A/N: English is not my first language. I’m gonna mix the books and the tv show to make the story line clearer (I read soc, the grisha trilogy and its tales). I don’t own Shadow and Bone and TO/Legacies characters; they’re, respectively, Leigh Bardugo, L. J. Smith and Julie Plec. Also, this is how I think the Darkling is,and some of the events will be changed due to the story's course!
words: 2873
warnings: mentions of witch/grisha hunt
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They are now cuddled, both their backs resting on the Black Heretic's fountain while gazing at the woods. The witch rests her head on the Grisha's chest, hearing the calming rhythm of his heartbeat. Him, on the other hand, lets his thumb caress her arm.
This is all so new to them, so... peaceful. It seems like a weight has left their shoulders as soon as they found equality in each other, the desire of wanting someone to understand them finally fulfilled.
"So—", Katherine's soothing voice breaks the comfort silence "what made you change your mind?"
Kirigan doesn't take his eyes off the tree he's been looking at for the past minutes. He is still enjoying the fantastic sensation of believing that everything is going to be alright now. "I started to think about what you had said. The Second Army is young, none of them have experienced the Ravka before the Fold. They have the idea that the Unsea is the issue, and that all of Ravka's problems will be solved once it vanishes. However, it is the complete opposite: if we destroy it, things will worsen." She nods, patiently waiting for him to continue. "There is no way to guard the entire border, therefore, Ravka will be exposed to many travelers. The Fjerdans and Shu Hans will take advantage of the country's vulnerability and attack. The drüskelle will have more access to accomplish their hunts too." He turns to the woman by his side, who is gazing at him since he started speaking. "Grishas will be in great danger if the Fold is destroyed."
"The Supernaturals too."
"Ravka will be no more safe haven."
"No, it won't."
"Also—", he takes a sharp breath to gather forces to tell her his conclusion "you were right."
The shadow singer's smile almost reaches her eyes. Oh, how she loves to be told that! No matter how many times that often happens, the pride feeling filling her chest always appears. "Pardon? I don't think I quite heard you."
"I won't repeat myself, Katherine."
"Why not?" Her smirk increases as she sees him scowl towards her. "Your words had such a beautiful sound."
He rolls his eyes. "You are not used to hearing that, I assume."
"Oh, no—", she chuckles. "I am more than used to it. After all, I am always right."
"If people see Alina's powers expanding the Fold, they will label Grishas as aberrations again." He ignores her to continue his line of thought. "Another hunt will be made and, with the Unsea blocking the borders, it'll be difficult to escape. The only way to protect ourselves will be killing all the hunters, which will practically be almost all otkazat'sya."
Ravka will be the stage of a massacre, the unsaid words float through the air. All due to the fight for survival.
"I want my country to be a safe haven, not a remembrance of a bloodshed."
Katherine's gaze softens in compassion. She shares that wish with him; she wants the Grishas and Ravka's Supernaturals to see their country as a secure place where they cannot fear. It would be wonderful if Os Alta transformed into what New Orleans is to many: home.
"Although living now more peacefully, your people still dread, Kirigan. Even receiving all the trainment in the world, there is still the terrifying thought of being attacked by the drüskelle and losing a fight with them. That fear will only grow if they witness a magical imbalance, especially one made by their General. Your Army will work based on dread instead on loyalty, and that is dangerous, because, soon, they will grow tired of feeling this." Her light green eyes are full of worry as she looks at him deeply. "This happened a lot through the centuries, and it always ended with the leader murdered by his own people."
"I know. I searched about those historical revolutions." Her eyebrows raise in surprise to see The Darkling agreeing. "Most of them were because the monarchy prioritized the court instead of the commoners, which were the majority. Only a few people had good life conditions, while the plurality suffered with poor ones. They got sick of injustice and repression, tired of having to survive to make others live. They wanted that possibility for themselves, so, after generations had passed and nothing had been done, they decided to fight for it."
"I witnessed some revolutions and that is what happened, indeed."
"I have lived the conditions of these commoners." Kirigan admits with a heavy chest. Sometimes, he is still affected with the memories of his tough childhood. He used to eat poorly, suffer from the cold, fear the dark when the night came, train for straight exhausting hours in order to learn how to control his powers, have to make new identities in a short period of time, and pass through many other unpleasant experiences. "It was terrible."
The sudden warm hand on his cheek tells him that he is not alone, that Katherine has suffered the same as him and as the many unfortunate people that were part of revolutions. "Survival isn't life, Kirigan. But it is just when you are old that you learn that the change will only come if you fight for it. That's why your Grishas are so immersed in the Fold's utopia: their youthness makes them believe that the time has finally come, that Alina will be the savior to fix all the problems." She offers him a sad smile. "My people are old and are struggling to live in Os Alta poorest area. One of the reasons why they hate your lightscum is this, since she represents all the illusion they had once believed."
"So they are willing to fight for change?"
She nods. "With all of their strength."
"If I promise better life conditions, will an alliance be possible?"
"Only if you guarantee that you have no intentions to destroy the Unsea. Firstly, you have to win their trust, especially the leaders' trust, then you may focus on a deal."
He gently grabs her hand that still is on his cheek. "I think I'll need a bit of your assistance, then."
The witch smirks as soon as she sees the glint on his dark brown eyes. "It will be my pleasure."
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"I swear it was her, Genya!" Michelle stops on her tracks as she hears Alina's voice echo through the room she was entering to clean.
"That's impossible."
"No, it isn't, and you know it!"
The Tailor shakes her head, making many of her red strands fly in the air. "Ms. Anya was playing a dangerous game here, Alina. The Darkling saw her as a threat and sent the oprichniki after her. She's probably dead now."
The Sun Summoner's brown eyes widened in shock. "Dead?"
"Yes." No. Michelle had to restrain a scoff. "I honestly think she was a spy."
"A spy? Really?"
"She knew too much for an ordinary otkazat'sya."
While starting to tie the room where the two Grishas were, Michelle began to make her own opinions. They aren't completely wrong: this specific servant knew too much and was considered by the General himself a threat, which led him to hunt her. However, she is pretty much alive, or better, Katherine Mikaelson is alive. No one knows what happened to Ms. Anya, she just... vanished.
"But, Genya, I swear I saw her today!" The blond's body stills as she cleans a desk. "Are you sure about that all? She seemed so real."
"There's no way Ms. Anya isn't dead, Alina. You probably were tired and hallucinated."
The younger girl looks deeply at the other, brown eyes meeting blue ones. "I know what I saw. Ms. Anya was at the beginning of the woods early this morning. She was hidden, but I saw her looking at Kirigan's chambers."
Oh, damn it, Katherine! You let yourself get caught by a teenager?! Michelle's face instantly turns into a scowl due to the anger she is feeling towards her cousin. By the Ancestors, Kat, you really turn into a fool when you like someone!
The Tailor takes a few seconds to answer her friend, but, finally, she shrugs her off with a hand. "I still think it's nothing to worry about."
I hope so, Genya, because I'm gonna kill Katherine if she drags the family into another trouble with insane plans.
The water singer leaves the Sun Summoner's chambers with heavy steps. As a way to calm herself, she goes to her little room and begins to read one of the books she had picked early in the morning. It is written in French, which eases her off with the thought of being close to her native language, and the author describes actions that may help people who are suffering with memory loss. After all, Michelle isn't certain that a spell will recover all of Agatha's remembrances.
Former lovers who had a long and healthy relationship with the victim may trigger good memories. However, the paramour must reproduce habits that were performed frequently during the time they were a couple.
Her blue eyes widened in sudden realization. There is someone that can aid them.
Of course, she didn't talk to Agatha's ex-lover for decades, but she had a good relationship with her; every Mikaelson — unless Katherine — had. The woman is a mesmerizing person and powerful witch, always willing to help the Supernatural. Michelle is sure that if she sends her a letter explaining about Agatha's current situation, the woman will appear in Os Alta in less than a day.
The water singer closes the book with a smile and immediately stands up. She needs to tell Katherine her new idea, but if her cousin takes too long to arrive, then she will handle the matter in her own hands.
With that in mind, the blond confidently states: "If there's any of Kat's shadows here, tell her to meet me at the Little Palace's library now."
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Hours had passed, and the couple had to go back to their respective places. After Kirigan had just left with his horse, Katherine was almost entering a shadow to go to Praecantrix when she heard Ikatris' smooth voice: Your cousin wants you at the Little Palace's library now. Seemed urgent.
She frowns with the unusual situation and mentally asks the dark figure: Which one?
The spoiled French.
Despite knowing patience isn't one of Michelle's virtues, she can't help but worry, her intuition wanting to alert that something is about to happen. However, as an attempt to ignore this uncomfortable feeling, the witch rolls her light green eyes at the shadow's answer. You know their names, Ikatris. So why do you insist on calling them with these nicknames?
She can almost feel the creature smirking. Because it irritates them.
