┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: your strained marriage to daeron targaryen takes an unexpected turn when your once-absent husband seeks to reach an understanding.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.5K.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (18+), nsfw, alcoholism, reader is not from any specificied house, strained marriage, inexperienced reader, makeup sex, daeron & reader are desperate as hell, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, fingering (fem!rec), begging, hair pulling, cumming untouched, aftercare + sweet ending.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: daeron-pilled ngl ,, I would LOVE to write more of this specific reader with daeron if there’s any interest! I hope y’all enjoy & thank you for the support!
Daeron never considered himself amongst the ranks of good and impressive husbands — if he even considered himself one at all.
In court, he witnessed the very worst and the very best of unions, with wives hanging gleefully from their husbands’ arms. In other instances, it was cold and callous, plainly loveless.
Princely duties seemed beneath him, particularly marriage; a fickle union born of appeasing houses, treaties forging alliances. It was all a rather dour affair, one that he was forcefully subjected to.
Toiling within his own displeasure seemed to do little for him, alleviating nothing. Instead, it carved a deeper hole through his heart, a void without a sliver of light.
He never considered himself a good man, either.
Only a few moons had passed since his marriage to you, a comely young woman of noble birth with a suitable lineage. It was the perfect image of what any advantageous match should be.
To him, you were an obligation born of his father’s desire to appeal to other houses. He didn’t know you — the courtship was fleeting, a series of hurried meetings where he made his disinterest clear.
It was cruel of him, but easier to keep you at arm’s length. He balanced upon the edge of madness and duty too often, keeping you suspended in the empty chasm between.
Whenever you attempted to show him kindness, you were met with a distant indifference from your betrothed. After the third meeting, you resigned yourself to a life of silence.
Your wedding was much of the same; stiff, awkward, and lifeless.
What should’ve been a happier occasion for you was sullied by your new husband’s love of wine and melancholic behavior. You hoped that he’d change his mind — you still hoped he would.
Though, instead of resigning himself to the new role of doting husband, Daeron often spent his evenings drowning in goblets of Dornish red.
Oftentimes, he would travel to the slums with the single-minded appetite of forgetting himself. When the wine continued to flow, the longer he spent wasting away in the underbelly of some pungent tavern.
All the while, you slept alone in a cold bed, often pondering why your husband despised you.
In truth, Daeron did not hate you whatsoever; there was not an ounce of malice in his body. Instead, he used his cups in an effort to suppress his waking nightmares, plagued by visions and dreams.
Dragon dreams haunted his every step, premonitions steeped in mystique and anguish. They were puzzling and indecipherable, visions that clawed at his mind each time he closed his eyes.
He was cursed by the Gods, he thought — no end to these nightmares, no end to this torment. Wine was the only thing he tried that alleviated the weight he carried within his mind.
By sinking further into his cups, he alienated you, the one person longing to comfort him. Daeron was torn by both fear and self-deprecation, knowing that you deserved a husband whose thoughts did not drive him to madness.
Whispers had reached his father regarding your lack of consummation, causing a string of heated arguments and bitter exchanges. It only resulted in more nights spent washing his agony down with the drink.
On the eve of your wedding, he had only touched you briefly with trembling hands, smelling so powerfully of wine that it seemed a second skin.
When he recoiled and claimed he could not go through with coupling, he recalled the confusion and torment on your face. You had gone on believing that it was your fault — that he did not find you pretty.
In truth, he found you aesthetically ethereal, and your immense beauty wasn’t the source of his distance. Much to his dismay, you had appeared in his dreams on-occasion, and it frightened him.
Why love someone fully if they might simply slip through your fingers?
A troubled way to live one’s life, he knew, but this chafing rift that crackled between the both of you needed to be mended somehow.
Admittedly, he had no one to blame but himself for this. Had he done his duty, he might have spared himself the scornful wrath of his father and spared your own sentiments.
At evenfall, he decided to make amends with you.
It was a balmy evening in Summerhall, marked by the kiss of a warm breeze, sunset having bled to twilight. The polished corridors remained hushed with the tide of dusk, a solace seldom felt.
Fields of orange blossoms stretched around the ancient castle, their pallor waning as the sun disappeared. Daeron had wandered the grounds for some time until he found himself back at the beginning.
Targaryen banners rustled softly, stirred by the passing wind that brought with it a saccharine scent. The surrounding countryside was in full bloom, vibrant and lively.
Instead of taking to another inn to drown his sorrows, Daeron lingered outside of your marital chambers. He had been standing there for nearly an hour, downcast and deliberating.
Daeron often slept on the cold floors of his childhood chambers, with a flagon clutched tightly in one hand, reeking of intoxication.
Entering your chambers instilled terror within him, as if he were traversing through some monstrous cavern. Though, you were certainly not the monster here; that title rests entirely with him.
There was no excuse for his reproach or his constant disappearances. He was uncertain of how to mend whatever chasm likely rest between the both of you.
He looked a mess, eyes ringed with haggard bags, platinum tresses disheveled, pale hues somewhat glassy. The flagon of mead he carried with him felt like a weight instead of a crutch.
Out of consideration for you, he knocked; a sluggish, fearful gesture that seemed drawn-out. He wasn’t deeply intoxicated — not yet, anyway.
When the set of doors began to rattle, one of them groaned open, old wood marked with draconic embellishments. You stood in the gap, visibly surprised to see your husband standing there.
“My Prince,” Startled, you wondered why he’d come to you now. You had slowly become accustomed to an empty bed and an absent husband, much to your dismay. “Is something the matter?”
My Prince — you did not call him Daeron.
Wisps of hair framed his features, comely and handsome, visage bearing the shadow of weeks-old stubble. Violet hues swam with a wet sheen of unshed tears.
When you first saw Daeron, you found him to be beautiful; and that sentiment hadn’t changed. Even with his indifference towards you, he managed to make your heart beat faster still.
“May I come in? If you permit it,” Daeron utters, tone unusually soft, as if he were crooning to some wild doe. “I would understand if you never wished to see my face again.”
Some part of you still carried the weight of bitterness when you thought of your marriage to Daeron. You had always yearned for a loving union, to dote upon your husband and any children that followed.
You thought he despised you or found you unsuitable, which might’ve explained his constant need for space. His words gave you pause, prompting you to hesitate.
“These are your chambers just as much as they are mine, my Prince.” Stepping aside, you gestured for him to enter, watching as he slipped through like smoke.
The interior was unfamiliar to him, a foreign place; it showed how little time he spent with you. A pang of self-deprecation rippled through him, visage looking pained.
A tenuous hush followed, one marked with many things left unspoken. He didn’t know where to begin — to apologize to you, to let you unleash your anguish, or to tell you of his dreams.
Daeron’s gaze floated toward your marital bed, one side left made, exceedingly tidy; what would’ve been his place, had he been dutiful to you.
For you, this was agonizingly awkward.
All of your attempts at a proper courtship had been squashed, extinguished like a growing flame, reduced to nothing. Now, he was here, fumbling about like a stranger in your chambers.
Any sensible woman might’ve met him with wrath and scorn, but you saw a ghost of a man instead, desperate for some measure of understanding.
Whispers had surrounded Daeron in regards to his demeanor, often melancholy and detached. You wondered what weighed on him so heavily; was it you? Was it this unwanted union?
“I suppose I should begin with an apology,” He started, moving to lean against the ottoman at the foot of your bed. “But even that seems improper for the strife I’ve caused you these last few moons.”
He oft felt as if he were floating, a mere spectator in his own body, wallowing in his wine. The recent tension with his father and his own self-reflection had been enlightening.
Perhaps, you could be a source of comfort, if he let you in instead of keeping you at-bay.
Quiet, you lingered near him, arms loosely folded over your chest. The evening gown you wore was made of a fine gossamer, a sheer garment that made you glow in the flicker of firelight.
Daeron was still a man; hotblooded and distracted by pretty things, and you were no exception to this. The pliant peaks of your breasts rose against silk, briefly ensnaring his gaze.
Through gritted teeth and a tense jaw, he fought against baser instincts, hoping to grant you a semblance of comfort, despite his shortcomings.
“Where did you go, all those nights?” You assumed he spent most nights whoring, which was the fate of most unsatisfactory marriages.
At first, you wanted to sob, knowing your husband might’ve been with other women. Now, you’d become hardened, adapting to this isolated existence instead.
Daeron was startled by the lack of vitriol from you, but he answered earnestly. “Drunk in the underbelly of some tavern,” He murmured. “Or in the sanctity of my chambers.”
“You did not … Lay with another woman?” Surprised, you choose your words carefully. Your handmaidens warned you of Targaryen princes, but you did not think Daeron to be cruel.
Admittedly, he had considered turning to whoring; and whenever the urge to visit a brothel arose, he simply couldn’t bring himself to follow through.
Many whispers had reached him of your kindly disposition, the tenderness in which you regarded everyone with. That sort of warmth was one he sorely yearned for.
“No,” He affirmed, clutching his flagon between his hands, fingers tracing over the rough leather. “I am an unimpressive and neglectful husband, but I would not dishonor you.”
A twinge of relief rippled through you at that, and you decided to bridge the gap, coming to sit beside him. “Was it something that I did?”
He knew you would ask him that.
Unwilling to meet your gaze, he shook his head, tongue darting to wet his bottom lip. “You did nothing wrong,” His tone falls to a gentle hush. “The fault lies within me.”
“I understand if you’ve a disdain for this marriage, but I simply wish for honesty, and to know you,” You begin, idly twirling a ring around on your finger, a gift from your mother. “You seem melancholy.”
Daeron chuckled mirthlessly at that, resisting the urge to take a swig of ale. Instead, he continued to meet you with transparency, something that you were owed.
“Melancholy,” He parrots, his gaze traveling across your chambers, towards the burning hearth. Within the fire, he can hear them; distant cries of dragons. “That is one word for it.”
“You seem weighed down by something.” As you assert yourself with such a claim, Daeron’s sardonic cadence begins to diminish entirely.
It gives him pause, violet hues daring to meet yours, and he’s greeted by an overwhelming amity. You’re longing to understand him, to treat him gently; he recognizes this now, plain as daylight.
Ghosts dance within his gaze, haunted by something; the corner of his mouth twitches sardonically. “If I told you, you may think me a madman. I do not wish to sully your view of me any further.”
Temptation sings a siren’s song from his flagon of mead, and he heeds its call, taking a swig to ease his frayed nerves. It doesn’t have the intended buzz he hoped for.
“I do not believe that madness courses through your blood as it does others,” Consolingly, your hand reaches to briefly brush over his forearm. “I’ve no ill feelings toward you.”
Daeron scoffs mirthlessly, your piety a stark contrast to his own sourness. “I would not begrudge you if you felt otherwise, my lady.” He murmurs, staring elsewhere.
“This distance between us — I cannot mend it if you do not tell me what troubles you,” Quietly, you twiddled with your skirts, able to smell honey mead wafting from him. “I ask this as your wife.”
“It is not your wound to mend,” There is a sharpness in his tone that is wholly self-deprecating, seizing the blame away from you. “Have you ever felt as if you are helpless?”
A hush settles between as you consider his words carefully, gaze flickering about your husband’s countenance. “Many times.” You answer softly.
“It feels like an inevitability,” Daeron utters, amethyst hues wet with a sheen of unshed tears. “That I foresee many things, and am powerless to stop any of it.”
“What do you mean?” Seeking elaboration, you are desperate to reach out to your husband, to understand the root of his plight. “Do you have premonitions?”
“Dreams,” Forlornly, the man glances at you with a wayward stare, lips parting. “Only mine are doomed to come true.” He sighs, shaking his head with a light huff.
Dreamers, they were called; those of Valyrian blood whose prophecies often came to fruition.
“You thought I might not believe you if you told me, is that it?” The cadence of your inquiry is agonizingly calm, a sweetness unlike any he’d felt before.
Silent, his head jostles in a light nod, teeth scraping against the inside of his cheek. The resolve he thought he had withers in the face of your kindness.
“I saw you,” Daeron’s voice trembles slightly, as if clinging to any last thread of optimism. He does not wish to crumble before you, but it becomes increasingly difficult. “Covered by ash and by ivy, shrouded in darkness.”
Bewildered, you moved to comfort him as best as you could, fingertips dragging along his temples. “I sit here before you unharmed, husband,” You assure, brows knitting together. “Flesh and blood.”
“I thought it might be easier to keep apart from you, fearing that my vision may come to light,” He realizes now the grave error he made. “Foolish, perhaps, but it comforted me.”
“I understand your desire for distance, but I do long for my husband,” You murmur, lips twitching into a brief smile. “Allow me to help you, and place your trust in me.”
Seven Hells, he did not deserve you. This amiable tenderness you treated him with shrouded him like midsummer sunlight, warm and welcoming.
“I do not deserve your kindness, nor you.” His voice is splintered, agonized by this cordiality you extend to him. A low huff slips past his lips, humorless.
“You are deserving, even if you have convinced yourself otherwise,” As your cadence twines around him like ivy, he attempts to heed your words. “If these dreams haunt you so, my Prince, let me stand between you and them.”
Daeron shivers when your fingertips ghost across his jaw, a kiss of warmth to melt away the ice that surrounds him. Wordlessly, he places his flagon aside; he does not need it now, not with you.
Gooseflesh coalesces along your spine as he turns into the silk of your palm, planting a chaste kiss there. Pale lashes flutter in rapid succession, amethyst hues softening with an understanding.
“I ask that you call me by my name,” The hushed eloquence of his cadence is like silk, soft lips continuing to lavish your wrist with kisses. “I no longer wish to be a Prince to you.”
Something warm blossomed throughout your belly, a sensation you’d been longing for since the inception of your marriage. You feel it there, hot and unfurling when he dotes upon you.
A hitch forms within your throat as Daeron’s gaze lingers on you for what feels like an eternity, extending beyond the realm of propriety. He is your husband, after all.
Yet, he seems unworthy of coveting you in the way that he does now; that is something he should’ve been doing all along.
Your beauty was never questionable, always something to boast about amongst his kin. Firelight laps at your skin, blanketed by the soft glow of waning embers, bathing you in orange.
It curls across your features like smoke, bringing out the gleam in your eyes. Daeron is uncertain of how to proceed, and the weight of consummating your marriage by his father’s command grows heavy.
Before he can say anything at all, you bridge the gap, mouth pressing softly against his. It is rather unexpected, but he doesn’t find himself recoiling.
He scarcely recalled the last time he kissed you fully; he assumed he was deeply intoxicated if he did. The gentleness of your kiss coaxes him to relax, even if it feels as though he is undeserving of your affection.
Admittedly, you were aching to be touched.
Before tonight, you resigned yourself to a life of misery, only pleasuring yourself to chase some semblance of relief. Part of you hoped that Daeron would indulge you, and you were not above begging.
Tension slowly unfurls from his posture as he reciprocates your kiss, hand lifting to cup your jaw. Even that alone is enough to make you shiver with anticipation.
“Daeron.” At last, his name floats freely from your lips, and it is the sweetest sound of all. He can taste the neediness on your tongue, feel it when you grip his arm.
“I’ve been a cruel husband,” He murmurs, mead-tinged breath fanning across your features. “I have neglected your needs, haven’t I?” Daeron questions softly, watching your expression flicker.
“I — It is not my place to make demands of you,” Despite your desire for transparency, you do not want to coerce him into anything. “Though I have longed to touch you.”
Something hot strikes at his stomach, as though he’s been burned, pale brows drawing together. The dull buzz of alcohol hums through his veins, and yet your embrace evokes a similar effect.
“If permitted, I would like to remedy my errors,” Daeron’s proposition sends shivers down your spine; this is what you’ve wanted from first glance. “I wish to share your bed.”
Without a drop of hesitation, you nod, almost pleading for him to touch you. You lack experience, a stark contrast to your once-rakish husband, but he wasn’t regarded as a rough lover.
“You may.” With your consent issued, his chest expands with a sharp inhale, attempting to gather his bearings and make this pleasurable for you.
Daeron has little interest in fully consummating your marriage this evenfall, hellbent on pleasuring you, instead. It is your ecstasy he should be pursuing, wholly intent on making up for squandered time.
“My father demands that I put a babe in your belly,” He hums lazily, thumb caressing over your chin. “I will obey him in my own sweet time. I wish to please you.”
The pitch of his cadence, wrought with an agonized desire, makes your stomach ripple with heat. Admittedly, you care little for a child at the present — you merely want to feel desirable.
“You may heed his demands another night,” The words are hurried, growing impatient with the brewing tension. You long to be touched, coveted. “For now.”
Though, much to his shock, it is you who kisses him again, hunger pouring from your mouth. He feels it simmer in your kiss like wildfire, threatening to consume the both of you, ashes and all.
Daeron stifles a soft groan, hand cupping near the nape of your neck, feeling your hands curl into his tunic. Each kiss is almost voracious, a torrent of repression you’ve suffered, and he feels everything.
Suppressed desire ripples to the surface, and for a moment, your heartbeats seem to sing a similar lullaby, both aching with want.
For a young maiden who lacks experience with intimacy, you kiss him as if you’ve kissed a thousand times before. It is oozing with passion, unrestrained and uninhibited.
A startled groan erupts within his throat when you bite at his bottom lip, tongue surging into his maw. It is a messy dance, tongues twining, lips colliding, and saliva conjoining the two of you.
Recognizing his own need, one hand drops to grope at your hip, thumb drawing circles over silk. He grips you gently, coaxing you closer, until the distance between is only a sliver.
Each kiss is messy, hot; it becomes an amalgamation of tongue, teeth, and everything amorous.
The shadow of stubble burns pleasantly against your mouth, and you consider what it might feel like between your legs. Daeron’s fingers lightly tangle at the base of your skull, caressing into your tresses.
He tastes of honeyed mead and sweetness, borderline ambrosial as you feel his breath hitch slightly. Perhaps he is just as needy as you are — the thought delights you to no end.
“I’ve thought of you often,” Your confession plumes like a warm breeze across his mouth, desperate and frayed. “Every moment you’ve spent away from me has been torturous.”
Daeron feels the razor-sharp stab of guilt flood into him, but he doesn’t want to stoop to remorse while you’re in his arms. “I am a fool to have left you in such a state.” He utters, gaze shimmering with desire.
It is he who kisses you openly this time, overflowing with a long-smothered desire. The fire within unfurls, and he realizes how much he truly wants you, too. Mouths join again, colliding over and over with desperation.
As lips part, his mouth drops to your throat, gingerly pushing your tresses aside, planting eager kisses to your neck. The noise you make causes him to shiver, breathing in your scent.
It is not the wine that dizzies his senses, but you — this creature of kindness entrapping him in your tender web.
“You are not,” The gasp that splits your mouth causes you to grip handfuls of his tunic. “I thought that there was something wrong with me.” You murmur, and he slowly shakes his head.
“No,” The smile he gives is a touch somber, quietly begging for your forgiveness. “Only me.” Daeron strings kisses down the column of your throat, towards your collarbone.
Gathering your shift into fistfuls, you hastily tug it up along the pliant swell of your thighs, settling into your husband’s waiting lap. A sharp gasp splits his diaphragm, amethyst hues alight with something amorous.
Spurred to action, he inhales your scent, overwhelmingly cloying as he mouths along your flesh. As he descends to your collarbone, his hand slips beneath your breast, a wisp of touch.
