Summary:Daeron Targaryen has spent his life drowning in prophetic dreams that burn more than they guide. Haunted by visions of fire, death, and something far worse, he finds his only escape in wineāuntil a presence begins to follow him through the chaos. A voice. A touch. A woman he cannot see, yet cannot forget. What begins as a fragment in his dreams turns into an obsession, then into something dangerously close to faith. As Daeron claws his way toward sobriety and meaning, the line between curse and calling begins to blur. Because the dreams are changing. And they are leading him somewhere. To someone.
Authorās Note:Iām taking my time with this story, letting things build naturallyāhope you enjoy the slower pace. English isnāt my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. ā”
WARNINGS:Themes of angst, alcoholism, emotional strain, grief, prophetic dreams and visions, slow-burn tension, subtle religious undertones, and canon-typical violence.
Part one
He didnāt remember falling asleep.
How much heād had to drink was a mysteryābut as his eyes slowly opened, he became aware of the heavy, cloying scent of perfume wrapped around him. The sour, stale taste of wine lingered on his tongue, and a sharp ache pulsed at the back of his head.
He lay sprawled across cheap sheets, naked, his body slack with exhaustion. He was aware of someone beside him. A woman. Her breathing was loud, uneven. He knew this room well.
A damned brothelāand the woman, one who often came here from Stormās End.
Heād done it again, hadnāt he? Just like alwaysāpathetic, weak, giving in to his own desires.
As the truth settled in, slow and suffocating, his blood began to boil. His cursed mind felt shackled. He had risked losing himself for moments of fleeting pleasure.
He had risked you.
He couldnāt remember the night before. Or the one before that. His mind, thick with fog, dragged up fragments anywayāas if it meant to punish him.
Like you.
His only peace.
After leaving a full pouch of coins at the bedside, he walked out of the brothel sometime near noon. He felt too many things as he leftābut for the first time, it was shame that settled deepest. Shame, and something darker. Something personal.
He couldnāt even remember where he had left his horse, so he chose to walk back to the castle. Fortunately, he crossed paths with a knight sent by his fatherāout looking for himāand managed to return alive.
But the torment didnāt end there.
The gods had given him many trials. One of them was his brother, Aerion.
And now, as he tried to find even a moment of peace in his chambers, Aerion stood there, ruining it. Impeccably dressed, wrapped in his usual sharp arrogance, carrying himself like a kingāwhich only made him look all the more ridiculous.
āYou smell like a corpse, as always, brotherā¦ā His gaze flicked over Daeronās greasy hair and stained tunic. The difference between them was a chasm. His tone was carefully measuredāpolite on the surface, but laced with something far fouler beneath.
Daeron didnāt bother answering. He let his head fall back against the chair, a slow breath leaving him as his eyes fixed on the ceiling. His body felt worse than before. So did his mind. His legs were spread carelessly, his arms hanging loose at his sides.
Aerion exhaled sharply at being ignored, then nudged his leg with his foot.
āFather expects you to make yourself presentable. Weāre leaving for Highgarden.ā He paused, tilting his head slightly as his gaze drifted toward the light filtering through the window behind them. āLord Leo Tyrell is hosting a tourney in honor of his daughter, Elariaā¦ for that ridiculous name day nonsense.ā His voice carried open disdain as he spoke, before his eyes returned to Daeron.
Daeron barely reacted. Straightening just a little, he gripped the arms of the chair for support and leaned forward enough to meet his gaze.
āAnd why, exactly, do I have to be there?ā he asked flatly. He couldnāt tell whether the slight tremor in his hands came from the lack of wineāor from Aerionās presence.
Aerion began to pace the room with easy confidence, a knowing look settling over his face. Lifting his chin, he spoke as if delivering something of great importance.
āFather intends to arrange a suitable match for you. Elaria is consideredā¦ appropriate for the crown.ā The words slipped from his tongue like poison. His gaze lingered, savoring the moment. āNothing is certain yet, but our father seems quite determined.ā
The effect was immediate. Daeronās lips parted slightly as tension spread through his body. Marriage was the furthest thing from his mind.
āWhat a shame,ā Aerion went on lightly. āA poor young woman might find herself bound to something as worthless as you.ā
And still, he didnāt stop.
Watching the color drain from Daeronās face, he continued, voice curling with amusement.
āYou should be grateful. If you were the son of some lesser lord, no woman would spread her legs for youāyet now, you might just win yourself a Tyrell princess.ā
A quiet chuckle followed.
It was so vile, so utterly foul, that Daeron wanted nothing more than to drive his fist into his face.
Instead, he looked away. Slowly.
āFuck off,ā he muttered, low and strained, anger buried beneath exhaustion. His hands tightened around the arms of the chair, knuckles paling.
Normally, Aerion would have answered thatābut in his current mood, he only laughed.
āPathetic,ā he murmured, just loud enough to be heard.
When the door finally shut behind him, Daeron let out a breathāthough it brought no real relief.
Nothing was certain yet. Still, the tension lingered.
After two weeks on the road, they had finally reached Highgarden. Aemon had not joined themāhe remained at the Citadel, occupied with his studies. Maekar had been uncertain about bringing the girls, but Daellaās insistence on seeing Highgarden, along with Rhaeās refusal to be left behind, had settled the matter. The journey itself had been exhausting.
Still, they had all been prepared as if they were something to be presented. Daeron, of course, was the least impressive among them. It did not matter how he was dressed or how his hair had been arrangedāthe taste of wine still lingered on his tongue, and its scent clung stubbornly to his body. The dull, drunken look in his eyes betrayed him. He had been made presentable as much as possible, but there was only so much that could be done.
The chamber given to him was more than adequate. Comfortable, even. Though in his condition, comfort meant very little.
Daeron kept himself out of sight as much as possible. Fortunately, his father had not forced him to take part in the tourneyāone of the main reasons being his undeniable lack of skill in such matters. Aerion, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. It was almost as if the gods themselves had crafted a cruel contrast between them. Where Daeron failed, Aerion excelled. He had already taken the place Daeron was meant to fill.
And not only in that.
There were several reasons Daeron chose not to leave his chambers. He was already burdened with the prophetic dreamsāwith youāand struggling, unsuccessfully, to gain control over his drinking. But the greatest reason of all was Elaria.
She was beautiful. Two years older than him. Every inch a proper Tyrell lady. Yet she did not draw his attention. Nor did he draw hers. Her interest lay elsewhere.
With Aerion.
His brother possessed all the striking features of a true Valyrianāundeniably handsome. Yet beneath that beauty lay something far more unpleasant. He took great care to conceal it in the presence of others, preferring instead to play the role of the noble and honorable prince.
Elaria was clearly taken with him, despite the noticeable difference in their ages.
To Aerion, however, her beauty was shallow. She lacked Valyrian blood. That alone was enough to diminish her worth in his eyes. The gods be thanked Daella and Rhae were nowhere near her ageāotherwise, not even they would have been spared from the extent of his depravity.
Despite his disheveled state, Daeron still carried a certain kind of beautyāsomething unrefined, almost poetic, made more striking by the colors of his house. Deep within him, his raw and restless fixation on you burned like a fireādifficult to contain, impossible to ignore.
As he stood by the window of his chamber, his gaze drifted outside. The sight before him was almost overwhelmingāa vibrant display of blooming flowers and flourishing trees, thriving under the warmth of spring. Even more beautiful than Summerhall. A place that felt untouched. Almost unreal.
And yet, it brought him no peace.
His body trembled slightlyāthe absence of wine making itself known. His mind refused to quiet.
Then his gaze fell upon someone below.
You.
Though he did not know it yet.
He could not see her face clearly. The sunlight obscured it, forcing his eyes away. Her back was turned as she worked among the garden beds, tending to the soil, planting something new. Her clothes were old, worn enough to be noticed even from a distance.
A gardener, he assumed.
And yetā¦
Something within him shifted.
A strange unrest took hold, sudden and undeniable. His chest tightened, as though he could not draw in enough air. His body reacted before his mind could make sense of it.
He lowered himself to the ground, as if he needed something solid to hold onto.
On the third day of the tourney, after a few quiet threats from his father, Daeron found himself walking through the gardens with Elaria. Two knights followed at a measured distance behind them. He had made sure to keep space between themādeliberate, noticeable.
At first glance, her dress was soft, flowingāshades of yellow that caught the light with ease. A thin green belt rested at her waist, and upon closer look, small jewels were set delicately into the fabric. The neckline was invitingāenough to draw the eye.
He noticed.
And then chose not to.
To him, it was only appearance.
The braids in her hair, the rings on her fingersāeverything about her was arranged to impress. And it worked. Beside her, Daeron seemed dimmer. Less.
Ten minutes passed without a single word. Neither of them seemed eager to change that. Both would have rather been elsewhere. With someone else.
āThe gardens areā¦ beautiful. The order of them, I mean.ā Daeron spoke at last, if only to break the tension. Fortunately, he had managed four cups of wine that morning. It had steadied him. Enough.
Elaria cast him a brief sideways glance, though her graceful stride never faltered. āThis is only what is meant to be seen,ā she replied, her tone carrying a quiet edge of pride. āThe true beauty lies behind the castle. Those gardens are kept far more carefully.ā Her fingers toyed lightly with the rings she wore. The midday sun rested warm against them, and the scent of flowers lingered in the air.
āThis place is a paradise,ā she added, certain of it.
Daeron did not argue. He had seen too little of the world to dispute her. Perhaps she was right.
āThe gardens at Summerhallā¦ they resemble these,ā he said after a moment, swallowing slowly. āThough yours are moreā¦ refined. Ours are left closer to what nature intended.ā The words came easier now.
Elaria gave a faint smile.
When they came upon a bench, she stopped. For the first time, she truly looked at him. The knights remained at their distance, their attention fixed elsewhere.
āThere used to be an old man who tended these gardens,ā she said, her gaze drifting toward the roses ahead. āAfter he died, his daughter took over.ā A brief pause. āShe is talented.ā
Daeron listened, though the weight in his body pulled at him. He lowered himself onto the bench, taking one cornerāleaving enough space for her.
She noticed. And followed, settling at the opposite end. Her hands rested neatly in her lap.
He glanced at them.
They looked soft. Effortless. Untouched.
She broke his focus.
āMay I speak plainly, my prince?ā she asked, direct and composed.
Daeron lifted his gaze to her, a flicker of unease passing through him. āOf courseā¦ speak as you wish, my lady.ā
The wind stirred faintly through his hair. He ignored it. His hands gripped the edge of the bench as he waited.
āOur families believe they are making the right choice,ā she began, her tone measuredācareful, almost political. Her posture remained perfect. āWhat I am about to say may seem foolishā¦ or perhaps impertinent. But I do not believe we are suited to one anotherāā
She did not let him interrupt.
āI am honored, of course, to be considered for a Targaryen prince. But I am not blind to yourā¦ lack of interest in me.ā Her voice remained calm. Controlled. āMy duty is to my house and to the realm. I would not willingly bind its prince to unhappiness.ā
She was clever.
Careful with her words. Careful enough to step away from this without offense.
āI want only for you to be content,ā she continued. āIf you truly do not wish for this match, you may say so. I will not take it as an insult. On the contraryā¦ I would welcome the honesty.ā
Daeron listened to the end. Then he exhaled deeply, lowering his head as his fingers dragged through his hair.
āBelieve meā¦ā His voice came rough, weighed down. The exhaustion clung to him. Everything about him did. Beside her, he was too muchāand not enough.
āI am aware of how you feel. You need not soften it for me.ā He lifted his head again, meeting her gaze. āI will do what I canā¦ to convince my father against this.ā
She seemed to ease, if only slightly. The mask did not fall.
āYou should convince yours as well,ā he added. āTell him I am a disgrace. A drunk.ā He hesitated, just for a moment. His eyes shifted away. āOr worseā¦ say I spend my nights in brothels like a common whore.ā His voice flattened. āI would not be offended.ā
Because he meant it.
She studied him in silence, lost in thought. Daeron leaned forward, elbows resting against his knees, his gaze fixed somewhere distantāa low hill beyond the gardens.
He looked tired.
āSoā¦ you will not make this difficult?ā she asked, seeking certainty.
Daeron turned his head toward her, his posture unchanged.
āI am a man who seeks the easier path wherever he can,ā he said quietly. āMarriage is the last thing I want, my lady. I will not make it difficult.ā
At the evening feast, Daeron drowned himself in wine. It was obviousādone both to satisfy that familiar craving and to make sure he fell further in Leo Tyrellās eyes. Throughout the feast, he behaved as though he were in some common tavern rather than a noble hall, careless and unrestrained in a way that drew attention for all the wrong reasons.
By the end of it, his father had pulled him away under the guise of courtesy, forcing him out of sight and back to his chambers. The usual insults followed, the same humiliation dressed in different words, the same long-winded lectures that never seemed to end. When Maekar was done, he had him locked inside like something to be contained. A knight from his own household stood guard at the door, and inside, there was not a single drop of wine left for him.
He was drunkāfar more than he should have been. But it wasnāt enough.
The absence clawed at him. His thoughts turned restless, circling back to his mother, to the words his father had thrown at him, to that familiar look of disappointment. Maekar had looked at him as if he were something already lost, and perhaps he was. Day by day, Daeron felt himself slipping further into that hollow place, growing used to it, caring less than he once had. Still, the pain remained, stubborn and unmoving.
Sometimes, he just wanted to be good. For himself. For his family. For you.
But who were you?
Were you even real?
That night, he lay sprawled on the floor, staring up at the dim ceiling, his vision unfocused. A tear slipped slowly from his eye, and for a moment, he did something he was not known for. He prayed.
He was not a devout man. Everyone knew that. Still, his voice broke the silence, quiet and uncertain.
āWhichever one of you is realā¦ I beg youā¦ā His words wavered, his breath uneven as he forced them out. He was speaking to all of them, not knowing which, if any, might listen. āPleaseā¦ ease this pain. I know I am not the kind of man who should pray, but I am asking anywayā¦ just give me one chance. Let me have her. Let her be realā¦ gods, Seven, Iāā
The words died in his throat. The weight inside him was too much, pressing down in a way he could not name. A life full of failure, and still he begged like something pitiful, like a man with nothing left but the smallest hope that somethingāanythingāmight be given back to him.
And then his thoughts drifted somewhere darker. To things he had considered before, things he knew he should not think about. He could do it. In that moment, with the pain tightening around him, he truly couldāand the worst part was that he wanted to.
But you were there.
You had always been there.
Calling to him, soft and distant, like something just out of reach. In his mind, you were close enough to touch, pressing quiet kisses against him, whispering in a way that kept him tethered. You were the only thing that held him in place.
Even if he wanted to end it, he couldnāt. Not anymore. No matter how long it took, he would keep going. He would find you. After all this time, after all those dreams, he could not let go now. He would endure it, the drinking, the pain, the slow decay of everything he was. He might never be worthy of you, might stand before you one day as nothing more than a broken man reeking of wine, but even so, he would not stop. If there was even a chance that you would look at himātruly look at him, just onceāit would be enough.
That night, the gods answered.
They showed you to him again, standing among the rose gardens. He liked to think of you as his brideāit was a foolish thought, but he held onto it anyway. Even from a distance, he could feel you, could almost smell the sweetness that clung to you, something clean and soft that drowned out everything foul about him. You seemed unreal, like something not entirely bound to the world.
You sat in a clearing, the grass bending beneath you, a yellow rose held loosely in your hand. There was a softness in your expression, a kind of warmth he had never known, not even from his own mother. Perhaps you were not the most beautiful woman in the realm, but to him, that had never mattered. To him, you were everything.
āDaeronā¦ā
The way you said his nameāsoft, barely more than a whisperāsent something through him that he could not explain.
For a moment, he felt something close to peace.
But morning came, and it never lasted.
His father was already there, pacing the room like a storm waiting to break. Daeron didnāt know when Egg had entered, only that the boy sat quietly at a table in the corner, scribbling something to himself as if the tension in the room did not concern him. There was a strange sort of amusement in his expression, barely hidden whenever Maekarās temper slipped into harsher words.
āGods know I am being generous by not smashing that cursed face of yours or sending you to the Wall,ā Maekar snapped, stopping abruptly as he turned toward him. Daeron pushed himself upright against the headboard, trying to follow through the haze. The anger in his fatherās violet eyes was unmistakable. āWhat did you do?ā he asked, quieter now.
Even Egg paused at that tone.
Maekar crossed the room in a few heavy steps, his shadow falling over Daeron as he grabbed him by the collar and pulled him forward. āWhat did you do that Leo ended everything in a single night?ā The question struck like a blow, sharp and unforgiving.
Egg slipped out without a sound, unnoticed, leaving the two of them alone.
āI donāt know,ā Daeron said, the lie coming easily despite the tension in his voice. Whatever had happened, it had worked in his favor, but that did not make this moment any easier to endure.
āDo not lie to me,ā Maekar hissed, tightening his grip. āYou know what happens when you lie. Do I need to remind you?ā
āNoā¦ I swear, I did nothing. By the Seven, I swear it wasnāt meāā The same gods he had begged the night before now served his lie without hesitation.
āOr maybe it was me,ā he added quickly, shifting, forcing the words out before his father could strike again. āMaybe she simply did not want someone like me. Why would she?ā The shift was subtle, but enough to slow the anger.
āI suppose I wasnāt enough of a man for her,ā he continued, then let the last part fall carefully. āShe seemed far more interested in Aerion.ā
That did it.
Maekar released him at once, his focus shifting, his anger finding a new direction. āWhat do you mean?ā he asked, too controlled, too calm.
Daeron held his gaze. āI think Aerion influenced her. His display at the tourney, the conversations during the feastā¦ you know how he is. Women have always been his weakness. It wouldnāt be beneath him to take her from me just to spite me. To take what was meant to be mine.ā
It was a weak lie, but he delivered it well enough.
Maekar turned away, muttering under his breath, his anger reshaping itself as he paced. After a moment, he stopped by the window, staring out before letting out a quiet curse. Then he left the room just as quickly as he had entered, the door closing behind him with force.
For now, the matter was no longer his.
Daeron let himself fall back against the bed, turning onto his side as he stared toward the window. From there, he could see the gardens again, stretching out beneath the light.
And, inevitably, he thought of you.
Only moments ago, he had been on the verge of being beaten. Now, he lay there, replaying the dream in his mind, a faint, almost foolish smile forming despite everything.
Pairing: Brynden 'Bloodraven' Rivers x Bastard! Reader
divider by: @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics
word count: 21.1k
synopsis: After helping secure victory at the Redgrass Field, you return to a court ruled by rivalry and resentment. As Bittersteelās hatred erupts into open challenge, Bloodraven must fight not for prideābut for the woman he refuses to lose.
a/n: I think I almost died writing this, it got way longer than I expected. And yes, this is an AU/Canon Divergence. The timeline is skewed, events may not line up exactly as they did in canon (if at all tbh), and that is entirely on purpose. With the power of fanfiction, this story is my kingdom and I am its ruler, so weāre going with it.
warnings: Attempted SA (not by Brynden), mutilation, Aegor Rivers, Targcest, Canon Divergence
You and Brynden had grown together in the shadow of whispered names and divided loyalties. Bastards, the both of youāthough different in blood and temper, the two of you were bound by something fiercer than either title could define. Where others saw omens in his pale hair and red eye, saw rivalry in the way lords measured him against his half-brothers, you saw only the boy who watched too much and trusted too little.Ā
The boy who had never hesitated to stand between you and the world.
And youā¦you never hesitated to do the same.
There had been days when your half brother, Aegor, let his resentment toward Brynden spill into open violence. The yard would ring with the crack of steel and the low snarl of boys becoming men too quickly. Blood was drawn more than once. Bruises bloomed dark beneath tunics. Pride was shattered before being rebuilt harder.Ā
What started as childish rivalry slowly twisted into something uglierāan obsessive need in Aegor to take whatever Brynden guarded, to dominate whatever he valued, and to prove himself not merely equal but superior.
Soon, that point of contention had become your shared youngest half-sister, Shiera Seastar.
She had drifted between them like perfume and poison. She delighted in the tension she inspired. She liked to be fought over and desired. There was power in that, and she wielded it as naturally as breath. Ā
You, however, did not.
With the temper of both dragon and storm in your blood, you had been fiercely protective of the boy Aegor delighted in provoking. You never masked your disdain. When Aegorās cruelty crossed from rivalry into something uglier, you answered it openly and more than once with the near promise of steel. There had been days when it seemed you and Aegor might come to blows yourselves, tempers snapping bright like sparks against dry timber.
But you were sent away before the worst of what would become of Brynden and Aegor could root itself too deeply. It was decided that distance might temper you. That time away from court and the infamous rivalry might shape you into a more suitable for the realm. A proper lady.Ā
You were sent first to Dragonstone. There, you resided with your half-brother, Prince Daeron, and his family.Ā
Dragonstone was unlike Kingās Landing. Within those ancient walls, you were steeped in your Valyrian heritage. Maesters drilled the old tongue into you until it no longer felt foreign upon your lips, until High Valyrian came as naturally as breath. You learned the histories of dragonlords and conquerors, reminded that dragon blood was not merely lineage but legacy.Ā
And in time, you grew close to the dragon prince and your nephews, especially Baelor and Maekar. Though you were younger than they, you were keenly aware of what your birth meant. You were a noble bastard, but in the eyes of many you were considered a stain.Ā
But at Dragonstone, you were not treated as such.
Unlike in Kingās Landing, you were not reminded of your birth at every turn. Princess Myriah treated you with warmth from the start, offering open kindness. Daeron treated you with honour. When he corrected you, it was as he would Baelor never with cruelty, always just and fair.Ā
Baelor was the easiestāearnest, open, guided by his own rigid sense of right and wrong. In his company, you felt only the expectation that you would rise to whatever standard you decided upon yourself.
Maekar had been different. Prickly. Suspicious. He was quick to bristle at perceived slights and quicker to guard what he believed his. With your fiery tempers, the two of you clashed often.
But time has a way of wearing down the edges of petty rivalries and slowly, grudgingly, the two of you warmed to the other.
By the end of your stay, even Maekar no longer looked at you with the disdain he once had. He looked at you as family.
From Dragonstone, you were sent to Stormās End, where your mother and her kin welcomed you with open arms and louder laughter. It was there you met your younger cousin Lyonel, the future Lord of Stormās End. He accepted you without judgment.
Stormās End taught you something Dragonstone had not. It taught you to never apologize for being yourself. Pride there was worn openly, loyalty fiercely defended.
And finally, you were sent to Dorne.
At Daeronās behest, you were dispatched south to strengthen the still fragile ties to House Martell. And there, beneath relentless sun and silken smiles, you thrived.
The Dornish courts were a den of snakesābut you learned quickly that snakes could be allies as easily as threats. You studied the art of negotiation, trained in combat and even learned the careful sciences of the deadliest poisons in the realm.Ā
You discovered the power of whispers and learned to listen more than you spoke. The alliances you forged were not decided through the purity of your name, but through your strength, your intelligence, your ability to stand your ground without flinching.
Being a bastard meant little there.
Worth was measured in action. Respect was earned, not inherited. And in that sun-scorched land, you learned to shed the shame others had once tried to press upon you like a brand.
And through it all, you built your connections. By the time you returned, the realm no longer whispered your name solely with shame. They spoke it of it in favour.
When you finally returned to Kingās Landing, you were no longer the girl hiding away in the shadows, but a woman shaped by distance and discipline.Ā
War met you at the gates.
The First Blackfyre Rebellion had already begun to tear at the realmās seams, banners rising in defiance, loyalties tested in blood.
With you, you brought the alliances you had cultivated in Stormās End and Dorne to aid Baelor as he gathered troops to fight Daemon Blackfyreās rebellion. Stormlords who had laughed with you at your cousinās table now answered your call, with Lyonel leading them. Dornish captains who had once tested your resolve now marched beneath Targaryen command because you called for them to support princess Myriah and her family.
You rode at Baelorās side as he rallied the allies you had forged in distant courts. And when the armies converged, you joined Maekar upon the field.
History would remember that day in bloodied iron.
The Hammer and the Anvil, they called your kināBaelor Breakspear and Maekar Targaryen. One to drive the rebels forward with relentless force. One to hold the line unyielding as stone.
Then there was you the spark that rekindled the hope of victory.Ā
When Aegon, Daemonās eldest, rode at the front of the Blackfyre charge, the field trembled beneath the weight of hooves. His banner snapped black behind him, his blade raised high, his men surging with him with a determined roar meaning to shatter Maekarās position in a single devastating strike.
For the span of a single breath, the world narrowed as you saw him.
Your fingers drew the bowstring back in one smooth motion, utterly steady. The poison that tipped your arrow glistened faintly in the sun.
With an exhaling breath, you released.
The shaft flew true.
It pierced through Aegonās armour and buried itself in his chest. He jerked sharply in the saddle, breath torn from him, before pitching backward into the churned earth just moments before his charge could crash against Maekarās line.
It was his death that would draw on the opportunity to kill Daemon, who gathered Aegonās dying body into his arms, heedless of the battle raging around them. For a fleeting, terrible moment, he was not rebel king nor pretenderāonly a father cradling what he had lost.
But grief turned swiftly to fury.
When Aegonās life finally slipped away, Daemon rose, his gauntlets slick with his sonās blood, and his gaze found yours across the field. Blinded by rage and desperate for retribution, he charged, cutting a path through any who stood between him and his target.
And it would be Bryndenās arrow that slew Daemon, loosed the instant he saw where the rebel kingās fury was aimedāat you.
For your actions, you turned the tide of the Battle of the Redgrass Field. After, its victory you returned to court, drawing the attention of not only the courtiers but of Brynden as well. His gaze followed you taking in the fierce beauty that youāve become.
There was a time he felt the stirrings of feelings but at the time heād been too shy, hiding away in his youth. Yet, now time and challenge had hardened him into a lord whose name was whispered with fear throughout the realm.Ā
He felt as though something long dormant had woken the moment you stepped into the Red Keep. You carried yourself with the quiet assurance of someone who had learned to survive in courts not her own. Compared to them, the red keep seemed almost filled with sheep.Ā
He was not the only one who noticed your beauty, admirers were quick to flock you but unlike Shiera who indulged and even flaunted the attention of her admirers to his face, you remained polite to those who sought your hand.
That was until you saw him, he was sure his heart stuttered as you gave him that familiar bright grin devoid of any fear as you came up to him, enveloping him in a warm hug before he could even react.
āBrother,ā you greeted warmly, and your embrace was like a summer wind from the Marches, cutting right through his cold exterior.
Brynden froze. For a man who claimed to see through a thousand eyes and one, he was momentarily blinded by the sheer, grounding reality of your presence. His arms, usually stiff and poised for the weight of a bow or the scratching of a quill, hovered uncertainly for a fraction of a second before they closed around you.
āYouāve grown taller, Brynden,ā you said lightly, your voice softened by the lingering cadence of the Dornish and Valyrian accents youād picked up in your travels. The vowels rolling warm against his ear.
You drew back just enough to look him in the red eye that so unsettled others, before shifting to the still healing socket half-hidden by pale strands of hair.
You didn't flinch or recoil in disgust like so many others did at the sight but your lips did briefly tip down. You had heard the rumours of what happened, heard that it was Aegor who had taken Bryndenās eye.Ā
Your fingers lifted instinctively, moving to brush the silver hair aside for a better look.
Bryndenās hand shot out before you could touch him. His fingers closed firmly around your wrist and for a heartbeat, his expression looked as if it were carved of stone.
You let out a soft huff at the sight of his stoicism and lowered your hand, easing from his hold without resistance. āAnd far too serious,ā you teased, though your voice remained tender. āHave you forgotten how to smile? Or has the Red Keep finally turned you to stone?ā
At last, his mouth twitched.
āIāve grown taller, as one does with age,ā he drawled dryly, choosing to answer your first comment instead. A faint snort escaped him. āThe last you saw me was five summers past. Long enough for boys to become men.ā
Your gaze couldnāt help but once again trail down his form, this time to properly take him in.
Up close, you could see the change in him more clearly. The pale hair still fell straight and stark against his red and smokey grey doublet. His ruby red eye still burned bright beneath the pale hood of his lashesāthe colour unnerving to some, mesmerizing to you. But the softness of youth had been stripped away by time and trial. What remained were sharp cheekbones that lent him an almost gaunt severity.
Even as a child, he had been lean to the point of frailty, all long, gangly limbs. Now that same leanness had hardened. Muscle lay coiled beneath cloth and leather belonging to those of a seasoned warrior.Ā
He had grown into himself.
His voice snapped you out of your perusal, "They told me you were a 'proper lady' now," Brynden said, his lip curling into the ghost of a wry, jagged smile. He reached out, his pale fingers ghosting over the golden chains of your Dornish dress. "But I see the sun of the South didn't completely burn the dragon out of you. It only tempered the blade."
He glanced over your shoulder at the flock of courtiers who had been hovering nearby, their faces a mask of poorly hidden envy and sudden caution. With a single, icy look from Bloodraven, they scattered like ash in a gale.
You hummed softly, unfazed. āYes. My time away taught me much.ā
āSo it did,ā he murmured, his gaze returning to you. There was curiosity there now. āTell meāwas it Dorne that taught you your skill with the bow?ā
A slow smirk curved your lips.
āWhy?ā you asked lightly, leaning forward just enough to shorten the space between you. āAre you worried I may take your place as Westerosās most skilled archer?ā
He could not help but mirror the movement, leaning in as well, the red eye glinting with quiet amusement. The corner of his mouth lifted into a rare, genuine grin.Ā
āI do notāā
āWell,ā a new voice drawled, cutting clean through the moment, dripping with mockery and unwanted heat, āthe lost doe returns to the dragonās den. And I heard sheās grown quite a set of horns in the Stormlands.ā
You didn't have to turn to know it was Aegor. A single glance at Brynden was enough. It seemed the old rivalry you remembered between them had not died in your absenceāonly festered. The air around Brynden seemed to still, the warmth leaching from it as if winter had come.Ā
His jaw tightened; the faint amusement you had received from him, vanished without a trace.
Slowly, you turned.
He looked like an older version of the childish brute you rememberedāharder, heavier in muscle, a beard shadowing his jaw. The same restless aggression simmered beneath his skin, though now it wore the arrogance of a man riding the high of his new legitimized status.
His gaze dragged over you with open appraisal.
You forced a smile.
āAegor,ā you greeted evenly. āI see your tongue is still as blunt as your sword. Has no one taught you how to greet a lady in my absence, or do I need to show you how they handle such rudeness in the Stormlands?ā
A faint murmur rippled through the nearby courtiers, that had been brave enough to stay.Ā
Aegorās lips twitched into something you couldnāt even call a smile. āStormlanders correct rudeness with fists, if I recall.ā
āOh, good,ā you replied sweetly. āThere is something within that head of yours. I worried for a moment it might be hollow.ā
He scowled.Ā
āI see not even exile could teach you to become a proper lady,ā he said, voice tightening. āYour mouth is still as crass as ever.ā
"Crass?" You let the word hang in the air, tilting your head as if weighing its value. "In the South, they call it candor. But I suppose to a man who only understands the language of a grunt and a grumble, any sentence with more than three syllables sounds like an insult."
Aegorās face flushed a dull, angry purple, his hand twitching toward the heavy signet ring on his finger. "You always did have too much of our fatherās arrogance and none of his sense. You think those Dornish trinkets and Stormland boasts make you untouchable? Youāre still a bastard just like the rest of us sister, sister. Just one with better fabric and a sharper tongue."
"And a better aim," Brynden cut in, his voice like a sheet of ice cracking. He hadn't moved, but the air around him felt charged, dangerous. His single red eye was fixed on Aegor with a lethal focus. "Or have you forgotten whose arrow spared Prince Maekarās line from being overrun. It wasn't a lady's embroidery needle that pierced Aegonās plate, Bittersteel."
The mention of the Redgrass Field and his fallen nephew turned Aegorās irritation into a raw, bleeding snarl. He stepped into your space, Looming over you, the scent of leather and old sweat rolling off him.
"Careful, Brynden," Aegor hissed, though his eyes remained locked on yours. "The war is over, but the grudges are long. Your little 'doe' might have found some horns, but Iāve broken stags before."
āTry it,ā you whispered, not retreating a single inch. Your hand came to rest openly on the hilt of the slender Valyrian steel dagger at your thighāa gift from Prince Daeron himself. āAnd Iāll show you why the Dornish say itās the smallest vipers that carry the most certain death.ā
Aegorās gaze dropped to the hilt of the Valyrian steel dagger, his pupils narrowing. He recognized the ripples in the dark metal. The sight of it, held by a woman who had already tasted the blood of what was once his cause, seemed to stoke the fire behind his eyes until it threatened to boil over.
āA gift from the Scholar-King?ā Aegor sneered, though he did not step closer. āHe gives you toys of ancient steel while he gives nothing to the men doing the real fighting, like Maekar. You havenāt change, hiding behind titles and trinkets.ā
āAnd you,ā you replied softly, your voice dipping into something far more dangerous than anger, āare still the same brat who screams at the sun because it refuses to stop shining.ā
Anyone in proximity had gone silent.
āYou speak of real fighting,ā you continued, honeyed and lethal. āYet I recall quite clearly the sight of your back as you fled the Redgrass Field. Tell meādid Blackfyre teach you that particular stride, or did it come naturally?ā
The insult struck home like a hammer.
Aegor surged forward, fury finally breaking through restraint. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, leather creaking beneath the force of his grip.
Steel sang half an inch from its sheathā
Brynden moved instantly, stepping between you with his arm raised to halt himā
ābut you were faster.
Your dagger was in your hand before most realized it had left its sheath. In a single fluid motion, you stepped in close and pressed the edge of Valyrian steel to Aegorās throat. A thin line of red blossomed across his skin where the blade kissed flesh. He was fortunate you had not dipped it in poison, as you so usually did.
āCareful,ā You all but crooned warningly.
āSome might consider your behaviour to be one of traitor,ā Brynden warned quietly, āAfter all, you only just managed to clear your name of any treason.ā
Aegor stilled.
He had been one of Daemon Blackfyreās most ardent supporters, convinced of the righteousness of a rebel crown. When the rebellion shattered at the Redgrass Field, when banners burned and brothers turned their blades inward, survival had demanded a different posture. He had claimed blindness and manipulation. Claimed he had been misled by ambition and false promises. He had bent the knee to Daeron and sworn himself renewed in loyalty.
It had been by the narrowest edge of royal mercy that his head had remained upon his shoulders.
And he knew it.
For a long, tense moment, he glared at the two of you, fury warred with calculation behind his gaze. Slowly, he stepped back, fists clenched in a physical effort to restrain his anger.
A throat cleared nervously.
A few steps away, a young servant stood stiff as a pike, face pale beneath the torchlight. āM-my lord,ā he said, voice wavering slightly, āthe Lady Shiera requests your presence.ā
You fought the urge to scoff at the sound of your half sisterās name but you didnāt miss the way Bryndenās shoulder went stiff from beside you.
Aegorās expression shifted as smug curve tugged at his mouth as he glanced at Brynden. Anger replaced by petty satisfaction at the perceived victory. Without a word, he turned and followed the servant down the corridor.
Only when he was fully out of sight did Bryndenās shoulders ease, the rigid line of him loosening by a fraction.
"Well," you muttered, the metallic snick of your Valyrian steel dagger sliding home into its sheath puncturing the silence. "Heās still the same as ever."
"He is worse," Brynden corrected, his voice a low.
When you looked at him, the edge of cold calculation had returned to his featuresābut beneath it was something else.Ā
Concern.
āBe on your guard around him,ā he said seriously. āAegor is ruled by his temper,ā Brynden continued. āHe wonāt so easily forget such a slight against him.ā His jaw tightened, the pale skin over his bone structure pulling taut. āI fear he will seek repayment.ā
You snorted softly. āIāve survived far worse than our brother.ā
āI do not question your strength,ā he began, his single red eye narrowing as he prepared to press the matter further, to make you understand the gravity of his warning was not just something you could brush asideā
āMy lady.ā
The interruption came from your left.
You turned to find a herald standing stiffly at attention, the three-headed dragon sigil embroidered across his chest in threads of obsidian and flame.
āThe Hand requests your presence,ā the man announced. āAt once.ā
You inclined your head gracefully. āOf course.ā
Bryndenās jaw tightened with frustration
When you turned back to Brynden, something unspoken passed between you.
He leaned in, his voice a ghost of a whisper. āDo not dismiss what I said.ā
You offered him a faint, teasing smile, the kind that had always managed to disarm his gloom. āI wonāt,ā You reassured, āIāll see you later.ā
He only inclined his head, standing perfectly still like a sentinel of bone and shadow, watching as you walked away.
That night, Brynden dreamed.
In his sleep, he walked a narrow pathāone he had been treading for years, the earth well-worn beneath his boots. At its end stood Shiera. She wore a radiant smile across her plush lips, yet she remained perpetually just out of reach, no matter how long he walked.Ā
Beside him stood Aegor, blade drawn, anger ever simmering. In that future, Brynden saw the years stretching on in endless contest: challenges in the court, wars waged for a woman who belonged to neither and delighted in belonging to both. There was no peace there. No certainty. Only a lifetime locked in rivalry, chasing affection that would never root itself fully in him.
It was a life of endless stalemate for a loveless war disguised as devotion.
Then the dream shifted.
The path split.
The second road was quieter. There was no spectacles, no rivalry. Only you.
You stood beneath a sky washed in gold, your expression steady and unafraid. In this future, Brynden did not have to fight Aegor for scraps of attention. He did not measure his worth against his brotherās rage. He stood beside youānot above, not in pursuitābeside.
When he reached you, the smile you gave him was blinding, reaching into the cold corners of his soul. Your fingers came up to his pale, red-stained cheek, cupping it tenderly. You looked at him as though you saw every shadow and flaw he carried and did not recoil. As though loving him was not a challenge to conquer but a choice you happily made.
He saw then what that life could be. You, with the alliances you had cultivated from the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone to the sweltering courts of Dorne. You, who had won the respect of the realm through intelligence and strength rather than seduction and brute force. Lords who trusted you extended that trust to him. You, who would not toy with his heart, but guard it as fiercely as he would guard yours.
There was no endless duel upon this path, only devotion and love.Ā
When Brynden woke, he realized there was no choice to be decided. You and he had always been two halves of a whole. Shiera had been his attempt to fill the space your absence carved into him. A distraction.
Now that you had returned, there was no room for substitutes.
It would only ever be you.
But Brynden was not the only one whose gaze shifted. Aegorās had as well, for the sole reason because Brynden now wanted you. The rivalry that had once been tempered by pride and sharpened by Shieraās indulgence darkened the moment it centered upon you.Ā
Your half sister had a beauty that men drowned in with indulgence. You, however, had a beauty that sent men to their knees, begging for the smallest of tastes.
While Shiera had entertained them both, weaving the tension between Brynden and Aegor like a spider spinning silk around its prey, you offered neither invitation nor game. You did not flirt or indulge in his crass attempts. In truth, you did not even look Aegorās way, for since you had been a young girl, it was only ever Brynden who held your heart.
However, continued denial to a man accustomed to conquest, was its own provocation. It was a month after your return when he finally found his opportunity to corner you alone.
āWhat does he have that draws you to his side?ā Aegor demanded one evening, stepping from shadow as you made your way toward your chambers. āIs it sorcery? Or do you simply enjoy the company of things that should have been drowned at birth?ā
You glared, āWatch your tongue.ā
āIs he fucking you?ā he demanded, his voice dropping into the gutter. He stepped closer, his bulk looming over you, the scent of wine heavy and sour on his breath. āAre you so desperate for a man that you would settle for such a freak?ā
He didn't wait for an answer. He leaned down, his voice laced with a grotesque sort of arrogance that made your skin crawl. āIf itās a man you need, I can assure you I would satisfy you far better than he ever could.ā
The sound of your palm striking his cheek echoed down the stone corridor like a whip-crack.
Aegor's head snapped sideways, the force of the blow jarring his teeth. For a heartbeat, he stood frozen, stunned less by the physical sting than by the sheer, audacity you would do such a thing. A dark, angry crimson flared along his jaw where your hand had landed.
You let out a cold, mocking, humourless laugh.
āYou reek of desperation,ā you spat, your voice like winter steel. āItās pathetic.āĀ
You took a step closer, forcing him to meet your eyes, refusing to be intimidated by his size. āYouāre pathetic, Aegor. Youāre so consumed by what Brynden has that youāve forgotten how to be a man of your own. And that is why you will always be second to him.ā
Slowly, Aegorās head turned back toward you. The surprise was gone, replaced by a raw, white-hot fury that ignited in his eyes. "You'll regret that," he hissed.
Your other hand moved instinctively for your dagger ā but this time he was ready.
Aegor caught your wrist mid-motion, his fingers clamping down hard enough to bruise. Before you could twist free, his other hand seized your remaining arm. In one brutal shove, he drove you back against the stone wall, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. Cold stone pressed into your spine as he pinned your arms above you, using his weight to anchor you.
You struggled immediately, muscles straining, trying to wrench free from his grip.
āLet me go!ā you shouted, fury lacing your voice.
But he was larger ā broader through the shoulders, heavier with muscle. You were fast and trained, but in sheer size you were nearly half his measure. Your wrists burned beneath the pressure of his hold as he forced you still against the wall, his breath hot and unsteady against your face.
He let out a dark, jagged chuckle, leaning in until the stench of wine was suffocating. āIf you have doubts of me being a man, then let me show you. Let me show you exactly what a man can do.ā
You snarled, whipping your head forward in a desperate attempt to get free. Your forehead met the bridge of his nose with a sickening, wet crack.
Aegor let out a pained howl, his grip breaking as he staggered back, clutching his face. Stars danced across your vision, and a high-pitched ringing erupted in your ears from the impact. You gasped, your hand flying to your own throbbing brow as you stumbled, fingers clawing at the stone wall for purchase. You tried to shove past him, to find your footing and flee, But Aegor recovered faster than you expected.
He surged forward with a snarl, his weight slamming into your shoulder and shoving you back against the masonry with enough force to knock the air from your lungs. One hand clamped around your wrist again, pinning it high above your head. The other hand reached out and fisted the fine Dornish silk of your bodice and tore downward.
The delicate fabric let out a violent rip and gave way beneath his rough fingers.
There was a near-manic glint in his eyes, blood from his broken nose smearing across his lips as he bared his teeth. āLetās see if he will still desire you after I ruin you,ā he spat. It was the ultimate, ugly logic of a man who equated possession with power: if he could not win your regard, he would take your dignity and call it a victory over the brother he hated.
You let out a scream, the sound torn from your throat as a searing hatred for your own helplessness flared hotter than the fear. His grip was iron, crushing the bone of your wrist, and for a fleeting, terrifying heartbeat, the world narrowed to the bruising pressure of his hand and the suffocating smell of wine on his breath.
Thenā
He was torn away from you before you fully understood what had happened.
