rested his chin on them, elbows on the table. He was sitting close enough to you to gather a few weird looks, but he had a need for your guarding presence to keep his mind straight. He did not smell of wine this day, and you were not one to deny him another one of his comforts.
Suddenly you were both entertained by a small movement on your left.
The youngest Arryn babe seemed to be mesmerized by your husband, watching him from behind her older sibling's leg. The girl took uneven steps towards him, like she thought he wouldn’t notice her if she moved slow enough.
She focused her big blue eyes on the coin that Daeron had a habit of flipping in his fingers. As he noticed her interest, he leaned in closer to offer the gold on his palm to her.
As he attempted a crooked smile, the child’s lip trembled, and she ran back to hide her face in the skirts of her mother.
He straightened his back with a hum of confused defeat, making you nudge his arm.
“Strange creatures, they are,” he said quietly, like the nature of children’s character was truly a matter unknown to men.
“You offered it to her like she was a hen looking for some seed,” you said quietly enough only for him to hear. You had to lower your face to cover the bashful grin.
“I did not,” he argued, not really offended at all.
A servant interrupted a short moment of bliss, when he bowed deeply, and coughed.
“My lord, my ladies. Your Graces,” he spoke to you and Daeron in a different tone, making you remember that you were now not only the disappointing daughter who never fit in, but also the princess – making you even more unfit for the place. “Lady Bracken is here.”
You had the pleasure of welcoming her with no witnesses present, as your mother was occupied with her grandchildren, Jyanna was known for crying too much at greetings, and your father considered it a matter for a woman.
You watched Moyra Bracken leave her carriage alongside her almost grown-up son, to whom she whispered, while taking a careful look around the courtyard and the garden.
“Go, introduce yourself to the prince,” she ordered, and the boy nodded obediently.
She was a woman of grand authority. Rough life hardened her spirit, made her serious and feared by many. She always used little words, but they were full of meanings – that's what made her different from your mother and Jyanna, who used to ramble without a reason.
Her greeting, when she stepped closer, consisted of a long careful look up and down your posture.
Your oldest sibling was cold and harsh, yet she held so much more fondness for you in her gaze than Jyanna did.
“You don’t look too bad for a married woman,” she decreed, when she was done sizing you up.
There was an awful meaning behind her words, but in your surprise you could only laugh nervously. She did not.
“Let’s go for a walk, shall we?” She offered, waving the servants off.
“And what about parents and–” you said, pointing at them, like she had no chance of seeing them without it. “Don’t you want to… greet them first?”
“I would not ask if I had a wish to do it. Or are you forbidden to leave your husband’s side without asking?”
You weren’t. Soon enough, you found yourself strolling through the corridors of your childhood home with your sister.
“I grieve the fact that I couldn’t come to your wedding. Hopefully, you will forgive me for not offering my congratulations.”
Before you could assure her that you regretted it too, she looked at you with something bitter on her face. “I won’t congratulate you now, neither, since I think there’s nothing to be pleased about.”
“It’s alright, Moyra.” You masked the confusion and clasped your hands behind your back. “And the marriage is… it is fine. I’m not unhappy.”
She laughed without humor.
“I don’t want to hear of it.” Of course she didn’t, she was far too practical for that and too certain about her view on all marriages. It was a brutal cage to her, and she couldn’t view a union with a Targaryen prince as any easier. “Especially if you intend to feed me lies.”
You decided against proving her wrong, not wanting to break her hardened heart more. She found comfort in her awful truth, and even if sometimes it proved itself to be an illusion, she didn’t want to abandon it.
“I will send you my ointments and borrow my best lady in waiting, if you have a need for them, sister. The woman is a saint, she can cover everything…” She lowered her voice, but only a bit. Like she was not afraid, but did it for the sake of others.
“I don’t understand.”
“No need for shame, my girl. I know what comes out of men when they are drunk, and your husband… well, I hear he is quite fond of his wine.”
It made you stop in your tracks. Of course, you feared that at the beginning of the marriage, but now… it was unthinkable.
“He would never raise his hand against me.”
“My sweet… I wish that was true.” Her smile made you annoyed, but arguing would make you feel like a stubborn child again.
Grunting your teeth, you found composure again. “He is not vile. He’s just–”
“Haunted?”
You stayed quiet, as it was almost the truth.
“Do you know why mother wanted to see you here?” She asked, and you mistook it for an attempt to change the subject to something lighter.
“To reprimand me about bearing no child yet?” The words sounded horrendous, but there was no other way to put it. Shame, you were still the only one who viewed it as absurd, and not even Moyra had your back on that.
“Do you know why she cares so much?”
“I have wondered about that since yesterday… If anyone cares about the heirs, I imagined it to be the royals, yet no one muttered a single word about it,” you let the lingering thoughts out. “Daeron is far away in the succession, why would anyone–”
“Our youngest sister is about to be wed to prince Valarr. That’s why they pry in your matters so much.”
Your lips twitched and heart swelled for the luck of your youngest sibling. Valarr, the kind, sweet man. But you– what did you have to do with it?
“I don’t understand it.”
“Oh, really?” She scoffed like it was her turn to be annoyed. “It’s all on you. If you prove yourself useless in childbearing, she will be sent away. That’s at least what father believes. Valarr is the heir to the heir. There must be no mistakes made.”
She used cruel words not out of want to hurt you, but to make you understand the seriousness.
And in that she has succeeded.
Your breath hitched up in your throat, and your vision spun for a moment.
You tried to change your opinion on the duty for years now. Tried to reason that perhaps what truly frightened you, was just an essence of existence – a helpless need that required love and a little sacrifice to make everyone around happy.
It was your grand mistake to underestimate the pleas, warnings and predictions around you. You firmly ignored them, established by Daeron’s approach. He acted like no whispers came to his ears, and you doubted that they didn’t. Surely he was indifferent about them out of his own spite for the idea of having children.
You wanted to see it all as pointless threats, but it wasn’t. Not when it came to your father’s intervention. He came to visit Summerhall on his own, not even guards by his side. It was like he traveled to address a disgraceful matter, to plot in conspiracy while keeping his honorable face.
You still had some naive hope when you were summoned to the grand room, but the moment you saw your Lord Father– It was all gone.
Prince Maekar nodded to you, thanking you for your presence and showed you to take a seat. He seemed to be as displeased as you were, and grimaced at every look the lord from crownlands gave him.
“Now, Lord Rosby, that your daughter is here, speak up. I don’t have a whole day,” he demanded.
You’d bet he would prefer to attend even to Aerion’s menaces, rather than facing the issues of his oldest son’s marriage.
“I’m afraid I require prince Daeron to be present as well,” said Lord Rosby, not offering you the slightest greeting.
It seemed like it was your presence that wasn’t required at all.
Maekar frowned, wanting to point that out, but he decided it was a loss of words and time. The man grew to be fond of you as he was of his own daughters, and you certainly respected him more than your father by birth.
“And where is that fool?” The prince clasped his hands on the table, then leaned to you a bit. “Darling?”
“He will be here shortly, I’m sure,” you promised, but your face showed little of the sureness.
Maekar scoffed, and Lord Rosby mistook his irritation as one aimed at you. He echoed the sound and smiled at the prince boldly and in incorrect understanding.
“Imprisoning the storm would be easier than finding a woman who is stable in her wit and decisions.”
Prince Maekar did not like nor shared this point of view, but he remained quiet. This whole pathetic lord of nowhere was slowly getting on his last nerves. Once again he wished for his late wife to be by his side and take care of useless talks, when he was too occupied by grunting his teeth. She was a master of changing boring conversations to their advantage, making all the deals and parlays easier.
Finally, Daeron stepped into the room with little acknowledgment of Lord Rosby’s presence. His eyes were glossy and face pale, but he made sure to keep his clothing as presentable as he could. He even brushed his hair out of his face, showing his high forehead and royal features.
Only when he sat next to you could you feel his exhaust. The worn out strength that barely upheld the attitude of a prince.
Even Maekar was impressed by his son’s effort, but he only showed it with a questionable, surprised look.
“Are you now content enough to speak,” he urged again, hoping that whatever matter the man brought, it would soon be over. “Lord Rosby?”
He said your name like it was a jest, and you couldn’t help but fear the reaction of your kin.
You felt helpless, but also pathetically innocent, when your father’s finger was pointed out to you. It was a rude gesture, unworthy of a lord, but this whole arrangement wasn’t any better.
“If she is to remain without a child, I demand for the intervention of the younger prince.”
If you weren’t bid to stay still, so Daeron would not slip from his place, held by you, you would flee from the room and never look back.
Even the Anvil, the fearsome prince, shivered and looked highly uncomfortable. He looked at your father like he would to a savage. He certainly didn’t consider him any better than a savage.
You didn’t dare to move your eyes from the shocked face of your father-in-law, knowing that if anyone could save you, it was him. But he was troubled, crestfallen like never.
You’ve been to funerals more cheerful than the atmosphere of this room. You barely breathed, Maekar fought to not scream, and Daeron… Daeron sat by your side like he heard nothing of it. His hand that laid on your knee didn’t move, the grip didn’t tighten.
“If her husband cannot give her a child, Aerion should do it,” Rosby called again, this time addressing only the Lord of Summerhall.
You expected silence. Long, choking, awful silence.
Daeron surprised everyone, involving you, when he stood up, rather gracefully for his state. Even though he trembled, he remained straight, slamming a rough fist at the table.
“Over my dead body.”
But your father was prepared. He muffled a cruel chuckle. You were sure he had at least a dozen jokes about how soon that could come.
“Can you prove that you are able to perform, then?”
That was no way to speak to a prince, but Daeron cared too little, Maekar was too stunned, and you… well, it was your father. A man you only crossed once before.
Once, when he chose a dangerous beast of a man for the role of your husband.
You had to possess some of the traits men used to appreciate amongst themselves, but not in women they intended to marry. A fierce young woman, not really blessed with enough of a strong character. Your wit was a harbinger of scandal in the future, and your parents could feel it in their bones. Watching your movement made them taste something bitter on their tongues. Fear, perhaps, that you would break this carefully built facade.
This was the only moment of your life when you allowed the hysterics to take the reins of you, and it turned out to be successful. You never spoke of it, but you knew the latter choice of Daeron was supposed to be a punishment for you.
A punishment of shame, that never found you.
Daeron stayed behind, when you wordlessly stood up and left the room. He told you that his father only turned to Lord Rosby’s reasoning, pleading that he thinks this through and – preferably – stay the fuck away from Summerhall.
Daeron spent most of the evenings away. You expected to be left in your own solitude on this awful night as well. What you didn’t expect, though, was to notice the bed empty also in the early hours of the morning.
Definitely not to open the door to your chamber and be met with your husband sleeping close to the entrance. He was half-sitting with his back turned to the door, his long legs outstretched in the corridor. He moved his head up, when you nudged him. Despite his eyes barely opening, there was no shame in them. If that was truly an attempt to guard the door through the whole night, he was not at all ashamed of it.
“Gods, how long have you been out here?” You quickly kneeled by his side, to help him up and inside the chamber.
“Since evening,” he muttered with a raspy voice, pained by the movement that he was forced to make.
“Why didn’t you come in?”
He offered no answer.
Despite Rosby’s demand being turned away and no real danger from Aerion, you feared the man that day more than usually. It was easy to understand, the unsettling feeling. Your dreamer husband, though? A man who kept his reason through the years of drinking and worried very little about events that were unlikely… It was not like him to allow such anxiety to disturb him.
Only when you managed to pull him inside and sat on the bed, you noticed his eyes to be hazed by either adoration or drinks. His hands were rarely rushing over your skin, and never demanding, but now he held you firmly and managed to drag you to his lap.
He battled his own awkwardness by burning his face in the crock of your neck, half exposed since you were still wearing your nightgown.
“You deserve better.”
He didn’t mumble more, but you both knew what he meant. That you were worthy of a sober husband by your side. That he felt guilt every time he realized the smell of wine he carried around was also enveloping you. That he was disgusted with his own sweaty palms, whenever they were about to lay on your skin.
He did his responsibility on your wedding night, and he remembered that he was willing to do it enough to feel guilt in the morning.
You, on the other hand, recalled it to be rather pleasant. Mostly because of the smell of candles, the capes and laced veil threw on the bed and slight buzzing in your head. Let’s just say your sisters knew what the day was about to be and stacked you with enough ale. Some would argue that it was a drink too common for ladies like you, but they knew better – there was nothing that would make you comfortably indifferent to pain and feeling of humiliation, while still remaining sane.
Daeron proved himself to be an adoring lover then, and a few other times. He made you blush, when he addressed the act not as duty but lovemaking. Without the slightest realization of what he was doing, he tore your heart apart to find himself a permanent place in it.
“I won't let you down.”
You had no chance to ask what the promise meant. He moved back to lay down, still keeping you close. He curled up by your side like a pup, and nuzzled his face into your chest, falling asleep again.
“You shouldn’t worry about Aerion at all.”
You almost choked on the apple that you were sharing with little Egg, when he accompanied you on your walk through the gardens. You felt the dread overcome you at the sight of the boy’s serious face. He wanted to offer consolation, clearly, but the idea of his young head troubled with such matters petrified you.
Also, you didn’t yet face the younger prince since the rumor scattered around the keep.
“He doesn’t really care about you, nor anyone… And when he doesn’t care, it means people are safe,” he explained with a wise but childish voice. “He only concerns himself with the blood of the dragon, and this… This is only a way to mess with Daeron.”
You stopped his words with an agitating scowl.
“Aegon!”
“I… What?” He looked up at you, clearly not understanding what he did wrong. The look made you want to hug him and explain, but it would only be for selfish reasons. You wanted to care for him for your own consciousness.
“How do you–,” the rush of thoughts made you stop. “You shouldn’t know about such things! It’s not for you to hear!”
The boy shrugged.
“Well, Daeron told me.”
“Daeron?!”
“Mhm. He wasn’t very conscious, though, so you mustn’t blame him,” he explained like it was an obvious thing. And hells, it truly was. “He said you are worried.”
“Me? I’m not the one who–” you cut it, before you could say too much around the boy. You were not the one who spent the whole night in the hall, holding guard against your brother.
“You know what, Egg? How about we forget it?”
“I only meant to make you feel better,” he offered.
“You did. I feel safe now.”
It was a miracle that he believed your smile – usually he was far too wise for that.
Fooling yourself was more difficult, but just when you managed to do it, you regretted it.
You were pacing around the royal library. The stocks of books offered all sorts of titles, occupying you for long days and weeks. Your walk with Egg reminded you about a few works that you wanted to read. The boy shared your passion, and whenever you advised him against some title – because it was either too boring, too gruesome or just not for a boy like him – he made you promise that you will read it yourself, and then tell him everything with suitable, appropriate words.
You were unfocused, your thoughts holding most of your attention.
“Doesn’t he bother you?” Your shoulders twitched up on guard, but at first you thought you were only mistaken.
A careful glance behind assured you that it was, unluckily, the grim reality. There he was, Aerion sitting on the table with his boots boldly placed on a chair. He watched you with a careful eye, which could send a shiver down a grown man’s spine. Certainly ones who he faced at the tourneys. Ones who loved their horses…
“My prince,” you greeted him and moved to pick up a book that fell from your hands when he startled you.
He was by your side before you could move away. His feet ended up on the envelope of the tome, making it impossible for you to take.
“My brother. How disguised with him do you find yourself?” He pried.
You didn’t allow him to look down at you and quickly stood up, the book forgotten and replaced by the thought of humiliation.
“Do you imagine someone else when he touches you? I bet the smell makes it close to impossible. Are you a woman of great imagination?”
He laughed when you didn’t dare to move, and finally picked up the book himself.
“Mm, I have something to offer you,” he said before he allowed you to take it.
“I have no use of offers from men who are not my husband.”
Once again, silence was the safest facade you could have chosen, but decided against it. His face immediately morphed from amusement into fury. You knew it took very little to anger the Brightflame… But what was left for you in life, if not accepting some risk?
Still, you quickly decided that risk was not something you were fond of, when his harsh grasp caught your wrist.
He yanked you closer, but before you truly felt the sting, he let go.
There was a loud crash, and you must have been guarded by the gods, because you managed to make a step to the side, before Aerion fell to the floor like a dead man. The overwhelming smell of wine followed right after the clash, and before you could comprehend what happened, Daeron pulled you to his side.
He stood over Aerion’s still body, his hand holding you back, like his younger brother would stand up right away and attack any of you.
“You… You smashed a pot of wine on Aerion’s head,” you side quietly with your eyes wide open.
Daeron looked at you over his shoulder with a slight smile.
“I did.”
“And now he’s laying here. Unconscious! You knocked your brother unconscious, Daeron!”
He shrugged, and you realized he wasn’t even thinking about moving his hands away from your back and waist.
“Yes. Look how nice he looks like that. I could even learn to like him…” he joked, truly unbothered by the younger man’s state. “Do you have something to gather from here or can we go now?”
He looked around the library, in case you were too stunned to answer him. You shook your head, abandoning all the books you picked, suddenly indifferent about them.
“Shouldn’t we–”
“He will be fine,” he assured.
You let Daeron to lead you through the corridors, and you only gathered your composure when you heard the familiar clink of the door to your chamber kicked close. Your breath was heavy, and you backed out into a wall, but Daeron followed.
He slowly sank to his knees, making you yelp under your breath. You tried to hold him up, as you often did, but it was not his strength abandoning him now. He looked up at you with an expression of a kicked dog. That’s what he was now in his own eyes. A hound who disappointed his kindhearted owner. A pathetic beast more than a man.
“There’s nothing I could say to make my sins and insults smaller…”
“What–” you scoffed, still trying to pull him up to you. He only lowered his head and moved his shaky hands to linger over the material of your gown. “Daeron… What a stubborn man you are.”
Soon enough, you were kneeling in front of him as well, and you could see his eyes tear up.
“I’m not stubborn enough, but I’m certainly a fool, my wife. That’s it,” he offered.
“If you were a fool, you would be a very happy man.”
He chuckled grimly, and you brushed his hair out of his face. He found himself no longer able to restrain from the need of pulling you into his embrace. You both sat on the floor, holding one another in your arms.
“I can do what is expected of me, and…” You heard his teeth grunted. “Aerion will be punished for the way he looked at you.”
You thought the smell of wine that he won’t be able to wash off for days was enough of a punishment.
“I won't let you down.”
“You said it before,” you noticed, not even sure if he remembered the morning.
“And I meant it, as I mean it now. If you have a wish for a child… For the peace of your parent’s minds…”
You felt your body go stiff, even more than he was right now. You moved in his embrace, to be met with his scared face and trembling lip.
“Gods, no! It’s not them!”
But the question that came next was even worse.
“Then do you wish for a child?”
There was no simple answer to that, and Daeron knew it. He pulled you back into his chest, and you were able to hide your face in his collarbone.
“I know that I wish to be apart from my husband no longer.”
“That I share. I don’t want to… hide from you anymore.”
The silence was comforting, but not as much as his hand gently brushing your hair. It seemed that your lack of an answer – your hesitation – soothed him, somehow. Weren’t open matters always easier to sort out, after all?
“I have always feared that the curse will be passed down,” he confessed with raw honesty. “The visions of things that cannot be undone.”
“Things that haven't happened yet? That you wield no responsibility for?” You questioned immediately. The suffering that plagued your husband pained you equally, but the thought that he blamed his lack of action against it was the worst.
“I just don’t want anyone to go through that. No child of mine, above everyone.”
You hummed in understanding, before a knock to the door startled you both.
It opened ajar, and a nervous servant showed up.
“My lady? A letter for you. I’m afraid–” Her voice died in her throat as she saw the situation inside. You wanted to move up from the floor, but Daeron didn’t move a single muscle, and without his accord, there was no point in even trying.
“What message can be so important to be delivered at this hour?” He asked.
“It’s my lady’s father, your grace. He has passed in his sleep. It was a sudden sickness.”
That made you both stir. You quickly took the letter from the servant, and she bowed to leave, closing the door behind you.
You took a seat at the bed with Daeron sitting opposite you.
He stayed still. He knew when to rush to your side and envelop you in his arms, and it was not now.
“How do you feel?”
Lighter. Safer.
“Like a burden was taken from my chest,” you admit, your voice lacking, any remorse. You dropped the letter to move your eyes up to him. “Do you remember the first question you asked me? On our wedding day?”
“I fear I was too drunk to remember.”
“If I believe in freedom. I think now I do.” You took a slow breath, waiting for grief or regret to come. But they didn’t. Thankfully, you didn’t feel the need to pretend in front of the prince. “It’s against the teaching of septons to joy over one’s father’s death… but I want to believe the gods are just.”
The corner of Daeron’s lip moved up. He leaned in to hold your hands in his.
“I don’t know about that but… I’m–” He shook his head like he was a man who faced his beloved for the first time and was out of words. “If someone holds judgment over you… tries to do you wrong again, they will have to face me. As long as I can stand straight.”
“I’ll hold you, if you can’t.”
Your words made him laugh, but he wasn’t done with his seriousness.
“Even if it’s a deity that I have to face. Or the Stranger himself.”
“That is blasphemy… but I suppose acts make a greater offense than truthful words. I know you rarely believe that, but you are not a bad man, Daeron.”
“It matters very little when I have a saint for a wife. You redeem us both,” he muttered quite boldly, while he wiped a single tear from your cheek. “You lead me, like a shed of light in this world of terrors.”
Your noses brushed, as you both moved closer.
“Do you think they weep for us? The gods?” He whispered, your heretic husband.
a/n: daeron and reader are girls of constant sorrow or whatever joan baez said.
I want to see an argument between Maekar and my Lady Moyra Bracken for a reason that I cannot explain.
after like the seventh hour of working on this, I started spelling words phonetically, and I'm going on 4 coffees. I'm going to SLEEP now. Bless y'all.
Summery: She didn't know what to expect when sailing across the sea to marry a man she had never met before. Even though she was going in blind, she had hopes that her marriage would at least be bearable. Little did she know she would be marrying the hotheaded Aerion Bright-flame Targaryen. Marriage with him would be more than difficult, but she was determined to win him over.
I do not read the books. I am basing most of the fic off of own personal beliefs of his character, and what I have seen so far in the show. (i do a bit of research here and there though.)
Tags: No Use of Y/N, Not Canon Compliant, Possessive Behavior, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, finding love in an arranged marriage, Misogyny, Aerion does not know how to love, Fluff, semi-soft Aerion
Chapter 21: Two Bundles of Joy
Warnings: childbirth, breastfeeding
Word count: 3,466
<- Previous
“Aerion!” She shouted loudly, voice cracking in the process. “Where is my husband?”
The words died in her throat, not allowing her to call out more. The only thing that was able to release was the horrifying shriek that bubbled from deep within her chest. Slicked in sweat, her gown grossly stuck to her body.
“He is not allowed in here, princess.” The midwife informed her, holding onto her hand for support.
She wished to protest, demanding he come and assist her, yet the only thing she could do was cry and heave. Three midwives helped her, encouraging her to keep pushing. In between attempts she pleaded. Not to anyone in specific, just praying for it to be over.
The door opened with a smack, hitting against the stoney walls of the Red Keep. Aerion had been sitting outside her door, listening to all of her cries. To anyone who saw, they’d think he didn’t care, face and stance as stern as ever. Some even whispered a thought that he enjoyed hearing her in so much pain.
Their rumors were far from the truth.
Horrific screams filled his ears, both the ones of her currently and the ones shown to him in his dreams. Aerion hated that he could not enter, being plagued to stand behind the door. Part of him wished to enter, not caring for the idiotic rule. All forms of restraint broke when he heard his wife calling out for him.
“My prince, you cannot be in here.” The midwife that sat between the princess’ legs stood up to block him from continuing with her bloodied hands.
Aerion didn’t respond to the older woman. To him, she was a lowlife. A person who couldn’t order him around. It took nothing for him to push past her, going over to his wife’s side. The other midwife that held onto her hand quickly moved, not wishing to feel his wrath.
“Aerion, it hurts.” She huffed out, reaching out to him, needing him close.
“I know.” Aerion took her hand in his, kneeling beside the bed. He rubbed his finger over her damp skin, kissing her knuckles.
Normally he did not like others viewing him being affectionate, as he worried that people would think that he had gone soft. But in this case, he didn’t care. He worried for his wife, and needed to be there for her.
