OkaY i know this is super long overdue but I’ve finally sat down and done the much requested masterlist of my writing (how it is set up is the link of the story first and then a small little preview of it below it) (and the most recent ones are at the top). I’m only going to do the oneshots for now, I’ll save the blurbs for a rainy day, but here it is and I hope this is of use to y’all!
Series summary: When you are unexpectedly reaped in the 47th Annual Hunger Games, your only hope of survival is your mentor, Aemond Targaryen, who won his Games a decade ago. Aemond is very good at his job, and he’s your only friend here in the luxurious and depraved Capitol. But this professional partnership might be turning into something personal…and forbidden…and dangerous.
Series warnings: Language, blood and violence, serious injury, sexual content (18+ readers only), prostitution, references to noncon/dubcon, character deaths (obvi), bugs, cakes, drugs, drinking, smoking, references to suicide, survivor’s guilt, desert trivia, mentions of pregnancy/children, a special Targaryen guest star, the curse of the pharaohs 🐪
Word count: 6.3k
Dividers were made by the wonderful @saradika-graphics 🎨
⏳ Character list can be found HERE! ⌛
⏳ All of my writing can be found HERE! ⌛
"The desert takes our dreams away from us, and they don’t always return." - Paulo Coelho
Here are the tributes who perished on the second day of the 47th Annual Hunger Games: Hawk from District 1, Kista from District 3, Noria from District 5, Rhiannon from District 6, Oakellen from District 7, Bobcat from District 9, and Jet and Pluto from District 12. You know this because their faces, some grim, some smiling, all so painfully young, are shown in a halo of light above the tall obsidian obelisk in the center of the arena after dusk. Monty and Isla are still alive, which must mean that whatever the pyramid does to people takes time.
Or Aemond is wrong.
You shake your head as you sit alone by the tiny oasis, a reflective puddle in a sand ocean. You hiked south at dusk for water and to put more distance between you and the remaining tributes, but now you’re wondering how you’re going to keep warm with no fresh bloody camel skin and no friend to huddle against for warmth. Dimly—not daring to hope for it too much—you had wondered if Roosevelt might meet you here again, but there’s no sign of him.
Aemond can’t be wrong. Aemond is never wrong.
He’s right about the curse of the pharaohs, and he’s right about the strategy for you to win, and he’s right about the fact that there’s another world out there beyond Panem and he’s going to find it. And maybe…if you win…in a decade you’ll have your own glass tomb of treasures piled up to the ceiling, and the Capitol will have rubbed off every sparkling fleck of you, and you can flee and cross the ocean and meet Aemond someplace where you can both be free.
You put on poor long-dead Calico’s sweatshirt and shiver under the moonlight as the pyramid calls to you from across the desert, promising you obvious things—warmth, shelter, food, survival—but also riches that cannot be put into words. It is bewitching. It is hungry.
Because of what Aemond once told you, you know that burrowing under the sand will only make you colder. Instead, you rip branches from the low scraggly shrubs that surround the oasis and make a crude cot to sleep on, then stuff a layer of parched greenery into the space between your two sweatshirts for more insulation.
You curl up and tremble as the night wind blows over you, and after a while a vulture delivers you a blanket, thick fleece, blue like a sapphire.
Here’s who is still alive: Brookite from District 1, Roosevelt from District 2, Tendo from District 3, both tributes from District 4, Gotha from District 9, and Montgomery and Isla from District 11. One third of the field is left, but that number will fall precipitously now.
“Get some sleep, Aemond,” Aegon says, yawning. He just woke up from another nap, snoring with a throw blanket covering him up to his chin and his sandals kicked up onto the back of the chair in front of him. “I’ll wake you if anything happens.”
Aemond ignores this and stares intently at the screen, his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his long, interlaced fingers.
“It’s going very quickly,” Charm muses as she sips champagne. With her other hand, she twists absentmindedly at the silver Loch Ness Monster pin fastened to her dress. She’s had a few outfit changes; she is currently wearing a short gown made of gold lace starfish, glittering fabric, large cutouts revealing perfectly tanned skin. Her earrings are fishhooks speared through live brittle stars that wriggle and slap at her throat with their skinny arms. Charm pretends not to notice. It’s the only way to survive here; learn how to sparkle, and do it without complaint. She always gives the District 4 tributes the same advice: You could waste your time being bitter about the cards you’ve been dealt. Or you could have a good attitude about it. Work hard. Be productive. Be grateful.
“Aemond, go to sleep!” Aegon says again. He waves for a servant to bring him dinner. A young man approaches with two plates to choose from: prime rib and a potato or a whole lobster and a corncob, served with a ramekin of melted butter. “None of the other kids are anywhere near her, she’s fine!”
“They won’t let her stay there,” Aemond murmurs, still gazing at the screen as it rotates between the remaining tributes. Presently, Isla is stalking the slight District 9 girl, Gotha, as they both approach the pyramid. If any of the other mentors have realized that it’s the tomb that is killing those who enter—the black marks that appear on a victim’s fingertips and slowly spread upwards, the rot, the curse—they haven’t figured out how to communicate that to their tributes in a way they can understand.
Aegon has opted for the prime rib; he gets lobster at home. The servant begins to leave when Charm calls out: “I’ll take the lobster, boy. Yes, thank you. And another round of champagne for everybody, please. And more popcorn. And napkins. And do I see that Citadella has lovely plump maraschino cherries bobbing around in her champagne? Why does she get those and not us? Fetch me some too...”
“I think she’s okay until morning,” Aegon tells Aemond, his meat bleeding as he cuts it.
“They need to force her towards the pyramid. They need a show. She’s made herself a main character, the audience will expect a full arc. And they need to do it while there are still competitors alive for her to fight. So they’ll do it soon. I’m just trying to figure out how.”
The cannon fires; Isla has caught Gotha and slit her throat with her short curved sword. Under the moonlight of the arena, the blood is black instead of red as it soaks into the sand. Across the Amphitheater, the District 9 team rises from their chairs, sighing and somber. They leave in defeat, taking their plates of lobster and prime rib with them. Briefly, Aemond scans the rest of the seats; Jack catches his gaze and grins, cold eyes and shark teeth. Commodore is still alive, and healthy, and he has a spear. Aemond turns away.
“You’re lucky that Roosevelt kid isn’t still hanging around her,” Aegon says. “Or she’d be spilling all your secrets again.”
Aemond shakes his head. “No. Not now. Not anymore.” The end is near, and she wants to live.
Charm says brightly: “I’m just relieved Hawk finally dropped dead. Thank God for his lousy kidneys. I was worried Commodore was going to carry him all the way to the finish line, and then play rock paper scissors to decide who gets to win.”
On the green display screen mounted beneath the landline phone that connects each team to the Control Center, Aemond observes that her funds are running low. He was too generous with the gifts, probably. He couldn’t help it; he couldn’t stand to see her suffer. “I need to get her more money,” Aemond says.
“Do you?” Charm replies, her voice slurred with champagne and soft with sympathy.
“Yes.” He takes the red mobile phone out of the pocket hidden inside his black suit jacket. He begins scrolling through his contacts, deciding who to ask first. He does not consider the debt that will be incurred, the cost that will come due later, flesh and moans instead of gems and gold. He’ll pay anything.
“The blanket was a bit extravagant,” Charm mutters. A servant brings a fresh round of champagne—Aemond does not partake, but Charm and Aegon always drink his share without complaint—and she fishes out two glistening cherries from the gilded carbonated sea. She eats them, delicately dabs red juice from her lips with a napkin, tugs at her Loch Ness Monster pin again. Charm notices that Aemond is watching and smiles ruefully. “I always say I won’t get attached.”
“I know the feeling,” he replies, and begins making calls.
Through thin shivering dreams of the rumbling of the ocean and the gentle bobbing of fishing boats, you hear the cannon and know that now there are seven tributes left. You clutch the blanket around you and think, only half-conscious: How did I get here? Why can’t I go home?
Something thumps against your hip, and you startle awake. The vulture is already vanishing into the starlit indigo sky, its parcel delivered. You open the burlap sack to find not food or water or pineapple juice, which was both your expectation and your preference, but swim goggles.
You stretch the thick rubber strap and peer through the small transparent lenses, bewildered. “Aemond, why goggles?” you whisper.
You won’t be doing any swimming here, which means he must think you’ll need eye protection.
You stare out into the barren expanse to the south, flat and endless. You look back to the pyramid that beckons you with a radiant silver beam that streaks across the sky like the tail of a comet. The Gamemakers won’t let you stay here, not until the very end. What kind of a finale would that be? Six more booms of the cannon and then you are triumphant, sitting beside your miniscule oasis or cowering within the ruins? No, there must be a show. They are offering a mirage, the same sold to countless children before and after you: wealth, fame, safety, freedom, power, love. You won’t get it for free. You have to sparkle for them. You have to kill for them.
Jack killed many tributes in his arena, and he did it gladly. Sirena had to kill a Career. Aemond had to kill Sapphire. And you will have to kill whoever is left at the end.
Roosevelt? you think, heartsick, horrified. Brookie? Commodore?
The breeze is frigid as you stay cocooned in the blue fleece blanket Aemond sent you, shivering, bits of dust and sand stinging in your eyes.
How will they force me north towards the pyramid?
You contemplate the goggles, and you think you know.
I can’t escape the pyramid. But however it devours people, it must do it slowly. I don’t have to resist it forever. I just have to be the last one inside.
The cannon booms through the night. Six tributes left. At the very edge of the horizon, the sky is just beginning to lighten to lilac. You hang the goggles around your neck like the chain that holds your filleting knife. You drink as much water as you can from the oasis, scooping it up to your lips with cupped hands; the rubber band is still knotted around your ring finger. You go to roll it off, then decide not to. It might be the closest thing to a wedding ring you ever get. You begin to trek northeast towards the ruins, where there will be shade.
As you walk, the sky turning from hues of wildflowers to shades of blood, still clutching the blanket around your shoulders until the air is again stifling and golden, you hear voices following you like a shadow across the bluffs.
Baby screaming as he lunges with his hammer: I have to, or I can’t leave!
Monty asking: Will you stay with him?
Roosevelt shaking you awake beside the oasis: Don’t fall back asleep. I won’t be here.
Isla smiling: Good luck.