The weight was suddenly gone. Aegor staggered back, his boots scuffing violently against the floor as he fought to keep his footing. Blood poured down his face from the gushing, broken nose you had delivered, staining his beard and collar in crimson streaks.
Behind him stood Brynden. He was fury rendered in absolute stillness, his pale face carved into something cold and utterly lethal.Ā
Aegor laughed through the blood, a wet, breathless sound devoid of any humour. He spat a glob of red onto the floor, his eyes wild and jagged with spite as he looked from his brother to you.
Bryndenās expression darkened further when his gaze swept over you, taking in the torn fabric at your bodice, the disheveled strands of your once-styled hair, and the fear you were trying so fiercely to master.
He had tolerated much in his life.
He had endured Shieraās games, the tension and jealousy she caused by the cruelty of her whims, the shared affections she distributed between him and Aegor. He had accepted the sting of it because that had been her choice. But thisāthis was not a choice.
Brynden lunged.
They collided with brutal, bone-jarring force, crashing to the stone floor in a violent tangle of limbs and raw fury. The corridor erupted in the sound of chaosāboots scraping frantically against the masonry, shoulders slamming into heavy pillars, and the sound of grunts as knuckle meeting flesh.
Aegor recovered quickly, snarling as he swung back, breath tearing from battered lungs. His fist glanced off Bryndenās jaw; Brynden answered with one to the ribs that drove the air from him.
They grappled like beasts, years of rivalry igniting in full.
Eventually, Brynden gained the upper hand.
With ruthless efficiency, he forced Aegor onto his back. He braced his knees against Aegorās ribs, pinning him to the stone. Then, his fist came down.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
And again.
The sound of knuckles striking flesh and bone echoed sickeningly through the corridor. Blood splattered across pale skin and grey stone alike. Aegorās face became a swelling, bloodied ruin beneath the relentless assault.
Brynden did not slow; his movements were mechanical, driven by a cold, white-hot rage that had finally found its outlet. Each strike carried the weight of years of restrained fury, and in that moment, you understood with chilling clarity: if you had not movedāif you had not seized his arm and spoken his name, begging him that it was enoughāhe would not have stopped until he had beaten the life out of the man beneath him.
The Keep would not remember this as another brotherly fight but for a brotherās death.Ā
He would not be called Bloodraven.
He would be called kinslayer.
āBrynden! Thatās enough!ā
Your voice cut through the corridor. Your hand closed around his sleeve, halting his next move mid-arc. The fury in him did not vanishāyou could feel it vibrating through his entire frameābut at your touch alone, he stilled. His fist hovered in the air for one agonizing heartbeat before finally lowering.
His shoulders heaved with ragged, silent breaths.
For a long moment, he did not move.
Then, slowly, he rose.
Aegor lay groaning on the stone, blood pooling beneath him, but Brynden no longer looked at him. His attention shifted to you insteadāand whatever rage had consumed him moments before dulled beneath something far more urgent.
Worry.
āAre you all right?ā he asked.
His voice was a quiet rasp, stripped of its usual icy composure. His single red eye trailed down the length of you, cataloging the damage with a near clinical precision. He took in the wild disarray of your hair, the jagged tear at your dress, and the angry, purple imprint of fingers already darkening against the skin of your wrist.
As he reached the bruises, something in his expression darkened further, a flicker of the monster returning to his eyes before he forced it back down.
Without a word, he unfastened his cloak in one smooth motion. He draped the heavy black fabric around your shoulders, the weight of it swallowing you in warmth and the faint, sharp scent of pine and old parchment.
You swallowed hard, the adrenaline finally beginning to ebb, leaving a cold shiver in its wake.
āThank you,ā you murmured, your fingers clutching the silver-weighted edge of the cloak as if it were an anchor. Your gaze dropped briefly to the stone. āI should have taken your warning more seriouslyā¦ I did not expect him toāā
Bryndenās hand rose to your cheek. His palm was cool against your flushed skin
The touch was so sudden and so gentle that it stilled the very breath in your lungs.
āIt was not your fault,ā he said, his voice dropping to a register meant only for you. āYou are not responsible for Aegorās actions. Never suggest otherwise.āĀ
His thumb brushed lightly along your jaw carefully. A near reverent caress that felt like a benedictionā so different from the violence he displayed moments before.Ā
āTime has only made him more twisted,ā he continued quietly. āMore vile.ā
Behind you, Aegor shifted with a pained groan as he slowly pushed himself to sit up.
Your gaze snapped to his broken form. The softness Brynden had drawn out of you vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating fury that mirrored the steel at your hip. Without a word, you stepped around Brynden and knelt over Aegor. Before he could even blink through the blood in his eyes, you had your dagger out, pressing the sharp point of the blade directly against his groin.
Aegor stilled instantly. He let out a sharp, hitching breath as he felt the barest, stinging pinch of the Valyrian steel through his breeches.
āTry this again,ā you whispered, your voice a lethal caress, āand I will personally ensure that the next time you try to bed a woman, youāll find you are missing the parts required for the task. I will make a eunuch of you before you can even draw a breath to plead.ā
Aegorās jaw worked, his hands balling into white-knuckled fists against the floor. Even broken and bleeding, he looked ready to strike, desperate to prove his dominance with the only tool he truly understood: violence. But the bite of the blade was the only thing that kept him at bay.
"You're a madwoman," he hissed, his voice bubbling through the blood, though his eyes darted nervously to the blade in your hand.
"I'm a dragon," you corrected him sharply, your voice devoid of mercy. "And I've spent enough time with vipers to know exactly where to bite."
With those words, you straightened up, the adrenaline beginning to leave your limbs. Brynden offered his arm and you accepted it, letting him lead you away from the wreckage of his brother. The heavy sweep of his cloak trailed behind you, a dark shroud that hid your torn dress from the prying eyes of the Red Keep.
Once inside the safety of your chambers, Brynden turned to face you.
āDo you need me to call the maester?ā he asked softly. His fingers reached toward the swelling at your brow where you had struck Aegor.
You winced as the dull throb behind your eyes intensified, then shook your head. āIāll be fine. A maester will only ask questions that might cause the realm to gossip.ā
He exhaled a long, sharp breath through his nose, his jaw tightening. āYou should have let me kill him. He doesn't deserve the air he breathes, let alone the mercy you showed him.ā
āAnd have the realm call you kinslayer?ā you scoffed, looking up at him. āThe gods know you have enough enemies, Brynden. You don't need that blood on your hands.ā
āAt least weād be rid of him,ā he muttered darkly, his single red eye fixed on the door as if he could still see Aegorās broken body through the wood. āThe world would be quieter without his constant, grasping greed.ā
āAnd then your reputation would be tarnished beyond repair,ā you pointed out, reaching up to lay your hand over his.
It was his turn to scoff, a jagged, self-deprecating sound. āIt can seldom get worse, you know. Youāve heard the songs. You know what the people say about me. A thousand eyes and one, all of them belonging to Westerosā darkest sorcerer.ā
He looked down at you, his expression softening into something painfully vulnerable. āIāve long stopped caring for what the realm thinks of me.ā His hand turned beneath yours, lacing his fingers through your own. His knuckles were still stained a dark, drying crimsonāa stark contrast to the milk-white of his skin. āI care only for what you think of meā
Your breath hitched. You swallowed harshly, āAnd what of your paramour, the Lady Shiera? Iām sure our sister would have been remiss if you had succeeded in killing off her other lover.ā
The mention of her name acted like a douse of ice water, but not in the way you expected. Brynden didnāt flinch; instead, his entire posture went rigid, his single eye snapping open to lock onto yours with a startling, crystalline focus.
"Shiera," he repeated, the name sounding foreign on his tongue in the sanctuary of your chambers.
He let out a short, sharp breath that might have been a laugh if it weren't so bitter. He pulled his hand back, though only far enough to frame your face, his blood-stained knuckles inches from your hair. āI care not for what she thinks.ā
āLovers quarrel?ā You arched a brow.
The faintest tightening touched his jaw, a flicker of genuine irritationāor perhaps painācrossing his pale features. āHave you really no idea of my feelings for you?ā
You stilled, āWhat are you talking about?ā Your shoulders stiffened instinctively, retreating even as his hand remained gentle against your skin. āDo not think I am willing to be a part of thisā¦ this triangle you, Shiera, and Aegor insist on orbiting.ā
Your voice sharpened.
āI did not leave Kingās Landing only to return as someoneās shared amusement.ā
Brynden flinched as if you had struck him, his hand dropping from your face as he recoiled a fraction, expression shifting into one of hurt.
āAmusement?ā he repeated quietly. āYou think I would place you among her games?ā His red eye burned fiercely with emotion. āThat I would ask you to share what has always been yours?āĀ
"I have spent my life in that triangle because I believed it was the only place for a man like me," he said, his red eye fixed on yours with a terrifying, unblinking honesty. "A freak born of a King's whim. I took what was offered because I never believed I deserved more. Shiera is a mirror of all my worst impulses, a reflection of the darkness I thought I was born to inhabit. But you?ā
He reached out again, his fingers hovering just shy of your pulse point, waiting for your permission. When you didn't pull away, he let his hand settle, his thumb tracing the frantic beat of your heart against your neck.
"I want to be the man you deserve, not the monster they see. If you think this is a game to meāif you think I am merely looking for a new way to spite my brotherāthen I have failed you more than he ever could."
You let out a trembling breath, āWhat changed? Why now?ā
āBecause you finally came back, and I realized I could no longer continue on this path without at least trying to take a leap of faith and follow my heart.ā
He leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. āYou do not need to give me an answer now,ā he murmured against your skin. āI know what I am asking.āĀ
He pulled back slightly, though his gaze held yours.
āAll I ask is that you consider me.ā
Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, leaving you standing alone in the silence of your chambers to ponder the weight of his confession.
Not long after the incident with Aegor, you would decide to cut your stay at court short. Kingās Landing had begun to feel less like home and more like a snare. You had grown fond of the freedom your birth afforded youāthe small mercy of bastardy, which loosened the heavy chains binding trueborn royals to endless, suffocating ceremony.
You had meant to depart alone.
But Brynden had refused to let you, insisting on staying by your side to join you on your travels. You had agreed, if only to see what a life shared with him might look like when the realm wasn't watching.
Aegorās presence had also loomed over you like a gathering storm. The memory of his hands on you and the look in his eyes remained a jagged wound, and you feared he might strike again if left to his own devices. That unease, more than anything, had fuelled your decision to leave the Red Keep.
Together, you rode first for the salt-sprayed cliffs of Dragonstone, then to the thunderous heights of Stormās End to meet your family, and eventually to the ancient, weirwood-shaded peace of Raventree Hall to see Bryndenās family.
In that freedom, away from the prying eyes of the capital, you discovered one another. Without the court poised between you to judge every glance, the tension began to melt into something sturdier. Despite the depth of your own feelings, you had been reluctant to accept his confession back at court; Shieraās presence seemed to show up at every turn, and your sister had done everything in her power to remind you of the space she once occupied in Bryndenās bed.
But the open road was mercifully free of such games.
Brynden watched you closely in those months as you traveled, and he never pressed for more than you were willing to give or an answer to his confession. If anything, he seemed content simply to ride at your side.
He watched as you renewed the ties you had forged in earlier years. And for those where familiarity lacked, you created new alliances. Unlike Shiera, you did not seduce loyaltyāyou earned it.
You were cunning, yesāsharp-minded and sharp-tongued in your speechābut you were not cruel. The alliances you shaped were not fragile threads spun from vanity or waning desire. They were rooted in trust, in reciprocity, and in quiet demonstration of worth.
With each land you crossed, the distance between you narrowed in ways neither of you were quite ready to name aloud.
Brynden felt it long before you did.
He had already seen the shape of what could be.
In dreams that came unbidden and unrelenting, he glimpsed futures branching before him like veins of light and shadow. In some, you stood at his sideānot in obligation, or as a pawnābut as a partner. He saw the way your influence would steady his own, how your grace would soften the jagged edges of his reputation without dulling its strength. He saw halls filled not with bitter rivalry, but with respect. He saw you looking at him not as a brother-in-arms, but as the man you had chosen.
He woke from those dreams with certainty. He loved you. He had loved you for years, but he had been too much of a coward to say itāand now, he was paying for his actions with the doubts he had caused you.
But unlike him, you did not carry the burdenāor the blessingāof foresight. You did not see the roads unfurl before your feet. You felt only the present: the comfort of riding beside him, the way his silence felt companionable rather than cold, the jump in your pulse when his hands would come up to grip your waist as he helped you dismount your horse.
He was patient.
He had always been patient.
If the future he saw was meant to belong to the two of you, he knew it would not require force; it would arrive in its own time. And eventually it did.
There was no singular moment that split friendship from something more. Instead, it unfolded quietlyālike dawn creeping across a darkened sky. What began as companionship began to deepen into something steadier.Ā
The realization finally took hold at Raventree Hall. You found him amongst the ancient weirwood of his motherās people. The Brackens had poisoned the site long ago, and the massive tree stood skeletal and pale, dead yet still towering. Its white branches were no longer heavy with red leaves, but with hundreds of ravens watching those who would come before it.
āYou are missing out on the celebrations,ā you mused, your voice cutting softly through the heavy silence of the godswood.
Brynden didnāt turn at first. He stood as still as the wood itself, his pale skin nearly matching the bone-white bark of the tree.Ā
āIām afraid my tolerance for drunken cousins has its limits,ā he replied dryly, his voice low and even. āBefore long, I find myself seeking the solace of silence.ā
You huffed a quiet laugh as you came to stand beside him, your shoulder almost brushing his arm.
āYour motherās kin do celebrate with enthusiasm,ā you said.Ā
āNone can match those of your kin,ā he answered, finally turning his head. A ghost of a smirk tugged at his mouth. āBaratheon celebrations remain unmatched.ā
You let out a quiet laugh, gazing at the great tree.
āIt is beautiful, in its own way,ā you murmured, the cold air biting at your cheeks.
āMost see only death,ā he said quietly. āThough I suppose you always did prefer the broken things.ā
You hummed softly, a small plume of breath blooming in the night air. "Perhaps. There is more character in a ruin than in a fresh-built wall. You know exactly where the strength lies when everything else has been stripped away."
Brynden went still at your words. He turned fully now, his single red eye tracking the way the moonlight caught the edge of your cloakāthe same cloak he had draped over you a year ago, now worn thin from the dust of the road.
āIs that what you saw in me,ā he asked quietly, the dryness gone from his voice, replaced by something far more fragile, āwhen you stood up against Aegor all those years ago to protect me? A broken boy?ā
You raised your hand to his face. "You were never a ruin to me, Brynden," you whispered, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw and his eyes fluttered shut at your touch.Ā
āEven back then,ā you continued softly, the words a bridge between the children you were and the people you had become. āYou were the boy who made sure none of the courtly girls dared mock me again after you found me crying in the gardens because they called me a lowly bastard.ā
A faint exhale left him at the reminder of the memory.
āYou were the boy who would sneak raspberry squares from the kitchens simply because you knew they were my favourite,ā you said, a fragile smile touching your lips. Your thumb brushed lightly beneath the scarred hollow of his eye socket, a gesture of intimacy that no one else in the Seven Kingdoms would have daredānot even Shiera. āYou were the first person who made me feel as though I never had to be anyone but myself, even when the entire court was trying to mold me into a proper lady. Itās those memories and more that made me love you since we were children, Brynden.ā
He opened his eye then, the crimson depth of it searching yours with a clarity that no prophecy or vision could ever provide. He reached up, covering your hand with his own and pressing your palm more firmly against his face.
āWe lost our chance in youth,ā he murmured, his voice low and jagged with the weight of years spent in silence. āI cannot give you back the time I spent being a cowardly fool. But allow me the chance to love you now, as a man.ā
He leaned closer, the breath between you mingling in the cool, crisp air beneath the skeletal branches of the weirwood. Above, the ravens grew still, their dark forms silent witnesses to the shifting of fate.
āTell me to stop,ā he whispered, his lips only a breath from yours, his single eye searching for any hint of hesitation. āTell me now, and I will.ā
You didn't speak. Instead, you simply closed the distance. Your lips met his in a gentle, unhurried kissāyears of unspoken longing finally given shape.
Bryndenās hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to hold you there, as if he feared you were another one of his dreams and you would vanish once he woke up. A low, ragged soundāhalf-sigh, half-growlāvibrated against your lips.Ā
You pulled him closer, your hands gripping the heavy fabric of his doublet, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart against your chest. For all his talk of being a monster or a creature of shadow, his mouth was warm and devastatingly human.Ā
He broke the kiss just enough to trail his lips across your jaw, his breath hot against your ear. "I have spent a thousand nights dreaming of this," he rasped, his voice thick with an emotion he could no longer control. "And not one of them was enough. Not one of them compared to the truth of you."
By the time the first murmurs beganāsoft whispers that you and Brynden were courting in all but nameāthe truth of it had already rooted itself too deeply to be denied. You found your gaze instinctively seeking his across crowded halls whenever your duties kept you apart. You found yourself attuned to the subtle cadence of his voice and the rare, private curve of amusement on his lips that was reserved for you alone.
Rumour traveled faster than ravens.
It reached the Crownlands soon enough, bleeding into the stones of Kingās Landing and reaching ears that burned at the mere thought of your union. Shiera did not take kindly to losing the man she had once considered her most devoted toy, and Aegor did not appreciate being displaced in significanceāleast of all by the brother he had sworn to outshine.
The praise sung of youāof your valour in the Battle of the Redgrass Field, of your celebrated beauty and grace, and now of the growing bond between you and Bryndenāstruck at both of them differently, but the sting remained equally sharp.
When word came of the tourney at Ashford, you and Brynden decided it was finally time to step out of the quiet safety of the provinces and to return to the Crownlands. You would attend the celebration and he would join the games, and afterward ride back to the Red Keep with the Targaryen procession.
Many turned to look as the two of you rode in.
Conversations faltered. Cups paused midway to lips as they took the two of you in. Lord Bloodraven and Lady Y/n.
You had purposefully chosen to dress in a red reminiscent of bloodāa deep, vivid shade that caught the sunlight like living flame. Gold thread traced the seams in subtle patterns of dragons and stags, your two lineages woven together in defiance of those who would see you as lesser. Golden ornaments were threaded through your braids, the small pieces glinting as they moved through the length of your loose hair, catching the wind as you rode.
Atop a dapple-grey horse, you looked every inch the storm dragonās daughter, born from two unyielding houses and beholden to none.
Beside you rode Brynden, a stark contrast in all black. Black cloak, black leather, and a black stallion. The hood of his cloak shielded his pale skin from the unforgiving sun and cast his features into deep shadow, leaving only the faint, crimson glint of his eye to unsettle the hearts of lesser men.
The two of you rode close, knees nearly brushing. Your chin remained high as the crowd parted. Yes, you were a bastard. But you were a noble one.
Across the lists, a boy with a shaven head squinted through the dust toward the road, his eyes brightening with instant recognition.
āSheās here!ā Egg exclaimed, nearly bouncing on his heels.
āWho is?ā Duncan asked, following the boyās gaze with a puzzled frown.
āY/N Storm,ā Egg breathed, excitement softening his usual youthful caution.
āIsnāt that a bastardās name?ā Duncan questioned, recognizing the surname given to the high-born children of the Stormlands.
Egg nodded fervently.
āAnd whoās the one beside her?ā
āBrynden Rivers,ā Egg supplied, his voice dropping an octave in awe. āTheyāre among the Great Bastards. My father says they were pivotal to the victory at the Redgrass Field and without them, the battle would have been lost.ā
Duncan raised a curious brow. āHave you met them?ā
Egg nodded, his gaze fixed on the dapple-grey horse and its rider. āLady Y/N stayed with my family back on Dragonstone. She was kind.ā His cheeks heated. āAnd definitely the most beautiful, too.ā
Duncan coughed, his gaze drifting toward a nearby tent where Shiera Seastar had straightened from her languid recline. Her mismatched eyesāone emerald, one sapphireānarrowed into slits as she watched the procession. āI heard the men say that she was?ā He nodded subtly toward the silver beauty in the pavilion.
Egg wrinkled his nose. āShiera is beautiful,ā he admitted reluctantly. āBut sheās an ugly witch underneath.ā
Before Duncan could murmur a reprimand for such insolence, Egg had already slipped from his side, darting down the slope toward the stables where you and Brynden were just beginning to dismount.
Your mare stamped lightly as you drew her to a halt. You were perfectly capable of dismounting without assistanceāyou had done so since childhoodābut Brynden stepped forward all the same, as he always did when you were in his company.
His hands settled at your waist, firm and assured, and he lifted you from the saddle with ease before setting you gently upon the ground.Ā
You looked up at him, and for a fleeting moment, the clamour of the tourney faded to a distant hum. Your fingers rose almost without thought, slipping beneath the edge of his hood. The fabric brushed your knuckles as you pushed it back just enough to reach him. You traced your fingertips along his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the cool shade that shielded him from the sun.
His red eye softened at your touch, the severity of his usual expression easing into something reserved for you alone. He leaned ever so slightly into your handābut the sound of hurried footsteps shattered the moment.
You turned just as a small figure barrelled toward you, nearly tripping over his own haste.
āY/N!ā Egg called breathlessly, skidding to a stop before you, his face split by a wide, gap-toothed grin.
Laughter escaped you before you could stop it. You crouched slightly, arms opening without thought as he threw himself forward in greeting.
āEgg,ā you breathed warmly, steadying him. āLook at how much youāve grown.ā
āEveryone still says Iām puny for my age,ā he huffed, though he couldn't hide his delight at the praise.
āYou will grow; you are still young,ā you reassured him, leaning back just enough to take him in properly. Your fingers brushed over his newly shorn head, and a brow arched in amused disbelief. āAnd what,ā you asked lightly, āhave you done with your hair?ā
He only shrugged sheepishly, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Behind you, Brynden straightened. One gloved hand rested idly near his belt where his sword hungāthe gesture born more of habit than of threat. His posture remained watchful, but the sharp edge of his presence softened as he observed the scene.
There was something almost indulgent in his expression.
Brynden did not often smile. The world had not shaped him into a man to give easy warmth. Yet, as he watched you kneel in the dirt of a stable to embrace a child, witnessing the genuine affection you gave so freely, something in him eased.
One day, he thoughtāwith quiet certaintyāhe would see your belly swell with his child not only in the shifting shadows of dream, but beneath his hand in waking life.
Egg beamed up at you, oblivious to the stares gathering around the stables or the dark intensity of the man standing behind you. āSo, youāre back?ā he asked, as though he had half-feared you would never return.
āWe are,ā you replied, smoothing your hand over his head once more. āAnd after the tourney, weāll be returning to the Red Keep as well.ā
His eyes lit up at once. āCould I ride with you? On the way back?ā
āIf your father agrees,ā you said with a small, knowing nod. āI would not dare steal the young prince without his permission, Egg.ā
He only waved you off, āFather would agree to almost anything when it comes to you, so long as you donāt mentionāā
He cut himself off shooting Brynden a nervous glance. It was no secret of Maekarās dislike for Brynden and vice versa. But in all fairness both men were known to be notoriously hard to get along with.
You only laughed and pulled him back into a brief embrace, pressing something small into his palm as you did so.
āFor later,ā you whispered, your voice conspiratorial.
He glanced down at the wrapped handful of sugared almonds now tucked in his hand, then back up at you with his delight barely contained.
You gave him a wink before straightening, āNow, off you go,ā you added, straightening your skirts. āBefore your father begins to wonder where youāve run.ā
Egg nodded dutifully, though he lingered a moment longer than necessary. His gaze shifted to Brynden, who stood a quiet step behind you, black-clad and watchful as a sentinel.
āWill you win?ā Egg asked earnestly, his voice echoing the hopes of every boy watching their favourite knight gather.
Bryndenās mouth curved faintly, that rare ghost of amusement flickering across his pale features. āI do not enter the lists to lose.ā
Egg considered this gravely, then nodded as though sealing a pact. āThen you must crown her,ā he declared, gesturing toward you with the sugared almonds still clutched in his fist. āThe Queen of Love and Beauty.ā
You let out an amused giggle and for a heartbeat, your gaze met Bryndenās. His red eye held yours, softening in a way that was only reserved for you.
āEven without titles, she is the finest beauty in the land,ā he murmured.
Your cheeks heated, the flush deepening beneath the golden ornaments in your hair. You had faced the terror of the Redgrass Field without flinching, yet a few quiet words from this man made your heart flutter like a trapped bird.
Egg, satisfied with his decree, gave a small nod and hurried back toward the lists, already peeling at the paper wrapping in his hand as he returned to where he had left Duncan. You and Brynden watched him go, shared amusement lingering at the corners of your mouths.
You did not notice the tall man Egg made his way toward across the yard, but he had caught Bryndenās eye.
Your loverās gaze had shifted, resting for a moment too long upon the broad-shouldered knight whose dirty-blond hair gleamed in the afternoon sun. There was something calculating in that look, something almost prophetic, as though Brynden were placing a vital piece upon a board only he could see.
Yet his focus was soon drawn back to the present when you slipped your hand into his. As the two of you turned away from the stables and the cluster of pavilions, his fingers closed around yours at once and the simple contact steadied the restless pulse at your throat.
Together, you moved toward the training grounds, where the clang of steel rang sharp in the sunlit area.
Below, several knights were already practicing for the morrowās events; lances struck shields in splintering bursts, and swords flashed in disciplined arcs. The smell of trampled grass and sweat hung thick over the packed earth.
The sight of Brynden did not go unnoticed.
Conversations faltered. One knight lowered his blade mid-swing; another turned too late and nearly stumbled over his own footing. A ripple of murmured whispers followed the sight of the infamous Bloodraven, and the lady in red who walked so comfortably at his side.
His reputation preceded him, and yours was just as formidable.
You leaned toward him to murmur something low and teasing, your attention fixed on his shadowed profile rather than the path aheadā
āand nearly walked straight into a wall of black and gold.
You halted abruptly, your hands instinctively but Brynden caught your waist and steadied you before you could stumble.
āCareful there,ā rumbled an amused voice, deep as thunder. āWouldnāt want to trample the fairest jewel at Ashford.ā
You looked up, a genuine smile breaking across your face. āCousin,ā you greeted warmly.
Lyonel Baratheon grinned down at you, all broad shoulders and easy arrogance, the golden crowned stag antlers of your mother's house gleamed atop his head. For all his intimidating size, he took your hand with surprising gentleness and pressed a courteous, lingering kiss to your knuckles.
His dark eyes flicked past you to Brynden, and though his smile remained, caution entered his stance.
āRivers,ā he acknowledged.
āBaratheon.ā
The exchange was simple, neither outright hostility nor complete ease.
You knew your lover wasnāt the easiest man to warm to, his quiet nature often put many at unease. Lyonel was his opposite in nearly every wayāboastful where Brynden was restrained, loud where Brynden was quiet, easy to laugh while Brynden often remained stoic. The Stormlands blood ran like a tempest within the Laughing Storm; pride came to him as easily as breath, and charm was his natural armour.
Until, of course, someone struck the wrong chord. Then, the legendary Baratheon temper would reveal the jagged lightning behind the clouds. For now, however, the storm lay dormant.
Lyonel rolled his broad shoulders as though loosening them for a bout already begun, his dark eyes gleaming with anticipation. āYouāve come at a good time,ā he said, glancing between you and Brynden. āThe lists tomorrow promise better sport than half the dreary affairs weāve endured this year.ā
Brynden inclined his head slightly. āI was under the impression Stormlanders preferred melees to lances.ā
āWe do,ā Lyonel replied at once, his grin widening. āThereās something honest about a proper swing of steel. None of this splintered-wood pageantry.ā His gaze flicked toward the practice field where a green knight had just awkwardly dropped the lance he was inspecting. āStill, Iāll settle for spectacle if it draws the right opponents.ā
āIs that a challenge, Lyonel?ā you asked lightly.
āI dare not challenge you, cousin. You are the deadliest being in the land,ā Lyonel said with faux seriousness, before breaking into a booming laugh when you playfully slapped his arm at his jest. His gaze then shifted to Brynden with a spark of mischief. āHowever, I would not mind a bout with your paramour.ā
Bryndenās expression did not change, but there was a subtle sharpening in his eye. āThen I hope you are prepared to be disappointed.ā
Lyonel barked another laugh. āCareful, Rivers. Youāll make me think youāve grown fond of arrogance.ā
āI have not grown fond of it,ā Brynden replied dryly. āI have merely learned to tolerate it after being forced to endure your company for months on end.ā
You smothered a smile, enjoying the rare sight of Brynden engaging in even the smallest amount of banter.
Lyonel looked to you as though seeking an ally. āYou see how he speaks to me? And here I was prepared to offer him ale and decent company tonight.ā
āYou offer ale to everyone, Lyonel,ā you countered, your eyes dancing.
āAye, but decent company is selective.ā He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. āAnd I had hoped to convince you both to join us this evening. Thereāll be music. And dancing.ā
You smiled, answering before Brynden could find a way to decline. āWeāll be sure to stop by, cousin.ā
At your side, your other half released the faintest, most put-upon sound beneath his breathāso quiet most would have missed it.
You did not.
Lyonelās grin widened at Bryndenās discomfort. He clapped him once more on the shoulder, a heavy-handed gesture that would have made a lesser man stumble, then bowed with exaggerated gallantry, his lips brushing over your knuckles once more.
āUntil tonight, cousin. Rivers.ā
As the Laughing Storm sauntered off toward his tent, his booming laughter trailing behind him, Brynden exhaled slowly through his nose. āMust we attend?ā
You turned toward him, feigning innocence as your fingers idly toyed with the edge of his dark cloak. āIf you do not wish to join,ā you said sweetly, āI can go on my own. I wouldn't want to bore you with something as trivial as music.ā
His eye narrowed at once.
Before you could step away, his hand found your waist and drew you closer, his black shadow folding over your vivid red skirts as easily as night claims the day.
āOut of the question,ā he murmured, his voice a low, possessive vibration.
āOh?ā You tilted your chin, teasing him, enjoying the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth that signalled his rising protective streak.
āYou will not wander into a pavilion full of drunken knights and idle lords unescorted,ā he stated, his grip firming just enough to emphasize his point.
āI could have Lyonel as my escort,ā you pointed out lightly, as though the thought had only just occurred to you. āYou are hardly fond of dancing, my love. Lyonel, at least, would not sulk in the corner while the musicians attempt to coax you into civility.ā
A faint breath escaped himāsomething between disbelief and reluctant amusement. He leaned down, his forehead nearly touching yours, the heat of his presence drowning out the chill of the afternoon breeze.
āI do not sulk,ā he corrected softly.
āYou brood.ā
āI observe.ā
āYou glower.ā
His eye playfully narrowed at that, a faint spark of warning flickering in the crimson depth.
You sighed dramatically, though your fingers still toyed idly with the edge of his cloak. āIt is only music, Brynden.ā
āAnd dancing,ā he reminded you, as if the word itself were a sentence to the Wall.
A small, almost hopeful smile touched your lips. āPerhaps I should like to see you dance.ā
His expression shifted at onceāhorrified first, then faintly affronted, as if you had suggested he take up the harp in the middle of a siege.
āI do not dance.ā
You tilted your head, studying him. āYou survived battles. You survived the courts. You survived our mad half brother.ā Your gaze softened just a fraction, your voice dropping to a tender murmur. āSurely you can survive one song.ā
He did not answer at once. The breeze tugged at his hood, shifting and making the silver of his hair catch the light. His red eye lingered on yours, calculating the weight of his refusal.
āI would look ridiculous,ā he said at last.
āThen we shall look ridiculous together,ā you replied with an easy, radiant smile.
The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself, the ghost of a real smile finally threatening to break through his stoic mask. He let out a long, defeated sigh, his hand tightened affectionately at your waist.
āWeāll see,ā he conceded, which, coming from the Bloodraven, was as good as a promise.
You stepped closer, hope warming your expression. āDoes that mean you will attend?ā
He looked down at you then, at the expectancy he could never quite withstand. āAs if I would refuse you,ā he muttered.
Your smile brightened, but past his shoulder, you caught sight of Shiera. She was gliding toward the two of you, her mismatched eyes locked on Brynden with a predatory grace. You felt your shoulders stiffen, the warmth of the moment cooling instantly.
Noticing the shift in your mood, Brynden's gaze sharpened immediately. āWhatās wrong?ā he asked quietly.
You swallowed, forcing the edge from your expression before turning back to him. āNothing.ā
Despite knowing Brynden and Shiera had once beenā¦ entangledāknowing the way she had looked at him and the way he had once answered in kindāsome small, treacherous part of you wondered. Even though he had chosen you, though he stood at your side now, you wondered if he ever missed his time with her, or if he might one day seek to rekindle that old flame.
He turned his head just enough to catch Shieraās approach before looking back at you. āI chose you,ā he said simply, āThere is no reason for you to feel threatened.ā
Your eyes narrowed slightly. āWho said Iām threatened?ā you scoffed.
His lips twitched faintly. āIs this frown not because you are jealous of the past I share with her?ā
The words were purposefully provoking, and part of you knew it. You bit the bait anyway.
Your fingers, which hadnāt stopped tracing the edge of his cloak, suddenly fisted the heavy, dark fabric. With a firm tug, you yanked him down toward you until his face was barely an inch from yours.
āWhat is there to be jealous of?ā you demanded softly, your voice low and edged with the warning. āI am a storm-born dragon, and you are my treasure.ā
Your grip did not loosen as you felt his breath hitch in surprise.
āIt would be foolish of her,ā you continued, your chin lifting just slightly as Shiera drew closer. āTo think she could take what has already been claimed. Unlike her, I do not share.ā
For a heartbeat, his expression stilled. Then, he smirked. āItās a good thing, I do not intend to be shared.ā
He leaned closer, the hood of his cloak casting a deeper shadow across his pale features. His voice dropped further, āYou seem to be forgetting one thing, Ʊuha prÅ«mya. You are not the only one with the blood of the dragon,ā he murmured. āYou are mine just as I am yours.ā
His gloved hand slid to your waist again; this time, the gesture was overtly possessive, as if staking a claim for whoever might be watching. āIt would be foolish of her,ā he finished, his red eye glinting faintly beneath the hood, āto even attempt to take me away from you.ā
His thumb pressed lightly into your side, a silent tether between you.
āĆuha prÅ«mia iksis iÄ.ā My heart is yours.
Your gaze softened at once, the last remnants of doubt dissolving beneath the absolute certainty in his voice. Without hesitation, you rose onto your toes and pressed your lips to his, showing the world that you could be every bit as possessive as he was.
He did not hesitate.
Bryndenās hand tightened at your waist as he returned the kiss with a sudden, fierce hunger that ignored the approaching footsteps. When you finally parted, his forehead rested briefly against yours, his breath warm against your skin.
āNever doubt the love I have for you,ā he said quietly.
A sharp, pointed throat-clearing forced the two of you to reluctantly part. Turning, you found Shiera standing a few paces away. Her posture was immaculate, her expression a mask of effortless perfection, yet the slight tightness at the corners of her mouth, and the fire burning in her gaze betrayed the emotion she fought to conceal.
Jealousy did not suit her.
Still, it was there, and you could not deny the faint stir of smugness at the sight of it.Ā
For a long moment, the two of you regarded one another wordlessly. Shiera Seastar stood draped in pale ivories and silvers that shimmered like moonlightāan echo of the sea and the name she bore. You stood as her opposite, a vision in blood-red and gold and no less alluring.
Bryndenās arm remained firm around your waist, an unspoken declaration you did not resist. You were content to remain tucked against his side as the tension between you and Shiera stretched as taut as a drawn bowstring.
āBrother,ā she greeted smoothly, her voice polished to a fine edge. She chose to ignore your presence entirely, her focus fixed solely on him. āI had wondered when you would grace us with your return. The court has been quite dull without your company.ā
āShiera,ā he replied. His tone was perfectly evenāneither warm nor cold. The fire he had once felt for her had long since burnt to ash, leaving behind nothing but indifference.
Her mismatched eyes drifted downward, lingering on the place where his gloved hand curved possessively against your hip. For the briefest instant, her composure faltered. A faint shadow of resentment darkened her features before her face smoothed into a mask of porcelain apathy once more.
āDo you plan to compete in the tourney tomorrow?ā she asked him, her voice drifting like silk.
āI do.ā
Shieraās smile deepened, and her voice dropped to a low, suggestive purr. āMhm. You were always so... insatiable after a match.ā
Your fingers tightened in the dark fabric at Bryndenās sideāthe only outward sign that the remark had struck its mark. Otherwise, you remained the picture of regal composure.Ā
In fact, your smile widened.
āReally?ā you asked, sounding genuinely intrigued. āHow interesting.ā
You tilted your head slightly, studying her with open, almost playful curiosity. āI find myself able to keep up with him quite easily.ā There was no bite in your tone, only the faintest lilt of innocence. āIf you found it difficult,ā you continued pleasantly, āIāve heard the septas sometimes prepare a restorative tea for suchā¦ fatigue. Perhaps you should ask for the recipe if you are struggling to preform.ā
For a moment, Shiera did not move. Her mouth parted, then closed again as though the perfect retort had fled her entirely.
Beside you, Brynden made an abrupt, strangled sound. He turned his head sharply away, one gloved hand rising to cover his mouth, though the tell-tale shake of his shoulders betrayed him. He attempted to disguise the outburst as a cough, but the effort was transparent. The laughter in his eye was unmistakable.
Shieraās gaze flicked toward him, then snapped back to you. A faint flush of colour rose along her throat before she forced her smile to settle into something more composed.
āOh,ā she said lightly, the edge beneath the softness sharpening to a razorās point. āIs that what you use to aid you? Tonics and teas?ā
āDear gods, no.ā You placed a hand against your chest in gentle protest. āIf that were the case, Iām afraid Brynden and I would never have found the strength to leave the bed.ā
Whatever advantage she had intended to claim slipped neatly from her grasp and was returned to her, wrapped in sweetness and delivered without visible effort.
Brynden cleared his throat again, mastering himself with an arduous effort. He straightened, his composure returning in measured degrees, though the faint curve at the corner of his mouth refused to disappear entirely. His red eye moved briefly between the two of you, shimmering with dark amusement.
Shiera inhaled slowly, reclaiming the serenity she wore like armour. When she spoke again, her voice had regained its smooth cadence, but something brittle lingered beneath the surface.
āYou areā¦ refreshingly candid,ā she observed, her voice tight.
You offered a small shrug, as though the matter were of no particular consequence. āI see no reason for a dragon to mimic the modesty of the sheep we so often find ourselves surrounded by,ā you replied with effortless ease. āThough I suppose court life does encourage such habits. Everyone becomes soā¦ agreeable.ā Your gaze met hers directly, unblinking. āIsnāt that so, sister?ā
Her gaze lingered a moment longer, before looking to Brynden as if hoping he might step ināperhaps expecting him to chide your sharp tongue or offer a shred of the gentlemanly defence he had once afforded her.
But Brynden did not step in. He did not offer her a single grain of the validation she sought. Instead, he simply adjusted his grip on your waist, pulling you a fraction closer until your shoulder was tucked firmly against his chest.
Her gaze dropped to where Bryndenās thumb traced a slow, rhythmic circle against your silk-clad hip.
Shieraās nostrils flared, the only crack in her porcelain mask. For years, she had been the sun around which he orbited, the one woman who could command his attention with a mere glance of her mismatched eyes. To be dismissed so casuallyāto be treated as an observer to his devotion rather than the object of itāwas a blow she wasn't prepared to handle in the mud and dust of a tourney ground.
At last, she inclined her head, the whisper of pale fabric following the movement as she stepped back with tense grace. āEnjoy the tourney tomorrow,ā she said, her tone light but brittle at its edges. āI should hate for Ashford to lack excitement.ā
āI do not believe that will be a concern,ā Brynden replied mildly, though the trace of restrained laughter still threaded through his voice.
Shiera gave him one last stare, searching for any lingering spark of the man who had once composed poetry for her. Finding only the hard, red gaze of the Bloodraven, she turned on her heel and retreated toward the tents of the high lord, her silver silks snapping like a whip in her wake.
When she finally disappeared into the crowd, the tension that had quietly coiled between the three of you finally unwound.
Brynden looked down at you, no longer bothering to conceal the amusement warming his expression.
"Restorative tea?" he repeated, his voice thick with amusement. āQuite merciless of you to suggest such a thing.ā
You lifted your chin without apology. āShe began it.ā
The shadow of his hood concealed his face from prying onlookers, but you could see the pleased grin he wore quite clearly. His hand, still firm at your waist, drew you a fraction closer.
āYes,ā he murmured, the words too low for any listening ears, āand you finished it.ā His red eye held yours, sparkling with unmistakable fondness. āMy vicious storm dragon.ā
The day of the tourney dawned bright and merciless.
Sunlight spilled across the lists in a hard, golden glare, reflecting off polished helms and armour. Trumpets blared in the distance, combining the excited mutterings of the gathering crowds.
You fought back a wince.
Your eyes burned, and your head throbbed with every cheer that erupted from the stands. Even the rhythmic flapping of the silk overhead felt like a hammer striking directly behind your temples. Lyonel Baratheonās celebrations were never modest affairs, and despite your better judgment, you had allowed yourself to be coaxed into drinking far more of the Stormlands' heavy red than you should have.
Flashes of the night surfaced in scattered, dizzying fragments. You remembered the torchlight flickering wildly and the thunder of Lyonelās laughter as he demanded the musicians play faster. You remembered dancing in a loose, breathless circle, your skirts swaying and boots thudding in time with a rhythm. Your cousinās booming voice had carried over the music as the two of you nearly sloshed your wine onto yourselves. There had been no courtly reserve, only the reckless freedom that followed good wine and better company.
At some point, the memory blurred into the sensation of Bryndenās arms sliding around your waist without warning. The world had tiltedāthe stars and torches swapping placesāas he hoisted you over his shoulder to a chorus of Lyonelās approval and the raucous cheers of the camp. You had protestedāor you thought you hadābut the sound had dissolved into dizzy laughter as he carried you away from the noise and into the sanctuary of your tent.
Your eyes, which you had not realized had drifted shut against the morning glare, snapped open as the next memory surfaced with mortifying clarity. Back in the privacy of the pavilion, you had abandoned what little dignity remained. Driven by a possessive haze of warmth and wine, you had clung to him with shameless determination, all but mauling him as you pressed your mouth to his throat, his jaw, and his chestāanywhere you decided needed to be marked. You had been intent on leaving no doubt as to whom he belonged, lest Shiera entertain any further illusions of her own.
Heat crept up your neck, rivalling the sting of the morning sun.
You shifted in your seat, smoothing your skirts with trembling hands and willing a mask of regal composure back into place.
You sat in the royal pavilion beside your nephews, Baelor and Maekar Targaryen. The great dragon banners snapped sharply overhead in the relentless wind, the sound like the crack of a whip against your fragile senses.