“I burn for your embrace, I need you terribly,” Despite the pathetic whine you give him, it is Daeron who seems a mess, shuddering at your confession. “Please, Daeron.”
He enjoys feeling longed-for, sought after; when you give him this gratification, he melts into you, lips pursing to suckle at the soft skin of your chest. When you tug on his hair, it is he who groans in delight.
As the sharp sound blossoms through his chest, you catch it, doe-eyed and wanting to hear the noise again. You pull at your husband’s pallid tresses again, and it earns you another groan.
Before your hand can think to drop to his groin, he stops you with a fervent shake of his head. “Do not,” Daeron soothes, pupils blown-out, lips parted. “This is about you tonight, not I.”
A protest nearly slips from your mouth, but he silences you with a chaste kiss, tongue caressing your bottom lip. Daeron’s mouth lavishes your collarbone in further kisses, gaze shadowed by desire.
Lips passionately brand themselves to your throat, collarbone, sternum — he leaves no inch of your chest untouched. He worships your body, adoring you so viscerally, so deeply.
Enthralled, you watch as his head sinks further, hotly pressing kisses over every inch of flesh he can find. He tugs at your slip, inching the collar down enough to find your breast.
Without warning, his mouth wraps around your nipple, softly suckling at the sensitive bud. A keening moan leaves you, palm cradling at the base of his skull, threading into his hair.
“Tell me what you need,” Daeron’s ardent moan flutters across your chest, his voice soft as it floats between the both of you. “Let me earn your forgiveness.” He slurs, pawing at your hip.
Something hot and wicked settles between your legs, slick arousal coalescing at his subservience. Despite your lack of experience, instinct and desire drive you forward without hesitation.
“I need you, Daeron, I need your mouth.” When you let your tongue loosen, he nods eagerly, mouthing at your chest. He showers your pliant flesh in kisses, suckling at silky skin, clutching onto your hip.
With a stroke of his lips, Daeron began to suck at the peak of your breast, nose brushing along your sternum. It was warm and wet, neediness bleeding into his actions, an inevitability.
The heat from the crackling hearth crawled across your body, leaving you feverishly hot in the wake of your husband’s ministrations.
A fire churned within your belly, longing to be extinguished by his touch. Instead, it only burned brighter when his hand slithered toward your thigh, squeezing at the satiny flesh there.
Finding solace within your flesh, a tendril of spittle clings to the corner of his mouth, shimmering when he moves to tongue at your other breast. He exhales sharply when you tug at his hair.
As one palm grips his tresses, the other clamors between your legs, hastily hitching your skirts up around your hips, exposing your flesh to the cooler air of your chambers.
Ravenous hues trace over your physique, pliant curves framed by thin silks. “Have you touched yourself in my absence?” Daeron rasps against your chest, words emerging between wanton kisses.
Inclined to answer transparently, your head jostles in a lingering nod, lips parted. A razed groan draws doggedly from his mouth, countenance ruined by sheer desperation.
“Yes,” A ragged whine splits your diaphragm as your legs part for him, hand tugging at his tunic. “I thought of you when I did, I — I longed for you, husband.”
It should’ve been his hand between your legs all those nights.
Seeking repentance for his abandonment of you, Daeron greedily suckles at your breast once more, hand slithering towards the apex of your thighs.
Deft, nimble digits sweep over the wet petals of your cunt, shivering in delight when he discovers your arousal. Something pleasant blossoms through his chest; a sense of pride that further spurs his confidence.
Words disintegrate to ash upon his tongue, squashed in the wake of his mouth buried against your flesh. Teeth graze over your nipple, lips hungrily slavering all across your breast.
Fingers circle your clit with care, brushing languidly over the sensitive clutch of nerves. A white-hot jolt ripples through your body, sending a shockwave of bliss to your cunt.
Practiced digits trace over your slit, sinking in sluggish, rhythmic motions across your cunt. A moan sits heavy upon your tongue, loosened when he accompanies it with suckling your breast.
“Forgive me for my neglect of you, wife,” Daeron sighs, tongue dragging along your sternum. One hand shifts to ruck at your slip, flicking along the silken ties. “I wish to see you properly.”
A rosy tongue darts to wet his bottom lip, amethyst hues seeming pathetic, expression one of ardent need. In hurried movements, you clamor from his lap, hastily tearing your chemise off.
Supple flesh becomes unveiled, assuming some ethereal glow beneath flickering firelight. It licks across your skin like paint against a canvas, and Daeron is powerless against your charm.
Some heady, wanton gleam flickers perilously within glassy hues, lips parted, his countenance nothing short of awe. He quietly bids you to sit on the chaise, bones aching with anticipation.
Wordlessly, he slinks down until he is kneeling between your legs, doublet half-unbuttoned, pale tresses scattered around his crown.
Dexterous fingers cradle your calf, caressing along soft skin, ascending towards the crook of your knee. Still silent, he places a kiss there, eyes boring through you with an incendiary gaze.
“D—Daeron,” A fluttery sigh is drawn from your mouth, your cadence pitched with a wanton thrill. “Seven Hells, please do not deny me any longer.” You plead, and he is delighted to obey.
Daeron sluggishly trails kisses along your leg, starting beside your knee before training upwards. He touched you brazenly, no longer anchored by the heavy weight of restraint.
The tips of your digits caress against the base of his skull, perusing through pale tresses, gripping whenever he starts to stray. He kisses a path to the apex of your thighs, stubble scratching at your skin.
“Tell me that you need me.” Daeron sighs, sloppy and wanton, openly mouthing at your inner thigh. His shoulders spread you apart, hands groping the swell of your hips.
Dreams cannot touch him here — no nightmares, no ominous premonitions wrought with confusion and disillusionment.
As you gaze upon him, he looks thoroughly and utterly razed, amethyst hues doe-like and wet, pink lips shimmering when he kisses your cunt.
Gooseflesh coalesces along your spine, pinpricks of exhilaration gripping your body. His mouth burns like warm embers, reverent and gentle as he laps sluggishly over your slick petals.
“Daeron.” A moan flutters from your mouth, lips agape, hand threatening to tug at his tresses. Your body reacts violently to him, held in a state of constant need for so long.
His tongue softly splits you open, dragging over your clit, able to discern just how aroused you are. A noise emanates from the back of his throat, craven and deliciously needy.
“Say it,” He begs hotly, spilling warmth into your cunt as he buries his mouth there. There is an eagerness present, something messy and tactless, but still bristling with desire. “Please.”
Even the finest of wines could not contest your sweetness, arousal thick upon his tongue, like the nectar of an unfurling flower.
“I — Gods, I need you,” A cloying whine simmers from your mouth, diaphragm quivering with another string of moans. You tug at his crown, hips lurching forward. “I need you, Daeron!”
The ecstasy he feels in that moment is unparalleled; the sensation of being wanted, of being useful.
Desperation tears him asunder, and yet he succumbs to it all the same, finding sanctity between your thighs. He kneels as if he’s a sinner, coming to whisper away his vices between your thighs.
Pleasure jolts through your body in shockwaves, piercing your belly, slicking between your thighs as your hips urge forward. The friction isn’t unwanted with him; he’s starving, ravenous.
The ragged scratch of his stubble burns pleasantly against your cunt, chafing at your inner thighs. His mouth is a messy thing — sloppy, raring, and desirous.
As molten heat oozes like honey against your nethers, Daeron is drawn to your nectar, akin to a bee. He steadies one hand against your thigh, digits caressing circles into your skin.
The other holds steadfastly to your hip, shivering in delight when your fingers intertwine with his. Every sensation digs like a hot brand into your core, bliss entangled with something divine.
He sheds his misery like a second skin, abandoning it there between your legs, allowing himself to become drunk upon your presence. It is an intoxication of a different kind, quelled as his tongue drags languidly over your cunt.
Touching yourself paled in comparison to the wondrous labyrinth of his mouth, hips jolting as you pathetically chase after every scrap of friction.
Daeron groans into your cunt, concentration blurred by the earlier consumption of alcohol. It burns his nerves, removing any sharp edges and hesitation.
“Better than wine.” He huffs against your thigh, mouth brazenly glistening with your slick. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip before he looks to you, hopelessly devoted.
Slowly, he descends upon you once more, gaze silently begging for your attention as he drags his tongue across your slit. You let out a strangled whine, flushed and writhing.
Shame is not present here, drowned out by your cacophony of sweet noises. He lets himself be tactless and amorous, lapping openly at your cunt like some slavering animal.
His cock twitches within his breeches, aching with something desirous, mouth raking over your silken flesh with a single-minded purpose. Pleasure is exchanged between you both, a cycle of ecstasy.
A searing intensity pulses hotly between your thighs, arousal thick on his tongue as he savors you. Whenever your hips begin to writhe elsewhere, he grounds you gently, urging you to his mouth.
It is then that he finds the pearl of your cunt, breath heavy and hot as his lips kiss at the clutch of nerves. Your knees shake, a gasp ripping through your windpipe with a suddenness.
“Daeron,” A keening moan flutters prettily from your throat, countenance askew with pleasure. The sudden pulse of bliss ebbs through your body, wrapping around your bones. “There, mm — there!”
The sudden crash of euphoria is unlike anything you’d experienced before, as if you were a smoldering fire stoked to life. You fear smothering him, but Daeron welcomes it all gleefully.
It is a masterful push-and-pull he plays with you, relinquishing pressure against your clit before lapping at it again, and then repeating. He is drunk on you, consuming you as if you were his lifeblood.
“Fuck,” Daeron sighs into your cunt, chin glistening with your slick, lips still working to make you reach your pinnacle. “You taste divine.” He exhales, grasping at your thighs.
He could stay like this for an eternity if you asked it of him; begged him, perhaps. Your body responds viscerally to him, fingers knotted into his tresses, tugging whenever he found a spot that made you writhe.
Your chest heaves with labored sighs of passion, thighs quivering as his tongue rakes across your cunt. He stops again at your clit, lips kissing and suckling at the small bud in cycles.
Arousal claws at his veins like fire, hips pathetically rutting forward, friction scarce. A wet sheen of tears glistens in his gaze, tears of ecstasy stinging as he continues to lap sloppily at your cunt.
You feel it, then; white-hot and incendiary, moving like smoke as it slithers across your body. Release slams into you after the slow crawl, and you almost collapse.
Stars float aimlessly within your gaze, head rolled backwards, back arched and thighs smothering his head. Daeron cares little, delighted to drown in your taste, holding onto your calves.
When at last the dam breaks fully, you tremble with ecstasy, limbs weightless, body floating into a feverish haze. Pale tresses slip through your fingers as you tug again, and tug with a sense of urgency.
He drinks you as he would his wine, and yet you taste sweeter, chasing away whatever shadowy plague torments his thoughts.
Even as you reach your pinnacle, he does not relent, open-mouthed and greedy as he laps at your drenched cunt. A sharp moan escapes him when you attempt to inch away, nearly overwhelmed.
“Not yet, I beg you,” Daeron pleads, breathless and wanton as he reluctantly parts from your nethers. He appears undone in such an amorous way, gaze full of need. “Allow me another moment.”
Bewildered, your head bobs in a lackadaisical nod, digits softly stroking through his tresses as he plants kisses to your slick petals. Another moan drags through your chest, flesh hot and tingling.
He slows to an exploratory crawl, tongue licking you like some keening kitten, hands trembling as he caresses along your haunches.
“Daeron, Gods.” Another passionate sigh escapes you, hips absently rolling into his mouth. He groans as if he’s succumbed to ecstasy, and you reach to hold his hand.
This act alone is what takes him to his own precipice, marked by a bliss he hasn’t experienced for some time. He cums untouched, embarrassingly enough, but he is wholly satisfied.
When he finally ceases, your countenance is one of veiled amazement, body drenched in pleasure, knees trembling like leaves. You watch as he rests his chin atop your thigh, huffing a smile.
The moment is warm; the warmest it’s felt since the beginning of your marriage.
Daeron appears the picture of a man who has regained some sliver of himself, content to recline between your legs, stroking at your skin.
“Lay with me.” It is not a command you utter, but merely a request, one that he heeds without question. As you shakily wobble from the chaise, you lay in your bed, with your husband at your side.
He settles down, and for as foreign as it all feels, he does think he could grow accustomed to it. You turn into him, laying partially on your belly and on top of him, feeling his palm smooth across your spine.
A serene hush settles between you both, born in the aftermath of carnality and intimacy. The buzz that hums through two bodies is shared; and it’s perfect.
“You are endearingly sweet,” He hums, shivering as your fingertips dance across his hairline, politely fixing his disheveled tresses. “I suppose you would make an excellent wife.”
The light jest he gives does bring a sense of easiness to your heart, knowing that he is serious in mending your relationship. He knows now that he wants you entirely.
“If you would allow me the opportunity, I’d like to be,” A tender smile curls your lips, and you plant a kiss to his jaw, and then another. “But only if you agree to be my husband.”
Daeron huffs in mild amusement, mauve hues no longer bearing the weight of an unimaginable anguish. They seem lighter now, as if part of a burden has been lifted from his shoulders.
“Hm,” He ponders, playfully keeping you in a moment of suspense. His head tilts enough to look at you, truly look at you, and he knows now that he is understood. “I do have some learning to do.”
His confession is astoundingly honest, and it makes your heart call for him even more. Neither of you truly know one another — but you can start anew.
“As do I,” Adjusting yourself further, you curl comfortably against him, enjoying the sensation of his fingers caressing your back. “I believe it would be best if we learned together.”
“Yes,” Daeron exhales, mouth twitching into the ghost of a genuine smile as he gazes at the canopy, tears glistening within his gaze. “I’d like that.”
Pairing: Ellie Williams x Reader AND Abby Anderson x Reader (separately)
Word Count: 9.3k+
Summary: You and Ellie catch up, but this cause major turmoil inside of you. You have a huge decision to make.
A/N: Hello! Sorry this took longer than expected to be posted! This chapter has been done since last week, but it has taken everything out of me to edit it lol sorry. If you would like to be added to the tag list lmk!
Ao3 Link
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I can’t do this. I need to get the fuck out of this place.
Out of all the places in the country you could possibly be, you would end up where Ellie lived. Of course, after all of these years, this would be the place. The universe always played sick jokes on you.
The truth was, Ellie being here complicated everything. Your emotions and your capabilities of finishing this mission were shot. You wanted to give up the mission and live in this fantasy world Ellie lived in, but you couldn't. Abby was waiting for you on the other side.
Regardless, you held on to Ellie. You could still feel her breath on your neck. It was unbelievable that this was how everything would play out.
The two of you held onto each other as if you were afraid that the other might disappear if you let go.
“Hey, is everything alright out he–”
Jesse’s voice cut off mid-sentence.
You immediately release her at the sound of his voice, almost instinctively stepping back. Your eyes were red, your face blotchy from crying, and Ellie did not look any better.
“...Did we miss something?” Dina asks slowly. Her gaze flicked between you and Ellie. “Ellie?”
Ellie snaps back to reality by the sound of her name. She stepped away from you and toward her friends, rubbing the back of her neck like she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to.
“No,” she muttered. “We’re good.”
Jesse wasn’t convinced. His eyebrows were raised nearly to his hairline as he looked between the two of you standing there in the snow like a pair of guilty teenagers.
“You two are gonna explain why you’re both crying in the middle of the street,” he said, “or are we just gonna pretend this is normal?”
Ellie shot him an annoyed look. “Drop it, man.”
Dina crossed her arms, her curiosity clearly winning the battle.
“Oh no,” she said, stepping closer. “We are absolutely not dropping it.”
“You ran out of there,” she said, pointing at you. “Ellie chased after you. Now we come out here and find you two hugging and crying in the middle of the street. How did this happen? You’ve been here less than an hour.”
She tilted her head in your direction, “So yeah. I’m gonna need the full story.”
Ellie glanced at you briefly before answering.
“We grew up together,” she said.
“That’s it?” Jesse asked.
Ellie shrugged, but Dina’s eyes stayed on you. They were sharp. Observant. You’d seen that look before on soldiers and patrol leaders, people who had learned the hard way that trusting the wrong stranger could get everyone killed. You had looked at people the same way far too many times in Seattle.
Ellie shifted beside you, clearly uncomfortable.
“Dina,” she muttered. “It’s not a big deal.”
Dina raised an eyebrow.
“Really?” she said slowly. “Because it looks like a big deal.”
The wind swept through the street, carrying loose snow across the ground in thin white ribbons. Your fingers had gone numb, but you barely noticed. Every nerve in your body was focused on the three people standing in front of you.
Jesse exhaled through his nose and rubbed his hands together.
“Okay,” he said. “Before we do this interrogation thing out here and freeze to death…”
He gestured toward the building behind them.
“Can we take this inside?”
Dina didn’t move. Her eyes were still locked on you.
Jesse sighed.
“Dina.”
She finally broke her stare, rolling her shoulders slightly.
“Fine,” she muttered.
Jesse turned back toward the mess hall and pushed the door open. Warm air spilled out immediately, along with the muffled noise of people talking and dishes clinking.
“Inside,” he said, waving you all in. “Then we play twenty questions.”
Ellie shot him a glare but stepped forward anyway.
You followed behind them, your boots tracking wet snow across the wooden floor. The warmth inside hit your skin almost painfully after the cold outside. A few people glanced over when the door slammed shut behind Jesse, but most went back to their conversations. Jesse led the group toward a quieter corner of the room, near a small table pushed up against the wall.
“Alright,” he said, dropping into a chair. “Let’s hear it.”
Ellie immediately leaned against the wall, arms crossed, clearly hoping the conversation would somehow dissolve on its own.
She tilted her head slightly, studying your face like she was piecing together a puzzle.
“I knew Ellie from the Boston QZ. We grew up together until she left. I stayed for a while, then I also left. I lived in Seattle with a group, then we left because nowhere is stable enough to stay in for too long. We heard about a settlement, but my friends were killed by raiders a few towns back.”
The group nodded, looking between you and Ellie. Awkward silence lingered on the table until Jesse leaned back, his chair creaking against the wooden floor. "You missed the early days," he said, glancing at Ellie with a smirk. "When this one first got here, she was like a feral cat. I think she threatened to shoot me twice in the first week just for saying 'good morning'."
Dina laughed, a bright, genuine sound that felt out of place in a world that usually only knew silence or screams. She reached out and nudged Ellie’s shoulder. "Only twice? Jesse, you must have caught her on a good week. She nearly broke my nose during a snowball fight because I 'snuck up on her'."
Ellie rolled her eyes, but there was a softness in her expression that you didn't recognize. "I didn't know the rules of engagement for snow yet," she muttered, though a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
You sat there, hands wrapped around a mug of lukewarm water just to feel the heat, and listened.
They talked about the time they’d spent a whole afternoon trying to fix a tractor that was clearly beyond saving, only for Tommy to walk over and fix it in five minutes with a single wrench. They talked about the dances in the gym, the local gossip about who was courting who, and the "Great Blueberry Incident" on a patrol two summers ago that ended with Jesse’s horse being stained purple for a month.
With every story, the gap between you and Ellie seemed to widen.
They knew the Ellie who liked to draw in the quiet of the library. They knew the Ellie who complained about the smell of the stables but always volunteered for the late shift anyway. They knew the Ellie who felt safe enough to laugh.
"She’s a different person when she’s out on the trail, though," Dina said, her voice softening as she looked at you. "The most capable scout we’ve got. I don't know what we’d do without her."