Pluto clasping your hand as he hemorrhages from his lungs flayed raw by underworlds of coal and sand: I won?
But no one ever really wins. They survive, they don’t win.
“That’s enough for me,” you pant as the heat makes you wilt and sweat, as you leave the blanket to the wilderness because you’re too weak to keep dragging it.
The first words you ever said to Aemond: How do I win? I don’t want to die. How do I win?
Roosevelt’s voice again, sly and grinning: You have to want to live more than you want anything else.
You pass a cactus, and you know you can’t cut it open and drink its noxious juice, but there is a hole in it with dry sprigs of shrubs sticking out. You check the hollow and find three eggs, each a little smaller than your palm. With the hilt of your knife, you crack an egg open and lift away the top of the shell to find a quivering lake of white albumen and a lush yellow yolk. You slurp it down—thick and warm and mineral-tasting—and force yourself not to lose it, digging your fingernails into your forearm to distract your brain from the slime that clings stubbornly to your tongue and your throat. You do the same with the second egg, and while your stomach is nauseous your mind is sharper, and you feel less afraid, and your muscles are withstanding the punishing heat.
You tap the last egg with the mother of pearl hilt of your knife. Instead of opening neatly, it shatters and fills your hand with its grisly cache: clotted blood, tiny dismembered bones and feathers and eyeballs. You yelp and fling it away, wipe your skin as clean as you can with the dead girl Calico’s sweatshirt that is knotted around your waist, resume your expedition towards the ruins.
You have just stumbled into the shade of the columns when the cannon blasts, and the ground beneath your bare feet quakes, and the dust is shaken from the mud bricks and the hieroglyphics and the crouching statues of Anubis.
Five tributes left, you think, leaning against a crumbling column to catch your breath, scanning the sky in vain for the sweeping black wingspan of a vulture. You know you’ve used up a lot of the sponsors’ money, but you can’t silence the fantasy of a bottle of pineapple juice, sweet and ice-cold and slick with condensation.
The reverberation of the cannon fire doesn’t dissolve away but seems to warp, rumble, transform into the baritone growl of ocean waves. Your brow furrows; there are no tides here, no surf, no ships. Still breathing laboredly, you look towards the pyramid and see nothing unusual: only the ever-present silhouette of the structure, the cloudless cerulean sky. You glance back towards the oasis. The sky there is no longer blue but filling up with churning, suffocating sand, a wall that rises through the atmosphere, a monstrous impurity as hostile to your lungs as water or coal.
Sandstorm.
“Please no.” You put on your goggles, still watching the southern horizon, still hoping Aemond might be wrong. The wind is picking up. Shards of sand begin to pelt your face. You spin towards the pyramid and start running.
I’m not going to make it, it’s too far—
You have to make it, you HAVE to.
I don’t want to die. How do I win?
The gales grow stronger, tearing your hair loose from Salem’s handiwork, clawing at your sweatsuit. You careen through the rubble, break out of the shadows and into the sun glare, slide down a shallow embankment and then find your footing again. The roar of the sandstorm is deafening now, swallowing you like the viscera of an egg; it’s getting difficult to see. Without the goggles, you’d be blind. You rip Calico’s sweatshirt off your waist and press the bloodstained cotton to your face to shield your nose and mouth; you gasp through the fabric as you sprint across the desert. You taste copper and salt and decay. You breathe threadbare life and certain death.
It’s too far, it’s too far—
The cannon explodes, so loudly you stagger and almost fall into the dry shifting sand.
Four tributes left.
You regain your balance and chase the ghost of the pyramid, skirting just east of the immense dunes that surround the obsidian obelisk where the Games began. The air is thicker, hotter, an oven, an ocean, and if you don’t reach the shore you will be drowned. There are gusts like riptides, threatening to drag you into a grave, a tomb. In the fierce wind, walls of sand roil and collapse, flooding dune slacks and burying anyone who sought shelter there. The cannon bangs like a drum.
Three tributes left!!!
Who is still alive? Who will you have to fight, who will you have to kill?
Your bare feet slide in sand so dry and so fine it’s like the powder Charm keeps behind the mirror in her glittering gold compact. You swipe manically at your goggles to keep the lenses clear. Even with Calico’s sweatshirt thrust against your face, you are hacking up the sand that steals into your lungs like seawater into the breached hull of a ship. You are dizzy, you are choking—
The soles of your feet hit stone, and you stop for only a second to see where you are, to make sure the next requiem of cannon fire won’t be for you. You are on a long straight walkway of bricks, alternating tan limestone and red clay. The path is perhaps three feet wide; on either side is a drop down into something that is golden like sand but rippling like water. In it, you can just barely glimpse a tangle of human limbs.
Quicksand.
Coughing, gasping, you follow the walkway towards the pyramid. The phantom of it fills your vision now, a dark shadow beyond the spiraling wind and sand. The storm is still strengthening. Squalls yank and shove at you, threatening to wrench you off the path. You think of the walkway in Aemond’s arena, tiles that sank into depths until the water was red with tributes’ blood. You think of narrow aisles of land through the bayou; you think of jetties that stretch out into the sea. You hit steps and crumple down onto them, crawl skyward on your palms and knees, drag yourself like a dying animal into the black mouth of the pyramid.
You leave the sandstorm behind you. The howling of the wind fades away. You pass through a narrow dark tunnel and then you are inside, and you take your first deep unobstructed breath of air that tastes stale and cold, and the clock has started.
You snap off the goggles and drop Calico’s sweatshirt, press your spine to the wall so no one can sneak up on you, look and listen with instinctive prey-animal focus. The pyramid is hollow inside, well-lit by golden luminance like sunlight. In the center is a lake of quicksand. To your right is a high wall made of limestone bricks; to your left is a footpath, following the perimeter of the interior of the pyramid, gradually climbing upwards via ramps and staircases, perhaps all the way to the capstone. You can see the underside of the path when you peer up into the structure. You can hear strange noises: stones shifting, metal clanking, thumps and squeals, inanimate machinery, meatgrinders and war hammers.
You don’t see anyone alive, but there is a body sprawled on the platform where you stand, right at the edge where the currents of quicksand lap at the stone. Cautiously, you step towards her, blonde and broken. It’s Brookie, her hair streaked with blood, her eyes glazed, her head twisted nearly all the way around. One of her axes rests by her outstretched hand, still embossed with her initials: B.B. She appears to have fallen from a great height, but you remember how she and Roosevelt raced effortlessly past you on the obstacle course in the gymnasium, always nimble and lightning-swift, never losing their balance.
Again, you scrutinize the pathway that snakes around the inner wall of the pyramid, like how muscles hinge to bones. How’d you fall, Brookie? you think to her ghost. Again, you notice the sounds of stones scraping against each other. Or were you pushed? By someone or something?
Your eyes return to Brookie, one last parting glance, and you see that she’s been cursed. She wears only her sports bra, and so the stripes of rot are stark like the bloodline of a fish. Her hands are black with gangrene, all the way up to her wrists; ropes of decomposition were climbing her like ivy when she died, circling her toned upper arms, scaling her shoulders to strangle her throat. You stare down at your own hands. It’s begun, just barely: the tips of your fingers are dyed pitch black like the meticulous jots of ink in Aemond’s notebook.
Only the Capitol can save me now. The only antidote is to win.
You grip the hilt of your knife and start up the path. You step lightly, cautiously, silently. You stay close to the wall, skimming your empty palm across it. You twirl your knife, making sure your fingers remember how to gut, how to flay. Your bare feet ascend the first set of steps, hesitating on each to test it for a trap of some sort. There is a long level stretch of a pathway, then another staircase, a ramp, a flat section, a third set of steps. You remember Brookie lying broken on the platform below, and you examine the limestone bricks of the wall and the floor, searching for cracks. Somewhere above, rocks are grinding and hissing. Someplace close, you hear a moan.
You crouch low and creep towards the sound, still clutching your knife. The path gapes like a wound—a trapdoor that was triggered, a hatch that sprung open—and had he been healthy, he could have leapt out of the way, you’re sure, because he was always so fast. But he wasn’t healthy. He was already dying. When you peek over the ledge, you see Roosevelt lying on his back, three metal barbs impaled through his belly, each perhaps two feet in length. They are serrated and painted with gore, muscles, blood clots, organs. You climb down to him.
“Don’t come down here, idiot,” Roosevelt rasps, blood on his lips, freckles dark from the sun. His red hair is matted with blood and bleak, futile sweat, the salt of the dead. “Keep the high ground.”
Nonetheless, you kneel beside him in the shadows, examining his injuries. You can’t move him. The barbs will rip him up all over again, but worse from that direction. You smooth back his damp hair from his forehead, touch his cheek. Needle-thin threads of black rot are spreading there. He gazes up at you with his murky eyes, not sharp or cunning but only in pain.
I hate them, you think with fanged viciousness. I hate what they’ve done to my friends. I hate what they’ve done to Aemond. I hate what they’re doing to me.
His eyebrows go up, just a little bit. “Aemond is good at this.” Then he gets a better look at you. “Aw. You sweated off all your sparkles.”
You manage a smile. “They’ll have to call me something else now.”
“Like your real name? No fucking way. Too normal, too boring. I have a winner’s name.”
“Who’s left?”
“Your monster. Commodore.” He nods towards where the path continues skywards, into the highest point of the pyramid. “Up there somewhere. He went by me, I didn’t see him come back down.” He coughs, spews up crimson and decaying black ruin, moans again.
“He left you like this?”
Roosevelt barks a weak laugh. “What was he gonna do? First aid?”
You ask gently: “How can I help?”
He sighs, then his eyes drift to where your filleting knife swings by its silver chain, flashing blade, iridescent mother of pearl hilt. “You’re still good with that knife, ain’t you?”
“Yeah,” you answer, your voice strangled, tears burning in your eyes.
“Oh, stop,” he scolds you; but he’s smiling, blood on his teeth. “I got it for you, remember? You owe me.”
“Okay,” you whisper.
“I assume Aemond taught you how to find the carotid.”
“He did.”
“Good. I don’t think I could manage that under the present circumstances, being as unfortunate as they are.”
You pick up your knife, but you can’t fathom using it this way. You press your fingers to the putrefying flesh of his throat and locate the spot that is rigid, throbbing, flush with septic blood.