Maekar let out a rough, knowing chuckle, his eyes fixed on the field but his amusement directed entirely at you. āFun night?ā
You exhaled slowly, pressing two fingers briefly to your temple before lowering your hand. āNever underestimate Stormlands hospitality,ā you replied. āIt seems their barrelsāand their tolerance for wineāare endless.ā
Maekar snorted at that.
āBaratheons rarely understand the meaning of moderation,ā Baelor said mildly. Though his expression remained as poised as ever, the faint curve of his mouth suggested he found the situation more amusing than scandalous.
āThatās why they throw such fine fucking parties,ā Maekar added with a rough barking laugh that rumbled deep in his chest.
The sound struck your aching head like a mallet against a bell.
Baelor noticed the sudden strain in your expression before you could fully mask it. His voice softened, pitched low enough that it did not carry beyond the royal enclosure. āYou have my sympathies,ā he murmured. āThe morning after such revelry is rarely kind. Why not return to your chambers and rest? No one would begrudge you the comfort of some shade and silence.ā
You shook your head at once, though the motion sent a sharp pulse of pain behind your eyes. āThere would be no rest to be found,ā you replied. āNot when I know Brynden rides today.ā
Baelorās gaze shifted toward the lists below, where armoured figures were assembling in gleaming ranks of steel and silk. āHe is a skilled fighter and a cunning man,ā he said calmly.Ā
āEven so,ā you answered, your tone steady despite the lingering thrum in your skull, āknowing his skill does little to ease the worry. Accidents happenāeven to the most formidable of warriors.ā
Maekar grunted, raising his cup slightly in a grim salute to the truth of your words. āVery true. Steel doesn't care for bloodlines once the horses start galloping.ā His gaze drifted to his own son, Aerion, who was riding toward the pavilion at a leisurely pace. āThe worry only gets worse once you have sons of your own to watch.ā
The young prince pulled his mount to a halt before the stands, his black armour gleaming with dragon sigils of polished ruby. Aerion removed his helm, shaking out his cropped silver-gold hair and sending you a cocky, self-satisfied smile that spoke of entitlement rather than charm.
He inclined his head in mock courtesy. āFather. Uncle,ā he called smoothly, before his eyes settled fully upon you. āAnd my radiant aunt. Perhaps you will grant your favour to a true dragon this day.ā
A ripple of laughter moved through the nearby noblesāsome genuinely amused by the Prince's boldness, others merely eager for the spectacle of a family spat. Maekar let out a low, irritated sigh, but he didn't silence his son.
Not far away, Shiera, reclined upon her silken cushions, let out a soft scoff edged with jealousy. She adjusted the fall of her lace, clearly displeased that the circle of attention had shifted away from her.
You had just parted your lips to deliver a stinging reply to your nephew when a sudden movement at the edge of the lists drew the crowdās collective focus.
From the shadowed mouth of the fighters' pavilion, a squire peeked out, eyes wide with dawning panic as he realized his lord had wandered beyond armouring reach. The boy hovered uncertainly at the threshold, clutching a steel vambrace uselessly as he stared after his master.
Unbothered by the young boyās frantic concerns, Brynden emerged into the light. He was not yet clad in the full weight of his plate; instead, he stood only in his dark riding trousers. The stark simplicity of the garment left the hard, whipcord lines of his lean, powerful torso fully revealed to the morning sun.
The light struck the pale planes of his skin, rendering him almost luminous against the darker canvas of his tent and the mud of the field.
And there, stark against that pale expanseā
Faint, bruised crescents and deep purplish shadows marked the line of his throat and collarbone, trailing lower in a path that disappeared suggestively beneath the waistband of his trousers.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Heat rushed to your cheeks with humiliating speed as memory and evidence collided beneath the relentless sun. You suddenly became acutely aware of every pair of eyes that might follow the same line of sight, every idle lord and lady hungry for gossip.
Maekar made a low sound beside you, a rough, suppressed rumble of amusement. āQuite a night indeed,ā he muttered, his voice thick with a dry, soldierās humour.
Your fingers tightened in the fine fabric of your skirts, anchoring yourself as you willed your composure to remain intact, even as the warmth climbed higher up your throat.
Aerion, however, had not missed a thing. His eyes darted between the marks on his uncle and the flush on your face, his smirk sharpening into something wicked.
āWell,ā he drawled loudly, ensuring his voice carried to the surrounding tiers, āit would seem the lists are not the only battlegrounds this week.ā
A few nearby lords chuckled, emboldened by the Prince's audacity, and one, less subtle than the rest, let out a low, appreciative wolf whistle that echoed through the tourney grounds.
The squire behind Brynden cleared his throat nervously, still clutching the vambrace as though the tournament might collapse entirely if his lord did not armour himself at once. āMy lord,ā the boy ventured, his voice tight with urgency, ātheyāre nearly ready to call the first tilt.ā
Brynden did not look away from you.
āA moment,ā he replied calmly. For a brief second, you saw his lips twitch with a ghost of a smirk. Your eyes narrowed, but before you could send him a warning look, he turned toward Aerion, his expression snapping back to its usual mask of cold disinterest.
āIf you require commentary on my private affairs,ā Brynden said evenly, his voice carrying just enough to reach the surrounding nobles without rising to a shout, āI suggest you first prove yourself capable of managing your own.ā
Aerionās smile faltered by a fraction.
āAnd if you desire my ladyās favour,ā Brynden continued, his gaze drifting over the young prince with chilling indifference, āthen I suggest you prove yourself worthy of it.ā
The meaning was clear, a metaphorical gauntlet thrown in the mud between them.
Aerionās jaw tightened beneath the gleam of his helm, his pride warring visibly with his caution. The lists lay between them, open and waiting. To accept would mean meeting Brynden in earnestānot in a courtly dance of lances, but against a manĀ whose reputation had not been forged in tournaments alone.
He shifted in the saddle, glancing briefly toward the royal stand where his father sat, then back to Brynden. The calculation flickered plainly in his eyes; Aerion was arrogant, but he was no fool.
āI have no need to prove myself to a bastard,ā Aerion replied at last with a forced, hollow scoff.
Bryndenās expression did not change; the slur carried no weight against him or you.
Aerionās pride flared, but not enough to carry him into a fight he wasn't sure he could win. Instead, he forced a tight, brittle laugh and lowered his helm back into place with more force than necessary.
āI will seek a more worthy opponent,ā Aerion declared, wheeling his horse away from the unspoken challenge with a final, desperate attempt at dignity.
Beside you, Maekar exhaled heavily as he watched his son ride off, the sound more weary than surprised.
āA fool he is,ā he muttered, rubbing at his jaw with a calloused hand, ābut at least heās a smart enough fool to know when to concede.ā His eyes drifted toward Brynden below with a look of begrudging, reluctant respect. āElse heād find himself courting the god of death before the first tilt.ā
You cleared your throat, though your gaze had never left Brynden. Below, he moved with unhurried purpose back toward his pavilion, his stride easy and arrogant, as though the public exchangeāand the scandal written in purple across his skināhad been of no consequence at all.
āExcuse me,ā you said softly.
Baelor inclined his head in quiet, graceful understanding, his expression unreadable. Maekar only grunted, though the corner of his mouth twitched in a way that suggested he knew exactly where you were going and why.
You rose and descended the steps of the viewing stand. The murmur of the crowd swelled around you like a rising tide before falling away into a respectful, curious hush as you crossed the grounds. Knights, lords, and squires alike made way without being asked, their eyes trailing the fiery sweep of your gown.
The red of your skirts whispered against the trampled grass as you crossed the encampment, leaving the glaring sun and the prying eyes behind. With a steady hand, you pushed aside the heavy silk and slipped beneath the shadowed mouth of Bryndenās pavilion.
Inside, the sudden dimness acted as a balm, cooling the harsh ache that still lingered behind your eyes.
He had not yet dressed.
Brynden stood near the armour stand, bare from the waist up, his pale skin starkly marked by the fading, vivid evidence of the night before. The canvas walls stirred faintly in the breeze, carrying the scent of oiled leather, polished steel, and the man himself.
The squire hovered uncertainly near the table, his hands full of straps and buckles, looking as though he might puke from fear.
āLeave us,ā you ordered.
āBut my ladyāthe tournamentāā
āDo as she bids,ā Brynden drawled, his gaze already locked on yours with a predatory stillness. āThat will be all for now, Elmar.ā
The squire, looking immensely relieved to be dismissed from the tension, gave a frantic bow and vanished through the secondary flap, leaving you alone in the sudden, heavy silence.
Your eyes drifted down Brynden's body, a heady mix of hunger and renewed possessiveness stirring in your chest.
The corner of his mouth lifted into a slow, knowing smirk. āI thought after last night you would have had your fill of me,ā he murmured, his voice a low vibration in the small space. āOr do you intend to paint every inch of my body in your marks before the sun sets?ā
You scoffed softly, though the sound held more warmth than protest, and stepped closer until the heat radiating from his skin brushed against your silk bodice. Your fingers rose of their own accord, trailing down the center of his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle and the fading evidence of your boldness.
āYou emerged into full daylight wearing those marks for all to see,ā you replied, your touch feather-light and agonizingly slow. āIf the realm speaks of nothing but our indiscretion today, you will only have yourself to blame.ā
His breath slowed beneath your fingertips, his chest expanding as he took you in.
He swallowed, his throat bobbing against the purplish bruise that sat just above his collarbone. āIs that not what you wanted?ā he murmured, reaching out to catch your wrist, though he didn't pull you away. āFor everyoneāAerion, the lords, our sisterāto know exactly who I belong to?ā
You nearly preened at the open admission in his words, a fierce satisfaction unfurling in your chest. By evening, you knew the whispers would be spreading like wildfire; the realmās most unsettling bastard son of the dragon wore a womanās claim openly upon his skin. Many would speculate it was youāand they would be correctāand no doubt they would carry those whispers further, turning them like a blade to question your honour.
They would be correct in that as well.
You did not care. You never had.
You were both Great Bastards. Even legitimized, the stain lingered in the eyes of those who needed such distinctions to feel superior. You had grown up beneath the weight of scrutiny and the sharp, open whispers of disdain. You could not have given a damn what the realm thought; you had learned long ago to draw strength from the very things meant to diminish you. Where others saw shame, you had found freedom.
Unlike highborn daughters groomed for alliances and bargaining tables, you had never been shaped for political purity. You were not raised to remain untouched, preserved like a relic to secure a treaty or soothe a rival house. Your value had never depended upon an unblemished marriage bed, for in the eyes of the "righteous," you would remain forever tainted regardless.
So, you had forged your worth elsewhere.
The loyalty you amassed had not been handed to you by decree or marriageāyou had earned it, piece by piece, across every court you were sent to. And Brynden? Brynden was feared and known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Together, you did not rely on the approval of the realm because you both understood, far too well, how to rule it from the shadows by bending perception to your collective will.
Outside, a trumpet sounded in the distance, a sharp, brassy note signalling that the first calls to the lists would soon follow.
The sound acted as a bucket of cold water on the simmering heat of the tent. You broke his gaze, clearing your throat softly as you stepped back, smoothing the front of your gown. The moment stretched one heartbeat longer before you reached for the dark linen tunic draped across the chair and tossed it toward him.
āCome,ā you murmured, stepping closer again. āIāll help you get dressed.ā
Brynden caught the tunic effortlessly but he did not immediately pull it on. Instead, a slow, wicked smirk curved his mouth, his red eye dancing with a light that made your pulse skip.
āThatās a first,ā he observed, his voice dropping an octave. āUsually, it is the opposite.ā
You huffed softly, rolling your eyes to mask the fresh heat rising to your cheeks. āShall I call back the squire? Iām sure Elmar would be much more efficient and far less prone to... commentary.ā
You turned as though to leave, your skirts swishing in a mock display of indignation, but you did not reach the tent flap. Before you could take a second step, his hands closed around your hips drawing you back against him in one smooth motion until your spine was pressed against his bare chest.
āApologies,ā he murmured near your ear, the low tenor of his voice sending a thrill straight down your spine. The warmth of his breath brushed your skin. āI would be most gratified for my ladyās assistance. Truly.ā
He let his hands linger a moment longer, his thumbs tracing the curve of your hip bones through the silk, before he finally released you to pull the tunic over his head.
You exhaled through your nose, determined not to rise to his bait, and set yourself to the task instead. Your hands moved with calm efficiency, guiding leather and steel into place, fastening straps and settling everything where it belonged. His armour was black, a signal of his Targaryen blood, yet in place of the royal sigil he bore his own arms: a white dragon with red eyes, breathing crimson flames.
Tightening the final strap at his shoulder, you reached for his swordāDark Sisterāresting nearby. But instead of placing it into his waiting hand, you drew it an inch from its sheath. Pale light rippled along the Valyrian steel, the watered pattern shifting like smoke beneath ice.
You tilted the blade slightly, admiring the living shimmer within the metal.
āSuch a pretty blade,ā you sighed, the note of longing in your voice entirely unashamed.
His hand closed over yours, large and steady, guiding the sword back toward its sheath without force. āIf I recall,ā he murmured, voice low, āyou possess a Valyrian weapon of your own.ā
His other hand slid through the hidden slit of your gown, finding the dagger strapped to your thigh with unerring familiarity. His fingers lingered only a heartbeat against the cool metal and warm skin before trailing higher.
You caught his wrist immediately, firmly guiding his hand away before the touch could escalate into something far less innocent. With your other hand, you pushed the sword hilt-first into his grasp.
āNow look who is insatiable,ā you said dryly, though your eyes betrayed your amusement.
He used your grip on his wrist to yank you forward instead of releasing you. You collided lightly with his armoured chest, the cold steel of his breastplate a stark contrast to the heat that had been radiating from his skin.
āFor you?ā he murmured. āAlways.ā
He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, the space between you narrowing until it was scarcely more than a promiseā
āand then the thunder of galloping hooves shattered the moment.
Both of you turned toward the tent flaps as the sound surged closer. The ground itself seemed to vibrate beneath the weight of the approaching rider.
āBloodraven!ā
The calling roar carried like a war horn, raw and jagged with a lifetime of resentment.
Bryndenās face darkened at the familiar voice. Without a word, he seized his helm and stepped out of the pavilion with a terrifying, icy calm. You followed a heartbeat later, schooling your expression even as unease coiled like a cold weight in your chest.
Aegor Rivers waited astride his great warhorse before the tent, a vision of iron and fury.
His violet eyes burned with flagrant hatred, fixed wholly upon Brynden. Bittersteel did not wait for the formalities of the lists. Instead, he lifted his sword, the blade catching the morning light as he pointed it directly at his half-brotherās heart.
āI challenge you,ā Aegor called, his voice ringing across the encampment and drawing the eyes of every gathering spectator. āLet us, for once, settle who is worthy.ā
Your blood went cold.
āNo,ā you said at once, stepping forward to place a hand against Bryndenās armoured chest. You looked up at him, pleading, before turning a venomous glare upon Aegor. āYou are worth nothing compared to him, Bittersteel.ā
Aegor snarled, his horse sidestepping beneath the tension in its rider, but Brynden had already moved. His arm came around you with quiet firmness, guiding you behind him as he met Aegorās gaze.
āI accept.ā
You felt your stomach drop.
You caught his sleeve before he could step away, gripping the dark fabric tightly.
āYou know how this ends,ā you whispered fiercely. āYou two always end in a stalemate of blood and ruin. Neither of you will leave the field whole.ā
His fingers rose to brush your jaw, the gesture impossibly gentle despite the cold, hard steel of his gauntlet. āNot today.ā
āYou cannot risk yourself for pride,ā you hissed.
A faint, chilling smile ghosted across his lips. āIt is not pride.ā
You searched his face, desperate to understand what he was thinking, but he had already turned. He mounted his horse in one fluid motion as it was brought forward by his trembling squire.
You did not understandā¦Not yet.
With a frustrated huff, you gathered your skirts and strode back toward the stands, forcing your expression into something resembling composure. The weight of dread settling heavy in your chest. By the time you resumed your seat, you could barely remain still, anxiety gnawing relentlessly at your thoughts.
āWell,ā Maekar muttered beside you, voice rough with blunt interest, āweāre finally getting some proper entertainment.ā His gaze remained fixed on the field. āThis ought to beā¦ memorable.ā
You did not dignify that with a response, your jaw set so tight it ached.
At least Baelor had the decency not to agree aloud. His hand settled lightly against your arm in a quiet gesture of reassurance, though his eyes remained focused on the tension mounting below.
āThey are both highly skilled,ā he said gently, his tone measured. āAnd neither is foolish enough to throw away their life for a mere tourney tilt.ā
You nearly laughed at that, a bitter, jagged sound that died in your throat.
Skill had never been the issue between Brynden and Aegor. Nor was it a matter of foolishness.
It was hatredāpure, distilled, and decades in the making.
āAegor is a brute,ā you replied tightly, your voice barely a whisper above the roar of the crowd. āAnd seldom does either of them gain true victory over the other. It always ends the sameāa stalemate of blood and broken bone. They don't know how to stop until one of them is forced into the dirt, unable to continue.ā
You stiffened as both men rode up before the stands, their horses snorting and sidestepping beneath the tension that hung thick in the air. Brynden reached you first.
Ā He didnāt hesitate to extend his lance toward you, the tip steady despite the weight. āMay my lady grant me her favour?ā
Behind him, Aegor let out a sharp scoff, a sound designed to carry. āPerhaps,ā he called, his voice edged with both challenge and a jagged, wounded pride, āthe lady would care to favour the true winner for once.ā
You did not so much as glance in his direction.
Instead, you fixed Brynden with a look that made your displeasure abundantly clear. Your jaw tightened, and your brows drew together in a hard line. You wanted him to see the danger in thisāthe needless escalation, the centuries of bad blood he was inviting back to the surface. You wanted him to see that his life was worth more than a momentās satisfaction against a brother who lived only to hate him.
He held your gaze, his solitary red eye unblinking and eerily calm.
With a measured breath, you rose to your feet, the red silk of your gown spilling like a pool of blood against the stone of the pavilion. The movement drew a fresh ripple of murmurs from the stands. From your wrist, you removed a wreath of dark, woven ribbon, heavy with small golden charms that clinked softly in the wind.
He raised his lance high so you would not have to lean, but you leaned anyway, closing the distance until you were close enough to speak.
āThis is folly,ā you murmured under your breath, the words for him alone.
āTrust me,ā he replied, his voice a low, steady anchor in the storm.
You fought back a grumble, the sound caught somewhere between rising anger and a reluctant, bone-deep faith in him. Your fingers worked quickly, fastening the token just beneath the steel head of his lance, tying the silk in a knot so firm it would take a blade to undo it.
Aegorās knuckles whitened around his own weapon, his horse shifting restlessly beneath him as he watched the intimacy of the exchange.
You stepped back to your seat without sparing him so much as a glance.
He scoffed loudly, a sound brittle with resentment, but if he had hoped to draw your attention, he was disappointed. Rebuffed and radiating a cold, jagged fury, he gave a sharp tug on his reins, wheeling his horse toward Shieraās place in the stands.
Aegor drew up before her and raised his lance in an unmistakable, aggressive invitation. āMy lady,ā he called, his voice ringing with a pride sharpened by spite, āI would ride in your honour. For there is no other in these Seven Kingdoms worthy of the title of Queen of Love and Beauty.ā
Shiera did not rise immediately. She allowed her mismatched eyes to drift briefly toward Brynden, searching for some flicker of jealousy or regretābut he gave her nothing. Jaw clenching, she returned her gaze to Aegor. Only then did she stand, pale silks spilling around her.
If she felt the sting of being the second choice, a mere instrument for Aegorās retaliation, she did not show it. With practiced, delicate fingers, she removed a slender ribbon of silver from her sleeve and tied it to Aegorās lance, her gaze lingering on him with a smile that was as beautiful as it was hollow.
Below, Brynden had already turned his horse toward the far end of the lists, his focus locked entirely forward. He did not look toward Shiera. He did not look toward Aegor, who was now riding back into position, his violet eyes blazing with murderous intent beneath his helm.
You resumed your seat slowly, lowering yourself with a measured grace that belied the unrest thrumming beneath your ribs. Your fingers curled into the folds of your gown, gripping the fabric as if to anchor yourself against what was to come.
Across the lists, the brothers took their places at opposite ends.
The murmurs of the crowd swelled to a fever pitch and then abruptly died away, anticipation settling over the field like a held breath.
Banners snapped overhead.
Finally the trumpets sounded.
Lances met shields with a crack that echoed across the lists like a thunderclap, splintering wood and scattering sharp fragments into the rising dust. Horses screamed, their hooves tearing deep gashes into the earth as the sheer force of the impact reverberated through both rider and mount. The crowd erupted in a roar that seemed to swallow the morning air.
They wheeled and rode again.
And again.
Neither yielding.Ā
The rivalry between them was older than this field, older than this tourney. It had been whispered in halls and shouted in taverns for a generationāBloodraven and Bittersteel. Blackwood and Bracken. Targaryen and Blackfyre. It was a hatred inherited as much as it was earned, sharpened through decades of pride, ancient history, and far more personal grievances.
On the third pass, Aegor struck true.
His lance hit Brynden square against the center of his shield. The force of the strike shuddered through the black armour, the sound of protesting steel and wood sharp enough to make you flinch. For a terrifying heartbeat, Brynden was nearly jarred clean from the saddle, his body tilting precariously as his horse stumbled under the weight of the blow.
A collective, jagged gasp rippled through the stands.
But Brynden did not fall alone.
Even as Aegorās blow connected, Brynden adjusted with a cold, terrifying calculation. He angled his own strike as he fell, his lance splintering against Aegorās chest plate with enough force to shift the manās center of gravity.
In a heartbeat, both men were thrown.
They struck the ground hard, armour clanging violently against the packed earth as their horses thundered past, riderless and panicked. A thick cloud of dust rose from the impact, obscuring the two figures as they lay motionless in the dirt.
The crowd erupted, a wall of sound as spectators screamed their encouragements for the champion they supported.
Through the choking haze, Aegor was the first to move. He rolled and sprang upright with a roar that cut through the noise, his voice raw with a singular, focused fury. āMy sword!ā he bellowed, his hand already reaching toward his squire.
Across the field, Brynden was already rising, slower but no less steady. His squire rushed forward, hands shaking visibly as he presented Dark Sister.
From the stands, your nails bit painfully into your palms, the sharp sting the only thing keeping you grounded. The brothers now faced one another on foot, swords drawn. This was no longer a tournament; the hatred between them was no longer restrained by the courtly rules of a tilt. This was the ancient, bloody heart of their feud laid bare for all to see.
Steel rang sharp and unforgiving as the brothers closed the distance between them.
Aegor struck first.
There was no ceremony in his movements now, no pretence of sport. His blade came down in a brutal arc meant to crush through guard and bone alike, fuelled by the raw strength of his resentment. Brynden pivoted just enough for the strike to glance off his pauldron; sparks spat where the metal met metal, the sheer force of the blow driving him half a step sideways into the churned earth.
Aegor did not hesitate. The second blow followed almost immediately, heavier than the first.
Brynden answered it.
Dark Sister moved unlike common steel. In his grasp, the Valyrian blade seemed almost aliveālight and lethal, its edge slicing cleanly through the space between them as he turned Aegor's strike aside with a flick of his wrist, returning a blow of his own.
Aegor fought with brute strength, each swing designed to overwhelm by sheer power. Brynden, by contrast, was lighter on his feet, fluid in motion, almost dancing around the heavier man. He gave ground only when it suited him, his boots carving careful arcs through the dust as he slipped just beyond the reach of those crushing, bone-deep blows.
The crowd roared with every clash, every near-miss that skimmed armour or bit shallowly into leather. Lords leaned forward in their seats, their voices lost in the din. Knights shouted encouragement for the man they supported.
Blackwood and Bracken.
Bloodraven and Bittersteel.
The names collided as fiercely as the swords.
Aegorās blade caught Brynden across the thighānot too deep but enough to score the armour and draw a sharp hiss of breath through his teeth. The impact rang out in an ugly, screeching scrape of steel that made those nearest to the lists wince.
Across from him, Aegorās grin split wide beneath sweat-damp strands of hair, his violet eyes blazing with savage, unadulterated satisfaction.
āBleed for me, bastard,ā he snarled, circling like a wolf, his sword held loose but ready.
Brynden did not dignify the taunt with an answer. Instead, he lowered his stance by a fraction, centering his balance as though settling into himself. Dark Sister angled slightly downward in his grip, the point steady, poised for what would come next.
Aegor charged again, putting every ounce of his brute force behind the swing. His blade cut through the air in a savage diagonal, once again meant to break armour and bone in one final, crushing stroke.
Brynden did not meet it head-on. At the last possible breath, he stepped aside, his boots shifting cleanly in the dust as the heavier blade cleaved through nothing but air and empty space.
In the same motion, Dark Sister flicked upward. The Valyrian edge found the narrow seam where armour parted at the joint, slicing across Aegorās forearm with the ease of a razor through silk.
Blood answered immediately.
Aegor roared, more in rage than pain. He lunged again, recklessness bleeding into his technique. Each strike grew heavier than the last, powered now by fury rather than discipline. He fought like a hammer, determined to batter through Brynden's resistance by sheer force of will.
Brynden moved like water around stone.
He pivoted around Aegorās weight as he slipped in and out of range. He yielded inches only to reclaim them in the next breath, letting Aegorās strength carry him just slightly too far, forcing his half-brother to burn through his stamina with every frustrated, empty swing.
Aegorās blade slashed wildly. Desperation bled into his movements as he overextended in his need to land something decisiveāto finally crush the infuriating, calm composure of the man in front of him.
He lunged once more, committing too much of his weight to the strike.
Brynden met it. He twisted his wrist, locking their blades in a shriek of grinding metal that set everyone's teeth on edge. For a suspended heartbeat, they stood chest to chest, faces inches apart, their breath hot and ragged behind the narrow slits of their helms.
Hatred radiated between them, thick enough to choke the air.
Aegorās lips curled into a jagged, bloody snarl. āWhen I win,ā he breathed, his voice low and venomous, meant for Bryndenās ears alone, āIāll finally take our pretty little sister as my prize. And Iāll make sure she forgets your name in my bed.ā
The pressure between their locked blades increased, the steel groaning under the strain of two men who shared a father but nothing else.
āIāll make her scream for me,ā Aegor continued, violet eyes blazing through the narrow slit of his visor, āloud enough for you to hear it from wherever you fly off to next.ā
Something in Brynden went utterly still.
It was not a fiery rage that answered Aegorās provocation, but something far more frightening. An icy fury settled over Bryndenās features, cold and ancient as winter in the North. The red of his eye burned darker, like banked coals stirred to life by a sudden, lethal wind.
The bind between their blades broke with terrifying control.
Brynden shifted his weight and drove his knee sharply into Aegorās midsection, the impact forcing the breath from him in a ragged grunt. As Aegor folded forward, Brynden brought the pommel of Dark Sister across the side of his helm with a crack that snapped his head sideways. The sound of teeth breaking carried sickeningly clear even above the roar of the crowd; fragments of white scattered onto the dirt as blood sprayed hot against black armour.
āYou will not speak of her,ā Brynden warned, his voice dangerously low, each word carved from ice.
Aegor staggered but did not fall. Fury and humiliation drove him onward. He swung blindly, catching Brynden across the shoulder and forcing him back a pace, metal shrieking on metal as the blow glanced off armour.
Brynden did not falter. Dark Sister flashed low in a blur of pale steel, slicing behind Aegorās knee where armour thinned. The Valyrian edge cut clean through leather and flesh alike. Aegor screamed as his leg buckled beneath him, blood spilling freely down his greave. Before he could recover, Brynden followed through with a sweeping strike to the chest that knocked the heavier man flat onto his back, the impact sending up a cloud of dust.
Aegor tried to riseāgods, he triedāspitting blood and clawing for his sword where it had fallen just out of reach. His fingers scraped uselessly against the churned earth. Brynden scoffed and kicked the sword back into Aegorās grasp.
Gasping, Aegor tried to swing one last time.
Brynden parried the desperate move and struck. The sharp Valyrian blade sliced through muscle and bone with terrifying ease. An ugly, guttural scream tore through Aegorās throat as he clutched at his arm, staring in sheer, unadulterated horror at the stump where his hand used to be.
The crowd let out a horrified gasp.
"Nor will you touch her," Brynden stated, standing over him like a pale god of vengeance, āever again.ā
From where you stood, the world seemed to narrow until it held only the two of them. For one terrible heartbeat, you thought Brynden might finally end itāthat he might drive his pale blade through helm and skull alike to finish the feud once and for all. The hatred between them had cost the realm too much already; one decisive stroke could silence it forever.
Brynden stepped forward, raising Dark Sister, he brought his blade down in a brutal strike with the flat of the steel against the side of Aegorās helm. The impact was a sickening, metallic thud that resonated through the entire stand.
Aegorās body went slack.
Disturbed dirt settled slowly around him as he lay unmoving, his blood seeping into the parched earth beneath his broken form. Brynden remained standing over him for a moment longer, his chest rising and falling in a steady, lethal rhythm. He kept the point of the Valyrian blade angled downward, ready should the fallen man so much as twitch.
Silence fell like a heavy curtain across the lists, the thousands in attendance held captive by the sheer brutality of the exchange.
From your place in the stands, your fingers had curled so tightly into the fabric of your gown that your knuckles had gone pale. You didnāt even realize you had risen to your feet until the silence stretched too long to bear.
āAnd the winner isā¦ Lord Bloodraven!ā
The announcerās voice cracked through the hush, and only then did you feel the breath leave your lungs in a ragged rush. The tension slipped from your body, leaving you lightheaded.
The roar that followed was deafening. The stands erupted in thunderous applause and frantic shouts. Nobles rose from their seats, and knights pounding fists against shields in approval. The name Bloodraven rolled through the crowd in waves,
Below, Brynden did not raise his arms in triumph. He did not acknowledge the praise.
Instead, he turned. Dark Sister sliding back into its sheath, as he lifted his gazeānot to the cheering lords, not to the royal standā
ābut to you.
You did not hesitate.
The world around you blurred into noise and colour as you gathered your skirts and descended the steps of the stand without care for decorum. Someone called your nameāBaelor perhapsābut you did not slow. Behind Brynden, squires were already hauling Aegorās limp, mangled form toward the healersā pavilion, a dark crimson streak marking the churned earth in their wake. Further down the lists, men were already moving to reset the barriers, preparing for the next joust to come.
But none of it mattered.
Not to you.
Brynden crossed the remaining distance in three long strides. Dust clung to the crevices of his black armour, and a thin line of blood traced a path from his temple into his pale hair where he had struck the ground, the red stark against the white. Strands of hair clung damply to his brow, and yet his eye burned with something fierce and resolute.
He stopped before you.
Then, before the princes, the lords, and the gathered thousands of Ashford, Brynden RiversāLord Bloodraven, the most feared of the Great Bastardsādropped to one knee in the blood-stained dirt.
The field quieted as realization rippled outward.
From within his gauntlet, Brynden drew forth a golden ring. A dragon wrought in fine detail wrapped protectively around a deep crimson ruby, the stone catching the sun so that it seemed to burn from within.
Your hands flew to your lips, your breath hitching in your throat.
āĆuha prÅ«mia,ā he murmured softly. My heart.
āI have stood alone most of my life,ā he continued, and though his voice remained steady, it was stripped of the cool distance he wore before the realm. āBut with you, I am not alone.ā
He drew in a slow breath, as though gathering something far harder than courageāvulnerability.
āNyke jorrÄelagon ao hen Ʊuha lÄkia,ā he said, the ancient tongue of your ancestors vibrating in the air. I would conquer the world with you at my side.
A faint, private smile touched his mouth, there and gone in a heartbeat, meant only for you to see.
āNyke iÄ sČ³ndor,ā he said quietly. I am a shadow. āSe ao ÅƱos.ā And you are flame.
The ruby between his fingers caught the sunlight and flared brilliantly, red light dancing across his pale skin and dark armour alike.
āWithout you,ā he said, his gaze unwavering, āI am only half of what I could be.ā
His voice lowered then, intimate despite the watching realm.
āVezof iÄ morghÅ«ltas,ā he murmured. There is but one death. āNyke dÅrÄ« ao Ʊuha jÄ«vi.ā I offer you my life. āIt is yours, if you wish it.ā
Your heart pounded so fiercely you feared the entire field might hear it.
āSkori se iÄ dÄrys ziry?ā he asked, the High Valyrian rolling from his tongue like velvet drawn over steel. For who else would I face that death with?
He lifted the ring slightly in offering, not as a trophy, not as a claimābut as a vow.
āBe my wife,ā Brynden finished, his voice low yet carrying clearly across the hushed lists. āStand with meāthrough blood, through fire and shadow, through whatever else may come.ā
His gaze never left yours, his red eye burning with a devotion that bordered on worship.
āAnd I will stand with you,ā he said, softer now, though no less certain. āUntil that one death finds us both.ā
Your eyes stung, but you did not look away. You were nodding before he had even finished speaking, your heart had answered long before he even finished speaking.
āYes,ā you breathed. The word trembled, barely more than a ghost of air between you before growing stronger, fuelled by the conviction in your chest. āYes. Yes!ā
Cheers broke out at your acceptance.
A bright, genuine smile transformed Bryndenās face. For many watching, it would be the first and only time they would ever see the fearsome Bloodraven smile so openly. The icy severity that defined him fell away, replaced by a radiance that was unmistakably happy.
He rose to his feet and slid the golden ring onto your finger. His hands, though calloused from the sword and still stained with the dust of the lists, were perfectly steady.
Somewhere through the deafening cheers, you heard a young voice shrieking louder than the rest. You glanced toward the sound and saw little AegonāEggāperched triumphantly atop the massive shoulders of Ser Duncan the Tall, his small fists raised high in pure, unadulterated celebration.
And then, cutting through the chaos with all the subtlety of a summer storm, your cousinās voice boomed across the field with booming delight.
āThis calls for a celebration!ā Lyonel Baratheon roared, his laughter infectious and grand.
Laughter rippled outward at once.
Brynden gave a quiet, disbelieving snort at the mention of yet another Baratheon celebration, as though the notion amused him far more than it tempted him. His gaze flicked briefly toward the direction of your cousin before returning to you.
Then, without warning and without the slightest regard for the thousands of prying eyes or the rigid decorum of the royal court, he bent and swept you cleanly off your feet.
You gasped, your hands instinctively flying to his shouldersāone hand pressing against the cold, hard steel of his gorget. One of his arms secured itself beneath your knees, the other braced firmly at your back, he lifted you as though you were no heavier than silk. A ripple of laughter and startled gasps followed the gesture, but he paid them no mind.
Intent was written plainly in every stride as he turned toward his pavilion. As Brynden carried you across the field, his gaze lifted briefly from you and swept the gathered nobles.
It found Aerion.
The young princeās face had gone noticeably pale beneath the gilt edges of his helm, the arrogance that had dripped from him earlier nowhere to be found. His violet eyes flicked onceājust onceātoward the place where Aegor had fallen, where the dirt was still dark with blood and pieces of teeth remained.
Aerion swallowed hard. Then, stiffly, he dipped his head. There was no challenge to be found now, only a silent, terrified concession.
Meanwhile, from your vantage over Brynden's shoulder, the field stretched wide and sunlit behind himāand your gaze caught on pale silk standing still amidst the noise.
Shiera.
Her composure remained immaculate as ever, yet envy burned in her mismatched gaze, a heat she could not quite extinguish. For the first time, she was the spectator in a story she did not control.
You could not help the slow, satisfied smile that curved your lips as Brynden carried you toward the shadowed mouth of his tent. The ruby on your finger flashed like a drop of dragonās blood, and the roar of the crowd began to fade behind you like a distant, retreating storm.
Among the many paths the gods had laid before you and Brynden, you had both chosen to step upon the one that led to each other.
Not because it was easy.
Not because it was expected.
But because it was yours.
If given the choice againāto walk willingly into shadow and storm, into blood and fire, until the road narrowed and the world fell away and there was only him and only youāyou would not hesitate.
Summary: A noble lady from a disgraced house that supported Blackfyres is married off to Lord Bloodraven as a reward for his loyalty and prowess in battle. But he prefers to occupy his time with duties as the Hand of the King. Comfortable but lonely, she befriends one of his ravens. Warnings: arranged marriage, yearning, angst, fluff, Westeros politics, Shiera.
The raven was a greedy, ungrateful beast, and you loved it dearly.
You had named him Pebble, for no greater reason than the smooth grey of his breast feathers, which reminded you of the stones along the Mander where you had played as a child. He came to your windowsill each morning, croaking his hoarse demands, and you obliged him with crumbs of bread and shreds of cold meat saved from your supper. In return, he permitted you to stroke the ruff of his neck and mutter your foolish secrets into the space between his blinking black eyes. It was a small, pitiful comfort.
The Tower of the Hand was a cold place, despite the braziers that burned in every chamber. You had been given rooms near the top, close enough to the Handās own solar that you might, in theory, encounter your husband on the winding stair. In practice, you saw his servants more often: the silent men in their grey wool cloaks, the Ravenās Teeth who guarded his door with bows strung across their backs. They nodded to you when you passed, respectful but distant, as though you were a ghost they had been instructed not to disturb.
You were a ghost, in a way. A shade drifting through the Red Keep in your pale gowns, your Houseās green and gold folded away in chests because wearing them felt like a provocation. Oakheart. The name sat heavy on your tongue these days, a fruit gone bitter on the branch. Your father had played his double game during the rebellion and lost, and you were the price of his redemption, a trueborn daughter gifted to a legitimized bastard, a man who had not wanted you, who had asked for another womanās hand a thousand times and been refused, and who had accepted you as a lord might accept a parcel of land he had no intention of farming.
You tried not to think of Shiera Seastar. It was impossible.
Her name was everywhere in the Red Keep, whispered by serving girls and sung by minstrels, painted in miniature on ivory pendants that his paramours wore at their throats. The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, they called her, and when they said it in your hearing, their eyes would dart to you with something between pity and amusement. See the Oakheart girl, their glances said. See how plain she looks beside the memory of Seastarās shimmer.
Back in the Reach, you had been called beautiful. You had believed it. Here, you were a candle held up against the sun. Back in the Reach, you were praised as a proper lady, and Shiera was called a shameless whore with nothing more than derision. But King's Landing valued influence, the ability to captivate and draw interest, which Shiera had in abundance.
You did not hate her. Hatred required energy you did not possess. But you feared her. You feared the day she would return to court, trailing silk and scandal behind her, and you would have to stand beside your husband and watch his single eye follow her across the hall. You feared the quiet, courteous dismissal that would surely follow. You had married a man who loved another woman. It was a common enough fate for highborn ladies, you knew, but knowing it did not make your marriage bed any warmer.
You spent your days wandering. The gardens, with their rose trellises and marble fountains, their sharp-scented herbs and imported lemon trees shivering in the sea wind. The library, where you read histories of the Seven Kingdoms until the words blurred before your eyes. The sept, where you knelt before the Maiden and asked for guidance that never came. And the stairway that spiraled up to the Handās solar, where you would sometimes sit on the cold stone steps with a book open on your lap, close enough to hear the murmur of voices beyond the iron-banded door, the scratch of a quill, the rustle of parchment. You never knocked. You were too afraid of being turned away.
It was on one of those steps, three moons into your marriage, that Brynden Rivers finally spoke to you about the raven.
You had Pebble on your knee, feeding him strips of roasted capon you had wrapped in a napkin and smuggled from the kitchens. The bird was growing stout, you could see it in the way his breast swelled over his claws, the way he waddled rather than hopped when he moved along the windowsill. You had noticed but you had not cared. You had to keep feeding him so he wouldn't leave you as well.
āWhat am I doing, Pebble?ā you whispered. āWhat am I doing here? My husband does not want me. The court does not see me. My familyās name is a jest and a warning both. I am a wife in name only, and I do not know how to become anything more. I was not taught how to be a wife to a man like him. I was taught how to be a wife to a lord who wanted a gentle lady to manage his household and bear his children. But Lord Bloodraven has a household that manages itself and no desire for children of his body, or so they say.ā You paused, your fingers stilling on the ravenās feathers. āPerhaps he would want children if they were Shieraās.ā
The raven croaked.
You stroked the ravenās feathers again, and your voice cracked. āI am even afraid that you will leave me, Pebble. You are the only friend I have in this place. Please do not fly away.ā
The door to the solar opened. You scrambled to your feet, the napkin falling from your lap, capon scattering across the stone. Pebble let out an indignant caw and flapped onto the windowsill, his wings laboring under his weight.
Lord Bloodraven stood in the doorway.
His hair, silver-white, fell straight to his shoulders, and his skin was so pale it seemed to drink the light. The red birthmark that crept up his neck and cheek, the source of his name, was vivid as a splash of wine against snow. He wore black, and the eye that fixed on you now was the deep, unsettling red of dying embers.
The other eye was gone. A pale, smooth scar ran from brow to cheekbone, and beneath it, a dark hollow that seemed to see more than any living eye could.
āMy lady wife,ā he said. His voice was quiet, precise, each word placed as carefully as a stone on a cyvasse board.
āMy lord.ā You dropped into a curtsy, your heart hammering. You had not expected him to emerge. He rarely did before the hour of the bat. āForgive me, I did not mean to disturb you. I was only...ā
His gaze had moved past you to the raven. Pebble was worrying at a shred of capon, his beak tearing at the meat with smug contentment. Bloodravenās expression did not change, but the air shifted, a faint tightening like the pause before a thunderclap.
āThat is my raven,ā he said.
āYes, my lord. I hope you do not mind. He comes to my window, and I...ā
āHe is fat.ā
The words fell like a stone into still water. You felt heat rise to your cheeks, the familiar burn of mortification. Your fingers twisted in the folds of your skirt, a pale lavender silk, pretty and demure. Here in the grey light of the tower it seemed washed-out and childish. You were a woman grown, a wife, and yet you felt like a girl being scolded by her septa for some minor transgression.
āI have been feeding him,ā you admitted in a small voice.
Bloodraven stepped forward. His movements were unsettlingly smooth. He lifted one long-fingered hand, and the raven, your Pebble, your greedy, ungrateful Pebble, fluttered up to perch on his wrist without the slightest hesitation, as though you had never existed.
āA raven of the Tower must be lean,ā Bloodraven said, stroking the birdās breast with one pale thumb. Pebble closed his eyes in bliss. āHe must fly swiftly over distances that would exhaust a lesser bird. He must carry messages through weather that would kill a hawk. He must be quick, clever, and sharp as a blade.ā
He turned that burning red eye back to you.
āYou have made him useless.ā
The words struck harder than they should have. You had not thought yourself capable of tears, you had not wept once since leaving the Reach, not at your wedding, not on your wedding night when your husband failed to come to your bed, not in all the lonely days that followed, but now your throat tightened and your vision swam. You blinked rapidly, fighting it down, but a single tear escaped and traced a burning path down your cheek.
You ducked your head, hoping he had not seen. The silence stretched, unbearable.