Katherine can't help but chuckle. Her cousins indeed hate all of Ikatris' nicknames and always tell her to talk to the shadow in order to make him stop, however, it never worked. He is immediately delighted as he sees Hope — manic tribid — sends him a death glare, Michelle — spoiled French — huffs in impatience, Nick — justice alpha — rolls his eyes in annoyance, Agatha — dramatic queen — holding the urge to attack him, and Levi — Kol's counterfeit copy — walking away from him to not get into a fight.
Why don't you give me a nickname too? I have never received one from you.
Because you're Katherine, there's no one like you. You are already unique.
She smiles, a warm sensation reverberating in her chest. Thank you, Ikatris.
The witch then orders her shadows to guide her to the Little Palace's library, where she finds Michelle pacing through the Norse Runes book session. She seems nervous, clenching her fingers on the long white skirt, her blond hair that is usually perfect, is now disheveled. "What happened?"
The French woman turns abruptly and looks at her in rage. "You!" She extends her hands towards the brunette as if wanting to strangle her.
Katherine frowns. "What have I done?"
"What have you—" She seems to be using all of her control to not start yelling in fury. "What have you done?!"
The shadow singer seems uncertain of her actions now. Has she found out about Malyen Oretsev? "Yes?"
"You let yourself be seen by Alina!"
The nervousness began to grow in her stomach. "What?"
"Today's morning she saw you in the beginning of the woods, looking at Kirigan's chambers. Is this true?"
Shit.
"I... I, ehm—"
"Damn it, Katherine!"
"I didn't know she was there! I was focused on a more important task!"
Michelle grabs her cousin's shoulders to make her look straight at her. "She's sure Ms. Anya isn't dead, and now I think Genya suspects that too."
The older woman shrugs as an attempt to exhale confidence in order to calm the blond down. "They don't know much, Michelle. I am sure it will do us no harm."
"You were supposed to be the responsible one who fret about things that go out of control, not me!" She lets go of the brunette and crosses her arms, a pout forming on her red lips. "I didn't enjoy this."
"Well, welcome to my life.”
"It sucks."
"I know." Katherine sighs and slowly approaches her frustrated cousin. "But I also know that you wouldn't call my shadows only to yell at me. What happened?"
Her blue eyes face the light green ones. "I have a plan that may work."
"About?"
"Agatha." She passes a hand through her long blond strands, a habit that she does when is restless. "There is someone that may trigger some of her memories, and, maybe, even help with the spell."
"That is wonderful news!"
"Yeah, but not for you."
She raises an eyebrow. "And why is that?"
The water singer looks away, averting her cousin's gaze. "I just want to know that this is the best for Agatha. I would never do anything that could harm her."
If Kathreine wasn't sure why the French woman was acting like that, now she knows: Michelle did the idea before consulting her, the brain of the family and the mastermind behind the plans. "Michelle—"
"And, maybe, I-I've become a little anxious because I haven't found Hope and it was taking too long for you to arrive."
She clenches her teeth, already predicting the enormous trouble she got themselves into. "Michelle—"
"So I took the matter in my own hands before consulting any of you and sent a letter to her."
"Michelle, who did you call?"
She gives her a nervous smile. "The brightest person in this world."
The shadow singer frowns, though her stomach is currently twisting in dread, since it seems that this someone could be a horrible person. "Who?"
"She is just so full of light, you know." Despite continuing to smile, the younger one begins to hug herself, as if this would protect her from Katherine's reaction.
The realization sinks at the brunette's chest like an anchor. Soliel Alvarez is a light singer witch that was Agatha's paramour for half a century. She is a woman obsessed with power and very practical: get in her way and you will die. For her, time is precious, so, unless it's necessary, she doesn't waste time with torture ceremonies.
Beyond hating shadow singers for their ability to dim her glow, she also hates her own kind. According to her, light singers are people devoid of character and who do not deserve trust or loyalty. For these reasons, she feels no remorse when draining an equal; in fact, she takes satisfaction in seeing their despair as she senses the victim's power entering her veins and thus making her stronger.
For sharing the same thought as her about lightscums, Katherine doesn't hate Soliel, however, she is always careful towards the woman. After all, light singers aren't trustable. The adopted Mikaelson relationship with her is tense, and only Levi knows that his cousin slightly likes Agatha's ex-lover.
Soliel is a difficult person to deal with, someone that will always try to trick you if you aren't aware of her true nature. In other words, she is a brutalest version of the shadow singer, and Katherine isn't in her right mind to meet her. She is already worried with Agatha's cure, about her affair — is that what they have now? — with Kirigan, with Ravka's Supernatural's current situation and with the execution of the coup. Soliel here will only overwhelm her and worsen the emotional weariness she is still feeling.
"You didn't."
Michelle looks at the ground as if it was the most mesmerizing thing in life. "Her and Agatha's relationship was so healthy and ended so well. They're still friends and see each other sometimes!"
The British woman can feel her breathing fasten. "Please tell me you are lying."
"And the book said that a good ex-lover can help on triggering memories, so—"
"Oh, Michelle!"
"—Soliel's coming to Ravka."
Everything stops. The air in her lungs, the frustration, the racing thoughts in her mind and the nervous twisting in her stomach are all gone. Suddenly, the forces in her entire body disappear too. Soon, her clear vision is replaced by the dark and she falls on the floor.
I swear this man makes me go crazy 🥵 enjoy another chapter! We’re almost at the fete and all the drama that it entails. 😉 Not 100% sure if this is out of character for y/n so give me your feedback and if I decide that it is super out of character for y/n then I might rewrite it.
Chapter warnings: smut, thigh riding, dub con to consensual smut, language, praise kink, hate sex, low key start of Stockholm syndrome?
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To your surprise, you had woken up to a cold bed and no indication that Aleksander had even been there last night. You breathed a sigh of relief at his absence before preparing yourself for the day. With the upcoming Winter Fete, security had to be tightened for Alina’s protection.
As you padded over to the window, you smiled as you realized that the Winter fete was already in full swing with circus tropes and performers entertaining the visitors. You grabbed your cane and quickly left the room, since Aleksander wasn’t here and hadn’t left any instructions, you might as well check out the festivities and enjoy yourself.
As you winded through the halls, you made a conscious effort to swing by the corporalki barracks. Perhaps you’d run into Mariya or Vera, maybe you could see Andrei before he was sent away.
The corporalki barracks were a long hallway in a wing of the Little Palace that typically had a metallic coppery scent in the air. Even though no one actively practiced in their rooms, the smell of blood tended to cling to keftas in a way that permanently emanated the smell of death.
Since you were more than used to death and violence, the smell didn’t even phase you. Instead you kept up a brisk pace to Mariya’s room. You’d look there first before searching for Andrei and Vera.
A few healers passed you, giggling at some joke they had said, but paying you no mind as you knocked on her door.
“Coming!” A loud voice yelled before you heard the shuffle of feet coming towards the door.
You were about to hug your friend the second the door opened, but froze as you saw who it was.
The heartrender stared back at you with a confused expression. “Can I help you?”
You blinked as you took her in. Mariya was a small healer whose dark skin was always blushing, meanwhile the pale heartrender in front of you seemed very loud and self-assured.
“I’m- I’m sorry I thought this was my friends room.” You stuttered out, retracting your open arms.
The heartrender nodded at that and then gave you a comforting smile. “Of course, I was just reassigned here from Kribirsk and forgot that someone else had the room before me.”
“Oh.” You responded dumbly. “So the person who had this room before you, where is she? Do- do you know?”
The heartrender scrunched her nose as she thought about the question. “I’m not quite sure, didn’t she tell you that she was leaving? The general usually gives us a few days' notice before rearranging the troops.”
You tightly clenched your fist, and ignored the sting that your fingernails made as they pierced your skin. “She must have forgotten. But thank you, this conversation has been… illuminating.” Anger seeped through every inch of you as you walked away from the girl, not even waiting for a response.
That bastard. That fucking bastard. You could strangle him right now and we’re certain that he felt the all consuming anger that engulfed your body. Good. He should know exactly what you think of him and his fucking manipulations. There had to be something you could do to stop him, some way to make him hurt the way that he had hurt you again and again.
So consumed in your thoughts, you marched out of the hall past a Little Palace guard and a random male healer. Perhaps if you had slowed down or had paid attention to your surroundings, you would have recognized the dark hair on the healer and the way his face softened as he saw you. But you didn’t.
“There you are.” You heard a velvety voice reach you from across the atrium. “I’ve been wondering where you had gotten off to.”
“You’re fucking insane.” You whipped around to hiss at Aleksander. “Do you truly hate me enough to take away everyone I’ve ever cared about?”
His face twitched in anger at your tone, but quickly recovered due to your surroundings. Your angry outburst had attracted the attention of a nearby group of etherialki. One of the inferni giving an especially surprised look before turning to his friend. “Come with me.” He walked away and your legs forcibly followed him as he strode into his wing.
He said nothing as the two of you walked past multiple grisha and entered his office. There was no one inside, they were all enjoying the festivities no doubt.
