SE JORRĀELAGON HEN ZOKLA; baelor targaryen x stark!reader
marriage for targaryens is pure politics and purity, so much so when the breakspear weds the descendant of the great house of stark, it sends a controversial message about the house of the dragon.
warnings: canon divergence (reader is valarr & matarys’s mother and baelor’s only wife + replaces asra stark & maekar is irish twins with aerys), unrequited love triangle (maekar and baelor pine over the reader *mentioned*), smut smut smut, premarital sex (the horror), canon typical violence, time period related misogyny, hinted eugenics (targcest talk & superiority), direwolves are domesticated with the starks pre-got. word count: 5.2k notes: i’ve been craving to make a targ x stark fic for AGES. oh how i missed writing for asoiaf.
“They say he is stronger than the Kingsguard” Jeyne whispered to you in the hallowed halls of Winterfell, the maidens and cooks prancing aimlessly as they prepared for a day bigger than accounted for in the histories, Targaryen princes and royalty were to be hosted by the Starks of Winterfell. “That he is more Martell than Targaryen… you can’t help but wonder what his bastard un—“.
“Daemon Wat— Daemon Blackfyre, is a great… bastard” you whispered curtly, making sure no one heard the words uttered from the mouth of Jeyne, “My grandsire would have struck you if he heard those words” you warned, breathing in deeply. Your nerves were shot to say the least, running on a pure high the past week as the Targaryen’s were set to arrive via carriage within a few aggravating hours, King Daeron, his wife, Myriah, and his children, most notably his heir, Baelor. You looked back at Jeyne, as she sensed your nerves, there was no feasible reason for your general worry, there’s never been a Stark to be betrothed to a Targaryen— despite your grandsire Cregan’s pact to then Prince and heir, Jacaerys Velaryon, and the whispers of your bastard-born great-aunt’s relations with the Prince. “Do you believe he can speak Valryian?”.
A crude smile grew on Jeyne’s face, “Let us hope he can roll his R’s, those men know how to please women” she laughed as you smacked her arm playfully, praying to every God, old and new, that Jeyne’s words fell upon deaf ears. “If he is anything like his grandsire, you may just never leave your bedchambers” she remarked after the silence grew, earning a pinch on her arm.
Baelor Targaryen was a handsome man, with a crooked nose from past breaks, he looked closer to common folk than God like the Targaryen’s have been esteemed to be. Baelor, by all accounts, was an outlier of his family just as his father, seemingly as heir, the realm looked up to him to be just as great as Aegon the Dragon. As he stood in front of you as your father treated Daeron and Myriah to introductions, both Baelor and his younger brother Maekar stared endlessly at you and your own brothers, with Aerys seemingly lost in thought and Rhaegel picking the skin off his fingers. There was an unspoken potentiality that loomed over you, one of them may just be your husband one day.
“And this is my daughter, Y/n” your father introduced, his hand finding its way to your shoulder to signal you forward, a curtsy donning the court as you showed dutiful respect to the King and his Queen. “She is six and ten” he told the King, who met his gaze knowingly, perfect for either of his four sons for betrothal. It was written in pact a generation past for your house, a Targaryen daughter is to be wed to Stark son, preferably the heir to Winterfell, your grandsire never explained the semantics of it.
“A woman grown,” Myriah smiled, signalling you upward from your knees, “Quite an example of Stark beauty as well my Lord, you and your wife should be proud”.
Your father, bashful as can be, snickered, nodding in response to the Queen’s compliment. “We shall prepare the hall, I hope your sons are fond of dancing” he showed them away as the court dispersed, leaving you, your brothers and Jeyne to entertain the sons. You looked to your brothers, long gone to interact with their own friends leaving you and Jeyne to bear witness to the Targaryen boys unabashed side, their neutral state.
Aerys was easy to please, set off to the maesters to learn more about the histories of your great house. As for Maekar, Rhaegel, and Baelor, pleasing them seemed trivial. What were two northerner girls to do with boys with dragon blood? Your eyes met hers as you both settled on treating the boys to the crypt, grim yet somewhat entertaining for any notion of intrigue. A torch was braced in both yours and Jeyne’s hands, a source of light yet the flame raged, nearly burning your hair.
“Is it true that Starks were once able to become beastlings?” Maekar asked beneath his breath as your ancestors’s graves stood inches away.