“I can’t believe I chose to volunteer,” Roosevelt says, and he’s not smiling anymore. His eyes are bloodshot and faraway. “I can’t believe I could be at home right now. I should have known my place. I should have known it was too good to be true.”
“You were brave,” you insist.
“Tell my mom she was right. This was a stupid idea.”
You shake your head, and although he said not to you’re crying again, and your lungs are full of blood and death and misery and youth that will never grow content and wise, love that will never be felt, children that will never be born, worlds that will never be marked by the imprints of their footsteps, beautiful things that will never be written or spoken or carved.
“And tell her I love her, okay?”
“I will,” you swear.
“I hope you win, Sparkles.” Roosevelt grins, crooked and clever, and in his last moments he is himself again. “We’ll always be friends.”
You blink your tears away so you can see well enough to place the blade against his throat, but you can’t bring your hands to exert the required pressure.
He closes his eyes and murmurs, like he’s falling asleep: “Do it before I get scared.”
You think of goliath groupers and fillets and bloodlines and scales and bones, and you cut deep and sure. It’s not instant, and it’s not painless; but as Aemond once promised you, it is very quick. You hold Roosevelt as he convulses, drenched in his blood, and within thirty seconds the cannon booms and the pyramid shudders. And then the only sounds are the mechanical entrails of this stone tomb, gnashing and crushing, digesting your skeletons, etching your doomed names into the hieroglyphics.
You look up into the pyramid, your skin covered with blood and dust and sand, your fingers turning rot-black, and you can tell that you’re beginning to lose feeling in them. And you have been infected, but not just by the curse of the pharaohs. There is rage like you’ve never known before in your veins. Your arteries carry vivid oxygenated wrath. And you are certain that you can kill, not just in self-defense, not just by omission, not just as an act of mercy, but cruelly like an animal: you can cut your fangs on flesh, you can put your blade through the vulnerable places Aemond showed you.
You climb out of the pit and follow the stone path. Your deadening fingers probe the wall for cracks; your eyes scan the floor. You stop when you see a small dark crevice in the stone, just a few inches in front of your feet. You go down to the ground, lift the silver chain holding your knife from your neck, and toss the knife like you’re casting a fishing line. As soon as the hilt bangs against false floor, the trapdoor opens, revealing a bed of razor blades underneath.
I hate them, you think, you seethe, seeing faces in your skull like a mirage: Roosevelt, Brookie, Isla, Pluto, Monty, little Babylon forever trapped at twelve years old, Commodore who volunteered so someday people might love him, Jack in the mountains, Sirena in the trees, Aemond stalking Sapphire under rippling blue light that floods red. And I won’t let them kill me.
Just like Roosevelt’s trap, there is a narrow aisle of the walkway still intact, right at the edge. You put your chain back on and balance on the shelf, pressing forward, coasting like a shark. As you leave, the trapdoor closes again to await its next victim.
You go up a staircase on all fours, blood drying on your skin, blood coming from somewhere inside as the curse takes hold. You taste metal and salt and catastrophe. Your mind shifts into something animal and innate, but you hold the leash, you can’t let go completely. You have to remember what Aemond taught you so you can win.
You have to want to live more than you want anything else.
And you do.
You find a crack in the wall and stand back, watching. So much time passes—blood running into your eyes, ink-black poison nipping at your palms—that you begin to suspect you’re wrong; then a portion of the wall juts out, sudden enough to knock even an athlete as adept as Brookie off the walkway and down to the death waiting below, pulverized against the platform or drowned in quicksand. You stay where you are so you can count how often the trap springs, and sure enough it’s a set interval, once every 210 seconds. When it recedes again, you steal past it and the demise it had designed for you like a phantom.
There is a ramp, a wall trap timed to strike every 35 seconds, another set for 90 seconds, a staircase, a floor trap filled with whirling hammers, a ramp, a wall trap, a staircase, a hallway, a ramp so steep you couldn’t climb it if not for the metal rungs hammered into the stone. When you glance down at the base of the pyramid now, the ocean of quicksand looks like a puddle. When you gaze up, you can see the individual bricks that form the apex of the tomb. You’re so close. There are ropes of rot ascending your forearms, black pooling in the scar tissue that sealed the wound from Kista’s crossbow. Your lungs fill with thick maroon fluid and ache like you’re dying, because you are.
What if he’s not here, what if Roosevelt was mistaken, what if Commodore is safe and I’m poisoned, I’m cursed, I’ll never leave this place—?
You claw your way up a staircase and there he is, collapsed against the wall with his spear still clutched in his gargantuan, gangrenous fist. He must have been here for a while, because the rot is very bad: up to his face, dark vines and weeping sores, his eyes bleeding, his short flaxen hair falling out.
“Did I count right?” Commodore wheezes when he turns to see you. “Are we the only ones left?”
You don’t know how to answer. He lurches to his feet with a groan rattling with viscid poison, and he’s so big he fills up the earth and the sky, and even if he can barely feel his hands anymore he can still use them well enough to keep hold of the spear.
He jabs at you once—halfheartedly, like he’s warming up—and you duck out of the way, clinging to the wall. You tiptoe backwards down the steps. You are clutching the handle of your knife, but how can you get close enough to use it?
Commodore stabs again, more confidently this time, and you scream as you lunge out of his reach; but he’s approaching rapidly, gaining momentum, pursuing you down the narrow walkway. If he knocks you off the ledge, you’ll die at the base like Brookie.
How did I think I could kill him? I always knew I couldn’t kill him—!
“Only the Capitol can fix me,” he says, low and choked and guttural.
One monstrous sneaker takes a step down the stairs, and you are back in the elevator at the Tribute Center, and Aemond is touching you tenderly, kindly as he teaches you how to win.
You plunge forward and bury your blade in Commodore’s right knee. He roars—thunderous, furious—and grabs the back of your sweatshirt with his free hand. You rip the knife from his muscles and ligaments, slash his Achilles tendon through his clothes, twist out of your sweatshirt as you retreat and leave him holding only the thin bloodstained cotton. Then you understand how to get close enough.
Commodore bellows, looking brainlessly—childishly, helplessly—down at his hemorrhaging wounds as if even now he still can’t believe he’s here, and in the few seconds this takes you yank off your sweatpants and ball them up as tightly as you can, stuffing the legs through the halo of the elastic waistband. Crippled and savage, Commodore reels forward and thrusts his spear at you, his mutilated leg buckling under his weight. You impale your sweatpants on the point, dulling it, gelding it. You follow the length of the spear like the spine of a fish when you’re cutting out the bloodline. Commodore’s massive fingers close around your empty decaying hand, and only an instant before he can break your wrist you bang the mother of pearl hilt against his temple. He is stunned, and then he is spurting blood that bathes you like a hot red surf because your blade slices through his carotid artery. You know exactly where it is. You’ve had practice.
You stagger backwards until you hit the wall and watch him bleed out. You gasp for air as your dying lungs rattle, still gripping your knife. There’s blood pouring down your face, soaking your bra, painting your belly and your thighs, defiling all the places people will pay to touch you.
Good, you think. Let them see what they’ll buy. Not lust, not love. Death and violence and gore.
The cannon booms one last time. You drop your knife and it swings from its long silver chain. Then you realize what you’ve done, and what you’ll spend the rest of your life sending children into, and you cover your mouth with your bloodstained hands and wail into the empty pyramid, where your voice echoes and multiplies, and scalding tears wash the blood from your eyes.
A great creak like unoiled hinges, an apocalyptic thunderclap, and white light cascades in from above as the capstone of the pyramid is lifted away. You huddle against the wall, nearly naked, drenched in blood, thinking: They can’t be gone. I can’t have done this.
A craft descending into the pyramid in a gale of cold wind, metallic doors opening, people in guiltless white dragging you through the threshold. The doors close with a hiss and a puff of cool fog, scented like vanilla and coconut, perfumes to cover the blood and the rot. Someone drapes a small blanket across your shoulders. Another jams the needle of a syringe into your thigh, and pushes down the plunger, and instantaneously your lungs are clear again and the ink-stain infection vanishes from your skin. People keep touching you—asking you questions, trying to give you something to drink, turning your face towards a camera—and you scream and push them away. They do not relent.
“Stop touching me!” you shriek, you snarl. You’re a killer now, and they shrink away from you because they know it. You try to cover yourself with the blanket, but it’s not big enough. You sob and know the families of those twenty-three other tributes are watching you, that sponsors are toasting champagne, that an auction is being arranged and men are preparing to place their bids. There’s blood in your hair and under your fingernails. There’s blood on your lips, salt and copper, and you know you’ll be bleeding forever.
The craft docks and the doors sigh open, and Peacekeepers seize you like they once did on Reaping Day in District 4 by the seaside. You try to rip your arms free, you try to brace your bare, sand-coated feet against the frigid tile floor. If people don’t stop touching you, your mind will break like glass; but your body isn’t yours anymore, and it never will be again.
The Peacekeepers shove you roughly into a room, and you realize it’s your pod, and the prep team is here with beaming smiles and raucous applause to welcome you back from the valley of death. They haul you onto the table and ignore you when you try to stop them from scrubbing the grime and gore from your skin, and so you’re fighting them and screaming when Aemond comes in wearing his black suit, breathing heavily like he ran here.
“Out,” he commands the prep team, and they hesitate. “Get out!” he roars, and then they disperse, chattering conspiratorially amongst themselves, casting him resentful glares. He comes to where you are trembling on the high metal table, and he grabs the showerhead and tests the water until it’s hot and then begins to clean the ruin from you, and he says in a whisper as he smooths back your hair from your face: “Shh, shh.”
Charm appears in the doorway, her ankles quivering in her gold heels and winded from her sprint through the corridor. She is crying; her left hand clasps at the silver Loch Ness Monster pin affixed to her dress, as if reaching for something she can’t get a grip on. She says, hushed and with great pity: “Aemond, you can’t be alone with her.”
He pitches back: “Then stand in the fucking corner!”
And Charm does, covering her face and weeping softly. The partition stays open, and you see white glimpses of Peacekeepers lurking outside, but now you aren’t thinking about them.