“I-” Her words failed her as her breath labored. “I feel like I am going to die.”
The look on her face struck fear into his heart, the images of his nightmare playing behind his eyes. Quickly turning to the midwives, Aerion demanded. “Fetch the maester!”
“Everything is going perfectly.” The midwife told both her and Aerion.
“I do not care.” Aerion demanded, thinking that these women were no experts. “Fetch him.”
The midwife hesitated. She knew she had to listen to Aerion’s command, but also knew that it wasn’t the best idea for her to leave when the babes were so close to breaching. Deciding it would be best to do as the prince said, she stood, walking to the door. Instead of finding him herself, she ordered the guard that stood outside to get him.
That was the exact reason why husbands weren’t allowed in the room. They never understood the process of childbirth, ordering the midwives to do their jobs. It distracted from what they needed to focus on, the babe. Ruining the hopes of a smooth birth.
“This is how giving birth feels.” The other midwife informed her, trying to calm her worries.
“No.” Was all she cried.
She knew that childbirth hurt. Everyone told her so. But this pain was too much. Too wrong to be right. After Aerion’s nightmare, she believed that this was it for her, that she was going to die at that moment. She regretted telling him not to stress about it, now when all she could do was worry.
“You have to push” The midwife encouraged her, knowing that she was close.
Wanting it to be over quickly, she listened, pushing with all of her might. Her screams echoed through the room, piercing everyone's ear. When she couldn’t push anymore, she fell back on the bed, trying to catch her breath.
Aerion moved one of his hands away from hers, reaching for her forehead. Wiping away the beads of sweat that built up, he encouraged her, “Everything will be fine, I will make sure of it.”
“Keep pushing.” The midwife told her.
The midwife that was positioned between her legs informed everyone, “I see the crown of the head.”
With a deep breath, she pushed once more. The sounds of the midwives telling her to keep going, were muffled as she strained every muscle in her body to push out the babe.
It was the strangest feeling, having something moving out of her in such a way. There was a great sense of relief as the thing slipped out of her. Breathing heavily, she sighed out, relaxing a bit as though it was all over.
“It’s a girl.” The midwife told them, cutting the umbilical cord and wrapping her up in a soft cloth.
Aerion was quick to abandon her side, going to see Visenya. She was uglier than expected, pruned from being stuck in her mothers womb for nine months. Even with that, Aerion thought she was beautiful.
After taking her first breath, she began to scream loudly into the air, like she already detested being alive. The midwife handed the crying girl to Aerion, letting him be the first to truly hold his daughter.
She looked exactly like him, like a Targaryen. Her eyes were a deep violet color, with magenta around her pupils. The thing that made her different from the normal Targaryen was her hair. Being born with a full head of hair, it was mostly silver, aside from two strands. Above her temples, on both sides, sat a tuft of hair that matched her mother’s.
He didn’t know what to do with the small screaming creature, as it awkwardly squirmed in his arms. Looking at the midwives, he wanted them to help. But they had turned away from him, preparing for the other child.
Left with Visenya, he stood there, watching her crying, screaming face. Rubbing her bloodied head, he tried to soothe her.
The midwife replaced his spot beside her, holding her hand to help her. “The other one is coming.”
“Another?” She questioned, pain making her delirious. She had forgotten she was pregnant with twins. “Why have the gods blessed me with two.”
“Just once more and you are done.” They told her warmly.
The second one was easier than the first, having already been opened up. Yet, it didn’t hurt any less. Her screams mixed with Visenya’s as the second, and last, babe was pushed out of her.
“It’s a boy.” The midwife informed them. Though the news was of no surprise to either of them, with Aerion’s vision.
Her screams were replaced by Maegor’s having both of the babes crying loudly into the air.
The relief of feeling empty once more overtook her, as she laid back on the bed, catching her breath. Aerion walked over to her, the crying Visenya still in his arms. Her labored breaths slowly turned into small chuckles, as she reached out for her baby.
Visenya’s small, shaking body was placed in her arms. Her eyes watered at the sight of their daughter. Rubbing Visenya’s face, she removed the small amount of blood that stuck to her.
Maegor was handed to Aerion, as he stayed by his wife. With her now bloodied hand, she reached out for Maegor, looking at him as well. Caressing his cheek, she was filled with joy. They looked identical, having the same features. The only difference was the magenta color was missing from Maegor’s eyes, leaving a light violet color.
“They are beautiful.” She choked out a sigh.
Aerion looked down at his boy, his heir. Just like Visenya, the appearance of a newborn was quite different than he expected. Handsome wasn’t the word he would have used to describe them, but he hoped that they would both grow into their looks.
Even though the twins were now born, the maester entered the room, as requested. Seeing as everything was fine, he did not rush over to them, merely making his way over slowly.
“It is all okay.” Aerion told him, only glancing away from his wife and children. “You were not needed”
“Let me check on them.” The maester suggested, as he might as well see the health of the babes. Looking over the crying children, he didn’t bother trying to remove them from the parents arms. “They are both healthy.”
“Good.” Aerion said, already knowing that they were perfect.
Wanting to hold Visenya again, Aerion traded the children, Maegor was the first to calm down, finding comfort in his mother’s arms, but Visenya kept on screaming.
“You should try feeding them soon.” The maester informed them.
The midwife agreed with a nod, “It should help them calm down.”
Since his job was complete, the maester let them be, leaving the room. She shrugged off the strap of her gown, freeing her breast. She cringed at the strange feeling of having her babe feed from it.
“Try bouncing her softly.” The midwife suggested to Aerion, as Visenya still cried. “It may soothe her.”
“Shhh.” He hushed Visenya, walking about the room, shaking his arms slightly. “You will get your turn soon enough.”
Focusing on her, the midwives began to clean up the mess. “Would you want us to fetch the maids to draw you a bath?”
“Yes please.” She sighed out of desperation, still being covered in sweat, blood and other bodily fluids.
After feeding both of the children, she was able to be cleaned off as the midwives burped and laid the babes to rest. Aerion never left their side, following the midwives around, to then sitting beside the bassinet, watching them sleep.
It didn’t feel real to him, having two children of his own. They were perfect in every way possible. He couldn’t stop looking at them, planning out exactly how everything in their life would go:
With two brilliantly minded parents, he knew they would be smart, well read. Their beauty would woo the court, being known as the perfect Targaryen's throughout all of history. They would marry into great houses, strengthening the bond of the kingdom. And one day, make him and his wife grandparents, continuing on his family line.
She was dressed after her bath, being led back to the bed that was covered in new, clean sheets. The large cradle was moved beside her, so she had easy access to her children. Aerion sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over the bassinet.
He had ordered the silver-gold dragon egg of his to be laid in the cradle with the two babes. Even though it had been turned to stone long ago, a part of him believed that his children would be able to coax dragons back into existence.
Scooting closer to her husband, she rested her cheek on his shoulder, enjoying the comfort of being alone with their small family. She intertwined her fingers with his, wanting to be held by him.
“They are perfect.” She whispered, not wishing to wake them up. “I am so happy.”
“They are.” Aerion agreed, tearing his eyes away from the children for the first time, to look at her. “You did well.”
“Thank you.” She hummed, leaning in to kiss him lightly. “When I called out to you, I did not expect you to come.”
“Why would I not?” Aerion quietly questioned, feeling offended she would think such things.
“I thought you would be off somewhere else.” She told truthfully. “And I knew the midwives would not go get you.”
“I was outside the door.” He informed her. “It is idiotic. I shall be in the room from the start next time.”
“While I am more than excited to have more children with you. I do need a break.” She chuckled, being overly exhausted from the birth.
“I can give you until the end of the week.” Aerion jests, though his tone gave no indication of such.
“Do not tease.” She warned, knowing her husband. Looking back at the children she sighed sadly. “They really look nothing like me. If I were not the mother, I fear that the court would start a rumor that they are bastards.”
“The Targaryen seed is strong.” Aerion reminded her. Leaning forward he stroked the side of Maegor’s head. “They do have a part of you.”
“That is only two strands on each head.” She sighed sadly.
Maegor stirred in his sleep, whining at being woken up. It didn’t take long for his whine to turn into crying, still exhausted from being born. Being awakened by her brother, Visenya too began to scream into the air. Their sobs entangled into one.
“Awe, look at what you have done.” She groaned as the peace and quiet was over.
Aerion picked Maegor up, wishing to calm him down, and she did the same with Visenya. Walking around the room, Aerion was able to calm down his son in no time, yet he stayed awake, looking at the world around him.
As Visenya’s cries slowed to a stop, a knock lightly emerged from the door. She called for whoever it was to enter. They were ready for visitors as the birth was a few hours past.
The door opened to Maekar entering. He was quick to make his way to his son, wanting to meet his grandson, wishing to see his line continued. Maekar’s normally strong face had softened, as his heart melted. This was the first set of grandchildren.
“You are holding him wrong.” Maekar informed Aerion, worrying for the babe. Reaching for Maegor, he said, “Here, let me.”
“No.” Aerion seethed, moving away from his father, not wishing to give up his son. Not even to his father. “I am holding him perfectly fine.”
Maekar grabbed at Aerion’s arms, forcing him into the correct position. “The head needs more support. Or his neck will snap.”
“That is what I was doing.” Aerion responded, believing that he was doing exactly what his father was expecting.
“You can hold Visenya.” She spoke up, knowing Maekar wanted to, and that Aerion would not give up Maegor.
Walking over to his daughter-in-law, Maekar held the faintest smile. He leaned down closer to the pair, “Hello there.”
She lifted Visenya from her body, so Maekar could grab her. His eyes began to water, heart warming. Turning back to Aerion, he commented. “They look just like you. Especially her. You were a fat baby.”
Chuckling at Maekar’s comment, she wished to have seen baby Aerion, but was lucky she was able to see it through her own children. Aerion hadn’t heard his father, too focused on his own son.
“Congradulations.” Maekar remembered his manners, “Both of you.”
“Thank you.” She softly smiled at Maekar.
Before anything else could be said, the door opened again, unannounced. Kiera held the door open as she leaned on it, catching her breath. It was clear she had run to the room.
“I heard you were receiving guests.” She said in between breaths. Unlike Maekar, her first worry wasn’t the children. Making her way to the bed, Kiera wanted to check on her friend. “How are you? Are you alright?”
“I am doing better.” She smiled at Kiera, reaching her hand out. “Just tired.”
Kiera grasped her hand, comforting her. “I heard everything went well. I am glad you and the children are in good health.”
Squeezing Kiera’s hand, she was grateful. Most of the day, before, during, and after the birth, all the attention was on the children, and not her. “Thank you for caring about me. You are a good friend”
Pulling away from her friend, Kiera wished to see the children. Wiggling her fingers at Visenya, she asked Maegor, “May I see her.”
Maekar was reluctant to give up his granddaughter, but as Kiera was in a higher position, he could not refuse. With his freed hands, he hoped that Aerion would allow him to now hold his grandson.
“Aerion, let your father meet Maegor.” She called out to her husband from the bed, knowing that he didn’t want to give the babe up.
With a grumble, he reluctantly handed over Maegor, but still stuck by his fathers side, watching closely. The room was filled with happiness, as everyone fonded over the newborn children.
The sky began to grow dark as her and Aerion laid against the headboard of the bed together. His feet were pressed into the mattress, knees in the air, as he rested Visenya in the crevasse between his thighs. Cradling Maegor in her arms, she let him get his fill of food.
“She is so fat in comparison to Maegor.” Aerion commented, looking at Visenya’s violet, curious eyes. Her hands were wrapped around her father’s fingers as she moved them around aimlessly.
“She must have been the reason why I ate so much.” She thought, looking down at Maegor’s face of comfort, as he suckled from her breast.
“Did you steal all of your brother’s food while you were in your mother’s belly?” Aerion asked her, leaning in to nuzzle her face. Visenya cooed in response.
“That is probably why he is so hungry now.” She chuckled. “He has been starved for nine months.”
“You can no longer do that. Maegor needs to grow strong, like his father.” Aerion told Visenya, even though she didn’t understand a word.
“Maybe she wants to be strong like her father.” She suggested, as there was no way of telling how their children would be in a few months, let alone years.
“No.” Aerion softly whispered, deciding exactly how his children would live. “She will never have to lift a finger, being the prettiest Targaryen to grace the realm. I will make sure she gets everything she ever wants.”
“What of Maegor?” She wondered, “What do you envision for him?”
Aerion’s eyes traveled to the babe in her arms. One of his hands reached out to rub Maegor’s multi-colored hair. “He shall be a great warrior, like his father and grandfather. He shall grow up strong, knowing the histories of his house and learn to be proud for being born into house Targaryen.”
“And me?” She asked, smiling at Aerion and leaning into him slightly. “Where do I land in this grand beautiful life you seem to have all figured out.”
“At my side of course.” Aerion told her, without hesitation. “Soon Vaera will join us. Then everything will be perfect. We will live and die together. Hopefully long after our children produce babes of their own and make us grandparents.”
“You are thinking quite far ahead.” She lightly chuckled at him. “What if Vaera comes out a boy, or if none of our children end up marrying and having kids of their own?”
“That will not happen.” Aerion was sure of it. If it wasn’t going to happen on its own, he would do everything in his power to make sure it does. Nothing would come in between him and his vision.
“Either way. No matter what, it will be perfect. I will make sure of it, just as I know you will as well.” She told him, as that was the only thing she was sure of.
“Yes. I agree.” Aerion said to her, looking deeply into her eyes. “Everything will be as perfect as I am. As you are. As our children are.”
Her eyes traveled from Aerion to Visenya then Maegor. She felt as though her life couldn’t get better. It was hard work, and Aerion didn’t make it any easier. But no matter what, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
She had the family she always dreamed of. A husband she loved and two children born from the care they felt for one another. She couldn’t wait for them to welcome more children into the world, to spend the rest of her life with Aerion. To grow old together and hopefully meet their grandchildren, and with luck, their great grandchildren.
Leaning down toward Visenya, Aerion pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. He then moved to Maegor, kissing him on the crown of his head. Finally, he reached the lips of his wife, the love of his life, pressing him against hers.
“I would not want any other woman to marry or have children with.” Aerion told her, softly. “I love you.”
Next ->
Hello all!! this is the last main chapter!! next one will be the epilogue and will be basically a speed run of all the characters and what happens from this chapter, all the way until Daenerys is born.
I have absolutely loved writing this fic! It truly has such an important place in my heart!! I have the Daeron fic out, if you wish to read more works from me!! As for the Dunk fic, idk if I'm going to write it. I started to and then lost motivation. I still may decide to, so keep an eye out for that.
I also had an idea, but wouldn't want to write it unless people are interested. It is basically a collection of short stories about the children! So it wouldn't focus much on Aerion and MC but will be about different scenes from Visenya, Maegor, and Vaera's life. If you would be interested in that, let me know and I can write some stuff up about that!
If you all want to talk to me or stay updated on what I am doing (or see art for the fic i commisioned) please consider joining my discord server!! I would love to hear your thoughts and discuss with you!!! https://discord.gg/wxen6c27rd
Thank you all so so much for all the love and support throughout the past few weeks. All of you really help motivate me to keep going and posting more! I hope you will all read some of my other stuff and show me the same love there.
Love you all!!
Taglist: (If you wish to be added/removed from this list, comment or dm me)
Summery: She didn't know what to expect when sailing across the sea to marry a man she had never met before. Even though she was going in blind, she had hopes that her marriage would at least be bearable. Little did she know she would be marrying the hotheaded Aerion Bright-flame Targaryen. Marriage with him would be more than difficult, but she was determined to win him over.
I do not read the books. I am basing most of the fic off of own personal beliefs of his character, and what I have seen so far in the show. (i do a bit of research here and there though.)
Tags: No Use of Y/N, Not Canon Compliant, Possessive Behavior, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, finding love in an arranged marriage, Misogyny, Aerion does not know how to love, Fluff, semi-soft Aerion
Chapter 19: Decisions Decisions
Warnings: talk of death
Word count: 2,654
<- Previous
With only a month left until the children arrived, preparations started. A room close to her bedchambers had been picked out. All objects it previously had held were removed, as every corner of it has been scrubbed.
The royal artisan worked for many hours throughout the months making all of the furniture to fill the room. Having to work especially hard, making sure to double everything last minute.
They were truly beautiful pieces, as small dragons had been carved into the oak wood, by Aerion’s request of course. All fabric was embroidered black or red velvet, as Aerion believed his children would be exactly like him.
Most of the furniture had the sole purpose of helping her, or the septas raise the children for the first few years of life. Hopefully when the children grew, they would be able to make their own decisions about what they wanted.
The issue had become the placement of said furniture.
She didn’t know why, but everyone believed they should have a say in how the room would be arranged. Maekar, Kiera, and of course Aerion were in the room with her. She sat in the corner in a settee that was brought from her room.
The warm air blew in through the window, as summer began to settle on Kings Landing. She had a fan to brush cooler wind on her to keep her from overheading. Everything about it irritated her. How Maekar would suggest one location, then Aerion would disagree. Kiera then would suggest something else and both men would give a strong no, and then the cycle continued.
She tried giving input, but no one heard her as they all argued with each other across the room. The only thing she could do is sit and watch the show. The show wasn’t even good, just annoying. The kind of story where no one is happy in the end.
“The beds should go here.” Kiera suggested. “It gets the best sunlight.”
The help that held onto the furniture began to push the two small beds to the place Kiera pointed out.
“I think-” She tried to butt in, to get their attention and voice her opinion. But of course, they didn’t hear her, just continued on with their arguing.
“Why would the beds need sunlight?” Aerion fought back. “They would only be used at night.”
“I agree.” Maekar joined in, sayin what was on his mind. “I think the tables should go there. So the children have good light to play in.”
The help holding the beds moved them, letting the others holding the tables to place them down in the spot.
“No.” Aerion added. “The couches should go there so they can get sunlight as they rest or read.”
“Well-” She started talking, only to be spoken over once more.
“I was meaning, it would be good here, as they could be woken up easier with the sun on their face in the morrow.” Kiera explained her reasoning.
“Why are you even here?” Aerion began to question defensively. “You are our cousin. You should not have the say in our children’s room.”
“I am your wife’s best friend, mind you. I came here to help lessen the stress on her.” Kiera motioned over to her in the process, she began to try and speak up, hoping someone would see, but they did not. Kiera was offended by Aerion’s words, getting worked up. “And your future queen. How dare you speak to me in such a way.”
“We should all-” She tried to calm them from the corner.
“Aerion, find your respect.” Maekar scolded him, as Kiera was right, she has a higher standing than all of them.
Rage started to boil over her. She wished to have gotten up and stomped over to them, telling them all off for arguing like children on such miniscule things. Such as the arrangement of the bedroom for babies that weren’t even born with.
If she could, she would. But she had been too tired as of late, barely being able to move around for long. She could not find the energy to stand on her two feet and walk over to them. Left with no other choice, she did something she never does.
“Shut up!” She yelled at the top of her lungs, to get their attention.
She was not one to scream, let alone use crude words such as those.
Everyone was shocked to hear it, quieting down to look at her. Luckily for her, with being pregnant, she was able to blame her poor attitude on pregnancy hormones and no one would be offended.
“Everyone out.” she commanded strongly. They were still in shock, not moving a muscle. “Out!”
After yelling again, they moved their feet. The help placed the objects where they stood, leaving alongside the royals. Aerion was the only one who didn’t move, knowing that her commands were not for him.
Having the peace and quiet, without fighting, or the noise of furniture hitting the ground, she was able to rest. Laying her head back, she took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down.
As the door closed behind the last person, Aerion walked over to her, needing to know what was wrong. He didn’t say a word, he didn’t need to. Sitting beside where her bare feet laid, he waited for her to speak.
“I know they just want to help, but they are getting on my nerves.” She huffed to her husband, venting her frustration.
“I agree.” Aerion nodded, as he didn’t appreciate other people disagreeing with the vision for his kids.
“I understand that your father wants to help because it is his first grandchild. And Kiera is just trying to be here for me, as she knows how hard the pregnancy has been.” She was trying to seem reasonable in her feelings. “But Gods, are we not the parents? I believe my say matters more than anyone else. And I've been ignored all day in this corner.”
“Truly.” Areion agreed. “They can find other ways to help.
After getting everything out, she took a long breath finally being able to calm down. Aerion said nothing, sitting beside her as he too enjoyed the quiet after spending the whole day arguing.
“I wanted to talk to you.” She brought up another topic that had been on her mind for a few weeks. “I have been thinking a lot.”
Her serious tone displeased him, as he sternly asked, “About what?”
“I was thinking of Aegon. How he had run away with that knight.” She truthly admitted. Aerion was not happy with the mention of his brother coming from her mouth. “And it reminded me of that night you found him in your bed.”
The poor young boy had been on her mind for a while. With children of her own on the way, she began to run through many different possibilities of things. Worrying that her children would be driven to running away as well. Especially, fearing the cause of it to be their own father.
“I thought we were over that.” His voice turned cold, as he clearly did not want to discuss the topic any further.
“We are.” Her words betrayed what she felt. She could never truly forgive him for the act, but she had to push it aside for the sake of their relationship. Continuing on she said, “But now that the children are about to be here, I just need to make sure-”
“I told you I would not do it again.” Aerion cut her off and rolled his eyes at her. His voice was stern, making it hard for her to believe his words were sincere.
Even if she didn’t believe him. Thankfully Aegon wasn't here to prove it otherwise. While she was worried for her little brother-in-law, she also thought it was best for him to be away from the chaos of the royal family.
“I know. But for my peace of mind. For my sanity. We need to discuss it.” She continued to press on, not wanting him to squash the conversation. “I will not have our children raised with an iron fist. I want them raised with love and the occasional sternness. Not fear.”
“I have no intention to let any harm come to our children.” Aerion added on, feeling slightly offended she thought he would allow such a thing to occur.
“But you tend to do many things without intention.” She told him, as it was the truth. “I guess what I am saying is. We punish our children together. If they do something that requires reprimanding, you come to me, and I will come to you. So we will truly be raising them together.”
Aerion debated for a moment, as if he did not agree with her words. It made her worry greatly, bringing back the fear of him abandoning her. Standing to his feet, he leaned over to her, pressing his lips softly on her forehead, before leaning down farther, to press another to her grand stomach.
“We will do this together.” He told her, standing beside her.
“Good.” She took a deep breath that she hadn't realized she was holding the whole conversation. It was as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulder. Moving on, she said, “Now, shall we, and we alone, decide the set up of this room?”
“Yes.” Aerion chuckled, wanting to get it over with as much as she did.
With the two of them deciding the whereabouts of the furniture, they were able to complete the new room in no time. It was perfect, neither of them would change a thing about it. Now all it was missing was the two young children that would grow up in it together.
Quiet whispers were spoken into the night. Ones that were barely audible to her sleeping mind. Believing it was her tired imagination, she ignored them, falling in and out of sleep as they were perceived. The sentences were broken, yet all ran together. To her, they made no sense.
“You cannot.”
“Your mother.”
“You must not.”
“I cannot.”
“I would never forgive you”
Soft touches stirred her from her sleep. She believed that she was rubbing her stomach unknowingly, causing it to wake herself up. When she felt the silk of the bedsheets under the fingertips, her eyes shot open, realizing that she was not the one touching her stomach, another was.
Sitting up straight, she saw Aerion laying beside her in the bed. His hand had slipped off her stomach landing on her upper thigh. His eyes were wide, like she was the one that scared him. Her heartbeat was strong, pulsing in her throat.
“By the seven Aerion!” She angrily whispered at him. “I almost had a heart attack. What are you doing here?”
Aerion didn’t respond, staying silent as he looked up at her. He didn’t bother moving as his attention trailed back down to her stomach. Giving a face she had never seen before, he scooted closer to her.
“I saw you.” Aerion admitted into the quiet air.
She was confused as to what he was saying. “You saw me?”
“In a dream.” He clarified with a huff. “Another premonition.”
“What happened?” Her hand traveled to his soft silver hair, running her fingers through it. She didn’t know if she was trying to calm him or herself. As whatever he saw, it was horrible enough for him to come running to her bed.
“You were giving birth.” He explained. “Blood everywhere.”
“Women tend to bleed when they give birth.” She chuckled, thinking he was worrying over nothing. “We are bringing life into the world.”