“How dare you talk to me like that.” Aleksander hissed as he closed the doors behind the two of you. “I’ve allowed you time to mourn, I truly do understand. But embarrassing me in front of my soldiers is unacceptable.”
Your whole body locked up as his shadows began to swirl around the room, causing it to be plunged into darkness.
“I don’t believe that you truly understand what it means to be mine darling.” His voice became softer, but you could hear the venom in his tone. “I guess I’ll have to make myself even more clear.”
Shadowy tendrils slid up your arms, and were they touched your skin, you felt as if they were made of ice. You shivered as he strode slowly over to you.
He gave you a cruel smile as he began to unbutton your kefta and practically threw it off of you. His eyes raked up and down your body before he backed away from you and sat down in a nearby chair. “I think I’d like a show today.” He smirked and spread his legs. “At least to start.”
With a smooth flick of his hand, you felt your hands go numb and they ran themselves up your body. When you tried to talk, your tongue refused to move and felt as if it was weighted down. Your hips swayed as you unbuttoned the white shirt you had worn today.
You felt as if your body was on fire as Aleksander’s eyes were glued to you and he hummed in thought as you tossed your shirt to the side and walked over. As you walked over to the man lounged in front of you, your fingers unbuttoned your trousers and began to teasingly slide them down slowly. After finally letting them fall around your ankles, his shadows creeped around your legs and wrapped around your hips.
Your legs shivered at the cool touch and Aleksander patted his thigh expectedly. “Well? Ride me my love.” At his condescending tone, you felt his power over you wash away. “If you behave I might allow you to walk tomorrow. Maybe go to the festival. You’d like that hm?”
Trying not to think about what you were doing, you slowly straddled his clothed thigh. “Why did you send them away?” You asked, staring at the armrest. “Mariya, Andrei. I wouldn’t be surprised if Vera was gone too.” You took in a shuddering breath as you of his hands fiddled with the edges of your underwear and the other gently lifted your chin to look him in the eye.
“I told you I would.” He replied and moved his other hand to your hip. “That I would strip away everything and everyone that you loved until I was all you had left.” He sighed and looked at you softly. “I can be kind my love, take care of you the way you deserve to be taken care of. But you need to behave, and learn that when you don’t, you will be punished. Now ride my thigh.”
You swallowed nervously as you wrapped your hands around his thick thigh. Perhaps he could be kind. He was before, but since all of this has happened you had tried as hard as you could to push down the feelings that you had for him. Perhaps after Alina was safe, if you did as he asked, then maybe he’d not harm anyone else. Perhaps he would be content with just you. You knew deep down that Aleks craved power and would stop at nothing to get it, but perhaps you were wrong. Perhaps you could convince him to change or at least try to slow him down. Or use him the way he used you.
Pushing down the embarrassment that lit up your body, you started to grind against him. Your thin underwear quickly began to pick up your moisture as the friction of his pants rubbed against your barely clothed core.
Aleksander groaned as he watched you rub against him. “That’s my good girl.” Your breath hitched as you felt a familiar wave of pleasure ebb and flow throughout your body. Aleksander chuckled as he noticed your movements becoming jerky and more desperate. “Do you need to cum my love?” You ignored his joking tone as you nodded shakily.
“Yes, I need to… Please let me cum moi sovreignyi.” Aleks smiled as you used the title he had asked you to.
“Do it.” He commanded harshly and opened his trousers quickly to take out his cock.
You gave a soft squeak as you did as he said and released all over Aleksander’s thigh. “My good good girl.”
You didn’t even need to wait for him to give you another command, before gripping him tightly and sliding slowly onto his hard length.
He gasped as you slotted yourself in between his legs and started to bounce on his cock. “Saints. You really are my whore aren’t you?” He chuckled as he gripped your hips tightly and started to pull you up and down him harder than before. “Now go faster. The quicker you make me cum the quicker I’ll have you cumming all over my face.” Your cunt spawned at his words and picked up your pace.
“I still hate you.” You said softly, not wanting to tell him the truth about the way he made you feel. The way he made the area in between your legs feel.
“I can tell.” Aleksander let out a relaxed breath as you pushed him deeper inside you.
You watched as his nose twitched and he gripped against you even tighter. And as he shoved himself deeper inside of you, you gasped as his cock hammered into your sensitive nerves.
You couldn’t help but moan as you felt his fingers wrap in your hair and yank your head down to his lips. He kept thrusting harshly into you and you let him take over as he began to latch harsh kisses onto your neck.
Your hips bucked as his fast pace edged you closer and closer to your second release. “Oh Aleks.” You breathed out, too cockdrunk to remember to call him by his title.
To your surprise those words were all it took to push him over the edge and your eyes rolled back in your head as you felt his member pulse deep inside you and release him cum.
Alek’s breath ghosted over your neck as he heavily panted against you. “Say it again.”
You twitched as he latched himself onto another space on your neck and sucked at the skin. “Aleks please.”
As his balls twitched against you, you surrendered to your orgasm and came around him with a loud cry.
“Fuck.” Aleksander stopped his thrusting movements and relaxed as his cock that was still inside you to keep his release in. “I can get used to that.” You leaned into his shoulder and relaxed as his warm hands gently rubbed your backside before scooping you into his arms and standing up with you still sucking him in.
“I hate you.” You said softly, trying to convince yourself more than him.
“Oh I'm not sure that I saw exactly how much you hate me.” Aleksander kicked open his bedroom door and laid you gently in his bed. Your back arched as it touched the soft silk blankets. “Perhaps you should show me again.”
Darkling/General Kirigan/Aleksander Morozova x Targaryen!Reader
Part 2
Shadow and Bone and Game of Thrones crossover
Part 1
A/N: Part 2 is finally here lovelies! Just wanted to provide some backstory for the character before she meets General Kirigan in the next chapter. I hope y’all enjoy! As always, comments and reblogs are much appreciated, I love hearing you guys’ thoughts! 💜💜💜
Summary: Imagine being the youngest Targaryen and the half-sister of Daenerys. You had lived most of your life in captivity, shut off from the world after your brother Viserys married you off to an old lord at the age of 12 as means to get rid of you for being a half-breed. You used to be a bright and free-spirited child who saw nothing but the goodness in those around you, but the experiences you faced made you grow cold and distant with a lack of remorse for the wicked. Not wanting to live the life your brother had chained you to, you ran away and finally reunited with your sister and helped her win back the throne. (Season 8 never happened) Wanting to build a life of your own, you set sail across the seas with your dragons and army, traveling far and wide before venturing into foreign land in a place called Ravka where you stumble upon a kingdom with a king who you loathe, believing him undeserving of rule. During your stay there, you cross paths with a certain raven-haired general with aspirations of his own. Will you stand alongside him in his mission, or will you take the throne for your own and rule as Y/N Targaryen, the Dragon Witch Queen of Ravka?
Warnings: vulgar language, mentions of rape and abuse and suicide, mentions of abuse against a minor, mentions of incestuous themes, violence and gore, sexual themes. This series will have some dark themes so please read at your own risk.
Notes: slow burn, angst, enemies to lovers trope. Flashbacks are in italics. Current time is in normal font.
Day had turned to night, and all the light that remained of the rays of the sun touching upon the earth, had disappeared into blackness like the life you just left behind. You had remained by Ser Bjorn Maurinus's side that entire evening, seated on one of the wooden crates as you stared out into the pitch black depths of the sea that not even the moon itself was able to cast it's light upon.
Your hands were tucked into the pocket of your dress, the wool fiber of the fabric irritating the softness of your pampered skin as your fingers played with the glass vial that Sir Bjorn had given you. Contemplating the event that was ever so quickly dawning near, you had half a mind to throw yourself into the ocean and let the obsidian waters consume every last ounce of your very being. And though you so desperately longed for those cold hands of death to wrap it’s claw like fingers around your heart and tear it out, your thoughts only ever returned to your sister who would only be waiting your return until death itself stood in front of her.
You had attempted to strike a conversation with the forbidding Braavosi whose resemblance you found to be similar to a hawk, but your words only fell on deaf ears, for the man had not uttered a single response in your direction, his expression as stony as the last. And so you sat in silence, shivering against the cold ocean breeze that felt like daggers across your cheek, with nothing but the furs of your cloak and the howling of the wind to keep you company.
"M'lady." you heard a gruff, slightly slurred voice from behind you, turning around to see that one of Lord Pythias's men had approached you, a small lantern held in his grimy hand and a piece of dried beef in the other. The small yellow flame kept within the lantern illuminated parts of his face in almost a ghoulish manner, darkening every line and indentations that marked his skin. His face and overall appearance was poorly kept, as was with many of the sailors and the men aboard this ship. His hair, like sticks of straw, thinned at his scalp before dropping down to his shoulders in a knotted mess, and his clothes hung loosely about his frail body as if they recently belonged to someone of a much larger size. His beady, yellowed eyes roamed your tiny frame as he chewed on the piece of meat like a dog would on a bone, flashing his blackened rotted teeth and his swollen gums which you had noticed as signs of scurvy from the books you came across from your days spent in the library back home. "Lord Pythias demands your presence."