Ellie shifted, her shoes scuffing the floor. She wasn't looking at them; she was looking at you. She saw the way you were holding yourself, shoulders tight, eyes moving toward the exits every time a door slammed. She knew that look. It was the look of someone who was still looking over their shoulder, someone who hadn't slept in a real bed in years.
“You’re quiet,” Jesse noted, tilting his head. “Boston must’ve been a lifetime ago, huh?”
“It feels like it,” you said, your voice sounding raspy even to your own ears.
“Well, you’re here now,” Dina said. There was still a flicker of suspicion in her eyes. Dina was too smart to let it go entirely, but there was kindness there, too. “We take care of our own in Jackson.”
The word 'own' stung. You weren't one of them. You would never be one of them, no matter how much you yearned to be part of Ellie’s world again. You were just a ghost haunting a feast.
As they kept talking, their voices began to blur into a hum of domesticity. You watched the way Dina’s hand would occasionally brush Ellie’s arm, the way Jesse spoke with the easy confidence of a man who knew he had a home to go back to. They were sharing a life, while you were just sharing a lie.
The jealousy brewed in your stomach. It wasn't just that they had food and warmth; it was that they had her. They had the versions of Ellie that you had missed out on, the teenage years, the growing pains, the safety.
You were jealous. They spent all of these years with Ellie getting to know her better than you ever did. Jealousy was a green-eyed bitch gripping you by the throat.
Day 1
You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep had been a stranger last night; your mind was stuck on an endless loop of Ellie.
How was it possible that she was here? How were you here? How was that possible? You could never return here even if you wanted to. You were set to kill a man from this same town. You would never be welcomed.
Would Ellie see past this?
Your mind spiraled for hours on end, until a knock at the front door broke you out of it. You peel yourself off the bed and head over to the door.
Opening the door, you let out a big yawn.
A man stood before you with a box filled with things. You furrow your eyebrows and say, “Um, Hello?”
“Mornin’ sweetheart, I’m Joel Miller…”
Joel Fucking Miller was standing at your front door. You didn't even have to go on a hunt for him. He came to you. You truly could not help but smirk.
“I’m sorry, I did not catch a word you said, Joel. I guess my brain is still asleep, but come on in. I’m Y/N.” You say opening the door wide enough to let him in.
Holy shit.
He shakes his head as he steps in, “Maria sent me over to bring you more clothes and personal hygiene things.”
“That is very sweet of you, Joel. I appreciate it. Let me invite you to a cup of coffee to thank you for bringing this over.” You say almost demanding. You needed him to stay longer to scope him out.
“You got coffee, kid?” He said, surprised.
“Yup. I traded for it a couple of towns back. It is my prized possession, but you seem worth it to share with.” You said you were heading towards your bags, which you dumped by the stairs last night, too tired to sort your things out.
You could not wrap your head around the fact that JOEL MILLER was standing in front of you. After a thousand miles of traveling, he just stood in front of you waiting for coffee.
This was the man who killed Abby’s dad in cold blood, and you were offering a cup of coffee.
Abby would not believe this. There's no way in hell that she would. You could already imagine the sheer disgust all over her face.
You take the kettle off the stove and pour him a cup. “Here you go. Careful, it's hot.” You say handing the mug over to Joel. His body immediately relaxes as the coffee touches his mouth.
“Wow. I haven’t had coffee in ages. Thank you.”
You give him a small nod as you sip from your own cup, examining him.
He was old, but still looked strong. Wrinkles adorned his face. He was too trusting. That was his fatal flaw. He came into the house without knowing you.
The two of you sit in silence, drinking coffee. It was oddly peaceful. You expected him to be hostile and cold. You expected a murderer, but he was just an old man trying to make it through life, finding joy in a cup of coffee. Maybe he was different back then. Maybe he is different now.
“I ought to head out. I have to patrol in about 30 minutes. I wish I could stay longer to enjoy this coffee, but I wanted to thank you.” He said, setting down his cup.
“Yeah, of course. Come back anytime, I’d be happy to share another cup of coffee with you.” You say, walking him towards the door.
You wave at him as he walks out the door.
Abby would be losing her shit.
—-
Your body craved to see Ellie. You wanted to take every bit of her in. You wanted to know all about the time you missed out on.
Your body ached to see Ellie again.
I wasn’t just a want. It was deeper than that. Something instinctive, like your skin, remembered her and needed to feel her touch again.
You wanted to memorize every inch of her all over again. The way she smiled, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed.
The sound of her voice.
You have missed out on five years of her life.
Five years of stories you didn’t know, memories you were not a part of.
And the worst part of it all?
There wasn’t enough time to make up for it. You couldn’t stay to make up for the lost time.
You came here with a purpose. The purpose of being in and out. You had to go back to Abby.
Things between you and Abby were complicated and messy. Broken in ways neither of you has had the chance to figure out how to fix yet. But despite everything, despite the distance and the pain and the way your heart broke more and more when you were near her, you couldn’t bring yourself to hurt her. Let alone betray her.
There's no way you could. Not after everything you had been through together. The miles you traveled side by side. The years of friendship.
You couldn’t betray her because you loved her, despite everything.
Your fingers tightened around your mug as you continued to spiral.
You needed a plan for this. You walked in here with no plans other than ‘lure Joel out in 3 days.’ Who in their right mind would agree to this with no plan?
If you did lure Joel out, would the people of Jackson ever find out?
Could you disappear before anyone realized what happened?
Could you get away with it?
Could you still have Ellie after?
If she were to find out, would she look at you differently?
You shut your eyes tightly. Why did Ellie have to be here?
But before you could dwell on Ellie for too long, Abby pushed her way into your mind.
Could you forget about Abby?
You hated this. You hated how tangled everything had become and how every choice seemed impossible.
The more logical choice was to continue with the mission as planned, forget about Ellie. You have lived five years without her. You have a good life in Seattle. You have friends. You have a role in your life in Seattle. You have Abby.
A sudden, frantic pounding slammed against the front door, ripping you out of your thoughts.
“Y/N! OPEN THE DOOR!”
Ellie.
You shot up from your chair so fast the legs scraped harshly against the floor.
Your heart was pounding against your chest.
Ellie stood outside the door like a storm ready to break through it.
Truth was, she had barely slept. She was too excited to see you again.
The entire night, she tossed and turned, staring up at the ceiling, your face burned into her mind.
You were here. In Jackson. After five years.
After five years of wondering what had become of you. Five years of thinking she would never see your face again. And now, you have appeared here, in her home.
She couldn’t waste another second.
She lifted her hand to pound on the door again, “Y/N!!”
You rushed across the room and yanked the door open just before she could knock again.
“Ellie, what the hell?” you said breathlessly. “You’re gonna break the damn door down.”
Ellie barely hears what you say to her. The moment the door opened, her eyes landed on you, and everything else disappeared. She stood there and took you in.
Her eyes lit up like someone had struck a match inside them. You were beautiful, even more than she remembered.
Her stomach twisted as a wave of embarrassment hit her. How the hell had she not recognized you yesterday?
“You’re real,” she muttered under her breath, almost like she didn't believe it.
You let out a small chuckle.
She was still the same girl from Boston. Still impatient. Still intense. Still bursting with too much emotion to contain.
God, you missed her.
Five years. Five entire years of her life you hadn’t been there for.
How were you supposed to spend the next couple of days with her knowing the truth?
Knowing you were here to drag Joel Miller out and end his life?
How were you supposed to laugh with her?
Talk with her?
Share stories?
Pretend everything is normal?
And even if you could forget your purpose of being here, even for a moment, how could five years of lost time ever fit into three days?
Your chest tightened again.
You knew the reality. You weren’t stupid enough to believe this stupid fantasy.
Once Joel was dead, this fantasy would be over.
Ellie.
Jackson.
All of it would be over.
You would return to Seattle and be forced to forget about this.
“Come on,” Ellie said suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Get your stuff and let’s go.”
“What?”
“We’ve got five years to catch up,” she said. “And I’m not wasting another second standing around.”
You laugh and run to throw on your coat, hat, and gloves.
“Where are you taking me, Williams?” you ask.
“I want to show you around Jackson,” Ellie said as she grabbed your wrist and started pulling you down the steps. “There is something I really want you to see.”
You laughed softly and followed her.
Jackson unfolded around you like something out of a dream.
People moved through the streets with easy smiles. Kids chased each other between buildings. Someone was chopping wood nearby while a pair of horses clopped slowly down the road.
Peace.
Real peace.
It almost made your stomach twist.
None of them suspected a thing. No one here could possibly imagine that the stranger walking through their town was here to hunt one of their own.
Your eyes drifted across the streets of Jackson as you walked beside Ellie. The place was beautiful. Safe in a way, the world outside the walls simply wasn’t.
You wondered what your life might have looked like if you had ended up here with Ellie instead of Seattle all those years ago.
The two of you walked in silence for a while.
Ellie didn’t rush you.
She remembered exactly what it felt like arriving in Jackson for the first time. The noise, the people, and the overwhelming sense that life was somehow normal here.
So for a few more moments, she let you take it all in before she disturbed the silence. “You remember that silly little stuffed bunny you used to carry around everywhere?”
“Oh my god, Mr. Fluffington?” you ask.
Ellie laughed, “You gave him such a stupid name. That ugly thing.”
“Hey!” you protested, nudging her shoulder, “His name wasn’t stupid, and he was NOT ugly.”
“He was missing an eye, and he was filthy.”
“It gave him character.”
“You used to do everything with that thing,” she began, “I remember you refused to do anything without that thing.”
“I have had him since I was four. I loved him,” you say, smiling at her.
“Yeah, well,” Ellie continued, rubbing the back of her neck, “I hated that bunny.”
“Ellie, seriously, a stuffed animal that was older than both of us? Hating a stuffed animal is crazy.”
“You loved it more than me!”
You barked out a laugh, “No, that’s not true. I did not.”
“It was true to twelve-year-old me,” she says defensively.
“Is that why you got him confiscated?” You ask
“Don’t start.” Ellie laughed
“What! You got him taken away!”
“In my defense, I didn’t know the guards were going to search us!”
“You waved it in their faces!”
“I did not!”
You rolled your eyes.
“You were so mad at me,” Ellie said.
“You got my favorite thing taken away, Williams. I remember I cried for DAYS, and when I finally got over the sadness, the anger settled in, and I hid your Walkman for a month,” you admit.
Ellie stopped in her tracks and looked straight at you.
“It was you?! You evil person! I searched everywhere for it. I was so miserable without music! I cannot believe you!”
“Mr. Fluffington was my prized possession, so it was only right to take yours. I gave it back anyway.”
“I actually tried to replace him,” she admitted
Your eyes flicked towards her.
“What?”
Ellie gestured toward a small building up ahead.
“When I first got here, Maria made me take a sewing class. Said everyone had to learn something useful.”
You stared at her. “So you took up sewing?”
“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up.”
You really tried to hide your smile, but you could not stop imagining Ellie Williams sewing.
“My first project was…” she paused, pushing open the door in front of you, “this.”
The room inside smelled faintly of fabric and thread. Tables scattered around with scraps of cloth, spools of string, and half-finished projects.
Ellie walked over to a small wooden shelf and picked something up before turning back toward you.
In her hand was a stuffed bunny.
Your breath caught.
He wasn’t identical; he was a patchwork bunny made up of different shades of blue.
Same floppy ears.
Same pink stitched nose.
Same missing eye.
You stared at it, completely in disbelief.
Ellie shifted awkwardly under your gaze.
“I made it the first week I got here,” she whispered. “I missed you so badly. I figured… if I couldn’t give you the old one back…”
She shrugged, her eyes glued to the floor.
“...maybe I could make a new one.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Really, he lives at home with me, but I brought him here for the dramatics,” she began, “I kept him close because it made me feel like you were still somewhere close to me.”
You didn't realize you stepped closer until you were standing right in front of her. Your fingers brushed the fabric gently, almost afraid that if you touched him, he would fade away.
Tears gathered in your eyes.
You weren’t sure what to do. You didn't know if you wanted to cry, or thank her, or hug her. Or tell her how much this meant to you that she carried a piece of you through all these years.
But somehow, you were just frozen.
“Oh, Ellie…” you whisper.
“Take it,” she said, shoving the bunny into your hands.
You look down at the bunny in your hands, then back up at Ellie, before pulling her into a tight hug.
“Thank you, Ellie.”
Ellie wrapped her arms around you and hugged you tightly.
You let go first, standing there awkwardly.
“Alright,” she said, clearing her throat. “Next stop.”
You followed her back outside, still holding the bunny.
Soon, the two of you arrived at a small garage on the edge of the street.
You looked up at it and immediately snorted.
“It’s so typical of you to live in a garage, Ellie.”
She groaned.
“Oh my god, shut up.”
She pushed the door open and gestured dramatically.
“Welcome to my humble abode.”
The moment you stepped inside, you couldn’t help smiling.
It was so Ellie.
Posters covered the walls. Drawings were taped up everywhere. Old records were stacked beside a small turntable. Books, comics, and random junk filled every surface.
Messy.
Creative.
Alive.
It looked exactly like the room of the fourteen-year-old girl you remembered… She just happened to grow up a little.
Ellie started to say something, probably beginning a tour, but you were already wandering around the room, inspecting everything.
Your eyes landed on photographs pinned to the wall.
Ellie and other people. You assumed her friends.
Laughing.
Smiling.
Living.
Jealousy crept into your chest before you could stop it.
You had missed all of this.
You missed out on so much. She was here, building a life, experiencing peace and happiness.
Your gaze stopped on one photo in particular.
A girl sat on a chair while holding a tattoo gun, concentrating carefully.
She was pretty, but not really Ellie’s type.
“Who’s that?” you asked, pointing.
Ellie glanced over.
“Oh. Cat. She’s my ex.”
You looked back at the photo, inspecting it more closely. Her ex. You tried to be happy that she lived a life where she could say that she had an ex, but God, you were pissed that another girl got the opportunity to love her.
It was selfish because you also had your handful of flings back home, but you couldn’t help but feel this way.
“She’s pretty cool,” Ellie added. “You’d probably like her.”
You hummed noncommittally and continued wandering. Your fingers brushed over sketches taped to the wall before stopping on something that made your chest ache.
A worn photograph of the two of you.
You traced the edge of it gently. She kept it after all of these years, the last gift you gave her in Boston.
“I dreamt about this,” Ellie said quietly behind you.
You turned slightly.
“About what?”
“Seeing you again.”
Her voice had lost its usual teasing edge.
“I’m sorry I left you behind,” she said softly. “If I had known… if I had even imagined what would happen…”
Her voice faltered.
“I would’ve fought harder to bring you with me.”
You looked at her for a moment.
“I know.”
And you did.
Ellie had been a kid. She had no choice in the decisions of the adults around her. She was just a kid.
You moved over to the couch and dropped down into it.
A stack of comic books sat on the coffee table.
Your eyes widened immediately.
“No fucking way.”
You grabbed one and started flipping through it.
“You have the whole collection?”
Ellie leaned against the couch, looking smug.
“How the hell did you manage that?” you continued, scanning the covers. “These are impossible to find!”
“Dina and I found them in an old bookstore a couple towns over,” she said. “You can borrow them if you want.”
You flipped another page, shaking your head in disbelief.
“These are Abby’s favorites,” you muttered.
Ellie straightened slightly. “Who’s Abby?”
The air in the room seemed to freeze. Your heart dropped straight into your stomach, and your skin went cold.
How fucking stupid could you possibly be?
You forced your expression to stay neutral.
“She… was my friend,” you said carefully.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the comic book.
“She was one of the people who died.”
Ellie watched you carefully. Most people wouldn't have noticed it. The tiny shift in your demeanor. Barely there, but Ellie noticed. Your eyebrow twitched for half a second, and your thumb rubbed against the side of your index finger. The same nervous habit you had since you were a kid.
There it was, you were lying.
Ellie tilted her head slightly, “Tell me about her.”
Maybe if she kept you talking long enough, she would catch you slipping up.
This couldn’t possibly be happening.
Yeah, Ellie, my dead friend Abby is actually very much alive, sitting up in the lodge right now waiting for me to deliver the man who killed her dad.
“I met her in Seattle,” you began. “About 3 or 4 years ago.”
Your eyes drifted back down to the comic book in your hands.
“I was trying to steal supplies from the settlement she was at. Whatever I could get my hands on, but I was specifically looking for guns, ammo, and medical supplies.”
Ellie listened attentively to your story.
“As I had gotten to their medical base, I got caught.”
You could still remember the fear you felt. The floodlights and the rifles aimed at your chest. Isaac stood there watching you like you were some kind of interesting creature.
“They have a rule there to shoot to kill, but they took an interest in me almost immediately. I had managed to sneak through three guard rotations and nearly got away with a third of their armory before I was caught.”
You continue.
“I was assigned to be roommates with Abby, and her group of friends took me in almost immediately.”
You learned back slightly, finally looking up at Ellie.
“You just told me how you got caught, you didn’t actually tell me anything about Abby you know.” Ellie said, taking a seat across from you.
You sigh and slump on the couch.
“Ellie please no…”You begin
“C’mon, I can tell she meant a lot to you.”
You release the air you had been holding in and begin, “She was my best friend, Els, I loved her very deeply.”
6 Months Ago
“Abigail…this is beautiful.”
Your voice echoed softly through the massive room as you stepped beneath enormous whales suspended from the ceiling. Their bodies stretched high above you.
You slowly spun in a circle, staring up in disbelief.
“Jesus..” you murmured. “To think those things are actually swimming around somewhere… that shit is terrifying.”
Behind you, Abby leaned against the doorway with her arms crossed, watching your reaction carefully. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“You think this is impressive?” she asked. “This is nothing. Just wait.”
Her boots echoed across the floor as she pushed off the wall and grabbed your wrist. She dragged you down the hallway before you could even protest. You stumbled after her until she stopped in front of a faded sign that read Max’s Place.
The room was covered floor to ceiling with paintings. Bright colors, messy brushstrokes depicting sea life.
You walked closer to a painting of a dolphin. “Wow, they were talented.”
You slowly walk down the hallways, admiring each painting.
“Let’s go,” Abby said, dragging you by the wrist.
“No, hold on,” you protest, pointing at another painting. “Look at that one! The colors on this–”
“Y/N.”
You turn your attention to her.
Abby jerked her head toward a ladder in the corner.
“You can admire the art later.”
You stared at the ladder.
Then at her.
Then back at the ladder.
“…Are you planning on killing me?”
Abby blinked twice in confusion, “What?”
“You are luring me into a dark basement with a ladder,” you begin, slowly backing away. “That is exactly how people die.”
Abby makes a face at you, which almost makes you laugh, but the fear clings to your stomach. There was no way you were going down that death trap. No way in hell.
“Are you serious right now?”
“I am your best friend, Abigail,” you say, “It would be awfully rude to murder me.”
She shook her head at you in annoyance.
“You trust me, right?”
You hummed thoughtfully, tilting your head like you were genuinely thinking about it.
“Hmmmmm…no,” you joke, smirking at her.
Abby glares at you before extending her hand, “Please, for me.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically before reluctantly taking her hand. Your favorite pass time was to give Abby a hard time.
“Fine,” you say. “But if I die, I’m haunting you.”
“Good,” Abby replied as she started climbing down the ladder. “At least then you’ll finally be quiet.”