You shrugged, “Were Targaryen’s true dragon riders or is that just a tall tale?” you challenged, “Starks are wargs, able to bond with their direwolf. Same as how Targaryen’s were once bonded to their dragon” you told, licking your lips to look at Jeyne, “My brothers are bonded to their wolves, as I am bonded to Lynara”. It wasn’t custom to reveal house secrets, especially your wolves. Yet you felt no harm in telling them about your own. “She’s not keen on strangers, or even our own constituents”.
“Who is she keen on?” Baelor spoke up, his voice was new to you, having not spoken once. You looked back, sparing Jeyne yet another glance, biting your lip before responding.
“Spouses… family, Jeyne of course” you answered, your eyes holding his gaze. “Even then she needs proof of loyalty, direwolves can sense farces, lies, and deception. Eventually, she’ll warm up, yet she still is protective at all times”.
Dancing was an art form within itself, the way your feet stomped told stories of culture, whether your hips swayed or remained stiff told everyone around you how you perceived the arts, whether it was your bawdy brothers and their betrothed, Jeyne shamelessly dancing with the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, your parents fancying a dance alongside their vassals, or you and Baelor challenging each other to see who will stomp on one’s foot first.
“I thought Starks were known for their cunning tactics” he breathed out, labored and humorous as sweat beaded on his forehead from the sheer amount of body heat. A smug smile grew on his face as his foot stepped on yours, the pain wasn’t too great, feeling the Prince control the pressure to be gentle. “Gotcha” he teased, earning a playful shove from you as you immediately stepped on his foot with your pointed heel. The pain was radiating from his toe to the entirety of his nerves, you would not hold back to spare him, there he felt intrigued, eyes meeting yours. Could it be? Baelor Targaryen, heir to his father’s throne, Prince of Dragonstone, set to be just a great leader than that of The Conqueror, a man more Martell than Targaryen, his mother’s favorite, falling in love with a Stark?
“Your daughter seems to be taking a liking to my son” Myriah spoke to your mother as they sat down, their breaths catching their own, a fond smile grew on her face.
“Maekar seems like a good gentleman, quite timid he is however” your mother responded, struck for surprise as her head lifted to see you treating with Baelor.
“Not that son” she said, “If she chooses, she’d be a great Queen”. Your mother studied the smile on your face, exuberant, it marked a bountiful moment in both senses of her soul, the political, and the mothering. She bit her lip, apprehension riddling her body within second thought, you could leave with the Targaryens by the end of their treatment.
“The stables are empty at night” you whispered in Baelor’s ear, your breath tickling his ear, “No guards… or lords or ladies…” the hint was obvious to the young prince, his lip being gnawed between his teeth. Your heart beating against your chest, Targaryens hate the cold, the blood of the dragon makes their stagnant state of temperature warmer than the average Stark beneath their cloaks, layers, and by the fire. Yet as the hay scratched the back of your body, your skin burned from the touch of Baelor. Naked beneath him, the cold pricked your skin as his body warmed yours, his lips capturing yours sloppily and feverishly. Your nipples hardened beneath his skin, tiny whimpers escaping your mouth each breath as your hand went to the man in front of you’s trousers, palming his hardened cock, leading a breath to be sucked in.
“I can’t besmirch you” he groaned, kissing you yet again, “Your husband deserves your honor”.
You licked your lips before chasing his again, grabbing his hand and leading the palm to your breast, “A prince could never sully a lady” you whispered, “Dishonor me, my prince”.
“Let us hope he can roll his R’s, those men know how to please women”.
Baelor’s tongue was assaulting your clit, two fingers in your hole, one of your hands was flayed out, gripping the pointy hay, the other being gnawed by your teeth in order to keep silent. A squeal left the gap between your hand and mouth, Baelor’s spare hand gripped onto your thigh. Sinful. Purely sinful, as if a heart tree wasn’t a walk away. He rose from your mound, a glistening chin and mouth, you nodded as your eyes met as he aligned his cock with your hole, teasing your clit with his tip. The girthy head made you ache, wondering if the prince would hurt you.
The entrance led you to moan louder than you would’ve anticipated, leading your head to lull away, to see a body move, white hair leaving your field of vision. Not a care in the world led you to warning Baelor as he pumped into you, your eyes rolling back, blacking out from the pleasure. Defiled. You, one of Brandon and Alys’s prized heirs to the name of House Stark of Winterfell, and Baelor, the heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince of Dragonstone, were defiled before marriage, before betrothal.