You twisted your lips at the sight, clutching your cloak closer to you from his gaze before quickly searching to Ser Bjorn for any kind of support in the matter, but the man only looked ahead at the darkness of the sea that mirrored his dark eyes. "Alright." You nodded, refusing to meet the sailor's eyes, making sure to steer clear of him as you made your way over to the chambers of his lord while your mind remained ever so focused on the vial in your pocket. The ship swayed amongst the waves beneath your feet as you maintained your balance, but the prying eyes and snickers of the men around you made you cower, wanting to fall right through the wooden boards beneath you.
The world seemed to close in around you as you brought your hand up the door that separated you and your unworthy husband, the very thing that would soon dictate how tonight and the rest of your days would end as you shut your eyes in a small prayer to the gods. You had never thought yourself to be a religious person, but in this moment where it seemed as if the whole world was waiting to devour you whole, you plucked out whatever faith you had left in you, begging the gods to your aid before rapping your knuckles lightly against the slab of wood. "May I come in?"
"You may."
The room was dull and lifeless as you entered, lit only by a few candles that somehow seemed to darken the area despite its purpose, as if it were sending you a warning about the dangers you would soon face. You could not help but scrunch your nose in disgust at the dampness of the air once you stepped in and closed the door behind you; the smell of sweat and mold reeking heavily about. Lord Pythias was stationed at the foot of his bed, finishing away his plate of bread and dried meat, wearing nothing but a cotton tunic and his trousers. Twisting your lips at his mannerisms, from the crumbs falling from his mouth and bouncing off his big belly before falling at his exposed and hairy feet, to the sound of the smacking of his lips that echoed across the room convinced your ears to want to tear themselves from your head.
Lord Pythias gave you a once over, licking off his sausage-like fingers before beckoning you over with his grubby hand. “Come here.”
You hesitated, your nails digging into the skin on your palms as you compelled your legs to move from their stubborn place despite no matter how much you wanted to run in the opposite direction away from him. Slowly, you made your way over to the man, your each step seemingly smaller than the last while your eyes remained glued to the wooden floor. Your footsteps resonated in the chamber until his hand landed a heavy strike to your cheek, catching you completely off guard as the sound echoed through the silence of the room.
“You will answer me with m’lord. Is that clear?”
The burning left over by the strike of his hand spread through your face as you stared at the floor for a moment, frozen in shock with your hand pressed to your stinging cheek. You could have sworn your nails were going to tear through the skin of your palm as you forced yourself to look up at him with misty eyes masked by the rage behind them, your voice small though every inch of your skin burned with the urge to slit his throat. “Yes….my lord. Forgive me my lord.”
“Now fetch me a glass of ale there on the table.” The man let out a loud and heavy burp before setting the plate aside and wiping his hands off at the front of his tunic, his hands leaving stained streaks of yellow from the oil that coated them as his bulging eyes watched you hungrily as you walked away. “And when you’re through with that. I want you to undress yourself.”
“.......Yes my lord.” You muttered in response with your back facing him as you wiped away the hot tear that fell down your cheek. Your hands shook as you uncorked the warm bottle of ale, pouring the amber colored liquid into his goblet and remembering what Ser Bjorn had told you at your wedding feast. Just a single drop. Slowly, you ever so slightly turned your head to make sure he wasn’t looking in your direction. Seeing that he was currently preoccupied with undressing himself, you slipped your hand into your pocket, pulling out the small glass vial and staring into the slightly tinted liquid, your eyes distant with the thoughts that filled them. Damn you Viserys, damn you and your ambitions.
You found yourself wanting nothing more than to return home, even preferring to be in the presence of your brother than here with this vile old man. At least back home, you had your sister. Here, you had no one, not a single soul. You were alone, a Targaryen alone in the world. Popping open the cork, you let a single drop fall into the cup before returning it to your pocket, watching the potion ripple out like the clouds of an oncoming storm. Swirling the contents of the goblet in your hands and watching the potion disappear into the drink, you headed back to where Pythias sat on the bed, disgusted and terrified with his naked appearance. After all, you had never seen a man unclothed before, nor was it something that you wanted to see in the first place. With trembling hands that thankfully went unnoticed, you handed him his goblet, watching the man lift the cup to his lips.
Lord Pythias tilted his head back, downing the drink in one go. And as you expected it to soon be over, that you would be able to taste just the smallest amount of your short-lived freedom, your heart skipped a beat as he grabbed your wrist roughly, yanking you closer to him. "I thought I gave you an order, little bitch."
“P-please.” Tears once again formed in your eyes as you tried to twist out of his hold, but his large clammy hand only grew tighter around your delicate wrist, his rough fingers like sandpaper against your skin while his other hand seized the fabric of your dress in an attempt to tear it off.
Thump! Ba-thump!
Came the sound within the confines of your mind, repeating against the violent throbbing in your head.
Thump! Ba-thump!
You could not tell if it was the chamber door or the beating of your own heart that enfolded your senses as the terror within you only increased. Your heart pounded rapidly by the minute, growing steadily against the silence around you. Trapped between your panic-stricken fear and the strength of the man more than twice your size, there came this sharp pain that felt as if a thousand needles had pierced through your ribcage, as if your own heart were to burst through it’s cage. Your skin dropped in temperature, loosing all warmth as you began to tremble.
You were beyond terrified, unsure of if you would scream or vomit at the situation at hand between the spiked drink and his nakedness and the fact that he was still conscious. In fact, you tried to scream, but not a single sound escaped the hollowness in you. Even if you did, who could have heard you or would even come to your rescue. No one. And that fact alone filled you with dread. You began to fear the potency of the potion that Ser Bjorn had given you, wondering whether it would do what was promised in order to protect yourself from this man before you. You were frightened of what would happen if it did not work, of what were to happen to you. What if it were a test? What if there was nothing in that vial in the first place and that this was all just a test of your loyalty to your new lord?
But your hopes were soon granted, for as you stood, you watched Lord Pythias sway in his seated position, slurring out something incomprehensible as his eyes slowly shut before his large body fell back on the bed in a deep sleep. A breath that you had kept in this whole time was finally released from your lips in a trembled silent cry as you stepped back from the bed with staggering steps, your eyes glued to the sleeping form of the man who was just a second away from assaulting you.
A small glint against the candlelight had caught your attention, and as you turned towards it, you found Lord Pythias's small knife sitting almost invitingly upon the table. You gazed upon the blade in a tranced state as if it were calling out to you, beckoning you to it. Your mind jumped to complete desperation as you returned your attention to the sleeping form of Lord Pythias, listening to his snores rumbling through the emptiness of his chamber. Refusing to leave your eyes off him in fear that he would stir from his state of unconsciousness, you closed your fingers around the handle of the knife and clutched it tightly in your sweaty palms. Your breaths heaved in your chest as you neared him with the blade raised above you, the room seeming to darken around you until a hand covered itself over your mouth.
Your eyes widened at the contact, feeling an arm wrap around your midsection as you tried to scream, but your voice was only muffled as the intruder yanked the knife from your hands and set it back on the table before lifting you up and carrying you out from the chamber. You thrashed violently against the individual, your arms flailing about as you tried to tear away at him, but your efforts came fruitless as he only held you tighter, dragging you out before taking you away to a darkened corner of the ship. His hands loosened around your torse to toss you to the floor, and as you fell down to your knees, you looked up at your captor to see none other than Ser Bjorn standing above you with a scowl on his thin lips.
"You?" You gasped, bringing yourself up to glare right back at him. "What was that for?"
"Have you lost your mind GIRL?" Ser Bjorn bent over to hiss at you, grabbing you roughly by your arm and pulling you further into the darkness, away from the prying eyes of the immoral men that lurked about the ship. "What in the seven hells did you think you were doing?!"
"I was trying to kill him." You scowled.
"With what?" Ser Bjorn let go of your arm with a scoff, straightening up his tall frame as he did so. "A dinner knife? Has the girl even held a blade before?"
"I want him dead!"
"Oh? And what then? What of the rest of the men here hm? You think one dead fuck is going to keep the rest of these cunts from doing anything to you?"
Your lips twisted into a frown, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill as your voice grew quieter, your frame shrinking in the shadows casted by the small lantern hung up on of the posts. "I just........I want to go home. I.....I-want to go home."
"There's no going back now girl.” Ser Bjorn spoke firmly, looking pathetically over your trembling form before ushering you to be quiet as he pulled something out from behind him. "Here, take this."
You glanced down at the item in his hand; a small dagger. You had recognized the simple yet intricate blade at his hip when you first saw him approach your brother at the hall. “But it’s yours.”
"Take it girl." Ser Bjorn exasperated at your hesitation, gritting his teeth as he did so.