“No.” Aerion replied with the smallest quiver in his voice. “This was different.”
“How?” She wondered, not really understanding what he was getting at. She wanted to comfort him, make him feel better, but she could not do that if she didn’t know what exactly was wrong.
“You were screaming.” He stated plainly, pausing for a moment.
“That is normal.” She explained, as everything he was describing was the natural way of birth.
“Let me continue.” He was quick to cut her off. “It sounded like a deer being eaten alive by a wolf.”
The noise still echoed between his ears, as if he had really heard them, as if they were real. Because to him, they were, or at least will be. He didn’t know how he would be able to live raising the child that killed her.
“Everyone was rushing around, trying to fix things. Trying to fix you like you had broken apart.” He remembered the chaos, the people running all around him as he stood there, watching her breaths weaken. “Then the doctor asked me who to save.”
“What did you pick?” She asked out of pure curiosity.
“You of course.” Aerion’s response was sharp, as if he was offended that she didn’t already know the answer. “We can always have more children.”
“You could always get a new wife.” She pointed out, as it was a fact, even though she would not wish that.
“Do not even play with that idea.” He warned her darkly.
“I apologize, go on.” She sincerely said, settling back down to lay beside him. Their eyes locked and deep behind his eyes, she saw his pain.
“You were dying.” His words were barely a whisper, as if speaking them would make it real. “And there was nothing I could do about it.”
“It was just a dream.” She calmly told him. Placing her hand on his thin cheek, she rubbed her thumb back and forth on his smooth skin.
“No it was not.” Aerion was so sure, as it felt so real. It couldn’t have been anything else. “It was another premonition.”
“That makes no sense.” She added on, trying to make him see reason. “In your other one, you saw me with our three young children?”
“I do not know if this was before or after that.” There was no confirmation of if it was the birth of their twins, their daughter, or possibly another.
“Did I die?” She questioned, as the response would help her console him.
“I do not know.” He answered truthfully. He wished he knew, but at the same time, maybe it was better if he didn’t. “I awoke before I got that answer.”
“I think it was a nightmare.” She continued on with her point. “Just nerves because the babies are about to arrive.”
“I know it was not.” He tried telling her again, angered that she wasn’t getting it. “It was real as you are right now.”
Removing her hand from his face, she found his palm that laid against the bed. Sliding his hand over her heart. She held it there, pressing it deep against her skin, letting him feel that she was there, that she was alive.
“I am okay.” She whispered. “And I will be okay.”
Aerion accepted the fact that she may never truly understand the dream that will now plague him. Taking a deep breath, he declared. “We are not having any more children after Vaera.”
She didn’t want that. She wanted more children with Aerion. But it was clear that this wasn’t the moment to argue that. To make him calmer, she nodded her head, agreeing with an, “Okay”
Aerion seemed to physically relax after that, letting his hand trail down her body to lay on her stomach, feeling his children. She noticed how he didn’t move, didn’t bother leaving and returning to his bed champers.
“Do you wish to spend the night here?” She asked him, knowing what he wanted.
“I am staying.” He declared, making known that her opinion wouldn’t change it. “I do not need your permission to do so.”
She chuckled softly at him, not wishing to have it any other way.
Next ->
(added note: DW YALL IT IS STILL A HAPPY ENDING!!!)
Had to push this one out before i locked in fr fr. i have already begun to write the other two fics. I need beta readers who are interested so if you want a sneak peek of that, join my discord (https://discord.gg/wxen6c27rd) and let me know!!
i do hope to publish the first chapter of the daeron fic and the whole dunk fic before the end of this one, so be on the look out for that!
As always, thank you so much for all the love and support it means SO much to me <3
love you all!!
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⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: In a city that smells of roses and rot, the north’s future lady meets the dragon prince who moves through court like a storm.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 5.2k+
⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: stark!reader (no physical description other than the fact you're barthogan stark's daughter); set pre-akotsk so no show spoilers, but post first blackfyre rebellion; strangers to lovers; implied age gap; protective!baelor. Hope y'all enjoy my little side quest before we return to regular scheduling.
read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.
The first thing you learn about the South is that everything is too much.
Too bright, too loud, too hot. Sunlight on red stone, music that never seems to stop, silks that drag over your skin like spiderwebs. You miss the clean hard lines of Winterfell—the sound of wind in the towers, the crunch of frost under your boots, the encompassing rustle of godswoods, and the uncomplicated weight of wool on your shoulders.
Down here, even the air feels crowded.
So does the corridor outside the throne room.
The feast has only just ended, but already half the court is spilling out through the tall doors in a rush of perfume and gossip. Torches spit along the walls, heat pressing down from every direction. Lords and ladies drift in bright clusters, the clink of their jewellery as loud as their laughter. Servants push through with trays held high, cutting through the crowd in practised sweeps. Somewhere ahead, a bard is still singing about dragons reborn while a herald calls out titles over the din.
You are trying very hard to be invisible.
It’s an old northern trick. Head down, shoulders steady, move like a shadow along the wall, a wolf on the prowl unseen but ever watchful. Your father has gone on ahead with the king and his council, leaving you to find your own way back to your chambers. Winterfell’s halls never felt like this. Here, the Red Keep seems to breathe and move around you, full of hot blood and sharper teeth than any wolf. Someone’s sleeve catches on the edge of your own; a jewelled clasp scrapes your wrist, and you jerk back on instinct. You murmur an apology, the words swallowed by the noise, and edge closer to the wall, feeling the rush of bodies pressing past.
That’s when the crowd surges.
The doors behind you open again with a thud, and a fresh crush of courtiers spills out, seemingly all at once. A tall knight in a gilded plate cuts across your path; a lady with a fan like a small battle shield sways into you, chuckling too loudly, flushed from wine. Your shoulder hits stone, and you almost bare your teeth in irritation. The air leaves your lungs in a soft, muffled sound that no one hears. You’re not used to this many people in your space, breathing down your neck, and your neck prickles.
You don’t see him at first, but you do feel him.
A warm pressure closes around your elbow, steadying you before you can stumble. The grip is sure but careful, fingers splayed so as not to bruise. Before you can turn, that touch slides—down, in, claiming a span of you that no one at court has dared to yet.
His hand finds your waist.
Not a greedy clutch or a drag. But a quiet, decisive claim, palm fitting to the narrowest part of you as if it was always meant to rest there. He doesn’t pull; he guides, the way one might guide a skittish mare out of a tight pen. The heat of his body is at your back, a wall as solid as any of Winterfell’s stones, and suddenly the crowd is no longer pressing you into the wall; he is moving you through it.
“Forgive me, my lady,” a low voice murmurs just behind your ear. “There’s more room this way.”
He steps forward, and you find yourself moving with him, his hand a firm point of balance against your waist. People part without thinking; even in the crush, bodies turn, shoulders dip, conversations falter for half a heartbeat as they register who is passing among them.
Prince Baelor.
You’ve seen him from afar, of course.
At the high table during the welcoming feast, back when you first arrived, where the firelight turned his dark hair copper at the edges. In the training yard, in passing, long-limbed and lethal with a spear, moving with the unhurried grace of someone who knows exactly how dangerous he is and has no need to prove it. Beside the king in council, broad shoulders bent over a table of maps, the Hand pin gleaming across his breast. He carries all three faces with him now—the warrior, the prince, the Hand—as he clears a path for you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The southern ladies watch you pass with wide, speculative eyes. Their whispers press in around you like heat, and you know full well what they’re thinking.
A northern wolf on the Crown Prince’s arm.
Not his arm, you think desperately, bones quaking beneath your skin. His hand. His hand is on your—
You barely catch yourself before your feet tangle in the hem of your gown. Baelor’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly, fingers curving more securely into the fabric at your waist. Gentle, still, but not in the least uncertain. The contact steals the rest of your breath. You have been shoved and jostled and knocked sideways plenty of times in the past, but this is something different.
This is a man who knows the weight of his own body, of his own strength, and chooses—deliberately—to make you feel safe beneath his touch.
It is ridiculous how your bones seem to melt around that realisation.
By the time your thoughts catch up, he has manoeuvred you into a small side gallery off the main corridor—a little alcove open to the night, its stone balustrade looking out over the black curve of Blackwater Bay. The noise of the court drops away like a curtain falling. Only a few stragglers pass the archway, casting you quick, curious looks before hurrying on.
Baelor steps back. His hand leaves your waist, the loss of it sharp as stepping out of a hot bath into cold air. Your skin remembers the shape of his fingers even as his touch fades, phantom-strong still.
“My apologies,” he says, giving you space, and Gods be good, he even bows a little, as if he hasn’t just steadied and steered you through the throng like you weighed less than a sword. “The crowd was… overzealous.”
You swallow, trying to coax your voice back into existence. You have faced down freezing storms and hungry wolves. You have stood before your lord father’s council and spoken on matters of grain and garrison. None of that prepared you for Baelor Breakspear looking at you as if you are the only person in all of King’s Landing who matters at this exact moment.
“It was…” You clear your throat, the words scraping on their way out. “Thank you, Your Grace. I was managing well enough.”
One dark brow lifts, visibly amused. “Were you?”
Sensation of heat creeps up your neck, and you’re unsure if it’s embarrassment or anger, or both.
He does not resemble the Targaryens of the old songs. No otherworldly silver hair, no jittering violet gaze. Baelor is all warm gold skin and midnight hair already catching a few strands of grey, Dornish sun softened by the formidable Valyrian bone structure. The dragon is in the tilt of his nose, the high cut of his cheekbones, the fine line of his mouth and the steely gleam in his dark eyes.
He looks at you steadily, and you have the unpleasant suspicion he can read more in your silence than you’d like.
“I am not accustomed to so many people,” you manage at last, clasping your hands in front of you so he cannot see them fidget. “Winterfell’s halls are quieter.”
“And colder, I imagine.” His mouth curves, but there is no mockery in it, only curiosity. “Your father has told me tales of snows higher than a man’s head, of wolves the size of ponies.”
“They’re only that big when you’re very small,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Or when the men telling stories have had too much wine.”
He laughs. It’s not loud, not like some of the booming, performative mirth you’ve heard at the feast. It’s low and genuine, like the rumble of distant thunder rolling across the fields in high summer.
“So there are no monstrous beasts lurking in your forests?” he asks.
“Oh, there are,” you say quietly. “They just don’t always have four legs.”
His eyes sharpen on your face. You regret the words as soon as they’re out, but you steel your spine and hold his gaze. The north teaches you to stand firm from a young age; the south seems to require it even more.
“Court can be… trying,” he says after a beat, gentling the subject with care. “Even for those born to it. You’ve only been here a week, my lady. It is no failing to find the noise overwhelming.”
You wonder if he finds it overwhelming, too—the heir to a dynasty unlike any other in the world, the half-Dornish boy who grew into a man caught between too many expectations. You have heard the whispers about his mother’s people, the sneers for his sun-dark skin, the grudging admiration for his skill in battle.
You know what it means to be out of place.
“Winterfell is quiet,” you tell him, surprising yourself. “But it’s a good quiet. Solid. The kind that lets you hear your own thoughts.” You glance back toward the corridor, where the hum of voices still spills past. “Here, it feels like my thoughts are drowned before I can have them.”
Baelor nods, slow, as if weighing your words. “You are your father’s heir, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“Then they will not be drowned,” he says simply. “They will learn to swim. And those who would prefer not to hear them will have to learn to listen.”
The certainty in his tone startles you more than the feel of his hand had.
“You sound very sure of that, Your Grace.”
“I try to be.” That hint of humour returns, dimming the intensity of his gaze just enough to let you breathe. “It is expected of me. People are comforted by conviction, even when it’s borrowed.”
“That seems… dangerous,” you say. “To borrow conviction.”
“It can be,” he agrees with a pleased nod. “So it’s important to borrow from the right people.”
His eyes catch yours. For a moment, the air between you feels as thick as honey and twice as warm.
“And who do you borrow from?” you ask curiously, because your mouth is braver than your good sense.
“From those who know how to stand in the cold,” he says softly, “and do not flinch.”
The world narrows in, down to the shape of him against the torchlit stone, the calm weight of his attention. You have never felt so acutely the distance between your body and someone else’s. A step. Less than that, maybe. You remember the heat of his palm through your gown, the steady line of his fingers, the way the crowd parted as if he carried his own weather with him.
There are worse storms to be caught in, you think.
A shout from the main corridor breaks whatever held the moment taut. A serving boy runs past the archway, chased by another, laughter echoing behind them. The spell shivers and eases, dispelling. Baelor straightens a little, the prince’s mantle settling more visibly around his shoulders again.
“May I see you safely back to your chambers, my lady?” he asks. “It seems I’ve already half-abducted you from the feast. I’d rather not leave you to brave the crush alone again.”
“That’s not necessary,” you begin automatically. “I won’t wish to trouble you.”
Northerners do not like to seem fragile; Starks, least of all.
He tilts his head. “Indulge me, then.”
You hesitate. You can hear the court whispering already, if you close your eyes. The northern lady on the prince’s arm. The wolf at the dragon’s side. Oh, what tales they’ll spin out of the sight of you side by side, and yet…
You are tired of being a story told by others.
“I suppose,” you say, unable to scrub the wariness out of your voice, “if Your Grace insists…”
The grin that answers you is brief but unexpectedly bright, one quick flash of unguarded warmth that softens the stern, strong angles of his face.
“I do,” he says, offering his arm.
You place your hand on his forearm, careful, aware of every point of contact. The fine fabric beneath your palm, the solid muscle beneath that, the way his skin heats the air between you. When you step back into the corridor, you feel the weight of a hundred eyes. You hold your head high, the way your mother taught you before she died. A Stark does not bow to the weather, you remind yourself. Starks are of old blood, steel and ice, everlasting.
When you step back into the corridor, the noise washes over you in a hot wave. Laughter, clattering plates, the distant shrill of a pipe. The torches spit and smoke, scenting the air with pitch and singed dust.
You feel every pair of eyes. Every turn of a jewelled head.
Baelor moves as if he does not. As if the crowd is nothing more than a current he’s long since learned to read. A subtle shift of his shoulders here, a courteous incline of his head there, and the sea parts for him in due deference. The hush that follows your wake is thin but perceptible, like the trail of a blade through water. When a young lord, flushed and unsteady, staggers too close, Baelor’s free hand comes up between you and the impending collision. His palm brushes low at your side—just a ghost of contact at your waist as he guides the man past with a quiet word.
It is almost nothing.
Almost.
Your breath slows in your lungs. Your body knows the shape of that hand now; your bones seem to bow under it like a sword under a smithy’s hammer. The place where his fingers rest for that heartbeat feels branded. He does not look down at you right away. It would be too much, you think, to meet his eyes in the same moment his hand is on your body. Instead, he steers you past another knot of courtiers, past a herald arguing with a servant over spilt wine.
Only when the press thins a little does he speak.
“How are you finding the south, my lady?” he asks lightly, as if making idle conversation in a garden instead of cutting a path through a hall of vipers. “Truly. Not the answer you give my father.”
The honest answer rises, sharp and instinctive, before you can dress it in courtesy.
“It’s… overwhelming,” you admit warily. “Too hot. Too loud. Too much of everything, all at once.” The words taste like snowmelt and iron on your tongue. “The walls feel close, and the sky feels far. It smells of roses and rot.”
Baelor’s mouth twitches. “Rot?” he echoes, visibly amused. “I’m not sure the Master of Whisperers has turned that phrase yet. I’ll be sure he hears it.”
Heat flickers up your neck again, this time at your own lack of tact. “I did not mean—”
“I asked for truth,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “And you gave it to me. It is… rarer here than you might think.”
He glances sideways at you then, eyes catching the torchlight. There’s humour there, yes, but something else coils beneath it, something like relief.
“What does Winterfell smell of?” he asks curiously, keeping an easy, unhurried pace. “When it is not buried in snow tall as a man.”
The corridor takes a slight bend, opening up, awashed in the golden glow of torches. Your skirts whisper against the rushes; your fingers flex once against his sleeve, steadying yourself more than your feet require.
“Pine and smoke,” you answer, unable to keep the wishful note out of your voice. “Wet stone. Horse and leather and cold iron. The kennels, if the wind is wrong.” Your mouth curves despite yourself. “Wet wool, too, in winter. Everything smells faintly of wet wool.”
“And you miss that?” His tone is faintly incredulous. “Kennels and wet wool?”
You think of empty courtyards glazed with frost; of dark pine branches loaded with snow, bending but not breaking. Of the comforting roughness of your father’s cloak around your shoulders, scratchy and heavy and honest because back home, words and oaths are sacred. The weight of awareness you get whenever you sit next to the weirwood trees, feeling like every Stark whose come before you is pressing their attention into your skin, urging you forward.
“Yes,” you say simply. “Very much.”
His smile softens, the sharp edges of his face easing for a moment into something almost boyish despite the faint brushes of grey you glimpse across the scruff on his face and temples.
“You sound homesick, Lady Stark.”
“I am,” you admit, more bare than you would care to admit. “But I suppose homesickness is easier to bear than being foolish.”
“Foolish?”
“To be offered a place at court and complain that the tapestries are the wrong colour,” you say dryly. “The south has… beauty. Even if it shouts it.” Your gaze snags on a high-arched window, on the spill of moonlight over red stone. “I don’t know yet if I like it. But I can’t say it’s dull.”
A low huff of laughter escapes Baelor. “That may be the kindest thing anyone has said about King’s Landing in years. Not dull. I’ll inform the small council that we can put it on the banners.”
You hazard a sidelong look at him, emboldened by your own honesty. “And what does it feel like to you, Your Grace?” you wonder aloud, scanning the mighty stone structure. “This city. This court. You were not born to it either, not entirely.”
His jaw moves, a small shift beneath sun-browned skin. The hand on your arm remains steady, heavy weight.
“It feels,” he replies slowly, “like standing in a room where everyone is shouting in a language you learned late. You know the words. You know what to say. But some part of you is always listening for a cadence that never comes.”
“Dorne,” you say softly.
“My mother,” he corrects, just as soft. “And the Marches. And the men I fought beside in the Stepstones who never cared what name my grandfather bore. Here, everything is flattery and intrigue. There, it was whether you held the line.”
You imagine him not in a gilded plate but in plain mail gone tacky with salt and blood; imagine that same steady hand closing around a spear instead of your arm, ending lives instead of preserving them. A man who knows the weight of his own strength, and the weight of others’ lives in it.
“That sounds lonely,” you say before you can stop yourself.
His gaze flicks to your face. “It is,” he admits, much to your surprise. “Sometimes. But then, I suppose any place where you must be two things at once is lonely.”
You swallow.
“I know something of that. Stark and heir. Daughter and—” You cut yourself off, teeth closing on the word. Lady. The one who will have to be hard enough for both, a placeholder until you marry and your sons inherit Winterfell instead. “The hall looks very different when you sit in your father’s chair instead of standing before it.”
He hums, a thoughtful, rumbling sound. “Do you miss being only one thing?” he questions, but you can tell it’s not an attempt to pry, and more so genuine curiosity he’s indulging in.
You consider his question properly, rather than offering him the fabricated response that would be safer. You’re nearing the quieter wings now, where guest chambers sleep behind thick doors, and the clamour of court is more blissfully muffled, giving you a moment to hear each other properly.
“I miss,” you say at last, “having room to make mistakes where fewer people could see.”
He laughs again at that, a warm, surprised sound that feels less like thunder and more like the crackle of a hearth catching.
“You may find,” he retorts, a smile in his voice, “that most of us are still making mistakes. We’re just better at pretending they were intentional.”
“That sounds very southern,” you say primly.
“Oh, it is,” Baelor agrees with a low huff. “We dress our errors in silk and call them a plan.”
A smile tugs at your mouth, reluctant but real. “In the north, we bury ours in the snow and pretend they were never there.”
“I’ve heard,” he says mildly, “that the things buried in the north have a way of walking again.”
You meet his eyes properly then, the weight of his words settling between you like a stone dropped in deep water. For a heartbeat, you think you see something there—a question, perhaps, or a warning, or recognition.
“That depends,” you say, voice low, “on what you put in the ground.”
His gaze lingers on you. The world tilts, just slightly. Then he exhales, the moment easing.
“I see,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “I shall try not to offend your gods, then. I’m told they prefer honesty as well.”
“Yes,” you say, fingers tightening briefly on his sleeve. “They do.”
You turn another corner together. The torches here burn lower; the stones are cooler underfoot. The murmur of the feast has dulled to a distant roar, like the sea against cliffs. He slows as you reach the stretch of corridor that leads to your chamber. You recognise the heavy-carved door at the far end, the two guards posted discreetly beyond it—Stark men, standing a little straighter as the prince approaches.
Baelor comes to a halt a few paces short, so you are not under their direct gaze. Only then does he gently disengage his arm, leaving your hand suspended stupidly in the air for an instant before you recall it to yourself. The loss of contact is abrupt, like stepping out from under a fur cloak into naked winter wind. You feel the awareness of him along your skin where he is not touching you.
“Here we are,” he says quietly. “Unabducted, as promised.”
You huff, the sound almost a laugh. “I don’t recall giving you leave to abduct me in the first place, Your Grace.”
His eyes glint. “Ah, but I recall saving you from assault by silk and steel in the king’s own hall. We might call it a kidnapping in your defence.”
You dare a little tilt of your chin. “If you wished to impress a northern lord, Your Grace, I fear you would have to drag me over your shoulder rather than lead me politely by the arm.”
The grin that flashes across his face is quick and wicked, gone almost before it fully forms, a glint of heat entering and leaving his gaze in a blink.
“Duly noted,” he murmurs, and there is something in his tone that makes your stomach dip. “I will revise my tactics should the need arise.”
You hold his gaze, somehow impossibly darker in the shadowed hall, but it does not frighten you. There’s no ill will to be found on his face, and while you’re well aware men can be deceitful and hide their intent well, there’s something in the prince’s expression that eases your hackles down.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves, your gazes locked.
“Thank you,” you say finally, because Stark courtesy runs as deep as Stark stubbornness. You dip your head in a grateful half-bow. “For your help. And for asking how I fare and not how my father thinks I fare.”
“You are very welcome,” he returns promptly, unblinking as his gaze slides across the planes of your face. “It is… a relief, Lady Stark, to speak to someone who does not answer every question with flattery or a calculation.”
You hesitate, then venture, “You seem to me a man who does many calculations, Your Grace.”
“Oh, I do,” Baelor admits, amused again, skin around his eyes crinkling like he’s pleased you noticed. “But every now and then I like to remember what it is to simply listen.”
Something in your chest loosens at that. “I hope, then,” you say, “that I did not disappoint.”
His gaze sweeps your face again, and you feel it like a touch—cool across your brow, warm along your cheek, skimming over the curve of your lips so swiftly you would have missed it had you not been watching him just as closely.
“On the contrary,” he murmurs. “You have given me more to think on than half the lords I’ve spoken with this fortnight.”
Your throat feels too dry, but you still force yourself to speak. “That seems unwise,” you manage after a beat. “To let a homesick northerner trouble the mind of the king’s Hand.”
Baelor inclines his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he says, a small wrinkle appearing between his strong brows. “Or perhaps that is exactly the mind I should be troubled by.”
The words hang there, a small, bright spark in the dim corridor. You glance away first, pulse thrumming in your ears while you fight to keep your expression perfectly schooled.
“We have kept late enough hours,” you begin, retreating a half step into politeness because you can feel the ground tilting under your feet. “I should not take more of your time, Your Grace.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Baelor,” he says, almost too low to hear.
You blink. “…Your Grace?”
“If we are to be honest with one another,” he continues, a glint back in his eye, “it seems unfair that you have given me snow and rot and wet wool, and I have given you only titles. You may call me Baelor when we are not being watched, if you wish.”
Your heart gives a single, startled thud. “That would be… irregular,” you acknowledge faintly.
“Nearly everything worth doing is,” he replies quietly, then his tone gentles. “But I will not press it upon you, my lady. I know wolves walk slowly with their trust.”
You draw in a breath that tastes of stone dust and something else. Metal, maybe, or dragonfire, that these halls still recall from the age when dragons still flew through the skies.
“Then you must allow me a compromise,” you hear yourself say. “It would not do for word to spread that I address the Crown Prince like an old friend after a single walk down a hallway.”