You scoffed and began to descend.
“Are you excited for your surprise?” Abby asked.
“Nope.”
“Such a buzzkill.”
“Shut up,” you muttered. “You love me.”
There was a small pause.
“...Debatable,” Abby replied.
After what seemed like an eternity of climbing down the ladder, your feet finally touched the ground again.
A dim hallway stretched ahead, lit by soft blue lights. Small water tanks lined the walls, fish drifting lazily behind glass panels. Painting filled the spaces without tanks. Your eyes flew all over the place.
“Seriously?” You groan, approaching the cardboard castle.
“Do you ever wait before you judge?” Abby asked before stepping through the castle.
“Abigail…” you begin as you follow her through the castle. The moment you stepped inside, you froze.
Light filtered through massive sheets of water surrounding the room. The blue glow shimmered across the walls like sunlight beneath the ocean.
Your jaw dropped.
“Oh, my god…”
You rushed forward and pressed your hands against the glass.
Schools of fish drifted past slowly.
“This is insane,” you whispered.
Behind you, Abby barely looked at the tanks. She was watching you. Watching the way your face lit up every time another fish swam by.
“You’ve been miserable lately,” she said quietly.
You glanced back at her.
“Figured you deserved something… nice.”
Your chest tightened slightly. You smiled at her, but before you could respond, Abby pointed ahead.
“There he is, look,” Abby said.
You leaned closer. A seal suddenly darted across the glass, twisting playfully through the water before stopping right in front of you.
You gasped.
“No way.”
The seal spun in a circle like it was showing off.
You laughed.
“You’re such a showoff,” you said.
Behind you, Abby stepped closer. Without thinking, she rested her chin on your shoulder. Her breath warmed the side of your neck. Naturally, your body relaxed instantly against her. You tilted your head slightly until it rested against hers.
“Abigail, this is just… amazing… Thank you.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
“So…Do you forgive me for making you get in the water?” Abby asked quietly, knowing exactly what your answer would be. You had kicked and screamed the whole way because you absolutely hated swimming. You were terrified, but somehow she convinced you to do it.
You turned slowly to face her.
“Absolutely not, I could’ve drowned,” you said flatly,“Or even worse, I could’ve been swallowed by a whale.”
She throws her head back as a laugh is released deep from her belly. It was like music to your ears. This version of Abby was your favorite. Seeing her this happy was enough to keep you going. However, as her laughter died down, the look of happiness on her face was replaced witha rather serious one.
“Owen thinks we might have a lead on Joel,” she said.
Your stomach sank.
“He’s close,” Abby continued quietly. “I know it.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I have to avenge my dad.”
You rubbed the back of your neck.
“This is your revenge, not mine. I…I don’t care about the old man, but I care about you. You know I would follow you to the ends of the earth, Abigail.” you said carefully.
You hated talking about Joel. You hated listening to Abby’s voice crack. You hated the facade she put on for Owen to cover up her pain. You hated the tears gathering in her eyes. You hated all of it. You didn’t care to kill the man. You cared about her. You always found yourself walking out of the room anytime she discussed it.
She didn’t understand why you hated talking about it, but she knew you’d follow her anywhere. She quickly changed the subject, not wanting the tension to linger for much longer.
“I still don’t understand why you insist on calling me Abigail,” Abby muttered.
You smirked.
“It’s your name. Is it not?” you asked, stepping closer to her. Your faces are now inches apart. Her blue eyes searching yours.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her gaze dropped to your lips.
Then back to your eyes.
You took her hands gently in yours, closing the gap between your bodies. You felt lucky to even be in her presence. To be here with her hand in yours. Your pulse hammered in your ears.
Then you kissed her.
Abby froze.
For a heartbeat, she didn’t move.
Then she kissed you back.
Soft.
Careful.
Like she was testing something she didn’t understand.
Then suddenly she shoved you away.
You stumbled backward, slamming lightly into the glass.
Your eyes widened.
Abby stood frozen, breathing hard.
“I’m sorry,” you blurted immediately. Panic flooded your chest.
“I shouldn’t have—”
“I don’t like girls,” Abby said quickly.
Her voice shook.
“I’m with Owen.”
She ran a hand through her hair.
“I have to go.”
“Abby—”
But she was already walking away from you. Your stomach dropped at the sight of it.
“Abigail, wait!”
You chased after her. Your boots pounded against the hallway floor as you caught up to her.
“Abby, please just listen—”
Abby walked faster at the sound of your voice behind her.
“I’m sorry,” you said breathlessly.
“I didn’t mean to make things weird, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Abby snapped.
You finally caught up to her, and you grabbed her arm.
“Abby, please—”
She jerked away from you like your touch burned.
“Stop.”
The word came out sharp.
Your chest tightened.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I said stop,” Abby said again, refusing to look at you.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered desperately.
“I thought you felt it too.”
Abby finally turned around.
Her face was flushed with confusion and anger.
“Well, I don’t. And you know I’m with Owen,” she said quickly.
The words felt like a punch to the chest.
Your throat tightened.
“I’m sorry,” you said again, your voice breaking slightly.
“I just… misread everything.”
Abby looked away.
She couldn’t even look at you.
“I have training,” she muttered.
Abby began her climb up the ladder in utter confusion. She had never felt anything like that with Owen. Electricity raced through her veins as your soft lips kissed hers, but it wasn’t right. This isn’t how you feel about your best friend. This isn’t how things were supposed to happen. Abby is always in control.
You stood there frozen in the hallway watching her disappear up the ladder.
A quiet sob escaped your throat.
You dragged a hand down your face.
“God…” you muttered. “I’m such an idiot.”
Back inside the aquarium room, you slowly walked back toward the glass.
Fish drifted lazily through the water, completely unaware of what had just happened. Blissfully swimming as if you had not ruined everything.
You leaned your forehead against the cool glass.
“I wish I were one of you,” you whispered.
Because fish didn’t ruin the only good thing they had.
Present Time
“Then she died, and we never got to resolve anything,” you say, clearing your throat. You left out the Joel part, but kept the integrity of the story.
“Do you regret any of it?”
You regretted a lot of things in your life, but kissing Abby was not one of them. You regret closing off. You regret pushing her away, but that kiss… no way.
“No, I’d do it again.”
This was the first time since your arrival in Jackson that Ellie had seen your guard down. The softness to your face returned as you spoke about Abby. Your entire body relaxed. Whoever this woman was, she must’ve mattered to you.
You wanted to stop talking about Abby as soon as possible. You didn’t want to think about her around Ellie. They were two separate parts of your life, and you would like to keep it that way.
“Tell me about you, Ellie. What happened to the cure?”
Before she had the opportunity to speak, a light knock interrupted her.
She stood and walked to the door. When she opened it, Joel stood on the porch.
“Hey, kiddo, just makin’ sure you’re alright,” he said warmly, pulling her into a quick hug.
The word kiddo echoed in your mind.
Kiddo.
What the fuck was going on?
Ellie looked completely relaxed, smiling easily as she stepped aside to let him into the room, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. But it couldn’t possibly be… right?
“Joel, I want you to meet someone very special to me,” She said, motioning him further inside. “Okay, Joel, this is Y/N Y/L, my best friend from the Boston QZ. Y/N, This is Joel Miller, he’s the man who smuggled me out of the QZ, he’s been like my father since.”
For a moment, everything inside the room froze. The world seemed to tilt slightly beneath your feet, the ground suddenly unstable in a way that made your stomach lurch.
Your heart slammed violently against your ribs at a speed you had never felt before.
Your hands began to tremble at your sides. At first it was subtle, just the faintest tremble in your fingers, then the longer you stood there it became worse. Your muscles felt tight, coiled too tightly beneath your skin, like they were waiting for something terrible to happen.
Joel and Ellie stood only a few feet away, but their faces began to blur together as your vision slowly tunneled inward. The edges of the room faded first, then the details. Their expressions smeared into vague shapes, their voices becoming slightly muffled beneath the sound of blood rushing violently through your ears.
No.
No way this was possible.
This man can’t be the same man you are destined to lead to his death.
Your lungs suddenly forgot how to work. You tried to breathe in, but the air felt thin, like it wasn’t filling your chest the way it should. You inhaled again, deeper this time, but the breath caught halfway down, leaving your chest tight and aching.
You needed to get out of this house before the pressure inside your chest tore you apart, but your legs refused to move.
You just stood there, rooted to the floor, while your mind scrambled desperately to make sense of the situation unfolding in front of you.
Ellie.
Joel.
Abby.
The names collided violently in your head.
On one end was Ellie. Ellie, who you had just reunited with after years apart. The girl who had once been your entire world inside the Boston QZ. Seeing her again had felt like finding a piece of yourself you didn’t realize had gone missing.
And somehow, Joel is her family.
Her father.
Your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might actually be sick.
On the other side of this impossible equation was Abby. Up until a few months ago, she was your best friend, and despite the complicated mess of feelings you had buried deep inside your chest, she was still a very important person in your life. She had taken you in when you had nowhere else to go. She had fought beside you. She put her trust in you to complete this mission.
This morning, everything was simple. Simple enough that you still knew how to breathe. Joel had just been a name. Just another man. Joel was the name of the man who murdered Abby’s dad. In your mind, Joel was just another target that you could kill at any given moment. But now, everything has changed. He wasn’t just another target; he was Ellie’s father.
Your pulse pounded louder and louder in your ears until it drowned out the rest of the room. Each heartbeat thudded painfully against your ribs, sending waves of heat and dizziness through your body.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, trying to steady the storm building inside your chest. Your fingers curled tightly into your palms, nails biting into your skin as you forced yourself to take another breath.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Your lungs still refused to cooperate.
When you opened your eyes again, both of them were looking at you.
You forced your lips into something that resembled a smile, though it felt stiff and unnatural on your face.
“We actually met this morning,” you said, your voice sounding distant even to your own ears. “We shared a cup of coffee, actually. Can I actually ask you a question?”
He nods.
“What happened to the cure?”
Joel’s posture stiffened instantly.
You saw the flash of panic cross his face.
“She knows, Joel,” Ellie said quickly, glancing between the two of you. “I told her before I left the QZ.”
“There was no cure,” he said calmly. “They were gonna kill Ellie with no certainty it’d work.”
No cure.
He saved her.
He fucking saved her.
You forced out a small laugh before the silence could stretch too long.
“I’m glad you’re not dead, Ellie.”
Both of them laughed softly. The sound felt surreal, like it was happening far away instead of right in front of you.
“I hate to leave,” you added quickly, already stepping backward toward the door. “But I’m really tired. Didn’t catch much sleep last night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You didn’t give either of them the chance to respond.
The second you stepped outside, your legs carried you across town almost without your permission. Your movements were fast, frantic, like your body had finally caught up with the panic your mind had been screaming about for the last several minutes.
You shoved your way into the empty house and slammed the door shut behind you, twisting the lock with shaking hands.
Silence filled the room.
And then in a matter of seconds everything collapsed.
He saved Ellie.
He fucking saved her.
Your hands dragged down your face as you paced the small living room, breath coming too fast. Abby’s dad had been a doctor. He was the doctor who had been ready to cut Ellie open to make a cure.
And Joel killed him.
Abby never told you about the cure.
She had mentioned her dad was a doctor, but never mentioned he was the doctor who was supposed to make the cure. Maybe she didn’t know. She wouldn’t hold something so important from you.
Your mind felt like it was splitting apart, trying to hold the pieces together. How were you expected to finish this mission considering these new facts? He saved her, but he also destroyed Abby’s whole world.
You stopped pacing, staring blankly at the opposite wall.
Joel is no one to you.
The thought came out cold, sharp, like the voice of a commanding officer barking an order.
Just a target.
Just a man.
Your jaw tightened.
Ellie… Ellie was different. She had been an old friend once. Someone from another lifetime. You barely even knew her now. Years had passed. People changed. You told yourself that had to mean something.
But Abby…
Your chest tightened.
Abby was the one who mattered now.
She had taken you in when you had nothing. Give you a place to sleep, a place to fight, a place to belong. She had cared for you even when she didn’t realize how deeply you cared for her in return, even when she crushed your heart without meaning to.
For years, she had been your family.
But Ellie…
Ellie felt like coming home after a long day. Like quiet after chaos. Like the world finally exhaling.
Ellie was peace.
Ellie was the person you had spent years searching for without even realizing it.
Your breathing grew uneven again.
“No,” you muttered under your breath, pressing your palms against your temples. “Stop. Stop it.”
Think like a soldier.
You forced your shoulders back, trying to summon the discipline that had been drilled into you for years.
Assess the mission.
Identify the objective.
Complete the task.
Simple.
Except it wasn’t.
You can’t leave Abby. You can’t betray her.
But the next thought followed right behind it like a knife sliding between your ribs.
You can’t hurt Ellie either.
You knew exactly what that kind of pain looked like.
You had seen it in Abby’s eyes for years. The hollow rage that never fully left. The grief that had rotted into obsession.
Ellie would break the same way.
Your mind started looping again.
Abby or Ellie.
Ellie or Abby.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
The room suddenly felt smaller. The walls crept inward inch by inch, like the house itself was trying to swallow you whole. Your chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. You dragged a hand through your hair, pacing again before the energy inside you exploded.
“Get a grip,” you snapped at yourself. Your voice sounded harsh in the empty room.
Pathetic.
You were trained for worse than this. You had survived fights, infected hordes, patrols that lasted days in freezing weather. You had watched people die without flinching. And now you were unraveling over a decision.
“Think,” you whispered, voice trembling despite the command.
Running away crept into your mind like a dangerous little whisper.
You could leave. Just disappear. Walk away from Seattle. Walk away from Abby. Walk away from Ellie. Leave the whole nightmare behind and never look back.
No mission.
No choices.
No blood.
Your stomach twisted.
You’d be a coward.
The word settled heavily in your chest. Every option was awful. Every path ended with someone getting hurt. You wanted to scream. Wanted to flip the table, smash something against the wall, tear the frustration out of your body before it suffocated you. Instead, you collapsed onto the couch. The cushions swallowed you as if they were determined to keep you there. Your hands clenched in the fabric as your breathing stuttered again.
Move.
Your body didn’t listen. You were frozen. Trapped inside your own head while the same two names circled endlessly.
Abby.
Ellie.
Abby.
Ellie.
And no matter how many times you forced yourself to think like a soldier, your heart kept getting in the way.
You sat on the couch for nearly an hour, swallowed by the chaos in your mind. Thoughts tangled over one another until they were impossible to separate. Abby. Ellie. Joel. The mission. Every path twisted into another impossible decision.
A loud knock at the door finally yanked you back to reality.
You blinked, disoriented, before pushing yourself off the couch and walking to the door. When you opened it, Ellie stood there with a familiar, playful look in her eyes. The kind that usually meant trouble.
“What’s up?” you asked.
“You’re coming over to my place, and we’re having a sleepover,” she said matter-of-factly. “You practically ran out earlier, and I have so much to catch up on. It’ll be fun. Like old times.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Growing up, Ellie had always insisted on sleepovers even when the two of you shared the same room. She claimed it made the night “official.” Those nights usually meant blasting music, dancing until your legs gave out, and eventually collapsing into the same bed where you’d talk for hours until one of you drifted off mid-sentence.
“Let’s do it,” you said. You hurried inside to grab something to sleep in. More than anything, you just needed to get out of the house. Needed your mind to stop spinning long enough to breathe.
The two of you walked to Ellie’s place together, both of you strangely excited, like kids sneaking out past curfew.
The second you stepped through her door, Ellie rushed toward the small record player in the corner. Music crackled to life through the speakers.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing your hand. “Let’s dance!”
You barely had time to protest before she pulled you into the middle of the room. Soon enough, you were both moving like maniacs, spinning and stumbling through the space, laughing as the music filled every corner of the house.
Ellie watched you as you danced, carefree and wild like you used to be.
Since arriving in Jackson, something inside her had always felt incomplete. Like a missing puzzle piece, she couldn’t quite name.
Watching you now, hair flying, laughing without restraint, she finally understood what it was.
It was you.
All those years apart had left a space in her life that nothing else had filled. And now you were here again, dancing in her living room like the past had somehow found its way back.
It was you and Ellie against the world again.
You were completely lost in the music. Your feet moved on instinct, like they remembered the rhythm before your brain did. Growing up, dancing had always been your escape. Whenever life felt too heavy, you let the music carry the weight for you.
Eventually, the song ended, and you collapsed onto the couch with a dramatic groan.
“Geez, I’m exhausted.”
Ellie flopped down beside you, breathing just as hard.
“Come on,” she said after a moment. “Let’s end the night like old times.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Ellie… we’re a little too old to be sharing a bed.”
“I don’t care,” she said immediately, already grabbing your wrist and pulling you upright. “Come on.”
You laughed as she dragged you toward her bed.
Despite yourself, your stomach fluttered nervously. Like you were fourteen again and suddenly hyperaware of everything Ellie did.
Ellie jumped into bed first, immediately patting the space beside her.
“Get in here.”
You let out a quiet laugh before sliding under the covers next to her.
“I missed you so much,” Ellie said softly, reaching for your hand.
“I missed you, too, El.”
Your thumb traced along the tattoo on her forearm. Beneath the ink, you could feel the raised scar hidden underneath.
The two of you shifted onto your sides so you were facing each other.
“I’m really sorry for not recognizing you earlier,” Ellie said quietly. “You just… you’ve changed. Your face shows everything you’ve been through.”
She hesitated, fumbling over her words.
“I’m not saying you’re not beautiful or anything. You just… you know.”
You huffed a small laugh.
“I was so angry, El,” you admitted. “I recognized you right away, and you didn’t recognize me. It hurt. I spent years thinking about you, and it felt like you forgot about me the second you got here.”
Ellie’s eyes dropped to your arms as she traced her fingers slowly up and down your skin.
“I didn’t forget about you,” she murmured. “But what matters is you’re here now. We’re together again.”
Her voice wavered slightly, and she blinked quickly as tears gathered in her eyes. The moment felt almost unreal. You were lying in her bed like you used to, close enough to hear each other breathe.
You were actually here.
“I’m glad we’re together again, El,” you said quietly.
She hummed softly and scooted a little closer, closing the gap between you. Now she was only inches away. It felt surreal to be lying in bed with Ellie Williams again. For years, you had convinced yourself she would become nothing more than a distant memory.
But she was real.
Alive.
Healthy.
Happy.
That was all you had ever wanted for her growing up.
You tried to hold onto the moment, to stay present in it. But your thoughts kept drifting back to Abby. To the mission. To the impossible choice waiting for you.
The walls in your chest started tightening again. Before the silence could swallow you, Ellie spoke.
“You wanna hear a joke?”
“No,” you replied immediately.
She narrowed her eyes at you. “Too bad.”
You sighed.
“Diarrhea is hereditary…”
You frowned. “What?”
“Because it runs in your genes.”
You clamped your hands over your mouth, trying to contain the laugh that burst out anyway.
“That was awful, El.”
“Not as awful as you,” she whispered.
Her face moved closer to yours.
Your noses brushed.
For a moment, you could almost feel her lips against yours.
Electric nerves shot through your body. Your heart thumped wildly in your chest. You felt like a giddy kid all over again.
You couldn’t let yourself fall back into that old crush. Not when everything between you was so temporary.
“Um… we should go to sleep,” you muttered quickly, pulling back. “It’s getting pretty late, El.”