Maekar avoided your gaze the morning that followed, the Targaryen treatment lasted as quick as it started, only to be the solidifier of the Pact of Ice and Fire. Myriah and Alys saw a liking in the match between you and Baelor, your father begrudgingly obliged to your mother’s proposal, as Daeron was happy to see his heir marry a kind young lady, especially one so responsible and poised in his eyes. The ride back to King’s Landing went in two factions, you with your father and brother, Rodwell as an escort as well as support for Lady Daenerys’s wedding tourney. Baelor gained the title of Breakspear, Daemon’s predilections against his brother’s line grew as a Stark carried a quarter-Targaryen in her belly.
“The blood of the Dragon runs thin through your line brother” Daemon spoke in court, the young prince is to be born today as your groans and yelps littered the halls of the Red Keep, “A Stark is birthing your heir’s heir.”.
Daeron sighed, looking at Brynden to the left of him before responding to Daemon, “It is a blessed day today, yet you speak of disrespect to my heir, his wife, and my grandchild”.
“We’ve lost our dragons, now you wish to both dilute and poison our great house with… northern blood”.
Daeron stopped in his tracks and your screams echoed in the halls, groaning louder than imaginable. He flinched from the noise as did Brynden, nurses scouring back and forth for cloth, blankets, hell, even another maester. Daeron looked at his bastard brother, biting his tongue and walking off to the quarters, seeing his firstborn son in the hall, blood staining his hands, he looked defeated.
“How is she faring?”.
“Nurses say well, they do not wish to sedate her but it seems he’s stuck in her canal” he sighed, his father saw the look in his eyes, exhausted since this earliest hours of the morning, flinching yet again as a scream erupted from your bedchambers, one so violent he nearly charged in the room.
“A dragon would’ve barely groaned” Daemon whispered, insultingly, Daeron stared daggers into his half-born, bastard brother.
“Hold your tongue. Even Targaryens have met the Stranger in birth” Daeron squinted, pushing his brother away.
Then came a cry, a sigh of relief dawned on Baelor as he saw a child in the maester’s hand, immediately going to your aide as the workers taught to take care of Valarr. Sweat beaded your forehead, relief, beyond relief, words of a feeling you could not quite name. Baelor’s lips came to your forehead, congratulating you as your babe was cleaned. Valarr was a fierce yet gentle child at birth, he only took your breast for milk, unknown as a custom of the highborn as noble children had wet nurses.
Valarr’s first night grew colder by the hour, the babe asleep in his cot as you and Baelor snuggled up next to each other, Baelor’s nails grazing your skin as you two were enamored at your creation.
“There’s talk of a rebellion” he breathed out, looking off distantly. “Daemon did not take lightly of the tourney… or our match and of course our child”.
Your brows knitted together, “Then fuck him” you cursed, your babe cooed gently. “Did not know there was such a sanctity of purity amongst your family still”.
“Daemon has had his issues with the standing of our house since I was born” he sighed, raising his empty hand to teasing Valarr in his cot, the babe cooed, near formed a smile, “It’ll die down as it always does, father usually mitigates these issues with Brynden”.
You lift your body up by your arms, straining just a tad, a jolt of pain went through you. “Maekar wanted to see Valarr up close” you diverted the conversation, “Told him on the morrow, poor babe cried from the sight of his hair” you smiled, looking at your child in his cot, “Wonder how he’ll fair with Aerion”.
Baelor ticked his tongue humorously, “May the Seven be so kind to them both”. Baelor was enamored by you, to him, it was as if a halo was around you, you were glowing in his eyes, holding up half the sky. “I am proud of you, ñuha jorrāelagon”.
You smiled, “Ah! The Young Prince speaks his mother tongue”, the slight change of your babe’s coos that became cries led your nipples to harden and lactate. You cringed, your teeth grinded each other as Baelor reached over to grab Valarr from his cot, even more enamored by you as you fed your son from your own breast.