“Of course not,” he says solemnly, though you can see laughter waiting at the edge of his mouth.
“So instead,” you continue, feeling oddly reckless, “you’ll have to endure something only a little less improper.”
His brows rise, waiting patiently. You give him the full weight of your Stark gaze, cool and steady, and bow your head just enough that it could be courtesy or defiance.
“Good night,” you say, every word measured, “my Lord Prince.”
The title should sound stiff, far too formal on your tongue. It does not. It sounds like a jest between the two of you alone, like you’ve taken his rank and wrapped it in something warmer. For a heartbeat, he just scrutinises you. Then that smile breaks over Baelor’s face again—real and surprised and vividly, disarmingly pleased, making him look moons younger. It softens the battle-hardened angles of his handsome face, turns him from statue, a fable, to man, flesh and blood.
“Lady Stark,” he answers, and now it is you who feels seen, the words settling over your shoulders like a cloak sewn to your exact measure. “Sleep well. Try not to dream too unkindly of our rot and roses.”
“I shall do my best, my Lord Prince,” you say dryly. “Though I make no promises about the roses.”
He laughs, low and delighted. It feels like a secret you’ve earned. He steps back then, just enough to bow properly. It is not the deep, sweeping gesture he gives the queen or the king, but neither is it the perfunctory nod you’ve seen him grant lesser lords. It is something in between, tailored to fit this narrow stretch of corridor and the strange, fragile thing that has grown between you in it.
When he straightens, he looks briefly, dangerously as if he might say more, ask more. But the guards at the end of the hall shift, armour chinking, and the spell trembles, coming apart at the seams.
“Good night,” he says again, more composed. “May the gods—old and new—watch your rest.”
You incline your head once more, fingers curled tight in your skirts to keep from fidgeting, then turn toward your door before your resolve can crack.
You feel his gaze on your back all the way to the threshold.
Only when the door has shut behind you, and you are alone with the banked fire and the distant, muffled roar of the city, do you let yourself sag against the wood. Your heart beats high and wild in your throat, like a trapped bird. You cross to the window on unsteady legs. Blackwater Bay lies beyond, a dark, glimmering curve, torchlight from the harbour pricking its surface like fallen stars. The night air that slides in is cooler, but still heavy compared to home. It smells of salt and smoke and something metallic underneath.
You press your palm to your waist, to the place where his hand rested. Your fingers span only half the space his did; the memory of his touch burns in the gap between, forcing a shiver.
It is absurd, how it unsettles you. How a single hand at your waist, a single walk down a crowded hall, a single traded jest—Lady Stark. My Lord Prince—can make the Red Keep feel… altered. Tilted, as if someone has shifted its weight on the hill by a fraction of an inch.
The south is still too bright, too loud, too hot. The air still feels crowded. You still miss the honest cold of Winterfell with a dull ache that never quite leaves your bones. But tonight, when you close your eyes, you do not only see red stone and leering gargoyles and tapestries heavy with dust and history of blood and fire. You see a prince who moved through a crush of bodies as if they were nothing but reeds in a current, who put his hand between you and the world and did not once pretend you were a burden to bear.
You hear his low voice sounding out Lady Stark as if it is a name he chose for himself, not one sewn onto you at birth. You hear your own, reckless tongue calling him my Lord Prince as if the words can both tease and test at once.
Later, much later, you will understand that this was the first time you spoke to one another not as pieces on a board—north and crown, wolf and dragon—but as two people standing in the same crowded, suffocating hall, both trying to remember how to breathe.
For now, you only know this:
In a place that still does not feel like yours, under a sky that feels too far away, someone reached out and steadied you without demanding anything in return.
If dragons can learn to move carefully, you think, fingertips pressed to the phantom mark of his palm, perhaps wolves can learn to bear the heat.
an: ngl I love them, I might be persuaded to do a mini series for them. any thoughts? let me know!
Gol D. Roger x Reader
Length: 12k+
Rating: 18+
Warnings: Crime and Piracy as a lifestyle, telepathic bond that is sassy, intrusive, and banter, violence, implied sexual content, jealousy, possessive themes, Emotional Distress, Death, Angst, Grief
for @trouble-sistar
Interested in being in the taglist? HERE
-X-Bond Awakening-X-
You had long since stopped expecting the voice in your head to say anything sensible.
The bond had stirred to life when you were sixteen. A faint hum brushed against your thoughts, a flicker of someone else’s presence where only silence had been before. Then, without warning, came the first words.
“Do you think sharks can get seasick?”
Not your voice.
Your fan clattered to the floor, nearly upsetting the entire tea service. Ladies gasped. Porcelain rattled. Not a single shark was in sight.
By eighteen, you had pieced it together. The voice belonged to your soulmate, the fated other half the universe had bound to you. And by then, you had also reached one undeniable conclusion.
Whoever Gol D. Roger was, your so-called eternal match, he absolutely belonged in chains.
Because the man’s inner thoughts?
A menace.
Half the time, he mused about death in a weirdly cheerful way. The other half, he tried to figure out if various sea creatures were edible. Sometimes, you could feel him running (you never knew from what), and he’d think, If I die, I’m haunting my enemies with erotic moaning.
He had a peculiar laugh. Not just a laugh. A weaponized laugh. You’d be in class, struggling to memorize trade routes, when your head filled with that wild, uncontrollable WHAHAHAHA! until your governess sent you to your bedroom for “disrupting the learning environment.”
Of course, you had heard about soulmates. Everyone had. Among the commonfolk, it was practically a pastime. But your life was already planned and set, so you knew better than to respond.
That didn’t stop him from trying.
“If you’re real, knock something over.”
You ignored him.
Fine. I’ll wait.
And he did. For hours.
The next day: “Still waiting.”
You finally snapped back, “Stop talking.”
He froze.
“Ohhh. You can hear me.” The smirk in his voice was criminal. “Great. Now we can make plans.”
You made it very clear you were not making plans with him. It didn’t matter. His mind slipped into your days anyway. Some mornings, he vanished completely, as though the sea had swallowed him whole. Other days, he was relentless, filling your thoughts with nonsense, dangerous ideas, and surprisingly deep reflections on freedom and fate.
And now, at seventeen, you were starting to realize something terrible.
You weren’t just used to him. You liked hearing him.
Which was unfortunate, because Gol D. Roger still sounded like the kind of man who would either start a revolution… or accidentally burn down your house trying to cook fish inside it.
-X-Unexpected Sights-X-
You had a comfortable life. Not exciting. Not dangerous. Certainly not the kind of life that inspired ballads.
Which was precisely how it was supposed to be.
Your father was the governor of the island, a man who prided himself on clean streets, fair trade taxes, and making sure his daughter was promised to a respectable Marine officer. You had been engaged since you were thirteen to a man who sent polite letters once a month, a man you had spoken to for perhaps twenty minutes in total.
It was all tidy. Predictable. Safe. The kind of arrangement where nothing could go wrong.
Except for the fact that Gol D. Roger lived in your head.
The bond had been with you for years, and by now his voice was less like a soulmate’s whisper and more like an unwanted roommate who had figured out how to pick every lock in your mind.
"Are you seriously getting married to a Marine?" he asked one morning while you were trying to braid your hair.
“Yes”, you thought flatly.
"Why? Do you like people who wear coats in tropical weather? Does his hat make you feel safe?"
He had opinions. Strong, wrong, chaotic opinions.
"You can’t marry a Marine. I’m your soulmate. That’s illegal somewhere, probably."
You reminded him, yet again, that you had never met him, didn’t even know what he looked like, and that your father would sooner set the harbor on fire than let you run off with some mystery boy from across the sea.
"Mystery boy? That’s hurtful. I’m a future legend, sweetheart."
You groaned. “You’re probably a criminal.”
"Not yet."
That was the problem. You had been raised to be proper. To follow the rules, to smile politely at galas, to know your place. And then there was Roger in your head, full of salt air and trouble, who never stopped talking about treasure, freedom, and how bored he was staying in one place for too long.
The Marine you were engaged to? You didn’t know what he dreamed about. He had never told you.
Roger? You knew every ridiculous, reckless, brilliant thought that crossed his mind.
And lately, something new stirred in the bond; a pull, stronger than before. Like the sea itself was drawing the two of you closer.
You only hoped he wasn’t planning something insane.
“Haven’t you ever wanted more?”
“…What more could there be?” you answered, the wistfulness slipping in before you could stop it.
Which was precisely when he thought, loud and unrepentant, "Alright. I’ve decided. I’m coming to get you."
-X-Home Invasion-X-
You were in the middle of a perfectly normal afternoon.
The harbor below the balcony was busy with sails and shouts. Gulls wheeled overhead, shrieking as the tide carried in fresh cargo. From the courtyard outside your father’s estate came the steady cadence of Marines drilling in formation, boots striking stone in practiced rhythm. You were halfway through reviewing the neat script of your father’s speech for the upcoming trade delegation, every word predictable and safe.
Then the bond jolted. A sharp pulse of pure adrenaline shot through you, so sudden that your hand slipped on the parchment.
"Almost there," Roger thought, his voice crashing into your head, loud and eager enough to make you blink.
“Almost where?”
"Your island."
You froze. “What do you mean—”
"Don’t worry. I’m being discreet."
Which, as you learned three minutes later, meant not discreet at all.
From your balcony, you saw it: a small, scrappy sloop cutting brazenly into the governor’s harbor as if it belonged there. Its sails were patched, its timbers creaked, and the crew shouted with the kind of unbothered cheer that suggested they had never once asked permission to dock anywhere.
And at the prow was a boy about your age, tall and sunburned, with a grin that looked capable of setting something on fire.
Even from a distance, you felt it. That same voice, that same wild energy you had been stuck with in your head for most of your life.
“Hi.” He lifted a hand and waved directly at your balcony. “You’re prettier than I imagined.”
You gripped the railing until your knuckles turned white. “Are you insane?”
"Probably."
Below, the Marines were already converging on the dock, their boots thundering against the stone. At the front was your fiancé, Lieutenant Halden; buttoned-up, perpetually grim, and striding forward with his sword drawn.
You saw the exact moment Roger spotted him. His smile widened.
"Ohhh. This the guy? The coat guy?"
“Yes. That’s my fiancé.”
"Huh. I don’t like him."
The Marines reached the dock. Halden barked something about identifying himself. Roger only smiled wider, vaulted off the boat, and landed squarely in front of him.
“Name’s Gol D. Roger,” he announced, not a hint of shame in it, “and I’m here to see my future wife.”
Every Marine in the courtyard stiffened. From your balcony, you wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole.
“You’re going to get arrested.”
"Not if you come with me first."
He tilted his head back, locking eyes with you, bold and unshaken despite a dozen rifles aimed at him. And you hated the way the bond suddenly thrummed with something that felt dangerously like hope.
Roger should have been in chains within the hour.
That was the reasonable outcome when a loudmouthed stranger sailed into a governor’s harbor, declared you his future wife, and smirked at the Marine lieutenant you were supposed to marry.
But Roger was not reasonable.
By the time you made it downstairs, he had somehow talked your father out of ordering the stockade. Something about “mutually beneficial trade opportunities” and “favorable import pricing,” delivered with that infuriating curve of his mouth, and the undeniable fact that his sloop’s hold really was crammed with valuable goods.
He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat at least a size too big, the brim shadowing his eyes, lending him the harmless air of some coastal peddler. It was a flimsy disguise, and yet somehow it worked. People who should have been calling for his immediate arrest were instead listening, nodding, even laughing at his jokes.
Which only proved what you already knew.
Gol D. Roger was a menace.
“This young man,” your father announced over dinner that night, “has agreed to stay on the island for a season, selling his wares. The council believes it could be good for trade.”
“You bribed him, didn’t you?” you thought sharply through the bond.
"What, your dad? Nope. I just smiled at him."
That was somehow worse.
Over the next few weeks, Roger settled in as if the island had been waiting for him all along. His “merchant stall” was nothing more than a patched table in the market square, piled with mismatched goods that looked like they had been gathered from half the seas. Exotic trinkets, spices whose scents clung to your clothes after one visit, shells polished smooth by foreign tides. He bartered with the sharp skill of a thief, laughed with strangers as if they were old friends, and before long, people had begun treating him like a fixture of the place.
What was worse, he seemed determined to make himself impossible to avoid.
He had only one companion, a slightly older man named Rayleigh who trailed after him like a long-suffering shadow. Rayleigh had the air of someone who had seen it all and chosen not to interfere. He looked at his captain with a mix of fondness and weary resignation, as though Roger’s chaos was something he had learned to live with long ago.
And there was plenty of chaos.
Roger turned up everywhere. In the palace gardens where you tried to read, he leaned against a tree, his hat pulled low, his voice full of mockery. “Need a hand carrying those books, princess?”
At formal dinners, he appeared across the ballroom in a jacket that belonged to someone else, half the buttons missing, looking infuriatingly at ease as though the place belonged to him. He tipped his hat the moment your eyes met his, all teeth and trouble.
When your fiancé came calling, Roger was there too. Never directly interfering, but always close enough. You saw him pretending to rearrange seashells in the market square, his expression calm, his grin loud with the message he refused to say aloud: You do not actually like him, do you?
The hat became his calling card. You spotted it in the crowd before you saw him. You found it perched on the balcony railing outside your chamber one morning, with a single seashell tucked neatly into the band.
When you asked him why, he only thought it back at you, warm and certain, a voice you could not shut out.
“Because one day you are going to wear it.”
And every single time, no matter how you tried to steel yourself, your heart sped up in answer.
And you found yourself searching for him.
A walk past the edge of the gardens, just far enough to glimpse the wild palms swaying at the border of the estate. A pause in the market square, lingering a few minutes longer than necessary at his stall while he weighed out spices and winked at you as though he knew exactly what you were doing.
And then one afternoon, you followed the sound of his laugh. It rang down a narrow back street, bright and reckless, until it pulled you past the last row of stone houses and into the thick hush of the jungle.
Roger was leaning against a tree as if he had been waiting for you all day. A strip of sugarcane was caught between his teeth, and that ridiculous straw hat was tipped low enough to cast his smile in shadow.
“You took your time,” he said aloud, voice roughened by amusement. At the same time, you felt the echo of him in your head, smug and warm. “Knew you’d come.”
You glanced over your shoulder. No guards trailing you. No watchful father. No fiancé marching at your side. Just the smell of salt air clinging to the breeze and the heavy sweetness of damp earth.
“If anyone sees me out here—”
“They will not,” he interrupted, confident as ever. “This part of the island has no Marines, no councilmen, no rules. Just you and me.”
His certainty was infuriating, yet the bond between you thrummed in answer like a chord plucked too sharply.
And despite every warning sign that you should not, you followed him.
The path twisted down toward a rocky cove where the sea hurled itself against black stone, the spray leaping high enough to sting your cheeks. You had been told to avoid this stretch of coast since childhood. The currents were too strong, the rocks too jagged, the waters too wild for fishing boats. It was the sort of place whispered about in cautionary tales, a place meant to frighten children into obedience.
Roger moved through it as if he had been carved out of the same stone. He hopped from boulder to boulder, laughing at the crash of each wave, reaching back to pull you after him with no hesitation. His hands were rough and warm, anchoring you against the slip of wet rock. His smile burned with the kind of confidence that made rules feel small.
At last, he led you into a sheltered cove, hidden away from the world. The sound of the sea softened there, a private rhythm against the stone walls.
“This is where I come to think,” he said, crouching to pick up a pale piece of coral, turning it between his fingers. His voice softened, though the bond hummed with mischief. “And to see if my soulmate is brave enough to sneak out of her father’s palace just to talk to me.”
You rolled your eyes, though your pulse betrayed you. “You’re dangerous.”
He leaned closer, the brim of his hat shadowing his smirk. “You like danger.”
And the worst part, the part you could not admit even to yourself, was that he was right.
For the next hour, you sat together on the rocks, watching the tide roll in and out. Roger spoke as if the whole world were still clinging to his boots. He painted pictures with his words: an island carpeted in flowers so bright they looked aflame, sea caves lit by schools of fish that glowed like stars, storms that turned the sky an eerie shade of green and left him laughing in the rain.
You found yourself telling him things you had never dared say aloud. The suffocating etiquette lessons. The endless banquets where no one truly listened. The Marine fiancé who could discuss shipyard maintenance without taking a breath, as though the weight of bolts and timbers mattered more than the woman promised to him.
And somewhere in between his impossible stories and your quiet confessions, you realized you were laughing. Not the polite smile of a governor’s daughter, not the restrained chuckle of a dutiful fiancée, but real, unrestrained laughter that left your ribs aching.
When the sun began to sink, painting the water in fire, you rose and brushed the sand from your skirt. “I can’t stay long.”
Roger tilted his hat back, his gaze warm yet edged with certainty. “You’ll come again.”
It was not a question.
And you already knew he was right.
It became a rhythm. Three or four times a week, you slipped past the gates after dinner, your skirt hem snagging on thorns and underbrush as you made your way toward the private cove.
No guards ever followed. That stretch of the island was quiet, too far from the patrol routes to bother with, and you were careful in everything you did. Careful in your steps. Careful with your excuses. Careful in telling yourself it was harmless. At least, that was the story you repeated until it began to sound almost true.
Roger was always there first. Always. He leaned against the rocks with his ankles crossed, that battered straw hat tipped low as if it belonged to him more than his own skin. Some nights he carried odd treasures from his travels: a pocketknife with the handle snapped off, a gold coin bitten clean in half, a jar of sand that shimmered green in the moonlight. Other nights, he carried nothing at all. Just himself. Hair a mess from the sea wind, sunburn fading along his cheekbones, eyes bright with the kind of laughter that made you feel the world was less heavy than you remembered.
You told yourself you came because it was peaceful here. The waves against the rocks untied the knots in your chest.
The night air let you breathe without the press of your father’s expectations or your fiancé’s stiff courtesy closing in around you. In this place, you could forget the lessons in etiquette, the banquets, the endless reminders of who you were supposed to be.
Yet every time you saw him leaning there, waiting as if he had known you would come, you felt the truth. It was not only peace that drew you back.
It was not the waves that made you laugh so hard your ribs ached. It was not the salt air that made your chest feel lighter when Roger looked at you as though you were not a governor’s daughter at all. He looked at you like you were simply yourself.
He asked questions your fiancé never bothered to ask: What you wanted. What you dreamed of. What would you do if you were not bound to an island and a title.
“You ever think about just… leaving?” he asked one night, stretched out in the sand, his hat tipped back so he could watch the stars.
You hesitated, toes buried in the cool grit. “Leaving would be… impossible.”
“Impossible’s my specialty.” His voice in your head was softer than usual, stripped of his usual laughter, but certain. “I’d take you anywhere.”
“That’s kidnapping.”
“That’s rescuing.”
You shook your head, but you did not tell him to stop. You did not tell him that you had dreamed of it already. More than once. Dreams of stepping onto his ship, feeling the deck roll beneath your feet, and never once looking back.
The bond was different these days. Stronger. You did not just hear him anymore, you felt him. The brush of his amusement when you teased him. The steady weight of his attention when you spoke. And sometimes, when he went quiet for too long, you caught yourself reaching for him without thinking.
Sometimes, he answered before you even called.
One night, as you stood to leave, he caught your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to keep you still.
“You know I’m not going to let you marry him,” he said.
You laughed like it was a joke, but the bond hummed with certainty, pulsing against your ribs. I mean it, his voice pressed, low and unshakable. I don’t care if I have to talk your father into it or steal you out of the ballroom mid-waltz.
You pulled your hand free, breath sharp in your chest. “You’re insane.”
He only grinned.
You walked back to the palace with your pulse racing, telling yourself you were not looking forward to the next meeting.
You were lying.
-X-Emotional Turning Point-X-
Lieutenant Halden arrived the following evening, as precise and punctual as the surf.
The drawing room had been prepared for him in quiet anticipation. Candles burned low in their holders, filling the air with a faint scent of beeswax. The silver teapot gleamed. You poured with steady hands, passing him his cup the way you had been taught, careful not to spill a single drop.
He sat across from you, posture ramrod straight, boots polished to a mirror shine, uniform pressed so crisply it seemed untouched by salt air. He thanked you politely, voice clipped, before launching into his updates. Shipyard improvements. New drills for the garrison. The expected arrival of a superior officer the following month. His words were steady, respectable, and delivered with the certainty of a man who believed in structure above all else.
You nodded when expected. You smiled when courtesy required it. You kept your hands folded in your lap, fingers laced neatly together, and reminded yourself that this was what you were meant for. A safe match. A proper husband. A life without scandal or uncertainty.
But the more he spoke, the more the silence underneath his words pressed in on you. Every sentence felt like stone stacked upon stone, building a wall around your ribs. And while you sat there, listening to a man who would never ask what you wanted, your thoughts slipped away.
You drifted to the cove. To the crash of waves against black stone. To the smell of brine and wet sand. To the echo of a laugh that carried sunlight and danger and made your chest ache in ways you could not name.
Halden’s voice went on, steady and monotonous, until it seemed to blur into the background hum of duty itself. This is correct, you told yourself. This is the life you are bound to. This is safety.
And yet, with every word that passed his lips, you felt less like a bride-to-be and more like a prisoner waiting for the lock to turn.
Then the bond stirred, warm and reckless, threading through your thoughts like sunlight through a crack in the shutters. Roger’s presence brushed against you, uninvited and impossible to ignore.
“You’re bored out of your mind, aren’t you?”
The words jolted you so sharply you nearly choked on your tea. You set the cup back into its saucer too quickly, the porcelain ringing with a faint clatter.
Halden did not notice. He was too busy adjusting the cuffs of his immaculate uniform, his gaze fixed on the measured cadence of his own report. He spoke about patrol routes, about garrison numbers, about the importance of maintaining discipline. His voice droned like the hum of bees; steady, monotonous, inescapable.
Meanwhile, the bond thrummed at your ribs, Roger’s amusement spilling into you like a swell you could not hold back. He was laughing at you; you could feel it. The infuriating curl of it.
You pressed your fingers hard against the rim of your teacup, as though the fragile porcelain might tether you to the life already laid out before you. You tried to listen. You tried to be present. To be the dutiful daughter, the proper fiancée, the bride promised to a safe and respectable man.
But your mind was already elsewhere. It was back in the cove, hearing the crash of wild waves against black stone. It was in the hush of jungle paths where no guards followed. It was in the echo of a laugh that made you feel alive instead of trapped.
Two worlds tugged at you with equal force. One promised order and stability, a future sealed by duty. The other offered nothing but danger, uncertainty, and freedom.
And in that moment, you hated yourself for knowing which one your heart leaned toward.
When Halden finally took his leave, the drawing room felt warmer for his absence. The candles had burned low, the tea had gone bitter, and your temples ached from the effort of polite smiles. You bid him goodnight with the grace expected of you, then excused yourself upstairs, every step heavy with the promise of the future you were meant to embrace.
But the moment your chamber door closed, your hands moved of their own accord. You stripped out of silks and lace, trading them for a plain gown that would not snag on underbrush. The pearls at your throat were set aside for a simple shawl. You pinned your hair back quickly, not caring if it was neat.
The mansion was still awake, but quieter now. The corridors stretched long and dim, lined with portraits of governors past whose painted eyes seemed to follow you. You slipped through them silently, heart pounding, until you reached the garden gates.
Outside, the air smelled of salt and night blossoms. The path to the cove was muscle memory by now, your skirts whispering through tall grass, your breath catching at every rustle in the dark. You told yourself no one would notice, and that no one cared enough to follow. That this secret was still yours.
So you did not see the figure who lingered at a distance. You did not notice the faint gleam of lamplight on a Marine’s polished buckle, or the way his gaze tracked your every step as you disappeared into the trees.
You walked on, blind to the truth. You were not as alone as you thought.
The moon was sharp and silver that night, cutting across the waves and spilling over the rocks where you and Roger always met.
The cove was quieter than usual. The tide rested low, the water lapping lazily at the stones instead of throwing itself against them. The air smelled of salt and night-blooming flowers. Above it all, the moon hung bright and heavy, its reflection shivering across the black water.
He was there, as he always was. Leaning back against a boulder, head tipped toward the sky, the straw hat dangling from his fingers. His hair was damp, curling at the ends, drops of water sliding down to darken the fabric of his shirt. The scent of the sea clung to him, strong and clean, as though he had walked straight out of the ocean and into the night.