You turned onto your other side before you could see her reaction.
For a brief moment, disappointment flickered across Ellie’s face. She swallowed it down quickly.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Of course. Goodnight, Peach.”
Your heart fluttered at the nickname she had insisted on calling you when you were kids.
A/N: HELLO!! It's been so long since i've written on this account. I wasn't sure I was ever going to come back and write. I hope y'all like it.
Just for a little bit of context, this story will be told strictly through journal entries. I've never written anything like this, so suggestions and comments are greatly appreciated!.
2036
September 7
I made it to Jackson today.
I don't think my brain has caught up with my body yet. Everything feels too…normal. There is structure and safety. People walking like they know where they are going. Smoke comes out of chimneys in straight lines, like the air itself follows rules here.
There are actual houses. Not houses that have been ransacked for supplies or houses filled with the infected. It's a real house with families and laughter.
For a long time, I thought survival was quiet, but safety and peace are what really is quiet. Survival is loud and obnoxious.
They opened the gates, and for a second, I just stood there like an idiot. Almost afraid that if i moved it would disappear.
Someone behind me said, “You planning to move or just admire the architecture?” They didnt mean it in a mean way. Just practical.
They checked my bag and asked questions. Everyone watches you in a ‘is she going to break? Is she okay?' kind of way.
The entire day, I felt like I was holding my breath waiting for something to go wrong, but nothing did. I was assigned a room. A real room with a bed, a window, a dresser, and a shelf filled with books.
I'm glad to be here.
September 8
I met Maria and Tommy today. Maria runs things here. Not loudly or aggressively, shes just firm.
She explained patrol rotations, food schedules, work assignments, and expectations. It was the strangest thing listening to someone talk about next week like next week is guaranteed.
I dont know what to do with myself here. I still can't believe it.
September 9
I made my first friend today. Everyone cheer for me (yayyyy)
Anyway, her name is Dina.
She is like the human personification of a ray of sunshine.
I didn’t plan for that to happen today. I was standing near the water pump, trying to figure out how long I could pretend to understand what I was doing before someone noticed I was a phony.
She walked right up and said, “You look like you’re about to fight that pump. It wins most of the time.”
Then she showed me how to angle the handle so it doesn’t jerk back and slam your wrist. Which is exactly what it had been doing. Repeatedly. Violently.
She talks like she’s known you for years, even if she met you thirty seconds ago. Not in an overwhelming way… more like she skips the awkward beginning parts of meeting someone and goes straight to the middle.
We ended up walking through town together. She pointed out everything.
Who bakes the best bread.
Which dog steals gloves off porches.
Where people gather when it snows.
She knows the small details. The kind that means you belong somewhere long enough to notice what changes and what stays the same.
At one point, she asked if I was settling in okay.
I almost said “I think so,” but what came out was “I don’t know how to be safe yet.”
She didn’t try to fix that. She just nodded and said, “Yeah. That part takes a minute.”
Then she bumped her shoulder into mine like it was no big deal.
It felt like something steadying.
I like her, I can tell we’re going to be great friends.
September 11
Dina found me again today. I think she does that on purpose.
She dragged me to the mess hall for lunch because, apparently, wandering around alone makes me look “like a confused, sad, lonely ghost.” Her words. Definitely not mine.
She introduced me to people. So many people. I forgot half their names immediately but no one seemed offended. They just kept talking. Asking where I came from. What I like. What I can do.
No one asked what I lost.
That might be the kindest thing anyone’s done without realizing it.
Dina sat across from me while we ate and told me stories about winter storms, patrol mishaps, and the time someone tried to raise chickens inside their house “for emotional support.”
I laughed. Like… really laughed.
I don’t remember the last time that happened.
When we finished eating, she said, “Congrats. You survived your first official Jackson lunch.”
It was my first milestone.
September 14
I walked through town alone this morning. Not because I had to. Just because I wanted to see what everything looks like when you’re not being shown where to look.
There are wind chimes on one porch that sound different depending on how strong the breeze is. Someone carved little shapes into a fence post. Stars, I think. Or flowers. Hard to tell.
People wave when they pass you. Not big gestures. Just small acknowledgments. Like confirming you’re part of the landscape now.
Dina says that’s how you know you’re settling in. When people stop studying you and start recognizing you.
I think that’s starting to happen.
She says tomorrow she’s introducing me to more of her friends.
I said okay and meant it without hesitation.
That feels new.
September 15
Dina introduced me to Ellie today. Ellie Williams.
She makes me get butterflies. I know, I know… very ridiculous of me. She’s pretty. Like distractingly pretty. Her green eyes and her freckles.
She’s awkward, in a cool, mysterious way. She looks like she has a story to tell.
She shook my hand when Dina introduced us. Her grip was warm and firm, but quick, like she didn't want to hold on for too long. Her eyes kept drifting back to Dina while we talked, not ina rude ‘this conversation is boring, get me out of here’ but in a force of habit way.
do they have a thing?
It’s fine, everything is FINE.
I also met Jesse today. He looks so serious at first glance. He looks like the kind of person who knows exactly what needs to be done and how to do it.
He made this completely ridiculous comment about how Dina gives “aggressive directions” when she walks people through town, and suddenly, he was grinning like a kid who got away with something.
I like him. He feels steady. Safe in that dependable way where you know he’d show up if something went wrong.
But he and Dina… yeah. There’s definitely something there, too. The way they stand close without realizing it. The way they talk over each other and don’t get annoyed.
Their little trio just meshes so well.
Until next time!
Okay yeah, i thought I was done writing, but I cannot stop thinking about her.
Is it a little absurd for me to have a crush already?
I mean… I’ve been here barely over a week.
I feel ridiculous. Completely, deeply ridiculous.
And yet… here we are.
September 20
Okay, just listen, I don’t want to sound crazy or delusional, but Ellie complimented my outfit.
It was nothing special. Just a plain shirt and worn jeans because I was helping with the horses this morning, and I didn't want to ruin anything nicer. Absurd to think that I have nice clothes now. A month ago, I didn't have anything.
Okay, back to my story, I looked a mess, sleeves rolled up unevenly, and my boots were full of mud.
Ellie walked past me, stopped, looked me over for a second, and said “That color looks good on you.”
EXCUSE THE HELL OUT OF ME!!! WHAT!!
Can you believe that??? I look good in forest green, full of horse shit and dirt.
It was just that stupid, simple sentence that has me all flustered. That’s it. That was the whole interaction.
But she noticed. Out of everything happening around us, she noticed what I was wearing. She noticed me.
I have replayed the exact tone of her voice in my head at least twelve times since then. Casual. Offhand. Like she didn’t think it was a big deal.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Is this love at first sight?
Does she like me?
Was it just a friendly compliment?
Was she just being polite?
Do people here just say things like that normally??
God. I need to stop. I sound completely unhinged. This is so bad.
Anyway.
I’ve been spending more time with the trio. Eating with them, helping with small tasks, just… existing around them. And it feels easy. Like slipping into a rhythm that was already there waiting for me. They’ve unofficially adopted me into their friend group.
I think I’ve actually made friends.
Real ones.
That still feels a little unreal to write down.
October 8
After lots of persuasion from Jesse and Dina…and Ellie, Maria finally approved my first patrol!!! Yay me.
Really, it was a lot of nagging, begging, and crying from Dina and Ellie. Mostly Dina. Jesse was forced to swear that he would keep me alive and safe.
Still, yay me.
Ellie volunteered to be my patrol partner. Technically, we were assigned to a group with Jesse and Dina, and Tommy as our supervisor, but Ellie spoke first.
I noticed that. I won't go into the details of my delusional mind, but that mattered to me.
She stayed close most of the patrol. She really took charge of teaching me. Showing me what tracks to notice, when to pause and listen instead of moving forward. She explains things simply. No impatience. No talking down to me.
I knew most things from being on my own for so long, but she has a keen eye for detail. She reminds me to slow down.
Ellie is quiet. Shes the quiet one out of Jesse and Dina. Those who can talk their heads off, but Ellie likes the quiet. Shes never in a rush to fill the silence.
Except with jokes.
Shes relentless about her dad jokes. I mean, absolutely relentless. I have never met anyone so passionate about dad jokes.
Today’s Highlight:
“I used to be addicted to soap, but I’m clean now.”
She delivered it with a completely straight face and then looked at me like she was waiting for an official evaluation of the joke’s quality.
I laughed anyway. I couldn’t help it. Something about the way she waits… hopeful but pretending not to be.
Jesse said that was my official test to be part of the trio. I passed.
(were now the core four -Jesse)
She’s just as kind as she seems. Maybe kinder when no one is looking.
I don’t know when exactly it happened, but somewhere between the stupid joke and the quiet walk back to town, I realized I didn’t feel nervous anymore.
pairing ; lyonel baratheon x dayne!oc (with a hint of x dunk)
summary ; the laughing storm was a dangerous man, one dunk knew could be a lethal foe. but his lady wife was a great deal more frightening.
words ; 1.7k
warnings / includes ; established relationship (married), canon typical violence, foul language, mentions of sex, theodora and lyonel freaked outttt, loud and charismatic x will not tolerate his shit dynamic, spoilers for episode 2 of akotsk!
read on ao3. masterlist.
The air smelled distinctly of warm bread and budding flowers. As much as Theodora missed Dorne, one thing she enjoyed about being in the Reach was that it was considerably much greener than it was down south. Whilst her husband was nursing his hangover, she had taken to aimlessly strolling about the market town, stopping by to watch the infamous puppet shows of the smallfolk. Theodora thought the puppeteer who played two of the characters had a wonderful voice and a sweet face. She made sure to leave quite a few golds by the end of the show.
The tourney was to start by evenfall, and Theodora hurried back to the castle. It would be nice to spend a bit more time with her husband before he was off fighting and drinking again. By the time she returned, she spotted the banners of black fields and red dragons draped near by the entrance. Judging from the stableboys rushing to empty the carriages and see to the horses, she could tell the Targaryens had only just arrived.
Lord Ashford had given Lyonel and her one of the smaller chambers as esteemed guests, saving his own room for prince Baelor Targaryen. She loitered in the hall before turning and slipping into her chambers, expecting to see Lyonel still spread across the bed with his face buried into a feather pillow.
But there was nobody to be seen. Only rumpled furs and a creaking window left ajar. No Lyonel. Theodora let out a little huff, wondering where in the seven hells he’d gone off to now. She stepped out of the chamber, hands propped up on her hips.
“Dyanna?”
Theodora turned at the horrified voice, eyes wide.
Maekar Targaryen looked as if he’d seen a ghost. The shock on his face was quick to fade when he stepped closer.
“I’m afraid not, Your Grace,” Theodora said, not unkind.
The prince was at a loss for words. He cleared his throat gruffly, a shadow passing over his expression. “Lady Theodora. Apologies. I thought you were—” He swallowed around nothing. “You look like her.”
“I know,” she said. Her gaze lowered, wistful. “Dyanna used to call me duckling the way I followed her.”
The harshness that had sewn itself over the burly Targaryen prince’s features softened just a little bit.
Theodora regarded him with a look of shared grief. They both loved Dyanna more than words could describe.
“The boy is missing. Her boy.”
This made Theodora freeze. “Aegon?”
Maekar rubbed at the space between his brows, drawing out a thin exhale. It was clear that he was at his wit’s end. “Yes. Along with Daeron. He was meant to be here a day ago, they both were.”
Theodora had only met her nephews a handful of times. Aegon had always been a sweet young lad. Though he was the spitting image of his father, with his soft silver hair and large purple eyes, he had Dyanna’s sense of humor and charm, she remembered.
“It could simply be a delay in travel. A broken carriage wheel, a spooked horse… things like this happen all the time.” Her words did not seem to console the prince. She sighed. “Try not to worry about it too much. I’m sure Daeron and little Egg will pop up before you know it. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, though. For now, if you would excuse me, Your Grace… I have a fool of a husband to look for.”
Lyonel found her before she did.
“Dora!” his voice boomed across the field. He stood by one end of a thick rope nearly as wide as her, being pulled on by a dozen other men. “Over here!”
Theodora scowled and blew out a sigh. Though it did lift her spirits just a bit to see his sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscled forearms. Her cheeks flushed with heat. Even though she was married to him, it felt strange to ogle her husband in public. She made her way towards him, unamused.
“You look beautiful,” he said as a greeting, taking her wrist to draw her close and kiss her on the cheek. “But you abandoned me! I woke up and you were gone!”
“Must I be by your side every minute of every day?” asked the lady. “Besides, I tried to slap you awake and you whined for five more minutes of rest.”
“It’s funny how I don’t remember doing that at all. But whatever my dear wife says must be true,” replied the lord, accompanied with a fierce laugh. “We are going to be at war. Will you watch me?”
One of Theodora’s eyebrows rose. “War? With that rope there? Are you sure you could handle a beast such as that?”
His laughter was heard amongst all the knights in a league’s radius. “Well, I could handle you, couldn’t I?” Theodora rolled her eyes at this, the violet particularly bright beneath the sun. Lyonel’s tongue ran along the back of his teeth as he studied her. “I want you to watch, love. But before that, I need to find some more muscle for my side.”
Just like that, Lyonel went marching off. Theodora watched him confidently stride to a raised pavilion with seats and tables for knights to eat and drink. She saw Ser Dunk there, with a scrawny bald child sitting beside him. Though it piqued her curiosity a smidge, it wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary. Dunk was a tall man and handsome in his own rugged way. Theodora would not be surprised if the boy was his own child.
She watched her husband smack the drink out of Dunk’s hands and yanked him closer by the back of his neck. Always one for theatrics, he was. She found it a little endearing when Dunk met her gaze and waved, albeit a bit awkwardly, as if he’d suddenly forgotten that he was waving to a lady instead of bowing, so he was stuck in a strange in-between motion of raising his arm and bending his waist. The young lad accompanying him nudged him on, face angled away from Theodora. For someone who she assumed to be his son, he was quite short.
She sat down on the nearest table as the men readied their little game of war. As much as Theodora would huff and roll her eyes every time Lyonel asked for her attention, the both of them knew she would readily give it without him having to ask. Before the game could start, he jogged over to her, curls bouncing.
“Kiss for luck?” he asked expectantly.
“Would you accept a boot to the face instead?”
“I’ll take whatever you give me.” His smile could cut diamonds. Damn him.
She narrowed her eyes on her man. “What does your team get if you win your silly little game?”
“Besides the right to boast in the faces of pompous lords?” Lyonel stroked at his beard. “Nothing much, really. Will you give me a prize if I win?”
“Perhaps,” said Theodora. The silence laid thickly between them as her legs spread an inch wider on the seat. An innocent shift to anyone outside of the conversation, but Lyonel knew what she was doing. She did not miss the way his eyes flickered downwards, his tongue sticking into the side of his cheek. He watched her the way a fox would a rabbit.
“Lyonel!” one of the Tyrell lords yelled, pulling Theodora’s attention back to the awaiting men. “Get back here!”
“Alright, alright! Hold onto your breeches, damn you!” Lyonel patted her cheek twice before he jogged back to them, settling in between the team with his hands on the coarse fibers of the rope. “Hey! Dry those palms, you clam-handed cunt! We’re not in your sister’s chambers now!”
The game started with a sharp whistle, and both sides began to pull. All the men’s faces twisted with effort. Raucous cheers bloomed from the gathered watchers. Many in the crowd began to swap coins as they placed bets on the winners.
“Come on, lads! If we lose this, I’ll be drowning your firstborn!” Theodora heard her husband bellow. She felt herself smile at that. He was far too competitive for his own good. “Pull, you cunt-strapped dandelions! I’ve seen century-old maesters using more muscle than you!”
Towering above them all was Dunk, at the very end of the rope on Lyonel’s side. Theodora couldn’t help but watch his arms as they flexed with each pull. Not only was he ridiculously tall, but he had quite the muscular stature.
Of course, her attention was once again stolen away by her husband when he stopped pulling and stepped away, lumbering towards a serving girl and grabbing one of the flagons she was holding. Part of the betting crowd hollered and booed at him, presumably the portion that placed money on Lyonel’s team.
“I’ll be back! I’ll come back! I’m thirsty! Thirsty, you cunts!”
He wandered back to Theodora as he drank.
“Don’t you have a game to be winning?”
“Just checking if you were watching. And I never got that kiss.”
“I never promised,” she protested. Though when he took the back of her head to pull her lips into a passionate tangle against his, she couldn’t help but hum pleasantly into the embrace. She still smacked at his chest to get him to pull away.
Breathless, she said, “Now go back and win, or I might just have to invite the hedge knight into our chambers instead of you.”
His stormy eyes glowed. She could not quite tell if it was jealousy, anger, excitement, arousal, or a concoction of all at once in his face.
And back he went.
“FUCKING PULL!” he yelled as he rejoined his team, though not before giving Dunk a prompt smack on the arse for being the sole reason his team wasn’t face-down in the mud yet.
It took just another minute after Lyonel joined again for his side to reign victorious. The people watching burst into celebratory cheers, and coin was quickly doled out to fulfill the bets.
Theodora was clapping as she drew nearer, nodding at Dunk when she caught him staring. She couldn’t help but laugh along with Lyonel when he caught her in an excited, crushing embrace, hands framing possessively about her waist.
“So—” he leaned in close to whisper, lips grazing her earlobe “—about my prize…”
a/n ; hope you enjoyed this part !!! i'm so obsessed w these two can you tell </3 writers when it's a "who can insert the tragic sibling trope into every single fanfic" competition and user ichorai walks in HAHAHAH
also chat would we like to see lyonel x theodora x dunk smut bcs .... #needthat ...
Astray and Beyond: 8 - The Poisoning (Dragonstone)
Part 7 | Masterlist
Aemond Targaryen x fem!Reader - 18+ (MDNI)
Summary: When your mistress is victorious in the grandest tournament the Seven Kingdoms have seen in over a quarter of a century, she is not the only one who draws attention. Blabbermouth that you are, you soon discover you have the unique talent of annoying the prince Aemond Targaryen in a way that makes him return to you over and over again. No matter that he insists your frequent meetings are mere coincidence.
Includes: fem!squire!reader; 2nd person PoV; no physical descriptions but the RC has a name; RC is an Orphan of the Greenblood, so lots of talk of the Rhoyne; no-war!AU; Rhaenyra Targaryen is Queen; dare I say grumpy Aemond x sunshine RC; mostly fluff, but here and there some angst; eventual smut
Chapter summary: Aemond tries to get accustomed to life without you, when the most horrid news calls him away to Dragonstone.
Chapter warnings: *gestures vaguely at the title*.
Word count: 13.2k
‘The work you have done in Lys is beyond valuable. The crown is grateful, brother.’
How strange it is to hear Rhaenyra address him so. When he was a child, she barely acknowledged his existence and at the odd moments she did, it was with such reluctance that it was easy to forget they were in fact kin. But time has changed the both of them, it appears, and so when she asked of him to negotiate with the Lysene banker Lysandro Rogare he accepted the request; even if he did not care for the disturbances at the Stepstones, the breakdown of the Triarchy, let alone the daughter Lysandro offered in marriage to him. In turn for his services to the Realm, Rhaenyra called Aemond brother and bestowed onto him the crown’s gratitude—even if she did not much care for him before or now.
‘Which prince will you give away to the banker’s daughter?’ he asks.
It is a taunt, not an actual line of inquiry.