Aemond cuts away your rubber band of a wedding ring, tacky with blood. He rinses the red from your hair, carefully, making sure not to snag his nimble fingers on the knots. He lathers your skin with pearlescent soap, and you watch a river of sand and blood disappear down the drain. He takes off your knife and sets it on the rim of the table, and you begin to sob again, and Aemond stops so he can hold you.
The Red Keep had never shone so brightly. Long silk ribbons cascaded from the beams of the Great Hall in shades of green and gold, the colors of House Hightower, almost overshadowing even the banners of the dragon. The light of a thousand candles flickered along the walls, dressing the carved pillars and black marble floor in gold. Court ladies scattered rose petals before the feet of the guests, while the melodies of lutes and fiddles intertwined with the quiet murmur of conversation.
Golden stags, ravens, dragons, owls, foxes, and swans looked at one another from behind painted masks. It had been Queen Alicent’s peculiar request — every guest was to wear a mask and a costume, choosing an animal either representing their house or simply one of their own liking. The idea quickly spread among the nobility, and by the time the sun had sunk beyond Blackwater Bay, the hall was filled with unfamiliar faces.
The hall was warm, filled with the scents of wine and roasted meat, mingling with the faintly sweet fragrance of curling incense smoke. You took another sip from your recently poured cup of red wine, the tartness of it brushing against your tongue. You wore a simple ivory-colored gown, your only piece of jewelry a thin silver chain with a tiny moonstone hanging from its end. Your face was hidden behind a delicately carved pale silver crescent moon mask, its edges framed with twisted gold. It was true, you had not appeared dressed as some creature of the night, but the moon itself was just as alive, just as mysterious and beautiful as a young doe leaping through a meadow. At least, so far, you had not noticed anyone wearing anything similar to yours, meaning that during the next dance you did not have to fear being approached by some gout-ridden, barrel-bellied lord dressed as an owl.
Roslin, your loyal lady-in-waiting, had spent the entire evening behaving as though she were sending her lady into battle.
“If you do not meet Ser Gwayne Hightower tonight, I shall personally push you toward him.” She grumbled beside you, watching the sea of masks filling the hall as if she could possibly recognize anyone beneath them.
“Roslin…” You giggled into your wine.
“I don’t care.” She muttered, pouting.
“This is a ball, not a marketplace.” You sighed as you leaned back in your chair, watching the dancers in the center of the hall. The sight of colorful gowns and elaborate costumes was a refreshing change after the dull parade of ordinary skirts and doublets.
“For now.” The girl raised a finger, shaking it toward the crowd. The other ladies-in-waiting watched the two of you with barely concealed laughter.
“Do not forget.” Marya, your cousin, leaned closer. “They say he is an excellent dancer.”
“They also say he knows it.” Her younger sister, Jeyne, gently nudged her elbow into Marya’s side.
“That is true.” Ellyn, their companion and conversational lady, nodded in agreement.
“And apparently every other lady in the realm is in love with him.” Jeyne sighed, being the most romantic of the group. Perhaps because of her young age, she had always been especially fond of love stories and tales of courtly romance.
Roslin crossed her arms. “Which is exactly why we cannot allow anyone else to dance with the Ser.”
You smiled, shaking your head as you placed your wine cup behind you. “Thank you for the advice.”
“I have not finished giving it yet.” Your attendant laughed, making you turn toward her with a wary glance.
“Then?”
Roslin leaned closer, the rose scent of her hair reaching your nose. “Let him come to you.”
One dance followed another. King Viserys, with his golden crown and dragon-shaped mask, appeared only briefly. The severity of his illness was evident even in his gait, yet he greeted the guests with a smile before retiring in the company of the queen. Alicent’s emerald-green gown almost glowed in the candlelight. Every movement radiated dignity, even as she greeted dozens of ladies-in-waiting and noblemen. Princess Rhaenyra arrived later, adorned with black wings and crimson horns; in that moment, she herself seemed to have transformed into a dragon. The hall fell almost palpably silent for a moment. The two women’s gazes met, and they exchanged smiles; politely, but as cold as ice. Then they both continued on their way and the music swelled once more.
As the opening notes of the next song rang out, your ladies-in-waiting one by one found themselves claimed as dance partners by masked gentlemen, while you fidgeted in your chair, trying to appear as occupied as possible. You attempted to call over a servant hurrying around the table for your third cup of wine, avoiding the gazes of the crowd gathering in the center of the hall, lest they mistake your staring for an invitation. But your attempt failed.
As you stretched your neck between the tall chairs, spotting a young page slowly making his way toward you with a full jug in his hands, you raised your hand to signal him. But before you could catch his attention, a figure appeared before you, his movement stirring the loose strands of your hair. Your stomach immediately dropped, and a chill ran down your spine as, from the corner of your eye, you caught sight of a yellow coat and matching breeches.
“Is this dance free, Lady Moon?” You heard a gentle, almost soft baritone voice ask. Straining the muscles in your neck, you turned toward the sound, and in your surprise, you stared intently at the man standing before you. Your cunning and uniqueness seemed to have vanished, swept away by your all-too-clichéd assumption that surely no one would dress up as phenomena shining in the sky… For the man was shining like the sun, and you saw him that way not only because of the dazzling light and golden hue of his clothes, but also because a mask shaped like a yellow, radiant sun was gazing at you. Behind all that yellow paint, however, lay a pair of deep brown, calm eyes, the corners of which were crinkled. Yes, the man was definitely smiling—he had finally found a match for his attire.
“Only if the Sun can dance with the Moon.” You replied, still flustered. This drew a ringing laugh from your companion; judging by his voice, you thought he couldn’t be that old.
“But isn’t that what they do every single day? The Sun follows the Moon across the sky, and then the Moon seeks out the Sun at night. So it would make perfect sense for them to meet each other just this once, don’t you think, My Lady?”
It was fortunate that you were wearing a mask; your lips parted wide in astonishment, like the wild boar lying on the table—much like a roasted boar lying on a banquet table, only this one had somehow been lucky enough to receive an apple in its mouth. Unable to find a clever reason to refuse such an artfully crafted invitation, you reluctantly extended your trembling hand toward the lord. He wrapped his palm around your fingers and helped you rise from your chair, his other arm tucked gracefully behind his back as he guided you away from the rows of seats and into the open space of the ballroom.
As you cast one final pleading glance over your shoulder toward your lone servant girl, hoping perhaps she might rescue you from this unexpected abduction, you found her doing her absolute best to stare at the ceiling instead — making a great effort not to appear as though she was watching your kidnapping unfold.
The moment you stepped onto the polished floor, the hall seemed to swell around you. The musicians shifted into a dignified pavane, its measured rhythm slowing the restless murmur of conversation. The couples arranged themselves into orderly lines, colorful masks turning this way and that like birds displaying their vivid plumage. Candlelight shimmered across the polished marble, catching on embroidered silks and jeweled belts until the entire hall seemed to glitter. Your mysterious companion did not release your hand. His grip was firm without being intrusive, warm even through the thin goatskin of your glove.
“You seem disappointed.” He remarked lightly as he guided you into formation. He moved with the effortless confidence of someone who had danced these steps a hundred times before.
You blinked. “Disappointed?” You repeated after him like a confused parrot, half a beat too late with the opening bow.
“I expected the Moon to be... brighter.” You heard him say it from behind his mask as he bowed as well, and just in time you caught the movement of brown hair shifting beneath the black strap of his mask... as though the countless candle flames had painted it with hints of red.
You narrowed your eyes behind your silver mask. “And here I thought the Sun was supposed to be warm.” You shot back, your feet already beginning the practiced steps of the dance. A small step to the side, then back again, your free arm curved gracefully at your side, light as a spring breeze.
“I am.” He tilted his head just enough for the golden rays of his mask to catch the light. “But warmth requires closeness.” Heat rushed to your face. Whether from embarrassment or irritation, you refused to decide.
The dance began.
His hand rested against yours as the pairs glided forward together. Every movement was measured, every step perfectly timed. It took only a few moments before you realized your partner was quietly adapting to you, matching your pace whenever you hesitated, giving you just enough room to take the lead so you would never feel awkward or out of place.
“You’ve done this before.” You whispered with a faint smile as you stepped forward half a beat longer than before.
“A few times.” Your dance partner’s eyes glittered in the candlelight, flickering between watching his own steps and watching you.
“You seem remarkably modest.” You could not stop the mocking little laugh that escaped your lips, but when the movement required you to turn away so you would not lose your balance, you tightened your hold on his hand instinctively.
“I have learned that modesty makes boasting far more believable.”
A warmer laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“There.” His voice sounded far too pleased with himself. “The Moon finally laughs.” As the rhythm quickened, he reached for your free hand and pulled you closer, guiding you into a turn with the momentum of his movement.
“I laughed at your vanity.” You clarified, the corners of your mouth beginning to ache from smiling so widely. When he released both your hands, you drifted to his left, then stepped forward, moving behind him. Yes, there was certainly a hint of red mixed into the brown shade of his shoulder-length hair.
“Then regardless of the reason, I have achieved my goal.” He turned his head slightly so you could hear him, keeping his gaze on you even when you were no longer standing before him. You shook your head, though you found yourself noticing that your heart was beating faster against your ribs.
The masked figures turned.
The couples joined hands, beginning a slow circuit around the hall, their partners leading them beneath towering banners depicting dragons, towers, lions, and stags. Musicians sat upon a raised gallery, while servants moved gracefully between those seated at the tables, carrying silver trays of Strongwine and golden Arbor wine.
“Do you spend much of your time hiding near walls?” he asked after a comfortable silence.
“I do not hide.” You frowned at him, though he could not see it beneath your mask.
“Do you not?” He laughed, gently spinning you around. For a brief moment, you felt as though a hand had brushed along your waist—not enough to be improper, but enough to make you aware of it.
“No.” You shook your head. You probably should not have done that, not even during such a slow turn. You felt slightly dizzy. Or perhaps it was the two cups of wine.
“You were attempting to convince a servant that an empty wine goblet required immediate attention.”
You looked up sharply, searching beneath his mask with a startled gaze. Only his hazel-brown eyes were visible, but they smiled and laughed in place of his lips. “How did you notice that?”
“I noticed a lady desperately searching for assistance.” He answered lightly, softly, in the same effortless way he moved.
“I was searching for wine.” You replied, wondering why you felt such a strange need to explain yourself to a stranger; to an unwilling dance partner.