āI am sorry,ā you whispered. āI did not know. He came to me. He seemed friendly. I only offered him kindness.ā
āFriendly.ā He said the word as if it were a foreign concept. His blood-eye seemed to gleam in the half-light, and for a moment you could have sworn you saw the ravenās reflection in it, a dark bird within a darker pool. āRavens are tools, my lady. They are not pets. This one has been made useless by your kindness.ā
The wordĀ uselessĀ stung again. You dropped your gaze to the floor again, studying the worn flagstones beneath your slippers. āI apologise. I will not feed it anymore.ā
You did not wait for a response. You gathered your skirts and fled down the winding stair, your slippers slapping against the stone, your breath coming in short, hitching gasps. You did not stop until you reached your chambers, where you threw yourself onto the great empty bed and buried your face in the pillows and wept until there was nothing left inside you.
You did not go to the Tower the next day, nor the day after that. You kept to your rooms, claiming a headache when your maids inquired. You took your meals alone, the food tasteless on your tongue. You did not open your shutters, though you heard the scratch of claws on the sill more than once. You could not bear to see Pebble, to see the raven who had abandoned you as easily as breathing, who had flown to his masterās hand without a backward glance.
It was on the third day that a servant knocked at your door and informed you that the Hand of the King required your presence in his solar.
You dressed carefully, your hands trembling on the laces of your gown. You chose a dress of pale green, the color of new leaves, the closest you dared come to the Oakheart colors. You pinned your hair up in a simple coil and pinched your cheeks to bring some color back into them. You looked, you thought, like a woman preparing for an execution.
The solar was warm, lit by a fire in the great hearth and by candles in iron holders. Books lined the walls, more books than you had ever seen in a private chamber, their spines cracked and worn from use. Maps and charts covered a long table, and in the corner, a perch held three ravens, their heads tucked under their wings.
Bloodraven sat behind a desk of dark oak, a quill in his hand. He did not rise when you entered, but he set the quill down and gestured to a chair across from him.
āSit,ā he said.
You sat. Your hands folded in your lap, the picture of a well-bred lady. You had been trained for this, after all: to be still, to be silent, to be pleasing. It was the only weapon you had ever been given.
Bloodraven regarded you for a long moment. In the firelight, the port-wine stain on his cheek seemed to shift and writhe like something alive. His eye, that terrible red eye, seemed to see straight through you, past the careful composure and the pretty dress and into the hollow ache at your center.
āYou have not been to the Tower,ā he said.
āI did not wish to disturb you, my lord.ā
āYou have not been to the gardens, either. Nor the library. Nor the sept.ā He leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers. āMy birds tell me things.ā
Your heart lurched. The ravens. Of course. You had forgotten, in your misery, the whispers that surrounded your husband like a cloak of shadows. He could see through the eyes of his birds, they said. He could watch the whole of the Seven Kingdoms from his Tower, and nothing escaped his notice. You had thought it a fanciful tale, a legend spun to explain the unerring accuracy of his spy network. But the way he looked at you now made you wonder.
āI have been tired,ā you said, which was not entirely a lie.
āYou have been crying.ā
The words were blunt, without softening. You flinched, your gaze dropping to your hands.
āMy lady,ā Bloodraven said, his tone had shifted. It was not kind, you did not think kindness was in his nature, but it was less cold than before. āLook at me.ā
You raised your eyes.
āThe raven,ā he said. āYou named him.ā
It was not a question. You nodded anyway.
āPebble,ā you said, your voice barely above a whisper. āBecause of his breast feathers. They reminded me of home.ā
Bloodraven was silent for a moment. Then he rose from his chair and crossed to the window, his back to you, his silver hair catching the firelight.
āI have had many ravens,ā he said. āHundreds, over the years. I breed them in the Tower, train them, dispatch them across the realm. They are tools, nothing more. I have never given one a name.ā
He turned, his single eye finding you again.
āNo one has ever named one of my ravens before.ā
You did not know what to say. You sat frozen, your heart beating a nervous rhythm against your ribs.
āHe is not useless,ā Bloodraven said, and there was something akin to curiosity in his voice. āI examined him this morning. He is plump, yes, but he is healthy. His plumage is glossy. His eyes are bright. He is more docile than the others, more accustomed to human touch. There are uses for such a raven.ā
He took a step toward you, then another, until he stood before your chair, looking down at you with an expression you could not read.
āI have been a poor husband,ā he said.
Your mouth opened but no sound came out.
āI did not ask for this marriage,ā he continued, āand neither did you. We were both bound by the kingās will, and I have not made the binding easier for you. I have beenā¦absent. Preoccupied.ā He paused. āUnkind.ā
āMy lord, you have been...ā
āDo not,ā he said, lifting a hand to stop your protest, ābe polite. I am surrounded by polite people. I find it exhausting.ā
You closed your mouth.
Bloodraven lowered his hand. āI loved Shiera,ā he said, and the name was a blade between your ribs. āFor many years. I asked for her hand more times than I can count. She always refused. Perhaps she was wise.ā His jaw tightened, a flicker of old pain crossing his pale features. āBut she is not my wife. You are.ā
He reached down, and before you could react, his fingers closed around your hand. His skin was cool, dry. But his grip was steady.
āI cannot promise you love,ā he said. āI am not a man given to tender feeling. The whispers about me are not all false. I am a sorcerer, of a kind. I do see through the eyes of my ravens. I have done things that would make you flinch to hear, and I will likely do more before I am through. I have little patience for the courtly games that fill the days of most highborn ladies.ā
He paused, and his thumb brushed once across your knuckles.
āBut I am not cruel without cause. I do not take pleasure in suffering. And I have watched you these three moons, my lady. Through the eyes of my ravens, yes. I have seen you in the gardens, sitting alone on the stone benches. I have seen you in the library, reading the same page over and over because your mind is elsewhere. I have seen you feeding my raven, speaking to him as though he were a friend, because you had no one else to speak to.ā
Your face was burning. You wanted to look away, to hide, but his eye held you as surely as a pin holds a butterfly.
āI did not intend to spy,ā he said, and there was a note in his voice that might have been regret. āAt first, I was merely curious. Then I was...concerned. You are withering, my lady. Like a flower deprived of light. And I am the one who has kept you in the dark.ā
He released your hand and stepped back.
āI would like to propose a truce,ā he said. āA beginning. I will not pretend to be something I am not. I will always be busy with the affairs of the realm, always be strange, secretive and perhaps a little frightening for your liking. But I will make an effort to be present. To speak with you. Toā¦know you.ā He tilted his head, a gesture eerily reminiscent of his ravens. āIf you will permit it.ā
You stared at him, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. This was not what you had expected. This was not the cold dismissal, the polite abandonment, the quiet return to separate lives. This was an opening, a crack in the armor.
āI would like that,ā your voice came out steadier than you had hoped. āMy lord.ā
āBrynden,ā he corrected. āIf we are to attempt this, you may as well use my name.ā
You swallowed. āBrynden.ā
The corners of his mouth twitched, the barest suggestion of a smile. āSee? Not so difficult.ā
He returned to his desk and picked up his quill, but he did not dismiss you. Instead, he gestured toward a smaller table near the fire, where a tray of fruit and cheese and a pitcher of wine had been laid out.
āStay,ā he said. āEat. You have been hiding in your rooms for three days, and I suspect you have not been eating properly.ā
You rose from your chair, your legs unsteady beneath you. As you crossed to the table, you saw a perch near the window, separate from the others. On it sat Pebble, his head cocked, his black eyes fixed on you with reproach.
āHe has been sulking,ā Brynden said, not looking up from his parchment. āHe does not understand why you stopped coming.ā
You reached out a trembling hand and stroked the ravenās breast. Pebble made a soft sound and pressed his head against your fingers.
āI am sorry,ā you murmured to him. āI am here now.ā
Behind you, you heard the scratch of the quill pause for just a moment, and then resume.
From that day, you took your evening meals in the solar with Brynden, sitting at the small table by the fire while he worked at his desk. He did not speak much, but he answered when you asked questions, and sometimes he would pause in his writing to ask one of his own. Small things at first: how you found the Red Keep, whether the sea air agreed with you, what books you had been reading. You answered honestly, and he listened with a focus that was almost unnerving, his eye fixed on you as though every word you spoke were a piece of intelligence to be filed away.
Then he started inquiring about your life, so you told him. Your father had pledged fealty to both King Daeron and Daemon Blackfyre, sending one gold and the other men. King Daeron had kept his crown, and House Oakheart's reputation had suffered. Instead of emerging unscathed either way, as Lord Oakheart had intended, the King inflicted punishments on him. His eldest son, your older brother, was assigned to become a Kingsguard. He had to refute his title, land and future of marriage and instead serve as a guard to the same King he had fought against. You, the eldest daughter, were given to Hand of the King as a reward he didn't ask for. A legitimate lady to solidify his standing. Your mother had acted as if everything was fine, which you suspected it was for your sake, although you didn't want such strained treatment. And you scarcely saw your brother since arriving in King's Landing, even though you both lived at the Red Keep.
You learned things about him in return. He had been born with the birthmark, with hair already white, and his mother had wept when she first saw him. He had been a poor swordsman as a boy, too thin and frail, so he had turned to the bow out of desperation. He loved his Blackwood sisters. He did not sleep well. He never had.
One evening, a fortnight after your conversation in the solar, you gathered your courage and asked the question that had been burning in your throat since the day you arrived.
āDo you wish I were her?ā
The quill stopped. The fire crackled in the silence. Pebble, perched on the back of your chair, shifted his weight from one claw to the other.
Brynden set the quill down slowly. āThat is a foolish question.ā
āI am not afraid of the answer.ā You were, of course. You were terrified. But you had spent months living in the shadow of a ghost and you could not do it any longer.
He rose from his desk and came to stand before the fire. The flames cast his face in red and gold, the birthmark nearly invisible against the glow. His back was to you.
āI wished for many things,ā he said at last. āI wished for her to love me. I wished for her to choose me, just once, over all the others. I wished for a great many foolish things that a wiser man would have let go long ago.ā He turned to look at you. āBut I do not wish you were her. You are not her. You are nothing like her, and that isā¦not a bad thing.ā
āI have heard she is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms,ā you said, and you hated the smallness of your voice, the jealousy that crept in despite your best efforts.
āShe is,ā Brynden said, and your heart sank. āBut beauty is a strange thing. Shieraās beauty is like wildfire: brilliant, consuming, and utterly indifferent to what it destroys. I spent years burning in it, and I have the scars to show. You are different. Your beauty is likeā¦ā He paused, searching for the word. āLike the first green shoots after winter. Blooming. Steady. Something that grows rather than blazes.ā
You did not know what to say. Your face felt hot.
āI am not good at this,ā Brynden said with a flicker of frustration in his voice. āI am no poet. I do not know how to court my own wife.ā
A laugh bubbled up in your throat, unexpected and slightly hysterical. You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stifle it, but it escaped anyway, a small, surprised sound that made Bryndenās eye widen a fraction.
āI do not know how to be courted,ā you admitted. āI was taught to be a lady, not a wife. No one ever told me what to do with a husband who did not want a wife.ā
āI never said I did not want a wife.ā He took a step toward you. āI said I did not ask for this marriage. There is a difference.ā
āIs there?ā
Another step. He was close enough that you could smell the faint scent of ink and old parchment that clung to his clothes. Close enough that you could see the tiredness around his eye.
āI am learning,ā he murmured, āthat I may have wanted something I did not know I did.ā
His hand rose, and this time, he did not stop at your fingers. His cool palm cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth with a gentleness that contradicted everything you had heard about him: the cold sorcerer, the ruthless spymaster, the man who had killed Daemon Blackfyre and his sons with arrows guided by dark magic. In this moment, he was only a man, touching his wifeās face for the first time.
āYou are trembling,ā he said.
āI am afraid.ā
āOf me?ā
āOf this ending.ā Your voice cracked. āOf Shiera returning. Of waking up tomorrow and finding that you have remembered you do not want me after all.ā
His eye searched your face. You had the unsettling sensation that he was seeing more than your skin and bone, more than the fear in your eyes. Seeing into you, the way he saw through the eyes of his ravens.
āShiera is in Lys,ā he said. āShe left months ago, before our wedding. She may return someday, she always does, but she is not here now, and she has no claim on me. Whatever I felt for her, it is done. I have been a fool for her long enough.ā
He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours.
āAs for waking up tomorrow,ā he murmured, āthat is simple. You shall wake up in my bed.ā
Your breath caught.
āThe bedding ceremony was waived,ā he continued, ābecause I requested it. I did not think it fair to subject you to the courtās crude jests when we were strangers. But we are not strangers now. Not entirely. And I find that I am tired of sleeping alone in my cold solar while my wife sleeps alone in her cold tower.ā
His thumb traced the line of your jaw.
āIf you are willing,ā he added, and the hesitation in his voice, the faint uncertainty, undid you completely.
āI am willing,ā you whispered.
He kissed you. His lips were cool, like his hands. The kiss was cautious, almost experimental, as though he were tasting a new wine and trying to decide if he liked the vintage. But it deepened, slowly, his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck. You felt a knot of tension loosen in your chest.
When he pulled back, his breathing was slightly unsteady.
āYou will not be alone.ā He took your hand again, this time, he laced his fingers through yours. āI have a thousand eyes. Some of them will always be watching over you.ā
It was perhaps the strangest declaration of affection any woman had ever received. But you found yourself smiling anyway, a real smile, the first you had worn since leaving the Reach.
That night, you did not return to your lonely tower rooms. You slept in the Handās bed, in the Handās arms, and though he did not sleep, he had told you he rarely did, he held you in the darkness, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder.
In the morning, you woke to find him already dressed, standing at the window with the pale dawn light on his hair. He turned when he heard you stir.
āGood morning, my lady.ā
āGood morning, Brynden.ā
He crossed to the bed and sat on its edge. From behind his back, he produced a single winter rose, its petals white as fresh snow, its center a deep, vivid blue.
āThere are no winter roses in Kingās Landing,ā you said, taking it with trembling fingers. āHow did you...?ā
āI have my ways,ā he said, the faint smile on his lips was no longer tentative. It was the smile of a man who had unraveled a mystery and found the answer rather pleasing.
You lifted the rose to your nose and breathed in its sweet, cold scent. Through the window, you saw a raven circling against the pale sky, not Pebble but another, its black wings cutting the air with swift precision. It was returning home, carrying something in its beak.
āWhat is he bringing?ā you asked.
āA letter,ā Brynden said. āFrom the Arbor. Lord Redwyne is plotting something tedious involving wine tariffs.ā He paused. āWould you like to watch me unravel it?ā
āYes,ā you said. āI would like that very much.ā
He offered you his hand, you took it.
Pebble, watching from his perch, let out a satisfied croak and followed you and your husband up the winding stair to the solar.
Part 2: coming soon...
a/n: Please don't let this flop guys, I have an entire series planned out.
a/n: Voluntary donations are accepted on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the series taglist. Rn I'm tagging those who went along with my freaky birdman propaganda.
Hiii š I was wondering if you could please do a through the darkness follow up where reader is in the gardens playing with her children finally and gets lost and very upset.
A/N: oh my poor little heart, but yeah, Iāll absolutely write some hurt/comfort!! Writing about these two is really helping my escape at the moment so Iām happy to take any request for them lol!
Through the Darkness, I am found
Maekar Targaryen X Blind!Wife!Reader
Tags: Hurt/comfort, reader gets lost due to blindness, baby egg exists, children are left unsupervised for a short period of time, insecurity, self doubt, Maekar being somewhat deceitful in the name of overprotectiveness (but wifeys to smart to not catch on)
WC: 2.2k
Summary: Just when life seems to be setting back to normal you and Maekar get a scary reminder that things really are different now!
Series in chronological order: Prequel, One, Drabble, Drabble
āMother, Egg drooled on my book!ā Aemon whined. He was a good little boy, and really only got upset when his reading was disturbed.
āEgg is six moons old my loveā¦all he can really do is drool and roll about.ā You explained kindly, ābut I will bring him over here.ā You assure him. Putting down the flowers you were currently collecting in your hands, Daella was pulling them right out of the soil and you gladly let her, you had no idea what a mess it made the garden look, you just knew she mused about how pretty they were and clapped every time she added a new one to the bouquet you held.
āCome here,ā you leaned across the blanket to pull your youngest from where he had crawled to the far corner. āYouāre suppose to stay right here my little wiggly dragon.ā You felt his little chunky legs and then scooped him back to your lap. āRight here.ā You kissed his bald head and positioned him against your skirts with his back to your stomach.
Aegon was born two moons after his sisters first nameday and he was already a mischievous little boy. Maekar had made many a comments about him being the last. You werenāt so convinced. Your husband said you both had been spoiled with Aemon and Daella and heād forgotten how difficult babes could be. He wasnāt difficult, he was just spirited, and you thought that it suited him considering everybody had taken to calling him by quite the humorous nickname. Egg. Daeron and Aerion had started to use it as a playful taunt, he was the only one of the child born without a spec of hair on his head. You, and all of your fresh motherly emotions had been throughly upset by this taunting. Cuddling the boy close to you in bed and admitting to Maekar through your exhausted tears that your newborn babe was being bullied by his own brothers before he could even sit up on his own. Maekar had taken your hand, eased it over Aegonās big round head and kissed your temple as he admitted to you, that your son did indeed look remarkably like an egg! Everybody, including you, took to using the nickname after that.
You turned your chin up slightly to feel the sun on your face, it felt warmer then it had a bit ago, either time was moving quicker than you had realized or the sun had been perpetually behind a cloud all morning. You wanted Daeron and Aerion to join you once their lessons in the training yard were done. If it was midday already then they should long be done and your oldest boys should be with you picking at tarts and little cheese sandwiches for the rest of the afternoon in the garden. Maekar had even said he would join after handling some additional tasks in the training yard.
āaemon, is the sun in the middle of the sky?ā You asked working your way up to your feet, shifting egg to your hip and smiling when you felt the weight of Daellas hands pulling at your skirt.
āUm, yes just about.ā He informed you and then his nose was back in his book.
ātheyāll not get out of this-ā you grumble to yourself, the older two were at those particular ages when they felt too mature to play in the gardens with their mother and siblings. But you knew any boys who found the name egg as hilarious as they did were very much still little boys themselves. You wanted this time with them. āStay here on the blanket with your brother.ā You untangle your daughterās hands from your skirt and position her closer to where you knew Aemon was. āWatch her.ā You instructed before taking a few steps on the path.
There had been stone paths that were put in around most of the gardens and yards of Summerhall. Physical directions for you to follow and adhere to. It was ways to leave the keep, set out in the direction of the stables and just ensure your footing stayed on the stones. It worked well, normally, so long as the stones did not get shifted about.
Today, of course, the stones had shifted.
A full hour had not even come to pass before the staff of the hall realized something was amiss when Aemon came inside half dragging Daella in his hold.
āLady Targaryen is not in the garden.ā A maid informed maekar rushing through the hall, she did not even stop to properly greet him or field his questions because she was headed to the garden to look herself
āSer Farland accompanied her this morning to the yards. He is still stood within the gardens gates.ā That was the rule. It was Maekarās rule, one that he did not think you knew about. A guard remained somewhere near, lingering whenever you were outside of the keeps walls.
āMy prince,ā the woman stopped, her face softened to an apologetic look. āYour lady wife knows of Ser Farland.ā Maekarās jaw tensed and he was standing suddenly only half of his armor off from training.
āexcuse me?ā He blinked and his eyebrow cocks. āMy wife knows of this and you all know she is aware and I have not been informed?!ā He barked.
The maid opened her mouth, closed it and when Maekar stormed closer she swallowed down her fear. āForgive me, the lady forbid us from informing you.ā
āFucks sake!ā He snapped and moved from the room with haste heading towards the gardens.
āyou-ā he points to the knight who stood just inside the hall with Aemon and Daella. A nurse maid now held the upset little girl and was soothingly running her fingers through the young intelligent boys hair. āYou left your post?!ā He slammed the white cloak against the stone wall, despite the man being inches taller than him. Nobody in this keep was as strong as the anvil and that gap grew larger when he was enragedā¦ even larger when he was fearful.
āthe lady bid me to leave her be-ā he explained groaning when his head was knocked back against the wall. āMy prince please-ā
āMother doesnāt like to be watched.ā Aemon piped up, hesitantly looking up at his father. āShe always tells the guards and maids to leave us be.ā He explained and the knight nodded quickly, greatful that this little prince was vouching for him.
āY-your lady wife can be quite insistent māprince.ā The man sputtered out.
He knew that was true, he knew it in his bones.
Maekar gripped the manās jaw making him look at him. āYou wear a white cloak yet are bending to the wills of a woman?!ā It wasnāt that he thought your words should not be followed it was just that heād arranged this secrecy so you would remain safe and not feel like a child being looked after. āBloody fucking useless.ā He released the man tearing out the doors and down the steps to the garden. āI want men out along the perimeter!ā He demanded not even looking to over his shoulder.
You had no idea how long youād been wandering around, for at least half the time you had convinced yourself you werenāt lost, that the path from the garden to the training yard was just longer than you had recalled. But when you ran into a thick tree and could feel the grass starting to grow taller you knew that you were lost and far beyond the gardens and stables and the training yard.
āshhh, shh.ā You comfort Egg rubbing the back of his head and keeping him close to your chest, āIāll find our way back.ā You promise him.
After a while longer of walking, and feeling your feet sink into the ground a bit you decided that walking seemed ill advised. You could just be making yourself more lost. So you backtracked the way you came and stayed under the trees shade. Humming to egg to manage you anxiety, until you heard a noise, panting, and heavy thuds of feet.
āhello?!ā You called, startled when a hand grabed your head. āLet go of me!ā You bark twisting away shielding egg.
āyou will make my heart give out.ā Maekarās arm wrapped around you from behind and he pulled you back into his frame. You instantly calmed. Turned to him at once and let go of egg with one hand to feel the side of your husbands face.
āThank the godsā¦ā you exhale and then the tears begin at once.
āIāve half a mind to paddle your arse. All this insolence fussing at the maids and guards? You could truly not have just forgotten they were there!?ā He kissed your temple. āLet me keep you safe. Gods sake, donāt fight me on it anymore.!ā He sighed, the worry clear in his voice. He was scared, scared enough to put those safety nets in place and he became terrified know that even those had not been enough!
You were a mess of tears and shaking hands and struggled breaths. This had been the most scared you ever were. Lost, wandering, you infant on your hip and two of your children abandoned in the gardens. āDaella? She was will aemon-are they okay?ā You hiccuped āgods forgive meā¦forgive me Maekar.ā Anything could have happened to you or to them. You cared not for his panicked scolding you just needed reassurance that all was alright.
āBreathe. They are both alright, unharmed.ā He instructed but you just continued to ramble on. Mind racing.
āIām not fit t-to be a mother. I cannot do this. I canāt even look after myself. Gods Iām a bloody fool!ā You sob. Things had been going so well, youād managed expertly but something like this was bound to eventually happen. You just had not anticipated it being this terrifying! āI-I, fucks sake,ā you sniffled hard. āI was wrong-I canāt do this. Your right,ā you whisper, jaw shaking āno more babes, I can hardly mother the ones we have.ā He was appalled. He had never seen you so worked up, so self doubting. His hand cooled the heat of your swollen under-eye and he shook his head.
āno.ā You were a good mother, a loving mother, and you had done well with Daella and Egg despite your limitation. He hated that his hesitation to grow the family large was now being used in your campaign against yourself!
āIām useless-ā
ānone of that,ā it came out harsh. Which wasnāt all that odd, he wasnāt a man who cooed often unless it was at the newest babe snuggled into your breast. The only time heād truly been that gentle with you was the day you wed and heād so gently taken your maidenhead, and while youād been sick with the blinding fever. He hadnāt intended for his words right now to come out so brash.
āShh,ā his thumb wiped under your eye, getting rid of the tears. āThere is no need to spiral my love.ā He assured you, gentler this time. āIāll not hear any of that nonsense, incompetence and inability are two words that have no place in anybodyās mouth when it comes to you.ā He took egg from your hip, cradling the bald boy in the crook of his elbow and Maekar smushed you into his shoulder with his other hand. āLeast of all should it come from your own lips.ā He warned pressing a firm kiss to the back of your head.
ābut what if Iād wandered further? Egg is just a b-babe he cannot be out here overnight.ā You were worked up, all your anxiety finally coming to the surface now that you felt safe. Now that you did not feel like you needed to focus on practical things.
āIād of found you.ā He pushed your hair down your back. āOr do you doubt me now too?ā His brow raised looking down at you and you shook your head against his chest.
āN-no I-ā you wiped your jaw because some tears dripped over the edge of it. āIām just scared.ā You whisper, your other hand still gripping to his vest. Not daring to let go.
āThereās no reason for that anymore, you are well, our son is grand, and youāve raised a smart enough boy that he took Daella in and alerted a guard when youād been gone a while.ā Maekar pulled you back in and his hand dropped from your head and scooped up under your bum lifting you up and you instantly wrapped your legs around his side.
āMaekar-ā you objected, though your face was already nuzzling into his neck face hidden by his skin and beard and your arms looped around his neck. āI should walk, what will people think?ā
ātheyāll think whatever i desire them to.ā He said plainly as he began to walk about towards the hall, you in one arm and Aegon in the other.
ādonāt ever scare me like that again-ā He whispered to you and pressed another tender kiss to your temple before you were back in the gardens. āNow I think I was promised a picnic with my family.ā He hummed gently settling you down and you felt egg be deposited into your lap.
āyes, I do think something like that was promised.ā You sniffled and kissed eggs head.
āstay here, breathe, Iāll go fetch the rest of our brood.ā
Summary:In the shadowed halls of Kingās Landing, love does not bloom freelyāit lingers, forbidden and unspoken. Torn between duty to the realm and desire that cannot be named, two cousins find themselves bound in a devotion that threatens to undo them both.
Authorās note:This is my FIRST attempt at writing smut, so any inaccuracies or awkward phrasing are due to inexperience and writing in a non-native language. I appreciate your understanding.
WARNINGS:+18, smut, incestuous relationship (cousins), consensual but socially forbidden relationship, Targcest, political marriage themes, emotional distress, angst, jealousy, possessive love, explicit sexual language, oral sex, unprotected sex, rubbing, dirty talk.
When news of your birth spread across the realm, it was met with both shock and reluctant joy. Many had believed that Aerys had not even consummated his wedding night, so the arrival of a child had taken everyone by surprise.
Of course, some continued to whisper. Rumors spread that you were a bastardāthat Aelinor had taken a vow-breaking knight or lord into her bed. The gossip grew and lingeredā¦ until your hair began to grow.
The gods may have given you your motherās eyes, but your hairā¦ your hair was unmistakably Targaryen silver. And yet, a few soft strands of brownāyour motherāsāstill wove through it, quietly refusing to disappear.
Despite everything, the lords of the realm had always loved such talk. Clearly. It never truly stoppedābut you learned to stop listening.
One of the biggest reasons for that was Valarr.
Your cousin, a year older than you, had been by your side for as long as you could remember, especially when it came to this. He had always been a quiet anchor for you. Since your father Aerys resided in Kingās Landing, you spent most of your days with your uncles Baelor and Rhaegelās familyāunfortunately, your uncle Maekar was far away. Being in Summerhall felt both comforting and isolating.
The good part was being away from Aerion. His unsettling attention, his whispers of āwe must unite our dragon blood, cousināābeing free of those was a relief.
The bad part was missing your other cousins. You had different dynamics with each of them, but none were monsters like Aerionāand for you, that was enough.
Maekar was a different matter. There was no hatred, but like your father, he could sometimes ignore your presence. Then againā¦ who did Maekar truly get along with? With whom was he ever at ease?
Still, you knew he cared for you in his own way. As much as he cared for your father.
In the suffocating air of Kingās Landing, the greatest source of comfort you found was Valarr. Over the years, the two of you built something quietā¦ something hidden.
At first, you were just childrenājust cousins.
But as the years passed, especially in adolescenceā¦ feelings began to take shape, undeniable and real.
Valarr, like you, had reached the age of marriageāthough by Westerosi standards, both of you were considered slightly late.
Suitors for Valarr were considered more quickly, yet more carefully. He was the heir to the heir, after all.
You, on the other handā¦ you could wait. A few more years would not matter. Eventually, the right match would present itself for political reasons.
In recent years, your father Aerys had begun to neglect you just as he had your mother, paying you little attention within the keep.
Though, at times, you still drew noticeāespecially when it came to your closeness with Valarr. After all, this city, reeking as it was, had a tongue that never tired of speaking.
You both knew what this was.
It was obvious.
And what you chose to hide, you kept alive behind closed doorsāthrough fleeting touches, quiet kisses.
Valarr was an honorable young man.
But in the end, he was still a man.
And you were the only thing that disrupted the rhythm of his heart. How could he stay away from youāfrom your scent?
He was not cruelāhe was gentle, a trait he clearly took from Baelor. But Valarr was still a prince of the realm. The heir to the heirā¦ a Targaryen. Inevitably, there was pride in him. A certain arrogance. A touch of recklessnessānot born of malice.
He carried a quiet indulgence within himself. Even if he appeared modest in the way his position demanded, it was impossible for someone like him not to be a little spoiled. Not in the way he crushed othersābut in the way he held his own worth higher.
With the fire of youth running through his veins, how could he ever truly stop touching you?
Of course, he would never go so far as to dishonor you.
Never.
But he never denied himself entirely, either.
On the other hand, you were the more active one between the two of you. You were far from plain. Yours was a real kind of beauty. Striking, in its own wayāand for Valarr, that was more than enough.
What drew him in was your boldnessāyour willingness. Or perhaps it was simply the recklessness of youth. Where the marriages within your family were cold and distantā¦ yours burned with something far more alive.
Not in a way the septas would merely frown uponābut in a way far more sinful.
For him.
And that hunger only grew stronger, fed by touches that never quite crossed the lineābut lingered close enough to make it unbearable.
You were in the solar chambers. Together with your younger cousin, Aelora, you worked on needlecraft while exchanging small, quiet conversations. Today, her twin Aelorāwho rarely left her sideāwas absent. The boy was in lessons, being taught the history of the realm.
Though you had grown accustomed to Aeloraās quiet nature, at times it still unsettled you. Unlike her father Rhaegel, she showed no clear signs of madnessāyet there was still somethingā¦ peculiar about her. Just like her twin.
Her golden-silver hair shimmered under the midday sun, while you chose to remain seated in the shaded alcove. The summer heat was already warming your skin unbearably, and even with the windows open, the air that seeped inside remained heavy and warmādespite how high up you were.
āAre you interested in Valarr?ā
The question broke the peaceful silence so suddenly that you nearly pricked your thumb with the needle. You managed to stop yourself at the last second.
You lifted your head to look at the girl, ready to scold herābecause this was not something to be spoken of so freely.
But when you met Aeloraās soft, delicate features, you didnāt.
She was only a child.
You steadied the flicker of unease within you and spoke carefully, your tone firm yet not frightening.
āI do not know what you mean, cousinā¦ but you should not speak of such things so openly. The wrong people could twist such words to their advantage in dangerous ways.ā
Aelora slowly smiled, that gentle expression settling on her face. She set aside the small floral embroidery in her hands.
āI heard my Handmaid's speakingā¦ some of them said you and Valarr cannot keep from looking at one anotherā¦ like two lovers.ā She hesitated slightly. āStill, if Iāve upset you, I am sorryā¦ I was only curious.ā
A knot tightened low in your stomach.
Not because of being paired with Valarrānor being called lovers.
But because it had become so obvious that servants could speak of it so freely.
When had it become this loud?
When had it grown this careless?
Still, your anger was not for her. Your composure did not falter.
āPeople talk, Aelora. They enjoy inventing stories about usāabout our family. Soon, when you come of age, they will speak of you as well. So you must learn not to listenā¦ or rather, to listen without letting it guide you into recklessness.ā You paused, lowering your gaze back to your work.
āThey are only rumors.ā
You softened slightly as you added,
āAnd you need not apologize to me, sweet cousin.ā
The girl fell quiet for a momentābut eventually, she spoke again. This time, the same questionā¦ in a different form.
āAnd what about Aerionā¦? It is known that he is interested in youā¦ā
Though she asked it innocently, the moment you heard his name, the needle finally pierced your skin.
āAhāā
It was a small sting, but the discomfort that spread through you had little to do with it. You brought your finger to your lips, drawing in the small bead of blood.
Aelora looked at you with wide, apologetic indigo/violet eyes, clearly regretting her question.
You slowly pulled your finger away from your mouth.
āI have no interest in him.ā
You did not use his name.
Not cousin. Not Aerion.
Not even prince.
He was nothing to you.
āNot nowā¦ nor ever.ā
The words left you like a vowāone that felt as though it might reach the gods themselves.
Later in the day, before supper, you made your way to the library. You enjoyed reading beautiful storiesāsmall things to stir the quiet excitement of the young woman within you. You were a romantic, but a realistic one. You preferred love stories written with sorrowā¦ or the lost ones within your own history. The ones that had slipped away.
Every second spent in that silence was a clear, steady kind of peace. Of your family, only your father came here oftenābut you had memorized the hours he did not, which gave you more chances to be alone.
Of course, you had a prince who knew your habits just as well.
Your dearest Valarr.
Unable to see you throughout the day, he had come here in the hope of finding you alone, if only for a moment. Your seat faced away from the door, yet the rhythm of his stepsāand the way his scent quietly filled the roomātold you exactly who it was.
You lifted your head from the book resting in your lap and turned toward him, just to see him as he always wasāeffortlessly striking. That smile, the one he gave to no one but you, rested on his lips.
He dipped his head in greeting, hands clasped before him, every movement measured with princely decorum.
āMy princessā¦ā he greeted softly.
He always did this. Whether in public or alone, he remained formal. Even when he used your name, he never failed to place your title before or after it, preserving the distance.
Because his respect was realāand because he refused to give others reason to think otherwise.
To him, you were not simply a cousin. You had not grown as siblings, and you were not siblings.
You were his princess.
But behind closed doorsāonly at nightāyou were his. And he was yours. In those moments, Valarr would abandon titles altogether, speaking only your name as he gave you everything you desired.
You inclined your head in return, mirroring him.
āMy princeā¦ā
You closed the book slowly but did not rise. Though his presence stirred something deep within you, you hid it just as skillfully as he did.
How easy it would have been to kiss him nowā¦
āYou should not sit with your back to the door. I do not know how many times I must remind youābut in dangerous situations, you may need to protect yourself, princess.ā
His tone carried the same authority you might have heard from uncle Baelor, yet there was unmistakable mischief in his expression.
He stepped closerābut never crossed into your space. Each step tightened something in your chest, and you swallowed quietly. He noticed, and his smile deepened.
āDo not worry. Next time, I shall follow your command, Prince Valarr.ā You spoke his name with the slightest shift in tone. Though he did not favor the hierarchy in your words, he did not dwell on it.
āYou know I do not like giving orders to ladiesā¦ it is merely a suggestion. If the realm were to lose a princess such as yourself, it might collapse.ā
The realmāor him?
āWhy are you here?ā you asked, brushing past his small attempt at flirtationāthough you already knew.
Valarr let out a quiet breath and moved to sit in the nearby chair. His posture was as elegant as ever as he turned toward you, meeting your gaze with those mismatched eyes.
He was not here as he had been before.
This time, it was something heavier.
He remained silent for a few moments, simply looking at youāas if trying to take you in.
āA few names have been considered,ā he said at last, carefully steadying his voice. By names, he meant suitors. For him. The inevitable.
A sharp discomfort settled deep within you. You looked away, focusing instead on the cover of your book. Your fingers pressed lightly against its firm surface as your heart quickenedānot with love this time, but with a quiet, growing sorrow.
āAnd who are the fortunate ones?ā you asked, your tone lowāyour interest hollow, almost ironic.
Valarr knew what you felt. He felt it too. Their grandfather, King Daeron II, had always kept his distance from such unions, intent on binding each of his grandchildren to different houses.
āOne is from Tyroshā¦ the others from Houses Blackwood and Tyrell.ā
He did not give you their names. He knew they would linger in your mind, disturb you in ways neither of you could bear.
As your thumb traced the edge of the bookās cover, your gaze drifted to the faint mark on your fingerāthe small wound from earlier. Unease settled deeper into your chest. You were about to speakā
āāMay I come tonight?ā
The question came too quickly, too openly. You lifted your head at once, your brows knitting as you looked at him, almost scolding. Regret flashed across his face immediately. He swallowed and looked away.
The burdens of the realm weighed on him as heavily as they did on you. He only needed a moment of peace.
āIf it please you, should you have the time, I would be honored to join you for your evening readings, my princess. We mightā¦ discuss the affairs of the realm, if it suits you.ā
Of course, that was not what he meant.
You were angry with him. Angry at this cursed order that would never allow you to marry him. The unrest and sorrow within you turned, unfairly, toward himāeven though it was never his choice.
And yet, when he looked at you againāsoftly, carefullyāyou faltered. The prince held far too much power over you.
āI am free this evening for readings.ā you said, your tone composed and formal. āBut I do not feel steady enough to discuss matters of the realm.ā
Having received the answer he wanted, Valarr seemed, for a moment, to forget the names prepared for him. That beautiful smile returned to his face.
In moments like these, you were both so defenseless. So helplessāfor one another.
You wished that fragile, electric moment might lastābut the door suddenly opened, cutting through it. Like two children caught doing something forbidden, you both startled and turned toward the sound.
A servant.
She had likely come to clean.
The moment she saw you, she bowed quickly.
āMāmy apologies, my prince, my princessā¦ I thought the room was empty. I will leave at once.ā
You rose before she could go, the heavy book still held in both hands. You faced the middle-aged woman calmly.
āIt is no matter. We were just leaving,ā you said evenly.
āYou may continue your work.ā
Though irritation stirred within you at the interruptionāand a single glance at Valarr told you he felt the sameāyou did not direct it at her.
She was only doing her duty.
āPrince Valarr,ā you said, inclining your head in farewell.
He returned the gesture with the same measured respect.
You were uneasy because of the whispers spreading through the court. Valarrās upcoming marriage only made it worse, and for a brief moment, you felt small againālike a child caught in something far too large for her to understand. After Valarr, it would be your turn. They would look at you the same way. You would one day watch the man you loved belong to someone else, just as you would be expected to do the same to him. A life sealed inside a golden cage, always close enough to see, never close enough to hold.
In times like these, your mother had always been the only place you could fall apart.
She never asked for explanations. She never needed them. Aelinor would simply pull you close, fingers moving through your hair with a steady, absent kindness that somehow made everything inside you loosen at once. She was your motherāthere was nothing more complicated than that, and nothing more certain.
That night, before sleep, you had gone to her.
Your father, Aerys and your mother did not share a room, and so hers had always felt like something separate from the rest of the Red Keepāquieter, dimmer, untouched by the weight of the court. A place where sound softened before it could reach you.
She had just finished her evening prayers when you came in. Without a word, you lowered yourself at her feet and rested your head in her lap.
Aelinor did not react in surprise. She only shifted slightly, making room for you, and resumed her gentle strokes through your hair, humming under her breathāold lullabies that werenāt meant to impress anyone, only to soothe. Outside the window, the dayās heat was finally giving way to a thin, cool breeze that brushed against your skin like relief.
And then it hit you all at once.
It always did, with her.
Something inside you gave wayāquiet, inevitable. A tear slipped free before you could stop it, then another. You didnāt sob, you didnāt break in any loud way; you justā¦ fell apart in silence, staining her dress as if even your grief refused to make noise.
Only when it became impossible to hide did you finally look up.
She looked exhausted too. Not distant, not absentājust worn in the way women become when they carry too much for too long and still choose gentleness anyway.
In a strange way, you were both grieving love. Just not in the same shape.
Yours still had a name you could hold onto.
Hers had long since turned into something quieter, heavier.
At least you had Valarr.
And yetā
What did she have left of hers?
An arranged marriage she had tried, in her own way, to survive. A husband who had given her little warmth, and even less attention. And still, somehow, life had allowed her one fragile mercy: you.
The only thing she could truly call hers.
Her hand moved to your cheek, wiping away your tears with a tenderness that felt almost practicedālike she had done it so many times she no longer needed to think.
āNo tear in those beautiful eyes is worth this world,ā she said softly.
Her thumb lingered just a moment too long, as if she could press the pain out of you by force of will alone.
āOne day, what hurts you now will close over. It will become something you can touch without bleeding.ā
A pause.
āAnd then it will only be a scar.ā
Not gone. Never gone. Justā¦ bearable.
Your voice trembled before you could stop it.
āWhat if it doesnāt close?ā
For the first time, something like a tired sadness crossed her faceānot for you alone, but for everything she already knew about life and what it takes and what it refuses to give back.
Then, after a beat. āIn the end, there will always be another wound waiting for us, my dearā¦ until all that remains is a quiet pain, a grief that has been slowly forgotten.ā
By us, she meant women. Not just you. Not just herself.
All of youāborn into roles where love was never allowed to be simple, only survivable.
You didnāt answer.
You just turned your face into her dress again, breathing in the only kind of safety that had ever truly been offered to you.
And Aelinor held you thereāwordless now, steady, as if silence itself could be a form of protection.
Your gaze moved restlessly between your untouched bed and the door. A knight stood guard outside, and Valarrāwho knew the rhythm of the shift changes by heartāwould slip inside during those brief moments of quiet. You wore a thin nightgown, light enough for the summer heat, and you hadnāt bothered with a robe. Perhaps you hadnāt thought of itā¦ or perhaps you wanted him to see you like this, your body only faintly hidden beneath the fabric. Your handmaid had brushed your hair and left it loose at your request. Valarr loved your hairāloved to run his fingers through it, to tug at it gently as he kissed you. And you loved his as well, especially that silvery streak threading through his light brown locks.
Even with the anticipation coiling in your chest, the weight of the day lingered faintly, dulling the sharp edge of your excitement. You were his only in stolen momentsābrief, fleeting momentsāand the thought of what that meant, of what would come one day, pressed uncomfortably at the back of your mind. That another woman might stand where you could not.
The thought barely had time to settle before he arrived.
As always, he knocked softly before enteringāa quiet courtesy that never failed. You rose quickly, your bare feet meeting the cool stone floor, and opened the door just enough to let him slip inside before locking it again. When you turned back, he was already there, standing a few steps away, still in his clothes, breath uneven as his eyes found you.
There was no mistaking the look in them.
Longing. Hunger. Something deeper that neither of you dared name too easily.
He never rushed you. Never closed the distance all at once. His restraint only made everything feel sharper, heavier. You, however, were less patient. You stepped toward him, drawn in by the way his gaze seemed to take you in completely, as if he could memorize you in a single breath. You stopped just in front of him, close enough to feel the warmth of him, tilting your head back slightly to meet his eyes. The intensity there was almost overwhelming, something fierce and consuming, like fire waiting just beneath the surface.