You gave the man a quick look, observing his serious expression with distrust before taking the dagger from his hands, pulling the blade out from its sheath to stare at the shine of the sharp metal. "Why?"
"For when the time comes that you may need it. But use it you will not."
"What do you mean? How am I not allowed to use it?"
"The potion you will use daily when necessary."
"But that doesn’t make any sense-“
"You will do as I have told you. Does the girl understand?"
"But-"
"Does the girl understand? I will not be saying it again." Ser Bjorn glowered down at you, his obsidian eyes boring into your own.
".........Yes." You muttered out with a tight jaw, wondering whyever he would bother to help you despite being of alliance to Lord Pythias and being the cold hearted man that he was.
"Good. Now rest. The journey ahead of us is long." The Braavosi turned his back to you, returning to his speechless state. Not a single ounce of emotion had passed through him during the whole conversation, not even a shrivel of empathy, just as when you had first met him.
Being the stubborn young girl you were, you let out a huff of air, sticking the small dagger into the belt of your dress before finding a spot in the corner where there sat sacks of flour stacked upon the floor. Laying yourself on top of the rough burlap sacks, you brought your knees up to your chest with your back facing Ser Bjorn as he stood watch. You clutched your cloak closer to your small frame to protect yourself against the coldness of the night air that you were not used to, shivering as you shut your eyes and finally released all the anger and all the despair that you had locked within to keep yourself from appearing weak. Your face became wet from your emotions as you curled into a fetal position, using the fabric of your cloak to muffle out your cries as you let the tears of your worries drown you to a deep slumber.
The sun rested high amongst the pale blue sky, nestled between the porcelain clouds like a drop of gold in a field of cotton. It’s rays shined down on the city in streaks of gold as you sat on the grass that covered one of the hills overlooking the sea, watching the ships depart and arrive at the wooden docks of King's Landing. The cool breeze blew against you, blowing back the loose strands of your hair that framed your face from your elaborate braids as you listened to the bells that rang out through the city. You could almost taste the salt of the ocean air upon your tongue from where you sat in the distance, your small leather bound sketchbook spread open on your lap and your stick of sanguine chalk held between your fingers as you tapped the end of the chalk lightly against the parchment.
In the distance, there came the sound of something above you, a flutter of wings about the air and an echo of a screech. And as you looked to the sky, squinting against the sun as you did so, you saw your two dragons drawing near, the large span of their wings blanketing the area in shadow as they soared down to the ocean. You smiled at the sight, watching the siblings play with each other while others stopped to stare and point at the large beasts that were once thought to be extinct. For once, you felt at peace. And yet, the past always seemed to find its way to haunt you. You had been much too preoccupied, your mind focused on your drawings as you failed to notice someone approaching your spot, the heels of their boots crushing the grass beneath them.
"I thought I might find you here."
“Dany.” You turned at the all too familiar voice, seeing your sister with the wind blowing through her silvery blonde locks, a warm smile on her face.
“I was beginning to worry. I had not seen you since dinner last night.”
"I'm sorry.” You set your pencil down, turning to face her as she stood next to you. “I didn’t mean to trouble you. I just....haven't been feeling well. Thought I might come out here and relax my mind for a bit.”
"As long as you're caring for yourself." Daenerys placed her hand on your shoulder as she watched the ships and your two dragons with you before glancing down at your sketches of the wooden vessels and your other sketches of the dragons, admiring the life like details you had put into them. “You’ve gotten better. I remember when you used to draw on the walls until you found your hands on some parchment.”
“Well, I was a little girl then.” You chuckled.
“And look at you now, grown into a beautiful young woman with skills that I could never dream of or accomplish.” Dany looked down at you as she softly stroked your head, running her fingers through the thin silver streak of hair similar to her own that had formed at your front strands, a stark contrast to the rest of your hair. You never really did explain how you got it, that silver streak of hair, except that it just appeared one fateful day.
Her heart swelled at seeing you now, seeing how much you had grown in both spirit and age since she last saw you. And though the two of you were only a year apart, she would do anything to protect you like the older sister she was. You used to be such a soft spoken little girl, one who had always bent to the will of others, one who was constantly pushed around by those stronger than herself. And here you were now, a woman who bent herself to no man and wielded her own sword and survived so much to find your way back to her. A woman who had even led her own battles while fighting her enemies at the forefront. And there was nothing that made Dany happier than to have such a strong and spirited woman as her sister.
"Gods. It's been so long hasn't it." You muttered out in a soft breath, thinking back to the day where you were sold off like cattle by your own brother and torn away from your only sister. "It feels as if it were just a year ago when I set foot on that ship and was shipped off to the north."
"Hm. It has been a long time indeed. But you're here now, with me, and that is all that matters." Daenerys caressed your head lovingly before placing a kiss at the top of your head. "Come, supper should be ready soon."
Wiping off the chalk from your fingers, you closed up your sketchbook with a snap, wrapping the suede string around the leather binding with your chalk tied to it before slipping it into the pocket of your coat dress. Interlocking your arm with your sister, the two of you walked through the small field to return to the castle, making your way to the dining hall.
"The redecorations are coming along nicely." Daenerys spoke up from beside you.
"Thank the gods." You sighed. "Anything but the ghastly décor that Cersei had left. What she had done with the castle walls is blasphemy. The place needs more color, more plants, more…..life. I want to feel at home, not like I’m stuck in prison.”
"Well I’m sure you’ll find the newer decorations to your liking." Daenerys chuckled at the passion behind your eye for the arts.
"I trust your judgement sister." You patted her forearm before facing the path ahead of you, focusing on the stone steps that led up to the castle. And as you lifted your gaze, an enormous smile appeared on your lips as you saw a familiar head of dark curls up ahead that belonged to none other than your dear friend. "Jon!" You left your sister's side to quicken your pace and engulf him in a hug.
"Oof.” Jon grunted against the impact as you almost knocked him over before pulling away to beam down at you. “It's good to see you too y/n."
You twisted your lips in a teasing scowl, punching the man playfully in the chest as if the two of you were children. “Back already I suppose. Where did you leave off to in such a hurry huh? You didn’t even wish me a farewell.”
“Well I had to see my cousins, make sure everything is settled in the North.”
“How are Sansa and Arya and Bran? Are they well?”
“They’re well. They do miss you.”
“You did tell them that I miss them as well, didn’t you?”
“Of course,” Jon smirked, “it’d be a crime not to.”
“Alright you two.” Dany smiled at the sight as she stepped up between you both, placing her hands on both your backs. “Let’s not keep everyone waiting.”
By the time that you had finished your supper and remained on your glasses of wine, mostly everyone had left, leaving just you, Jon, Dany, and a very drunken Tyrion who volunteered to share his delightful stories.
“And I said to him…..” Tyrion slurred out, squinting his eyes and pointing his finger in front of him as if the man he had confronted earlier at the market was standing right before him. “……..and I said to him….”
“Well what did you say to him Lord Tyrion?” You quirked a brow at the man on the opposite side of the dining table as you raised your goblet of wine to your lips, sending an amused look to your sister who sat on the end of the table next to you.
“I’m getting there.” Tyrion wagged his finger at you before returning to his story. “So I said to him……….” He stopped, confused for a brief moment as he turned to you. “Wait, what DID I say to him?”
“I’m afraid I do not know. And I’m afraid we STILL will not know until you tell us Lord Tyrion. So please, enlighten us.” You answered with a smile, eliciting a soft laugh from Jon who sat on the other side of Daenerys, across from you.
“Now don’t get smart with me.” Tyrion rolled his eyes in a teasing manner. “Ahah. I remember now. So…….the man comes up to me…………insults me to my face about my height…….calls me an imp. And I said to him…………listen here you half wit………I may be small………………..but your cock is merely an arms length from my fist, remember that.”
“Oh gods.” You rolled your eyes, throwing your head back as soft laughter broke out at the table before Tyrion went on with another story.
Your thoughts drifted off as you sat at your seat, your face illuminated by the candles on the table as well as the ones of the chandelier above. Your fingers traced along the rim of your silver goblet, your eyes glued to the wine resting motionless inside like a mirror of crimson, it’s deep red liquid bringing you back to your past.
Days had turned to months when you had arrived to the North at Lord Pythias’s manor, a land that was completely foreign to you, a land in which you knew no one except for Ser Bjorn, though the man never spoke much. Each day you spent inside the odious stone walls of the manor was as cold as the next, and each night the same as the last; a glass of ale and a drop of the potion from the vial, and an unconscious Lord Pythias that allowed you to protect yourself from his hands and his immoral intentions.
In the time that you had spent away from the old man, away from everyone, you would stay confined in your room. And at night, when the moon was high and when everyone was asleep, you would sneak off to meet with the Braavosi, who had offered to train you in the art of the dagger. And each weary night you spent training and sparring with him, each night leaving you scraped and bruised, you became more skilled than the last, when at last you were the one to hold the blade to his throat. And in that moment, with you standing over him, the sharp end of your blade pressed to his neck, you could have sworn you saw a hint of a smile on the face of the man who remained ever grim.