‘That is none of your concern. Except, of course, if you have changed your mind about your heartfelt devotion to the Orphan and wish for another kind of alliance.’
She speaks calmly, evenly. But she has her back turned to him and a sudden interest in looking out of the window of the Small Council’s chamber: she is trying to veil her own annoyance.
‘I do not.’
‘You do not expect me to believe, I hope, that her accompanying Helaena to Dragonstone is anything else but her fleeing from your side.’
‘I would hope that you, the queen, were aware of the ongoings at your own court.’
Now she does turn to him, ‘I am aware that the bards are singing of you—of our family—in a way which is much unbefitting.’
He has heard the songs, but only in part. He always made sure to shut up anyone singing it where he could hear it. He has no need to hear any ballad to be reminded of the way you have ran from him. Of the agonizing distance stretching and gaping between you and him.
Thirty seven days it has been since he saw you last. And you have not stopped to haunt him for even a second of your absence. He sees you in his dreams—dreadful dreams wherein you do not speak, do not move, but just stand there, back turned to him, refusing to look him in the eye. Still the nights are preferable to the days, when he can do nothing but thinking. What are you up to at this moment? Are you enjoying your time on Dragonstone? Are you getting along well with Helaena? Of course you are.
The worst days are the ones when the letters come. His sister writes to him diligently. She writes about the island’s rocky shores, about Jacaerys’s and Baela’s hospitality, about flying on Dreamfyre, about the mischief of his niece and nephew. And she writes about you. You are well, more than well: you sail and hunt and make friends with the fishermen and sleep outdoors and more often than not you get involved in Jaehaerys and Jaehaera’s troublemaking.
When he replies Rhaenyra with no more than a hum, she approaches him. Even if he is getting uncomfortable, he remains seated in the Hand’s chair, ankle resting on his knee. Her face is as if set in stone but she does not sound all to stern when she asks him, ‘What did you do, Aemond? Last I turned, she was as devoted to you as a Septa to her Seven-Pointed Star.’
He could shift the blame. He could answer that his mother’s scheming to make you a lady suffocated you; but Aemond had been involved in that plot himself. He could answer that the birth of a bastard boy, possibly his, possibly Daemon’s, enraged you towards him; but only because Aemond had implied that your children would be no better than any bastard sired on a whore. He could answer that Aegon has gone too far in his humiliating you; but Aemond had humiliated you all the same, when he turned away your brother.
It would all be diversions.
He knows too well: he has treated you beyond abhorrence and when you fled to Dragonstone, you had fled from no one but him.
‘Do not concern yourself with such trivial things, your grace.’
He stands and Rhaenyra sets half a step back.
‘It is not trivial. Your love affair with the girl reflects on the whole family. And as it stands now the smallfolk only have sympathy for the woman who refuses titles and jewelry, and flees from her tyrannical—’
‘I do not care whom the smallfolk prefer, I do not care what they sing of us,’ he interrupts.
Rhaenyra is not impressed by his harsh words. ‘So you have renounced her?’
‘Anything but!’ he snaps.
She lets the silences stretch for a moment and then inquires, ‘Why are you not at Dragonstone?’
Because you are happy there; away from him, with his sister and his niece and nephew. And the knowledge is as much a relief as it is excruciating. You are joyous without him. You are more contented than he ever made you. Helaena may try to, indirectly, convince him it is not so. She invites him to Dragonstone in every letter. But he knows better: it is only because he is absent in your life that you can be so carefree. He only ever brought you gloom. So why would he go to Dragonstone?
‘Because you sent me to Lys,’ he diverts.
‘Aemond—’
‘You sent me to Lys and I delivered, did I not?’
She nods hesitantly. It was a risk to bestow such diplomatic power onto him. For years he ignored her commands, refused any title and function she threw at him, and barely acknowledged her as his queen. That changed as soon as she gave him you, however. He became indebted to her. And this task was the first test: would he bow and obey now that she had given him such a concession?
The matters of the Triarchy and the Stepstones have been a headache for the Iron Throne for decades. Their little civil war is therefore much welcomed by the Seven Kingdoms; and so getting to the gist of things and quick was paramount. Although Aemond was a logical choice due to his disposition, standing and last name, Rhaenyra had been aware it was a risk. In the turmoil, in the negotiations he could have perhaps claimed some Lysenese title or another. He could have gone astray and claimed for himself the title of King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, just as his uncle, Daemon, had done three decades ago.
If only he had cared enough to do so. As Rhaenyra had hoped but not expected, he had bowed, obeyed her wishes and seen the task through. But only because he had been in dire need of the distraction. But it was not enough: crossing the sea on Vhagar’s back, the dreary days in Lys, the tiresome evenings at Lysandro Rogare’s table—none of it diverted his mind from you for even a moment.
‘Good. I will take my leave then.’ He turns and sets for the door.
‘If you do not reconcile with the girl, she will become a liability to us, Aemond,’ she calls out. ‘As queen, I cannot have such a liability roaming around.’
‘Not too loud, sister,’ he replies without looking back, ‘would that your sworn sword would hear you speak thus of her beloved squire.’
And as he leaves the room, the first person he comes upon is, of course, Phaelia Santagar, standing guard by the door. She will have heard much of the discussion. Wooden doors only keep so much sound contained within. But it is not the pale look on her face which draws his attention; she has a piece of parchment clenched in her hand. It is scrabbled full with the ugliest handwriting he has ever laid his eye upon. Yours.
He is acutely aware of his sister looking at him through the opened door, but he could care less that she hears this, that she sees this. In this moment there is, despite the distance, despite the sea of hurt between, only you and him.
‘She writes to you?’
He tries not to sound too brutish about it, but as his voice slips from him, he cringes at how rough its edges are. Phaelia folds the letter neatly and puts it away in the sleeve of her vest.
‘I take it she does not write to you, prince Aemond,’ she replies evenly.
He clenches his jaw. But he does not fault the lady for her insolence. She has cared for you long before he did. After what he has done to you, he deserves her animosity.
He should leave this conversation as is, but he cannot help himself. In half a whisper, he asks, ‘Does she write about… hm…’
Even although he does not finish the question Phaelia’s eye begin to shine as she comes to understand what he is talking about.
‘Not a word,’ she replies rather happily.
He sets a step back, as if she slapped him in the face, and then turns away. He has no idea where he is going—where he should go. You write your she-knight, but you do not write him. What is he to make of that: do you want him to come or do you want him to stay where he is? It is the question which has shackled him in limbo for weeks now. He wants nothing more than to have you welcome him back into your arms. But how does he repent? Does he give you space or does he insist on speaking to you? Does he write you?
And then he finds himself in his mother’s quarters. She is having luncheon with Aegon. His older brother looks much like a ghost as of late: he is allowed to drink only water of herbal teas for the time being. The decision was made for him by the queen and queen dowager. Helaena’s abrupt journey to Dragonstone was more than a trip made so Jaehaera could enjoy the clean sea air, that was well understood by the whole family. Leaving for their ancestral seat was Helaena’s way to let their family know that she would not stand for Aegon’s erratic behavior any longer. In Aemond’s opinion, his sister suffered it for too long. Be that as it may, sister-wife and brother-husband have to be reconciled. And for that to happen Aegon has to be sober and so Alicent Hightower forbade anyone to pour her son even a drop of wine.
Whatever is in his cup now, the scowl on his face speaks parts on his distaste for it.
‘Aemond.’ Alicent Hightower sounds surprised; and rightly so. He has avoided her since your departure. ‘Please, join us.’
She gestures at the servants, who hurry to set the table for a third guest. He could still turn away, but he does not: he sits down. The desire to make amends with his mother has nothing to do with his course of action. It is only the feint shade of blue around Aegon’s right eye.
Aemond gave it to Aegon right before he set out to cross the Narrow Sea.
‘You should have stayed in Lys, brother,’ Aegon grumbles.
‘Do not fight,’ Alicent begs in a whisper.
Aemond ignores both and calls for the servants, ‘Bring me a cup of wine.’
When mere moments later he is nursing a cup of sweet Dornish red, Aegon is practically seething. Given how much he usually drinks, he is undoubtedly feeling physical repercussions now that alcohol is denied him. The deprivation will do him badly until it does him well.
‘How have you been, mother?’ Aemond asks, ignoring Aegon’s gritted teeth.
Alicent naturally sees right through him. ‘You know I dislike it when you behave thus.’
‘Like what?’
‘Aemond—’
‘How is your eye, Aegon?’
His older brother snarls and stands, feet of the chair scraping over the stone floor as he shoves it back.
‘Boys!’ Alicent calls out, but Aegon is already threatening, ‘I will cut out your other!
‘It appears to be healing well. I had expected it to take longer.’
‘I will fucking blind—’
‘Aegon!’
‘I understand that you are angry, brother. Your wife took your children away to Dragonstone, leaving you to come clean with your own inadequacies. It cannot be easy.’
‘And your whore rejected you.’
Aemond’s cheek twitches. No matter what indifference you try to perform on the matter, any time someone insults you thus, it boils his blood. ‘You are more of a whore than she is, don’t you think?’
Aegon pounces at Aemond; clumsily he jumps on to the table, reaching for his little brother’s neck. Dishes fall, fruit rolls, liquids spill, creating a mess. A White Cloak is on Aegon before he can even touch Aemond. The younger prince’s get onto his feet lazily—still nursing his cup of wine. For all Aegon’s barking, his bite is disappointing.
‘Did you have to say that?’ Alicent asks aghast.
Aemond only has eye for his big brother, writhing like an eel in the stronger arms of a Kingsguard.
‘I did not, but I may do as I see fit. And I see fit to make certain that Aegon remembers why he is going through withdrawal: so he may earn his wife and his children’s respect and love.’
‘And how will you earn hers, hm?’ Aegon calls out.
Half calmed down, he is released by the White Cloak. He stands there, heaving like some feral little beast. But there is nothing frightening about him.
‘That black eye of yours was a start.’
It was Aemond’s reply to Aegon’s drunken boasting about how he met you in the brothel that day; how he ridiculed you, your brother and took some whore you’d once called friend in childhood to bed. And the whole while he was insistently referring to you as ‘Drusilla’.
Aegon lunges for him again, but the White Cloak—almost bored by the outburst—grabs hold of his shoulders and pins him in place. Their mother comes to stand in between them, but instead of reprimanding Aegon for once again behaving like a buffoon, she tells Aemond, ‘It is shame enough you chose that harlot over your own blood. There is no need to add more salt to that shameful wound.’
Aemond scoffs. She has a talent for adding fuel to a fire.
‘Drymilla is ten times as noble as this creature I have to call my brother. But you know that well enough, mother. You merely refuse to admit it, because if you cannot look down on a lowborn woman, you would have naught to look at but at your own failures.’
Aegon, despite being shivering pale with anger, still manages to snort. Aemond does not wait to figure out what he finds so amusing, nor to listen for the tirade his mother has already started on. He turns his back to them and sets to leave the Keep.
He spends the remainder of the day on Vhagar’s back. He turns her east, but then changes his mind and guides her back to the shores. Then, driven by the thought of you, he absentmindedly orders her away from the coast again. Until, reminded of your anger, he makes her turn. Five, six times this happens before Vhagar becomes so annoyed that she lands on her own accord on the cliffs.
For well over an hour she refuses to take flight again, and so he wanders the coastline, watches the sky turn red then purple and then pitch black, as the waves crash below against the rocks. In the quiet of this place, away from the city, there is naught he can do to ward of the memories of you.
When he shoved his fist in Aegon’s face, it appeared to him as the only right response. But only at that very moment. Later, when the adrenaline had ebbed away and he was alone in the quiet of his quarters, he wondered why what Aegon had done irked him so. Was it the misnaming? Perhaps, then again, he had not bat an eye at it before. Calling you by a name not yours fits in Aegon’s usual childishness and with it he shames no one except himself. Did he perhaps take insult at the mistreatment of your brother? No, of course not: it was Aemond’s own dismissal of the lad that irked you. And maybe you had been right for it, maybe he could have tried a bit better to at least feign interest in your brother. Aegon had not given rise to Aemond’s irritation by mention of the whore, that goes without saying. He could care less that his brother paid for the services of a woman you once called friend.
But the fact that you count a whore among your friends—he’d been ashamed. And even more he’d felt guilty for feeling that shame.
Punching Aegon had not been about retaliation for what he did, indirectly, to you. It had been about Aemond himself: he’d finally erupted, after days and days of being suffocated by his own entangled frustrations.
He wants to be with you, he wants nothing more than that. But he has been groomed, since boyhood, to vie for the affections of a lady. Even if he does not mean to, even if he does not care to, even if he loves you beyond words; whenever he is reminded too harshly of you being lowborn, he burns with shame.
If you are in search of reality, come find me again.
He wants it; a life with you, you as you are. When he went in search for that ladyship, he had not meant to change you. Or maybe he had, if only a little bit, but could not admit it. For you are a lowborn woman, one who does not feel out of place in filthy taverns, one who mingles easily with fishermen and whores, one who does not care for titles and family names and inheritances. What is he to do with such a woman, what life can he build with you if you are not his wife and your children are named Sand? He has not a single idea and it is daunting.
Being with you is daunting. Like waves, crashing against cliffs. Perhaps there is no hope for the two of you. He of fire and blood, you of water and algae—maybe you are too different for even a heart wrecking love to make it work. You would keep on flowing as you wish, and you would do right by it. It is only right for you to act according to your nature. He did you wrong by feeling ashamed of you. By trying to change you. He does not want to make that mistake again. But is it his nature to wish to control and command? He is a Targaryen, he does not do well in situations where his word is not heeded, his wishes not met. If that disquality of him is inherent to his being, something which flows through the dragon’s blood, then he can never resolve this, he can never do better.
Then you are be better of without him.
By the time Vhagar allows him once more onto her back and they can return to King’s Landing, he has no illusions anymore about what has brought him in this predicament. Not Aegon’s insults, his mother’s pressure on you or even the birth of a boy who may be his son. What has made you turn your back to him, was the shame he felt, him grabbing your wrist to try and drag you around. It was him barking at you as one does a servant, trying to control you like one does a puppet.
In light of that, he has no right to your affection.
He will do better by leaving you be. So that another more worthy of you, can bestow their love onto you.
Even if it stings to admit that he is too defunct, too defective to be able to love you as you deserve.
Thirty nine days since you have gone. Thirty nine and once again he lies awake, staring into the dark of his chambers. He has barely slept, instead he has been drifting, between dreams and the waking world; between the thought of you and the absence of you; between certainty and doubt. When he closes his eyes, and half dreams of you, you finally look at him. But still you remain silent, still you do not reach for him. Nor he for you.
He would only hurt you once more. He’d rather bereave himself of you than make that fatal mistake twice.
A knock on the door. It is a faint sound, barely loud enough to catch one’s attention. But in the stillness of this formless night it is a harsh disruption. He preps himself up on his arm, the mattress dipping between the pressure and after a moment of making sure his sword is there where he left it, he calls out, ‘Yes.’
The door opens and in falls an orange glow of light. A servant girl, no older than ten, walks in her footsteps barely audible. Aemond knows immediately that this is why they—whomever they may be—sent her: she is small and quiet. She disappears easily into the night.
He sits up on the bed, the tiles cold against his bare feet, as the girl runs up to him and offers him the letter, rolled up and kept together with a simple rope ribbon. No words are exchanged, but she looks at him. Her gaze curious and only a bit frightened, she looks at how the vague light of a waning moon catches in the sapphire set there where he used to have an eye. It lasts only a moment and then she is, as a servant girl befits, gone.
Although it is highly unusual for letters to be delivered in this matter, he is too wary with exhaustion, too wary with what can only be called heartbreak, to feel any true intrigue. Let alone dread. He lights the oil lamp by his bedside and yawning he opens the letter.
First he recognizes the handwriting; Helaena’s. Then the writer’s identity is confirmed when he sees the signature. Yes, this comes from Helaena. But the contents of her letter, the urgency, the fatality—he barely can fathom them.
His heart skips a beat. Another. And then it sets to pound madly and terrifyingly against his ribcage. His eye darts over the words again and again and again, barely registering them until it has finally breached through.
You must come brother. She drank only a little, but she is unwell. The maesters fear she will not make it.
He clenches his fist around the parchment, crunching it up in his tight grip. Something has befallen you. Guessing from Helaena’s vague wording—drank only a little—you have been poisoned. Deliberately? Has someone sought to hurt you?
Abruptly he stands up, but he sways and almost falls as he hurries to dress himself. He acts in frenzy, barely conscious of his own actions, still buttoning up his vest as he is lacing his shoes. He almost forgets his sword. He hurries through the bellowing, echoing hallways of the Keep, ignoring the confused stares of the handful of guards and servants still about. Even when, in a far corridor, he catches Rhaenyra’s silhouette, he just strides forwards.
It is because of him. Of course, it is. In that you have reserved his heart for yourself you have become a nuisance to many. To his mother. To his uncle. To the queen.
If you do not reconcile with the girl, she will become a liability to us.
How could he have been so stupid as to think that you would be safe? He left you for the wolves. Even if Helaena took you along, even if you reside now within the crown prince’s home, away from him you are prey for the lions. Being around him would be no joy to you, but at least, in the very least, it would secure your wellbeing.
Would it?
The maesters fear she will not make it.
You are dying. Are you dying? Maybe. Likely. Gods be damned, his family be damned, and his own pride be damned—he should never have let you go.
When he arrives at Dragonstone, dark clouds are gathering in the east. As he sets on the winding path toward the castle, the skies have taken on a murky gray hue, casting the island in a shadow near as black as night itself. The more he nears the old Valyrian keep, the louder something in his veins hums, whispers. There is no place in the world—except for the smoking ruins of the Valyrian Stronghold herself undoubtedly—where a Targaryen feels as close to their history as this old, ominous castle. Everything is a reminder of who they were and can only hope to remain.
As he approaches the grand gates, shaped like dragon’s maw, a first droplet falls on his face. A moment later the downpour begins, lightning strikes and thunder bellows over the island, louder than even Vhagar’s roaring. By the time the gates are opened for him, he is soaking wet. But he pays it no mind; his eye falls on Helaena.
Black does not become her. Even more, it unsettles him, scares him so that when the doors have closed behind him and he stands mere inches from her, he urges, ‘She is not—She cannot be—’
‘Breathing,’ she interrupts, sounding rather breathless herself. ‘I hoped it could be prevented.’
There are times when his sister looks at him and he is befallen by the uncanny suspicion that she is not as much looking at him, but at who he could be in the next moment or the one after. Now, too, she looks him not so much in the eye, as through his gaze. This disarming look is the last thing he can suffer.
‘But you did not know, did you?’ he pushes past her, although he does not know where in this castle he can find you. Realizing he is lost without instructions, he turns back around, ‘How could you?’
Helaena has never mastered the art of answering questions. She speaks in her own rhythm, according to her own motives. ‘I pushed the cup from her hand. But she had taken a sip already. I made her throw it up—but only half a drop and…’
As she speaks, she grows into something worse than just strange. In these dark halls, surrounded by sculptures and murals of dragons, griffins and hellhounds, she gains new otherworldly dimensions which make him break out in a nervous sweat. Jacaerys may be the prince of Dragonstone, but it is Helaena who seamlessly weaves herself into the fabric of this half magical place.
‘Where is she, Helaena?’