āI spent the whole week counting the seconds, my love,ā he murmured at last, his voice softer than usual, touched with something fragile beneath the desire. His gaze moved over you slowly before returning to your eyes. āYou lookā¦ unbearable like this. I donāt know how much longer I can endure it.ā
Neither of you moved closer. Not yet. The tension stretched between you, almost deliberate, something you both seemed to savor even as it bordered on painful.
āSometimes,ā he continued, his voice lowering as he leaned in just slightly, still not touching, āI want to pull you close in the middle of a feast and kiss you in front of everyone. I imagine it more often than I should.ā A faint breath brushed against your lips as he hovered there. āI hold myself back, though it takes more strength than I care to admit.ā
He shifted closer, his nose grazing yours without quite touching, his presence overwhelming in its closeness. āAnd sometimes...ā he added more quietly, āI think about whatās beneath those dressesā¦ and how much I want to know it again.ā
Your breath caught as he moved, slow and deliberate, until his lips hovered near your ear. āTell me,ā he whispered, āhow many nights have I held you, wanting more?ā
āItās been three years,ā you answered, the words leaving you almost automatically.
A quiet breath escaped him. āAnd stillā¦ I canāt get enough of you.ā
This time, he touched you. Lightly at firstāhis hand finding your waist, then sliding to your ass, drawing you closer as his lips brushed against your ear. The contact sent a clear reaction through your body, your hands rising instinctively to the back of his neck as you leaned into him, closing the last of the distance between you.
āYou undo me,ā he murmured, his voice softer now, roughened at the edges. āEven if I had you completelyā¦ I donāt think it would ever be enough.ā
You whispered his nameājust Valarr, without titleāand the effect was immediate. His hold on you tightened, his face pressing closer to your neck as if the sound itself had undone whatever restraint he had left.
āMy love,ā he breathed, almost pleading now, ātell me what you want tonight. Tell me how to make you happy.ā
A faint smile touched your lips despite everything, despite the weight of the day still lingering somewhere far behind you. For this moment, it didnāt matter. Nothing did.
āI want you closer,ā you said quietly, leaning in so your lips brushed near his ear. āI want to feel youā¦ even if you donāt go all the way. Just stay there. I just want all of you"
The words clearly stirred something deeper in him, something immediate and sharp, yet he held himself back, his restraint still intact even as his grip on you tightened slightly.
āNot yet,ā he whispered, his voice low and steady despite the tension beneath it. āLet me take care of you first.ā
And you didnāt argue.
You couldnāt.
The moment you accepted it, he didnāt hesitateāhe pulled you into his arms and carried you straight to the bed, urgency in his movements but care in the way he laid you down, as if even in desire he couldnāt bring himself to be anything less than gentle with you. He barely took the time to kick off his boots before his lips found yours, one hand sliding behind your head to keep you there while the other cradled your face, holding you in place as if you might slip away.
Settling between your legs, he shifted his weight carefully, close enough for you to feel him, but never enough to overwhelm you, and the kiss that followed was immediate, deep, breathlessāso consuming that you didnāt even notice the strength in his grip as his fingers tightened around you.
There was no practiced ease in the way you moved together, no learned rhythm from elsewhereāeverything between you had been discovered slowly, together, built through stolen moments and quiet curiosity.
Valarr had never sought out other women, never lost himself in passing touch or empty affection, and you had never given your attention to anyone but him, so every kiss, every brush of skin carried a weight that made it feel new every time.
He knew you nowāknew how you responded, how you softened, how to pull those quiet sounds from youāand you gave him everything in return, more than he ever asked for, more than he even seemed to expect.
Between kisses, he pressed himself against you through the thin fabric of your nightgown, a reminder that lingered there, insistent and warm, and when he murmured āI love you.ā against your lips, the words came out broken, almost lost in the rhythm of his breathing.
You wanted to answer, but he didnāt give you the space to speak, so instead you answered with your hands, letting them move from his arms to his shoulders, then up into his hair, your fingers threading through the soft strands as you held him closer, and the reaction it drew from him was immediate, a quiet shudder that only deepened the way he kissed you.
His thumb traced your cheek slowly, almost absentmindedly, while the kiss grew heavier, wetter, mirroring the warmth building between your legs, and when you finally drew your lip between your teeth before meeting him again, he let out a low sound against your mouth, something caught between restraint and want.
Time pressed in around you, unspoken but understood, eventually he pulled away, though only just, your noses brushing, his forehead resting against yours as both of you tried to steady your breathing.
āSeven hellsā¦ā he murmured, voice rough and quiet, āI could die like thisāwith your lips on mine.ā
A small smile broke through despite everything. āFor someone who insists I keep you alive,ā you whispered, āyou speak of death far too easily.ā
That earned a soft, fleeting laugh, but it faded as his hand slid beneath your nightgown, fingers brushing along your thigh with slow intention, his gaze lifting to yours.
āMaybe I want both of them to come from you." he said quietly, almost as if the thought had surprised even him. The words settled deeper than they should have.
āValarrā¦ā you breathed, but it came out weaker than you meant it to, because there was truth in it that hurtātruth in the way these moments could feel like everything and still not be enough.
He saw it, of course he did, and instead of answering, he kissed you again, softer this time, less desperate, as if trying to take that weight from you before it could grow. āDonāt think,ā he murmured against your skin as his lips drifted from yours to your jaw. āJust feel.ā
And for a moment, you did.
His mouth moved lower, slower, along your neck, behind your ear, every touch careful, measured, leaving no mark even as he lingered in all the places that made you soften for him, as if even now he was holding something backānot his want, never that, but the part of him that refused to let you be hurt by what this was.
You let yourself sink into it, into him, into the quiet safety of the room where the world outside didnāt exist, where the weight of everything waiting beyond those walls couldnāt reach you.
Because out there, nothing was simple.
But here, with himā
it felt like it could be.
As he slowly moved down from your collarbones, his lips reached your soft, curvy breasts through your nightgown and he sucked tightly, wetting the delicate fabric with his lips. With his other hand, he kneaded your other breast gently, focused entirely on pleasing you.
You simply held onto that feeling for a while, letting your beloved cousin drown you in love inside your locked room in the castle, where the weight of politics always watched over you.
As the subtle movements of your lips continued, you slowly tilted your head and looked at himāthe young man who gave you nothing but love and care.
He shifted and began to lift the hem of your nightgown. You waited for him to remove it while opening your legs slightly, making things easier for him, but he didnāt.
āIt will stay,ā he said in a more authoritative voice than he usually used. That tone sent a faint shiver through you. Sometimes you liked that balance in your relationshipāsometimes he was dominant, sometimes you wereābut the difference was that you could be stronger, you could even turn him into a little puppy.
He held his authority gently, never cruelly, though he could be firmer when you wanted. āAlthough seeing you like this is a gift to me, tonight I want you to feel good in this beautiful nightgown, my darling,ā he added in a softer tone.
You didnāt object. On the contrary, you were glad he liked the nightgown, because you had worn it for him.
With a small smile, you spread your legs a little further and looked at him playfully, your arousal visible in the dim light of your room.
Valarr laughed softly in excitement and reached for a pillow. You lifted your hips to help him, as you always did. He placed the pillow under your lower back so you could relax more easily. Then he leaned down and began kissing your inner thigh.
āI can smell you,ā he whispered against your skin.
As he moved closer to where he intended to go,
you stopped him. āAll for my sweet cousin,ā you said.
He paused immediately. He was lying forward, holding your ankle, his legs half hanging off the bed. He didnāt like the word cousin. And you knew that when you used it.
āYou shouldnātā¦ā he warned in a low, serious tone, but still pressed another kiss to your inner thigh. āYou donāt like thisā¦ so what should I call you? Would 'brother' be better?ā You were playing with him now, knowing it would provoke him even more, since everyone around you treated you like siblings.
Valarr reacted by biting your inner thighānot enough to hurt, but enough to be felt.
āA-ahh!ā you gasped, half in pain, half in mischief, pulling his hair instinctively.
He grinned against your skin and kissed the spot he had bitten. āYou knowā¦ at times, I almost donāt see the harm in calling you my sister,ā he teased. āAfter all, we are Targaryens, arenāt we? The gods themselves are witnesses to it.ā
You laughed, though something in his words made you falter for a moment, thinking of Aerion. He noticed immediately, softening again.
āHeyā¦ stay with me, baby,ā he said gently. It was so easy for him to pull you back.
As a smile slowly spread across your face, your attention was distracted once again by the interest in his eyes.
To lighten the mood, you added, āāAh...or maybe I should call you my whore. Right now you look more like an eager brothel whore than a cousin or brother.ā
That made him laugh.
āMy princess,ā he said warmly, āit is my duty to fulfill your desires. So go aheadā¦ Name it as pleases you want, my love.ā
And with that, he finally buried his face where he wanted.
As his warm mouth moved toward you, he began to kiss your slightly hairy outer lips with torturous softness. It always started with compassion. Without missing a beat, his hands caressed their way from your ankles to your hips. Once they settled just beneath them, he squeezed the soft flesh. Even though the light kisses around your crotch and vulva were short-lived, you didnāt care when he began using his tongue.
āIām going to taste heaven...ā You werenāt sure whether he said it to you or to himself, but his voice sounded deep.
Licking your wet cunt from your hole to your clitoris, he opened you with his tongue as if he were turning the pages of a book. Just before you could fully shudder at the touch of his hot tongue, he sucked your clit, pulling it back slightlyāwith clear pressureābefore slowly releasing it.
āāMhmmhh... donāt stop.ā The words slipped quickly and quietly from your lips. He noticed immediately when you involuntarily lifted your hips toward him again. His grip tightened slightlyānot enough to hurt you, but enough to keep you from slipping away.
Valarr had never been reckless with affection. Even now, there was something so careful about the way he touched you; as if you were made of glass that might shatter under too much pressure. Every movement of his tongue was deliberate. He wasnāt rushed or frantic, but slow and indulgent.
He enjoyed the way your body reacted to his touch; every sensitive tremor told him he was doing something right. His hands squeezed your hips gently as he deepened his mouth against youāhe wanted more of those beautiful sounds you made for him.
When Valarr began to eat you like a starving man, you unraveled even more. Your toes curled into the sheets while your hands tangled in his hair, pressing him closer. āAhhh...! Seven... bless you... Valāmy Val...ā
You melted further with every second he played with your hole. When he pressed his nose against your clitoris, your voice thinned. In that moment, he lost himself.
As you leaned into his touch like a flower turning toward sunlight, his right hand moved slowly along the curves of your body and slipped beneath your nightgown to your left breast.
He kneaded it carefully, brushing the tip with his thumb before pressing the hardened peak between his thumb and forefinger. āYeah... yeah, just like that...ā the words slipped out softly.
You were like lemon cake to himāslightly sour, but irresistibly good.
As you silently thanked the gods for his mouth returning to where it belonged after a week, you savored every second of this sinful moment. You surrendered to him completely, encouraging him with a soft, pleased murmur. āMmhmph... keep going, Val.ā
You were certain Valarr was grinning at your reaction, but in that moment, you were focused only on the pleasure his tongue gave you. He parted and rolled your inner lips with his tongue again and again, making everything wetter, before returning to the same spotāstarting softly, then harderāas he sucked your clitoris.
Then he continued, leaving behind wet, breathy sounds. Lowering his head further, he pushed his tongue inside you, then sucked your inner lips tightly once more, sending a wave of pleasure through you.
With that, your back arched as you lifted from the bed, unable to stop yourself from moaning his name like a prayer.
āāValarr!ā As if sensing you slipping away, he pulled you closer with the hand on your hip. His other hand remained where it was. āShhh... you must be quiet, my love...ā he warned, his voice muffled between your thighs.
But he was devouring you, doing everything to keep you quiet. The low, masculine sounds he made only aroused you more. He felt as if tasting you like this could consume him entirely. His cock was already hard inside his trousers, but you were his priority.
He was merciless. You writhed as his tongue, with devilish softness, claimed you. You bit your lip, struggling to suppress the loud moans threatening to escape. Your gaze blurred, your head resting sideways against the sheets, shadows dancing along the walls.
āYouāre so sweet...ā Valarrās muffled murmur reached you softly. He was so lost in you that he didnāt even notice the trembling of your body.
His hand on your breast slowly moved downward, gripping the sheets instead. Now both his hands held your hips firmly again, but this time he buried himself fully between your thighs. He didnāt care whether he could breathe or not.
You could feel the shape of his face against you.
He was hungryādesperately so. After tracing the edges of your inner lips with his tongue, he took them between his lips and sucked, refusing to let go. He wanted you to feel that overwhelming sensation as he pressed himself against you.
āAhhmm... ahh... Val... pleaseāā your voice trembled. The pleasure cut straight through you. You tried to stay quietāso the knight at your door wouldnāt hear...
But it was impossible. The sounds of Valarrās mouth were louder than your own voice. You were soaked, teetering on the edge. When his mouth met you again, a deep, lewd sound filled the room.
The knot in your stomach tightened further when his eyes met yours for a brief moment. Those mismatched eyes were fixed on you with unmistakable hungerālike a hunter.
You were his prey.
You werenāt sure how tight his grip was, but Valarr didnāt careāyou could pull at every strand of his hair if you wanted. āPlease... please...ā were the only words that left your lips.
Valarrās lower face glistened as he pulled back slightly, shifting himself to bring you to your final edge. He pressed his nose against your clitoris, then twisted his tongue toward your opening, curving it downwardāand with that sensation, your eyes shut.
A sharp warning from your mind made your body jolt, and you bit your lip until it bled, trying not to cry out. The knot in your stomach slowly unraveled, yet your breath refused to steady. You surrendered to it, taking in every wave as it washed over you.
As you let yourself go, your eyes remained closed, and your grip on his hair loosened. Valarr gave you time. He could sense the exhaustion settling into your body after your release. Knowing you were still sensitive, he leaned in and placed a warm kiss against your slightly hairy outer lips before pulling back.
His kisses trailed along your lower abdomen, brushing over your nightgown as they moved up to your cleavage, while his hands slid from your hips to your upper thighs in a slow, gentle caress.
When he reached your neck, he pressed a small kiss to your earlobe. āYou were beautiful, my darling...ā he murmured. Another soft kiss followed. āYou were so divine...ā he continued, his voice low, as if wanting to soothe you further. āYour taste was so good... I felt like I could drink it from a glass every night.ā The words came out a little awkwardly, but he didnāt seem to mind.
He brushed his cheek against yours, then kissed your cheeks, and the tip of your nose. You could feel the warmth of his damp skin, the softness of his lips. āLook at me, my love. Let me see those beautiful eyes,ā he murmured.
Slowly, you opened your eyes and found him already looking at you with a deep, quiet calm.
His face seemed almost to glowāand it was because of you. A soft, princely smile spread across his lips as he held your gaze.
His right hand slid up to your waist, his thumb brushing over your skin, and he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. āYou were made for me.ā
You wrapped yourself around him, accepting him completely. In the kiss, you wanted to taste yourselfāthat same sweet-and-sour flavor. His tongue filled your mouth. āMhhm...ā he let out a low, pleased sound, and you immediately felt his hard erection pressing against your stomach.
He needed youājust as much as you needed him.
As the kiss deepened, one of your hands slipped down to the drawstring of his trousers. It took you a moment to untie them, your hands still unsteady, your emotions lingeringābut Valarr waited patiently, focused only on your lips.
When the ties loosened, you slipped your hand inside and wrapped your fingers around his cock, thick and curled toward his stomach, stroking it slowly in your palm. At the sudden contact, Valarr pulled his lips away. Resting his forehead against yours, he shut his eyes, let out a guttural whine. āAghh... fuck...ā
You felt his grip tighten around your waist and thigh.
You immediately brushed your nose against his cheek and, without stopping the movement of your hand, continued stroking him through the slick pre-cum. āYouāre hard as a rock. Itās making me wet all over again,ā you murmured playfully, letting out a half-fake moan in the tone he liked.
You wanted to push him further.
Valarr grinned despite himself at your teasing. As he pressed his forehead more firmly to yours, the hand on your leg shifted, gripping your wrist tightly to stop you. You tilted your head back slightly, looking at him in confusion.
āIf you keep touching me like that, I wonāt be able to hold back for long, my love...ā he said, his voice strained with both frustration and desire.
Still, there was something else in his eyesāsomething eager. He wanted to try something different.
Pulling away, he moved to the edge of the bed and began undressing, your gaze fixed on his disheveled form. There was nothing crude in the way he did itāit was slow, deliberate, almost graceful. Exactly the way you liked to watch him.
A pleased expression lingered on his face as he shed each layer, revealing the body shaped by years of training. He could see it in your eyesāthe hunger, the way your lips parted slightly.
In that moment, you hated him. For being so beautiful. For not truly being yours. In some ways, he wasābut in the eyes of the gods, you were nothing more than cousins.
His cock brushed against his stomach, the tip flushed and damp with pre-cum.
āDespair doesnāt suit you,ā he teased.
Then he climbed back onto the bed, bare, your hands immediately finding him againāresting against his chest, pressing gently, roaming as if you couldnāt get enough.
āThereās someone here more desperate than me,ā you shot back, your gaze flicking his cock. āLike a green boy...ā
Valarr leaned closer, bracing his hands beside your head, his hips deliberately held back, avoiding the contact you both wanted.
āThat shouldnāt amuse you...ā he murmured.
He buried his face in your neck again, drawing in your scent, before brushing his lips behind your ear in a soft kiss.
He was positioned between your legsābut still holding back.
āTo control the dragon, you must guide it... not provoke it.ā
You drew him closer, one hand sliding to his shoulder, the other tangling into his hair, giving a soft tug. āIām a dragon too,ā you reminded him, your lips hovering just shy of his. There was heat in your voiceāsomething fierce.
Valarrās answer came with a slow, wide smile. He licked his lips before speaking, his tone low and full of heat. āThen thereās no escaping this without being completely consumed by fire, my princess.ā
And then he kissed you.
This time, it was harder. Deeper. Hungrier.
There was no hesitation leftāonly heat.
You melted into him instantly, chasing his mouth, demanding more. Your hand tightened in his hair as your bodies pressed closer, your breaths mingling between stolen pauses. The air between you grew heavy, charged, as if the world outside no longer existed.
Your tongues moved together, slow at firstāthen with urgency, with needāuntil there was nothing left but the two of you, caught in the pull of it.
Sometimes, you wondered if you were doing it right. You had never kissed anyone but him, and finding your way had been a long, uncertain journey.
But in that moment, you didnāt care. It didnāt matter. As long as it felt goodānothing else did.
Perhaps it was wrong. But what in this damn land had ever been right? So why should something as harmless as your intimacy be expected to follow the rules?
He kept kissing youāone hand tangled in your nightgown, the other brushing over your lower lipāwhile his hardened length, slick with pre-cum, pressed against your wetness. He guided it with his hand, dragging the tip slowly along you.
The sensation sent a sharp shiver through both of you. A soft moan slipped from your lips between kisses, but he didnāt stop. He rubbed the tip against your inner lips with a rough insistence, moving back and forth, pressing harder whenever he reached your entranceābut never pushing inside.
He couldnāt.
āImmh... a little more...ā you breathed, pulling away just enough to speak, your voice unsteady.
He leaned into you again, pressing his face close, leaving damp, lingering kisses along the corners of your swollen lips as he increased the pressureāright there, at your entrance... as if he might give in.
The teasing closeness blurred your thoughts, sending mixed signals through your body. You were both aching for more.
āGods... I wish I could,ā he murmured, dragging himself up to your clit, the friction almost overwhelming. When he paused there, he pressed his hips closer still, your bodies slick, heated between you.
āIf only I could cast aside my pride and truly have you,ā he added, his voice lowered so only you could hear.
One of your hands slid to the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, mirroring the way he held you.
āDonāt say that...ā Your voice trembled as it reached him. āWe both know why you canāt.ā Softer nowātouched with something sad.
Regret flickered across Valarrās face, deep and unguarded. He wanted nothing more than to make his love undeniableādespite everything.
Still, he moved against you again, firmer this time, as if trying to lose himself in the feeling. Pressing his nose to your cheek, he held your gaze.
āOhhāI love you so much... and itās tearing me apart, my darling.ā
He pulled you back into a kiss, deeper this time, his movements below falling into a slow, aching rhythm.
He did love you.
And that was the cruelest part of it all.
Because no matter how much he might have been willing to give, there was still a line he refused to cross.
Years ago, you had almost convinced yourself you could surrender that final piece of yourself.
But he never allowed himself to consider it.
The power to truly ruin youāto take something that would cost you everything in the eyes of this merciless worldāwas something he could not bear.
He knew exactly what it would mean for you.
And still...
He was here.
Still touching you. Still wanting you.
Still finding ways to deceive himself.
You kissed him with the same hunger. The slick press the head of his cock along your folds made you flinch slightly, and he tightened his hold on you.
āāHow perfect it would be...ā he murmured, breaking the kiss for a fleeting moment, guiding the swollen, wet head of his cock toward your entrance. He dragged it there again, just to feel itājust that faint, aching pressure.
ā...to belong there... to belong to you... only to you...ā
The words left his lips with complete conviction, the quiet intensity in his eyes striking something deep inside him.
Your hands rose to his face, holding him firmly as your foreheads pressed together.
āYou belong to me,ā you whispered, as if reminding himāyour voice trembling.
Valarr seemed to unravel at that, the weight of your words settling deep within him.
āSay it again.ā
āYou belong to me. Only to me. You belong to my heart...ā you said, softer this timeāmore tender. But the emotion caught in your throat, stealing the rest of your breath. Even as his movements slowed, the rhythm between you only deepened.
A sharp sound left him, and he buried his face in your neck again, as if he could disappear thereāstay there, forever.
You felt the steady brush of him against you, the tension between you coiling tighter with every movement. And stillāwhatever this was, however incompleteāit felt perfect.
Almost without thinking, you wrapped your legs loosely around his hips, drawing him closer. The contact deepenedānot the same as before, not as consumingābut enough. Just knowing he was there, pressed against you, was enough to send a quiet thrill through your body.
A fragile illusion.
But it kept you alive.
Valarrās low sounds spilled against your throat as his lips followedākisses, then the soft pull of his mouth against your skin, sending shivers racing down your spine. His free hand rose to your lips, covering them gentlyānot to silence you harshly, but to soften the sounds you couldnāt hold back.
āI know... I know...ā he whispered, almost helplessly, against your ear.
His hips moved faster now, more urgent. Thenājust for a momentāhe pressed himself more firmly against you, right at that same place, as if this time he might truly give in.
As if he could.
Your eyes shut tightly, your body arching away from the intensity as broken sounds escaped into his palm. Your hands clung to his back, nails pressing into his skināand he didnāt stop you.
He turned his head, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple.
āYou smell so good...ā he murmured, breathing you in, burying his face in your hair.
āYou donāt know what youāre doing to me...ā His voice was muffled, distantābut you barely heard it.
All that mattered was this feeling. Holding him. Being held like this.
He found your ear again, whispering your nameāover and over.
As if he were trying to memorize it.
As if it were the only thing he wanted to know.
āVal... I... moreāā Your voice broke against his hand as the tension inside you tightened again, sharper this time. It wasnāt enough. Not yet.
Your eyes opened, glassy, meeting his.
He pulled his hand from your lips, letting it rest instead against your cheek.
āTell me, my love...ā he said, wholly present, readyāwhatever you needed.
āI just need more touchāahhhm... please...ā
For a moment, he hesitatedāuncertain. Then, trying anyway, he pressed a soft kiss to your head before shifting away, lying back beside you. His hand tapped lightly against his thigh in invitation.
āCome here.ā
A shiver ran through you at the quiet command.
You moved quickly, lifting the fabric of your nightgown as you swung your leg over him, straddling his hips. His cock rested against his stomach as you settled over him, your thighs bracketing his body.
His hands found your hips instantly, steadying you, while yours braced against his chest as you leaned over himāboth of you caught in the same breathless pull.
You were moving against him, your soaked cunt sliding over his cock as it lay stretched along his body. Everything felt slick, almost overwhelmingāand he was already on the edge. You could feel the tension in him, the way his hardness waited for you, as if it belonged there.
You pressed yourself down, moving as though he were truly inside you, finding a steady rhythm and holding onto it. Your lips stayed sealed, your moans trapped in your throatājust like the tension building inside you. It was better this way.
You had done this beforeāagainst pillows, against blankets, imagining him. But thisā¦ this was real. His skin, his warmthāit was everything.
The motion dragged against something deeper, something you couldnāt ignore, something that made your body ache for more. Still, you let yourself stay in the moment.
Your hands slipped beneath your nightgown, gliding from your hips down along your thighs, then back up again, gripping your own flesh as if grounding yourself.
āYesā¦ like thatā¦ youāre doing so well, darlingāfuckā¦ donāt stopā¦ just like thatā¦ā your voice broke out louder than you intended.
You didnāt silence him the way he had silenced youāyou couldnāt risk it. Instead, you leaned down, cupping his face, pulling him into you.
When your lips met again, your shared breaths, your soft cries, blurred together. You could feel everythingāevery subtle movement, every shift of him beneath youāthe way it sent small, electric sensations through your body, making you even wetter.
You moved faster.
Your hips rolled more deliberately now, chasing the friction, angling yourself just right to feel it where you needed it most.
āMmhmphā¦ā was all you could manage.
Valarr.
Valarr.
Valarr.
His name echoed through your mind, the only thing that existed. Whispering it only made everything sharper, more intense. Every glide against him sent a tremor through you, making your body react in ways you couldnāt control.
When he finally pulled away from your lips, breathless, you straightened, your head falling back, eyes closed. All you could feel was him.
Soft, broken sounds left your lips as you lost yourself completely in the sensation.
Valarr was unraveling beneath you.
āMy loveā¦ tell me youāre closeā¦ā His voice was strainedāhe needed to know. He had been holding himself back for too long.
But you barely heard him.
He understood anyway.
As you pressed your face deeper into his neck, his hand tightened on your hip, guiding you, pressing you down so the contact deepened. He moved with you now, helping, controlling the rhythm just enough to push you further.
Your skin burned with the friction, both of you teetering on the edge.
Your hand slipped between your bodies, wrapping around him, lifting slightly as you adjusted, pressing yourself down again. The added contact sent a sharp wave through both of you.
āValāValā¦ IāIām closeā¦ā you finally managed, your voice breaking as you looked at him.
Relief flickered across his face.
āCome, my loveā¦ come for meā¦ā he urged, sitting up quickly, pulling you into him. One hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you close as his forehead rested against yours.
His voice dropped, rough, intense.
āDonāt stopā¦ just like thatā¦ let goā¦ let me feel youā¦ā
He held you steady, supporting you as your body began to tremble, his other hand guiding your hips, keeping that same relentless rhythm.
āIāmāahhā¦ Iām comingāā you gasped, your body tightening as the sensation finally broke over you.
It hit hard.
You clung to him, pulling him close, your voice spilling into his ear as your body gave in completely.
That was all it took for him.
Valarr lost himself with you, overcome by the same intensity he had been holding back, his body finally giving in.
For a moment, neither of you could move.
You were shaking, breath uneven, overwhelmed by everythingāhis warmth, his scent, the lingering sensation still coursing through you.
He held you there, not letting go.
Only when your breathing began to slow did he ease you down beside him, pulling you into his arms. Your head rested against his bare chest, your fingers absentmindedly tracing along his skin.
He was still catching his breath, low sounds leaving him as he held you close. One hand stroked your hair, the other drifting along your back beneath your nightgown.
āMy one and onlyā¦ my loveā¦ā he murmured softly, pressing a kiss to your head.
āMy peaceā¦ā
It wasnāt just what had happened between you.
It was thisābeing like this. Together. Close.
That was what stayed.
His fingers moved gently through your hair, lingering, as if memorizing every strand. He loved itāmore than he ever admitted. The silver, the softer tones beneath itāit was all yours.
You melted against him, your eyes slipping closed, your body finally relaxing. One of your legs draped over his, pulling him closer.
In that moment, everything else disappeared.
There was no duty. No world beyond this.
Only him.
āI should call you my wife.ā
The words sent a sudden shiver through you. Your eyes snapped open as you lifted your head, searching his face to make sure you had heard him right.
Valarr looked at you with something deep, unwavering. A soft, almost wistful smile touched his lips.
āAfter everythingā¦ if I belong to you, then thatās what you are to me,ā he said quietly. āEven if the gods would deny itā¦ you are the only truth I have.ā
You didnāt know what to say.
He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple before pulling back again, meeting your tear-filled eyes.
āWhatever happensā¦ I will endure it, my love.ā
Then, more firmlyā
āIf I must, I will speak to my father. I will end this distance between us. But I will not give my heart to anyone else. Not while it beats for you.ā
He didnāt wipe away the tear that slipped down your cheek.
He let it fall.
Your hand rose to his face, fingers tracing along his jaw as your voice barely formed the words:
āPromise meā¦ā
You needed it.
Valarr pulled you closer, shifting until you were fully facing him.
āI swear it,ā he said softly. āBefore all the godsāone day, you will be my wife.ā
For a moment, it felt real.
Too real.
And yetā¦ beneath it all, there was still something that hurt.
Because no matter how beautiful his words wereā¦ a part of you knew the truth.
Valarr was a man bound by honor.
And you werenāt sure love alone would ever be enough.
Synopsis: Summerhallās brief summer dies in winterās frost, a sudden, bloody labor claims the crown; a little princess born, the mother lost, as iron shadows pull the Anvil down. Her dying whisper begs him guide their own, but grief transforms his shattered heart to stone.
Warnings: SMUT 18+, implied (Early) Pregnancy Sex, Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Pregnancy, Premature Labor & Birth, Major Character Death, Maternal Mortality, Severe Postpartum Hemorrhage, Foreshadowing of Canon Character Death, Grief, mentioned Emotional Child Neglect, the Traits of the Reader are not described
Word Count: 5k
A/N: we reached the devastating endšāāļø
The southern slopes of the Red Mountains were generous in the late summer of two-hundred and eight years after Aegonās Conquest. The high meadows, once withered and grey under the bitter bite of the Marcher frost, had uncoiled into an endless sea of lavender and wild chicory.
Summerhall lived up to its name once more, its pale limestone walls absorbing the fierce, golden heat of the sun until the galleries practically glowed with the warmth of a world reborn.
She stood by the balustrade of the eastern pavilion, her face lifted to the mountain breeze.
The fever that had threatened to anchor her to the mattress the previous year had finally receded, leaving her body light, her skin clearing to its natural hue. The sharp, dragging ache in her lower back had vanished, replaced by a steady, quiet strength that allowed her to walk the high terraces without catching her breath against the stone.
Yet, as she looked down into the massive courtyard below, a strange, hollow quiet settled beneath her ribs.
The yard was not empty, but it was changed. The reckless, deafening hustle of small children that had defined her first decade at Summerhall was gone, swallowed by the waves of time.
Daeron was eighteen now, a young man grown, spending less time in the dirt and more time in his private chambers, his soft face permanently clouded by the heavy, complicated thoughts of a firstborn prince.
Aerion, at sixteen, was a silver-haired terror on the tourney grounds, his days consumed by the ring of steel, the sweating of warhorses, and a sharp, mercurial vanity that kept him isolated from the family block.
Even little Daella, at ten, had traded her wooden blocks for embroidery hoops, sitting quietly beneath the shade of the walnut trees with her Septa, her laughter more restrained, more courtly.
And Aegonāher sweet, seven-year-old Eggāwas no longer a baby to be swaddled and rocked; he was a squire in training, his small hands calloused from the wooden practice sword, his mind fixed on the wide, unfolding world outside their sanctuary.
The nurseries were empty. The wooden cradles had been pushed into the dark corners of the storerooms, their linen sheets smelling of lavender and dust.
She missed itāthe chaotic, frantic rhythm of small feet thudding against the flagstones, the sudden, tearful midnight awakenings, the soft, milky scent of an infant pressed against her collarbone. The peace she had fought so hard to regain felt less like a victory and more like a long, lingering twilight.
A pair of massive, heavily scarred arms wrapped around her waist from behind, breaking her reverie.
Maekar pressed his chest flat against her back, his massive frame a solid, unyielding wall of warmth that instantly banished the mountain chill.
He had shaved his silver beard down to a neat, rugged trim along his sharp jawline. He rested his heavy chin on her shoulder, his deep violet eyesāclearer now than they had been in yearsāstaring down into the courtyard with her.
āYou are thinking again,ā he muttered, his low, gravelly voice vibrating through her spine. His large hands slid down to rest flat against her stomach, his thumbs tracing slow, familiar circles through the rich crimson silk of her gown.
āThe Maester said you are fully restored, yet I find you standing at the edge of the world, looking as if you mean to fly away.ā
āI am not flying anywhere, my Prince,ā she smiled, turning her head slightly to press a soft kiss against his scarred cheek.
āI am merely looking at our Kingdom. It has grown up when we were not looking.ā
āGood,ā Maekar grunted, his grip tightening around her waist, lifting her slightly until her heels cleared the stone floor. He pulled her backward into the dark, shadowed interior of the bedchamber, away from the glaring gold of the afternoon sun.
āLet them grow. The older they get, the less they break my chairs. I have you back on your feet, and I have no intention of sharing you with the rest of this Castle today.ā
The heavy oak doors clicked shut, the brass latch falling into place with a definitive, satisfying thud that sealed them away from the Realm, from the court, and from the children who no longer needed her breast.
Inside the cool, dim sanctuary of the master bedroom, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The red-colored velvet hangings of the massive bedstead were pulled back, the soft linen sheets smelling of sun-dried clover.
Maekar did not speak; the brooding, defensive wall he maintained for the rest of Westeros crumbled the moment his boots cleared the threshold of their private domain.
Here, he was not the Anvil, nor the neglected fourth son of a King; he was a man consumed by an ancient, unyielding devotion to the woman who had carved a home out of his isolation.
His fingers were surprisingly deft for a man who spent his life gripping war hammers. He unlaced the bodice of her crimson gown with a slow, deliberate patience, his dark eyes fixed on hers with a fierce, burning intensity that made her breath hitch. As the heavy silk pooled around her ankles, leaving her in nothing but her thin linen shift, Maekar let out a low, rough sigh that sounded like a prayer.
āYou are beautiful,ā he whispered, his large palms sliding up her bare calves, over the soft curve of her thighs, until they rested on the flare of her hips. The calloused skin of his hands rasped against her flesh, a delicious, familiar friction that sent a sudden, white-hot shiver down her spine.
āEvery line of you. Every scar you took for my name.ā
āThen claim them, Maekar,ā she breathed, her hands reaching up to tear at the laces of his linen tunic, her fingers tangling in the thick, hair-dusted muscle of his chest as he stripped the cloth away.
He lifted her easily, hoisting her onto the edge of the high mattress before climbing over her, his massive frame casting a protective, suffocating shadow across her body.
When his lips met hers, there was no courtly hesitation. The kiss was deep, thorough, and thick with a desperate, possessive hunger that twenty years of marriage had done nothing to tame. His tongue parted her lips with an easy, practiced dominance, tasting of the sweet wine they had shared at midday and the clean, salt scent of his skin.
She arched her back against the pillows, her legs wrapping around his heavy flanks, pulling him down into the cradle of her thighs. Maekar let out a low, animalistic growl deep in his chest, his hands sliding beneath her shift to bunch the linen around her waist. His mouth left hers, trailing a burning line of kisses down the column of her neck, over her collarbone, to the soft, aching swell of her breasts.
When he entered her, it was a smooth, heavy stroke that filled her, a perfect alignment of flesh and history that made her gasp against his ear. Maekar froze for a single, breathless second, his muscles taut as iron strings, his eyes burning down into hers with a sudden, fierce look of protective anxiety.
āDid I hurt you?ā he rasped, his breath hot and frantic against her cheek.
āNo,ā she cried softly, her fingers digging deep into the dense muscle of his shoulders, her nails leaving red marks against his sun-darkened skin.
āNo, Maekar... move. Please.ā
The rhythm that followed was a slow, majestic cadence born of two decades of shared midnights. It was not the frantic, clumsy heat of their youth in the Red Keep, but something far more potentāa deep, reverent worship where every thrust was an assertion of life against the dark.
Maekar moved with a deliberate, heavy grace, his hips grinding against hers, his head buried in her hair as he filled the hollow spaces of her body with his own relentless heat.
She met him stroke for stroke, her body remembering the exact geometry of his pleasure, her voice rising in a series of soft, breathless whimpers that drove him to a madness.
The world outsideāthe succession, the Kingās decrees, the distant rumblings of the Blackfyre sympathizersāshattered into nothingness. There was only the smell of plum velvet, the rustle of linen, and the heavy, rhythmic thud of the Anvil striking the core of her being.
As the climax took them, it was a violent, shattering thing that left them both spent and trembling. Maekar let out a harsh, broken cry against her throat, his body collapsing over hers with his full, magnificent weight, his heart hammering against her ribs like a captured bird.
He did not pull away; he remained anchored within her, his large arms wrapping around her waist to hold her close against his chest until the space between their breaths vanished entirely.
The moon had risen high over the Marcher peaks when she finally spoke into the quiet dark of the room. The single tallow candle had burned down to a pooling nub of wax, casting long, peaceful shadows across the ceiling.
Maekar lay on his back, his arm serving as her pillow, his large hand resting flat against her stomach in a habit so old it was written into the reflex of his muscles. He was nearly asleep, his heavy breathing a comforting, rhythmic pulse in the still room.
āMaekar,ā she whispered, her fingers tracing the jagged line of an old spear scar across his ribs.
āMmm?ā he grunted, not opening his eyes, but his thumb began to move in a lazy circle over her skin.
āThe nurseries will not be empty for long.ā
The thumb stopped instantly.
Maekarās eyes snapped open, midnight-dark and suddenly wide with a terrifying, crystalline clarity.
He sat up on one elbow, the blankets falling away from his broad, unclad chest as he stared down at her face in the pale moonlight. The peace that had settled over his rugged features over the past few moons fractured into a look of sheer, breathless panic.
āWhat?ā he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
āWhat did you say?ā
āA child,ā she said softly, taking his massive, trembling hand and pressing it firmly against the lower curve of her belly, where the skin was still smooth and soft.
āA late blossom, my Prince. A little girl, I think. To fill the empty cradles.ā
Maekar did not rejoice. A heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the bed, his brow furrowing so deeply the lines between his eyes looked like old axe wounds. He looked down at her stomach, then back to her face, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jumped beneath his silver-trimmed jaw.
āNo,ā he whispered, a sudden, raw terror leaking into his voice. He dropped his head onto her shoulder, his wild hair brushing against her cheek as his arms wrapped around her with a desperate, crushing force that almost bruised her ribs.
āNo. The Maester said you were healed, but your body... you nearly died last year. We are no longer young. You have given me five children. I do not want another Prince. I do not want another rose. I want you.ā
āIt is not a choice we make, Maekar,ā she murmured gently, her fingers tangling in his hair, trying to soothe the fierce, defensive panic that always lay just beneath his surface.
āIt is a gift. A little Princess for Summerhall. Someone to keep Egg company when the older boys leave.ā
āI am afraid,ā the Anvil of the Redgrass Field confessed into the dark of her neck, his voice breaking with an emotion so raw it made her own eyes sting with tears.
He had never said the words aloudānot before the Vanguards of the rebel army, not before his fatherās cold judgmentsābut here, in the shadow of her skin, the giant was entirely naked.
āI have nightmares of this bed turning cold. I see the stone walls of this Castle, and you are not in them, and the world is nothing but ash and iron. Promise me you will rest. Promise me you will let the Septas do the work.ā
āI promise, my Prince,ā she whispered, pulling his face up until her lips met his in a slow, reassuring caress.
āI am here. I am not going anywhere.ā
The mid-winter dark of the Marcher lands was a heavy, suffocating thing. By the final moon of the year, the lavender fields were buried beneath three feet of grey, heavy snow, and the Marcher winds screamed through the limestone turrets of Summerhall with a sharp, scraping sound that resembled the whetting of a thousand swords.
Still, inside the small, private solar adjacent to the master bedchamber, the world was scaled down to the warm, amber perimeter of a single oak table.
She sat in the high-backed chair, her body wrapped in a heavy woolen mantle trimmed with thick fox fur to ward off the chill creeping through the limestone walls. For the past several months, her pregnancy had been a source of quiet, unexpected joyāa serene contrast to the terrifying illnesses of her past.
She had been remarkably healthy, carrying the child with a radiant, steady strength that had completely banished the nightmares of the previous year. Her skin had retained its natural glow, her appetite had returned, and she had spent her days walking the lower galleries, watching her children with a bright, clear mind.
Across the table sat Maekar. He had shed his heavy gorget and steel pauldrons, wearing only a loose linen tunic of deep crimson, the collar unlaced to reveal the thick muscle of his chest.
Between them sat a small supperāa loaf of dark crusty bread, a wedge of sharp salted cheese from the Marches, and a shallow pewter bowl of winter pears poached in honey and cloves.
Neither of them was eating. The food sat entirely forgotten between them, an afterthought in the face of the fragile peace that had settled over their sanctuary.
Instead, Maekarās hand was stretched across the scarred wood of the table, his fingers lightly anchored over hers. He did not speak for a long time, content simply to exist in the quiet. His large thumb traced slow, mechanical circles over the back of her skin, his touch gentle despite the thick, heavy muscle of his hands.
He looked at the way the firelight caught the strands of her hair, his deep violet eyesāusually so shadowed, severe, and defensive when facing the court or his brothersāfixed entirely on her face with a quiet, fierce contentment.
She turned her palm upward, interlocking her fingers with his, feeling the familiar, reassuring friction of his calloused skin. It was a silent conversation they had had a thousand times before over twenty years of marriage:
I am here, you are safe, the world outside cannot touch us.
She squeezed his hand, leaning her head back against the carved wood of her chair, letting the deep, rhythmic crackle of the hearth wash over her. The silence between them was not empty; it was full, thick with the weight of two decades of shared midnights, born of a devotion that had survived the neglect of the court and the violence of the Realm.
āYou look like yourself tonight,ā he murmured at last, his low, gravelly voice breaking the quiet, vibrating softly in the still air of the room.
āThe Maester said your pulse is as steady as a warhorse. I half-expected to find you trying to march down to the yards to check on Aegonās training.ā
She laughed, a low, musical sound that instantly banished the howling of the winter wind against the high casements.
āDo not tempt me, my Prince. The Septas already look at me as if I am made of spun glass. If I so much as lift a single sewing basket, they begin to pray to the Mother.ā
She shifted slightly in her chair, her free hand coming down to rest flat against the prominent, heavy curve of her abdomen beneath the wool. A soft, adoring smile parted her lips as she felt a sudden, distinct thud against her palmāa strong, impatient kick from the child within.
āShe is active tonight,ā she breathed, taking Maekarās hand from the table and pulling it across the space between them, pressing his palm firmly against the lower slope of her belly.