But one night; one cold, moonless and windy night had changed everything. You were in your room, dressed in your nightgown while you braided your hair, preparing yourself for bed until you heard someone slam open your door and barge into your room. Startled, you looked through the reflection of your mirror, thinking it was one of the maids when your heart dropped at the sight of Lord Pythias stumbling into the room, more drunk than ever. You did not know what had happened. You gave him the potion, you were sure of it. You could not understand why the effects of the potion did not take place that night. Perhaps he had built an immunity to it, you would never know. But everything that happened next was a blur, like a smear of chalk across one your sketches.
You remembered him pinning you face down on your bed, crushing you beneath his weight as he held your wrists together behind you. You remembered screaming, your face and the mattress soaked with your tears. You remembered his hand pushing up the skirt of your nightgown as he struggled with the button of his pants. And then, as of some strange occurrence, something stopped him before he could do anything. You could not figure out what had spawned within you. Next thing you knew, you were on top of him with his throat slit, the dagger that Ser Bjorn had given you held tightly in your hands, your white nightgown and your skin covered in his blood, soaking the mattress beneath you as you stabbed him, over and over.
What came over you, you had no knowledge of, nor could you remember. You tried to tell yourself that it was purely fear, that you were just a scared young girl of age 12 who protected herself against her attacker. But your reflection in the mirror; your face painted red and the faintest flicker of an ancient flame behind your eyes told you different. And yet, the strangest part of it all, even more so than your very reflection that haunted you to this day, was that the dagger was nowhere within reach, tucked away in the drawer of your desk.
“Lady y/n………..lady y/n.” You heard Tyrion call out to you, bringing you out of your thoughts.
“Hm?” You blinked, turning your attention back to the present.
Daenerys had noticed how you had zoned off just a moment ago, recognizing that familiar scrunch towards the middle of your brows and the way your eyes glazed over as you became lost within your own thoughts. You felt her place her hand on top of yours, her fingers sending you a reassuring squeeze, to which you returned a smile that meant you were alright.
“You didn’t…….hiccup….listen to a word I said did you.” Tyrion waved his finger at you, a sly smirk on his lips as he let out another hiccup. “Or is it……………Princess Y/n now, considering…………your sister is……….officially queen.”
“I am whatever you wish to call me, Lord Tyrion.”
“Don’t say that.” Tyrion gave you a stern yet puzzled look. “That……..just gives others an excuse…….to call you nasty names………..something you might not like. So princess……or……..your royal highness it is!”
“I think you’ve had enough wine for tonight, Lord Tyrion.” You chuckled.
“That!” Tyrion started, “…………is entirely true, I will not deny. After all………what kind of a man would I be…………….to deny myself being drunk. To deny something as obvious as being drunk………..is to deny other things.”
“Always the wise man with the wise words.” You gave Tyrion a soft smile.
“That………is also true.” Tyrion started to get off his seat. “Now, if you would as to be so kind………..Princess y/n…..to walk me back to my chambers before I make a further fool of myself.”
“Of course Lord Tyrion.” You smiled, sending Jon and Dany a look that meant you won’t be long as you walked Tyrion back to his chambers, making sure he did not fall over in the process.
By the time that you returned to the dining hall, a slight sway in your step as you held your hand up to stifle a yawn, you walked in on Jon and Daenerys speaking to each other in hushed tones, the two of them halting their conversation upon seeing you enter, their eyes following you as you returned to your seat.
“You two weren’t gossiping about me were you? If so, I’m afraid I don’t have my tea with me.” You teased, a smirk playing on your lips as you sat back down on your chair. You quirked a brow in curiosity as you saw them give each other a look that usually meant that something serious had to be discussed, a look that you had seen often many times before. “I know that look. What is it?”
“There is something you ought to know.” Daenerys spoke up as she looked at you, her manicured fingers lightly drumming against the table as she was unsure of how you were going to react to the news. “Something we have not told you.”
“Oh?” You eyed their expressions carefully as you straightened up in your seat, taking another sip of your wine. “What is the matter?”
“Jon and I……”
“You’re in love, I know.” You interrupted with a smile, holding your hand up before setting it down on the smoothness of the wooden table. “There’s no need to tell me. I’d have to be either blind as a bat or a complete fool to not notice the…longing looks the two of you share. Not to mention the amount of times I have caught the two of you sneaking kisses-“
“Y/n….” Jon cleared his throat, embarrassed with the fact that you had caught the two of them together, not once, but multiple times.
“Jon is a Targaryen.” Daenerys finally spoke.
You froze, staring at Daenerys as if she had uttered the most absurd thing known to man.
Daenerys and Jon watched your face with the utmost observation, their skin turning cold from your lack of response as they waited for something, anything from you, but all they were met with was silence on your end. You had only sat still, unmoving like one of the statues in the garden.
“……….what?” You spoke out in a whisper, your voice almost inaudible as you let out a laugh of uneasiness. “Is this some sort of a jest?” Your eyes traced over the features of your sister, trying to figure out if she was playing some form of a twisted trick or whether either of you had too much wine even though you only drank a cup, but the seriousness of her countenance spoke enough.
“Y/n.” Jon sighed, knowing not only how much it must come as a shock to you, but also how you might feel utterly betrayed by them keeping such a thing from you. “My father was Rhaegar Targaryen, and my mother Lyanna Stark. My real name is Aegon Targaryen.”
Aegon Targaryen. Jon was the son of your eldest half-brother Rhaegar. So the stories you heard were false.
“It…..it can’t be.” You shook your head in disbelief, finding it hard to fathom that Jon, the man whom you have known for years, your close friend, had been your kin this whole time.
“Y/n you know I would never lie to you.” Jon looked at you, knowing how much it pained you to hear of this now as you stared back into his dark eyes.
You let out a laugh, a smile appearing on your face as you were not quite sure how to respond or even feel about the matter. You were shocked more than anything. “You’re……..you’re a Targaryen.”
“I am.” Jon blinked, slightly confused at the brightness of your face. He could not quite figure out how you felt about what had been revealed. Were you…..were you delighted with the news?
“Well that’s good yes? That means Dany and I aren’t the last two remaining Targaryens. When did you find out?”
“During our time in Winterfell.” Daenerys answered, her gaze ever so trained on your face as she watched how your eyes darted in thought.
“Winterfell? You’re……you’re telling me this now?” You let out a scoff as you stood up from your seat, pushing your chair back with a loud skid against the floor as you moved to pace about the room. “Why did you not tell me then?”
“We meant to tell you earlier.” Jon frowned.
“We were afraid of how you would have handled the news.” Daenerys watched you from her seat, her violet eyes following you as you still paced slowly about.
You started to play with the ring on your finger, the pads of your fingertips running over the grooves of the silver band and the gemstone that sat in the center. Your mind was reeling as you tried to piece everything together, from the stories you were told and how many of them turned out to be lies. It all started to make sense, Jon being a Targaryen. Laughing in disbelief, you turned to face them once more, but your face dropped as the sudden realization came to you. That meant Jon was your half-nephew, and Daenerys, oh gods, that made Daenerys his aunt. “Seven hells.” You breathed out, unable to prevent your lips from twisting into revulsion as you pointed between the two of them, knowing fully well that they slept together. “You two……gods……but the two of you……oh I think I’m going to be sick.” You held a hand to your stomach, pressing your other hand to the table to keep you up as you bent over it.
“Come now y/n.” Daenerys scoffed at your reaction. “I admit it came as a shock to me as well. But it’s not like it is anything foreign within our family. After all, our own father married his sister, and our grandparents and ancestors before them. Even I thought I was to marry Viserys when I was a little girl.”
“But Dany, this is wrong.” You exasperated before turning Jon. “Jon, are you not a bit……I don’t know. Does this not disgust you?”
“Y/n, I understand how you might feel about this.” Jon tried to calm you down.
“You’re her nephew! Dany, you’re his aunt! You do understand that don’t you?”
“Now don’t try to act like you’re better.” Dany stood up from her seat, offended by the way you were treating her as if she were suddenly beneath you and that the whole issue was completely out of your own bloodline despite being a Targaryen yourself. “You yourself were married to a Sta-“
“Don’t!” You snapped with a flicker of your eyes, your hands shaking at the mention of your late husband as a frown made its way on your lips. “You really should not have said that.”
“Y/n-“ Jon stood up from his seat, his heart sinking from the reminder of your husband’s death as well as the expression that now settled in the features of your face.
“I…I can’t deal with this right now. I can’t believe you would mention him Dany.” You stood up, your heart tearing apart though you held your chin high, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill.
“Y/n please, let’s sit down and talk about this.” Jon gestured.
“No.” You spoke firmly, your jaw tight. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go clear my head.” Avoiding to meet their eyes and ignoring their calls, you stormed out of the dining hall, leaving a worried Jon and a rather displeased Daenerys.