“A convenient substitute.” He chuckled. You thought you saw his shoulders shift in amusement, though you were not entirely certain, as he was already reaching for your hand and waist again to guide the next step.
“You observe too much.” Despite yourself, another smile crossed your lips.
“That’s a useful habit.” His gaze lingered on yours. For a moment, neither of you said a word as the music carried you forward, the room spinning gracefully around you. When his voice returned, it had lost some of its teasing edge. “You don’t like crowds.” It wasn’t phrased as a question. He really was paying attention.
“I tolerate them.” You pulled your lips into a wry smile, and once again you were glad that no one could see your telltale reactions.
“You avoid being the center of attention.” Lord Sun didn’t want to stray from the topic, as if he’d taken a liking to teasing you. “Yet everyone notices the Moon in the end.” His words settled strangely within you. You scrutinized his masked face, wondering whether he was simply enjoying clever metaphors or if there was a genuine insight behind them.
“You talk as if you know me.” You exhaled the air that had been building up inside you, which, despite your efforts to move quickly, you hadn’t been able to expel until now.
He sized you up with several measured steps. “I only know what I see.”
“And what do you see?” The question escaped your lips before caution could hold it back.
His thumb shifted faintly along your gloved fingers as the dance turned once more. "I see someone who watches before speaking." Another step. "I see someone who is accustomed to listening while others compete to make their voices heard." Your heartbeat quickened. "I see someone who hides another answer behind every answer she gives." The observation struck with unsettling accuracy. You turned your gaze away, though he could never see the heat rising beneath your mask.
"…And?" Your throat felt slightly dry, and the question came out somewhat hoarse. Perhaps a little too eager for your own liking.
Another measure of the dance passed. One of his hands moved across the space between your shoulder blades, holding you with quiet confidence. You tightened your hold on his shoulder. "I see someone who would rather be underestimated than admired."
"I think…" You spoke carefully, your voice slightly breathless. "The Sun mistakes shadows for insight."
His answer came easily. "Perhaps." A pause. "Or perhaps moonlight reveals what daylight cannot show." You met his gaze again. The humor was still there, but behind it lingered something unmistakable—a quiet intelligence that weighed every reaction you gave him. Whoever this man was, he was no ordinary courtier.
The dance reached its final moments. The couples separated, circled one another, and then came together once more at the center. As your hands met again, he inclined his head. "I should confess something." He spoke softly, tilting his head slightly to the side again.
"Oh?" The sound escaped you with far more enthusiasm than intended, and you quickly glanced around, wondering whether any noble had noticed your unguarded reaction and taken offense. But the other couples continued moving. Everyone watched the person before them, hands intertwined, bodies moving together in the rhythm of the music.
“I picked out the wrong outfit for tonight.” He almost whispered the words; the noise of the music sapped the strength from his voice, and your ears were ringing from the blood rushing into them. You leaned closer to him, just a breath away. Even though he was hidden behind a mask and delicate gloves, your fingertips tingled from the warmth of his body, and you could smell the subtle scent of incense and lemon that enveloped him.
“What do you mean by that, Sir?” You swallowed hard, looking up at his mask. It was as bright as the Sun, its touch as warming as its rays.
“I’m afraid I made a mistake with my costume. If I were dressed as a moth, no one would ask why I seek the Moon’s company again and again.” He took a slow step closer, the hem of his fine silken doublet brushing against your skirts.
A warm numbness spread through your chest. Your heart struck against your ribs with such force that, for a moment, you genuinely feared that if you spoke, it would try to escape through your throat. Compliments were not unfamiliar to you. At court, they were almost as much a part of a dance as the bows or the steps that flowed into one another — light words meant to ease the awkwardness of closeness, and words that usually vanished just as quickly as they were spoken. And yet…Something lingered. A small, stubborn feeling had taken root among your thoughts, like a splinter you could not ignore no matter how much you tried. The man laughed, he teased, his voice remained effortless and light, but there was nothing shallow in his gaze. He did not look at you as someone merely searching for polite words or scattering compliments out of habit. It was as though every sentence he spoke was truly meant for you.
The final notes slowly faded beneath the high arches of the hall. The last echoes of the melody lingered in the candlelit air as the nobles around you bowed to one another, and applause rippled through the room like a silver wave, reaching the musicians' platform. But the man did not release your hand immediately.
It was as if time had stopped for a single moment all around you.
He bowed before you with practiced elegance, yet there was a playful slowness to the gesture, as though he wished to preserve this fleeting anonymity between you for the span of one more heartbeat. His fingers rose to the side of his mask, slipping beneath the radiant golden disc fashioned into the likeness of the sun's rays, and gently lifted it away. He didn't rush; he moved as if he weren't taking off a mask, but revealing a secret. Your breath caught in your throat against your own will.
The sun vanished, and from behind it emerged the face you had until now only imagined through the sound of his voice and the warmth of his eyes. Candlelight caressed rosy lips, a strong, well-shaped jaw, and the sharper lines that framed his face. There was nothing unnaturally perfect about him, and perhaps that was precisely what made him all the more captivating.
You felt his gloved hand close gently around yours, drawing it toward him. He pressed a kiss against the fine leather that lingered a heartbeat longer than courtly etiquette required.A strange flare of indignation, something perilously close to jealousy stung your cheeks. It seemed almost absurd to resent your own glove for receiving the touch of his lips when your skin had been denied it.
"I hope..." He said softly, quiet warmth lacing his voice, "...that the Moon does not disappear before sunset."
His words still lingered between you when another voice cut cleanly through the murmur of the hall. "Gwayne!" The man let out a sigh almost imperceptibly. The sound, so faint, was audible only to you.
"There it is." He murmured with good-natured resignation. "Duty has a peculiar talent for finding me at precisely the worst possible moment."
Your eyes widened.
Well done, you chided yourself. It had taken your mind the entire dance to stop stumbling blindly through the obvious. The name your ladies had repeated all afternoon. The famed knight of song and story. Queen Alicent's brother. Ballads praised his noble deeds and victories upon the tourney field. Blushing whispers lingered on the gallant courtesies he bestowed upon noble ladies.
And perhaps, yes, he resembled the man you had spoken with throughout the dance. But the Gwayne standing before you was tangible. Not some chivalric ideal, or the dream of every courtly maiden. Simply a thoughtful, good-hearted young man. This was a Gwayne with whom you would gladly have spoken long after the music had ended.
The man noticed the flicker of recognition upon your face, and his smile deepened ever so slightly.
"It seems..." He said softly. "...the Sun ought to introduce himself at last." He placed a hand over his heart and bowed once more. "Ser Gwayne Hightower," He said. "At your service, my lady."
you don't agree with the way ormund berates daeron. after a small disagreement with your husband over this, gwayne finds himself at the end of some silent treatment. but it's not just your son daeron you're worried about, it's the little one in your tummy that gwayne is yet to discover.
husband! gwayne x wife! pregnant! reader, parent! reader & gwayne x daeron. (love this boy sm- he's fab & needs to be protected.) fluff! slight angst! comfort fic! pregnancy! mentions of difficult getting pregnant. mentions of violence off screen (my guy gwayne would knock ts out of ormund i just know it)
"you are upset."
he does not need to be loud to be heard in the library. the whistle of the wind carries his declaration with a profound softness till it reaches your ears and yet, it's not enough to lift your gaze from the book your eyes are militantly trained to uphold. he's sure you're going to set that book alight with the intensity of your stare.
"i am not." right, or perhaps rather with the flame of your curt replies.
"then you are quiet."
"you would rather me be quiet than be bitten with my anger right now, husband."
"i would not, my love," he takes a seat next to yours on the table, his hands gripping the edge of your wooden chair with an effortless ease to tug you closer. when hes successfully minimised the distance, his hands hook under your knees and bring your legs across his lap. in turn, your body just shifts in his direction, the blanket perched across your abdomen shifts slightly and he tries not to focus on the way you pull it back with instinctious ease, "bite me, dearest," he whispers tenderly, fingers tracing in soft lines up your calves "i can take it."
your head shakes in defiance, a petty silence shifting between the two of you and gwayne almost smiles at your stubbornness. almost. but he doesn't, he knows it'll rattle you further and thats the last thing he'd rather do right now. he'd rather die, if that's an option.
his trailing touch is too welcome of a distraction and you stare hard at the little map of your skin he's following and knows all too well. you refuse to bend, you need time to sit in this heat to brace yourself, to find the right words to say and the best way to say them.
but gwayne would take all your words no matter bark or bite, with sense or without, just anything is better than this weighted silence between you. so he struggles a little, one hand stays firmly wrapped around your leg as the other tries to engage in a small game of tug and war as he wiggles the book from your grasp. he ignores your grumbles and successfully lays it flat at the far edge of the table, furthest from your reach. his slender finger reaches out and tilts your chin up to him, brows raised with that patient fondness and he just waits.
all he has to do now is wait, and it doesn't take long at all because one look to gwayne and all your thoughts tangle on your tongue and slip so messily.
"if you cannot tell me what has happened then tell me who," he murmurs, sterness laced into his features, "give me a name, darling that is all i need."
"ormund," you finally break and its bitter on your tongue. you feel your husband tense instantly, the beat of his heart slowing to a halt and he lets out a long exhale.
"of course it is him, what has he done now?" he rolls his eyes but there's a fierceness still harbouring. ormund has been a constant topic of conversation during your years of marriage and raising daeron, the same circle you find yourself trapped in where ormund pushes too hard. he mistakes the gentleness and kindness the two of you have brought daeron up to value as weakness and it irks you to the bone.
"i don't like the way he speaks to him gwayne, he's frightening the poor child," you exasperate and gwayne's listening but he's watching more with concern on the way your hands are flying around with great agitation. "filling him with notions of being king and getting angry with small inconsistencies in history and i'm sorry," you bite out, "having been beaten by a child in a game? and you're in a fit?" the shock and disgust is laced in your tone and you're far into your rant that you look over at your lover and seethe, "seven hells, gwayne would you at least look at me when i'm speaking?"
"i am looking!" his palms shoot up in defence, "and i am listening," he levels his tone, "it is not acceptable you are correct."