āFeel her. She has your restlessness, Maekar. She is already trying to break her boundaries.ā
The Anvil of the Redgrass Field froze, his brow furrowing as his large hand absorbed the small, rhythmic movements of his unborn daughter. The permanent, defensive lines between his eyes softened, replaced by a look of such profound, unshielded vulnerability that it made her chest ache with a fierce tenderness. He leaned forward, his broad shoulders blocking out the light of the hearth, until his forehead rested gently against the side of her neck, his breath warm against her skin.
āI have nightmares of this bed turning cold,ā he confessed into the soft skin of her throat, his voice cracking with a raw emotion he never allowed the world to see.
āI see the stone walls of this Castle, and you are not in them, and the world is nothing but ash and iron. Promise me you will rest. Promise me you will let the Septas do the work.ā
āI promise, my Prince,ā she whispered, her fingers tangling in the silver-white spikes of his hair, pulling his face up until her lips met his in a slow, reassuring caress that tasted of honey and winter spice.
āI am here. I am not going anywhere.ā
The kiss deepened, a slow, lingering seal upon her promise. Maekarās grip tightened around her waist, his large hand sliding up her spine to hold her close, his thumb pressing into the small of her back to ease the heavy ache of her pregnancy.
They stayed like that for several minutes, wrapped in each otherās warmth, listening to the logs shifting in the fireplace and the distant, rhythmic footsteps of the guards patrolling the outer battlements. It was a moment of perfect, golden safetyāa quiet sanctuary carved out of the Marcher frost, the absolute quiet before the storm.
Then, the world shattered.
It did not happen with a gradual ache or a gentle tightening. It struck her like a physical blow from an iron maceāa sudden, violent tearing deep within her loins that made her entire body jerk rigidly in his arms.
The peaceful warmth of the solar was instantly annihilated as a sharp, agonizing contraction ripped through her abdomen, so savage and sudden it stole the breath directly from her throat before she could even cry out.
A sharp, strangled shriek of pure shock and pain escaped her lips.
āWhat?ā Maekar gasped, his head snapping up as he tore himself back, his face turning an ashen, bloodless white in the firelight. His eyes went wide with a crystalline terror as he looked down.
āWhat is it? Did Iāā
Before he could finish the words, a terrible, heavy rush of warmth flooded beneath her gown, pouring over the seat of the chair and striking the stone floor with a horrific, splashing sound.
It was a torrent of thick, hot crimson that stained the wool in a massive, blooming circle. The pain followed it instantlyāa blinding, white-hot agony that localized in her womb, twisting her internal walls with a crushing, suffocating force that made her knees buckle.
āThe Maester!ā she choked out, her fingers clawing frantically at the edge of the oak table, her nails scraping against the wood as she began to slip from the chair.
āMaekarā the babe! It is too soon... it is coming now!ā
The labor had come two moons too early, crashing over the sanctuary of their quiet evening like a rogue wave, turning her fragile health into a sudden, brutal battlefield for her life.
Inside the master bedchamber, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of boiled vinegar, dried pennyroyal, and the distinct, copper tang of blood.
The birth was an absolute executioner.
She lay twisted in the center of the massive oak bed, her fingers clawing frantically at the velvet hangings until the fabric ripped from the rings. Her flesh had gone translucent, the blue veins standing out like frozen rivers against her throat and arms. Every breath was a shallow, rattling gasp, her ribs prominent beneath her soaked shift as the feverāthe old, patient enemyāreturned with a vengeance to claim what it had been denied the year before.
āPush,ā the grey-robed Maester muttered, his hands slick with red as he labored at the foot of the bed. His voice was taut with a clinical, helpless terror; he knew the history of this womb, and he knew the limits of the flesh currently tearing itself apart before him.
āMy Princess, you must find the strength. The child is turned wrong. It is blocking the path.ā
āI cannot,ā she choked out, her head rolling back onto the pillow, her hair a tangled, sweat-drenched mass across the linen. The world was spinning, the long shadows cast by the tallow candles twisting into monstrous, featureless shapes that danced across the ceiling. The strength she had boasted of in the summer had been an illusionāa thin veneer of health that vanished under the brutal, grinding reality of her sixth confinement.
Maekar was on his knees beside the mattress.
He looked like a man who had been dragged through the Seven Hells. He did not leave her side, not once during the whole ordeal that they had lived through so oftenāyet this one seemed so different, enclosing around them like the grip of the Stranger.
His dark linen tunic was torn at the collar, his hands stained with her blood where he had tried to hold her steady through the convulsions. His face was a mask of absolute, shattered agony, the permanent lines of his forehead carved so deeply they looked like ancient stone.
āTake my hand,ā he growled hoarsely, his fingers locking around hers with a desperate, terrifying force. He was weeping openly now, the thick, heavy tears carving pale tracks through the soot and sweat on his scarred cheeks.
āLook at me. Look at my eyes. You do not leave me here. Do you hear me? Force it out! Curse the child. I do not need another one if I cannot watch it grow together with youā just stay with me!ā
āDo not say such things,ā she said through gritted teeth.
āI do not wish to hear such things. I will not let my babe dieā Maekar,ā she gasped, a sudden, white-hot blade of agony slicing through her abdomen as her internal walls contracted one final, desperate time. It was a sensation of total emptiness, a feeling of something vital snapping deep within her core, followed by a sudden, terrifying absence of pain.
A sharp, thin wail broke through the howling of the Marcher wind.
āA Princess,ā the Maester breathed, his hands trembling as he lifted the tiny, blood-streaked infant from the ruin of the sheets. The child was smallāentirely too smallābut her lungs were clear, her tiny fists flailing against the cold air of the room.
āA healthy girl, my Prince.ā
āGive her to me,ā she whispered, her voice barely a rustle of dry leaves but urgent, urgent to hold her last child.
She could feel the cold rising from her feet, a heavy, numbing darkness that was creeping up her thighs, settling into her hips like river ice. She knew the receipt had been stamped. She knew she was slipping away into the long twilight, but she forced her leaden arms to lift, her fingers uncurling in a silent demand.
The Maester wrapped the babe in a warm piece of flannel and placed her gently against her motherās chest.
Princess Rhae was a beautiful thing, even in her fragile, early state. She possessed the fine, silver-gold fuzz of the Dragon Lords, her tiny violet eyes opening for a fraction of a second to look up at the fading face of the woman who had bought her life with her own.
āMy sweet girl, my beautiful winter child,ā a lone tear spilled over her cheek as she held the fragile life she had gifted to her husband.
She kissed the babeās tiny, wet forehead, her lips cold against the childās skin. Then, with the last remaining reserve of her mortal strength, she rolled her hands inward and lifted the infant, placing her directly into Maekarās massive, trembling forearms.
The Prince looked down at his daughter, his chest heaving with a series of ragged, broken sobs that threatened to tear his frame apart. He held the tiny bundle against his chest as though she were made of spun glass, his massive fingers looking impossibly dangerous against the soft flannel.
āMaekar,ā she murmured, her hand rising one final time. Her fingers were weak, her touch a mere ghost of the Dornish warmth that had once tamed his savage heart, but she managed to press her palm against his scarred cheek.
He leaned his head heavily into her touch, his dark eyes burning down into hers with a profound, unyielding misery that broke her heart more than the approaching death.
āI am here. I am holding her. Stay... please, my Star, stay.ā
āI cannot,ā she whispered, another single tear escaping her eye to lose itself in the sweat of her temple.
āThe Vanguard... is falling back, my Prince. The lines are broken.ā
āNo,ā he groaned, a low, animalistic sound of pure, unadulterated ruin.
āNo, no...ā
āListen to me,ā she commanded, a sudden, flickering spark of the woman who had ruled Summerhall for twenty years returning to her eyes. She forced him to look at her, her fingers curling slightly against his jaw.
āThe children... you must love them, Maekar. You must guide them fiercely. Do not lock yourself away in the dark. Do not let the Anvil harden until it crushes them. They need you, as much as you need them.ā
āI cannot do it without you,ā he wept hoarsely, his head dropping until his forehead rested against her cold collarbone, the baby nestled between them.
āThey are too wild. They are too much like the fire.ā
āEspecially Aerion,ā she panted, her breath becoming shallower, the shadows at the edge of the room closing in until she could only see the dark violet of his eyes.
āHe has the madness of the blood... he needs his fatherās hand, Maekar. Not your anger. Your love. Promise me. Promise me you will hold the five streams together. They are oursā¦ the gifts that I have given to you.ā
āI promise,ā he lied, the words choking in his throat because he knew, even then, that a man with a hollow chest cannot harbor five wild riversāand now he held the sixth.
āI promise you. Anything. Just do not close your eyes. You will live, you have to.ā
āThe highlands...ā she murmured, her face softening into a serene, beautiful smile that belonged to the summer pavilion and the yellow daisies.
āThey smell of clover, Maekar. They smell of you.ā
Her hand slipped from his cheek.
The fingers went limp, her arm dropping flat against the stained linen sheets with a soft, final thud. Her eyes remained open for a single, lingering heartbeat, staring up at him with an absolute, unyielding devotion, before the bright, warm light within them simply vanished together with the last heave of air that left her lungsāleaving behind nothing but two dull, empty pools of glass that fluttered shut with the last twitch of muscle.
The silence that followed was louder than the collapse of a Kingdom.
Maekar did not scream. He did not rise to strike the walls or curse the Gods who had stolen the only light his miserable life had ever known; too deep was the lingering sting that numbed his limbs and stole the control of his body.
The Prince of Summerhall had died in this bed with his wife, and only a soldier of iron remained to guard the ash.
He had always been proud of his hands. They were the tools of a builder, a defender, a Prince who could forge a stronghold out of a barren mountain ridge.
But now, as they rested flat against the pale, unmoving fingers of his wife, they looked entirely useless. They were too clumsy, too rigid, too filled with the memory of violence to coax a single spark of warmth back into the flesh beneath them.
āI have no love left,ā he whispered to the empty bedpost. His voice was entirely stripped of its courtly cadence, reduced to a hollow, broken register that felt entirely foreign even to his own ears.
āYou took it all with you. You left nothing but the iron.ā
Behind him, the room remained perfectly still, the pale, beautiful face of his Star buried forever in the twilight of Summerhall, while the first true blizzard of the year began to howl against the empty limestone arches.
That year demanded tribute and stole the light and happiness from Maekarāas though the Gods had decided that his peace had lingered too long. Ever since Aemon had to leave, the peace within the walls had been fragile; but after this cruel winter, nothing was the same. The limestone of the Castle felt cold and unforgiving. His heart turned into a harsh rock that not one soul could warm.
He lost the reins over his own lifeāturned harsh and coldāand the lives of his children. They spiraled beyond his control. Each one of them had their own way of grieving that isolated them instead of keeping them together as she had wished during her last breaths of air.
The Star of Summerhall had died and taken its love, the ashes vanished with the wind. The legacy that she had created together with him, and left behind with her death, was shattered into pieces until nothing remained.
And as the rock broke off the Castle during the Siege of Starspike after all those years of being without his love and all those losses he had to endure, Maekar embraced it with no fear but relief.
Could I please request Maekar with making up after a fight and possessive sex prompts? I think those two would work surprisingly well together for him. I'd love for the argument to be about the reader wanting to travel alone to her family's seatāthe castle of her noble House in Westerosāwhile Maekar firmly insists she's not going. I think that would be a much more interesting source of conflict than the usual jealousy involving another man.
Through The Darkness, Maddening!
Maekar Targaryen X Blind!Wife!Reader
Prompts: somebody asked for more Blind Wife reader and so Iām adding that into this making up after a fight/possessive sex request! (Other fics in this universe 1/2)
Warning: argument, smut, mention of concern about assault (but none occurs), Over protective Maekar, Riding, creampie, lots of kissing/marking up, possessive, dirty talk
WC:1k
āYou and Daella?ā Maekar needed the clarification because surely he had not just heard you say that that you wanted to go with your youngest back to your families home for your fatherās nameday.
āMm,ā you nodded, hairbrush gliding through your hair as you sat in bed. He was still not used to how you did all these readying tasks everywhere but your vanity. He suppose the looking glass provided no assistance to you any more, he should have it removed āMy mother writes that he desires me to be there, and I wish for them to meet Daella!āYou explained
āAre you mad?ā His jaw clicked when he tenses the joint.
āAre you?ā Your brow raised and you positioned yourself to face his side of the bed where the matters dips āIs it not normal for a child to meet their grandsire and grandmother?ā You challenge.
āYou wonāt go.ā He settled, āIāll not risk you.ā
āRisk?! I want a real reason.ā Your arms cross over your chest. āA good one as well.ā You mutter with a dramatic exhale through your nose.
Maekar, who had worked hard to let you adjust to your new reality without sight, was struggling with the idea of you outside of Summerhall navigating these challenges was hard enough here, where he felt you were safe, where he trusted people to assist when needed and then there was the other concern, the one that ate had him more than you taking a turn incorrectly. āThere will be many lords thereā¦ā
Your brow raised āyes and what would be the problem with that-ā
āThey will look upon you!ā That sounded honest, it sounded like his throat had struggled to let the truth out. āOther lords. They will look upon you and if they hold desire for you in their eyes you shall not know!ā
That was far too flattering. āAny lord will surly know Iām a taken ladyā¦the child holding to my skirts may tip them off husband.ā
ānoā¦i cannot go and therefore you will not either. I must be there with you for these things now Wife, I trust not in the men of this realm. Theyāll see you, recognize that you cannot view their intentions and-ā his voice cut out. It came back deeper when he cleared it. ā if I am not there they will think you easy to harm, they will think my wife is theirs to peer atā
Maekar rarely gave you that much insight.
You were still frustrated, but at least now you knew why this ate at him. āI wonāt go, this timeā You relent shifting onto your knees and crawling over the bed until you hit his legs and move to straddle him. Your hands rubbing up and down his chest. Bare. Just as you preferred. āBut you will one day need to let me beyond this hall. Into a world where there are other men.ā The entire time youāre telling him this you also are leaning forward to kiss at his neck.
āYou are mine.ā
āI am aware.ā He could hear the smile on your lips as you kissed below his beard. This was no chuckling matter to him.
āwho,ā his hand grabed some hair at the spot behind your ear and pulled you from his neck brining your face up to his. āWho is your husband?ā
Your smile faded as his grip trembled.
āyou.ā You exhaled, hand rubbing his wrist and down his arm until your reached his head and your fingers gently ran through his beard. āIām yours Maekar.ā You swore to him as he leaned to you to kissed roughly at your jaw.
āAye, you are mine.ā He kisser your lips finally and you melted into his chest, his hand not releasing his hold on your hair but is other did grab at your night dress and gathered it up, tucking it up between both of you and your hand reached down to his lap. He was quite hard, and also sticky against your fingertips. His breeches already opened. Perhaps he was right? There were still things happening around you, in the same bed as you that you had no idea was happening.
āCome here, up.ā He grunts, hand giving your bottom a mild swat so youād rise up on your knees, giving his cock just enough room to be able to hook against your wet slit. His possessive tone always made you embrassingly aroused.
āI cannot suffer you being away from me so long. From our home- our life.ā He glides his tip against your clit. āI wager neither can you? Hm my wife? Can your cunt go without me?ā He taunts and you shake your head no. Eyes squeezed shut and nose wrinkled while your stomach knotted.
ān-no!ā You got out, having to put more force behind your words when they started to come out in a wavering tone. The loudness of your assurance earned a light chuckle of amusement from your husband as he directed his cock to your dripping core. You were more than prepared for him already.
The desire that was constantly strung between you both was so intense, so deep, it was wonder that either of you managed to get anybting done throughout the day.
āoh gods,ā you exhale as he helps guide your hips down. You were no maiden, nor new to your husbandās manhood. He was large and the fit was snug but you took all of him, that was how you both enjoyed it. His tip barreling against your sore cervix and his stones half smushed against your bum. āF-fuck!ā You only swore in the privacy of your chambers, it was a habit you got from him, the fowl language. You just did not know any other words that indicate what you were feeling in these moments better than that sort of language.
Your head leaned back when you felt the neat blunt bottom edge of Maekarās beard nestled against your neck, one of his strong hands curled around your hip and his other braced your weight at your arse to help with the riding motion. It was more of a frantic humping in truth because both of you kept to tight it a grip for you to really move that far up and down his veiny length.
āgods woman-ā he bit at your collar some, his grip getting tighter and you groaned feeling how he twitched within you. āYouāre so good for me, feel so good for me.ā He slured out quite a few more vulgarities, and his words got more possessive the closer his release got. āYou belong here, around me. In my bed.ā He grunts ramming his hip up against your thighs now. You were half limp fighting to be able to keep a grip on his shoulders because you always got soft and weak as a climax tore through you.
āfilled with my babes,ā he kissed the side of your mouth and you let out a long low moan of agreement. āMy wife, mineā¦m-my woman.ā You cried out when he finally filled you, his seed plugged within you as you clenched around him and shook in his lap as your peak was rode out as well.
You remained in his lap. Breathless and sweaty and when he eventually kissed the top of your cheek and started to do the normal, In his head, discreet checks to ensure you were alright you trailed kisses over his shoulder.
āWhen this next babe is born,ā you smiled. āYouāll take me to my familyās seat and let them meet their new grandchildren.ā
Maekar smiled and his hand ghosted against your stomach. āThe next babe?ā You could hear the pride in his tone.
āaye, husband.ā You giggled fingers moving to feel his lips, confirming he did currently wear a proud little grin.
Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Marital problems, Maekars control issues flaring up again, Aerion's being a brat and gets paddled, references to being sick, Blindness, Maekar hits her (but its legitimately an accident), PnV, Mating Press, after sex cuddling, creampie, talking her through it, Dyanna does not exist in this universe.
Word Count: 5.3k
Summary: When a fever takes your vision, Maekar who had tirelessly been at your bedside while you were unwell, suddenly is distant. You try to take steps to connect with your husband as you get accustom to your new reality but he seems set on avoiding you.
Youād married him in kings landing, had the celebratory feast within the Red Keep and even than, with all the planning and people, it had felt less suffocating than what your life had recently turned into.
Maids, ladies, maesters, gaurds, you had your own infantry of people to attend to you throughout the day while you became more accustomed to your condition. Youād not been able to see for moons now. Your vision just vanishing one morning during a week where you were fighting quite a strong fever. Maekar had seen men at war bleed out, heād seen his own chest cut open and be poorly stitched back together but nothing had ever worried him as much as you did, while your whole body shivered as you sweat through your nightgown. Your memories were quite fuzzy during that illness, all you really could remember was the aching in your head and Maekars calloused palm brushing hair off of your forehead for hours at a time.
You wished to feel those callouses now. But youād not felt them since you opened your eyes and were met with darkness.
Your ladies said he hardly left the bedside and when he did it was only to write ravens to the citadel to request somebody with greater medical insight! That devotion he had to you did not seemed to remain. The only thing that had changed was you and your capabilities. It was impossible not to feel his distance was because of the blindness.
āAemon, back to me now darling.ā You held a little stuffed animal in your hand and smiled when suddenly his little chubby hands pressed into your lap. Your fingers touched gently to his side and held him up under his arm to keep him more stable.
āWhat animal is this?ā You rattle the stiff animal, hopefully close to his line of sight. āHmm? Tell me is it a dragon?ā Motherhood had come naturally to you with Daeron and Aerion, you worried aemon was receiving less of your love than they had because you had been unwell for so long. He would never know how you were before, that you took pride in handling most of your childās care, that you would run about the gardens with them and bring them to the kitchens to help make rolls for supper. You had not yet ventured into the gardens and people got nervous when you even neared the kitchens and all the sharp and hot things it contained.
āTell me, what animal is it?ā You grinned when his one hand grabbed the toy and the other squeezed your cheek.
ābear!ā Aemon shouted in his precious two year old voice. You savored these moments, smiling, being with somebody who did not know yet that something was amiss with you.
āitās a dragon.ā
The voice was unmistakable. Maekarās. Not the guard who you knew stood within the room to be available if you required help, and it was far to deep to have come from any of your ladies that you had begged to remain in the hall so you could have a moment of normalcy with tour your youngest.
Your head snapped in the direction of the sound and your mind fumbled over responding. It felt important that you say the right thing. But that pressure of saying something good, something that might endear him to being in your presence more and actually speaking to you, it was just alot.
Had he just been standing there? How long had he been watching?
āHeās full of shit, itās got a bloody tail.ā Maekar shared his voice sounded a bit closer this time and your pulled Aemon into your lap, letting him take the toy to keep him content.
āheās two.ā You reminded.
āā¦and he knows the difference between a bear and a dragon he can see the distinction.ā His voice did not cut out. Maekar said many things he began to regret as the words left his tongue but he was horrible a bitting them back. He would just let out a huffed sigh after.
You bent your head down and kissed the top of your sonās head. Choosing to ignore that you were not even capable of determining if a babe was right or wrong while playing.
āmayhaps he likes to play tricks?ā
āperhaps.ā Maekar agreed stiffly for your sake.
āda!ā Aemon squirmed and your grip on his loosened. Shield gone as he stumbled across the floor to his father.
āDid the maids find you last night?ā You suddenly asked when Aemonās babbling lulled.
āyes.ā Short, direct. That is how he always was now.
Distant.
āThen why did you not come to my chambers?ā You werenāt sure if you were greatful for this boldness or if youād regret confronting him entirely?
āthere were reports, you know they require my attention.ā He excused his absence. It was horrible reason, there were always reports and that had not ever kept him from you in the past.
āthese ones specifically required a entire nights worth of your attention?ā You pressed, the bitterness in your tone unable to be hidden. You knew it was not to much for a wife to wish to see her husband, for you to want to be in his company. You missed so much. His touch, the intimacy, his private grumbling, you missed him making your tea in the morning when you woke and keeping everybody from your room so he could soak in as much quality time with you as was possible. Now he seemed content to avoid you or outright flee your attempts at contact.
āreports do not disappear if I chuff the duty of dealing with them to another day.ā He was being short now, like your attempt at expressing he was neglecting you was not fair.
āDo I?ā
That stung him, it chipped at the barrier heād build up around himself to keep distant. Even Aemon was silent after that. Your hand shifted from your lap to the floor and your began to push yourself up to your feet.
āyou are well looked after, your ladies are there-the maesters are helping you understand how to navigate as well.ā
Looked after? As if you were a bloody child to be managed? Perhaps that was the reason for his distance, he resented that you were more complicated now? That you were not an independent as you were before? Another task on his plate.
Your jaw was clenched so hard that you could not speak. He was lucky for that because whatever you would of said to as likely to be incredibly cruel.
āStop-ā you heard his heavy feet move against the floor and you hated that you listened to him, that you paused your movements and that you prayed he might grab you for one reason or another. āThe rugs corner is turned up.ā He informed you.
You paused, despite yourself, hope suddenly spiking as you thought he might reach out to you and guide you around the obstacle. One hand letting go of your tense grip on the side of your dress, opening a hand for him to take as you heard his heavy booted steps get closer to you.
Maekar knelt down, right before you and easily flipped the rolled corner down flat.
āgo ahead.ā He stood up, stepped back and watched as you made your way from the room and back to the grouping of people he paid to do what he could not find the strength to himself.
You regretted letting your hopes raise. Finding out quickly that it hurt more when you acknowledged, even just to yourself, what you desperately wanted from him.
That sting lingered in you all day. Tugging at you emotions still when you sat for supper at the large dinning table. That dreadful embarrassed feeling of rejection keeping your heart from being able to even celebrate what you would consider a small win. Maekar Correcting you when you first sat at the table and reached for what you thought was your cup. It had been Daerons and Maekar was quick to correct you and suggest the one near your left hand.
The wistful part of you wanted to read into it as meaning he was watching you, caring for you. But you rationalized it quickly as him just ensuring that Daeron did not get your wine and you his tea.
Your jaw clenched and you said nothing, just retracted your right hand and reached with you left. Nose wrinkling when you felt something that was distinctly not a cup.
ānow your fingers been in it-ā Aerion huffed sitting up in his chair to pull the plate back towards him. āYou canāt do anything right anymore.ā The boy grumbled and the table went deathly silently.
You pulled your hands back wiping them on the napkin in your lap and you swallowed tensely. You were the boys mother, you should lecture him, punish him, but your confidence was so deflated by this point that his childish, yet cruel, words were close to making your cry! You knew if you spoke with a tremble in your voice that it wouldn't sway Aerion's behavior.
āMaekar?ā You questioned when suddenly the suffocating silence broke with the loud screech of a wooden chair over stone. Your husband steps were unmistakable to your ears.
āMaekar it is alright-ā the fact that he was not shouting was giving you serious dread. He was not a man to jabbered about but when he was displeased he swore, horribly, and he shouted. It was just apart of his nature.
Perhaps when he entered a furious enough state he forgot to shout entirely?
āIām sorry! Mother Iām sorry-please.ā Aerion began to pour out apologies and you found you were also breathing faster.
āitās alright-we are all adjusting-ā
āThat was not fucking alright!ā Maekar bellowed and you put the napkin up on the table when the chair across from you was pulled out from the table.
Daeron, who was sat beside you wished for a moment that he might be blind. Then he would not have to see the brutal clout Aerion received to the head. Or witness that his brother was crying and reaching back for you because he knew father was likely to beat him for saying such a cruel remark.
āMaekar this is hardly necessary!ā You stand from your seat and at once a lady is at your side holding to your forearm.
Aerion should be punished but you did not think a boy of his age deserved such a stern hand. He was angry, frustrated with the trial the gods had upon your family. His rage was misdirected, at you, but his feelings were understandable! He wasnāt the only one frustrated with your sudden lack of ability.
You said far more hurtful things about yourself in the privacy of your own mind!.
āthis is the little princes room mālady.ā The maid informed you gently after guiding you out of the dinning hall and to your sons chambers. Laying your hand on the door.
āleave us, please.ā You felt the knob and took in a deep breath, attempting to relax your shoulders as you exhaled. You could hear your husbands muffled voice and Aerionās crying.
āAre you sure my lady?ā The sweet maid asked. Theyād all been kind to you, so youād regret snapping, but only later.
āI am blind not incompetent. I know what I say, leave me!ā
You only twisted the door open after the maids footsteps sound distant.
You strode into the room, hands gently splayed out at your sides. You had learned to brace your hands out a bit to avoid bumping into things. Though the bruises on your sides and hips gave away that you were only partially successful at avoiding colliding with furniture.
āyou will respect your mother!ā Meakar grunted a bit from the exertion of pulling his arm back and brining it down over Aerionās rump. āHonor her-help her as she suffers this curse!ā These were not suggestions, but demands.
It was somewhat ironic because from your perspective somebody should be telling maekar those things. He was quite the hypocrite to demand Aerion support you when he hardly made time to be in your company!
āEnough-Maekar, seven hells!ā You stepped into the room more when Aerion had let out another sob. Speaking up to try and stop this madness. Instantly receiving a backhand to your throat and collar bone that sent you stumbling back and hitting into one of your sonās wardrobes.
Youād approached the two of them from behind Maekar, which meant neither of you had seen the other, and unfortunately walked right into the backwards motion of his hand.
"Maekar...was that you?" Your voice was quiet as your hand rubbed at the tender spot. The rest of you staying completely still. It was a genuine question. You needed to confirmation because you could not see the truth.
Maekar, who had faced armies of men and tore them down without his feet wavering for a second, was concerned his knees might give out.
"Yes" You nodded at the confirmation, moved your hand from the red spot on your neck and knelt down fingertips brushing against the wood floor to stabilize yourself.
"Come here Aerion," he was pressing against you a second later. His little sniffles stiffed against your shoulder as you wrapped your arms around him. "Breathe, slowly son." you urged as a hand rubbed soothing lines up and down his back.
Maekar said nothing. You knew he was still there though, you never heard the sound of his boots so surely he'd remained there in the middle of the room.
Aerion whispered to you that he was sorry. That you weren't useless, that you did not ruin everything. It was as genuine as a five year olds apology could be. He was forgiven in your mind, that went without saying.
You managed to get him to his bed, tucked under the covers and had found him his favorite stuffed dragon. Maekar almost interjected then, Aerion like this little black one you'd made for his cradle when he was first born. He could see it laid right there in the basket that you were digging through. He didn't speak though, he just watched as you felt the seams.
You'd held this thing a hundred times, you made it with your own hands and mended a spot by the wing a dozen times by now. You could feel which one was his favorite and retrieved it eventually for him. Youād done it without needing Maekars help. You sat on the edge of his bed, humming him a calming song to settle him to sleep after he had the dragons snuggly comfort. Your humming died in your throat when his little snore filled the room.
"Don't" you warned when you stood and instantly heard Maekars shoe slide against the floor. It stopped and you took a deep breath before walking back to where you thought the door was. Managing to get out into the hall easily and walking slowly with one hand out to trail against the cool stone wall. You felt spiteful now, not wanting his help.
"Im going to your chambers." You informed him, speaking over your shoulder so he could hear you and follow.
Your world had changed. The fever had altered your reality forever and no matter how stubborn the both of you were neither of you could avoid what the gods had dealt you any longer.
He was surprised that you found his chamber so seamlessly. Youād made this walk before he realized when he took note of the soft whispered counting you did. You'd made some map in your mind of how to reach this spot. His room.
"Sit, I'll call for the maester." He was looking at the red mark his hand had left on your skin.
"Im fine." you bit out and took in a breath for some courage.
"Though if the Maester can fix whatever has been broken between us than i would gladly accept his presence!"
Maekar's eyes closed and he took in a deep breath through his nose.
"There is no problem"
"Perhaps not for you but I'm quite certain my husband can no longer stand to be in my presence. Or too listen to my voice. Gods-" your voice got sharper "He wont even accept an invitation to my bed!ā
"I've been busy, and you've been healing."
"You have been busy since they day we wed Maekar, and It has not kept you distant like thisā¦." He was silent. "And i am healed, No fever plagues my head, no shivers wrack through my body or food hurts my stomach. I am no longer sick."
"You are-" He began, about to defend himself with a poorly thought out excuse.
"I am blind. No bedrest will fix that. nor tonic. And No distance from my husband will heal me."
He felt like he was being invasive all of a sudden, Because he was watching your eyes well up and you did not get to see in return that his were beyond glossy.
"I should have done more." There it was, his guilt. The shame and frustration he felt at himself for not being able to take care of you better.
You floundered to find something to say, the vulnerability in his tone had been somewhat unexpected.
āMaekar, you were there for me. Next to my bedside holding my hand as the fever broke. That is all I needed from you.ā That did not settle his feelings of inadequacy though because he remained silent.
āYou rememberā¦after I had Daeron, when I said the bleeding had remained for moons?
āwhen you lied?ā He remembered. Bitterly.
Youād been so distant after laboring with Daeron. The maester had told him you were more than healed and yet anytime your husband kissed your shoulder you told him things were still not right. That you bled a bit still, that that maester said you could not lay with him quite yet.
All of it had been untrue and Maekar had known. He had let you have space until you eventually cracked and came to him and admitted all of that. Quietly sharing that youād been embarrassed and insecure about how motherhood had changed you.
Changes that mattered not to him.
āIāve less patience than you husband, I will not provide you with more space.ā
He laughed at that, a dry and sad thing but still, some amusement.
āIt is hard to have less of that than I.ā He watched your hand, your fingers going white from gripping the side of your skirt so hard. This conversation was not easy for you.
āadmit to your lie and let us move forward.ā You stepped closer a bit. āYou are not busy-you are avoiding me.ā
āthere are reportsā¦.and ravens and silly fucking squabbles,ā his shoulders were high and tense, you could tell from how he was breathing. You did not speak. Letting the silence between you linger in hopes that it might will him to fill it.
āi cannot bare it.ā His voice sounded jaded, like he was trying to keep it even.
āYou cannot bare to love me any longer?ā Your voice cracked. It could not be held together any longer. Perhaps he would response better to seeing the honesty in how you felt instead of the composure you fought to maintain.
"No." It came out roughly. A tone youād heard him use when discussing important matters. When somebody suggested something that he would not even hear more of!
"No, gods, no."
"What else am I to think?" Your voice trembled. "I reach for my husband in my bed and feel cold sheets. I call for you and get silence! What should I think?ā
"that I am a coward."
"Maekar-ā you frowned, he was many things but a coward was not one of them.
"I failed you." The admission pulled from deep inside him.
āYou cannot prevent a fever.ā You whispered, softening slightly.
āyou were in pain.ā He was angry, not at you. at the memory of your cries, your pleads for water and cool air, you stomach rejecting anything that was put in it. He was furious that he had watched you suffer unable to heal you himself or find somebody who fucking could!
You stepped forward, your hand letting go of your skirt and moving in the direction his voice came from.
āpain is not something that can be avoided, even by the most fearsome of princes.ā Your fingertips bumped into his side. āMourning my sight is not nearly as painful as mourning the loss of you.ā
His hand rose to your cheek as you got closer.
āEnd my suffering now.ā You beg. Cheek pressing into his palm as your feet stopped right infront of his. āPlease-ā
His mouth, lips that you had never needed vision to recognize pressed harshly to yours.
You grabbed his wrist urging his hand to keep it in place at your cheek. Youād longed for that touch for moons. Craved it. Need it.
āForgive me.ā He breathed into your mouth, lips barely backing away from yours.
ākiss me-ā you pushed up onto your toes to press your mouth fully to his again, your tongue gently sliding between his lips and tracing a place that you knew so well. Everything about him was familiar and familiar felt safe!
āforgive me-ā he grabbed both your cheeks and pulled your head back. āForgive your foolish fucking husband.ā He breathed heavy looking down at you. A thumb moving over to stroke gently under your eye and wipe away a tear that rested there. How lip twitched when he saw your eyes shift slightly, they almost looked like theyād focused on his.
āI love you.ā You squeezed his wrists fingers stroking the veins there and smiling up towards him softly. āBut no more separate rooms.ā You plead.
Maekar responded by backing you up until your knees touched the side of his bed and you sat, hands never letting go of him just drifting from his arms to his sides. Holding his firm, strong frame.
āno moreā¦your place is here.ā He bend in half and kisses your jaw. You melt into the feeling and start to lean back fingers looping into his belt though dragging him to follow you.
āIām still mad.ā You told him as his bread pleasingly scratched at the skin of your collar. His nose rubbing against the column of your neck as he pressed his warm lips to your tender neck. Focusing his attention to the redness he had caused there earlier.
āI know, you can be cross with me in the morning.ā His mouth continued it pursuit. Heād clearly missed and needed you as much as you had! Idiot man, suffered due to his own guilty mental cage!
āv-very well.ā You nodded voice getting airy when his lips got at the tops of your breasts and you felt your body raise up towards him because his hands were frantically beneath you to get at the back of your gown. Your own hands fumbled about a bit looking for his shirts buttons. You found one and then struggled to locate the other.
āMaekar-ā you groaned, getting a bit frustrated at not being able to do this properly.
ārip it woman!ā He urged you as he pulled your dress down over your wide hips and he smiled at the sight of the silvery stretch marks that covered much of the skin there.
You made a small struggling sound before feeling the fabric give away and your hands were able to get at his warm chest now that the buttons were all popped off.
Both of you were a bit uncoordinated as his trouser were pulled down and you wiggled free from your tights. That coordination wasnāt suffering because of your blindness it was caused by the build up of need, the frantic reaching and needing to be joined back together as one.
ādonāt you dare, Maekar!ā You warned him grabbing at his perfectly aligned hair when he started to kiss down your body, hands already rubbing your thighs to get them open.
ālet me taste you.ā He growled out hungrily. His nose just reaching the soft hair at the apex of your legs when you tugged at his hair to bring him up.
āyou could have licked my cunt every night for the last two moons had you not been such a foolish sensitive man!.ā He groaned at the scolding but followed your urging and laid himself out over you. Careful to not crush you with his weight.
āwhat does my wife want?ā He kissed you, lips harsh and warm against yours. āYou need me within you?ā He asked, brow raised as he felt your legs come up to wrap around his bodyās settled around his sides with your heels pressed low against his back.
āGods, yes,ā you nod, face getting soft and your mouth opening as you feel a pulsing heat graze against your folds. āPlease Maekar.ā You spoke softly while pushing your hips up. Trying to make his tip catch against your core but your slit was so wet from the anticipation of getting what youād need finally that his length just slid right up and bumped your clit.
The contact against your pearl had you moaning, lips already a swollen mess from the kissing and now your teeth pressed against them to add to the damage.
āMaekarā¦.M-Maekar-ā you squirmed voice desperate. He wouldnāt deny you, wouldnāt make you wait one second longer for something that he never should have withheld from you for so long!
ābreathe,ā he urged you hand cupping your cheek against as his hand pressed to the matress beside your waist and he aligned himself with your dripping core. He thrusted in fully. Searing through your warm velvety walls into he was seated to the hilt inside of you.
Both your brow knitted together and you turned your face to kiss at his calloused palm as your body remembered how he filled ever inch of you. How his cock stretched your walls and gave your stomach a pleasant ache.
He showered kisses overtop your shoulder, slured compliments and praised into your soft skin. Admission of how deeply he missed you and acknowledgments of how neglectful he had been!
He would learn from this. Adjust so he never did this to you again. He should be better than letting his own self frustration effect his marriage. You and your happiness were to important for that to ever happen again!
Both of your bodies adjusted quickly and Maekar was able to put a bit more power behind his hips. Thrusting into you enough that your breasts bounced up against your neck every time his hips smacked your inner thighs.
āharderā¦ā you moaned heās spreading back against the bed as your blinked up at the ceiling. He watched for a moment, wishing your eyes would lock on his, that he would feel you looking at him see that love in them again. He would mourn that loss for a very, very long time. You were the only person to ever look at him with that much understanding. You looked at him and saw deep into his being and he could always tell by how your eyes softened that you loved what yuh saw.
āyour taking me so well,ā he praised and began to move your legs up higher. They were being settled up over his shoulders and you realized quickly that he was moving you both into a mating press. āYou need this, donāt you wife?ā
Your moans for louder and you nodded and your hands grabed at the sheets below you. Gasping as he sunk in further which felt like an impossible feat but this position let him in deep!
āI feel youā¦.ā You groaned turning your jaw up and kissing at his face. Moaning when he guided you to his lips.
āwhere?ā He asked breathlessly as his hips snapped and he watched your stomach bulge.
āSo deep Maekarā¦so-ā you cried out when another pound from his hips came and your toes curled up by his shoulders. āHere-deep right here!ā You hand slithered between you two so you could press at where he was reaching. That pressure pushed bed rattling moans out of you both.
You were beginning to squeeze at his cockā¦he could tell it wasnāt the intentional clenching you did to get him dizzyā¦this was uncontrolled, your body was simply doing this as it took every bit of attention he was giving you.
You gasped every time he pressed himself against you pointedly after burying himself in deep. Your clit getting squished and it was starting to make you delirious.
āI canāt-Maekar itās so much!ā You cried out and he let go of one of your legs to grab you jaw. Brining you into his neck and holding you there as he pounded into you faster.
āyou canā¦I can feel you. You are so close.ā He guided. His voice was always tender when you got close, when your fingers tensed and body went taught and you got scared of how you uncontrollable the orgasm felt inside you.
Heād been your rock since the marriage was consummated. Made sure you knew he was there to ensure that the overwhelming feeling wasnāt going to rip you apart. Not with him right here.
Every roll of his hips pushed another stuttering moan from your chest and when Maekar made a low, long groan behind your ear your eyes squeezed closed.
āyour cunts too warm.ā He breathed, beard tickling your ear. āI need to fill you.ā He grunts and you let go of the waning grasp you have on your body and relax so the orgasm and rush through you.
āahh!ā You hide against his sweaty flesh and whimper as the after shocks run up and down your limbs. Your cheeks get red when you feel him fill you with a deep growl. He keeps himself pressed deeply into you both of your panting and not moving.
Slowly as he starts to go soft inside you and he feels your cunts fluttering calm he lets your legs down and wraps an arm around your back. Pulling you up as he settles himself agains the headboard.
You broke the silence first, while finding a comfortable position sat over him, still plugged by his length.
āyou are completely mad,ā you hum. Hand grazing over some of the scars on his side as your body rested against one half of his chest. āYou know it will thicken.ā You press a kiss to the center of his chest.
āWeād agreed to another one Aemon was older,ā he grumbled. Hand stroking up and down your soft back. āI cannot help myself.ā He admitted when your fingers paused on his flesh urging him to admit to truth.
āDoes it not please you?ā He questioned, a bit concerned that you may not want more children now that you could not see.
āWill you describe them to me?ā You asked. Quieter. Worry obvious in how your fingers trembled over a deep scar on his chest by his heart.
āyes,ā he kissed the top of your head.
āIām serious, not that they are handsome or pretty. I want to know weather their hair in the color of sand or the color of milkā¦and what their smile looks like.ā He looked down at you hand tangling in your hair to soothingly rub at the back of your neck. āYou must be detailed Maekar.ā You couldnāt imagine having a child that youād not ever see. That you may never know how they smiled. Aerion for example, he smirked, but would you know that itās a pursed crooked thing if you never saw it with your own two eyes?
āI will study them closer than the fucking maesters read those tombs.ā His tone was serious. āYouāll know them fullyā¦youāll manage to see them better than I even do I am sure.ā He kissed you. Fiercely. He would be your rock, here in this bed and every other corner of this realm. He could not slash a fever, save you from that, but he could ensure you were never scared, never felt alone in this world.
Drabbles in the blind!wife!universe: 1) im here 2)Maddening
pairing: bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby(bb)
wc: 16.3k š¬
contents/warnings: emotional manipulation, emotional neglect in a past relationship, internalised self-blame, discussions of infidelity, grief and loss, emotional dependency, body horror, strong violence, psychological horror, fear of abandonment, existential/cosmic horror, angstttttt.
notes: Strap in. This one is gonna be uh... fun! (thank you so much for your ongoing support btw, love you guys lots!!!).
š¹ better bobby series masterlist.
You move before the thought finishes forming.
Your arms lock around BB from behind, tight around his waist, your hands fisting in the torn fabric of his shirt. Your face presses into the space between his shoulder blades, breathing hard. His body stands rigid under your grip, every muscle locked, the whole of him vibrating with a fury so potent you can feel it sinking into your own body.
He's burning hot for once. Hotter than you've ever felt him before, the cool skin scorched away by whatever he's become in the last however-many-hours, and the heat radiates through his tattered shirt and into your cheek, your palms, and the insides of your wrists where your pulse hammers against his spine.
āStop,ā you plead into his back. Into the ruined fabric, that hum that's pouring off him like radiation. āBB, stop. Don't hurt him.ā
Bobby is kicking, his feet scrabbling against the wall behind him, his sneakers leaving black marks on the plaster, hands clawing at BB's wrist with a frantic, oxygen-starved desperation.
His face is darkening now, the veins in his neck standing out like cords. The sounds coming from his throat are wet and crushed. Because they're sounds of a body being denied the thing it needs most, but BB's hand doesn't loosen. Itās a closed system, a vice with a pulse rate of zero.