“You’re late,” he said softly, his eyes finding you long before your steps carried you close enough to reach him.
“You’re just impatient,” you answered, trying to sound unaffected, but the bond betrayed you, humming with the way your pulse jumped.
He pushed off the boulder, each step deliberate, closing the distance between you with the certainty of someone who had already decided the outcome. “I’ll always be impatient to see you,” his voice slid through your head, warm, accusing, impossible to shut out.
“I’m being careful,” you whispered, though the words sounded weak even to your ears.
“Careful’s not living.”
He stopped just shy of touching you, close enough that the night breeze carried the salt of the sea and lifted the damp ends of his hair so they brushed against your cheek. His eyes locked on yours, dark and steady, and the bond coiled tight, heat sparking through it like a fuse catching flame.
“If I kiss you right now,” his thought pressed, thick with want, thrumming against your bones, “will you run?”
You did not answer. You did not need to. The silence was its own surrender.
His hand rose, fingertips grazing along your jaw as if mapping the shape of you, before trailing down to rest with quiet certainty. His thumb brushed the hollow just beneath your lower lip, tilting your chin with a touch that was both gentle and unyielding.
And then he kissed you. Salt and warmth, bold and claiming, the world narrowing until it was only him, only the bond, only the wild rush of a choice you could no longer deny.
It was not gentle. It was fierce, reckless, hungry. His mouth slanted over yours with the urgency of someone who had imagined this for years and refused to waste another second. You felt the sand shift beneath your feet, your hands knotting into the fabric of his shirt before you even realized you had reached for him.
The bond flared, hot and consuming, flooding you with every ounce of his intent. The way he had wanted this since the first moment his eyes found you on that balcony. The way he already considered you his.
When at last you broke apart, your breath came fast, your lips tingling, the taste of salt and heat lingering. His forehead pressed against yours, steady, grounding, like he had no intention of letting you go.
“See?” His thought slid through your mind, low and triumphant, yet softened by something you could not name. “You don’t belong in that palace.”
And for one trembling heartbeat, you believed him.
“That’s—” You swallowed, your voice unsteady. “That’s not allowed.”
His mouth curved slowly, wicked at the edges. “Then let’s make it a crime worth committing.”
He lifted the straw hat, settling it onto your head. His fingers lingered just long enough to brush your hair back from your face. “Told you you’d wear it someday.”
And now, with your pulse still racing and the taste of him still burning against your lips, you knew you would wear it again.
The kiss should have ended when you broke for air.
It did not.
His mouth found yours once more, hungrier this time, as if the first had only been a beginning. The bond surged, hot and unrelenting, dragging you under. You clutched at him, the coarse fabric of his shirt tight beneath your fingers, while his hands framed your face with a tenderness at war with the raw heat of his kiss.
The waves whispered against the rocks, the moon silvered the water, and still neither of you pulled away.
For the first time in your life, you were not careful.
Roger’s hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you in before the bond could even cool. His mouth was warm and certain, tasting of salt and something sweet you could not name. Every time you tried to draw breath, he caught you again, deepening it until your knees weakened and the rocks beneath your feet felt treacherous.
The water whispered against the stones, the night air sharp with salt. Every sound seemed magnified, too sharp, as if the whole island were listening. You were far enough from the palace that no one should find you, yet close enough that the possibility made your pulse race faster.
Through the bond, you felt him completely. Not just the raw hunger of his want, but the edge of his restraint, wound tight like a line ready to snap. His palm settled at your waist, steadying you, before sliding over the curve of your hip. The roughness of his calluses snagged against the thin fabric of your dress, sending a shiver straight through you.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your mouth, his breath mingling with yours.
You did not.
The bond surged, heat pouring through it until the world tipped over, spilling into something dangerous and undeniable.
And in the shadows beyond the rocks, unseen by either of you, someone watched.
You felt the jagged stone at your back, his hands braced on either side of you as he kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. His touch slid lower, coaxing your thigh around his hip, pulling you flush against him until nothing remained between you but breath and pounding heartbeats.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, damp and soft at the ends, and he groaned into the bond, the sound dragging through you like fire. Every movement was unhurried but deliberate, like he had been holding back for years and refused to waste another second.
The undertow crept higher, water brushing cool over your ankles before it retreated again. The only steady thing was him; solid, warm, the brim of his straw hat grazing your temple as he finally drew back just enough to look at you.
“You’re sure?” he asked. His voice was low, careful, stripped of teasing. For once, it was not taunting, not reckless. It was only him, waiting, asking.
And behind the rocks, the watcher shifted closer, the gleam of polished metal catching moonlight.
And you were. God help you, you were.
The rest came in a blur of heat and touch and the sound of his voice in your head, low and rough, saying your name like it was the only word he ever meant to speak. The bond burned with every breath, every press of his hands, every unspoken promise stitched into the shape of his mouth against yours.
When it was over, you stayed against him, cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat thundered beneath your ear, steady in a way that made you ache. The straw hat had fallen to the sand beside you, its brim catching stray glints of silver light. The tide whispered in and out over the rocks, soft and secretive, as if the sea itself had sworn to keep what it had seen.
Roger bent his head, lips brushing the crown of your hair. His breath was still uneven, but his voice was certain. “Told you, careful wasn’t living.”
You wore his hat again that night, for several more hours.
You didn’t argue. Not this time.
And from the shadows, unseen, the watcher turned away.
You could still feel him the whole walk back. Not only in the bond, though that thrummed low and steady like the echo of a second heartbeat, but in the way your skin carried his heat, in the way your lips tingled whenever you remembered the cove.
You slipped through the gates just as the lamps were being lit for the evening, their glow spreading across the courtyard stones. Your hair had come loose from its pins, strands brushing your cheeks, and the grit of sand clung stubbornly to your sandals. It was almost believable that you had been walking the gardens. Almost.
Lieutenant Halden was waiting.
He stood in the center of the courtyard, posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back. The moment he saw you, his eyes sharpened. “You’ve been out late.”
“I needed fresh air,” you said, carefully even.
His gaze flicked over you, catching on the disarray of your hair and the color in your cheeks. “Alone?”
You forced a polite laugh, the kind you had practiced since childhood. “Who else would I be with?”
The bond betrayed you. Roger’s voice slid in, smug and warm, curling through your thoughts like a secret you could not bury.
“Me.”
You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to keep your expression neutral. Halden’s eyes lingered on you a moment too long before he finally stepped aside. He said nothing more, but the doubt in his eyes was impossible to miss.
As you walked past him, the bond hummed again, full of laughter you could not allow to reach your lips.
“He suspects. I like that.”
You did not answer. Your stomach knotted with the weight of two worlds colliding, and for the first time, you wondered how long you could keep them both from tearing each other apart.
-X- Love’s Fervent Trials -X-
The next day in the market, Roger was back at his stall like nothing had happened. Shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with spice, he busied himself arranging jars in precise little rows. To anyone watching, he looked every bit the harmless trader.
But you knew better.
He glanced up the instant you stepped into the square. That damn straw hat tilted low, shadowing a grin meant only for you.
Halden was at your side, a coincidence you cursed with every step. His presence was rigid, purposeful, his gaze scanning the crowd like a soldier on parade. He did not notice the way Roger straightened, the spark in his eyes, or the faint hum that thrummed along the bond the moment your eyes met.
“Governor’s daughter!” Roger called, his voice carrying over the noise of the market, bright and careless. “Got that cinnamon you asked about!”
Your heart jumped. You had not asked about cinnamon.
Halden’s brow furrowed. His eyes cut toward you, sharp with suspicion. “You know this man?”
Roger leaned forward onto his elbows, all false innocence, all grin. “Course she does. Best customer I’ve got. Comes by for the good stuff.”
The double edge of it slid through the bond, curling warm and wicked, daring you to react.
Halden’s mouth pressed into a line. He glanced at the jars of spices, at the worn little stall, then back to you, waiting for your answer.
You smoothed your skirts with steady hands, the practiced motion of a girl raised to be untouchable. “He has unusual imports,” you said lightly. “My father thought they might be worth sampling.”
Roger’s amusement crackled in your mind, smug and unrepentant. “Unusual imports, huh? That what we’re calling it?”
You bit back the urge to roll your eyes, every muscle in your face working to stay polite. Halden’s gaze lingered a moment too long before he turned back to the merchant.
Roger only smiled wider, sliding a small jar toward you with deliberate care. “On the house, princess. For your collection.”
The bond thrummed with laughter as you reached for it, and you hated that your fingers trembled just enough for him to notice.
You did not let it show. You accepted the spice with a polite smile, thanked him as though he were nothing more than a stranger in the market, but the smallest twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you. He saw it. He always saw it. And that was enough for him to know he had won.
And so it went.
A day later, he “happened” to be making a delivery to the palace kitchens on the very afternoon Halden was visiting. Roger carried crates of fruit through the courtyard as though he had been born to the place, calling out greetings and grinning at you like an old friend. Halden’s jaw tightened until it could have cracked stone.
Another day, in the press of the market, he “accidentally” dropped a bolt of silk into your hands. The fabric spilled bright and weightless across your fingers, and Roger insisted you keep it because “it matches your eyes.” Halden had been only two steps behind you, bristling with restrained fury. Roger’s look was all teeth.
The worst was when he charmed your father into offering him a short-term shipping contract. A clever stroke, one that gave him reason to come and go from the estate with the approval of the governor himself. The servants treated him like any other merchant. The councilmen muttered about his usefulness. And Roger strolled through the governor’s halls with his hat tipped low, his eyes always finding yours, daring you to look away.
Every time, Halden’s suspicion grew sharper, honed like a blade that was waiting to be drawn. Every time, Roger only smiled wider, daring him to try.
And every night, you returned to the cove. The water rose and fell, the sand tangled in your hair, and the bond thrummed through your body until you could no longer tell where you ended and he began. You felt the inevitability of it in every kiss, in every laugh stolen against the sound of the waves. The bond knew what you had not yet spoken aloud. That this game could not last, that fire was coming.
And so, at last, you made your decision.
You were going with Roger.
The thought terrified you. The thought thrilled you. And in the quiet of your chamber, with the moonlight spilling across the floor, you finally admitted it: there was no turning back.
-X-The Climax-X-
The night was heavy with heat, the kind that clung to your skin and made the air feel thick.
You told yourself you would not go. Tonight you would stay in the palace, keep to your rooms, and bury yourself in a book until sleep claimed you. You needed time to plan. You needed to be careful. You had been careless lately, slipping away too often. The risk was growing sharper.
But then his voice slid into your thoughts, warm and coaxing, curling through you like the pull of the ocean.
“Low tide. Perfect for the cove. Come see me.”
Your fingers tightened on the book in your lap. You stared at the page without seeing a word, the bond humming with his presence like a heartbeat you could not silence.
You should not go. Every part of you knew it. And yet your pulse quickened anyway, your body already leaning toward the thought of damp sand beneath your feet, salt in the air, and his grin waiting in the shadows.
He pressed again, softer this time, like a hand at the small of your back. “Please.”
The book slipped shut in your hands.
So you slipped past the gates. Again.
The night was close and heavy, the cicadas buzzing in the garden trees, the air thick with the scent of salt and hibiscus. The path down to the rocks was muscle memory now. You moved quickly, sandals whispering over sand, heart thrumming louder with every step.
The cove opened before you, quiet and silvered by moonlight. The tide lay low, drawing the water back to reveal dark stone and damp stretches of beach. And there he was, as he always was—waiting.
Roger leaned against the cliff as though it belonged to him, his hat pushed back just enough for the moon to strike his face. The sharp line of his smile caught the light, equal parts trouble and invitation.
“You’re late,” he murmured, catching your hand the instant you stepped close enough. His thumb brushed over your knuckles like he had every right to touch you, like he had been waiting all night just for this.
“You’re impatient,” you said, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.
“Only with you,” his thought slid into yours, warm and certain. The bond thrummed with it, low and steady, making your pulse stumble.
The sea sighed against the rocks, quiet and slow, the moon painting a silver path across the dark water. You stood with your hand in his.
He kissed you like he had been waiting all day, and maybe he had. The bond flared hot, filling you with a rush of heat that left your skin tingling, the air thick with salt and the steady crash of waves against stone. His fingers slid along your waist, anchoring you to him, pulling you close until your laugh was caught and muffled against his mouth.
When he finally drew back, he was glowing. Not with moonlight, but with something fiercer, as if all that wild energy inside him could not be contained. For a moment, you swore he was as bright as the sun.
“Come with me. Tonight.” His voice was low, certain, edged with urgency. “Come with me and sail to the end of the Grand Line.”
The bond surged with the promise, thick and undeniable, and you felt the weight of the choice press against your chest. Palace or sea. Duty or freedom. Safety or him.
And you already knew which way your heart was leaning.
You smiled.
And then a voice cut through the night.
“Step away from her.”
You froze, the sound slicing through the hush of the waves. Roger’s hand tightened at your waist, steady and unflinching, but his eyes flicked past your shoulder toward the source.
Halden stood on the rocks at the edge of the cove, sword gleaming in the moonlight. His face was stern, grim, and unmistakably betrayed.
Your heart lurched. He must have followed. He must have known.
You froze, breath caught in your throat. Roger’s grip tightened instantly, pulling you behind him with a protectiveness that left no room for argument. His body became a shield, solid and unyielding, while you turned toward the path. His mouth only sharpened, fierce and unbothered, as though he had been waiting for this very moment. The bond thrummed with his amusement, wild and steady, a pulse of danger that sent your own heartbeat racing to match it.
Halden stood at the edge of the rocks, pistol drawn, the barrel glinting cold under the silver wash of moonlight. His eyes blazed with fury. His coat hung unbuttoned, his hair windblown, his chest rising hard and fast—he had been running. He had chased you here.
“I knew it,” Halden said, his voice flat as steel. “You’ve been meeting him. A pirate.”
Roger’s smirk curved thin and dangerous, his eyes never leaving Halden’s. “Yeah, she has. So what?”
The words rang bold in the night, reckless and unapologetic.
You clung to Roger’s sleeve, fingers twisting in the fabric as if you could anchor yourself to him, as if the rough weave could hold you steady while the world tilted beneath your feet.
“She’s my fiancée,” Halden spat, every word jagged with fury. His pistol never wavered, arm locked straight, eyes blazing. “And you’re not leaving this cove alive.”
The surf hissed against the rocks, pulling back, surging forward again, like the sea itself was holding its breath. Above, a drifting cloud swallowed the moonlight, dimming the world in a wash of gray. The silence that followed was heavy, coiled, the moment before a storm breaks. You could feel it in your bones: the collision coming, the choice you could no longer outrun. Duty or freedom. Safety or fire. The man you were promised to, and the one fate had bound to your very soul.
The bond flared hot, alive with Roger’s confidence, steady as the earth beneath your feet. His voice slid through your mind, calm even with death aimed at his chest. “Stay behind me. I’ve got this.”
“Halden—” Your voice broke as you stepped forward, hand half-reaching toward him. The movement snapped his gaze to you, and for the first time, you saw it. The flicker of betrayal. The crack in the mask of control he always wore. His mouth tightened, his jaw clenched, his composure fractured by the truth that had been staring him in the face all along.
Then his finger tightened on the trigger.
The report shattered the night, a burst of smoke cutting through the dark, the deafening crack echoing off the cliffs. You flinched, the sound splitting the air apart, but Roger was already moving.
The shot rang out, echoing again, and for a heartbeat, you could not understand why the world tilted sideways.
You did not think. You only moved.
He yanked you down with him, the bullet hissing past to strike stone, sparking shards into the air. Sand and seawater sprayed as you hit the ground, Roger’s arm locked tight around you. He surged up in the same breath, reckless and fast, kicking the pistol from Halden’s grip before the man could reload.
The weapon skittered across the rocks, vanishing into the dark. Halden snarled, steel flashing into his hand, the blade catching the moonlight like fire. The tide roared, salt stinging the air, danger closing in.
And then Roger’s eyes went wide.
You felt his arms catch you before your knees could buckle, his hand gripping tight at your side. The world narrowed to the rush of your blood, the heat spreading fast, too fast, beneath your ribs.
“No—” His voice broke, rough and shaking, his palm pressing hard against the warmth blooming there. Hot, wet, terrifying. “No, no, stay with me.”
The bond burned between you, wild and panicked, every ounce of his fear pouring into you until it was all you could feel. Your breath hitched, shallow and ragged, and his grip only tightened, as though sheer strength might hold you together.
Halden’s blade gleamed above him, moonlight running along the steel, but Roger did not look away from you. His whole body was bent over yours, shielding you, the weight of his focus locked on the blood soaking through his hand.
You tried to speak. To tell him it did not hurt. To shape the words that might steady him. But the bond betrayed you.
Every flicker of pain pulsed across it, jagged and sharp. Every drop of your fading strength bled into him, heavy and undeniable. He felt it all. The heat spreading, the weakness in your limbs, the way your lungs caught on air that would not fill them.
His breath came fast, broken. “No. Don’t you dare. Don’t you leave me.”
The tide crashed against the rocks, loud enough to swallow the clash of steel as Halden lunged.
The bond burned, every pulse of your pain shoving deeper into him until his control snapped. Roger’s head lifted, eyes dark and wild, his teeth bared in something closer to a snarl than a grin.
Halden lunged, blade arcing down.
Roger surged up to meet him. His hand shot out, catching Halden’s wrist before the steel could fall. The force of the stop rattled through both men, the blade shuddering inches above you. With a twist, brutal and efficient, Roger wrenched the sword free. It clattered against the rocks, the sound swallowed by the roar of the tide.
In the same breath, his boot swept Halden’s legs from under him. The lieutenant hit the ground hard, the air tearing from his lungs in a sharp grunt. Roger loomed over him, sword in hand, the blade catching moonlight as if it belonged there.
It had taken less than a heartbeat.
“Stay down,” Roger growled, his voice rough, the bond still trembling with your pain. “Or I swear you won’t get back up.”
Halden froze, fury burning in his eyes, but checked by the certainty of the man above him.
And Roger was already turning back to you, dropping the sword into the sand like it meant nothing. His hands pressed against your side, urgent, shaking.
“No,” he whispered, the word breaking. “Not you. Not now.”
The bond surged, fierce and steady, his voice hammering into your mind with an iron will. “Stay with me. I’ll get you out.”
The tide rushed over your ankles, cold and biting, knees slipped into the sand beside you.
The world blurred between heartbeats.
You were in Roger’s arms, your body lifted as though you weighed nothing, the thunder of your pulse crashing against your ears. The heavy weight of his coat pressed over your wound, his hold iron, unyielding, as if he could keep you alive through will alone. His voice filled your head, urgent, commanding, unshakable.
“Stay awake. Don’t you dare close your eyes.”
Halden’s voice sliced across the night, sharp with fury. He was shouting orders, his tone edged with betrayal, but the words slipped past you like water, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.
Your strength was ebbing too fast. You could feel it slipping away with every beat. But even through the haze, you felt the shift in the air; the sudden weight of movement all around the cove, boots pounding over stone, the metallic snap of rifles being raised.
And then the night erupted.
Gunfire cracked sharp and vicious, sparks flying as bullets tore into the rocks. Pebbles sprayed over the sand. The sea surged against the cliff in answer, waves breaking harder, louder, as if the whole island had turned against you.
Roger twisted, his body curling around you, shielding you from the storm. You felt the snap of his muscles as he spun, his shoulder slamming against the stone wall of the cove, his grip unrelenting.
He swore, low and vicious, his arms locking tighter around you. “Hold on. I’ll kill them all before I let them touch you.”
And the bond thrummed with something wild and absolute, an oath he would break the whole world to keep.
He moved fast. Too fast. One moment, the cove was between you and the open sea, the next he’d slung you higher against his chest, your arms around his neck, your head tucked under his chin as he vaulted the boulders toward the waterline.
“Stop!” Halden’s voice was closer now, boots hammering the sand.
Roger didn’t. He didn’t even look back. The bond was flooded with his focus; every calculation, every choice mapped in an instant. He wasn’t thinking about the danger, only about getting you away.
The first shot had been meant for him. That much you knew. And that was the only reason Halden was still breathing.
You caught a glimpse of the sloop’s mast beyond the rocks, the flicker of lantern light on wet wood. A rope ladder dangled, Rayleigh already moving at Roger’s shout.
Rayleigh didn’t hesitate. The ladder swung out over the waves, his hand braced on the rigging as he shouted orders to the crew above. The sloop lurched with readiness, sails already half-loosed to catch the wind.
Roger hit the surf hard, water exploding up his legs, salt spray stinging your lips. His grip never faltered. You could feel every flex of muscle, every beat of his heart, hammering against your side like it was willing yours to match.
Gunfire split the air again, louder now, ricocheting against the cliffside. Shouts followed, Halden’s voice rising above them all, furious and sharp. You felt his intent through the bond. He wanted you dragged back, no matter the cost.
Roger’s answer surged through you like fire. “Over my dead body.”
He did not slow. The sea rose around him, waist-deep, chest-deep, and then he was leaping, one hand seizing the slick rope ladder. He hauled you higher against him, his body braced between you and the bullets hissing into the water below.
“Pull us up!” Roger bellowed, and the ladder jerked as hands above seized it, hauling you skyward.
Saltwater poured from your clothes, your hair plastered to your face, but you could not look away from him. Even under fire, his gaze held you, fierce and unshakable, the bond stretched taut between you like a line of fire that would not break.
Below, the surf roared with violence. Muzzle flashes ripped through the dark, cutting arcs of light across the tide where Halden’s men staggered forward, weapons raised. Their boots splashed in furious rhythm, the water foaming around them as they fought to reach the ship.
You heard Halden call your name. The sound of it was jagged, torn from his throat, raw with possession. For a moment, it clawed through the haze, sharp enough to drag you back to the shore, back to the prison of duty.
Almost.
But Roger was louder. His voice ignited through the bond, searing away doubt. “Do not listen. Look at me. Only me.” The command rang like steel against steel, fierce and absolute.
“You can’t hide from the Marines!” Halden’s shout carried above the waves, his words ragged with fury. “She’s mine!”
Roger turned on the deck, water still streaming from his shoulders, and met Halden’s eyes across the dark. The look he gave him was not human kindness but judgment itself.
“She was never yours.”
The words struck harder than any blade. Halden’s roar shattered into the water as the sails cracked overhead, snapping full with the sudden violence of the wind. The ship lurched, pulling into the open sea. The deck tilted beneath you, lantern light swinging wildly, shadows rushing long across the boards.
You tried to speak, to tell Roger you were still there, still alive. Your lips moved, but no sound came. The bond betrayed you instead, carrying everything: the terror, the faint relief, the sharp sting of your wound.
His jaw locked as the bond poured through him. His eyes dropped to you, dark with fury and fear, his voice steady in your mind. I’ve got you. No one’s taking you back.
The crew roared orders above, Rayleigh’s voice cutting across the chaos, ropes slapping hard against wood. Muskets cracked again from the shore, bullets hissing past like wasps. One splintered the railing inches from Roger’s back, showering salt-stung air with shards. He didn’t flinch. His hold on you was iron, his coat pressed tighter to your wound, his body a wall against the world.
The island was falling away into shadow, its coastline swallowed by distance, Halden’s shouts already shredded by the wind. The sea pulled you further from him with every surge of the sails, but Roger’s bond burned steadily in your chest, fierce and unyielding.
You believed him.
-X-Five Minutes-X-
The ship pitched again as it tore through the waves, the lantern above swinging wide, throwing frantic shadows across the deck. The boards beneath you were slick with saltwater and blood, the smell of iron sharp in your nose.
Roger knelt over you, his coat spread like a shield, one hand clamped hard against your wound, the other braced against the deck as if he could steady the storm itself. Water streamed from his hair, dripping down onto your face, warm where it mixed with the sting of salt.
“Stay with me”. His voice pressed through the bond, fierce and low, edged with something dangerously close to fear. “You hear me?”
You tried to answer, lips parting with effort, but only a shallow breath escaped. The edges of your vision swam in gray, the world narrowing to the weight of his hand and the sound of his heart pounding near your ear.
His eyes blazed down at you, refusing to let go, refusing to let you slip.
“I’m not losing you,” he said aloud, his voice a cut of iron through the chaos. “Not like this. Not when we’ve just begun.”