"of course i am correct, ormund is deranged,"
"yes, well i think his nightmarish tendencies have been festering since he first laid in his mother's womb," gwayne tries to joke, earn a giggle from you, an easy breath, a temporary truce but all he can see is a sliver of teeth breaking through from your frown. womb. he has no idea which of his words have settled on your skin, making home with the nerves and annoyance.
"is something funny gwayne?"
"my love," he starts and then stops, you've swung your legs off his lap and he misses the heat instantly. he tries to think, what could best diffuse this situation right now and bring you back to him. "i agree and i'll talk to him," he places a comforting hand on your shoulder but you're staring at him and he starts to shift under your scrutiny.
"has daeron said anything?" he feels a wave of protectiveness surge through his body. he knows ormund is harmless, but daeron is gwayne's more than anyone. he and you have raised that babe from young and when you look at daeron, sweet kind daeron, all gwayne can see is you. all the love you've ever poured into him. you and gwayne hadn't been so lucky in your marriage to be blessed with children but daeron has made up for it. he is your son and you'd be damned if anything were to ever happen to him.
"no but," and immediately gwayne sends you a look, "he doesn't need to! the maids speak and they speak of ormund's cruelty," you stress and he nods in understanding.
"you didn't need a maid i could've told you that," he shrugs his shoulders, "i will talk to him," he repeats, trying to catch your eyes, laser in on your focus and bring it to calmness.
"why do i sense a but?" you question.
"but i do think you're too soft on the boy," gwayne speaks. "he's ten and six, my love. he's incredible at his sword play and a novice in his text, i have no doubt ormund's ways are peculiar and i will raise that but he is growing, ormund may be cruel but the world will be harsher."
"he is a boy," you don't even have to shout for gwayne to feel the outrage in your tone.
"he is heir to the throne," gwayne's hand steadies on the table, his body looming over yours. he tries to reach out to you but you stand, guarded and tense. one wrong move from him and you'll shatter the brave stance he's holding up. his hands find the sides of your empty chair now instead, gripping it tensely till his knuckles break through an icy white.
"he is our boy," you voice finally breaks at the edge, you don't even let gwayne finish his sentence before youre shooting daggers and cutting at his hearts edge. "and i will not have the weight of the house's responsibilities and his brother's failures crush him whole," you try and create distance between you, heading to the windows and focusing on the way your small breaths lace the condensation on the glass. you reach out and feel the coolness against your fingertips and close your eyes, "you were not there when it's happened gwayne," you speak slowly, "he tries so hard with everyone, to be what they expect of him, he shouldn't have to with us."
there's an emptiness in the metres that hold you apart. from the silence and from the exhaustion that you know this familiar fight always brings. ormund inflicts his pain, daeron suffers, you and gwayne squabble, gwayne turns to ormund. ormund will never apologise you know this, he becomes a little softer the next weeks before he's back to his usual tirade and the damage will always be done. it'll always linger and haunt you and fail you when you catch the small slip of daeron's smile. the subtle flinch he tries to mask when the tiniest of mistakes have been made.
you think of the weight resting in your body, the heightened need for safety and it almost brings a tear to your eyes. your family is growing and you need to protect them. when you think of daeron, you think of the babe. you think of a life that could be more than just a political piece and your heart lurches, this can't go on. it takes everything in you to not reach out for the little fetus now, you find yourself often just mindlessly checking its still there. as though this could be a dream, as if something so precious could disappear so quickly.
"i know, sweetheart. i will speak to him," gwayne promises with determination, "i will make this right."
you open and eye to sneak a peek at him and see the way he looks back at you, with a longing desperation and you heave out a sigh.
"i would rather he die," you moan and gwayne snorts. its not a resolution to your disagreement but it lightens the mood for a minute. you feel his presence coming behind you and he stops short. he knows you want the space and he grants it to you.
"should i challenge him at the sword, lady hightower?" he mumbles with a tease, breath warm on your neck. and it'd be so easy for you to just give in, turn to your husband and melt back into the safety net of his love. but you're not only sick of this cycle, your heart breaking for your son and unborn child. you're also scared. so you press your forehead against the glass shaking it softly.
"i think poison should be fine," the condensation rises with a small fatigue and the lack of humour in your tone. "quicker, even. though i'm not sure he should be granted the mercy of a swift death."
you can feel the weight of his gaze shift from you to the gardens outside. the way your eyes track the different flowers in bloom and he stands quietly.
"i'd like some time alone, i think," you break the silence and gwayne pauses. you wait for him to say something, to fight you on this, fight for you on this but he clears his throat and nods tightly.
"as you wish, my heart. but rest assured, i will sort this for us. " he slowly presses a kiss to your hair and stares at you a minute more. he wants to tell you it'll all be okay, he will sort this for you and daeron, he will take charge of his household and make things right but you demand action, there's only so far that words can take him right now.
the stress pounds on the forefront of your mind. youre scared for daeron, but youre also scared for yourself. for what youre holding and what will soon be brought to life. its a heavy secret and you want nothing more than to just tell gwayne. but you've already bitten off more than you can chew for today and it settles in your bones.
you don't turn back to watch him leave, his footsteps are sound enough to know you're alone. and when there's absolute stillness do you let your back slide down the window and sink to your knees. your palms rub your eyes gently and then catch your face as you weaken for a moment. your fingers drum along your abdomen, three little knocks to say hello and you sigh, shifting the focus on your breathing. four inhales and six exhales. four inhales and six exhales. four times more before making a move to stand and continue with your day.
you know it's unfair to pin your annoyance on gwayne, your husband is your rock and ormund is the target. you just can't help but feel the tug of his words around your heart. daeron is your son, more of your son that alicent and ormund's combined and with what the future may bring, you've got to protect yours.
...
you make it your mission to be scarce today, to clear your head and simmer down the anger till it floats to a pensive sadness. you weren't hungry enough for lunch, though your defensiveness had stolen a large portion of your energy so you settled for a tea outside in the gardens. alone, save for the same book from earlier perched in your lap. except now when you hold it you can feel your husband's fingertips burn with each page.
you sigh and stretch your neck, the muscles sore from craning and sit patiently, trying to feel the breeze against your skin and listen for the small chirping from the trees above. what does catch your ear however is the small stalling of breaths and you don't need to see the flash of auburn to know who's hiding behind the pillars.
"come out, daeron," you call softly, "you need not hide from me," and the young boy emerges slowly and you make space on your bench for him to join. he attempts to greet you properly until he's met with the gentle sterness of your stare and smiles sheepishly instead.
"i haven't seen you today," he speaks to the flowers and your gaze follows. you shoot him an easy smile and let his comforting aura relax the tension in your shoulders. he leans his head on your shoulder as an invitation and you rest your head on top of his.
"forgive me sweetheart, it's been a heavy morning," he toys with your fingers and you let him stretch each one out, playing with them mindlessly. you watch him for a few minutes, fluctuating between a small frown and a cautious smile and like a sixth sense, your free hand closes on top of your joined ones. "what's the matter?" you ask so tenderly, it warms the cracks of his demeanour and allows him to melt in your ambience entirely.
"nothing," he mumbles and you click your tongue, shaking your head knowingly.
"tell me," its a soft command and it has his eyes lifting to yours with encouragement.
"did..." he starts and hesitates, your brows furrow at the stutter before he lets out a sigh and continues unwillingly, "are you upset with uncle gwayne because of me? did i make things troublesome?" you catch the stretch of glassiness swirling in his orbs and tuck him into your side firmly.
"no, my love," you rebute instantly, "and i am not upset with your uncle gwayne." you rub his shoulder comfortingly. he leans into your touch like a cat seeking refuge and looks back down to his lap.
"i heard him shout at uncle ormund," he lets it slip and your lips purse in thought, "and he hardly raises his voice."
"you shouldn't be eavesdropping my little dragon, some conversations are not meant for us," and you pour him a cup of tea, it's not as hot as it had been when you first sat down but the temperature is perfect for daeron to drink and not burn. he accepts it gingerly, the warmth of the cup welcome on his grip and he takes a sip.
"they mentioned your name," he mumbles in a slurp and you have half a mind to scold him on his table etiquette but seeing him so unguarded and carefree reaches down to the cusp of your soul and tightens.
"did they?" a small amount of interest grows at the claim and you wait for him to continue. daeron stares back at you, a mischievious grin plastered on his face as he shrugs so casually.
"i cannot say more, i shouldn't have been eavesdropping," and you nudge his shoulder playfully.
"oh come now, little prince. you cannot tease and then stop, that is just cruel," and he leans in closer, voice dropping to a murmur.
"uncle gwayne said that if he ever sees even just a wrinkle in your brow because of uncle ormund he was," and his eyes dart around carefully before whispering behind the palm of his hand, "he was going to send him to the seven hells himself." and he giggles so loud at your violent blush. you can't fight the smile that grows on your face and you shove him ever so lightly.
"you jest far too much, daeron."
"no! i swear it!" he defends and you know it to be true. "i'm sorry, aunt. i know this is because of me. uncle ormund isn't that bad, you just have to catch him at the right time and he makes me a better man. i have been difficult" and the shame that leaks off of him is so heart-rending you're overwhelmed with the urge to wrap him into your arms and hold him in safe refuge for eternity. far away from ormund, from the weight of his future and from the name that he carries.
"you shouldn't have to catch him at a right time, he should be a good role model all the time," you feel yourself getting riled again all over, "and what good is he doing making you a better man when you are the better person in all of this. everything is for you, daeron because we love you. you are not difficult in the slightest, in fact it's rather easy to love you daeron. though we do not share direct blood, you are ours, and nothing could change that " you soften. and when you catch him looking at you, its not daeron the prince in your eyes, its your daeron. the small babe alicent left you for what feels forever ago, the same child who tugged at your skirts, who ran with lemon cakes tucked at his sides away from his maestars, who cried when gwayne had first left you for battle and slept with you till the nightmares ran out of fuel.
he's your daeron more than anyone's and your heart stretches to think that the little babe sitting below your diaphragm will come to know, love and call him brother.
"i love you too," he mumbles into your side and you catch his stray tears.
"and when you love someone, you stick with them through everything."
"like you and uncle gwayne?"
"yeah," you pause, "though i don't think i could get rid of uncle gwayne even if i tried."