“Don’t worry.” Jon put a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “Let her think this through on her own. I’ll go check on her.”
It was not long till you barged into the confines of your chambers, slamming the door behind you with clenched fists as you pressed your back against the wooden door. Your chest rose and fell with each heavy breath that felt like daggers in your lungs as you plopped down at the edge of your bed, burying your head into your hands as tears streamed down your cheeks. Your frame trembled as you became trapped within a whirlwind of emotions that tore themselves at you; from the shock of learning Jon’s true lineage, to the affair between your sister and him, to your sister bringing up your late husband’s name, to being confused about your own marriage. The last two had hit you the hardest, striking a blow against you, especially when it was something you tried so desperately to forget. Learning of Jon’s connection to you made you question the relationship you had with the man you loved and married. And the more you pondered on it, the more you did not know whether to feel horrified or heartbroken.
You wanted to leave, to pack your things and set sail far away from Westeros and disappear from the land that only reminded you of all that you had lost. Your soul yearned to start a new life for yourself, to gather your dragons and live a life free of pain and torment and war. And yet, a small part of you, the Targaryen blood that ran through your veins, desired to gather your army and lay claim to land that has yet to be claimed, to build your own kingdom. You had even begun to pack some of your belongings, your luggage tucked away under your bed to keep out prying eyes that might turn a single utterance of a word into a string of gossip. But more importantly, you were unsure of how to go about telling your sister and Jon that you wanted to go away, to travel to foreign land that one has not seen, without the slightest idea of your return. Nor did you have the heart to tell them.
There was a soft knock upon your wooden door, drawing you out of your thoughts, and as you turned towards it, you saw Jon enter, his face filled with concern at your weeping figure.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to be left alone.” You turned your head away to hide your glistened face.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” You huffed out, wiping away at your tears as you straightened yourself up.
“Well you don’t look fine.” Jon sighed as he took a seat next to you, your bed sinking slightly from the weight. “Look, y/n, I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner.”
“Hmph. Who would have thought you were my nephew this whole time even though you’re older than me.”
“No one. Not even me I suppose.” Jon chuckled softly, his eyes cast downwards. “I’m sorry that Dany brought him up. I’m sure she didn’t mean to.” He apologized, knowing how much it pained you to be reminded of him, especially with how you still blamed yourself to this day for his death.
“I just……..I miss him so much.” You sniffled, not being able to stop the tears that now flowed freely no matter the times you wiped them away. “Gods, I can’t even say his name nor think of him without breaking into tears.”
“You loved him very much, you still do.” Jon smiled, seeing that you still wore the ring that was given to you at your wedding, your actual wedding. “And he loved you. I’m sure if he was here right now he’d tell you just that. He would tell you how proud he is of you, to see how far you’ve come and how strong you were. And being the person that he was, he would brag to the world of it, of how his wife led an entire army and helped win back the throne in her family’s name.”
A small smile formed on your lips at Jon’s words, a smile that held more sorrow than gaiety as you imagined he would have said the same exact thing. “I just…..I wished there was something I could have done, then maybe he would still be here and maybe……” you reflected to the night of your husband’s death as your hand moved over to place itself at your stomach, your fingers grazing over the groove of the scar hidden underneath the fabric of your dress.
“You shouldn’t blame yourself.” Jon comforted you, placing an arm around you as you leaned into him, wetting the fabric of his coat with your tears as you cried onto his shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault.”
As the two of you sat there for a moment, mourning the memory of the man who was not only your husband but also someone that Jon himself had shared a strong bond with, your thoughts began to once again drift off to the past, of the day that you first met the man you would grow to love.
The night of Lord Pythias’s death, Ser Bjorn had arrived swiftly to your chamber with his sword in hand upon hearing the sound of your screams as he feared for the worst, but what he came across was not quite what he had expected. His face remained still as he unraveled the scene before him; Lord Pythias lying dead on your bed with his throat slit as multiple stab wounds lined his chest. And then there was you, huddled up in the corner covered in his blood, your face expressionless and the dagger that the Braavosi had given you held tightly in your hands, and the hint of a flickering of a flame behind your hollow eyes. And in that moment, that is when Ser Bjorn knew.
You looked up from your dazed state, seeing Ser Bjorn stand over you with your cloak and a bundle of clothes in his hands as you suddenly remembered the dead lord on your bed, thinking you were going to get executed for your crime. “Ser Bjorn. I’m sorry I-“
“Quiet.” He threw the clothes down at you, keeping an eye on your door in case any of Lord Pythias’s men decided to show as he handed you a rag. “Wipe your face and put these on. Quick.”
“But these are boys clothes.” You looked at the dark muddy colored wool tunic and pants with skepticism, not really understanding what the Braavosi had in mind.
“Do as I say GIRL.”
You wanted to ask the Braavosi what he was getting at, to understand just exactly what plan had formed in his mind as he carefully went over to your door to scan the hallways. But you decided against it, thinking twice about asking any questions at a time as threatening as this.
With your brows etched in dread, you threw the clothes on top of your nightgown, lacing up your boots before tying the leather belt around your waist and sticking your dagger in it, making sure to wipe your face with the rag to the best of your abilities while Ser Bjorn kept a lookout.
“Hold still.” The man ordered as he turned you around, using a knife to cut off your braid as your felt your hair fell down to your face.
With widened eyes, you reached a hand back, feeling your hair now end at your jaw instead of your lower back before glancing at your reflection. It was now that you realized what Ser Bjorn had in mind, a plan to disguise you as a boy in order for you to escape with your life.
“Now listen carefully girl.” The man turned you around, placing his hands on your shoulders as he did so. “You’re going to head farther up North until you reach the walls of Winterfell. There you will meet a man of the name Ned Stark. Tell him I sent you. Stay on your feet and DO NOT turn back.”
“But what about you?” You frowned, tears of fear forming in your eyes as you stared into the dark eyes of the man before you, the eyes of a man whom you might not see again.
“Do not worry about me. I taught you to use the dagger, now use it. Remember girl, valar morghulis.”
“Valar dohaeris.”
Ser Bjorn gave you a push towards the door. “Now go.”
“But-“ Your lip quivered as you became overwhelmed with fright, the fear of once again being left out on your own settling within your bones like a disease.
“Go!”
Giving Ser Bjorn one last look, you ran out from your chambers, making sure to lower your head as you hurried through the hallways and out the building, leaving the warmth of the fireplace that was in your room and being faced with the cold wintery air of the North. You did not know how far or how long you ran, but all you could remember was the ache in your legs, the pounding of your heart and the adrenaline that rushed through your veins as you kept moving, running through the woods in the middle of the darkness that belonged to the night, the branches of the trees slicing across your face until you no longer set foot in Lord Pythias’s land.
Night had turned to day, and all the energy and strength that flowed through you when you left the manor had now diminished, leaving you exhausted and begging for rest. But no matter how much your eyes drooped, or how much you wanted to collapse on the dirt beneath you, you remembered Ser Bjorn’s words. ‘Stay on your feet and do not turn back’. And so you did as much as your feet allowed you to. You began to worry on what could have happened to the Braavosi since you left, praying to the gods to keep him safe and that you would soon meet again. And as you trudged along, your boots and the hem of your cloak caked in mud, your face showing signs of weariness and your lips chapped from the lack of water, you heard the snap of a twig behind you. Turning around, you saw three older men approach you from the distance, their appearance as unkept as the dirt beneath their feet.
“Well what have we here?” One of them smiled, flashing his poorly kept teeth. “What are ye doing out here boy?”
“Ya think he’s one of the Stark boys?” The other man nodded in your direction as he gave you a once over.
Stark boys? That must have meant that Winterfell was near.
“Are you a Stark, boy?” The first one spoke, eyeing the clothes on your back before becoming irritated from your lack of a response. “You deaf, boy? Or just mute”
“He don’t look like a Stark.” The third of the group shook his head, his eyes roaming your person as to search for any signs of coin or wealth. “You got anything for us boy?”
“Stay back!” You pulled out your dagger from its sheath, barely able to hold the blade out in front of you from the lack of food and water as your heart beat rapidly in your chest while the men only laughed.
“Now what exactly are you going to do with that, huh little boy?” The first one laughed as he eyed your dagger. “Hey, that’s a pretty knife. I think I’ll have to get me it.”
The man who seemed to be the boss lunged at you, his hands held out in front of him as he tried to grab you. Remembering Ser Bjorn’s training, you stepped off to the side, slicing the man across the face as you did so.
“Agh!” The man grunted in pain, pressing his hand to his face before bringing his hand down to see his blood coating his palm. “Why you bastard cunt! You cut me! Get him!” He shouted at his two men.
You nearly tripped over yourself as you faced the other direction you were originally headed, running as fast as you were able from the three goons that chased you down. Your legs felt as if they had turned to wood as you sprinted once more through the thicket of trees, your each step seeming to get more heavy than the last as you kicked up the dark mud from beneath you, your clothes only starting to weigh you down from the mud that clung to it. And as you darted through the trees, fearing that you lost your way and that there was no escape to this endless maze of your fate, the sharp branches grabbed ahold of your cloak, tearing it from your body as you ducked beneath the trunk of a tree that had fallen over.