The words burned through the fog, pulling you back for a heartbeat. You felt his grip tighten, as if sheer will alone could anchor you to the deck, to him, to the life he was demanding you keep.
Above, Rayleigh’s voice cracked across the storm of noise, the crew hauling at ropes with frantic speed, but Roger never moved his eyes from you. The ship could have split in two, the sky could have fallen, and still he would have been there, anchored only to you.
Through the bond came the deluge—his fear, sharp and unhidden, pouring through you until your chest ached with it. It was not the worry of a captain for a crewmate. It was the terror of a man who had finally grasped the one thing he had not known he was searching for, only to feel it slipping away with every ragged breath you drew.
“Bandages!” Roger roared over his shoulder. His voice was raw with command, and Rayleigh didn’t hesitate, boots hammering the deck as he vanished into the chaos, cursing under his breath.
Roger snarled something after him, words that blurred in your ears, and you summoned what little strength you had left. Your hand lifted, trembling, until it found his.
At once, he turned back, as if pulled by a tether. His eyes locked on yours, dark and burning, rimmed with saltwater and the kind of grief he had never allowed anyone to see.
The wind tore at the sails and the deck heaved underfoot, but none of it seemed to exist for him. His world had narrowed to the slick of blood beneath his hand and the faint tremor of your fingers lifting to touch him.
He froze at the contact. Then his grip gentled, like he feared he might break you if he pressed too hard. His eyes met yours, and you saw them, unguarded at last; dark, furious, and wet with something he never let the world see.
Stay awake, he begged through the bond, voice rough and ragged. Please. Just a little longer.
Your chest ached with the weight of it, not only from pain but from the force of his will pressing against yours. He was dragging you back from the edge with nothing but the strength of his heart, and you could feel every beat of it thrumming through the tether that bound you.
Rayleigh returned at a sprint, shoving a bundle of linen into Roger’s free hand. “We need to go back and get a surgeon—”
“No.” Roger’s snarl cut the air like thunder. “I promised… We sail for the next one.” His voice broke.
The crew faltered, stunned by the ferocity in his voice. Even Rayleigh hesitated, lips tightening as if he might argue, but the look on Roger’s face killed the thought before it could leave his tongue.
Roger tore the bandages open with his teeth, the linen fraying between clenched jaws as his hands worked with desperate precision. Quick, unrelenting, but careful as though you might shatter beneath his touch. He pressed the cloth down hard against your wound, muttering curses too quiet for the crew to hear but burning like fire through the bond.
“I will not lose you. Do you hear me? Not to Halden. Not to the sea. Not to anything.”
The lantern above swung wildly with the storm, spilling light in broken flashes across his face. It caught the wet streaks there, salt and seawater mingling, carved into him like battle scars. He bent low, so close that his breath warmed your cheek, steady even as his voice cracked.
“Look at me,” he ordered, softer now, though his hands trembled where they held you. “Don’t close your eyes. Stay with me. Please.”
“It’s bad,” you whispered, the words trembling from you as much as the air.
“I don’t care.” His reply struck hard, fierce enough to rattle through your bones. “You’re not dying. Not here. Not tonight.”
You wanted to tell him he could not promise that. That the spreading heat beneath your dress was too much, too fast, like the tide rushing out of you. But then his hand found your cheek, rough thumb dragging across your skin as though he could anchor you with that single touch, as though sheer will might call you back from the edge.
“Look at me,” he said again, voice low and breaking. “Keep looking. You stop, I stop.”
The ship pitched hard, and the world tilted, throwing your body into a moment of weightlessness. For one terrifying heartbeat, you felt as though the sea had claimed you already, pulling you down into its cold black grasp.
Roger’s grip clamped tighter, both hands steadying you against the deck, against the storm, against the end itself. The bond surged hot and consuming, a fire raging against the void. His vow cut through the chaos, sharper than steel, burning hotter than gunpowder.
“I will burn every Marine port to the ground before I let them take you from me.”
The sea stretched black as ink in every direction, the sky pressed low and swollen with clouds. The ship’s hull groaned, shuddering under the assault of waves that slammed against it like cannon fire. Spray lashed the deck, ropes thrummed, lanterns swung wild. The crew moved with desperate precision, hands blistered on soaked lines, but Roger’s eyes never left yours. Not once.
He stayed beside you, knees braced against the bucking planks, hands fixed where they held bandage to wound, anchor to soul. Through the bond, you felt his hands shake even as they appeared steady, the tremor locked in his chest instead of his fingers. Around him, the men worked, stealing glances they thought you couldn’t see—pity, fear, helplessness—but no one dared break their captain’s vigil.
Your breaths had grown shallow, little more than whispers between the storm’s roar. The warmth at your side had cooled, sticky fabric clinging where the blood had slowed but not stopped. You felt yourself drifting, slipping further from the sharp edges of the world.
“We’re close,” Roger said, voice rough as gravel, words dragged out like an oath that cut him even as he spoke. “There’s a village on the next island. I’ll get you to a doctor.”
You didn’t have the strength to answer aloud. Your lips barely moved, but the bond carried the thought, faint and tired.
“You can’t lie to me. Silly man.”
The words cut deeper than steel. Roger flinched as if struck, his breath stalling, his chest tight with something jagged he could neither spit out nor swallow. His thumb traced your cheek in a steady rhythm, a gesture as stubborn as it was tender, and the bond throbbed with everything he could not force into speech.
“Don’t,” he said sharply, as if cutting you off could change it. “You’re going to be fine. You hear me? Fine. And we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together. I know so.”
The bond flickered back, faint and uneven.
“You don’t even know my favorite color.”
It broke him. A laugh slipped out, fractured and thin, the sound of a man unraveling.“Green. It’s green.”
“It’s red,” you whispered through the bond, though even the thought itself felt like ash.
His jaw clenched, shadows falling across his eyes beneath the brim of his straw hat. In one motion, he gathered you into his arms, cradling you as if force alone could anchor you to this world. His voice was a vow ground out between his teeth. “Then I’ll wear it. Every damn day.”
The surf roared louder, waves crashing against the hull in a relentless rhythm. Someone shouted above the storm that land was near, but Roger did not lift his gaze from you. Not for the sea. Not for salvation. Not for anything.
Your hand found his shirt, fingers curling weakly in the soaked fabric. The movement was so slight it might have been mistaken for nothing at all, but Roger felt it like a lifeline. His breath hitched, and he pressed you closer, chin bent to brush against your temple.
“Sail the world, and then after you live a long life, come tell me your stories.” You gazed at him as tears rolled down his face.
“Stay with me,” he whispered, voice rough and low, pulled straight from the bottom of his chest. The words were meant only for you, but the bond carried the storm beneath them. Terror. Fury. Love sharp enough to wound.
The deck heaved as another wave slammed the hull. Lantern light wheeled across the chaos, ropes groaned, and the sails strained under the weight of the sea. Above, Rayleigh’s voice rang out, steady as always, shouting orders no one questioned. Yet even he looked down through the spray, his eyes narrowing when he saw the way you sagged against Roger’s chest.
Your lips parted. The thought that reached across the bond was so faint it hollowed him where he stood.
“You always carry too much.”
Roger swallowed hard, the salt on his tongue tasting like blood. His grip on you tightened until his arms ached. “Then let me carry you too,” he said.
Your gaze, hazy and half-lidded, lifted weakly to his. He leaned closer, desperate to keep you tethered to him, desperate to hold you here a little longer.
“Smile, laugh. Live big, love again, have a family. Promise me you’ll follow your dreams.”
The words broke something inside him. His chest convulsed with a shuddering breath, and when he pressed his face against you, his tears burned hot into the fabric of your soaked shirt. His jaw locked so tightly it felt like bone would splinter. It took every thread of strength in him, every ounce of the captain who had never bowed to sea or sword, just to force the slightest nod.
The storm roared, waves pounding the hull, lanterns swinging in mad arcs above. Roger held you closer, crushing you to him, as if the sea itself would have to pry you free. His heart raged inside his ribs, a wild thing that refused to break even as the bond flickered weaker and weaker in his chest.
You smiled faintly, lips curving with the last of your strength. Your eyes slid closed, and in that moment, the most beautiful warmth washed over you both, gentle and whole, like sunlight after a storm.
The bond pulsed once, soft and certain, a final note of peace. Then it went still.
Roger froze. The world seemed to tilt with him, sound bleeding out of the air until there was only the ragged thunder of his own heartbeat.
Your head listed with the sway of the ship, hair plastered to your cheek. Your body turned slack in his arms, weight suddenly too heavy, too real.
Then your fingers slipped from his shirt and fell away.
“Hey,” Roger said quickly, too quickly, as though the word itself could stitch the moment back together. “Hey, stay with me. Open your eyes.”
Nothing.
His voice broke when he said your name. He tried again, rougher, as if sheer force could rattle you awake, but the bond gave him only silence. The thread between you had gone still, and it was a silence louder than the storm itself.
The deck swayed and pitched beneath his knees, but he held on. He pressed your head against his chest, rocking with you as though motion alone could coax breath back into your lungs. His thumb smeared the salt on your cheek, not caring if it was seawater or his own tears.
The storm raged on. The sea kept moving. And Roger—Roger, who had never bowed to blade or current—could not move you.
When the keel scraped sand, the crew glanced at their captain with the hushed terror of men watching something greater than themselves unravel. He had not moved from where he sat with you clutched against him, head down.
Rayleigh stood a short distance away, jaw locked tight, rain coursing down his scarred cheek. He said nothing, because there was nothing left to say. The first mate who could steady any storm could not steady this one.
The men worked in silence, their usual shouts and laughter swallowed. Even the sea seemed to hush as they lowered the anchor. The air was thick with grief they dared not voice.
By the time the ship touched sand, Roger hadn’t moved from where he sat with you. The storm had blown itself ragged, leaving only the groan of wood and the slap of waves against the hull, but he remained, cradling you as if his arms alone could defy the truth. His hat was pulled low, the brim shadowing his face, though the crew knew he hid nothing but grief. No one dared approach.
They disembarked in silence, each man carrying the weight of a captain who did not rise, who did not laugh, who did not speak. The one who had always led them with thunder in his voice sat hollow and motionless, and it terrified them more than any battle ever had.
Later, the stories spread. They said Gol D. Roger came into port that night with no cargo in his hold, no smile upon his mouth, and nothing in his eyes but the look of a man who had lost the only treasure that had ever mattered.
-X- Thirty Years Later -X-
The world called him Pirate King now. A title heavy with gold, blood, and every lie the seas could carry.
It didn’t mean much.
The men who sailed beneath his flag saw only the captain who laughed too loud, who split storms apart with nothing but stubborn will, who turned enemies into drinking partners and coaxed whole towns into opening their ports to a wanted man. They saw a legend who filled every deck with life, who carried the weight of the world like it was nothing more than another bottle of rum in his hand.
What they didn’t see was the shadow that clung to him when the laughter faded. The quiet that came at night, when the bond no longer stirred in the back of his mind. That silence haunted him more than cannon fire or sea kings ever could. It lived with him, pressed into every pause, every moment when the world fell still enough to remember what had been taken.
Only Rayleigh knew. He saw the way Roger sometimes gripped the brim of his hat too tightly, as though it kept him from unraveling. He heard the way Roger’s voice cracked on certain words before smoothing back into its usual thunder. But even he, first mate, friend, brother in all but blood, knew better than to speak of it.
Because some wounds, even the greatest swordsman, the finest doctor, or the closest friend, could not touch. Some wounds belonged only to the sea.
Roger never spoke of his soulmate again, not until the very end.
The cove was empty when he returned. The rocks waited, black and slick with spray, as if they remembered. The ocean pulled in and out like it hadn’t swallowed you whole, like it hadn’t stolen the last piece of him that mattered. To anyone else, it was just another stretch of coastline. To him, it was a grave without a marker, a place where the bond had gone still.
He stood there long after the sun sank, hat clutched in his hands, until the stars came out and the waves hissed against stone. No laughter, no crew, no crown of Pirate King. Only the sound of the sea mocked him with its endless rhythm.
It was the one place in the world where even Gol D. Roger could not pretend to be larger than life. Here, he was just a man waiting for an answer that would never come.
He sat where you had once sat, knees bent against the stone, the brim of his old straw hat pulled low over his eyes. It was faded now, sun-bleached and battered, the band fraying loose. The last thing of his you had ever worn.
“You’d laugh at me,” he said into the wind, voice raw, carrying nowhere but back into his chest. “King of the Pirates, and I still can’t set foot inside a cove without feeling like I’m twenty again, waiting for you to come down the path.” He swallowed hard, and the taste of salt burned; sea spray, or tears, he no longer knew.
“You’d have loved this last journey. The sky islands, the great trees, the wonders no map ever dared draw. The whole world lay itself bare, and all I kept thinking was how your eyes would’ve gone wide at it all.” The waves crashed against the rocks below, steady and indifferent. He let them fill the silence between his words, the silence that had once been alive with the hum of your bond.
“I kept the promise,” Roger whispered. “I lived big, I laughed louder, I carried the world’s weight until it broke my shoulders. But the only thing I could never do…” His hands curled tight on the brim of the hat. “Was let you go. You’ve been in the faces of all the women. I don’t know why Rogue put up with me.”
The sea didn’t answer.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small jar, red-tinted glass, the stopper sealed with wax. Inside lay two halves of a life. Sand from the cove where he had first kissed you, pale as bone, the color of beginnings. Mixed against it were darker grains from every island he had ever touched, every shore he had stepped upon with a thought of you in his heart. A speck from Skypiea’s clouds, a pinch from the shores of Jaya, a dusting of Wano’s cliffside earth. Fragments of stories that had no one left to hear them.
He held the jar in his calloused palm, thumb running over the warm glass as though it were your hand. “Life was a long time when it had to be half-lived,” he said, almost to himself. His voice cracked on the words, soft and frayed. “But I thought… maybe the stories would be enough. Maybe I could bring them back to you someday. Maybe…”
The word trailed off. He couldn’t force it further.
He set the jar gently on the rock between his boots, as though it were sacred, as though the wrong touch might shatter not the glass, but everything inside him. The water pushed close, curling around the stone, reaching up as if it might steal it away. Roger’s hand lingered on the jar until the last moment, before he pulled it back to his chest, fingers trembling.
For a long while, he just sat there, shoulders bowed, the King of the Pirates broken small against the rocks, whispering your name into the salt air.
“I did it, you know,” he said softly. “Found it all. The treasure, the fame, the freedom. I just… didn’t get to share it with you.” The words frayed in his throat, pulled thin like rope worn down by too many storms. “And what good is any of it, if it isn’t yours too?”
The hat stayed in his head until the tide crept close enough to touch the rock. Then, with hands that shook despite their strength, he set it on the jar, weighing it down, leaving it there like a marker. Hat and glass together, one relic for a love that had outlived even the world’s loudest dream.
The waters fingers curled around the stone again, greedy, patient. He knew it would not be long before the sea took them both, swallowing sand and glass and straw in the same quiet hunger that had taken you.
By the time he turned to go, the waves had started lapping at both. He didn’t look back. Couldn’t.
Because the Pirate King could face any fleet, any gallows, any storm.
But not the sight of the sea taking the last piece of you he had left.
So, my baby Stiles passed away today. She unfortunately was not getting better after treatment and everything I tried for her.
I think I'm going to feel pain over this for a very long time. She was my everything. My one and only, because there's no way I'm going through this ever again. I loved her so much and I can't imagine my life without her in it. And I am just feeling so much guilt even though everyone is telling me I did what I could. And I know. I know I spent thousands of dollars I didn't have and I took two midnight trips to the ER with her and I got her the prescription food and gave her all the medication even though she hated it. I just wish she had gotten better. And I wish I could have spent more time with her. And I hate that our last few weeks together were spent with her in pain and angry with me for giving her medicine and taking her to the vet and the both of us distressed all the time. We spent most of last night with her tucked up against my side and I wish more than anything I could go back, knowing what I know now, and just hold her.
If anyone is able to, I am still accepting donations on my gofundme. I not only still have vet bills to pay (she went four times just in eleven days), but now the cremation services. Any help would be greatly appreciated. Even if it's just sharing the gofundme or sending kind words. I really need them right now because I am tearing myself apart over this and I just feel so incredibly heartbroken.
If you've already donated, I can't tell you how much it means to me. Everyone's generosity and kindness has really helped me through all of this.
I've never done this before, but I'm desperate. My cat is really sick right now and vet bills are getting insane (it's only been two days and I'm nearly 2k in debt). I have started a gofundme just in case anyone can help me out with the vet bill costs. It would help a lot and give me the funds to seek further treatment if needed.
If you can give anything at all, please do. I appreciate you all so much. If you can't give anything, can you please signal boost this? Any help/support/nice words are appreciated.
Update: She started drooling, refused to eat or drink, and grew very lethargic. I am now at a pet ER with her. Her only option now is inpatient care. I genuinely don't know how I'm going to afford this. Even just sharing this post would help so much.
Another Update: I took her to the ER last night and they worked with me so I could get her 12 hour inpatient care. They wanted to keep her longer, but just 24 hours would have been like 4k. So, unfortunately, I can't do that. But they gave her meds, and she's got a prescription diet now, so I'm doing my best to treat her at home.
Thank you to everyone who has reblogged and reached out and offered support. It means so much. 🫂💖
Summary: Remy decides to play the best friend card and forces you to help decorate for the Christmas party he's hosting with Rogue. You find out Logan will be there, which means you not only will have to see Logan, but spend time with him as well. There's only two problems with that: Logan hates you and you aren't all that fond of him either.
Word Count: 9.1k
Author's Notes: Part of my In Another Life, Perhaps 'verse. I just mishmashed a bunch of prompts from my Christmas Prompt List. This fic may contain: enemies-to-lovers, Christmas parties, meddling best friends, character growth, fake dating, past heartbreak, a tragic backstory, and a very happy holiday for all.
Read On AO3
"No," you immediately answered, hoping to cut off the rest of Remy's plea.
"You see, I'm afraid you don't have a choice," Remy responded, barely taking time to look up at you from where he was rifling through your closet.
"We had a deal," you reminded him. "Any time Logan is involved, I'm not."
"This time is different," Remy told you as he pulled free one of your cardigans and inspected it before throwing it onto your bed.
"Look, he hates me," you insisted, grabbing the cardigan and throwing it at Remy. "And I'm not super fond of the guy. We had a deal," you stressed when Remy started pulling a pair of boots from the floor of your closet.
Remy sighed before dropping the boots in front of you. "You have to be there for me. If you want to be there for the big day, then you've got to be there for this. Rogue and I won’t have it any other way."
You felt your face scrunch up in defiance. You were torn between being a good best friend to Remy and staying clear of Logan Howlett forever.
It wasn't your fault that Logan was so close to Rogue and that he had already agreed to attend Rogue and Remy's Christmas party. It wasn't your fault that Remy was finally asking Rogue to marry him. And it wasn't your fault that apparently you were so damn important to Remy that you just had to be there to witness the engagement.
"You've already proposed to Rogue like a dozen times already," you said. In the heat of battle, at breakfast, on death-beds, and once in the middle of watching a reality show in the lounge with half the team.
"But this time I have this," Remy pointed out as he pulled a ring box from his pocket. "And this time when she says yes, we'll go through with it."
You got, in a way, why Remy and Rogue hadn't already tied the knot. The world was scary enough, but being part of the X-Men was even scarier. Mutant prejudice, maniacal jackasses hellbent on killing you, and the fear that the children you were teaching would face the same problems you faced every day. The world was so divided on the X-Men. Half your missions involved someone winding up in the infirmary or nearly dying.
But if anything, you reasoned that was why they should have just gone for it already. Life was too short and people were too unpredictable to not just jump at the chance for happiness.
"We had a deal," you weakly repeated, knowing that your resolve was crumbling with each moment.
"And you're my best friend," Remy said, arching a brow at you.
"Fine," you caved, rolling your eyes. "I'll be there."
Remy grinned at you. "I knew you would see things my way. Now, what do you think of the outfit I picked out for you?"
You considered the clothes he had tossed on your bed along with the boots in front of you. "Not bad," you conceded, shrugging your shoulders.
---
"You're going to Rogue and Remy's party?" Ororo checked, disbelief in her tone. "You do know Logan will be there."
"I know," you groaned, trying not to sound too defeated as you watched the kids play a game of basketball. Ororo would only make fun of you for it. "Remy played the best friend card."
"Smart," Ororo observed. "He knows you're never able to resist that for too long."
"Yeah, well, now I've got to pretend to be nice to Logan for a whole night. He fucking hates me," you sighed, leaning against the wall of the X-Mansion.
"He doesn't hate you," Ororo assured you. "Logan is just...difficult," she settled on after a moment of thought.
You snorted, thinking of the man who would rather snarl a command at you than suggest something. You loved Rogue, but sometimes you really hated her choice of best friend.
"He hates me," you refuted with a sigh. "Hey! Watch it!" You called once you noticed one of the kids try to push another to try to keep them from making a basket.
"I don't know," Ororo mused, a dangerous glint in her eye that meant she was about to say something you didn't want to hear. "He did hit Summers once in your honor."
You grimaced at the memory of your breakup with Alex. You had loved him. Adored him. Wanted nothing more than to be with him.
But he didn't feel the same way.
The night after he broke it off with you, you had been sitting all alone outside.
There was a place in the garden you liked to retreat to after missions gone wrong or personal heartache. It was a bench beneath a willow tree that overlooked a small pond. It was secluded enough at night, the kids all expected to be in bed, and most of the team occupied with their own matters that you could expect to be alone.
It was nearing three in the morning and you hadn't moved from your spot. You had berated yourself for hours for getting so hung up on Alex. He had broken up with you like the past two years meant absolutely nothing to him. Why were you sitting out here trying not to cry for the fourth time when he was happy somewhere else with his new girlfriend?
"What're you doing out here?"
You startled, nearly falling off the bench you jumped so hard, and glanced over your shoulder to see Logan standing there.
"Please go away," you groaned. The last person you wanted to see was Logan Howlett. You couldn't remember exactly when everything had turned sour between you and your teammate, but it wasn't long after the start of your relationship with Alex. You didn't need him to heap onto the misery you already felt. “I don’t want to fight tonight with you.”
"It's cold out here," Logan observed, slowly approaching you. "You should get inside before you freeze to death."
"Good," you grumbled, not caring if you sounded like a petulant kid. "Leave me to my fate, then."
You heard Logan scoff before going silent. You assumed he really did leave you to your fate, but you were surprised when after what was likely a few moments of deliberation, he dropped down onto the bench at your side.
"'s all this for Alex?" His voice was oddly hushed, as if he couldn't quite believe himself that he was asking the question and didn't want anyone to overhear him being civil to you.
"So what if it is?" You were used to fighting with Logan. You expected at any moment he would tell you to stop being dramatic. To get your head out of your ass and get back into the house before you died from exposure.
"He's an idiot," Logan huffed, shaking his head. "You should stop wasting your time on him."
"I loved him," you whispered, staring morosely out over the pond. You stared at the reflection of the moon on the water, wondering if you would ever feel that way about anyone again.
Logan heaved a sigh before he placed a hand on your shoulder. "It's getting late," he told you. "You've got training tomorrow."
"Training," you scoffed, trying not to roll your eyes. "It's just an excuse for Erik to torture us."
"He's old," Logan said, moving to stand. "Let him be happy where he can. It makes Chuck happy too." He reached out, waiting for you to take his hand before pulling you to your feet. "You'll be okay," he assured you. "You're way out of Summers' league."
You didn't know what to say, so you only stood there staring at Logan in bewilderment. He had never been so blatantly nice to you. You always thought he kind of tolerated you until he made it pretty clear he didn't really care for you at all.
"Let's go," Logan said, nodding back up towards the mansion. When you didn't budge, he simply stood there staring at you, waiting for you to move. You got the senseif you didn't move soon, he was going to take matters into his own hands.
It certainly wouldn't be the first time.
"Fine," you sighed, admitting defeat. You reluctantly turned towards the mansion, but froze when you remembered Alex was somewhere in there.
"What is it?" Logan asked, moving to stand at your side. "Forgot how to walk?"
You felt completely pathetic at that moment. The only thing that had stopped you in your tracks was the fear that you would run into Alex before you could make it to the solitude and security of your bedroom.