She blinks, disrupted in her own testimony, and then gives a slow nod. ‘Oh, yes.’
She sets off and he follows in her trail. ‘Have you found the culprit?’
‘No,’ she replies simply.
‘What do you mean? You have not even looked into who intended to… hm…’
Kill her. Someone has tried to kill you.
‘Jacaerys and Baela ordered for an investigation immediately,’ Helaena replies as if on cue.
‘We need independent investigators,’ he hisses lowly as they climb up winding stairs. He is still dripping wet, creating a trail of water as he goes. ‘Jacaerys is prince of Dragonstone, he may have reasons not to have to culprit be identified.’
Lightning flashes and then thunder crashes, only deepening the frustration and concern and raging anger shivering in his bones.
‘It was not the queen.’ Of course she just goes on and says it. ‘It was not any of us, Aemond.’
‘Then who?’
She remains silent. They leave the stairs for a short hallway, and Helaena stops by the door at the end of it. A guard straightens his back, undoubtedly startled and flustered to have been found slacking. But Aemond pays him no mind. Helaena does not say another word. She turns away and takes her leave. No mind the way his blood is rushing through his veins, he remains standing still for a moment, hand on the handle. He is not ready for what hides behind this door.
He will never be ready. So he may as well go inside now.
The air in the room is thick and heavy with incense. It is the first thing which truly gets to him: it smells strangely of iron. As if someone has been boiling blood in the hearth. The door falls closed and then he sees; the well-furnished, but evidently seldom used bedroom, dipped in a hazy storm gloom barely kept at bay by the orange glow of a candle lamp and the fire in the hearth. A bed, curtains drawn. He steps to the side of it, pushes aside the curtain and—falls to his knees.
It is a perversion. How still you are, bedridden and eyes closed. No trace is left of your natural liveliness. Only a shell of you remains, bundled up in layers and layers of blankets. Are you even breathing? He leans in closer, and only exhales himself when he sees your chest rise just a bit. You are breathing, but barely, slowly and shallowly.
Gods, how pale you are and your lips: they are purple. Or dark blue? With a shaky hand he reaches for you, but as soon as his fingertips brush along your brow he retreats. You are ice cold. Even muffled with layers of furs and sheets, even with the fire bright and hot, you are no warmer than a corpse.
You are on the brink of death.
He quivers, breath coming out of him in ragged, fast puffs. He looks for your hand, but when his fingers brush over yours and he realizes here to you are ice cold to the touch he pushes himself on his feet. Fingers digging into the mattress he roars. The sound of his ferocious scream is only drowned out by the crashing of thunder. Despite the storm raging outside, despite the storm bellowing in the room, your eyes remain closed, your breaths remain shallow and your body dead still.
He stumbles back, against the hearth. He almost burns his hand in the fire, but ultimately he falls into the chaise nearby. All the while his gaze has not left the shell of you bundled in that large, devouring bed for even a moment. He leans back, staring at you.
The thirty ninth day after you left him is the day he breaks.
He has not cried in years. Tears are for children and women—and for broken men. When did he become misshapen? When Lucerys cut out his eye? Or before, before he was told Targaryens are more like gods than men, that he stood above the spilling of tears? He has been raised on nonsense. If he were truly godlike, you would not have left, you would not lie here. Lightning strikes again, drowning the room for just a fraction in blinding white light, he sees it clearly.
If he had been half as brilliant as he was raised to believe, as he thought himself to be for so long, he would not be here, looking at you dying. He has been lied to, he has lied to himself, and deformed by such untruths he tried to mangle you.
And now you are dying and he is crying like fucking child.
You may yet live. That is what the maesters tell him when they arrive. The storm has died down by then, and his tears have long dried. How many hours have passed? Outside the skies are clear, but have taken on a dark purple glow. Dusk. He watches on in silence as the two maesters do their work, assisted by a whole flock of pupils. The old men try to convince him that there is still hope. Due to his sister’s quick reflexes, you downed only the smallest amount of the poison. But as they administer dripped water and milk on your lips, burn herbs over your bed and place cloth covered hot stones in your bed—they need to keep you warm, like a dragon egg one hopes to hatch—, he wonders if he is being lied to again, just as when he was little.
You are a Targaryen prince, his mother used to tell him, the world lies at your feet.
A lie.
And now these old men bow and mutter, She may still live, my prince, she may still live.
A lie as well?
After the maesters have left, Helaena brings him supper. She speaks, but he barely hears her. She urges him to eat and ultimately he only does so, so that she would leave. He stays by your side through the night. He barely sleeps, for he tries to stay awake as long as he can. Every other moment he has to assure himself that your chest still rises and falls, that weak drifts of breath still spill from your cracked, purple lips. At the odd moments he does sleep, he is plagued by a single nightmare: you standing in front of a large, gaping window; your throat slit; eyes dim. Looking at him emptily, you lean back and fall. You disappear into the nothingness outside. Again and again and again he dreams of you, covered in your own blood, leaning back into an endless fall. But still it is not as nightmarish as what he sees when wakes.
By dawn you still have not moved. Helaena brings him breakfast as the maesters repeat what they did the previous evening. He eats only to please him sister. He catches sight of his nephew and niece through the door, left ajar. They look positively frightened. No, heartbroken. That is right, Helaena mentioned that you and the children got along well. Of course you did: you have precisely the sort of warmth where children find comfort in.
When Helaena notices their presence, she does not turn them away, but instead she invites them in. It is an awry sight, his sister resting a hand on each of her children’s heads as she tells them what happened to you, what may happen if the gods will it so. Jaehaerys is the first to cry and then Jaehaera. Aemond remains still. He does not chide, does not retort. If anything he feels half consoled. He is not alone in his grief.
When all the others leave, Aemond stays. He does not leave the room for even a moment. As the sun reaches its peak in the skies, he catches sight of Vhagar through the window. She is flying, but there is something frantic in how she soars through the air. She lets out a crazed, angry roar before diving down so that her wings scathe along the surface of the sea. Just at that moment, the doors open again. Not Helaena this time: Jacaerys and Baela.
No mind that it is his nephew who carries the title of prince of Dragonstone, there is a clumsiness in his demeanor. When he sees Aemond, his lips part, but no words come out. Does he appear so unseemly? Perhaps: he has not freshened up. His hair must still be frizzy from yesterday’s downpour. Baela does not seem to be shaken so by what she has found in this chamber, for it is she who speaks, ‘We are sorry, cousin.’
Aemond only hums, leaning with crossed arms against the wall.
‘We are,’ Jacaerys insists. ‘It is a shame to us that we let this befall her under your roof.’
‘If I remember well, nephew, you are not keen on her.’
Jacaerys hid it better than most, but Aemond caught him in conversation with the queen. He heard the crown prince demand her to, at the very least, send the two of you away from court so that you could not further ridicule the Targaryen name. How ironic. That a boy still called Velaryon by grace of the late king, a boy in fact no more of noble blood than you, would insist on the Targaryen name. But then again, no matter how Strong Jacaerys Velaryon is, he was raised on the same lies as Aemond; Targaryens are unlike any other, their blood must remain pure.
‘You think that I—’
Baela takes hold of her husband’s hand and takes a step forward. She always has been somewhat the more rational of the two. ‘We would never bring such shame to our name, Aemond, you know that.’
He tilts his head, contemplating the weight of those words. And the weight is heavy. She speaks truth.
She goes on, ‘And even then… Even if just for Helaena’s sake, even if just for the twins’ sake, even if just for your sake we would never have done this to her.’
At least she admits that their considerations for him come last. She is not trying to earn any favor.
‘You have been searching for the culprit?’
‘Our men and the queen’s,’ Jacaerys added.
‘You involved the crown into this?’
Baela replies, ‘You did not, so we were forced to do so ourselves.’
It has not not much of a conscious decision as the moment urging Aemond to go to you as quick as possible. But then again, the queen had made it known how she felt about you unbound to him. When he does not comment, Baela tells him, ‘The traces we have lead to Dorne.’
‘Sunspear,’ Jacaerys adds in a murmur.
At this Aemond pushes himself away from the wall. ‘You mean to say that the Martells—’
‘Perhaps,’ Baela intercedes. ‘Let’s not be overhasty in our conclusions.’
The two of them talk some more on the prospects of your recovery—are there truly any prospects?—and then finally leave Aemond be. Their absence leaves him alone with his agony, only amplified now by ceaseless theorizing on the culprit. He cannot trust what Jacaerys and Baela have confided in him. They may have their own reasons to lie on the matter. And still, now the words are spinning in his mind; Dorne, Sunspear, the Martells.
He remembers well, so well that it is almost painful, how jealous you were of Aliandre Martell sitting beside him at his nephew and cousin’s wedding. You did not hide away behind your envy: you admitted to it honestly and even daringly. You dared him to do something about your jealousy, and so he did: he kissed you and that was that.
Except it was not just the ending to some sappy love story. So much he did afterwards, he did terribly wrong.
And as he made his mistakes, he had not thought about Aliandre Martell for more than a fraction of second. Now here you lie, barely alive, and he wonders if that is yet another mistake of his. For the way the princess of Dorne had smoothed against his side had made it very obvious: she was in dire need of a husband, and she would not settle for anyone less than a dragon.
Another day ends in a purple bleeding dusk, only to drag him into an agonizing night spent by your side. You are still cold, still barely breathing and with each waning moment he becomes more frightened that he will never leave this limbo. He will be locked in this room by your half alive corpse for the remainder of his days. And it serves him right, it serves him well. He dreams of you waking, only to tell him that you hate him. Over and over again, so that when dawn breaks, golden and red, and he raises his head from the mattress to see your eyes half open that he believes himself to be caught in a nightmare yet again.
But your eyes do not widen ferociously, you do not sneer nor hiss of your hate for him, instead your lips quiver and you whisper, ‘Hurts.’
No more, just that little word is all you manage. Rough and brittle; he can barely recognize the halfshapen sound as your voice. But it is. You have spoken and your eyes are open if only a bit and you look at him beyond terrified.
You are hurting.
Here he was dreaming of you yelling that you hate him. How selfish. Of course you would not waste energy on that right now.
You are hurting. He reaches for your hand under the covers. Still cold. You cringe.
‘I—I am sorry,’ he murmurs.
You gaze at him for a long moment, the dead silence beyond terrifying, and then repeat with even more difficulty, ‘H-Hurts.’
He is loathe to get up. He does not want to turn away from you for even a moment, but you are in pain and there is naught he can do to alleviate your suffering but call for the maesters. Swallowing down his dread, he lets go of your hand and stands, calling for the maesters to be brought in. Ages seem to pass before the old men waggle in.
‘What took you so long?’ he barks, but the old men and their hoards of pupils pay him no mind.
Even worse: they bid him to leave. These insolent goats.
‘I will stay where I am,’ he hisses through clenched teeth.
The maesters exchange a look and the older one says dryly, ‘Any moment we waste on you, your highness, is another we could have spent on trying to help her. Leave.’
He cannot argue against that and he hates it. He bites down his frustration and he leaves the room. He stays on the other side of the door. The guard stationed by your room is clearly trying not to stare, but that is not exactly working out.
‘Look at your feet if you must,’ Aemond grumbles.
And no sooner has the guard turned his gaze down, or the screaming begins. Immediately his hand is back on the doorknob, but when he tries to twist it, he realizes it is locked.
‘Let me in!’ he yells as he kicks and knocks against the wood, but no reply comes except for your agonized screaming.
He kicks and hits and yells like an animal driven in a corner, but the door does not budge and it is not opened. The guard, clearly terrified, flees from his post, leaving Aemond alone to listen as you beg, ‘Make it stop!’
Through your crying it is impossible to make out what the maesters are saying. It only lasts for but a moment, he is aware of that, but still it goes on too long. When your screaming finally dies down it does not come as a relief however. He lives in agonizing terror until the door is opened and he is allowed back inside. He does not look at you, instead he grabs whichever of the maesters by the scuff and barks, ‘What did you do to her?’
‘The poison may impact her capacity to process stimuli. It numbs the body. We had to test whether she still response to stimuli on her skin.’
‘And so you what you—’
‘Aemond…’
Shaken by the sound of your voice he lets go of the maester, who, clearly annoyed, adjust his garments.
‘At the moment she is oversensitive,’ the maester replies, ‘which brings her much pain, but is overall a good sign. We gave her milk of the poppy. Do not remove the incense, even if it appears to smell: it clears the lungs.’
And with that the maesters retreat, leaving him with you once more. Unsteadily he stumbles toward the bed. Your eyes are drooping. The milk of the poppy is taking effect. Yet you still are awake enought to mumble, ‘Close… curtains.’
He does not want to, but he cannot refuse you even the smallest request now. So he does as you ask and sits down in the chair and waits.
Five days pass with you drifting in and out of sleep. When you wake, the little you speak of is the pain and, after a while, the thirst. You eat and drink, but cry as you do so. And when the handmaidens help you out of bed to help you relieve yourself, you scream the whole time: every brush against your skin is agony. And still the maesters assure him that you are improving. It is not untrue, but the improvement is minimal, almost negligible.
He barely leaves the room, only to relieve himself, and, when Helaena points out he stenches, to wash. Most days, by noon, Helaena begs of him to go and see Vhagar. The she-dragon is upset. It is little surprise: she senses her rider’s anger, his infuriating sense of helplessness. Aemond finds that in this strange inbetweenness, he cannot refuse his sister in anything, and so he always goes to Vhagar when she asks. But it is of little use to go see her. She refuses to let him mount her and she groans and hisses as if in pain herself.
By the end of the fifth day, you manage to sit up in bed to eat and rake together a handful of sentences to inform the maesters that the pain is almost bearable. But still, you ask for milk of the poppy and they relent.
This is hell, he thinks that night, a hell of his own making, a hell of his own deserving.
But then he remembers the first word you uttered when you woke—hurts—and he is disgusted with himself. You are the one on the verge of death, you are the one in excruciating pain, and here he is, weaving a story where all of your hurt resolves around him.
He is despicable. Despicable and pathetic and beyond useless. He has done next to nothing for you. He does not dare to leave you alone, and so he has neglected to search for the fiend who did this to you. But he knows nil about the healing arts and poisons, and so when you speak of the pain, of the way the blankets seem to scrape off your skin and how the air feels heavy on your face, he can do nothing to alleviate the agony.
‘Are you… awake?’
Your voice is barely audible from the other side of the curtains, but in the dead quiet of the night it comes crashing against him like thunder. He is up on his feet in no time and draws the curtains open.
‘What is it? Do I call the maesters?’
You look hazily at him and say, ‘In the ch-chest by the hearth, there is a…’ He is on his knees in front of the wooden box before you finish, ‘A little w-wooden boat.’
He finds it easily: it lies on top of the remainder of your things. The carved boat in hand, Aemond hesitates for a moment. In the chest lies your waterflute and—his stomach contracts—an eye patch. One of his. He had not noticed it gone.
‘Aem… hm.’
He closes the chest and stands. He offers it to you, but you shake your head. ‘N-no, I cannot. Send it… to Amira. I carved it… for… hm… her boy.’
Half a second passes; who is Amira. And then it dawns upon him: you made a toy for his bastard son. A spark of anger burns in his chest, but only for a little moment: it all too swiftly dies down in nothingness. He cannot resent you for this. He cannot resent you for being precisely who you are.
‘In the morrow.’
You hum. ‘Go to… sleep, Aemond. And tomorrow, play with the children. Tell them I’ll be back to my usual self soon.’
He just blinks at you. It are the most words you have said to him in forty five days, since he found you at the verge of death in this bed. But you appear less than pleased by his silent staring. As your eyelids droop, you murmur, ‘Close the curtains.’
He does. And the next morning he arranges for the toy you carved to be delivered to Amira, to the boy—his son? By noon he forces himself to leave your side in order to take his niece and nephew to the rocky shores. Helaena and some guards come along. At first, Aemond does not quite get what you expect him to do with the children: they run around like little beasts, happy to be outside under the clear skies, in the rushing winds. One look away gives them enough time to get involved in something naughty or plain dangerous. But then Jaehaera asks if she can sit on Aemond’s shoulders, because she wants to test if in that way she can see all the way across the Narrow Sea. And from that moment he finds that his heart becomes just the tiniest bit less heavy. Although he does not exactly get involved in the children’s game of tag afterward, they do use him as a sort of referee.
When they return to the castle, Jaehaerys tugs at Aemond’s sleeve. Ever the dutiful uncle, he leans down so the little prince can whisper in his ear, ‘Will Drilla play with us again soon?’
Usually he prides himself in his matter-of-fact demeanor, but this is a mere child. And he finds himself to be in need of a bit of sentimentality himself, so he replies, ‘Yes. Soon.’
When he returns to your chamber, you are sitting upright on the bed supported by a heap of pillows, practically buried under layer upon layer of covers and blankets. A young Septa is reading to you from a Seven-Pointed Star. It is a strange sight, seeing you so awake, yet motionless. Your gaze is empty, but calm. Has the pain subsided? Or is this the effect the holy word has on you? You are not necessarily indifferent to the faith of the Seven, but then again, he knows you believe more in Mother Rhoyne than what is written in that book.
‘Leave,’ he tells the Septa but you shake your head.
‘She has a nice voice,’ you reply.
Five words, spoken clearly without pauses or stuttering. With a slow nod he sits down in chair by the hearth. It takes but half an hour for you to drift away, lulled to sleep by the soft voice of the Septa. The girl knows better than to linger and makes herself scarce as soon as she realizes that you are asleep. The way you are sitting now is a recipe for muscle aches in your neck. Remembering all too well how you screamed and cried whenever you were touched these last days, he is hesitant at first. But still, he gets up and carefully lays you down on your back. You do not whine or lament—but when he has tucked you in comfortably, your eyes are lidded. He quickly removes his hands from your body and instead places them on the mattress, astride your torso. He does not want to give the impression that he is taking advantage of your weak state. He would not dare.
‘I feel numb,’ you whisper. ‘If I still feel so in the morrow, take me to the harbor.’
It is your first request at his address since you awoke in this chamber; if he does not count your insistence on him closing the curtains of the bed while you sleep that is. It does not sit right with him. You are still recovering, you have no business at the harbor. You cannot sail off. But he has a strange premonition of what it is you hope to find by the shore, out on the sea. He cannot let you find that.
And so he replies, ‘You must rest.’
‘The maesters said that it was good that I felt pain. But now I feel nothing.’
‘The pain is subsiding, that is good.’
‘No,’ you insist. ‘I do not feel my own body. I am dying.’
His eye widens. ‘You are not dying.’
‘I do not want to die here, Aemond.’
Of course you do not. It would be wrong for you to meet your end here, in a sickly hot chamber, covered by suffocating layer upon layer of cloth. But he cannot take you to the harbor. He cannot let you go.
‘You are quivering,’ you observe, slightly amused.
And it is true: his arms are shaking. His legs to. A trembling, terrified mess he is. Worse than a little girl.
‘You need rest. And I will call for the maesters, the incense—’
‘Oh, please no, if anything that stench makes me want to retch.’
His lips tremble in an almost-smile. You may feel numb, but at least you are speaking once more like usual. Like yourself. Gods, how he missed you. But the fragile smile dies down, as you speak once again, this time slightly frantic, ‘Tomorrow morning you will take me to the harbor. Set sail with me. I want to die on the water under the open sky.’
‘Drymilla!’
‘If you do not take me, I will go myself. One of the fishermen would surely grant me my final request,’ you say.