Valarr and Aerion were odd cousins, due to Valarr’s mere rank leaning over his presence, it led formidable opposition during playtime and training. The cousins were stark differences from one another, Aerion favored his father, Valarr favored his father. Yet the two brothers the cousins were mirrors of each other to held love and respect for one another, as brothers do, traditionally speaking, the cousins… not so much. Yet Valarr got along just well with Daeron, Daeron was always a timid yet friendly lad who had no qualms with challenging him in the Keep.
There was a gloom in the air, something felt off as the year was just supposed to end. Your belly was swole, pregnant with yet another babe, it felt as if you needed to catch up with Dyanna, for every one babe of yours, she had two. As you watched over your sons sparing with wooden swords, your suspicions were confirmed. Lynara’s growl grew ever present in the Keep, catching the attention of the young boys and Dyanna aside you.
“I thought she was fine with the boys?” Dyanna asked, protectively, believing the direwolf to be hostile to her sons for playing with her bonded warg’s son.
“No it’s not that,” you clarified, the hairs behind your neck stood up, there was commotion coming from the inside. “Lynara, yield” you warned as your suspicions grew, you held a hand up to Dyanna who wanted to advance through the doors as Lynara snarled. “Ser Quentyn, I believe you may be needed inside the Keep” you apprehensively spoke up, trying your hardest to not alert the boys who have ceased their training, you gave a cold look to Dyanna, one only a worried mother would give.
“There’s a passageway from the side, it’ll direct us to several tunnels to Maegor’s Holdfast” Dyanna spoke up as you both quickly led yourself down the steps to your boys. Your hand encased Valarr’s shoulder to guide him as Dyanna opened a door you never knew existed, allowing Lynara to lead the way, you swiftly put Valarr on her to mount, knowing she would protect your boy valiantly.
You walked in the back, Daeron just in front of you, the boy was shaking with fear. Halted, you stood there confused, concerned even, “What do you see my love?” you shouted ahead and Valarr held a torch, your hands went to Daeron’s shoulders to ease his worry.
“There’s two passageways,” he squeaked out in reply.
Dyanna thought for a moment, she knew these tunnels from when her and Maekar were children, yet the recall was horrid. One way could lead to the council another to the Holdfast, “Take the left route child”.
The council room’s air was thin, as Lynara snarled slightly from the erratic atmosphere, relief dawned upon Valarr as his father stood in the room alongside his grandsire and uncles. Quentyn was nowhere to be found, sending a sour taste in your mouth. Lynara refused to let anyone get near Valarr, except his father who she hardly became accustomed to. Once you entered the room, pieces started to come together. Ser Quentyn Ball just aided in the most heinous act upon the crown— upon the realm itself— he committed treason, to release Daemon Blackfyre.
“It’s best we all stay here, who knows who else could defect and rally for Daemon’s banner” Baelor reasoned, petting Lynara as a means to communicate gratitude before dismounting Valarr, the boy hugged his father tightly as you met the two in a group hug.
“He was training with the boys, I was the one who told him—“ you began to whisper as a confession to Baelor.
Baelor interrupted, refusing to let you cast blame on yourself, “You did not make the traitor to defect, he had every intention to do so, he only needed the time and place” he reassured, one hand resting on your belly, the other combing through Valarr’s hair.
“What of supporters?” you spoke up, the King directing his attention to you, “Surely they are organizing with the houses, bannermen with the utmost contempt for Dornishmen”.
“I believe it won’t be needed Lady Stark” Daeron assured, “My brother is a prideful man who believes himself to be pure, he never agreed with my marriage or my children, he certainly never agreed with my children’s own marriages…” he sighed, heavy is the head that wears the crown, “But assuredly, I could barely even find the words or reason to actually care for my brother, need it be his madness, his namesake, or the fact that no amount of purity will make him true born”.
Brynden nodded beside his brother, “We are strong on own Lady Stark, the realm mustn't face another infighting turn war over our family especially something so trivial as a fucking title”.
“You have the support of my house regardless, even if they pledge outright. My children are Stark by blood, you will always find our allegiance”.
Daeron nodded earnestly, the room was shaken, waiting for the signal that Daemon and Quentyn had fully fled, only then was there a semblance of peace that only lasted as short as it encountered.
Your family made their place to their quarters later, only for Valarr refusing to sleep in his own individual room. He rested on yours and Baelor’s marital bed as Baelor changed into his nighttime clothes, you were restless, staring at your son intently, his face was serene, calm, yours concerned and riddled with apprehension.