āHe doesn't belong here.ā BB's voice is gravel and sub-bass, the human register shredded, the words coming from somewhere beneath his chest. āThis is my territory. Youāre myāā
āYou promised me.ā
Your voice breaks on the word. Cracks open, raw and wet, and you press your forehead harder into his back, feeling the vibration of him against your skull and your arms tighten around his waist further. You hold on the way you held on in the meadow, in the nest youāve shared.
āYou promised you wouldn't hurt me, BB. And thisāā Your voice drops, shaking. āThis would.ā
BB goes still.
The fury doesn't leave. You can still feel it, coiled, massive, a thing with its own gravity sitting inside his ribcage, pressing outward against the seams of him. But the stillness settles over it like a lid over a flame. His breathingāthe breathing he doesn't need, the breathing that's been coming in ragged, animal burstsāslows. His shoulders drop by a degree, and the heat recedes, fractionally, from scalding to merely unbearable.
His hand opens.
Bobby drops down.
He hits the floor hard, knees first, then hands. Then he's on all fours, gasping, dragging air into his lungs in long, shuddering, tearing inhales that sound like they're being pulled through a crushed straw. The colour rushes back into his face all at once, from white to red, the blood flooding back into tissue that was seconds from permanent damage.
Kat is on the floor beside him in an instant, her hands frantic on his shoulders, his face, checking his throat, his pulse, and she's saying his name (Bobby, Bobby, breathe, look at me, breathe) and Bobby is coughing and gasping, his eyes streaming. The red marks on his throat are already darkening into bruises that will look, by tomorrow, like a handprint painted in purple and black.
You let go of BB, stepping back.
One step. Two. Putting distance between your body and his, and BB turns to face you, his hand lifting instinctively, reaching for your face, any part of you he can touch to confirm you're whole, and you step back again.
His hand halts mid-air.
You've seen BB confused many times before. You've seen him curious, amused, predatory, ancient, tender, wrecked with wanting. But youāve never seen BB wounded.
His hand hangs in the space between you, reaching for a face that pulled away, and his eyesāstill black around the edges, the warmth fighting its way back to the surface through the damage and the furyāregistering the distance you've put between your bodies. Reading the enormity of your retreat with a precision that leaves no room for misunderstanding.
You stepped back from him.
You. The person who named him. The person who leaned into his forehead kisses and fell asleep against his cool chest and taught him to dance in a kitchen he built for you. You stepped back, and the distance is a sentence he can read, and the sentence says I don't trust you right now.
His hand drops to his side.
āWhat the fuck.ā
Bobby. On the floor. Coughing, gasping, one hand on his throat and the other braced against the floorboards, and he's staring up at BB with an expression thatās blown past fear and into something else.
Incomprehension, horror, the cognitive whiteout of a man looking at his own face on a body that just tried to kill him.
āWhat the actual fuck,ā Bobby says again, louder this time.
The choking has left his voice shredded, hoarse, each word dragged across damaged vocal cords. He gets to his knees. Kat's hand grips his arm, trying to hold him down, but he shakes her off and gets to his feet, his legs unsteady but his eyes are locked on BB. His jaw pulses, hands fisted at his sides, and heās staring at his own face and finding a stranger peering back.
āThat's me.ā Bobby's voice is climbing, ragged with disbelief. āThat'sāthat's my face. That's my face. Why does it have my face?ā
BB's jaw tightens. The ancient thing flickers behind his eyes. A flash of contempt, of possessiveness, of the territorial fury that just had Bobby pinned three feet off the ground.
He looks at Bobby the way you'd look at a counterfeit of yourself. A draft. A rough sketch someone made before the final version.
āAnswer me!ā Bobby surges forward even as Kat scrambles to grab his arm. He shakes her off again without looking. āWhat are you? What the fuck are you?ā
āBB.ā You say it before you can stop yourself, before the anger and the hurt and the betrayal can seal your throat. The instinct to name him, to give him the dignity of the identity he let you choose for him, is still there underneath everything else. āHis name is BB.ā
Bobby stares at you both. The information moves across his face in parts. Confusion first, then processing, then a slow, horrible understanding that reorganises his features into something you've never seen on him. An emotion beyond anger, beyond hurt.
āBB. That BB? What kind of name even is that?ā Bobby demands.
BBās nostrils flare. āIt stands for Better Bobby.ā
Suffocating silence folds over the room. Katās mouth pops open in your peripheral, and you suck in a breath of your own.
āBetter Bobby.ā The real Bobby laughs. A short, ugly sound that's closer to a bark than a laugh, the kind of noise a person makes when the absurdity of their situation has exceeded their capacity for rational response. He barks out another laugh, then, āBetter Bobby. Are you kidding me?ā
BB's lip curls, a flash of teeth appearing. āI didn't choose the name for your benefit.ā
āNo, you just chose my face. You stole my face and myāand myāā
Bobby's gaze cuts to you, then back to BB. The calculation happening behind his eyes is visible, mechanical, each variable slotting into place with an almost audible click, and you can see the exact moment the picture completes because Bobbyās expression doesn't crumble; it hardens. Sets. His jaw locks and his eyes go bright and hot, the hurt underneath the anger so vast it makes the anger look like a puddle on an ocean.
āYou've been down here,ā Bobby begins, his voice pitching quiet. The dangerous quiet. The one that comes right before the blade. āThis whole time. Down here with that.ā He points at BB accusingly without looking at him. āWith some thing wearing my face. A cheap copyāā
BB snarls. Low. A sound that makes the fractured windows rattle. āI'm not a copyāā
āāwhile I sat in a basement for seven months talking to a fucking wall, thinking you were dead." Bobby's voice cracks open, choking. "While the cops thought I killed you. The tapes went blank, and your face disappeared, and everyone forgot you existed. I thought I was going crazy because I was the only person left who remembered what you looked likeāā
He's shaking. Full body vibration.
His hands tremble at his sides, and his jaw is trembling, and the chain at his throat is shimmering with movement. Heās a man coming apart at every joint because the grief and the fury are feeding each other in a loop that's spinning too fast to control, only amplifying the hurt beneath.
Each word comes out hotter than the last, each breath shorter, and Kat is standing behind him with her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide like sheās never seen Bobby like this because Bobby doesn't do this.
Bobby deflects; he bites. Bobby is the one who turns his pain into a joke or a weapon. But Bobby doesn't break. Except he's breaking. Right now. In a pink house on Level 974, looking at his own face on a monster and the woman he loves standing between them.
āTerrence forgot you.ā Bobby's voice cracks on the name. Pure pain that sinks between your ribs. āTerrence. Our best friend, remember him? The only person who believed me when the whole neighbourhood decided I was a killer. He sat with me in bars and told people to back off and drove me home when I couldn't drive, and he was the last oneāthe last person besides me who still said your name. And then one day I said it, and he looked at me like I was speaking a different language. Like the word didn't mean anything. Like you wereālike you'd neverāā
He presses the heel of his hand into his eye. The old gesture. The grinding-the-tears-back gesture, brutal and effective. āI watched him forget you. In real time. I said your name and I watched it fall out of his head and he looked at me with thisāthis pity, like I was talking about someone who never existed. And I wanted to grab him and shake him. Scream she was real, she was REAL, I loved her, and she was realāā
Bobby sucks in a breath so hard his whole body jerks with it.
āEighteen months,ā Bobby croaks out hoarsely, the shaking getting worse. āI nearly died waiting for you. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping. I sat in that basement until my back seized up and I couldn't stand straight, and even then I went back. I kept going back, and you're here. You've been here this whole time. Completely fine. With him. Letting himāwearing my face while heāā
Bobby can't finish the sentence. His hand comes up and covers his mouth, his eyes squeezing shut, and the sound Bobby makes behind his palm is tiny and wrecked. You shouldn't be hearing it, but you can't stop hearing it.
āBobbyāā Kat whispers, reaching for him.
āDon't touch me.ā He shakes his head, opening his eyes.
And the expression on his face is the one from the doorway, the one you never saw because you were the one walking away. The expression of a man watching the person he loves leave and being unable to say the thing that would make them stay. Except now it's worse because you didn't leave. You were taken. And what took you gave you a version of him that does all the things he couldn't.
Then, in a dazed whisper, āDid you fuck him?ā
The question lands like a grenade. Kat visibly flinches. BB goes rigid in your line of sight, and you feel numb shock slacken your expression.
āBobby,ā Kat says sharply. āThis isnāt the timeāā
āDid you fuck him?ā Bobby's voice cracks, splitting, the words coming out jagged and shaky because he can't control himself. āThis thing that stole my faceādid you let it touch you? Did you let itāā He gestures at BB, at you, at the space between your bodies. āWere you playing Barbie and Ken down here with myāwith a goddamn copy of me while everyone back home thought you wereāā
He stops, pressing both hands over his face. His shoulders heave. Once. Twice. The sound he's holding back is massive, and he still won't let it out. He won't. Because heās Bobby Franklin, and he doesnāt cry in front of people, not even now, not even here, when the girl he spent seven months talking to through concrete is standing five feet away next to the thing that kept her.
āThey all thought I killed you. Our neighbours. Our friends. Clark. Strangers on the street. They'd look at me, and I could see it. He did it. The boyfriend did it.ā Through his hands. Muffled, reedy, barely controlled. āMonths of that. Of carrying that and going to the store every night, sitting on the floor and talking to you because it was the only thingāthe only thingāthat kept meāā His hands drop. His face is red and wet, ruined. āAnd you were here. Did you even try to go home?ā
The room vibrates. The hum, the tension, the emotional charge of three people and two entities standing in a space too small for the volume of pain it generates.
You stare at Bobby's wrecked face, those bright, glassy eyes, his shaking hands. The man who loved you and couldn't say it and sat on concrete for seven months saying it to a wall instead. The man who grunted at your goodbye. The man who let you stand in a doorway feeling invisible. The man who came through the wall to find you.
āYou moved on too,ā you say lastly.
Quiet. Cold. The voice the Backrooms gifted to you. The flat, unmoved, survival-voice, the one that doesn't shake because it can't afford to do so.
Bobby's mouth opens. Closes. His features spasm like youāve struck him despite the distance between you.
āYou moved on too, Bobby. You're standing here with herāā you gesture at Kat, who shrinks backā āshielding her with your body, doing all the things you stopped doing for me. And I'm supposed toāwhat? Feel guilty? Because I survived? Because I found something down here that you couldn't be bothered to give me up there?ā
āThat's notāā
āYou left first.ā The words tear out of you before you can weigh them, before the part of you that knows this isn't entirely fair either can catch up to the part of you thatās been carrying this for months and is finally, finally letting it spill. āYou left me in that apartment, Bobby. You left me standing in doorways waiting for you to look up. You left me lying next to you in bed wondering if I was still visible. And I don't know why. I've never known why. I loved you more than anything I've everāā
Your voice fractures, words catching in your windpipe. You press your knuckle against your mouth, mouth wobbling, try your hardest to breathe through it.
āI loved you,ā you repeat, steadier, lower. Your anger holding the grief upright the way a spine holds a body. āMore than anything. And I didn't need to hear it. I never needed you to say the words, thatās the thing. But I used to feel it. In how you touched me and kissed me and held me. In how you looked at me in the morning. And then you stopped. You justā¦ stopped. And it wasn't sudden. It was slow. So slow I didn't even notice it happening until I was already standing in it. Thisāthis absence. Where you used to be. And I tried to talk to you about it, and you said don't be dramatic, and we're fine. I tried again, and you turned up the TV. I stood there in the kitchen watching the back of your head, and I thoughtāā
You choke on the words. Your eyes burn, but the tears won't come because the anger has dried them at the source.
āI thought maybe this is what love becomes. Maybe this is normal. Maybe I'm asking for too much. And I made myself smaller and smaller and smaller to fit inside whatever you were still willing to give me, and it was never enough. I didn't know why and you wouldn't tell meāā
āI was scared.ā Bobby. Raw. Stripped to the bone. āI was so scared of how much Iāā
āI don't care.ā Flat. Final. Your voice hardens despite the thickness of your voice. āI don't care that you were scared. I was scared too. I was scared every single day that you were going to wake up and decide you didn't want me anymore and instead of telling me that. Instead of saying I'm terrified and I don't know how to love you without losing myselfā¦ you just stopped. You made me feel so alone. I used to talk to the walls at Clark's store because the walls were better company than you were.ā
You suck in a ragged breath. It shakes on the way in, steadies on the way out. Bobbyās peering at you wide-eyed, his mouth parted, tension between you thrumming. You exhale, chuckling shakily, pained.
āAnd the worst part, Bobby?ā you pose, not waiting for a response. āThe worst part is it took me disappearing for you to care. It took me falling through a wall and vanishing from the face of the earth for you to sit down and say the things you should have said when I was standing right in front of you. You had me. I was right there. Every day. For years. And you couldn't be brave enough to tell me you loved me or hold me like you needed me. But the second I'm goneāthe second you can't have me anymoreāsuddenly you're on a concrete floor pouring your heart out to a wall. Suddenly you remember how to feel.ā
Bobby flinches. Full body, his blue eyes bright and shining. Like you've hit him again.
āAnd you want to know the thing that really kills me?ā Your voice is shaking now, the anger fracturing, the grief bleeding through the cracks again. āI was working the late shift alone. In that basement. Alone, Bobby. Because you stopped coming. You used to come keep me company, and you stopped. I was down there by myself, sorting inventory, and that's where it happened. That's where the wall took me. And if you'd been thereā¦ if you'd just walked through that door one more time, if you'd come to the store instead of staying on that couchā¦ā
You shake your head, glancing down. BB jerks, like heās fighting an urge to reach for you, to comfort you somehow. āI wouldn't have been alone when it happened,ā you go on, lifting your head again. āI might not have been standing in front of that wall at all. You want to know who's to blame for me being here? It's not the Backrooms. It's not BB. It's the fact that the man I loved couldn't be bothered to keep me company like he used to.ā
The silence that follows is absolute. Suffocating. The hum drops to its lowest register.
Bobby stares at you. His face is open in a way you've never seen before. No armour, no grin, no deflection. Just Bobby. The raw, messy human underneath all the performance. And the expression on that face is not anger. It's devastation.
Because heās just heard the exact truth he's been telling himself for eighteen months spoken aloud by the person he failed, confirmed, verified, stamped and sealed.
Kat stands behind him, her arms heavy at her sides, face tight with an attempt to hold her composure. Sheās just learned the full dimensions of the wound she's been dressing for over a year and finally understands it goes deeper than she knew.
BB watches you with an expression you can't read. His black-edged eyes roam over your face, cataloguing the anger, the grief, the terrible release of words held back for so long. His hand twitches at his side again. The instinctāto reach, to touch, to sootheāstill running underneath the barrier you imposed.
āCome with me,ā BB urges, his words low. His hand lifts again, reaching for your elbow. āYou don't have to stay here. Let me take youāā
āDon't touch me.ā
BB's hand freezes midair.
āYou're no better.ā
You watch the impact of your words jolt through him. The way BBās whole body registers it, a flinch that travels from his face through his shoulders to his hands. He absorbs it the way Entity X absorbs damage, except this doesn't regenerate. This is a cut that stays.
āYouāā BB starts, his brows furrowing. His confusion is genuine, nothing performed in it. Thereās no curious tilt he does when encountering new concepts, but real confusion, the bewildered processing of a being trying to understand what went wrong.
āDid you know?ā you bite out.
You ask it quietly, peering at his face. Bobby's face. The face that heard you through a wall and chose to want you, that built you a kitchen and kissed your forehead and promised you things and held you while you cried.
āDid you know Bobby was out there? For months. Did you know he was looking for me? Sitting in that basement, talking through the wall. Did you hear him, BB? Did you hear him saying he loved me while you were holding me and telling me it was all his fault?ā
BB's expression goes smooth.
The warmth and confusion drain, followed by wounded bewilderment. What's left is closed. Perfectly, terribly closed. The face flattening into something that's neither Bobby nor BB but something older, something that predates both of them.
You laugh. A short, bitter sound, no joy in it.
āYeah,ā you exhale. Shaking now, because anger can't hold your grief forever, the frame is buckling, and you can feel the tears starting to press against the backs of your eyes like a tide against a wall. āThat's exactly what I thought.ā
The room is quiet.
Bobby is on the floor with Kat's hand on his shoulder and bruises darkening on his throat. BB stands in front of you with a closed-off face and a frozen hand, the ruins of every tender moment you've shared settling around him like a ring of ash. Mr Kitty lingers in the corner, his dark shape motionless, his blank face oriented toward the centre of the room with the patient, unhurried attention.
āI need time,ā you say, your voice thin. āI needā¦ to think. I can'tāI can't be in this room right now.ā
You spin on your heels, walking toward the staircase, your bare feet on the floorboards. You clutch your notebook against your chest, your shoulders set in a rigid line, your chin up, and your eyes burning, but you donāt cry.
You will not cry. Youāll walk through this door and find a corner of this level that doesn't contain Bobby or BB or Kat or anyone else, and youāll sit down and breathe.
Youāll figure out what is left of you underneath all of this wreckage.
BB moves after you. You hear it more so than see it. The shift in air pressure, the displacement, his body orienting toward yours the way it always does, the magnetic pull that has governed his movements since the first day. His footstep on the floorboard behind you.
Mr. Kitty steps into his path.
The tall dark shape moves from the corner to the centre of the room in a single fluid motion, interposing itself between BB and the door, between BB and you. Mr Kitty doesn't speak. Simply stands there. Immense, faceless, filling the doorway with the calm, absolute certainty that informs everyone, silently, that no one is getting past him.
BB snarls.
The sound fills the room, saturating it. Harsh, emotional, stripped of the controlled fury from earlier. This isn't the predator defending his territory. But something hurt and desperate, unable to reach the only thing that makes the hurt bearable, and the snarl carries all of itāthe confusion, the desperation, the agony of watching you walk away from him and being told he doesnāt get to follow.
āGet out of my way.ā
BB's voice is low. Vibrating. The hum in the walls responding to him, the floorboards creaking around you, the cracked windows rattling in their frames. The power coming off him is palpable. A pressure change, a density in the air, the room bending around the force of an entity thatās existed for longer than these walls have stood.
Mr. Kitty doesn't move.
The house begins to vibrate.
A deep, foundational tremor that runs through the floor and up through the walls and into the ceiling. The scones on the counter rattle. A crack appears in the plaster above the kitchen doorway. Two forces pressing against each other. BB's vast, ancient fury and Mr. Kitty's quiet, absolute sovereignty over this level, this house, this ground.
Mr. Kitty may not be as old. May not carry the same raw, limitless power that BB channels from the Backrooms itself, but Level 974 is his. The pink walls and the Hello Kitty figurines and the golden light.
His domain, his territory, his rules.
And in this space, on this ground, Mr Kitty doesnāt yield.
The vibration deepens. The figurines on the shelf chatter against each other. Bobby grabs Kat and pulls her toward the corner, away from the two entities locked in their silent standoff.
āEnough.ā
Your voice. From the doorway, looking over your shoulder at the room. At BB, rigid and his mouth snarling, at Mr Kitty, immovable and calm, at the house shaking around them.
āStop it. Both of you. Right now.ā
BB's eyes are black, wild, fixed on Mr. Kitty's faceless head with a fury that has nowhere to go.
You look at BB.
It's the look that stops him. Your eyes on him, meeting his, and the expression in themācold, hurt, closed, the warmth he's spent months earning withdrawn behind a wall he can't charm or claw his way through. You look at him the way you looked at Bobby in Santa Clara, in the doorway, in the kitchen, during all those conversations he refused to have.
āLeave me alone,ā you say coldly. āI mean it, BB. Leave me alone.ā
The vibration cuts out.
The house settles around you into eerie silence, the figurines stilling. The crack in the plaster stays but doesn't spread further.
BB's snarl dies in his throat, not released but swallowed, pushed down into whatever deep place he stores the things he can't process. His fury collapses inward, his features rearranging not into Bobby's easy mask but into something fragile and deeply, fundamentally lost.
Because heās just been told by the only person who matters to him that heās not wanted here.
Mr. Kitty steps aside.
You walk through the door, up the stairs that donāt make a single creak, and donāt look back.
BB does not follow.
The bedroom is pink.
Every surface of it. The walls, the ceiling, the bedframe, even the dresser with its rows of small ceramic figurines. All Hello Kitty, some with bows, others with tiny painted expressions of vacant, cheerful contentment that feel deeply wrong in a place where nothing should be cheerful.
The bed is covered with a pink duvet and pink pillows, a stuffed Hello Kitty the size of a small child propped against the headboard. Youāre sitting on the edge of said bed in this aggressively pink room, clutching a pillow to your chest and crying so quietly your body barely moves.
You washed your face in the bathroom with shaking hands. The soap smelled like strawberries, which is either a kindness or a coincidence and in the Backrooms you've stopped trying to tell the difference. You scrubbed the tear-tracks and the grime and the black residue of Entity X's blood from your skin, and you looked at yourself in the mirror, but the face peering back at you was thinner than you remembered. Sharper. Older in a way that has nothing to do with age and everything to do with the kind of living you've been doing down here.
You looked at your own face, and you didn't recognise the expression on it, and then you did, and that was somehow worse.
You press the pillow into your chest, tears soaking into the fabric, leaving dark spots as you wipe them with the back of your hand.
A plate appears on the bedside table.
Cookies. Round, golden, slightly uneven. Arranged in a careful circle on a pink ceramic plate with a Hello Kitty border.
You didn't hear Mr. Kitty enter. You never do.
He's simply there, filling the corner of the room, his dark shape folded into a crouch that brings his smooth, featureless head level with the top of the dresser. His long arms drape over his knees. The posture is oddly casual for something that nearly went to war with a fellow ancient entity an hour ago.
You glance at the cookies. A wet, exhausted laugh escapes you. Because there's a faceless being the height of a doorframe crouched in a pink bedroom offering you baked goods, and this is your life now, apparently.
Are you feeling better, little one?
His voice settles into your skull with that warm, furred pressure, gentle and unhurried. Little one. He's been calling you that since the third time BB brought you to 974, and the tenderness of it used to make you bristle. You're not little, not a child, not something to be diminished with a pet name, but you've come to understand that little is relative.
To Mr. Kitty, everything is little. The Backrooms are little. Time is little. The enormous, life-destroying pain you're feeling right now is little. Not because it doesn't matter but because it exists within a framework so vast that even devastation is a passing thing for him.
āNo,ā you answer honestly. āI feel awful.ā
Mr Kitty's head inclines. A slow, measured tilt that you've learned to read as acknowledgement. He doesn't offer comfort. He doesn't say it'll be okay or this too shall pass or any of the empty phrases that people deploy when they can see someone hurting and don't know what else to do.
āHave you ever experienced anything like this?ā you ask, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. āThis mess. This kind ofāā
You gesture vaguely at the room, at yourself.
No.
A pause.
I'm not human.
You stare at him. His blank face gives nothing back. The delivery is so flat, so matter-of-fact, so completely devoid of inflection that it takes your exhausted brain a second to register that the seven-foot faceless entity crouched in a bedroom full of Hello Kitty memorabilia has just delivered the driest possible response to your question.
You snort wetly despite yourself, wiping your nose.
āIs everyone okay? Out there?ā
The humans are safe. They've eaten. I've provided almond water. It helps with the psychological effects of prolonged exposure. The mind frays here. Theirs will fray faster than yours did. A pause. The blank head angles slightly, as if consulting a source of information you can't perceive. The older manā¦ he was located. But he refused to come with my guidance. He's making his way back toward the entry point on Level 2. Alive, as far as I'm aware. Frightened. But alive.
āThank you.ā The words come out thin. Insufficient. You're thanking a being older than human civilisation for babysitting your kinda-boyfriend and his new girlfriend while tracking down your former employer through an interdimensional nightmare. āFor all of this. For letting usāā
You're welcome in this house. You've always been welcome.
Your fingers dig into the pillow. āWhat about BB?ā
Mr. Kitty's head tilts again. The angle is different this time, sharper, more deliberate.
The Backrooms are in disarray. An observation, not a complaint. Entity X's presence has had an unusual cascading effect. Smilers are ranging further. Skin-stealers have been reported on levels they typically avoid. Another pause. His faceless head angles toward the window, toward the levels that stretch below and above and in every impossible direction. Your boy is clearing up the mess.
Your boy. Indulgent, slightly bemused. You donāt correct him, not even now.
Entity X seems to have an unusual ability to affect other entities. Amplifying their aggression. Destabilising their territorial patterns. As if its presence is contagious. An emotional frequency that spreads through the hum, agitating everything it touches.
You think about Entity X. About the burning yellow eyes that never looked away. About the argument it played through the walls to lure you out. Why that conversation? Why your argument, specifically?
Why did it know what Bobby sounded like when he was shutting you out? The questions stack up in your head the way the entries stack in your notebook. Pattern without explanation. You can feel the shape of it, the edges pressing against the inside of your skull, but the centre won't resolve.
āWhy me?ā you ask, peering at Mr Kitty. āWhy does it want me?ā
Mr Kitty is silent for a long moment. His blank head angles toward you with that sharper tilt. As if he's reading something written on you in a frequency only he can perceive.
I have a theory. Measured. Careful. But theories without sufficient evidence are just stories. And stories can be dangerous in a place that listens and can make them a reality.
āTell me.ā
When you're ready to hear it, little one. When the answer won't do more harm than the question.
The deflection is gentle but absolute, and you know better than to push. Mr Kitty doesn't withhold out of cruelty. If he's not telling you, it's because the telling carries a weight he doesn't think you can hold right now.
You file it away. Another entry in the private section of the notebook. Another question with no answer.
āHas itāis it gone?ā
Retreated. Very suddenly. For reasons I can't determine. Mr Kitty's face tilts back toward you. That concerns me more than its presence did. An entity of that power doesn't retreat without cause. It either ran into an unexpected problem, or it decided to wait for a better opportunity.
The words settle on your shoulders.
You sit for a moment longer. The pink room. The cookies. The faceless being in the corner, patient and still. The faint sound of voices from the living room floats over. Low, murmured, too indistinct to make out words. Bobby's voice. Kat's voice. Talking about you, probably. Talking about what comes next. Discussing whatever people do when the world has ended, and they're sitting in a pink house eating scones and trying to pretend their worldview hasnāt just shattered.
You reach for a cookie. Bite into it. It's good. Buttery, slightly sweet, with a texture that's almost right. The Backrooms' version of homemade, close enough that your tongue can't argue.
āI can't hide here forever,ā you mumble, chewing. Your voice is scraped raw, and the cookie is doing nothing to fix that, but it's doing something for the rest of you. The simple, animal act of eating, of taking a thing and putting it in your body, of fuelling the machine. āEven though I want to.ā
Mr Kitty says nothing. His blank face radiates with the particular silence that means I agree, and I'm glad you arrived there yourself.
You stand, pressing your palms against your eyes. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. In. Out. The way you breathe before entering a new level, before turning a corner in an unmapped corridor, or opening a door whose other side you can't predict.
The survival breath. The steadying edge you didnāt have back in the real world and only developed here. The willingness not to run away and hide.
You wipe your face one final time. Set the pillow down. Pick up the notebook from the bedside table where you placed it beside the cookies, pressing it against your chest. The weight of it is familiar, grounding, the only possession you have that still feels like yours.
āThank you, Mr. Kitty.ā
Eat another cookie before you go. Youāll need it.
You do as he instructs, then open the bedroom door. You walk down the short hallway of Mr. Kitty's house, past the framed Hello Kitty prints and down the stairs, stepping into the living room.
Bobby and Kat are sitting at the kitchen table.
Their heads are bowed. Close together. Kat's hand is on Bobby's forearm, and Bobby's other hand is pressed flat against the table, fingers splayed, bracing himself.
They're speaking in low voices. You catch the edge of a word. Your name, maybe. Or something that used to be your name before it became something else.
Bobby spots you first.
He stands immediately, like the sight of you alone gave him an electric shock. The chair scrapes the floor. His face is a mess of competing expressions: relief, tension, the careful, wary hope as eh drinks you in. The bruises on his throat have deepened. Dark purple against his tanned skin, four finger-marks and a thumb-mark, BB's handprint developing like a collar on his neck.
You catch the flicker across Kat's face, brief and involuntary. The subtle tightening around her eyes, the tiny pull at the corner of her mouth.
She was saying something to Bobby, and you interrupted it, and the hurt of being interrupted is tangled up with the hurt of being here at all, of sitting in a nightmare for a man whoās looking at another woman with that expression. That searching, desperate, is-she-okay expression that Kat has probably been working for months to earn, and you just walked in and collected without trying.
You see it. You look away from it.
You wrap your arms around yourself. One hand on each elbow, holding yourself together.
āYou need to leave,ā you tell them flatly. āBoth of you. Right now. The Backrooms aren't safe for humans. They were never safe, but right now they're worse. Entity X destabilised everything. Every entity on every level is more aggressive than it should be and you don't have the training or the knowledge to survive that.ā
āI'm not leavin' without you.ā Bobby. Immediate. Jaw set, chin up, the Bobby-stubbornness that looks like courage and has always been, underneath, a different kind of fear. āI didn't come through a wall, walk through hell and get choked out by my own doppelganger to leave you down here alone. No way in hell.ā
You level him with a flat look. The one you learned living here. A part of you wants to remind Bobby that he tore into you less than an hour ago, but he's calmer now. Past the initial, ugly shock.
Bobby surprises you by holding that look.
For a moment that stretches into two, then three. Then his jaw flutters, his gaze dropping, and you see it: the fight leaving him. Not because he agrees, or wants to, but because the woman standing in front of him is not the woman he lost.
The woman he lost was standing in a doorway with her keys and her heart in her eyes, waiting to be seen. The woman standing in front of him now has a notebook and a survival instinct, and she's not waiting for anything.
āBB,ā you call out.
The air shifts. Between one breath and the next, thereās a displacement, and the pressure changes in your sinuses.
BB stands at the edge of the living room like he's been there the whole time, like he materialised from the wall, which he probably did. He's more put together than the last time you saw him. His face reset, the fissures sealed, the eyes back to Bobby's blue with only a thin ring of darkness at the outer edges. The black blood is gone. The torn shirt is the same, but he's cleaned the rest, reassembled the human costume with great care.
He looks at you and his whole body orients again. That magnetic pull, that compass-needle pivot, his weight shifting forward onto the balls of his feet, his chin lifting, his eyes searching your face with a hope so raw it makes your heart ache.
Because you called him. And the part of BB that lives underneath the fury and the ancient power and the territorial instinctāthe part that learned to kiss you in a kitchen and asked am I doing it right and pressed his lips to your forehead because you taught him that tendernessāthat part heard his name in your voice and came running. And heās standing in front of you now, practically vibrating with a desperate, transparent hope that calling means forgiving.
It doesn't. He can see that too. The hope flickers. Dims. Holds, just barely, at the edges.
āI need you to take Bobby and Kat out,ā you tell him calmly. The survival voice. āBack to the real world. Through the wall in Clark's basement.ā
BB's expression morphs. A crease appears between his brows, a tightening at the corners of his mouth. He glances at Bobby, at Kat, and the glance carries a weight that isn't quite hostility. Closer to resignation.
āI can't,ā he says.
āBBāā
āThe path is gone.ā He says it plainly, without the smooth, closed expression he wore when you asked if he knew Bobby was looking for you. āEntity X destroyed sections of Level 0 during the fight. The corridors between here and the adjacent entry point to the storage basement on Level 0 are collapsed. The hum no longer reaches those sections. They've been severed from the level entirely.ā
You can feel everyone staring at BB as you absorb his words.
āThen find another way,ā you say. āThere are other exits. Other entry points. You've saidāā
āThe only feasible exit I can guarantee right now is the M.E.G. outpost.ā BB's eyes are on you. Only you. Bobby might as well be furniture. āThe one on the far side of Level 4. But the direct path from here is gone. We'll have to go through the Poolrooms, and cut across to Level 4 through the threshold at the deep end. From there it's a straight corridor to the outpost, but that corridor runs through a section of Level 4 that's been unstable since the cascade.ā He pauses, weighing his words. āThe Poolrooms should be passable. Level 4 is the risk. Entities might shelter there because the layout gives them cover. Under normal conditions it's manageable. Right now, with the aggression spike, it'll be hostile.ā
You run the route in your head.
Level 974 to the transitional stairwell. Through the Poolrooms, warm chlorinated water and blue tile, a level you've mapped partially, three pages of the notebook dedicated to its spanning layout and the way sound carries across the surface.
You know the Poolrooms. BB took you there multiple times. You used them in the past for hygiene and a change of scenery both.
The water was warm, and the light was washed-out blue, and nothing lived in it that wanted to hurt you, at least not then.
From the deep end threshold into Level 4. The endless office complex, the one that looks like every corporate building you've ever been in hollowed out and stretched to infinity. Dark. Echoing. Full of cubicles and conference rooms and hallways that dead-end without warning.
You've only been there once, briefly, and your notes on it are thin at best.
Half a page, a rough sketch, a warning symbol in the margin.
āHow far?ā you ask.
āThrough the Poolrooms, it's distance without danger. Level 4 is the gauntlet. Maybe an hour on foot, if the path holds without shifting and nothing's nesting in the corridor.ā BB's expression goes tense, focused. āI'll clear what I can ahead of you. You navigate.ā
āWait, who's M.E.G.? Whatās Poolrooms?ā Katās voice floats over from the table, cautious but steady. āWhat even is that?ā
āResearch group,ā you reply, turning to her. It's the first time you've spoken to her directly without anger in your voice, and you can feel the shift, the effort of treating her like a person instead of a scapegoat to your jealousy. āExplorers. They study this place. Map it. They've been operating down here forā¦ I don't know how long. But they're organised. They have resources.ā You pause. āI think they can be trusted. It might be the safest option.ā
Kat nods, quick and decisive. The relief on her face is visible. Not at the thought of leaving you behind, or at winning some unspoken competition, but at the prospect of a plan. A structure. An exit with a name and a direction and people on the other side who might know what they're doing.
Kat is a practical woman in an impractical situation; you can tell as much, and the offer of practicality is the first solid ground she's stood on since she climbed through a wall in Clark's basement.
āFine,ā Bobby says quickly, his voice rough. āM.E.G. Great. Let's go.ā He pushes off the table. āAll of us.ā
You inhale deeply. āBobby.ā
āI said I'm not leaving without you.ā Louder. More determined. The Bobby-edge again, the blade under the casual, except there's no casual left. It's all blade now, all sharp. āI'll go with Kat. But I'm not walking through someāsome exit and leaving you in this place. I'm not.ā
BB's lips peel back. A flash of teeth behind the Bobby-mask, involuntary, predatory, the territorial snarl surfacing before he can catch it.
The sight of Bobby refusing to leave you, refusing to relinquish, insisting on staying close to the thing BB considers his triggers something primal in the entity underneath.
He catches it at once, swallowing over it. His lips close over his teeth, jaw clenching painfully. He doesn't speak. Just stares at Bobby with the flat, unblinking intensity that tells you heās choosing, with considerable effort, not to put Bobby through another wall.
Bobby, to his credit, ignores him. Pointedly and aggressively, with that specific brand of human stubbornness. Bobby will not look at BB. Will not address BB. Only pretend that the thing wearing his face is not standing six feet away radiating enough barely-contained fury to crack plaster.
This is Bobby's version of control: the refused glance, the turned shoulder, the full-body declaration that you do not exist to me deployed by a man whoās terrified and is handling it the only way he knows how.
BB turns to you.
His expression changes immediately. The snarl evaporates. The territorial fury, banked. What replaces it isā¦ you haven't seen this expression on him before. Grim. Drawn.
āThe Backrooms are more dangerous than they've been ināā He pauses, choosing a unit of measurement you'll understand. āA very long time. Entity X's effect on the other entities hasn't fully dissipated. Level 4 will be a problem. The interior section between the threshold and the outpost is normally dead space. Empty offices, dead lights, nothing worth hunting in. Right now it's contested. Things are sheltering in the cubicle rows and conference rooms because the layout gives them cover, and they're angrier than they should be.ā He twists his head, and you hear a crack follow the near reptile movement. āI'll move ahead. Clear what I can. You bring them through behind me. Move only when youāre certain, and stay together.ā
You look at him. Really look, for the first time since earlier. Past the anger, and the betrayal, past the closed-off face and the too smooth expression and the omission that restructured everything between you. You look at BB, and you seeā
He's thinner somehow.
The word isn't right, but it's the closest you have.
The Bobby-suit fits differently. Looser. The cheekbones more prominent, the jaw more defined, the chain at his rebuilt throat sitting lower against collarbones that press closer to the surface than they used to. He looks worn in a way that has nothing to do with clothing and everything to do with consumption.
And you understand, then, that the fight with Entity X and the sustained lockdown and the perimeter patrols and all the emotional turmoil earlier have been drawing from a reserve that isn't infinite.
As if even ancient things have a fuel line and his is running lower than you've ever seen it.
You choke the worry back. Push it down. Below the anger and the hurt, into a place where the things you can't afford to feel right now go to wait.
āFine,ā you say. āThe M.E.G. outpost. Through the Poolrooms, across Level 4.ā
You turn to Bobby and Kat. Bobby is standing by the table with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched rigid, staring at a random spot just past BBās shoulder.
āGrab anything useful,ā you instruct. āThe almond water Mr. Kitty gave you if there's any left. Take that, don't spill it. Anything you can carry that isn't too heavy.ā You glance at Bobby, stopping him in his tracks when he tries to approach you, his mouth open. āWe're leaving right now. Not in ten minutes. Not after another argument. Now. Every second we stay is a second Entity X might come back and cause more damage.ā
Bobby sucks in a breath, but the argument dies on his tongue. You watch it happen. He could spit back a thousand arguments, but youāre the one speaking and he hears the authority earned through months of exploration, notebooks, and close calls.
He doesn't trust the Backrooms. He doesn't trust BB. But somewhere underneath the hurt and the anger and a thousand unspoken things, Bobby Franklin still trusts you.
He grabs the water from the table without a word, shoving it in his jean pocket. His camera is goneāleft on the floor in the junction room on Level 0, the first camera Bobby has ever abandonedāand his hands look wrong without it. Empty. Painfully exposed. Like a man missing a limb he didn't know was prosthetic until it was gone.
Kat gathers the remaining almond water, tucking what food she can into her hoodie pockets. Practical. Quick.
āLet's go,ā you say.
You don't look at BB or at Bobby when you say it. You look at the door, at the path beyond it, at the route in your head that threads from 974 through the transitional stairwells to the Poolrooms and across Level 4 to the outpost, and you start walking.
They follow.
āStay close to me at all times. Don't touch the walls and donāt trust any voices you might hear.ā
Your voice rings flat. Instructional. Bobby and Kat fall into step behind you. Bobby first, Kat behind him, the formation you established at the threshold of Level 974 and haven't had to explain because the hierarchy asserted itself the moment you started walking.
You lead. They follow.
The notebook is open in your hand, a pen gripped in your other, and you're annotating as you move. Small marks in the margins, corrections, new landmarks added to half-finished maps.
The stairwell between 974 and the Poolrooms is narrower than you remember. The lights are different. Dimmer. The hum is carrying a frequency you've never heard before. A low, dissonant undertone, like a second voice buried beneath the first, and you don't like it.
Something skitters in the walls.
The sound is dry and rapid, claws or teeth or something with too many joints moving through a space between surfaces, and it tracks your group for three corridors before fading into the deeper dark.
Bobby's breathing changes behind you. Faster. Controlled, but faster. He's holding it together for now, jaw locked, hands fisted, the physical performance of calm layered over a body that is screaming at him to run.
Kat grabs the back of his shirt, her knuckles blanching from how hard she grips. He doesn't shake her off.
The stairwell descends, the air changing the lower you go. Warmer, carrying a chemical sweetness that prickles in your nose and coats the back of your throat. Chlorine.
The smell of it hits your chest like a memory: public pools in the valley, summer afternoons, the way the chemical tang used to cling to your hair for days. Except this chlorine is wrong. Too sweet, too warm. Like the Backrooms took the concept of a swimming pool and replicated it from the smell up, getting the details slightly off.
āWhat is that?ā Kat wonders from behind Bobby, her voice raspy.
āChlorine,ā you answer. āWe're close to the Poolrooms.ā
āRight. The Poolrooms."
You don't answer. The stairwell opens up, and Level 37 unfolds in front of you.
Water. Everywhere. Still, warm, impossibly blue; a type of blue that doesn't exist in nature, that sits somewhere between swimming pool and bioluminescence, casting its light upward onto tiled walls and low ceilings and pillars that descend into the water at regular intervals.
The room is vast, the ceiling dipping low. The combination creates a sort of compression. Intimate and infinite at the same time, the sense of a space that goes on forever in a room you can almost touch the top of. The water is clear to the bottom. The tiles beneath it are white, clean, pristine, stretching into a distance that the blue light eventually swallows.
No sound except the dripping water. The gentlest possible lapping against tile, rhythmic, hypnotic, the sound of a surface that is barely being disturbed by something you can't see. The hum is different here. Softer, rounded, the dissonant undertone from the stairwell dissolved into sound almost musical.
The Poolrooms absorb aggression the way water absorbs heat. BB was right. Nothing agitated shelters here.
āJesus Christ,ā Bobby says quietly, staring at the water with wide-eyed awe.
You wade in first, and the water is mercifully warm. Body temperature, lapping at your ankles, then your calves, then your knees as the floor descends in a gentle gradient. Your bare feet find purchase on the tiles below.
You've been here before and know the depth map. Thereās shallow sections that hug the walls, and the deeper channels between the pillars which intercut with the point near the centre. Thatās where the floor drops and the water reaches your waist, the blue light intensifying until the whole room looks like the inside of a sapphire.
Bobby and Kat follow behind you. Slower, less sure.
Kat gasps when the water reaches her thighs. Bobby is silent, wading after you without a word. He scans the surface, the pillars, the low ceiling, and you can see him searching for threats the way you used to. With that raw, untrained hypervigilance you had in the beginning when you could tell something was wrong but didnāt have the vocabulary to describe what.
You navigate by the pillars. Third from the left, then straight, then angled right toward the far wall where the tiles change colour. White to grey to a faint, barely-visible green that marks the deep-end threshold.
BB showed you this path. BB walked it with you, his hand at your back, his cool skin a contrast to the warm water.
And BB's presence now is a pressure at the edges.
You can't see him. Haven't seen him since you left 974. But you can feel the evidence of his passage all the same. A corridor that should have been obstructed, clear. A sound in the distance that starts hostile and cuts out abruptly.
Then a silence that follows when something deadly, fast and ancient has moved through a space and left nothing alive behind it.
He's ahead of you, running interference, clearing the route the way he said he would. And even through the hurt, the reliability of itāthe kept promise, the maintained commitment to your safetyāswells a lump in your throat you canāt quite swallow over.
Behind you, Kat mumbles something, a joke maybe, chuckling weakly even when Bobby doesnāt join in. His reply is swallowed by water churning around your waist.
āHow long did it take?ā
You say it without turning around. Your voice carries across the water, bouncing gently off the tiled walls, and the acoustics of the Poolrooms give it a quality that sounds almost peaceful, almost conversational.