Turning your head back, you saw that the men were starting to gain on you, their faces furious from your attack on their leader. You tried to push yourself to quicken your pace, to keep going until you reached the land that Ser Bjorn informed you of in hopes of your own survival, but to no avail. No matter how hard you tried to outrun them, you were at a disadvantage. They not only outnumbered you, but they also overpowered you in both size and strength. You turned your head back to the front, facing the path in front of you until you felt something hook around your ankle. There was a harsh pull at your leg as you attempted another step, and as you looked down in horror, you saw that your foot had gotten caught between one the roots that belonged to the trees. With a gasp of fright, you fell down into the mud, letting out a scream from the sharp pain that suddenly spread from your foot and up your leg.
“There you are! You little bastard!” The leader hovered over you as you fought against him, grabbing you by the collar before bringing his fist down to connect with your jaw.
A snarl ripped out of your throat as you bared your teeth, the taste of copper filling your mouth as you ignored the throbbing pain in your face and your ankle once your fight response kicked in. Your tried to struggle against the man’s grip, scratching at his face in an attempt to gauge out his eyes like Ser Bjorn had taught you, but the man only swatted your hands away, hissing at the scratches you left behind.
“Agh! You fucking cunt!” The man barked, picking up your dagger that had slipped out of your hand from your fall, pinning you down against the mud as he held the blade up to your face. “You’ll pay for what you did. I’m gonna carve your face up like ye did mine.”
Your eyes widened against the sharp blade of the dagger, the terror in your eyes evident in your own reflection held in the shiny metal. The other two men surrounded you, watching you being held down with amusement in their smiles. Beads of sweat formed at your forehead, contradicting the iciness of your blood as you twisted beneath the weight of the man above you, watching the point of the dagger come closer, and closer. You tried to scream for help, praying that your calls would soon be answered and that someone might come to your aid. But there came no one. And it was in that moment, that you thought you might breathe your last.
A blood curdling scream tore itself from your throat as the man pressed the sharp point of the dagger into the skin of your forehead, dragging the blade over your brow and down your cheek, making sure to take his time as to provide you with as much torment possible. You squeezed your eyes shut against the excruciating paint that overtook your face, nearly passing out from the sensation. It was as if your body was close to shutting down. Your vision became blurry as a numbness circulated through every inch of you, your throat raw from your screams as you could no longer cry for help. You believed that this was it, that death had finally appeared himself before you as you looked up to see the man hold your dagger up above him, a rage filled grin on his face as he was ready to end your life.
“Please.” You rasped out in a desperate attempt, uncertain if you were speaking to the man who was about to kill you or the gods above. And then, as if your prayers were answered, you heard shouts in the distance, their voices muffled out by the fatigue that began to overcome you as you watched an arrow pierce itself through the goon’s shoulder. The man let out a yelp, dropping your dagger near your head as he fell off you. Time seemed to slow around you as you laid there, unmoving, your eyes glossed over as you listened to the clashing of swords. You tried to keep yourself awake, afraid that you would be no more the moment you shut your eyes until a figure hovered over you.
“H-help.” You breathed out, coughing from your own blood as the lids of your eyes grew heavier by the second as you slowly lost the will to fight.
“It’s alright.” You heard them speak. A boy from the sound of it as he called out for his father before turning back to you, a glimpse of soft brown curls and a pair of blue eyes that searched your face. “You’re safe.”
“H-help.” You spoke once more, the world around you fading into black as your ears picked up on his father calling out his name.
He’d needed to taste you since the moment you’d entered his tent. Updating him on movement from up north but he’d only watched your lips as you spoke.
Ever since he’d tasted them for the first time he knew it would never be enough. Every moment since then he needed to have you. In every way.
He didn’t believe in the Gods but seeing you come on his tongue and scream out his name, sheets firmly fisted in your hands, was the holiest sight he’d ever seen.
-am I writing a shadowplay fic with the darkling? Yes. Yes I am.”
The boy kept looking in the river's water. Each splashing drop flying on his skin, a name. Rushing over rocks and pebbles, foam cut through his reflection. Every current anew brought another face.
"Mishu."
The boy flinched. And cringed. His mother doesn't approve fear. They are above it, they are behind it, they are not cowered under it. And they are not allowed mistakes.
Mikail, Mikail, Mikail, Mikail... that's his name. His. Answer to it, boy! His mother would say, boring a glare through his fixed eye, he dares not move away. Mikail, Mikail, Mikail, Mikail, his name. Own it! A shook of his shoulders would made him remember. Even when it was just the wind, ruffling his ripped clothes.
Shifting from foot to foot, the boy stole glances at the clear stream still.
Ilici would have seen a crown of gold around a wide forhead. Piercing green eyes would lower to the ground whenever someone tried to meet them. He wasn't good at lying, his eyes, much less.
Ivan would have been starring at long, brown locks. Strands of hair always in his eyes. A long face, bones poking at his skin. He'd never speak, his voice changing too much.
Pyotr would look and laugh at the swollen nose between close eyes.
"Mishu!"
The boy snaped his head away. His mother was now in his sight, emerging the forest, dark and full of secrets. Blood hasn't yet dried on her skirts and bodice. Tailor's blood. Grisha blood.
The blood of the poor man who agreed to help them. Who pinched mother's face until it shriveled and wrinkled like an old crone. Who pulled at the boy's own until the eyes were but two holes, sucked in his skull by famage.
He trembled. One step of his mother, bringing her closer, one more scream of the dead man, one more image flashing before the boy's eyes. Darkness. A slashing sound, cutting the wind. But no. Not the wind. A body. The Tailor's body. Grisha body.
"Come on, boy, we don't have all day. Help me clean this mess."
"Yes, madraya."
New face, new behavior, new name. No matter what, though, the boy must always listen to his mother. His own, his family, his only.
His lips moved, but no sound came. The boy's mind was loud, though. Too loud. Enough to wake the entire clearing and the trees over the mountains as well.
His fingertips brushed the unknown skin of his fiftenth face. Or was it twentieth? Thirtyfourth?
Mikail. This one is called Mikail. Aleksander, a voice protested in silence. The boy pressed his palms over his ears. He can't hear it, he won't. He is Mikail. He has to be. Mother promised one day he'll have just one name, his first, his real one.
For what? A bitter voice chipped at his heart. Why hold on to that name, that's not on anyone's minds, or lips? What is Aleksander, but the name a child calls a flower, a ragged doll, a bird they nurtured and left and no one but the child speaks of it? And if he hade made a friend, he wouldn't care for Aleksander. But for Ilici, Ivan, Pyotr, Kazimir, Mikail.
People give names to what they hold dear. A name is meaning. A name is longing and love and respect. Towns and villages have names to be called upon when one is lost. Few high peaks have names to recognize their majesty and unyielding might. Even forests and rivers, flowers and trees are given the gentile mercy of a knwon by all name.
Aleksander is nothing. Means nothing. Weights nothing.
One day, he won't have to be what others see when they look at him, he could be himself, madraya sweared.
Who is himself? The boy is a white canvas, waiting for its artist, a rough wood to be carved over and over again. The boy is that soft clay, passed through too many hands and wasted for now it cannot stand molded in neither chosen form or shape.
One day, he will grow old with the same features of long, long years unchanged...
...The same features, but not his own. Madraya tailored him since as long as he could be on his feet. Before that, he doesn't remember. He doesn't remember if he looked like her, with dark, black eyes like the shadows they control. If he had hair in the color of blackberries or raven feathers. He might have had a round face, or a square one, oval, long, shrimped. So many options, so in vain.
Years later, when he made the choice to ditch each, any and all names, the boy's – now a determined man – felt a strange relief wash over him. Numbness. And in it, peace.
The Darkling: a title to gain power, traction and build a future that for now existed only in his dreams. He designed his appearance to be pleasant, inviting. He needs not be intimidating and thus, scary when threading unsure territories of politics.
He became cold and rational, not out of neccesity, as many are quick to believe. But because he didn't know what else he could be. When his mother left him on his own madness, as she called it, when so used to be beneath, people starting to look up to him instead of projecting their ideas onto the growing boy, he searched for something inside.
A flaming coal to lit up. The name he shoved away and could now reclaim and the person behind it that was pushed so deep inside he could no longer feel it, find it. He searched for something that was never there. So he had to conjure an inner treasure up.
Who was the Darkling would become the burning question of all ravkans, fjerdans and shu alike. Even those farring blissfully away in Kerch, Novy Zem and the Wondering Isles would be drawned by the mistery of the living myth.
Who was the Darkling? Nothing. No one. Ilici, Ivan, Pyotr, Kazimir, Yuri, Mikail, Eryck and many more. Aleksander. Nothing, then. And no one.