"I don't want to see him right now," you admitted, not able to look at Logan. "He just...it hurts," you settled on when you couldn't really find the words to describe how much Alex leaving you had completely destroyed you.
"I'll walk you," Logan offered. "If we run into Summers, then I'll take care of him."
You snorted, helpless against the mental image of Logan burying Alex out on the property somewhere. "You'll kill him?"
"No," Logan huffed. "Worse."
You started walking up to the mansion, glad when Logan kept to your side. If anyone would have told you last month that there would come a time when you preferred Logan’s company over Alex’s, you would have thought they were crazy.
But your entire world had flipped upside down and nothing quite made sense anymore.
You got lucky and didn't spot Alex on the walk to your room.
Once you got to your door, you pushed it open and turned to look at Logan.
"Thanks," you told him. "I know you can't stand me, but it was really nice of you to help me out."
Logan stared at you for a moment, the silence between you nearly unnerving, before he muttered something under his breath. "Get some rest," he said. "Don't forget about training tomorrow," he added, rapping his knuckles lightly on your doorframe before walking away.
You watched him go, confused as ever about what the hell was going on between you and Logan, before locking yourself in your room for the rest of the night.
The next morning, you were training with most of the team. Erik had constructed obstacle courses for you all to complete while he hurled random bits of metal at you to test your reflexes. Generally, you would only keep yourself safe in a force field, but Erik had told you to go without it this time.
You were halfway up a ramp, about to grab a rope that would swing you to another platform, when you overheard Alex talking to Hank.
"--get our own place, you know? We just think it's time."
"You're moving awfully fast, aren't you?" Hank wondered with a skeptical tone. "You only just started your relationship with Madelyne."
"When it's right, it's right," Alex defended with a shrug of his shoulders. "Besides, it's not like--oof."
Alex's words were suddenly cut off when Logan barreled into him, sending him to the floor. Logan had shoulder-checked Alex, but also managed to sock him across the jaw with his fist.
"Watch yourself," Logan grunted before continuing towards the next obstacle in his path.
"What on earth was that about?" Hank mused as he reached out to help Alex off the floor.
You knew, though. Even if Hank and maybe Alex didn't, you knew.
Logan had done it for you.
"Just because he felt like being nice to me one time doesn't mean anything," you tried to convince Ororo. "I was just lucky that he hates the Summers family more than he hates me."
Ororo shook her head, but there was a smirk on her face. "Keep telling yourself that. Let me know when you realize you're wrong."
---
When you got back to your room, Rogue was sitting on your bed waiting for you.
"Took you long enough, sugar," she said. "Remy told me you were having second thoughts about our engagement party."
You let your door close behind you and leaned up against it. "You know?" You couldn't help but ask.
Rogue rolled her eyes. "Of course I know. You think Remy can hide anything from me?"
"Fair," you decided, knowing that Remy was hopeless when it came to Rogue. He would tell her every thought he ever had if she wanted.
"So," Rogue started with a sheepish smile and you knew she was only about to make your apprehension about the party worse. "Want to help me set it all up?”
"Remy's making you set up your own engagement party?"
"Well," Rogue grimaced before continuing, "I won't be the only one working to make perfect."
You had a foreboding inkling you knew where she was going with this.
"Let me guess," you said as you walked towards her so you could drop onto your bed by her side. "Logan will be there too."
"He doesn't hate you," Rogue assured you, seemingly knowing what you would say next.
"He told me...," you cut yourself off. You didn't want to think about that day. You had never done anything to Logan. You had never said anything bad about him or tried to tick him off in any way. But not long after you started dating Alex, Logan suddenly seemed like he couldn't stand to be around you.
You did your best to get along with him. On missions, you depended on each other to make sure you both survived. You lived together and taught together and fought together.
But one mission gone wrong proved to you that Logan not only hated you, he thought you weren't fit to be part of the X-Men.
You weren't outmatched. The odds were in your favor. The henchmen weren't prepared for the X-Men to crash their scheme so early.
And yet, you got one look at Mr. Sinister and you froze.
Memories flooded your mind of being strapped to an examination table. Mr. Sinister stood over you, promising to help you reach your full potential, before all you knew was pain.
You wanted to destroy him. Destroy his henchmen. Destroy everything.
But you just couldn't move.
After, once Mr. Sinister had gotten away and most of his team was taken care of, Logan had turned on you.
"What the hell was that in there, huh? You could've gotten someone killed," he snapped.
"I haven't seen him since--"
"I don't care about your past. We've all got a past. But when our lives are on the line, then we've got to be able to count on you."
"I'm sorry," you said, not prepared for the turn this mission had taken.
"Sorry isn't good enough," Logan snapped. "Not when you're a burden to the team. If you can't put your personal issues aside, then maybe you shouldn't be here."
"Don't go talking to Y/N that way," Remy defended you. He joined you at your side, standing close enough you could practically feel the heat radiating off him. There was a card in his hand. He was letting it slip between his fingers over and over, as if he was contemplating throwing it at Logan.
Logan huffed out a breath before he turned and stalked away in the direction of the X-Jet.
Ororo, Rogue, Scott, and Jean were all already on the jet taking care of the rescued mutants and humans who had fallen prey to Mr. Sinister's curiosity. The only members of the team yet to join them were you and Remy.
"Don't listen to that asshole," Remy advised you, letting his arm fall over your shoulders. He reeled you in close to his side, planting a kiss to the crown of your head. "You're our most valuable team member."
You couldn't find the words to thank Remy. If anyone on the team understood your past with Mr. Sinister, it was Remy.
After all, he had his own past with Mr. Sinister.
Your jaw was clenched and you were trying to ignore the hot sting of tears in your eyes. You didn't want to give Logan the satisfaction of knowing he had hit a big nerve, managing to land on multiple of your insecurities and fears.
"Go help the others," you told Remy. "I just need a minute."
Remy watched you for a moment and you knew he didn’t want to leave you. But when you nodded your head, giving him the silent go-ahead, he sighed in defeat.
"You've got it, mon amie," he agreed, squeezing your shoulders before he started towards the X-Jet.
You sat down on the ground, not caring you were adding more dirt to your uniform. You kept your eyes on the abandoned facility Mr. Sinister had been using for his experiments.
You remembered feeling helpless as he towered over you. You had been completely at his mercy and he thought he was helping you become a better mutant. You had screamed until nothing came out, only a raspy plea for help that no one would hear.
But you kept trying and you kept struggling and you kept fighting.
And eventually, the X-Men found you.
They saved you and gave you a home and a family. They promised you would never fall victim to Mr. Sinister again.
But he was still out there. If only you had been stronger. If only you hadn't frozen at the mere sight of him.
Logan was right. You did hold the team back.
The idea crashed over you, bringing a rising wave of anger and despair in its wake.
Before you could reconsider, you found yourself forming a force field. It started small, barely the size of a person. But you poured all of your pain and frustration into it. It became every horrifying nightmare and panic-laced memory and vulnerable moment. It swallowed up your rage, worries, and betrayal.
You let it consume the building before you, knowing that at least no one innocent was left inside. If one of Sinister's followers hadn't been smart enough to flee once the tides had turned in your favor, then you felt no pity for them.
You distantly heard someone call your name, but you were too focused on the task at hand. You didn't want anyone to try to convince you to not let your emotions get the best of you. Charles had tried and failed to instill that in you after he had urged you to use them to control your ability. It was why you preferred Erik's methods of dealing with a problem.
There couldn't be any more of Sinister's experiments here if his lab was destroyed.
You swiftly pulled in the sides of your force field, crushing brick and metal as you let it collapse.
By the time the building was nothing more than a pile of rubble, your ears were ringing and black spots were dancing along the edges of your vision.
"Hey!" Someone yelled, close enough that you were able to hear them. "What the hell did you do that for?"
You glanced over your shoulder to see Logan staring down at you. His brow was furrowed and you would have sworn there was a hint of worry in his expression if you didn't know that he hated you.
"Tying up loose ends," you told him, moving to stand up. You nearly stumbled, struggling to get your bearings, and waved off Logan when he instinctively reached out to help you.
As you walked back to the X-Jet, ignoring Logan's presence behind you, you decided that it was okay if Logan hated you.
Because you kind of hated him now too.
"Whatever," you sighed, not wanting to remind Rogue about that particular mission. If you weren't careful, she would sic Remy on you and you really didn't feel like being the subject of his concern right now. "I'll be there," you assured Rogue.
You couldn't go on avoiding Logan forever. He might have been less of an asshole to you lately, but it didn't mean you were ready to extend an olive branch. But for Remy and Rogue, you were willing to pretend to be civil.
"Good," Rogue said, moving to stand. "Because you didn't have a choice. Be at our place by five to help out." She blew you a kiss before she was out the door, leaving you to yet again reconsider your whole friendship with Remy.
---
"Good morning, Y/N," Charles greeted you the morning before the party. "I trust you slept well?"
"You'd know if I didn't," you reminded him. You poured yourself a cup of coffee and sat on one of the stools at the kitchen island. "You going to the party tonight?"
"Erik and I might make an appearance, but I'm sure they won't want two old men there for long."
"You're always welcome," you assured Charles, offering him a smile. Truly, you would have taken their company over Logan's any day. Now, you weren't only expected to suffer through a whole party, but you were supposed to help him set up as well. Maybe you could convince someone else to tag along or take your place. Jubilee might take you up on the offer or Kitty.
"You know, Logan does not hate you," Charles informed you, cutting off your thoughts.
You had forgotten, in his old age, that Charles' power had only become more sensitive.
"Yeah? Then why is he such a dick to me?" You pushed away your cup of coffee, no longer able to stomach it.
Charles' lips ticked up in a smirk and for a moment you caught a glimpse of the devious young man Erik claimed he used to be.
"Ah," he started, beginning to wheel his chair closer to you. "I truly don't believe even Logan understands the reason behind his actions. But I have no doubt he'll figure it out soon."
You narrowed your eyes at Charles, wishing you could switch powers even just for a moment. Charles' smirk only grew wider, prompting you to roll your eyes.
"I've got so much more respect for Erik," you muttered. Living with Charles and being a part of his X-Men was one thing, but being married to him? You really didn't know how Erik survived.
"Erik is more than capable of matching me when it comes to meddling," Charles said. "Now, make sure you get something to eat. You've got a long day ahead of you."
For a moment, you didn't know if it was friendly advice or a warning. Either way, all you could do was watch as Charles left the room, leaving you to your cold cup of coffee.
---
"You know, I'm proud of you," Remy told you when he answered the door. "I really thought you wouldn't show up."
"Yeah, well, I guess I love you more than I love myself," you told him, pressing the gift you got for the happy couple into his chest as you passed. "Lucky you."
"Well, I love you enough for the both of us," Remy assured you. He placed the gift on the table by the door before reeling you in for a hug.
"You're so annoying," you groaned into his shoulder, but wrapped your arms tight around his waist to keep him from pulling away.
"That won't work on me," Remy told you. "You just told me you love me."
"I'm rethinking that," you said, dodging his attempt to push your shoulder. "So, is the Grinch here yet?"
"The Grinch?" You heard someone ask from the next room. The voice was gruff and unamused.
"Fuck," you hissed, turning a wide-eyed look on Remy. "Think he knows I'm talking about him?" You kept your voice at a whisper, but from the snort in the other room, you were pretty sure Logan heard you.
"C'mon," Remy prompted, tugging on your elbow. "Time to play nice."
"I will if he will," you muttered, not caring that you were being petulant.
Remy towed you into the living room where Logan was contemplating a roll of streamers.
"What the hell do you want me to do with this?" Logan asked as he picked up the red and green streamers. He gave Remy a skeptical look, like he thought this whole thing was some elaborate prank on him.
"You're supposed to hang them up," Rogue pointed out, rounding the corner from the hallway, only to take the streamers from Logan. "Remy and I have got to run out and get the rest of the stuff for the party."
Remy arched a brow at Rogue. "We--"
"And while we're gone, you two are going to finish putting up the decorations. Tree's already up, wreaths are in place, but we've still got more to do if we want this place looking ready for a party.
"You're going out? But--," you tried to protest, but you were cut off by Rogue.
"Time's tickin', sugar," she reminded you before she snagged a hand in Remy's shirt. "We'll be back soon," she promised before they were gone, leaving you alone with Logan.
You stared at the entrance to the living room, willing Remy to come back and save you. Unfortunately, you weren't gifted with Charles' power and unless you wanted to throw away all your dignity and become invisible, you would have to spend time alone with Logan. You would have used your power, you knew your desire to save face meant very little in the wake of Logan's stare, but Logan had once told you that he could still find you even if he couldn't see you. You weren't eager for Logan to have to sniff you out, so you reluctantly stayed visible.
"So," you started, reaching out to grab the streamers from the couch where Rogue had dropped them. "I'll hang these and you go find something to decorate in the kitchen."
Logan stared at you for a beat too long before he huffed out an annoyed breath. "Guess I'll go find some lights to wrap around something."
"Great," you told him, turning your back on him.
You heard his footsteps lead away from you, leaving you the tiniest bit relieved. You grabbed the stepladder where it was left leaning against the couch. You weren't sure where you were meant to put up streamers, but you figured from one corner to another just behind the tree might look nice. Maybe, you thought, you could hang some above the windows next.
You got one end of the streamers up just fine, but when you had to stretch past the tree, attempting to pin the other end to the wall, you felt yourself begin to tip forward. You tried to pull back, but your foot slipped on the ladder, and you overcompensated. You could see the floor rushing up to greet you, but before you could try to surround yourself in a forcefield to cushion the fall, you were caught in a pair of arms.
Your eyes met Logan's. He looked as flustered as you felt.
"I thought you were in the kitchen," was the only thing that came to mind.
"I was," Logan responded, still holding you in his arms.
You couldn't look away from him. Something dangerous was fluttering around inside you, threatening to set you alight with something you hadn't felt in a long time. You needed to think or get away, but as long as Logan still held you, you couldn't form one coherent thought.
You felt like you had been hit over the head. There was no way, you told yourself. No way you were going down this road with Logan. It would only end in heartache and embarrassment.
"Mind putting me down?" You asked, patting Logan on the chest. "You're as cuddly as a cactus and we've got work to do."
Logan's lips pulled down in a brief frown, but he nodded his head.
"I figured putting up lights was more of a two-person job," Logan admitted, carefully setting you on your feet. "So, I thought I'd come get you. Good thing I got here when I did."
You had always known Logan was strong. He was the Wolverine. You had watched him crush a guy's head when he tried to shoot Jubilee.
But being held by him, practically cradling you and keeping you safe, did something to you. You had never felt that way with Alex. Or anyone else, really. You didn't have a name for it, but it terrified you.
"Well, thanks," you tried, knowing it wasn't really what was on your mind, but it would have to do for now. "So," you started, finally tearing your gaze away from Logan's eyes to look down at the stepladder. "Any chance you want to spot me while I hang the rest of the streamers? Since we've established it's also a two-person job."
"Okay," Logan agreed, surprising you with how quick his response had been.
With Logan's help, you managed to get the rest of the Christmas decorations up. You only had one other mishap when you were up on the counter, attempting to wind a string of lights around the column attaching it to the ceiling.
Logan had insisted on getting up on the counter with you, claiming he wanted to make sure you did the job right, but there was a quick flash of something in his eyes that told you that wasn't entirely true.
You had leaned forward, trying to reach around the column, when your foot nearly slipped.
Logan had immediately pressed a hand to your lower back, murmuring a low 'careful,' in your ear. It was enough to send a shiver down your spine and for a brief moment, before you could regain your self-control, you pressed back into Logan's touch. You heard him pull in a surprised breath and you stepped away, pretending to put all your focus into finishing the lights.
You spent the rest of your time alone with Logan avoiding eye contact. Logan had never left you so unsettled before. You were used to the rivalry taking up all the space between the two of you, but this was new.
You knew Logan was attractive. Anyone with eyes could look at him and see that. But you had never been attracted to him before. It left you off balance in an entirely different way.
And Logan had been nothing but nice to you. He was still surly and grouchy, sure, but it was never directed at you.
At some point, your relationship with Logan had shifted and you hadn't even noticed.
Thinking back, you couldn't recall a single instance when he had been openly hostile towards you since your breakup with Alex.
There was a sinking feeling in your gut that told you maybe you had been an idiot. Ororo and Charles and Rogue had all tried to tell you that Logan didn't hate and maybe they were right.
You wanted to see if the newfound peace between the two of you truly existed.
Before you could figure out how to approach him, Remy and Rogue arrived, needing help bringing up all the food and drinks they bought for the party.
"About time you two showed up," Logan sniped, shooting a conspiratorial look at you. "Once all the work is done."
"It looks beautiful," Rogue remarked. "Thank you," she said, looking from you to Logan. "I picked up something for you, Logan, while we were out. Why don't we let Remy and Y/N finish setting up while I show you what I got?"
Logan narrowed his eyes at Rogue, seemingly knowing she was up to something, but dutifully followed her into her bedroom. She winked at you before she closed the door, leaving you to wonder what was going on.
"What the hell was that about?" You turned to Remy, hoping he would have an answer.
Remy was busy arranging the drinks on the kitchen counter. "I don't know what you're talking about," he claimed, shrugging his shoulders.
You squinted at him, waiting for him to turn around and look at you, but he seemed to be purposefully not meeting your stare.
"I hate you," you sighed. You grabbed a veggie tray and placed it on the table.
"I think, my friend, we've already established that you don't."
You didn't have anything to say to that, so you settled for freeing a carrot stick and throwing it at Remy's head.
---
Hank was the first guest to show up. Logan and Rogue had yet to leave the bedroom and Remy was busy queuing up the music, so you answered the door.
"Y/N," Hank greeted with a surprised smile. "It's nice to see you again."
"We live in the same house," you reminded Hank, but accepted a hug when he enveloped you in an embrace.
"Yes, well, it's a big house," Hank countered. He pulled away, still smiling down at you. "If you get overwhelmed or anyone upsets you today, you can always talk to me," he promised before walking away to approach Remy.
You had no idea what Hank was talking about. He was an awkward guy, sure, but why would you get overwhelmed? And you didn’t think anyone was going to upset you today. Logan seemed to have called off the war between the two of you, and you were more than willing to accept the truce.
Before you could think too much on it, Ororo and Kitty arrived, both of them bearing more food for you to take and arrange on the buffet table.
When you turned away from your task, you noticed Logan and Rogue finally stepping out of the bedroom. Rogue looked pleased and Logan was visibly irritated, now decked out in a red holiday sweater.
You had to stifle a laugh at the dancing snowman on the front surrounded by snowflakes. The snowflakes lit up every time Logan moved, making him more noticeable from across the room.
Whatever was happening between you and Logan felt new, but you still couldn't resist the urge to test it.
"You're looking...festive," you decided after you took a moment to look Logan up and down.
Logan grumbled something under his breath you didn't catch.
"Doesn't he?" Ororo observed with a grin as she joined the two of you. "I'm surprised Rogue managed to get you into that, Logan."
"I'll have to thank her," you added, fascinated by the hint of red in Logan's cheeks.
"I've got to talk to Hank," Logan said before brushing past you on his way to Hank.
"So," Ororo started, taking a sip of her drink. "You and Logan seem friendly. Did you finally realize I was right?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," you lied, shrugging your shoulders. "How are things going with T'Challa?"
Ororo laughed, but indulged in your attempt at a redirection.
By the time Ororo slipped away to grab herself another drink, the apartment had filled with people.
You scanned the crowd and spotted Wade sporting his Deadpool suit with a green sweater over it. The sweater had a pair of bells stitched on it and said 'Jingle My Bells.' Wade had helpfully drawn an arrow in silver sharpie down towards his crotch, as if he was worried people wouldn't understand the innuendo.
You snorted, resolving to never tell Wade you found his sweater amusing. Knowing him, he would buy you a matching one and it really didn't feel like your style.
Piotr and Negasonic had also joined Wade, but you didn't see Yukio. Negasonic usually didn't wander far from her girlfriend, so you figured she couldn't have gone too far.
The next people you noticed were Erik and Charles. Erik had a hand on Charles' shoulder, always protective and watchful even surrounded by people he could count on.
You were halfway across the room, intent on greeting the couple, when your shoulder bumped into someone else's as they turned in your direction.
"Y/N," you heard someone say.
You resisted the urge to close your eyes and disappear. You hadn't talked to him since the breakup, even though you were both still X-Men, so hearing his voice now felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to your heart.
"Alex," you forced yourself to get out. "And Madelyne," you added when you caught sight of Jean's clone.
You had never understood how Alex could leave you for the spitting image of his brother's wife. You figured, if you were more healed to sift through all the implications, you would realize you dodged a bullet. But pain never faded as fast as you wanted and it still clouded your mind.
Madelyne only offered you a polite smile before returning to her conversation with Kurt.
"How have you been? It's been a while," Alex sounded as if you were old friends catching up and not ex-lovers.
The thought that he assumed the two of you could just waltz right into companionship after everything only pissed you off.
You didn't want to make a scene on Remy's big day, but you needed to hit back just a little bit. An ill-formed idea started to take root in your mind and before you could realize just how terrible it might be, you found yourself going through with it.
"You know, Alex, I've been great," you bluffed, hoping he wouldn't see through the ruse. At the very least, the one you had to worry about was Madelyne, but she seemed focused on her own conversation. "I've been seeing someone and it's going well."
There was a flash of red out of the corner of your vision, someone passing right behind you. You realized it was Wade, and you knew from past experience he was usually down to either fake date or make out, so you took your chance.
You reached out, snagging a handful of red fabric and tugged Wade towards you to stand at your side.
"I'd like you to meet my boyfriend," you started, before looking over at Wade to try to silently give him the hint to play along.
But it wasn't Wade at your side.
It was someone so much worse.
"Logan," you blurted in surprise, quickly trying to regain your composure.
"I didn't know you two were a thing," Alex mused, shooting a curious look at Logan. "I mean, no one's said a word about the two of you."
You knew that Alex was starting to suspect you were lying. Logan looked as flabbergasted as you felt and there was no way he was going to help you with the ruse. You wished more than anything it had been Wade you grabbed and not Logan. Wade would have already shoved his tongue down your throat just to sell the lie.
You knew you would have to confess. It would be embarrassing, sure, but maybe you could spend the rest of your life invisible. You would find a remote cabin in the middle of nowhere and live out the rest of your days in solitude.
It wouldn't be so bad, really.
You felt an arm wrap around your waist before Logan tugged you close.
"And why the fuck would we be any of your business?"
You stared at Alex because you couldn't look at Logan. You were trying and failing to tamp down on how shocked you were, because you could feel your eyes widen with surprise.
Alex held his hands up in surrender. "I didn't mean anything by it," Alex promised. "I was just surprised. I mean, Logan sure, but Y/N? Thought you couldn't stand the guy."
You didn't know how to interpret his words. What did he mean by 'Logan, sure'?
"Things change," you told him, deciding to press your luck by tucking yourself closer into Logan's embrace. Logan hadn't tried to sink his claws into your ribs yet, so you figured there was a chance he was willing to play along for now.
"Guess so," Alex observed, shooting Logan what you could only classify as a glare. Alex didn't look jealous, but protective. Like he was trying to warn Logan. "Remember that conversation we had?" It was directed at Logan, leaving you more confused by the second. "Same goes for you, buddy," he said, clapping a hand to Logan's shoulder.
Logan's expression grew steely and you knew danger was fast heading Alex's way. As much as you would have liked to see Logan punch Alex again, you didn't want to ruin Remy and Rogue's big day.
"Didn't you say you were looking for Hank?" You asked Logan, turning your head to look at him, putting your face close enough to his that if Logan happened to look at you, you would be alarmingly close to kissing.
"I was?" Logan had yet to look away from Alex.
"You were," you confirmed as you offered Alex an insincere smile. "We've got to go, but it was good catching up." You grabbed Logan's arm and started towing him away, searching for Hank in the crowd.
You wanted to look back at Logan and see his expression. Was it hate? Irritation? Regret? You didn't know, but for now, you would ignore the urge to seek answers. You had created the lie and now you needed to see it through. At least, until Logan told you to call it quits.
"Logan, it's nice to see you again," Hank said once he noticed the pair of you approaching. "And Y/N." His brow arched at the sight of you holding onto Logan. "This is new," he pointed out. "I wasn't aware of the nature of your relationship."