"he's a persistent man," daeron agrees, "but that's what is important right? he shows up, he always shows up," and the beam of admiration that lights in daeron's eyes sways you off balance. you must've been quiet for a while, listening to your heart beat pulse in your ears and your hands cradle the bottom of your stomach, the most softest of touches. soon it'll expand and you'll probably find more to moan about but at this time you marvel at how precious the life growing in you is. it's selfish you know, but you imagine a girl. with his deep sea eyes and auburn hair, or maybe they'll have your nose, the crinkles of your smile and your blended laughter.
you imagine gwayne to be just as he was with daeron. soft, patient, kind, stern when forced to be but never unjust. maybe a daughter will relax him to a new level, or stress his undoubtedly so. whatever may come, you know gwayne and you know how he loves, completely and all consuming.
he's gwayne. your gwayne. and your pregnant with his baby after what seems to be a miracle from the heavens.
"have i said something wrong?" daeron breaks the silence tentatively and you look up so suddenly, caught and unsure. you clear your throat and let go of your stomach and rest a hand on his. but daeron's quick and he's clever and he's noticed it from the first glance downwards. a small knowing grin works its way onto his face and he bites back the giggles.
"am i?" he drawls out in a tease, "to have a sibling?" and you freeze. no one other than you and the maestar knows. you had hoped gwayne would be the first to be told but after this morning, with your thoughts and emotions clouding your every move, daeron has been too quick.
"do not tell your uncle," your throat grows dry.
"uncle gwayne doesn't know?"
"no," you confirm, staring ahead.
"are you going to tell him?" and you feel his curious stare burning holes into his face.
"of course i will, silly," you blow into the air in frustration, "i was a little bit agitated at your uncle earlier," you admit and and daeron waits patiently. "he wasn't necessarily at fault but he also was not right and you know, this," you gesture down at the small bump hidden under your gown, "has occupied my mind greatly, i have not been fair."
daeron rests his head back onto your shoulder and doesn't say much more. "what?" you question, "what is it?"
"nothing."
"daeron targaryen," the sterness in your voice causes him to press his lips together in a fine line.
"you shouldn't have matters adding to your stress, its not good for the baby," and you roll your eyes.
"you are my baby-"
"i am a grown man," he hisses in embarrassment. he watches you look around in mischief before clearing your throat and raising it to the highest level known to man. he's sure that even the neighbouring galaxies have heard your boo.
"you are my baby!" and just like he did when he was five, he hides in your hold.
"stop this," he mumbles, "i beg of you, please stop." you laugh and feel the sunshine warms your backs as you stroke his hair affectionately. "but?" comes his tiny voice, "you won't forget about me right?" and you melt.
"my love, i could never," and you press a kiss to his hair. he closes his eyes at the touch and then sighs out in relief. for the first time today you've finally had the chance to relax and it feels so blissful you never want to leave the garden. daeron makes a notion for you to pass your book over to him and let him read aloud which you do.
you correct his pronounciation, pause to assess his analytical skills and ask him questions about the text, except when you do it it doesnt feel like a test or challenge as ormund does. it feels like an interest to his thoughts, a learning curve and he is grateful for it immensely.
he makes it through a chapter before turning to you with seriousness you purse your lips in thought, "so who has to apologise then? you or uncle gwayne?"
"daeron," you roll your eyes with a huff but the child doesn't deter, "gwayne obviously," you scoff. "i am pregnant the least he could do is grant me some mercy."
"but he doesn't know you're pregnant yet," daeron counters, "i think you should just apologise and be done with it, don't let your ego ruin your happiness."
and he is true, making so much sense that it irks you. "when did you get so wise?" it lands without a bite, a fondness carrying the question.
"well if you must know then i had some really good parents," its a tease but you recognise the truth behind it, guarding that sentence as if it was gold. daeron shuffles off the bench almost bouncing away with his boyish laughter ringing in the spring breeze, unaware of how that one sentence has brought you to a flood of overwhelming tears.
if you truly did right by daeron and his upbringing, then just maybe you'll be okay with this next one. the thought definitely eases a little pressure from your mind, you can't wait for this little one to meet the rest of your family and come home.
...
gwayne finds you in your chambers, ready with a tray in his hands as he kickes open and close the door. he has a spread of your favourite foods made after finding your absence at the dinner hall. the thud of the door doesn't even so much as shift your glance from your book and he waltzes over in your direction.
"what?" you mumble and he kisses his teeth in disapproval.
"my, is that any way to treat your husband?" he grins.
"what, lord husband?" comes your immediate reply and you feel a chuckle of breath hot and heavy at your ear. you half expect his lips at your cheek but you're met with the smell of grassiness and a tickle of pollen.
"your favourite flower, for my favourite flower," he beams at the daisy gently tucked behind your ear and tangled in the tendrils of your messy hair. the humour doesn't disappear completely from his face, just settles into a quiet simmer as he crouches down for a second. the food tray abandoned to his left on the bed as he places a warm weighted hand over your knee. "i know we argued earlier but please wife, i am sorry and let us not go to bed angry with each other." he speaks with such sincerity and honesty that more than anything you're thankful he's waved the white flag of peace and you send him a small smile of appreciation.
you lean close and press your forehead to his, you nose gently knocking into his and you nod. "i am not angry," you relax into his embrace.
"no?"
"no," you repeat softly, "though i hear you've talked with ormund?"
"and who did you hear that from?" he shoots a knowing grin. he pulls apart from your hold reluctantly to play around with your tray, rearranging your food and attacking the meat with such precise motions from your cutlery. the smell of it is off putting and you shake your head childishly. you should be more cautious of the things you're eating but lord, is the nausea intense.
"darling," he raises his brow, the fork hangs in the air between you and you press your lips shut in a thin closed line. he doesn't even look disappointed, he just makes a different move with his slender fingers plucking a strawberry from a dish and holds it up instead. and when it takes you a moment longer than necessary to react, he reaches out with his free hand and uses his thumb to drag open your bottom lip, "open," he whispers, "now chew," and the bite is so sweet, you feel a buzz of delight rush through you. its the first proper thing you're able to actually stomach and hopefully keep down. "good girl," he murmurs and feeds you another. he mindlessly licks away the drip of the strawberry juice from this thumb before stealing a kiss from your lips. he tastes the sweetness, the stickiness but more dear to him, he can taste you.
a satisfied groan slips between your lips and he grins, working his way through the tray and trying to differentiate between what he thinks you would like and what you wouldn't be able to stomach right now with this wave of nausea.
"you still didn't say how you knew?"
"our son, obviously." as if there could be no possible other who would deliver the news so fresh and quick.
"god, you're so much alike, it's terrifying," he rolls his eyes playfully, "and yes, though this time it is different my love. i get the feeling it's more final, ormund will be seeing things in a different light now."
"what do you mean? how did ormund take it?" you're half expecting gwayne to list boring details, an adult discussion, talks of ruling the realm and false promises of brotherhood but the tease in his tone is alarming and now when you look at him so up close, barely inches away you see why he's awfully smug.
"gwayne!" you exclaim, taking a stand and hovering over at him. your hands find the side of his jaw, painted with the tiniest of green splotch and a few nails ran at the surface.
"who did this?" you demand and he relishes at how you fuss over at him now, the stark contrast of your earlier conversation. it's only been a few hours but in your absence it feels like years have been missed and he drinks you after a long tiresome drought. you're tender around the bruises but there's haste in how you squash his face in his hands and inspect him all over, tossing him left and right with rapid assessment. he can still feel the stickiness of the strawberries against his skin but pays it no mind.
"i told you," and he leans back onto the bed on his forearms, his biceps pulsing in his shirt. his posture is both lazy and inviting as he shrugs once more "ormund will be seeing things differently now, or rather at least he won't be sniffing those ridiculous salts for a week or so,"
"gwayne!" you gasp louder.
"give or take," and the creases at the corner of his eyes fold with pure pride.
the length of his arms reach out and tug you closer as you fall into his lap. you try and brace yourself, cautious of the weight inside you but gwayne's welcomed you with such ease and pulls you firm in his hold, "i told you," he tucks the free flowing of strands back behind your ear and into the makeshift flower hair clip. "things will be different, ormund knows his ways are unlikeable and unacceptable. that change is greatly encouraged and what matters most is daeron. his tutors will stay the same but ormund will no longer be required to test his recitations or squabble over losses at a wooden game" you hum in agreement, kissing his cheek softly. "ormund may be a fool but he's wise to not lay a hand on our boy. that is final. should they need repeating to him then he shall hear them from his casket."
"thank you-"
"it needed to be done," his voice is firm. his hands wrap around the back of your thighs and he pulls you against him till he's laying flat on the bed, your form sprawled on top of him. it's not exactly rough but it's swift and a little unexpectant that you try and brace yourself with your hands to his chest. your body still collides with his, at solid contact, a tight tangle of your limbs and then it just slips from your lips carelessly,
"gwayne- shit the baby-" and you freeze, eyes blown wide at the admission. it's too late for you to take them back, you clear your throat, try and think of what else to say, maybe a distraction?
but there's nothing distracting about the way he's looking at you now. his hold on you tightens, mouth dropping open as he takes in your words. like you, it's like someone's put his brain through slow motion, the world around him seems to fade. blurs into a streak of messiness but you stand at the core of it, so clear and so beautifully his.
"a baby?" his voice breaks, "our baby?" the heat of his gaze melts your heart and brain to mush, you feel the weakness in your limbs as he sits up. your body in tandem as he holds you in his lap. his movements are snail-like now, soft, careful. every second he pours into you fills him whole in return.
"sweetheart?" he calls out to you, the tenderness is so all-consuming on his tongue and you look at him. really look at him. inches away you can see the freckles that dance his cheeks, the lines of the age from all the years youve known and loved him, the dimple that breaks through the surface whenever he pronounces a word so distinctly even when he's not smiling. the earnest in his eyes is what brings you back home, to him and you try to establish an easy breathing pattern.
"our baby," you whisper, the tears already starting to pool at the corners of your eyes. his breath halts, your confirmation shattering any efforts he has of forming a thought and then he reaches out tentatively, eyes searching for your permission first. his hands brace each side of your body, splashed wide against your stomach and he closes his eyes.
it's an odd angle where he cranes his neck lower but he presses a careful kiss there and buries his head into your abdomen. a baby. your baby. and he feels himself lightweight and soaring, ascending to the heavens already.
in the years of your marriage, you and gwayne have tried many times for a child before. it just had never been the right time and though it was hard the two of you had slowly come to accept it. there were tears, silent struggles you carried though no blame was ever directed, and slowly but surely daeron began to fill the gaps in your and gwayne's heart and loving him was far more than you could've ever wished for.