Bobby's wading pauses. A half-step. Then he catches up. āWhat?ā
āBefore you slept with her.ā
Behind Bobby, Kat makes a small, indignant sound, an inhale that she catches in her throat, and then silence again. Just the three of you wading through water in a room that shouldn't exist.
You wait for the usual: the blade, the joke, the easy redirect, maybe even anger. But he surprises you again.
āFifteen months.ā The damaged vocal cords give the words a rough, scraped quality. āAfter you disappeared. Not afterānot after the store. Not after Clark kicked me out. Months after that. She'd been...ā He trails off, water sloshing around his hips. āKat was just there. Every day. And I wasāI wasn't okay. I wasn't anything close to okay, and I thought Iād never see you again. And one night I justāā He pauses, breath catching in his chest, refusing to look at you or at Kat while he speaks. āFifteen months. It took fifteen months.ā
Your stomach turns. A slow, visceral roll, nausea that has nothing to do with the chlorine and everything to do with the number.
Fifteen months of absence before the body you loved pressed itself against someone else.
Fifteen months of grief before the hands that used to find the small of your back in a crowd found someone else's waist in the dark.
You do the math. You can't help it. The inventory brain, the cataloguing brain, calculating: he thought you were dead. Everyone had forgotten you. The tapes were blank. Fifteen months is a long time when grieving. Fifteen months of believing the person you love is gone is a long time.
The math doesn't help. Not even a little bit. The pain blooming in your chest is too blinding and too scalding to lean on logic right now.
You nod. Once. Keep wading, your teeth sunk into your cheek to stop yourself from being petty, trying your hardest to understand.
āDid you?ā Bobby asks. His voice is different now, quieter, stripped of the combative edge from earlier, carrying instead a fragility that doesn't suit his face. āBB. Did youāwith him?ā
āNo.ā
Bobby exhales. A breath he's been holding since Mr Kittyās house, maybe longer, released through his nose in a long, shuddering stream. The relief on his face is naked and immediate, and you can see it from the corner of your eye even without turning to look at him.
āI taught him to kiss,ā you admit, still staring straight ahead. At the pillars, at the blue, at the threshold approaching in the distance. āBut it took months. He didn'tā¦ he'd never touched anyone. Never been touched. I taught him to dance first. Then the kiss.ā
Bobby lets out a soft, bitten scoff. Air pushed through his teeth, his head turning away, and you brace for the quip, for Bobby's deflection mechanism deploying against the image of his own face learning to kiss from the woman he loves.
But the scoff dies without becoming a sentence. It lacks heat., and it lacks edge. It's just a sound a man makes when he's hearing something that hurts in a way his defences can't react against.
When you glance at him, Bobby's face is sad. Not angry like earlier, just sad.
The anger burned out somewhere in the Poolrooms, extinguished by the tranquil water and the washed light, and what's left is just Bobby. Heartbroken. Worn to the bone by grief and stress. Looking at you in the blue glow with his eyes full and his jaw loose, his whole face creased with emotion Bobby Franklin has spent his entire adult life refusing to let sit on his features unchecked.
He opens his mouth. His lips form the beginning of a wordāyour name, maybe, or something else, something that's been sitting behind his teeth for eighteen months waiting for you to be close enough to hear itābut you turn away. Keep walking.
The water parts around your waist and the threshold is ten metres ahead, and you keep walking because if you stop, if you let Bobby say whatever he's about to say with that face in this blue light, you will not be able to handle it.
You're not going to have this talk with him now, while Kat is right there.
āWe're close,ā you say instead. āThe threshold is at the deep end. Keep your heads up.ā
Level 4 is wrong.
The threshold deposits you in a corridor that looks like every office building you've ever been in.
Fluorescent-lit, drop-ceiling, grey carpet, cubicle partitions stretching into a distance that the lights don't fully reach. It should be mundane. It should be the most boring level in the Backrooms. An infinite corporate complex, all right angles and fire exits that don't actually exit and conference rooms with whiteboards still carrying the ghosts of meetings that never happened.
You've seen it before. Your notes describe it as low-threat, low-entity, dead space.
Your notes are wrong.
The lights flicker. Every third tube is dead, creating pockets of darkness between the lit sections, and the darkness is too deep. A dense, weighted thing. The cubicle rows stretch to the left and right, and the partitions are higher than you remember. Head-height, blocking sightlines, creating corridors within corridors, and the air smells like old paper and burnt plastic.
āStay behind me,ā you whisper, your heart rate picking up even as you fight to keep your tone level. āSingle file. Donāt speak above a whisper.ā
Your feet carry you through the cubicle rows. Past desks with dead monitors and phones with their receivers off the hook, and coffee cups with something growing in them that you don't look at closely. The carpet muffles your steps. Bobby and Kat are ghosts behind you. Silent, moving when you move, stopping when you stop, their breathing controlled, shallow, and terrified.
Thereās sudden movement in the cubicle row to your left.
You freeze. Hand up, the signal you developed on Level 1 with BB, palm flat, fingers spread, stop now. Bobby and Kat stop at once.
The movement continues, a shape passing behind the partition, visible through the gap between the top of the cubicle wall and the drop ceiling. Tall. Hunched. Moving with a liquid, boneless gait that doesn't match any anatomy you've catalogued. It passes through the row parallel to yours, separated by one partition, close enough that you can hear the sound it makes. A wet, clicking respiration, each breath accompanied by a small pop, like a joint dislocating and relocating with every inhale.
It passes, the clicking fading into the background as it goes. You count to thirty before you move again.
Two more corridors follow. You pass a conference room with the door ajar, and inside you spot something that looks like skin draped over a chair. Smooth, pale, and gently rising and falling with a respiration you can see from the doorway. You steer them around it. Wide. Bobby's eyes find it through the gap, and his face goes grey while Kat presses her face into his shoulder and doesn't look.
The evidence of BB is everywhere.
A corridor that ends in a smear of black against the wall. Fresh, wet, still dripping. A fire exit door buckled inward from a force applied on the other side, the metal warped around a handprint that's too large to be human. A section of cubicles reduced to kindling, the partitions shattered, the desks overturned, and in the centre of the wreckage a shape. Crumpled and motionless, its limbs arranged at angles that suggest it was alive when it was rearranged and is not alive now.
You don't let Bobby and Kat see this one. You route them around the long way, through a break room with a vending machine that hums with a frequency that makes your ears ring.
The M.E.G. outpost is close. You can feel it.
A shift in the hum, a thinning of the air that means a threshold is near. The levels get permeable around outposts, BB told you once. The boundaries soften.
You round the corner into a wider corridorāopen-plan, the cubicles giving way to a broad hallway with glass-walled offices on either sideāand you see the equipment. Monitors. Cables. A mounted camera fixed to the wall at head height, its red recording light blinking steadily. Sensor arrays bolted to the ceiling tiles. Data collection equipment arranged along the corridor walls with the organised, labelled precision of people whoāve been here a long time and plan to stay.
āM.E.G.,ā you say, exhaling. The relief that pangs your chest is almost physical. A loosening in your shoulders, a softening in the grip of your hand on the notebook. āWe made it. This is their monitoring station. The outpost should be just ahead. We just need toāā
The hands come from behind you.
Three sets. Gloved. They grab your arms, your shoulders, the back of your neck, practised and coordinated.
You're yanked backwards off your feet, and the notebook hits the floor, your spine slamming against a body wearing tactical gear, a muffled voice barking something clipped into a radio, and the hands are everywhere. On your wrists, pinning your arms, dragging you sideways toward a section of corridor you haven't mapped.
These aren't M.E.G.
The gear is different. Same black from the first attack, not yellow. No patches, no insignia, no identification. The faces behind the balaclavas are blank and professional, and they are not studying you. Theyāre collecting you, the way you'd collect a sample they failed to collect the first time around.
Bobby's scream rips through the corridor.
āGET YOUR HANDS OFF HERāGET OFFāā
He's fighting. You can hear it behind you, the sounds of a man throwing himself at something larger and better-armed, the crack of a fist against body armour, the grunt of impact. Bobby's voice, raw and shredded and operating on pure adrenaline, screaming obscenities that echo off the walls while someone restrains him.
āLeave them,ā one of the agents says into the radio, his voice clipped, indifferent. āThe woman is the objective. Leave the other two for the others, itāll buy us some time.ā
For the others. The words register with a cold, clinical clarity. Leave Bobby and Kat in a Level 4 corridor swarming with agitated entities and walk away. Leave them to die. Leave them as discarded variables in whatever equation these people are solving, the irrelevant remainder, the human wreckage.
Your rage swells to near blinding.
A sudden, massive, tidal expansion in your chest, filling every cavity, pressing against your ribs and your throat and the backs of your eyes.
The agent's hand is on your arm, and the grip is iron and Bobby is screaming. Kat is somewhere behind you shouting, and these people are going to leave them here to die. And the anger is so total, so complete, so enormous that it bypasses your brain entirely and becomes a physical thing, a vibration, a frequencyā
The hands holding you fall off.
You stumble forward. The grip justā¦ released. You spin, expecting to see BB, expecting the displaced air and the black eyes and the sound of the humā
The agent who was holding you is staring at his hands. What's left of them anyway. His gloves end at the wrist, and below the wrist there is nothing. Smooth and cauterised, the flesh sealed as if the hands were never there to begin with.
He hasn't started screaming yet. The shock is still travelling from his eyes to his brain to his vocal cords.
You turn.
Entity X is standing in the corridor behind you.
The fluorescent lights are red again. That deep, arterial crimson that transforms the office corridor into a living organism. Red light pulses, filling the hallway from floor to ceiling, its matte, leathery skin absorbing the crimson until it looks like the corridor itself has grown a body. The featureless face is smooth and wrong, but then the eyes peel open again at your presence, and the burning yellow fixes on you at once.
On you. Only you. As always.
You stumble backwards, your heel catching a cable on the floor. You barely keep your feet.
Entity X is three metres away, and it reaches for youāthe arm extending, elongating, the joints clicking with a sound like knuckles cracking in an empty roomāand its chest produces a noise.
Low. Gurgling. A wet, clicking sound that lives somewhere between a purr and the settling of bones, repetitive and rhythmic and deeply, fundamentally wrong in a way that your brain canāt place.
It's a sound without analogue. A sound that a body makes when it has no face to express what it's feeling and must channel everything through the mechanics of its torso, and the sound is fixated. Directed at you.
The audio equivalent of the eyes that never leave.
āGet away from me.ā Your voice comes out harder than you expect. Sharper. The fear is there. Your heart is slamming, your palms are slick with sweat, your legs trembling beneath you, but your anger is louder. The rage that swelled in your chest hasn't receded. It's sitting right behind your teeth, and when you speak it comes out as a command, not a plea. āLeave me the fuck alone.ā
Entity X cocks its head.
The motion is slow. Curious. The massive featureless head tilts to one side with an almost canine quality. Itās almost the same tilt BB does, just wrong, and for one terrible second the gesture looks interested. Like it heard you. Understood what you meant. Like your anger registered as something other than a feeble attempt at resistance, and the fury in your voice is a thing it recognises, that it wants.
The agents regroup behind you. Three of them. The handless one is on the floor, in shock. The others raise weapons. Compact and military-grade, and open fire.
Entity X doesn't look at them.
The bullets hit its torso and sink into the matte skin like stones into mud, and Entity X's arm sweeps sideways, casual and unhurried, the way you'd brush a fly, and the agent closest to it comes apart.
Messily. The one behind him fares worse. The sounds are wet, almost mechanical and over very quickly, leaving nothing but puddles of gore on the floor.
Entity X does all of it without moving its eyes from you once. Bored. Performing violence with the same disinterested efficiency that a human swats insects. The agents are not a threat, not an obstacle, not even a distraction.
Entity X silences them and returns its full focus on you, and the clicking sound continues in its chest, steady, rhythmic, almost gentle.
BB arrives like a thunder crack.
The air splits around you, the pressure wave alone knocking you sideways. Kat hits the floor rolling, and Bobby staggers into the glass wall of an office.
BB hits Entity X at full force, and the two of them crash through the corridor wall and into the space beyond. Cubicles disintegrate around them, ceiling tiles raining down, and the fluorescent tubes shatter in cascading waves as two things too large for this hallway tear it apart around each other.
BB's hand finds your shoulder. Between one collision and the next, between heartbeats. He's there, beside you, in front of you, his black eyes wild and his damaged face cracking, his grip on your shoulder bruising.
āThe outpost. Go. Now.ā
You run, reaching for Bobby blindly.
Bobby is already moving, Kat's hand in his, pulling her along, his legs unsteady but functional, his face a mask of focused terror.
You grab the notebook from the floor as you pass it, scrambling on your hands and knees. The three of you sprint down the corridor toward the monitoring equipment, toward the thinning in the air that means exit.
You spot them in the distance first.
Yellow suits and masks on. Four of them, clustered at the far end of the corridor around a section of wall that looks slightly different. Smoother, carrying a faint shimmer that you recognise as the visual signature of a no-clip point.
M.E.G. operatives. Real ones, in their trademark gear, and they're waving at you, frantic, urgent, beckoning you forward with the full-body gestures as the fight behind you intensifies.
Bobby's hand closes around your wrist, pulling you forward, and you're running together, his callused fingers locked on your pulse point.
For about three seconds, it's the parking lot at Clark's store, it's the apartment doorway, it's every moment he should have reached for you and didn't. Except now he's reaching, his hand is on you, now he's pulling you toward safety with a bruising grip that says Iām not letting goā
Entity X's hand closes around Bobby's torso.
The grab is sudden and massive, an arm extending from the wreckage of the corridor behind you, reaching over your head, the joints clicking in rapid succession as it unfolds to its full, telescoping length.
The clawed fingers close around Bobby's ribcage and lift. His hand tears from your wrist. His feet leave the ground. His body risesāup, up, Entity X hoisting him like he weighs nothing, his legs kicking, arms flailing, his face contorted with a terror so complete it erases everything else.
Entity X holds Bobby in the air and looks at you.
The burning yellow eyes, fixed. The clicking purr in its chest, steady. Holding Bobby in one hand the way you'd hold up a lantern, displaying him, presenting him, showing you the man in its grip and watching your face to see what you'll do.
āLet him go!ā You slam your fists against Entity X's armāthe matte skin fever-hot and yielding and horrifyingly close to organicāand the contact sends a jolt through your system that feels like recognition, like touching a live wire, like something in Entity X's body responding to something in yours. āLet him go, put him downāā
Entity X peers down at you, his head tilting. Curious. Reading. The same interested quality from before. Your hands are on its arm, and it's letting you hit it, absorbing the blows with the patient stillness of a thing that wants to see how far the anger goes.
It throws Bobby.
A casual, underhanded toss, its wrist flicking, the arm releasing, Bobby's body sailing through the air of the corridor and hitting the wall near the no-clip point with a sound that empties your lungs. He crumples. Slides down the wall. You lurch towards him, but Entity Xās clawed hand closes over your throat, yanking you back toward it.
Kat's scream is a bright, piercing thing that cuts through the red light and the clicking, and the M.E.G. operatives move. Two of them grab Bobby under the arms, a third seizing Kat, who was running toward him, dragging them toward the shimmer in the wall.
Bobby is dazed.
His head rolls to one side, his eyes unfocused, blood from a gash above his eyebrow streaming down the side of his face. But he's fighting.
Even concussed, even barely conscious, his hands are grabbing at the M.E.G. operative's jacket, his body lurching back toward the corridor, back toward you, and his mouth is forming your name.
You can see it, can read it on his lips, the shape of the word you taught him to say in a hallway in high school in your junior year, and his eyes find yours through the blood and the chaos and the red light and for one second the corridor contracts to the width of that gaze.
You and Bobby. Looking at each other across a distance that is about to become permanent.
The M.E.G. operatives haul him through. Bobby's reaching handāthe same hand that dropped a camera for you, that grabbed your wrist, that used to find the small of your back in a crowd and cup your face before he kissed youādisappears through the shimmer, still reaching. Kat follows, and the wall smooths over again. The no-clip point seals.
They're gone.
Entity X stands behind you. The clicking sound in its chest shifts, lowering, a frequency that almost sounds satisfied. It adjusts its grip on you.
BB's fist connects with the side of Entity X's torso.
The impact sends the massive red body sideways, slamming into the corridor wall with enough force to buckle the drywall and shatter every remaining light tube within a fifty-foot radius.
The red light dies, plunging the space into darkness lit only by Entity X's yellow eyes and the faint, colourless glow leaking through the cracks in BB's ruined face.
BB's hand finds your shoulder.
The world folds.
The displacement dumps you onto the grass of Level 14, and the impact is soft, yielding, the earth absorbing you the way the Poolrooms absorb sound.
You land on your hands and knees, and the grass is cool and damp against your palms, and you gasp. Pull air in through your teeth. Your lungs are burning. Your ribs ache from the displacement, from the running, from the screaming, from the hours or minutes or however long it's been since you ate a cookie in the pink bedroom and walked into the worst day of your life.
BB is beside you. On his knees. His hands on your arms, your shoulders, running over you with that focused, diagnostic urgency. Heās checking for injuries, for broken things he can fix with his hands, because the broken things he can't fix are piling up faster than he can count.
His fingers press against your ribs. Your wrists. His eyes search your face with a desperation thatās stripped away the last of the Bobby-mask. What's looking at you is BB, just BB, the cracks in his face leaking that pale light, his jaw pulsing, his mouth pressed into a tight line.
āYou're not hurt,ā he says. Half-statement, half-question, his hands lingering on your shoulders. āTell me you're not hurt.ā
You shake your head because you can't speak yet.
The breath is still caught somewhere between your diaphragm and your throat, snagged on the adrenaline. On the afterimage of Bobby's reaching hand disappearing through the wall, and the sound of Entity X's clicking purr.
You fall back onto the grass, press your palms over your eyes, and breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The stream somewhere behind you moves over its stones with the gentle, trickling sound while golden light drips over your shaking hands.
It takes minutes. Several.
The shaking subsides in stages. Hands first, then arms, then the deep tremor in your core that's been running since since the red light, since the first time you heard Entity X's clicking in the corridor and knew, with a certainty that bypassed logic, that it was coming for you.
The shaking stops, your breathing evening out. Your hands drop from your face, and the meadow is still there. All of it. The tall grass, the fallen log, the amber sky that never changes. BB sits across from you with his knees drawn up and his forearms resting on them and his face wearing the careful, watchful expression.
You rub your face. Drag your fingers across your eyes, your cheekbones, the tight muscles at your jaw. Working off the edge. Pressing the panic down into the place where it can be stored and processed later, when BB isn't watching, when the aftershocks have enough room to shake without an audience.
āEntity X is gone,ā BB says quietly after another moment, testing. His voice is low and rough, stripped of its usual easy warmth. āThey retreated. Again. Whatever he wantedāā He looks troubled, genuinely so. āBobby and Kat are through. The M.E.G. have them. They're out of the Backrooms.ā
You nod, staring blankly at the grass between your knees.
āYou did it.ā Softer now. Almost gentle. The voice from the kitchen, from the dance, from the mornings he'd say hey, baby and the world would shrink to the width of his full mouth. āYou got them through. They're safe because of you. And I canāI'll rebuild. The apartment. The sublevel. I'll find Entity X and after I've dealt with it, we canāā
āWhy didn't you tell me?ā
BB falls silent.
A bird, the same small brown bird, or one just like it, lands on the branch above the fallen log and tips its head and watches you with one bright black eye.
āAbout Bobby.ā Your voice is calm. Scraped clean of anger, clean of accusation. Just the question, unadorned, sitting in the air between you. āYou heard him. Through the wall, same as me. For months. You heard him looking for me. You knew he loved me. You knew he was sitting three inches away from the entry point, saying the things I needed to hear.ā You look at BB. His face, Bobby's face, the face you touched and kissed and studied in firelight and fluorescent light and the blue glow of the Poolrooms. āWhy didn't you tell me, BB?ā
BB is quiet for a long time. The bird chirps a few times in the tree above. The amber light paints his cracked and healing face, and the tense silence between you fills with the full weight of every answer he could give and the inadequacy of all of them.
āI heard how lonely you were.ā Picking through the words the way you'd pick through wreckage, testing each one before putting weight on it. āBefore you came through. When you were alone in the basement, on the late shifts. I heard what loneliness sounded like in your voice. And when you were hereāwhen you cried, when you talked about him, when you said he stopped seeing meāI thoughtāā He falters, shifting in such an shy, human way you almost soften. āI thought we were the same. That our loneliness was the same. Mine and yours. And that I couldāā
āThat's not what I asked,ā you intone coolly.
BB flinches. His fingers curl against his forearms, pressing into the fabric of his ruined shirt as he ducks his head lower.
āBB. Tell me the truth.ā
BB's face visibly contorts with pain, his features rearranging around an admission he's been carrying for months the way you carried your anger. Not smoothing over. Not closing off. Just hurting.
āI knew you still loved him,ā he admits, barely above a whisper. His eyes fix on the grass, unable to look at you. āI could hear it. Every time you said his name. Every time you cried about him. Every time you talked about the apartment, the mornings you shared, the way he used to look at you. You never stopped loving him. And Iāā His voice thins, fraying. āI thought if you knew he was looking, if you knew he was right there, you'd leave. You'd go back through the wall and I'dāā
He stops, swallowing thickly. The sound is audible. The borrowed mechanism of a throat that doesn't need to swallow performing the gesture anyway because the emotion behind it is real even if the body isn't.
āI know it was selfish,ā he adds in a hushed whisper.
You gaze at him blankly for what feels like a small eternity.
āYou didn't just withhold it.ā Your voice is steady, but your hands are shaking again. Anger and grief coiling together so tightly you can't separate them, can't feel where one ends and the other begins. āYou used my loneliness. You heard me at my lowest, and you leaned into it. You built a life around my isolation because as long as I was isolated, as long as I didn't know there was something to go back to, I'd stay. With you. That's not love, BB. That's keeping.ā
BB's head snaps up. His eyes are bright and wounded, but the expression on his face is gutted. Sheer hollowed-out devastation of hearing the worst possible interpretation of the best thing he ever did and recognising, with a clarity that makes his whole face crumble, that the interpretation isn't wrong.
āBut it's what you did.ā Quiet. Final. āRegardless of what you meant. Regardless of how well you meant it. That is exactly what you did. You heard a woman crying about being invisible, and instead of telling her she was being looked for, you made yourself the only thing she could see.ā
The amber light falls on his struck face, and the cracks in it have stopped leaking, the damage from the fight slowly closing, and the face that's left is Bobby's, wearing an expression he never wore.
Raw and open, and so deeply, completely sorry that the air around it seems to bend.
āYou were happy,ā he says quietly. Almost to himself. Like he's testing the memory against the accusation, holding them up side by side to see if they can coexist. āYou started smiling again. Laughing. When we walked through the Poolrooms the first time, you laughed at something I said and the soundāā His voice catches. āThe sound was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. I thoughtāI thought I was fixing it. The loneliness. The pain. I thought if I could justākeep you safe, keep you close, give you everything he didn'tāyou wouldn't need to go back. You wouldn't want to. And that would be enough.ā
Your eyes burn, tears pressing forward, hot and insistent, and you clench your jaw against them.
Because you can hear his sincerity. The genuine, unperformed, unhuman sincerity. He heard you cry through concrete and decided, with the full weight of its ancient and limited understanding, that the solution to your pain was its presence.Ā
BB didn't think he was trapping you. BB thought he was saving you.
The distinction doesn't make it okay. The distinction makes it worse because it means the thing that hurt you was trying, with every tool it had, to love you well. And its best tool was deception.
āYou should have told me.ā Tears are falling now, and you don't wipe them. āYou should have given me the information. All of it. And then you should have let me choose. Even if the choice was leaving. Even if the choice was him. You should have let it be my choice, BB. That's what love does. It doesn't decide for the other person. It doesn't curate the options to guarantee the outcome you want. It gives them everything, and it lets them choose, and it survives the choosing, even if the choice breaks it.ā
BB says nothing. His eyes fix on yours, and his expression is accepting. Terrible, slow, grinding acceptance. The kind that arrives not all at once but in layers, each one heavier than the last, pressing down on whatever passes for his heart.
āI didn't want to lose you,ā he whispers, his voice catching. āI'm sorry. IāI didn't want to lose you.ā
You sit across from the being who built you a kitchen and taught itself to kiss and pressed its mouth to your forehead every morning so it could lie to you with every tender gesture because the truth would have set you free and freedom was the one thing it couldn't give.
You breathe in, glancing up at the sky. At those breathtaking gradients of gold and amber, laced with violet at the edges. The sky that never changes, the eternal late afternoon of a level called Paradise that exists inside a place that shouldn't exist at all.
You look back at BB.
āDo you know why I stayed?ā you ask softly. āIn the beginning. When I found out you weren't actually Bobby. Do you know why I didn't run?ā
BB's face tightens, and the pain that crosses it is visible, bright hot.
āBecause of the face,ā he says, low and pained. The words dragged out of him like splinters from beneath the skin. āBecause I look like him. Because you love him. Because you wanted himāalways him, always Bobbyāand I was close enough.ā
Your eyes fill. The tears spill over fresh, tracking down your cheeks, and you stand. Cross the distance between you. Close it. Three feet. Two. One. Until you're standing in front of him and he's looking up at you from the grass with Bobby's blue eyes and BB's anguish and the meadow light on both of you.
You touch his face.
Your fingertips on his cheekbone. The line of his jaw. The scar from the cabinet door that happened to someone else's body. Your thumb traces the corner of his mouth. That corner where the grin starts, the lopsided one, the one that's his and not Bobby's.
BB makes a sound. Low. Wounded.
A vibration that starts in his chest and comes through his throat as something between a sigh and a moan. His eyes close and his head turns into your palm, nuzzling closer. Desperate, pressing his face into your hand the way he did the first time you touched him. The sound he's making is continuous, a keening that he can't seem to stop, and his hand comes up and covers yours on his cheek and holds it there, feeling him shake.
āIt was never about the face,ā you choke out, your voice breaking. The tears fall freely now, and you let them. āIt was you. Just you, BB. The way you listened. The way you learned me. The way you held me like I was the first thing you'd ever wanted to hold. The way you asked am I doing it right after kissing me, and the answer was always yes. It was always just you.ā
BB's eyes crack open. Wet. Bobby's blue, glassy with a moisture that shouldn't be there, that his body doesn't produce, that has no biological mechanism to explain itā¦ and yet. His lashes are dark and clumped, his eyes full and the expression in them is so devastated, so completely and utterly undone, that you have to look away.
You pull your hand back.
BB makes another sound. Louder. A moan that cracks open midway through and becomes something raw and guttural, a noise that comes from the place beneath the face, beneath the voice, from whatever vast and ancient thing lives at the core of him and is now experiencing, for the first time in its incomprehensible existence, the human agony of being left by the person it loves.
āNo,ā he breathes. āPlease. No, no.ā
You lower your head. āTake me to the M.E.G. outpost.ā
āPlease.ā His hand reaches for yours but catches only air. You've stepped back and his fingers close on nothing and his faceāBobby's face, BB's face, the face that learned to smile because you smiled firstācontorts. āDon't. Don't leave. You can'tāI'll fix it. I'll tell you everything, I'll never keep anything from you again, I'llāā
āBB.ā
āāthe apartment, I'll make it better. I'll find Entity X and end it, and you'll be safe. You'll be safe forever, I can keep you safe, please, I canāā
You can barely speak. āBB. Stop.ā
He stops, his mouth trembling. The word he was forming dies on his tongue. His eyes rest on you, wide and wet, terrified.
āAll that's waiting out there is a life that hurt you,ā he blurts out, desperate. The words tumble, tripping over each other. BB, who is rarely inarticulate, is now struggling to assemble sentences fast enough to change the outcome. āIllness and old age and people who forgot you andāand a man who didn't see you until you were gone. That's what's on the other side of the wall. Youāll d-die. Iā¦ no. Please, no. Not you, not you.ā
Your heart is ripping apart. A physical sensation of something in your chest being torn in two directions at once, the fibres separating, the tissue rending.
He's right. He's right about all of it. The world on the other side of the wall is the one that hurt you. The one that made you invisible. The one that let you stand in doorways waiting to be loved and answered with grunts and cold sheets and blank tapes that erased your face. There is nothing on the other side of the wall that is gentle the way BB is gentle, nothing that listens the way he listens, nothing that will press its mouth to your forehead every morning and hold you through the night and learn your name syllable by syllable.
But it's your life. The miserable, broken, painful, mortal thing. Yours.
āIf you love me,ā you say in a quiet rasp, each word costing a piece of your heart you can feel being subtracted from the centre of your chest. āIf you love me the way you say you do. If that promise you made me meant anything at all, or the name I gave you meant anything... then you'll let me leave.ā
BB stares at you. The tearsāhis tears, not Bobby's, the moisture that has no biological origin and exists only because the grief demanded a vesselātracking down his cheeks, and where they fall the skin glows. Faint. Luminescent. A soft, shimmering iridescence that blooms along the tracks of the tears like bioluminescence, like foxfire, a visible signature of an inhuman emotion marking inhuman skin.
His agony written on his face in light.
BB reaches for your shoulder slowly. His hand is gentle, his touch almost absent.
The meadow folds around you, your stomach lurching. The golden light compresses, narrows, and when the world straightens again, you're standing in the corridor on Level 4.
The monitoring equipment. The cameras. The wall with the shimmer. The remains from operatives are mostly gone. Absorbed by the Backrooms, consumed by the level itself, the corridor healing over the evidence of violence the way skin heals over a wound. A few remain. Dark shapes at the periphery that you don't look at.
The no-clip wall is there. The shimmer and behind it the real world. A place where it rains, and people eat hotdogs and phone calls go unanswered. Where love atrophies through neglect and everyone you've ever known has forgotten your face.
And BB's hand rests on your shoulder, trembling openly. A hand that was built to hold on, that heard you, chose you, kept you, loved you and lied to you, and is now standing in a corridor doing the one thing it has never done.
Letting go.
His hand lifts from your shoulder.
You feel the absence instantly. The place where his palm was goes cold, the last physical connection between your bodies dissolving into air.
āPlease,ā he rasps behind you, low and shaking, stripped of everything. The charm, the cockiness, the ancient resonance, the hum's harmonic, all of it gone, the voice of a thing that has been reduced to its simplest possible setting: a being, in a hallway, begging. āPlease stay. Please don't leave me alone again. Please.ā
You turn, walking toward the wall. Your notebook tight against your chest.
āPlease.ā Louder, more frantic, the word cracking. āI'll be better. I'll tell you everything. I'll never lie to you again. I'llāI can change. I can learn. You taught me how to dance and how to kiss. How to hold you. Teach me this too, teach me how to let you be angry and still stay, teach me how toāā
You keep walking. The shimmer is close now. Five metres. Four.
āPlease don't go.ā His voice is climbing. Not in volume, in pitch. In frequency. The human register giving way to something else, something that vibrates in the walls and the floor, fillings in your teeth. āPlease. I can'tāI'll be alone. I'll be alone again. I was alone for so long, and then you were there, and I heard you. You were the first voice ināināā
The sound fractures. Becomes a keening. A high, sustained, inhuman wail that has no words left in it, just the raw frequency of loss, a being older than language grieving in the only language it has left. Sound itself, vibration itself, the hum turned inside out and made to carry a weight it was never designed to hold.
You stop.
Your composure breaks. Silent tears pour down your face, and your mouth contorts, your chest heaving and you press the notebook against your sternum until it hurts. The keening behind you is the worst sound youāve ever heard. Worse than the Smiler, worse than Entity X, worse than Bobby's voice saying baby? in a yellow corridor, because this sound has your name in it.
This sound is the noise a heart makes when it's too old and too vast and too full to survive what's happening to it.
You turn and look behind you.
The corridor is empty.
The shimmer on the wall pulses gently, waiting. And the space where BB stoodāthree metres back, in the corridor, where his voice wasāis vacant. Just the flat, beige, infinite emptiness of a level that's been suddenly abandoned.
He's gone.
For all his power. For all the corridors he owns and the entities he's unmade and the levels he moves through like blood through a vein. For all the ancient, vast, immeasurable force that lives inside the Bobby-suit and behind the borrowed eyes and underneath the face he chose because he heard a woman crying and wanted to be the thing that made her stop.
The one thing BB couldn't do was watch you leave him.
You press your hands over your face, and you sob. Hard. A sound that comes from the bottom of your gut and fills the corridor and bounces off the walls and comes back to you changed, louder.
You scrub your face. The heels of your hands grinding against your eyes until white spots swim in your vision. You breathe wetly, straightening, and look toward the wall. The shimmering exit.
You step through.
an: in which everyone has a no good, very bad day ĀÆ\_(ć)_/ĀÆ
summary: Maekar had ended things too scared to acknowledge the growing feelings after months of being friends with benefits. He thought he could live with the hole you left, but now here you are at dinner, trying to get under his skin.
words: 2.3k
cw: MDNI 18+ p in v, choking, roughish sex, pussy slap, unprotected sex, creampie, infidelity, voyeurism, name calling, age gap, she is not the best person, but like always we support women's rights and wrongs! lmk if I missed any
a/n: here's my 2k followers gift to all of you! again thank you so much for all your love and support and I hope you enjoy!
It was supposed to be fun, and perhaps that was the problem was that he never truly had fun anymore. Not since graduating school, not since becoming a father or even becoming Baelor's COO.
You were younger, only slightly older this his eldest. You were in the prime of your life. Fun was all you knew. For some reason you had set your sights on Maekar. He had been the one to keep it casual. Then slowly over time, it began to not be so.
And like most thing that involved an emotion outside anger or frustration it scared him. You scared him.
So he broke it off. It was easier he told himself. To live in the sadness and emptiness of life without you. It was for the best for him. For you, because Gods you deserved so so much better.
You deserved someone younāYou. You?
He could hear your voice, your laughter, and for a moment he thought it was his mind playing tricks on him. It would mot be the first time. Sometimes he swore he could still feel you next to him or hear your laughter as you made coffee in the morning.
But this was real. You were real, and you were here. You walked in on Valarr's arm. His nephew. You were here. With. His. Nephew.
His fists bawled slightly, watching as his mother moved to greet you, and you did not look at him. Purposefully he would assume. He knew this was all an act. To get under his skin, and he knew he should not be playing into it. He would remain, calm, collected, not giving you what you wanted.
And then he was on his feet. Myriah turned from you to her youngest son, "Maekar?" she questioned, confusion filling her features.
You raised a brow as if you were daring him to cause a scene, "This is my Uncle Maekar," Valarr then introduced ever the gentleman.
He turned toward you, and you nodded holding his mismatched gaze, a fond smile pulling at your lips which further caused Maekar's blood to boil. You then turned back to the man, "I don't believe we've had the pleasure to meet," you lied.
Valarr's hands were on you, and you were smiling. You were the vision the perfect girl for his brother's golden boy. You were radiant. You were polite. You were charming. Which was something he already knew.
And you were successfully getting deeper under his skin as the clock ticked another second.
You listed to Baelor's stories as if he held your entire attention. Trying to impress your new boyfriend's father. But Maekar knew better. Your eyes kept glancing to him, gauging his reaction that he was trying to remain as neutral as possible, but he was failing.
During this horrid dinner he had learned things about yours and Valarr's new blossoming relationship. Everything entirely against his own will.
You had been together almost two months. Two days after Maekar had called things off. You had met through friends. Your first date was absolutely perfect, because of course anything Valarr planned would be.
Baelor though you were perfect together. Though he had not said the words directly, his youngest brother could tell solely based off the way he kept looking at the pair of you.
He talked about you as if you were the love of his love, and you kept gushed about him with a bright smile on your face that almost seemed real. He would have believed it more if he had not seen the real things so many times before.
You leaned forward whispering something into Valarr's ear, his hand moving to run up and down your back causing Maekar's vision to momentarily go white. You stood, with a polite smile. He did not hear what Valarr said, instead watching you closely watching you disappear.
Less than a full. minute later he was moving before he could stop himself.
He pushed the bathroom door open, which was not locked. You had been expecting him. You had been waiting for him. You were against the counter pretending to fix your makeup when you turned to him.
"Do I know you?" you asked, raising a brow, an innocent smile on your lips.
Maekar stood there for less than a second. He reached forward wrapping his hand around your throat, forcing you to strain your neck to meet his gaze. His palm pressed against the center, and he did not squeeze. Not yet.
"Don't be a brat," he hissed at you, his head dipping at an attempt to be eye level.
You let out a laugh, holding his gaze, "You like when I am a brat if memory serves."
"Fuck you," he grit out, his face hovering over yours, his fingers digging further into your neck. He wanted them imprint into your skin, a reminder of that you would never belong to Valarr the way you did him.
"You already did," you reminded him as if he needed it. As if you both didn't already know it was on constant replay in his mind all night.
He pushed you back into th encounter, and neither of you moved. Simply staring at the other your ragged breaths filled the air. "I bet you are soaked right now," he whispered, not moving his hand from your throat.
You said nothing in reply.
Maekar nodded, his eyes trailing down taking in the black dress you wore that had started to bunch around your thighs, "Take your panties off," he instructed.
You held his gaze, "No," you answered firmly, but your lips gave you away. They turned up slightly showing just what you were doing. You were playing him. You were pushing his buttons further as if he was some game.
He squeezed a little harder drawing a small moan from your lips, but neither of you moved, "Take them off," he said again, voice sterner. He removed his fingers from your throat.
You hesitated, only a second before reaching down and dragging the red lace down your legs, slipping them over your shoes. You threw them at him, landing in his face. He did mt moved them right away instead inhaling your arousal from them.
After a moment he reached up pulling them from his face as he tucked them into his pocket. Both your gazes met as his hand moved trailing down your belly. You opened your legs. Out of want. Or perhaps reflex, and he was met with the glory he had spent far too many nights missing.
"Just as I said. You are soaked. You fucking whore."
You chuckled, your lips turning up in a smug smile, "For Valarr. I am thinking about all the things he is going to do to me tonight."
He clicked his tongue, "How many lies have you told tonight?"
"None." Another.
He brought his hand back before having it collide with your soaking cunt. You recoiled slightly from the feeling, letting out a sound you did not even know you could make, "What do you want?"
He leaned his head down resting against your neck, just sitting there allowing his breath to meet your flushed skin, "If you be good and tell me exactly what you want I will give it to youā¦You know I will," he whispered, moving forward to press a kiss to your pulse point.
Your body trembled in anticipation, "Cock. I want your cock, Maekar," you said, your voice low, but not quiet allowing him to hear the shakiness in every word.
"As you wish. Turn around," he instructed, lifting his head.
You turned around, your hands wrapped around the counter top of the sink. Your head dipped no longer looking at yourself in the mirror. Maekar wondered if it was shame, but you never had seemed to show that emotion.
He freed his hardened cock, stroking himself lazily with one hand as the other bunched your dress up around your hips. He leaned forward running his tips through your folds as his head dropped near your ear.
He notched his cock at you drooling hole, "Are you so wet you can take me without any prep?" he asked. You nodded eagerly causing his lips to turn up slightly, "Good," he whispered, in approval.
He bit your bottom lobe, before pushing himself in fully. He let out a groan as your hands tried to brace yourself, but gave out entering. You were flush against the cool counter, his large hands finding home on your sides.
"You are so fucking perfect," he muttered, feeling your cunt stretch around him, "Made just for me."
He began to move, thrusting into you, and the sound was immediate. It was beautiful. It was music to his ears. It was the glorious sounds that kept on repeat in his mind when away from you.
He could not believe he had given this up.
He could not even fathom the fact of a life without you.
With the gaping whole in his chest.
The fact that you had tried to move on. Or at least pretended to.
With Valarr. His nephew. He would have been forced to watch you for the rest of his life.
Miserable. Alone. A hole in his chest that was the shape of you.
You with Valarr. Happy. In love. A life without him.
You had done it to get under his skin. It was the only explanation, and of course you had succeeded.
He angled his hips, grinding into you harder, causing you to cry out, "Be a little louder. I want everyone to hear just who is making you feel this good."
"Maekar," you cried out, your brain seemed to be fuzzy, as if you forgot where you were.
He did not care. He wanted everyone to know. He wanted to be caught buried into you. To let everyone in the Gods forsaken house to know you were his. That Valarr could never, even imagine to give you what he had. What he would.
He fucked into you harder, faster, your hips bones driving into the counter top, more than likely going to bruise by morning.
Good. More marks. More reminders. More proof.
You clenched around him, your breathing getting more ragged by the minute.
His hand wrapped around your throat forcing you to look into the mirror. Your eyes met your own reflection, your mouth half open with drool trailing down your chin, make up smudged around your eyes,"Look at how wrecked you look. Such a good little whore taking my cock."
You opened your mouth to reply, but you could not piece the words together you wished to utter. You looked drunk on his cock. You were beautiful. A ruined masterpiece of his making.
"I want to see your face when I finish inside you," he commanded, and awaited some protest, but you gave none. He wished he could hear what was going through your pretty head. To hear the thoughts your sharp mind seemed to conjure knowing you did not always share everything.
He pulled you back into him, his hands trailing down your stomach meeting your clit. He drew circles around them causing your eyes to immediate clamp shut. He knew that face. He loved that face. You were trying to hold on. To push off the orgasm a little longer to prolong your moment together.
It never worked. Your body always gave in one way or another. Whether it was from want or need he never asked.
"Open your eyes," you did as you were told, and once you had it came crashing down against you even though you wished it had not.
He was soon to follow, toppling over the edge as he painted your walls with him. More proof.
Your ragged breaths filled the air and he did not pull out, merely staying inside you even as his cock softened slightly. It was a few breaths later when he finally pulled out. Your hands moved forward resting against the sink trying to steady yourself.
Maekar heard the water run as he placed his cock back into his trousers.
His mind was a mess as he stared blankly at the back of you trying to make sense and search the sea of thoughts for something that would make sense. A way to organize his words to not sound like a fool, "Leave with me," he then declared, his voice firm, as if it was a declaration rather then a question.
"What?" you asked, laughing, as you smoothed your dress out, straightening your hair and make up, before stepping out into the hallway.
He followed after you, not fixing his appearance in the slightest. He wanted to be caught. He wanted for someone to take one glance a the pair of you and put the pieces together. "Leave with me instead of Valarr," he repeated.
"You are fucking mad," you laughed once more, shaking your head.
"I know. I neverā" his words were cut off by the calling of your name, and your lips turned up slightly causing his stomach to drop.
"Ready to go?" Valarr asked, he approached hesitantly, his eyes flickering between the pair of you as if he was trying to figure out what he had stumbled across.
Maekar's eyes were on you, ready for you to turn the younger man down. "Of course, my love," you instead replied, lacing your arms through his and letting him guide you out. All while ignoring his uncle's burning gaze, as if his spent wasn't still running down your thighs. He could not see the grin of your face, nor hear the burning thoughts inside your head.
You were even now. He had left you once, and now you had done the same.