"It is new," Logan answered, keeping up the ruse. "It's very recent."
Hank opened his mouth, no doubt ready to call you on your bullshit, but was interrupted by Remy asking for everyone's attention.
You were grateful for the distraction, trying to remember to breathe as Logan wrapped his arm around your waist again while you watched Remy finally pop the question. You couldn’t easily escape his hold and a part of you wasn’t even sure you wanted to.
Logan felt safe. You had spent so long watching your own back that you didn’t want to willingly give up the security his embrace afforded you.
You started herding Logan to the edge of the crowd while everyone clapped and celebrated the engagement. Once people started trying to get closer to congratulate the happy couple, you were pulling Logan into Remy and Rogue's bedroom. You glanced around before shutting the door, making sure no one noticed the two of you slip away, before closing yourself in with Logan.
"I am so sorry," you told Logan, pressing your back to the bedroom door as you studied him for a hint of a reaction.
"Because we're missing the rest of the engagement?" Logan asked, moving to sit down on the edge of the bed.
"Because I dragged you into this," you stressed gesturing between the two of you. "I just...I didn't know he would be here."
Logan watched you for a moment before speaking. "Because you're not over him?"
You rolled your eyes, not able to help it. "I'm over Alex," you told him. "But I just don't want him to win."
"Win? How did he win?"
You sighed, moving to join Logan on the bed since you figured it was safe enough. Your thigh brushed against his as you settled, leaving you to realize how close you were now.
Your whole day had been rocked by the idea that maybe Logan didn't hate you after all. Maybe. But to add in feelings you hadn't given any thought to was sending your head spinning.
"He moved on. He got out. I stayed. I don't have anyone," you pointed out.
"Well," Logan started, carefully not looking at you, "now you have me."
"I don't, though," you stressed. "This is fake and it's not like it's going to last. You can't stand me," you reminded him. "Look, thank you for playing along, alright? After the party, we can break up and you don't have to worry about this or me ever again."
"We can keep it going," Logan suggested, surprising you. "We don't have to break up."
You snorted, shooting him a skeptical look. "Did you forget the part where you hate me? We would never pull it off."
"I don't hate you," Logan insisted, furrowing his brow. "When did I ever say that?"
"Okay, maybe not," you conceded. Rogue, Ororo, Charles, and now even Logan were telling you that he didn't hate you. "But that doesn't change the fact that you can't stand me."
"What the hell gave you that impression?" Logan was starting to get irritated, but he didn't seem like he was annoyed with you. It was more like he was getting frustrated that you kept trying to convince him that he hated you.
"Oh, I don't know," you pretended to think for a moment. "The Sinister mission. You said I was a burden. You sabotaged my date with Alex that one time you got mud on my jacket. All the times you would practically growl at me any time you saw me. I could go on," you offered, knowing you had more evidence to back it all up. Admittedly, since you broke up with Alex, Logan had stopped being an absolute terror to you. But it didn't erase your history or excuse any of the rest of it.
"I shouldn't have done that," Logan admitted. "Any of that. I guess," he started before cutting himself off.
"You guess?" You prompted when Logan didn't continue.
"I guess for a while I thought I did hate you." Logan reached out and put a hand on your knee, stalling your protest so he could keep speaking. "It took me a while to realize, though, that I didn't hate you. I hated what you did. I hated what I didn’t have."
"What did I do?" You resisted the urge to grab Logan's hand. He was still gripping your knee and you didn't know how the touch made you feel. You wanted more and you wanted it somewhere else.
But it still felt nice. Interesting. Confusing.
"Not long after you started dating Alex, you decided to set the other Summers up." Logan wasn't looking at you, but his hold on your knee tightened.
"Jean," you realized. "I set Scott and Jean up."
Logan's feelings for Jean were an ill-kept secret. But Scott's feelings for Jean were just as obvious. You had thought you were helping your boyfriend's brother out by getting him a date with the girl of his dreams. But you hadn't thought about how Logan might feel about it at the time.
"And you have feelings for her," you continued.
"No," Logan answered, leaving you to look over at him in confusion.
"But--"
"I did," Logan cut you off. "And for a while, I didn't want to be around you. I didn't want to work with you. I didn't want anything to do with you."
"What changed?"
"I found you that night. After Alex broke up with you," Logan clarified. "And that changed everything."
You waited for Logan to keep talking, knowing that Logan was a man of few words sometimes, but there had to be more.
"You were sitting there all broken up over that Summers idiot. And it made me feel like such a piece of shit, because I was relieved."
"Relieved?" You had expected Logan to maybe pity you, not be happy about your suffering.
Logan nodded his head, drawing his hand away. "Because it meant you weren't with him anymore. It meant maybe...maybe I had a chance," he finally confessed.
"Logan," you breathed, torn between reaching for him and waiting to hear more.
"All that time I thought I was still hung up on Jean, but when you and Summers broke up, it hit me. I wasn't mad at you for setting up Jean and Scott. I wasn't mad at you at all. I just wanted you to look at me the way you looked at him. That's why after I walked you back to your room that night, I paid him a visit."
You thought of Alex telling Logan that the 'same goes for him.'
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him that if he ever hurt you again, I'd make him regret it. And maybe it was in his best interest to find somewhere else to live. I didn’t want you to have to be scared to live in your own home. I didn’t want you to worry about running into him."
"That's why he moved out so soon." Hank's words came back to you about Alex moving awfully fast. "That was you."
"I'm not proud of myself," Logan assured you. "But I wanted to be different. Better. I wanted to deserve you. Because I spent years pining after Jean and it never got me anywhere. I didn't want to make the same mistake with you. But it just never seemed to happen. You wouldn't talk to me or look at me and I didn't want to push it."
You studieded Logan as he talked, trying to make sense of his words. You had spent so long assuming Logan hated you that you didn't even notice when he started actively being better around you.
After Alex, you realized Logan had changed.
And it was for you.
A new plan was starting to take root in your mind, and while it terrified you, evidently it had been a day for crazy ideas. They were yet to steer you wrong today.
You had started out the day convinced Logan was your enemy, and now you were beginning to suspect he was a lot more to you. You couldn't deny that you wanted to explore whatever was starting to happen between you and Logan. You could take it slow and feel it out to make sure it was right for both of you.
You reached out to grab Logan's hand, lacing your fingers through his and squeezing. He turned his head, finally looking at you.
"Maybe it can still happen," you allowed with a hopeful smile. "Baby steps," you offered, leaning towards him. "Let's figure it out as we go along," you added before letting your lips brush against his, keeping it chaste for now.
Logan pressed closer, his hand coming up to grip the back of your neck. A desperate, aching sound escaped him as he tasted you.
You knew, then, you would let Logan do whatever the hell he wanted to you. As long as he kept making noises that shot through you like that, making you just as eager to seek your pleasure in him.
The kiss turned hard and near-consuming before Logan's grip on the back of your neck eased and he broke the kiss. He sounded out of breath as he pressed his forehead to yours. You opened your eyes to see that he had his scrunched tight, like he was trying to regain his control.
You couldn't believe you had been the one to do that to Logan. You had heard stories about Logan once he fully let himself go and gave into his baser instincts. You had never witnessed it for yourself. Logan, by the time you had joined the X-Men, had managed to rein in the savagery Erik always accused him of possessing.
But one kiss from you had broken his control.
"Baby steps," Logan agreed, pulling back to look at you. "I can do that."
You grinned at him just as you heard another cheer come from the next room.
"We should probably get back out there," you said. You didn't want to leave this moment with Logan. Unfortunately, your duty as a best friend outweighed how much you wanted to kiss Logan again.
"We should," Logan conceded with a sigh. He stood up and held his hand out, waiting for you to grab it. He pulled you off the bed, wrapping his arms around your waist once you were standing. "I think, though, one of us is gonna feel sick pretty soon. And the other one's going to have to make sure they get home okay."
"Well, I did have a pretty bad headache," you told him, doing your best to fight a grin. "And I just don't think it's safe for me to drive right now."
"Then I better drive you home soon," Logan said, chancing another brief kiss. "Wouldn't want you getting hurt or anything."
"One more round around the party before making a break for it?" You suggested, stealing a kiss of your own.
"Better make it quick," Logan suggested before starting to lead you towards the door.
You felt lighter, hopeful, as you followed Logan out of the room. You didn't know how you'd gotten so lucky.
"I'm so glad you're not Wade," you murmured to Logan as you approached Piotr and Wade.
Logan snorted, falling back so he could press a hand to the small of your back. "Thanks for choosing me," he whispered before pressing a kiss to your temple.
"Merry Christmas, Logan," you told him, turning so you could gift him with another kiss. "I'll give you your present later," you promised, excited about all the possibilities unfolding before you.
"I'm holding you to that," Logan said. "Ten more minutes and then let's get the hell out of here.”
"Sounds perfect," you told him, turning and letting yourself fall into a conversation with Wade, knowing full well you would only last five more minutes before dragging Logan away.
---
"I don't know why you ever doubt me, Remy," Rogue said as she turned a smirk up at him.
"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," Remy responded, putting a hand on her shoulder.
He was keeping a careful watch on Y/N and Logan. Rogue thought it was sweet he was so protective of Y/N, even though Y/N was more than capable of taking care of herself. When Rogue told him she wanted to set Y/N up with Logan, Remy had insisted that it was a terrible idea. But Rogue saw the way Logan looked at Y/N and she knew once Y/N shook the idea Logan hated her, she would feel the same for him.
Leaving them alone together had done them a world of good.
Rogue brought a gloved hand up to grip Remy's hand in hers. "Once we're married, you're just going to have to get used to the fact that I'm always right, sugar."
Remy laughed, her favorite sound in the world, and pressed a kiss to her hair. "Of course," he agreed before chuckling at the sight of Y/N tugging Logan out of the apartment, a pleased grin on both of their faces.
All Logan Taglist: @i-left-my-cat-on-the-stove @slightlymediocree @snowyminty @i-wear-wet-socks313 @shizzybarnaclee
@yvonneeeee @needz1nk
Series Taglist: @ayamenimthiriel @the-gentle-spirit @wolflover-20
If you would like to be added to the all logan or the series taglist, just let me know!
Ngl once I saw the notification, this is what I felt like:
(Btw I read this a few days ago and forgot to post my reblog, but I thankfully remembered to do so today lol)
——
BETRAYAL AT ITS FINEST
WELL I DO! L is for the way you LOOK at meeee-
Ohhhh no, I think I know where this is going 🫠 (hopefully Alex gets his ass handed to him at some point).
Either way I’m living for the drama that’ll undoubtedly ensue. 😭😭
I CAN’T WITH THIS MAN 😭 even making a cameo he still stands out, as always!
Actually get away from me ✋🏼🤨
WAIT- I LOVE HOW THIS HAPPENED LMAO!! I usually don’t like the fake dating trope that much (I feel like I only have a few fics with this trope that I truly enjoy) but ooooh when it’s executed like this, I just can’t help falling in love.
Man do I love Logan!
This just HAD to happen during an important event 😔 I would’ve liked to see him punch Alex again too honestly lolol.
Your honor, I love them (but once again, what’s new?).
——
Dudeee you did such an amazing job with this, I really enjoyed the story. The holiday vibes were there, it was so adorable and made me feel all mushyyy and happyy inside. The concept worked so well with the characters and made me love them even more. Oh and I absolutely adored Logan’s confession at the end! This was just an all around feel-good one shot and definitely became a quick favorite for me!
(Side note: him being in a sweater made things 10x better, I just couldn’t stop imagining him all snuggly and cozy looking~ so thank you 😭)
The boys reacting to reader collapsing from exhaustion please?
Gale:
The stars had just begun to glimmer overhead, the velvet sky above the Shadow-Cursed Lands dimming into the kind of darkness that swallowed sound. The campfires crackled gently, casting flickering halos of warmth against the long stretch of gloom, but you were still going. Still walking. Still sorting. Still preparing.
You hadn’t rested. Not really. Not since that last fight, not since the argument with the goblins in the pass, not since the near ambush from twisted shadows. You’d kept your pace steady, your shoulders square, pushing through the weight in your limbs and the ache behind your eyes. You thought if you just did one more thing, the tension would stop building in your chest.
But your body had other plans.
You didn’t even remember falling. One moment you were standing, checking your gear, your fingertips trembling from fatigue, and the next—
Blackness.
A quiet thump. The faint scuffle of feet on earth.
Then a voice, fraying at the edges with fear:
“Wait—wait! No, no, no—gods, please—!”
You came to slowly, like rising through molasses, every sound muffled by a distant ringing. The smell of lavender and parchment hit your senses before anything else—then warmth. Gale. He was crouched beside you, cradling your head with trembling fingers, his brow furrowed with frantic concentration.
His face was pale beneath the firelight, lips pressed in a tight line, panic storming behind his eyes like thunderclouds.
“There you are,” he breathed, voice rough, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until you stirred. “You—by Mystra’s grace, you scared the life out of me.”
You tried to sit up. “I’m fine—”
“No, you are not,” Gale snapped. The edge in his voice shocked you—it was so rare, so unlike his usual soft-spoken warmth. But it cracked with strain, with the sharp weight of helplessness. “You collapsed. Not tripped. Not stumbled. Collapsed. You’ve been running yourself ragged, and you think I wouldn’t notice?”
You blinked at him, throat dry. “I just—there was a lot to do. I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean to?” he echoed, his eyes going wide, almost wounded. “That somehow makes it better?”
His hands trembled as he brushed dirt from your cheek, then stilled when he cupped your jaw gently. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You don’t have to carry it all.”
You looked away, ashamed—because you had been trying to carry it all. Because you didn’t want to be a burden. Because you thought if you didn’t slow down, maybe everything else wouldn’t catch up.
But Gale wasn’t done.
“You think I wouldn’t burn the very weave itself if it meant keeping you safe?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft again, but still fierce. “You think your worth is measured by how much pain you can ignore?”
Your lip trembled, just a little. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh, eyes glistening. “Then you’ve failed spectacularly.”
You smiled despite yourself, and Gale immediately folded forward, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm and shaking.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
He closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t apologize. Just let me help. You don’t have to prove your strength by hiding your exhaustion. Not from me.”
He helped you sit up, guiding you gently like you were made of glass—his hands constantly checking for bruises or signs of injury, his eyes flicking across your face like he might lose you again if he looked away too long.
“I’ll rest,” you murmured finally.
“You’ll rest now,” Gale corrected, brushing your hair back. “And you’ll let me stay, even if all I can do is hold you while you sleep. Agreed?”
“…Agreed.”
And so he settled in beside you, holding you close beneath the stars, heart still racing, fingers still trembling—but never letting go.
Astarion:
The campfire crackled gently in the distance, its glow barely brushing the edges of the clearing as the evening slipped into deeper shades of indigo. The world beyond was all hush and shadow, quieted by the oppressive weight of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Everyone had started winding down, preparing for rest. Everyone except you.
You had been pacing—relentlessly. Repacking your gear. Polishing a blade you’d already sharpened twice. Pretending that the tremble in your limbs wasn’t there. That the weight behind your eyes didn’t burn. That you hadn’t been pushing yourself beyond the brink for days.
And then, quite simply—your body gave out.
Your knees folded. The world tilted. And the last thing you heard was a very undignified shout:
“Oh for—you dramatic idiot!”
You woke with a sharp inhale, but the moment you stirred, cold hands were already gripping your shoulders, a familiar voice hissing through clenched teeth:
“Don’t you dare try to sit up.”
Astarion loomed over you, silver hair in slight disarray, cravat askew, red eyes wild with something that looked like fury—but was far too sharp-edged to be anger alone. He was kneeling at your side, holding you like you were made of glass and pure trouble at once.
“You absolute menace,” he growled, inspecting you as if he might hex your exhaustion into submission. “I knew you were overdoing it. I told you. And what do you do? You drop like a sack of poorly stitched laundry!”
You blinked slowly, confused. “Astarion—”
“And not gracefully, mind you,” he continued, indignant. “You just crumpled. I had to catch you like some harlequin in a second-rate opera. I nearly broke a nail.”
Despite the scolding, his hands were maddeningly gentle, checking your pulse, brushing back damp hair from your forehead. He was so close you could smell the faint hint of bergamot and aged leather. You could feel the tension in his jaw, in the way his fingers curled ever so slightly into your sleeve as if grounding himself.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured, voice hoarse.
He froze.
And then something shifted.
Astarion’s eyes softened—not much, but enough to crack the veneer of aristocratic outrage. He sighed, exasperated and... undeniably worried.
“Gods, darling, what were you thinking?” he said, this time quieter. “You looked like death warmed over hours ago. Why didn’t you say something? Or sit? Or, Mystra forbid, actually rest?”
You tried to offer a weak smile. “Didn’t want to trouble anyone.”
His face twisted like you’d just said the most offensive thing imaginable.
“Trouble—? Oh, how dare you,” he snapped, but now it sounded almost... wounded. “You think I waste my charms on just anyone? You think I go around catching unconscious fools for fun? You are my trouble, you idiot.”
He pulled you upright against his chest with surprising tenderness, wrapping his arms around you as he shifted you into his lap, cradling you like something precious and exasperating all at once. You could feel the way his thumb traced circles along your spine, even as he clicked his tongue in disapproval.
“I swear, if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll—well, I’ll write a very strongly worded sonnet about your irresponsibility.”
You laughed softly against his shoulder. “A poem? That’s my punishment?”
“I am an artist of many talents, thank you very much,” he said primly. “But don’t tempt me. I’ll make it rhymed and awful.”
You looked up at him through tired eyes, heart aching with affection. “You were worried about me.”
“Oh, perish the thought,” he sniffed dramatically. “I was worried about me. What would I do if my favorite pillow went and died from pure stubbornness?”
And yet he pulled the blanket tighter around you. And his hand never left yours. And he didn’t stop holding you—not for the rest of the night.
Furious, indeed.
Wyll:
The world drifted back in slow fragments—light, sound, breath. You stirred, faintly aware of something heavy draped across you, of warmth pressed along your side, of a steady rhythm pulsing through fabric and skin: a heartbeat, far too quick to be your own.
“Wyll?” your voice came out as a rasp, thick and uncertain.
He did not move.
Your eyes blinked open to find him kneeling at your side, bent low, his forehead resting just over your heart like he was listening for something—proof you were still there, still beating beneath his hands. His fingers gripped your shirt, knuckles white, the rest of him utterly still save for the occasional tremble that betrayed just how close he was to coming undone.
“…You’re awake,” he whispered, voice hoarse, like speaking louder might break whatever fragile reality he’d constructed around himself while you were unconscious.
“I’m fine,” you croaked, trying to push yourself up.
Instantly, Wyll surged upward, pressing a firm hand to your shoulder and another to your hip, holding you flat against the bedroll with all the strength of someone who had just seen the person they love go limp and collapse in front of them. His dark eyes were wide, frantic, and furious—not at you, but at the helplessness clawing at him from the inside.
“Don’t you dare try to move,” he growled. “Not after that stunt.”
“I said I’m fine,” you muttered, wriggling against his grip. “I just overdid it a little—”
“You collapsed,” he snapped. “Like a marionette with its strings cut. One minute you were walking, talking, and the next—” He choked, fingers tightening for a split second. “You hit the ground and I—I thought you were dead.”
You opened your mouth to dismiss him again, to soothe, but Wyll leaned in, his voice low and sharp like flint striking steel.
“You don’t get to tell me this is nothing,” he hissed. “Because if you keep running yourself into the ground like this, someday it won’t just be a collapse. It’ll be you not waking up. And I—” He shook his head, his expression crumpling. “I can’t go through that.”
“Wyll—”
“I need you to understand what it does to me,” he interrupted, suddenly, dangerously close. “To see you fall and not know if I’ll ever hear your voice again. So if I seem dramatic, if I seem over-the-top, it’s because I’m trying to teach you something.”
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his curls. His tail flicked with restless tension behind him.
“Because when the real thing happens—when I do lose you—I’ll be ruined. You are the flame I measure all warmth by. And if that flame ever goes out…”
He swallowed hard. “Then I’m nothing but ash.”
Your heart twisted at the way his voice faltered, how the last word was barely more than a breath.
You tried to sit up again, to offer some comfort—but he lunged, practically threw himself down, sprawling across your torso like an overgrown, armored cat with an overdeveloped sense of righteous vengeance.
“You are resting.” His voice was muffled against your chest, but the weight of his body was firm, final, and very much unmoving.
You blinked. “…Are you pinning me down?”
“Yes.”
“You weigh a thousand pounds.”
“I will increase it if I have to.”
You sighed, flopping back with a groan of surrender. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“And you’re being reckless,” he retorted, not budging. “So now we’re even.”
There was a long silence. Then a quiet chuckle slipped out of you, reluctant but real. You carded your fingers through his hair, letting the tension bleed from your limbs.
“Fine. I’ll rest.”
Wyll tilted his head just enough to press a kiss to your sternum, his voice a low murmur. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
Halsin:
The moment your eyes cracked open, you knew you were in trouble.
The air inside Halsin’s tent was thick with the scent of dried herbs and pine resin, heavy with the warmth of the furs layered beneath you. It was dim—his tent flap drawn shut—but soft light filtered in, revealing the familiar shape of his travel gear stacked in its usual meticulous order. The cot creaked softly beneath you as you shifted, muscles aching, limbs leaden. There was a wet cloth resting on your brow, cool and fragrant with some kind of forest mint.
You had absolutely, unequivocally passed out from exhaustion.
And Halsin had clearly been the one to find you.
A groan built low in your throat, and with it came your brilliant idea: sneak out. Maybe—just maybe—you could slink off before he returned. You didn’t relish the idea of a lecture from a near seven-foot-tall druid whose entire body seemed to be carved from oak and thunderclouds.
You swung your legs over the cot, wincing as the rush of dizziness hit you. But you were determined. Quiet. Graceful. Almost at the—
“Where,” came a low, thunderous voice from behind, “do you think you’re going?”
You froze mid-step. Slowly, guiltily, you turned.
And there he was—Halsin—massive, bare-chested, his thick arms crossed over his chest, golden eyes narrowed and jaw clenched with a sternness that belonged more to a storm than a man.
“Ah,” you said. “I was just—stretching.”
Before you could retreat or formulate another weak excuse, he closed the space between you with startling speed, scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all, and slung you over his shoulder.
“Halsin!” you protested, smacking at his back as he turned and carried you—without effort, without ceremony—right back to bed. “Put me down!”
“You’re lucky I’m not tying you to the cot,” he rumbled, voice edged with exasperated affection. “You collapsed in the middle of the clearing. In front of everyone. I had to carry you back here—twice, apparently.”
He set you down with far more care than his grumbling suggested, adjusting the furs around you, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they brushed a damp curl from your temple. Then, without another word, he reached behind him and produced a small bundle of cloth.
He opened it to reveal a collection of deep red and violet berries nestled in soft moss. “I foraged these. You need to eat.”
You blinked. “Halsin, I—”
“Eat,” he said simply, with that patient, immovable tone he used when dealing with stubborn animals and, apparently, stubborn lovers.
You gave him a sheepish look, but obeyed, popping a few of the berries into your mouth. They were sweet, tart, and immediately grounding. Halsin watched you the entire time, gaze softening only after he saw you swallow a second mouthful.
Once satisfied, he slid in beside you, the cot creaking in protest beneath his weight. You barely had time to blink before his arms wrapped around you, strong and encompassing, pulling you into the heat of his chest. One leg tangled with yours as he pulled the furs up around both of you.
“You frightened me,” he murmured, his voice low and close to your ear, breath warm against your hair. “I have seen wounds. Disease. Poison. But watching you crumble from something so preventable? It... it undid me.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice already thick and slipping into sleep again. “Didn’t mean to—”
“Shh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “No apologies. Just rest.”
You tried to protest, but your words slurred, consciousness unraveling like smoke. You barely registered his arms tightening around you protectively, his deep voice rumbling softly as he murmured something soothing in Druidic, something meant to lull, to calm.
“I’ll watch over you,” he promised into your hair. “You are safe now. Just sleep.”
And this time, you listened.
IM BACK WITH THE BOYS ugh I love it, also I'm on a dark bg3 brain rot so that will be the next post. Hope you guys enjoyed this and thank you all for your contiued support!- Seluney xox
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