Baelor let out a breath, looking back at you, in a daze. He smiled, a proud man who looked at his love, the mother of his children. Yet it felt bittersweet, fleeting. He stepped towards you, reaching to embrace your body, his hand snaking his hand around your belly, you went slack from his embrace.
“They’re going to send you to war” you muttered, biting your lip in an attempt to ease your nerves. “Fighting another fucking succession claim a near two generations later”. Your head instinctively shook itself, you were angry, at the realm, at Daemon, at even your husband and his family. Part of you cursed the Conqueror, the “traditions” that began to breed the system, the fact that your son was seen as unworthy of his last name and place at court due to be part of you, one that bled from his father, as he was seen more of his mother than his father, and that to Daemon and one of the worst kings to reign, was enough to disavow him.
“It’s a duty to serve” he whispered, you could only let out a simple tsk. Your body left his embrace, as much as you burned for your great husband, you knew war loomed, and you were not a fool to worry that your children’s father may perish as collateral.
“It is the duty of a father to be present,” you replied with grit teeth, a slight venom lingered, not for your husband, for the situation at hand. “You don’t think Daemon wants you dead? Your father? Your brothers— your son?” Arguing for the sake of being heard, “I carry your child, his hatred extends to me”. The room witnessed a pregnant silence, your husband ate his words yet, you couldn’t be mad at him, if he rejects his call, people will perish.
It had been several moons since you spoke via raven to the garrison for Baelor, your belly swelled up more and more night by night, the grand maester spoke of a harsh birth to your second son, leaving you bedridden for the time being. The air grew thin as sweat beaded on your face, your body ached, Valarr stood by your bed as you vehemently pressed against him being there.
“Take my son to his grandsire” you breathed, your chest burned, heaving with agony, “Please,” you pleaded once more with your ladies, “Take him.”.
Valarr was escorted out of your chamber, his hand gripped on your garments, pleading on his own to stay. His ears flooded with your screams as your labor began. Just enough time to hear the trumpets, bannermen flooded through the gates. Your groans went through the stones of the walls, the trumpets fell upon deaf ears in your chamber.
“The Prince is back!” a servant spoke up, opening your door to reveal the sight of blood. Erupting in a gritted groan as a contraction hit your body.
“Bring him,” you told the young lad, your teeth gritted together from the soreness, “Now!” you shouted just before a contraction took your breath away.
Baelor brushed through the halls despite the pain that radiated through his body, aching bones and all, he nearly ran through the halls just to get to your chambers, your screams echoing through the halls only made him sprint. It was a sight for sore eyes almost, despite the pain, you still radiated beauty and the Prince could not be more in love.
You chuckled under your breath as Baelor’s body odor evaded your nose, “You reek of sweat” you first spoke, the smell took your mind off the pain. Baelor let out a laugh just before taking your hand, kissing your knuckles. There was blood on his hands, blood soaked in his breeches that nearly stained his clothes over. “You’re injured” you breathed out, your eyes widening from the appearance of the stains, riddled with anxiety for your husband. “You should go… have a maester attend to you and stay with Valarr…”.
Baelor shook his head, groaning with exhaustion and pain as he went to his knees, his eyes not leaving yours. “I’m not leaving you,” he affirmed, shaking his head whilst speaking, he was not about to be challenged by your stubbornness, he would not allow it.
Matarys came quicker than Valarr had in childbirth. As the brothers met each other for the first time just as you were being cleaned up, Baelor took the liberties of excusing the maesters and ladies, dealing the sponge bath to clean you, every crevice and part of your skin. Matarys was a quiet babe, taking after your appearance as Valarr looked identical to Baelor.
“Perhaps we could take the boys north… have Lyanara return home with her brothers for a bit, my father would love to see the boys… home” you proposed to Baelor, your voice was small and riddled with exhaustion. Baelor looked to Valarr who held Matarys in his arms, careful and attentive to the babes' every move.
“Valarr, take your brother to see your grandsire, I am sure he would love to meet him” Baelor told the boy who was more delighted and honored, “Take Lynara with you as well”.
Valarr happily obliged, holding the babe with utmost care, calling Lynara who was waiting just outside the chamber to familiarize herself with her family’s newest member. As Baelor stood you up to guide you towards a chair, you felt a weight pull you down nearly, whether it was exhaustion or your afterbirth, you truly did not want Baelor to witness what felt shameful to bear.