You mean it. But that should not be a surprise. You are no bird to be caged.
‘I will take you,’ he relents, ‘but it will not be your final request. You will not die.’
‘I thought that by now you would have realized, Aemond Targaryen, that just because you will it so, it does not guarantee it will be so.’
‘In your absence I have realized plenty, squire,’ he mutters, leaning into you. ‘But on this you must me allow me my delusions.’
‘You and your delusions, how they frustrate me.’
Even though the moment is lined by hurt in his soul and agony in your body, he finds strange comfort in the sound of your voice, the shape of it, and to be, once again, if only for a little while, close to you. If he is to guess from the fact that you still talk to him, he hopes that you find just a bit of relief in him being around as well.
Finally he finds it in himself to say what he should have said prior, ‘I am sorry, you must know that.’
‘I do not know,’ you reply hollowly. ‘You have not uttered a word to make me believe that you have realized, understood, let alone repented.’
Your words hit their mark and he widens the distance between the two of you. He stands straight, hands folded behind his back. ‘Tomorrow morning. But only if you have eaten enough to satisfy me.’
You roll your eyes. ‘Close the curtains, Aemond.’
And he does.
The sky is still bleeding red from the rising sun by the time he returns to your chamber. As if keen to see your request granted, you woke early and bid him away. He has lost the privilege to be privy to your morning routine, or at least whatever is left of it. Likely he should be pleased by the sight he finds when he opens the door, but he he is not. You sit on the edge of the bed, dressed for the first time since he arrived at the island not a nightgown, but instead in a simple dress of thick, rust-colored tweed.
‘I have eaten, I am dressed. I kept down that foul tonic the maesters gave me,’ you tell him evenly. ‘I still feel numb.’
‘You should rest.’
‘If you tell that to me one more time, I will throw you out of the window,’ you spit. ‘Take me to the harbor. If I remain in this room for one moment longer, I will loose my mind.’
Behind his back, he clenches his hands tightly. He will loose his mind soon, surely. One more word from you about dying and he will fucking lose it. He bites his tongue. You have no use of his anger now, of his sheer desperation. This should not be difficult. You have asked something of him. The only thing he has to do is to obey.
‘We cannot have that, have we?’ he grumbles.
He wraps your arm around his shoulder and helps you onto your feet. You lean heavily on him. From your sallow, irregular breaths it is evident that each movement comes to you only with great effort. It is a bother getting you down the winding stairs; he goes first and descends stepping backwards as he supports you by your waist. It is as intimate as he has been with you for more than forty days, but there is something jarring about touching you now. He does not deserve to be close to you. Your stark silence is a constant reminder of it: you only tolerate his presence, because he is now a means to an end.
It is a painfully slow process, reminding him of another moment you shared on a winding stairs. Riverrun, after that dinner whereon Oscar Tully had dared to ogle at you, you in that damask dress. You were crying. Until he let you hold the stolen dragon egg. He’d felt childishly proud when you erupted in a smile. He’d done something right in that moment. If only he could have done more of that later on.
When you’ve reached the courtyard, he sits you down on a bench while he has a horse prepared. He tries to make haste, but he catches sight of his sister in the window. Yet, she does not move, she does not try to intervene. Instead she just watches as he helps you mount the brown mare before he does so himself. He does not dare hurry for fear you may not be holding on tightly enough to prevent a clumsy fall. And for fear of reaching the harbor. You make your way down the winding path towards the castle’s outer gate, and then along a haphazard road to the harbor. You do not complain about the slow tempo, but then again you are not saying much to begin with.
The harbor is as lively as it can get: Dragonstone has few inhabitants and most of them are in the fishing or crabbing trade one way or another. Both trades demand work in the early hours. The sun is rising over the sea in a golden glow. Fishing boats are already sailing out to meet the horizon. Aemond pays no mind to the inspecting stares from the commonfolk, but he notices your gaze lingering now and then. You even raise your hand at a woman who lets a basket of dried fish fall when she sees the two of you.
That is right. Helaena wrote that you got along well with the fisherfolk. It does not come as a big surprise when an graying man with a thick beard and worn face comes to meet you at the harbor’s edge. But it does leave Aemond displeased. The fisherman barely spares Aemond a glance, instead he lets out a low whistle and says, ‘Look who the dragon dragged in.’
Aemond squeezes the reigns rightly, but does not comment.
‘Don’t mind Aemond, Maric,’ you mutter.
‘Aye, I do not.’
You lean back and Aemond almost bites his tongue. You do not realize, likely, that you now lean lazily against his chest with.
‘Are you dying, Dornish girl? The girls who work in the keep said you are half a ghost already.’
‘And maybe a whole one by dusk,’ you reply. ‘Can I lend her again, old man?’
‘No one has use of her but you. Then again, you are in no state to sail.’
‘That is why I let the dragon drag me in.’
‘You want to die in his company? I could come with, you know, tell you some more stories as you go.’
‘I have things to discuss with this one before my ghost returns to haunt him,’ you reply.
Maric hums, then shrugs. ‘Come down your high horse then.’
It is you the fisherfolk of Dragonstone respect. Not Aemond. That is what he realizes as he helps you to Maric’s catboat. They must have heard, from you or from the rumors on the wind, what he did to you—and they made up their minds. They much more like the Orphan of the Greenblood than the Targaryen prince. He cannot even blame them. He prefers you as well. So he finds it not so hard to suffer their dismissal of him.
The Swallow, as the humble catboat is called, is a small thing, only good for leisure or, if one was in need of it, smuggling. He has, to his shame, little knowledge and no experience in sailing. Maric guesses as much when Aemond joins you in the boat.
‘She will tell you what to do, prince,’ he calls out as he pushes the boat away from the docks.
‘The tiller, Aemond,’ you say. ‘You must use the tiller to steer.’
You point at the back of the boat. He only just in time gets the hang of it; one moment later and the catboat would have thumped against another larger boat still docked. You talk him through the process. Once you are out of the harbor, you tell him about the sail, when to raise it, how to tilt it and then how to steer. He barely registers what he is doing. He has never done this before, he has never had reason to: he has Vhagar, he is a dragonrider; he has never yearned for a life at sea. But you, you are at home here. Your instructions are plain and simple. The even, detached tone you speak with betrays that you are barely thinking about what you are saying. Yet all your commands ring sound; after a small half hour you are out in the open sea. A swift wind is rushing over the water, carrying your boat where it will as you have told Aemond to let the sail hang leeward. Still unsure of what he is to do with this catboat, he warily lets his gaze drift to you.
You are basking in the sunlight, eyes closed, one hand dangling over the edge of the boat so that your fingertips brush along the gray sea water. You look so peaceful, so satisfied that he is angry with himself for having been difficult about bringing you here. This is where you are supposed to be. Deserve to be, even more in your last moments.
‘Maric’s daughter taught me how to sail,’ you tell him. ‘She is off to the Vale now. Just married a merchant from Runestone. It was a nice wedding.’
‘I thought you… You grew up on a boat.’
You open one eye. And for the first time since coming to Dragonstone he is confronted with your angry glare. But it does not frighten him. If anything it comes as a relief. You cannot be dying: not if you can still manage to instill such shame in him with merely one eye opened.
‘We use pole boats on the Greenblood,’ you tell him lifting your hand from the water. ‘You would know that, if you were half interested in what my life was like before we met.’
He deserves this jab. But still it stings. He is interested in you. But with everything that was going on at the Red Keep, he did not have the time to spare to think about frivolities such as what color the water of the Greenblood actually is.
‘What do you want me to say?’
He squeezes his eye closed as soon as the words have left him. Of all things he could have replied, he had to go for one of the worst options. When he looks at you again, you are sitting up somewhat straight. Sweat is pearling on your brow from the effort it takes to sit up straight.
Leaning heavily with your hand on the boat’s edge, you respond equal parts ice cold and fire hot, ‘I do not want you to say anything, Aemond. I need you to do something. Or rather, I needed you to do something. To show me your support and understanding and just an ounce of your respect. And I needed that forty five days ago.’
Forty five. He is not the only one who has been counting. The realization takes him aback so that the weight and depth of your words only dawn on him after an unbecomingly long moment of silence has passed.
‘I—I… treated your brother abhorrently,’ he says.
‘Not abhorrently,’ you correct. ‘You barely seemed to register his existence.’
He gives a slow nod.
‘The wh—Amira and the child—’
‘Likely your son.’
‘My son,’ he replies. ‘I am sorry you had to find out about it like that.’
‘Would I have found out about it otherwise?’ you inquire.
He lowers his gaze and, even though there is no need for it, he turns the tiller, just slightly changing the catboat’s course.
‘No,’ he admits. ‘No, I would not have told you.’
You hum, leaning back just a bit. It is clear that this conversation is taking a toll on you. As much as you have to discuss, this is not the moment for it.
‘Drymilla, we should not do this now.’
‘These are my last moments, Aemond.’
‘No, these are not.’
It is mostly a wish. Fleeting and fragile. He only speaks thus, because he cannot do otherwise. He cannot relent to this fear that in the next hours or so your body will give out and he will be left in a world without you. He cannot be alone in a world knowing you have died slowly and painfully because he dragged you into a den of vipers.
You scoff. ‘I must not look as terrible as I feel then.’
‘Do not be drama—’
‘Are you certain that you wish to utter those words?’ you interrupt.
He bites his tongue. By the Seven, how he has missed you. Even when you are angry with him, even when you speak to him with only contempt, he finds it utterly invigorating to be around you. He has not felt like this in over a month. For forty five days he has been half dead and here, close to you, hearing your voice, seeing your face, he feels fully alive. Even when you hate him. He may never release you from your dismay for him. But he can try.
‘I am sorry that I schemed on that Dornish ladyship,’ he says.
Your eyes a heavy, but still you tilt your head so to make it known: he can go on.
‘I convinced myself that I did so for you. But that is not true. My reasons were selfish. I did not—I do not know what… I was raised to marry a lady, with whom I would have children named Targaryen. But a future with you has no script. And it appears that the unknown rendered me selfish. I wished to control you. Even if I did not see it like that, I did try to reshape you. And that was wrong. Drymilla, I am sorry.’
You furrow your brows. He leans forward just a bit. The catboat is not too large. He could reach a hand for you and touch your knee at least. But he does not do so. He has no right to do so. Slowly shaking your head, you lean to your side and hunch over the edge. You look at the waves for a long time, hands gripped tightly around the boat’s fringe. He does not remove his attention from you for even a moment; he is shackled down in place by the strange fear that you may fall in the water and disappear for all time.
‘How do you dare say the precise right words, Aemond Targaryen?’ you finally ask.
‘I…’ What is he to say now? ‘I apologize, squire.’
‘Do not call me that!’ You look at him, tears streaming over your face.
And he cannot keep himself back now. He cannot stand to see you in such distress. It feels as if his heart is being ripped out of his chest. He leans forward onto his knees and cups your face in his hands.
‘Tell me what to do and I will do it.’
‘I cannot feel your touch,’ you whisper. ‘I cannot feel the wind on my skin, or the sun on my face. Aemond—I think I am dying and I am scared!’
‘Y-you are not dying,’ he stammers.
But he does not believe those words himself. It is only a wish uttered, a prayer mumbled. He cannot have you see the uncertainty on his face and so he pulls you close. You rest your head against his chest and clench your hand in the fabric of his vest. How you quiver. He has never seen you so fragile and he hates that you are rendered thus by what he did to you. All the nonsense he put you through in the Red Keep. And now the poisoning.
‘Aliandre Martell?’ you mutter after a while.
‘Likely.’
‘Because… Because I was…’
‘Because I am yours,’ he says. ‘Even if you are not mine.’
‘I never stopped being yours for a second.’
Eye widened, he stares at the Narrow Sea: how endless it seems to stretch out into the east.
‘Still,’ you say, ‘Dying of poisoning because some highborn lady wants to marry my lover is a stupid way to go.’
He snorts and you giggle. At the sound, something in his chest strains. He presses his fingertips into your waist, pulling you even closer.
‘I will not have you die. Not like this. Not because of my irresponsibility.’
‘In the line of all who we could blame for this, you take one of the last places, Aemond.’ And then you sniff. ‘Mother Rhoyne, I cannot feel you at all. It is as if I have disappeared already.’
‘You are here,’ he insists, cupping your cheek.
He is shivering himself, he realizes now. He is adrift, like a leaf caught in the wind. Driftwood on the waves.
‘If I die, I will haunt you,’ you promise.
‘I would be waiting, but you are not—’
‘Aemond—’
‘No, you are not. Continue to talk, Drymilla.’ Gods, only now does it seep through to him: you are burning up. You are feverish, as if dragonfire is running through your veins. But he cannot be distracted now.
‘About what?’
‘I never had to give you any inspiration before,’ he says.
‘Do forgive a dying woman—’
‘Not dying,’ he says. ‘Ill, poisoned, severely unwell. But not dying. Look at the sky, Drymilla, and tell me… Tell me: what do I do next? So that you may forgive me?’
You turn your gaze upwards, eyes lidded just a bit against the harsh sunshine. You are breathing heavily, shallowly.
‘Drink first,’ he says. ‘I have water, here…’
He helps you take a sip from his waterskin. After you immediately say, ‘If I survive this, you will take me home. To the Greenblood.’
‘I will,’ he replies without hesitation.
‘You will… hm, yes, you will have to face my sister. Carisimma will know what to do with you. She always knows how to test someone’s worth.’
As much as it sounds concerning, he is only content to hear you speak about the future.
‘You will have to ask her for her forgiveness. And Partemal’s. And Eforin’s. For daring to make me take on the last name of a stranger while I have family, who are alive and well. Although you will also have to beg Eforin’s forgiveness for your dismissal of him, of course.’
‘I do not know about begging…’
‘Do you still wish for my forgiveness of your errors or what?’
He hums and you pat his cheek. The gesture is clumsy and clearly costs you a lot of effort, but still: it is something.
‘If you can see a visit to my family through, I may consider giving you a second chance.’ You are starting to drawl: your words are stretched out, a set of messily pronounced syllables.
You cannot handle much more of this, that much stands for certain.
‘Consider? How noble of you.’
‘I am very noble I will have you know. But then again, all of this is if I live to see another day.’
‘You will,’ he says. ‘If you rest and do not strain yourself.’
‘Rest?’ You yawn, settling in against him a bit more comfortably. ‘Certainly. Shut your mouth and I will rest aplenty.’
Yet, after a moment you still ask: ‘Did you send the toy to Amira?’
‘I did.’
You hum. ‘Good. I quite like her. She was kind to me when she needn’t be. And the babe is sweet too.’
Not soon after words, your breathing evens out. How swiftly you have fallen asleep. He stays with you on the boat for the remainder of the day, the waves and wind taking you farther and farther east. You drift in and out of sleep. On the small moments you are awake, he makes you drink. You refuse to take a bite from the dried plumps he took with. In the afternoon, you are so hot with fever that he is sweating himself.
But by dusk, you have cooled down, stopped shivering. As the sun sets over Dragonstone in the distance, you sit up, stretch your body and look up at him, ‘Did you get burned by the sun, Aemond Targaryen?’
When the two of you return to the castle you are met by Helaena, who immediately burst into laughter at his reddened face.
The twins refuse to let you go: they wrap their little arms around your legs and keep you pinned in place by the outer gate. Twenty days since your poisoning and you have made an almost full recovery. He is still careful to take this for granted: you on your two feet, back in those squire clothes of yours, and laughing down at the children lamenting your departure.
‘Is it true that you are leaving for the Greenblood, cousin?’
Aemond turns away from the maester he just deliver a message for his mother to and arches a brow at Baela. She has never looked at him like this before: amused, intrigued. Apparently, you presence has made him appear a bit more approachable even to his cousin, with whom he has had a cool relationship with at most.
‘Why would you doubt it?’
‘It is just, we are all leaving for the Red Keep. For your mother’s birthday feast.’
‘She will live to see another birthday for certain.’
‘You organized these festivities,’ Baela points out.
‘You are welcome, cousin.’
‘You mean to see this through then, your tryst with the—’
‘It is no tryst,’ he interrupts.
Baela folds her hands awkwardly behind her back. ‘Forgive me.’
He hums. He is not certain what he is to make of her.
‘I do quite like her,’ she says when the silence has become too uncomfortable. ‘Jacaerys and I are relieved that she has survived.’
‘I believe we have Helaena to thank for it. If Drymilla had drank it all, she would not have stood a chance.’
‘The Martells will be dealt with.’
‘I know, because I will be the one dealing with them.’
‘You know the crown cannot allow that,’ Baela replies, and when Aemond just shrugs, she adds, ‘Please, cousin, be careful. If only for Drymilla.’
You have become his weak spot. Whenever he contemplates to do something risky, whenever he considers something that may just contradict someone else’s interest: from now on those around him wiill appeal to your wellbeing. He cannot say he that he is indifferent to it. He has become used to being perceived as invulnerable. He does not much enjoy his weaknesses being identified so easily.
‘Only for Drymilla, I will decide how to act based on her wishes,’ he says, ‘Good day, cousin, and safe travels to King’s Landing.’
‘The red suits you,’ she says and he is certain that he is turning even a darker shade of pink at the jab about his burnt cheeks: it is taking a long time to heal. ‘It makes you appear less rigid.’
‘I am still as rigid as always,’ he assures.
Baela grins and he allows her the pleasure, if only because he is in a way relieved that for once she is not so nervous around him. With a last nod in her direction, he joins you by your side. You have just managed to pry Jaehaera of off you, but Jaehaerys is still clinging on. Laying a hand on his nephew’s head, Aemond tells him, ‘You have to let her go now. We need to go see her family.’
‘But why can I not come with?’
‘Because of the snakes, I told you,’ you reply and with Aemond’s help you are finally released from Jaehaerys’s grip. ‘When you are bigger, you may join us at the Greenblood.’
Jaehaerys sulks, but refrains from another lamentation as his mother takes hold of his shoulder and says, ‘I will miss you, Drilla. But when you go to Volantis, do bring me a trifle, will you, and the children as well.’
‘Volantis?’ you ask, sounding just as confused as Aemond is.
But Helaena just goes on, ‘Aemond, you must be good to her now. No more nonsense, you hear me? I wish for another sister. And a niece.’
Helaena kisses his cheeks, still red and itching, and then leaves with her children.
‘What was that about?’ you ask Aemond.
‘Best not to dwell on in too much,’ he mutters.
‘I suppose that I have more urgent matters to concern myself with. Are you certain that Vhagar will still accept me on her back?’
‘I have an inkling that she will be more pleased to see you than me.’
When the two of you meet the dragon on the rocky shore, she is quick to obey his command. She allows you to climb the ropes of the saddle without even a warning grumble. And for the first time since arriving on Dragonstone’s shores, Vhagar settles down and allows her rider to climb on her back.
Once you are high up in the sky—once you are done screaming your lungs out—you tell him, ‘Gods, I am looking forward to Carissima making you work for our forgiveness.’
‘Seven protect me.’
‘You better pray to Mother Rhoyne, dragonrider, she is the only one who holds sway over us Orphans.’
A/N: just a quick heads-up! before I will be finising up this fic, I am going to first write a chapter for my dark!king!Aemond x oc fic, Dreadful as the Dawn, so ch9 may take a while. But it is coming 🧡 I just really have this thing for my other fic out of my head.
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