“My love you cannot be here for this” you told Baelor feel a light sting leading you to grip his hand for leverage as your body constricts within itself just for relief to soon follow. “I’m bleeding,” you whispered, feeling warmth cascade down your legs.
Baelor was a prideful but humble man, the antithesis of men in his family, of even the average Westerosi man. He cleaned his brother's blood, he felt offended when you nearly didn’t want him to clean yours. Yet he did anyways, your body spent and beyond the realm of tiredness, swiftly fell asleep in Baelor’s arms as you situated on the couch thereafter the cleaning.
“The Targaryen’s lost their dragons now we… attend tourneys of little girls’ namedays” Maekar joked, falling as sarcasm due to his monotone voice yet you laughed still.
“I have spent a few in the Reach, my grandsire Cregan always believed in being cultured and familiarized with the regions of Westeros” you told Maekar beside him on your own horse as Lynara stood with Matarys.
“I am sure the Old Wolf of the North was keen on his descendants experiencing culture as he did,” Maekar joked yet again.
You snickered before you caught a glimpse of Baelor in front of you. He knew you felt a pang in your chest upon the even shy of a mention of your grandsire, who had perished before you were able to take Matarys to meet him. Valarr knew distantly of your grandsire, with sparing memories of when he was only three of age, being able to touch your house’s most prized sword, Ice, with the supervision of your grandsire. Yet something was different about Baelor’s tenseness.
Tourneys were always a gander, your sons enjoyed the absurdity as you held your breath whilst Valarr mounted his horse with all his glory and armor. Matarys kindled with the smallfolk, he always was a gregarious spirit. Baelor and his sons were truly anomalies of his house.
As the night roared over with celebrations, you and Baelor made your way to rest your head, onto the next day celebrations will continue. Your husband in all his glory, beneath your body as you mounted him. Sexual chemistry was what birthed your relationship and love, it is what made your sons, and now, it is what satiates your hunger for your husband.
Baelor’s hand forged its way between your clit and his stomach, pudgy from age but toned from battles fought. Your husband was part-Dornish, a fact he made certain whenever you took him to bed. It was the northern fierceness in you and the southern warmth of him that made you and him a formidable match, equally riding your highs out— over and over.
Spent and subdued, you panted as you rested on your husband’s chest, your sweat sticking you both together. One of your hands sprawled on his hairy chest, feeling his heartbeat pounding against your palm, as the other decided to toy with his cock, you made the Prince whimper beneath his breath.
“You and Maekar seemed at odds today” you spoke up beneath the chambers that reeked of sex between you and your husband. Baelor rolled his eyes; you nearly killed the mood.
“You speak of my brother as my cock is in your hands” he responded, letting out an animalistic groan as your hand pumped quicker. “Fuck” he breathed out, as you became fixated, deciding to mount your husband again just before he finished, allowing his warm seed to spill into you. His hands held a bruising grip on your hips, forcing you further down on his cock as he came, you littered kisses all over his face as he rolled his eyes back again but this time out of pure ecstasy.
Again, you found yourself resting on your lover's chest, his seed spilling out of you as your thighs clenched shut. “I only spoke of him because… I know you’re not telling me something”.
Baelor sighed, his hand resting on your arm, scratching your skin gently to soothe you. “You and his bonding reminded me of something…” he waited to continue, your curiosity being evident on your face, “During the rebellion, just before our own accomplishments and fears in battle, Maekar decided it would be best to confess his… intentions on marrying you before we were betrothed”.
“And?”.
“And?” he quipped, quirking a brow as your impassive response made him feel as if he was overreacting, “My brother confessed he once held love for my wife… the mother of my children—“.
“My love, he and Dyanna had several kids, a bountiful amount akin to a pack. I doubt the confession was genuine rather than a means of telling you a guilt he held on to his conscience” you reassured him, “I take comfort in knowing I got the hung brother” you levied a joke as Baelor gruffly chuckled. As the silence occupied the room all you could speak into the abyss was, “I love you…”.
“Nyke rāelagon ao” he repeated to you, his R’s smoothly being rolled off his tongue.
And for that night, filled with pleasure and laughter, was the contentment enough to compensate for the grief that followed as the Stranger breathed upon your family and suffocated you in all its might.
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