"the maestars say it's early and i didn't want to get our hopes up, i didn't want to let you down," you admit shamefully and his heart tugs. he raises his head to lean his forehead against yours. he turns his head to side and you can feel the slope of his nose against your cheek as he murmurs so tenderly, softly for your ears alone.
"you," his breath his hot and heavy with determination. its the most outrageous thing he's ever heard and he stamps out any doubt in your mind, his words tickling the shell of your ear, "could never let me down, my love," and he returns to your lips. its slow, its gentle and poured with every ounce of intention and love he is capable of delivering. his heart has already stretched and made room for the next addition to the family and he presses that thought into your lips.
"gwayne," you manage to mumble before he's captured you again, swallowing you and your sure right now, your souls are morphing into one.
"a babe," he laughs against your lips, the delight dancing between your tongues and he scrunches his nose, dimples beaming loud. "we truly have been blessed haven't we?"
the excitement doesn't fade, it settles into something easier and lighter. into a faint sense of longing to meet the little one that is moons away from existing.
"i'm sorry," you apologise to him, "i'm sorry, i wanted to tell you earlier but i just, it's been hard carrying this secret, i've had a lot on my mind with daeron and ormund and researching on successful pregnancies and-"
he listens to you ramble and it all makes sense to him. you spending most of your days in the library, the iron grip on the books hes caught you with. your concerns about ormund, your protective affection with daeron and the understanding washes over him. he picks up your hand and places it on his heart, letting you feel the pulses beneath it and its so warm.
"my darling wife," he starts, "whatever burdens you carry are mine to deal with," his fingers trace your cheekbones, the most intimate of caresses and you lean into his touch, "whatever we do, we do it together."
"i'm scared gwayne, i'm afraid that if this babe is to be born, i don't want them to be subjected to what we have, the sacrifices we have made. i know they won't be in line for the throne like daeron, but with everything to come? i can't let anything happen to them- we can't," you stress.
"hey," he tries to shush your quiet sobbing, "i will not let anything happen to daeron, to this babe and more importantly to you, my heart. nothing will get in the way between our family, not war, not household politics, nothing," the intensity of his promise heals the wounds before they've fully bled and you believe him. gwayne hightower is not just one of the noblest but fiercest of knights, he's a man in love and loves to death. and he most certainly would die in the attempt at protecting who he loves.
"i'm serious," he presses a slow kiss to your lips, lingering in the milimetres of air as he takes his time to pull away. he keeps you in his orbit, swirling as he rotates around your being. "nothing matters more to me than your safety, our family's safety," and when he smiles its as if its the very first time you met him across the courtyard and your stomach flutters an army of butterflies.
"yes well," you muse, speaking down at your stomach, "daddy's doing a fine job of beating people up isn't he?" and he laughs, throwing his head into the nook of your neck. your body vibrates under his shaking chuckles and your laughter joins in a sweet melody, the tune of your love.
"and daddy," he throws you a mischievous look before turning his attention down to your abdomen and drums along your skin, "will fight a million more to keep you, your brother and your mother safe."
"a child," he sighs dreamily, he pulls you down to the bed so you're laying side by side. your gazes shift from the ceiling to each other and the fondness in his eyes is world altering. you're sure galaxies have been moved by the focus of his stare.
"what are you thinking of, dearest?" you ask as gwayne's interlocks your hands in a tight promise of forever and brings them to his lips, and then leaving them to rest over his chest. your voice soothes the flowing waters of his thoughts and he breathes slowly, thinking of the future and whats yet to come for your family.
"what i must have done in my past life to accumulate all these blessings, to have been blessed with you," your breath halts. you don't think you'll ever grow accustomed to gwayne's declarations and love, your ears are blessed with sweet nothings every single day, but each time it feels like the very first time all over. gwayne's easy to love, it's natural, you're so sure you were made solely to exist for each other, you can't imagine to be by anyone elses side.
"you really know how to make a girl swoon, ser hightower" you tease.
"my girl," and he makes a move closer to you, hovering over you slightly, careful. "my wife," his head dips, "my love" and just before he closes his lips over yours, you feel yourself fall entirely into the safety net of his arms and his love for the rest of his life, "mine, all mine."
///
i have rewritten this fic a million times and i am never satisfied with how it ends or how it flows but im glad to get it out of the drafts it has been consuming my mind all week. (just in time for tonights episode too!) i think when you think too long and hard about it, you're bound to never be happy with something but yeah, hope you enjoy! let me know what you think! (positive comments only i strictly take NO criticisms sorry x)
@hwaofdreams - sorry it took so long! ty for being enthusiastic about it lolll :p
Overall, the content added with this update is again pretty chunky: ~117k words added in total.
Total word count is at around 409k words (excluding menus and startup); the average playthrough is probably around 120k words, just under ~30% of total word count.
I do think this chapter will feel faster than the last couple - at least it did for me, when playtesting - I think that's due to a mix of action and branching.
Outside of the content outlined below, I’ve made some substantial reworks again to the menu system, including written flavourtext for the MC's relationship bars with certain important characters. There's also some fun stuff with the Mastery bars which you'll see once you get there.
Some things to look out for in Chapter 4:
Conclude the Pactbinder's first term at Hightower at last.
Take your end-term exams.
Grow closer to a collegemate - potentially romantically. Or spend time with the whole crew!
Delve into Old Hightower.
A reunion.
I hope that you enjoy the release, and please don’t hesitate to let me know if you have any feedback or commentary. As always, views on the game so far and comments are truly gratefully received.
I’m especially interested to hear if the cast is still working for you and how you found the romance scenes. I’d also love to hear about your Pactbinders, and whether there are any points where you feel the narration or the options available to you didn’t give you an option that worked for your character.
Finally - please do share your stats in the report at the end of the chapter with me - these are hugely helpful for my work balancing each chapter (plus I love seeing how everybody is running through the game!).
Thanks for sticking with the story (and welcome to those new to Pactbinder!)
Just a quick note to warmly thank everybody who has been kind enough to send in asks, bug reports (thankfully not many at all so far!) and stat sheets over the last couple of days - all hugely appreciated. I'm really glad you're all enjoying the chapter!
I've just (27-Jul) released a tiny patch with some typo and bugfixes, and a couple of balance tweaks (including making a certain white-haired collegemate's Free Roam conversation easier to unlock...) - nothing game-breaking or major, so no need for a replay.
Please do keep the stat sheets and reports coming in - they have been incredibly helpful and I love receiving them all.
Burnt Bread And Broken Hearts // Words: 5,8K // Warnings: SMUT 18+// Summary: a wounded knight, a healer's hut, and a love neither of them can afford
JuneJukeboxScribbles event, hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles
♯ 𝄞 Rules: Write a Scribble of 300 words max, each prompt is a song and the scribble must contain at least one line from it:
Maybe // Words: 390 // Warnings: none // Summary: Gwayne is a sweetie and a gentlemen
The Wrong Sister // Words: 428 // Warnings: none // Summary: Everyone thinks Ser Gwayne Hightower has chosen the wrong sister
Dornish Diplomacy // Words: 423 // Warnings: none // Summary: sometimes the quickest way to an honorable knight's heart is to make him just a little jealous
Ormund Hightower x female!reader
Make Me Feel // Words: 414 // Warnings: none // Summary: Ser Ormund Hightower surprises his wife at their wedding night
AKOTSK
Baelor Targaryen x female!reader
JuneJukeboxScribbles event, hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles
♯ 𝄞 Rules: Write a Scribble of 300 words max, each prompt is a song and the scribble must contain at least one line from it:
Teasing a Dragon // Words: 490 (sorry, this one run away from me) // Warnings: spanking, (kinda soft dom or maybe just very annoyed Baelor 😅 x brat!reader) // Summary: teasing a dragon has consequences...
Feel Good // Words: 300 // Warnings: SMUT 18+, fingering // It's your wedding night and Baelor is a total simp for his wife.
Not Broken // Words: 300 // Warnings: SMUT 18+, oral (m receiving) // Fix it fic. Baelor survives The Trial of Seven but struggles to get back on his feet and suffers from self doubt. Good that you are there to help your husband heal.
King of the World // Words: 300 // Warnings: SMUT 18+, angst // It's the night before the trial of seven and Baelor wants to spend it with you.
The Wolf and The Dragon, you all wanted a smutty thing, I give you a smutty thing 😅but a very sweet and fluffy one. Sorry, it's pwp again with a tiny bit of a plot if you squint. SMUT 18+, fluff, established relationship, p in v, oral. In short - Baelor just needs his wife badly. Reader is hinted to be from the north but without naming any particular house.
A Whore for your Prince, I don't really know what this is. I just woke up horny and decided to make it your problem. It's just me dreaming about being Baelor's wife🤷Plot? never heard of it. Just SMUT 18+ with some pinches of fluff. Established relationship, p in v, oral, breeding kink if you squint, truly it's just a girls wet dream and boy do I want that old man fuck me senseless in all the possible ways.
The Guilded Cage: Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III, Chapter IV, Chapter V, Chapter VI – reader - a lesser noble’s daughter – is sent to King’s Landing to wed Baelor Breakspear, a prince she’s never met and already fears. You're certain the crown doesn’t want you, only your dowry: your late father’s estate, guarding a passage too strategic to ignore. But in the Red Keep, nothing is quite what it seems… and sometimes the real dangers are the ones we conjure in our own minds.
i dont want a childproofed internet i am almost 30 fucking years old. give your kid an internet safety talk and stop making it the problem of every adult on the planet every time some cryptkeeper legislator gets the brilliant idea (via conservative lobbying) to push through yet another bill gutting our access to free expression + increasing the powers of the surveillance state + lining the pockets of Big Data in the name of Protecting The Kids they wont even feed. this shit is exhausting i can’t believe we’re going to be fighting about it for the rest of my life
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: for four years you've stolen affection from ser gwayne hightower. kisses pressed to his cheek. fingers buried in his auburn hair. now you're finally betrothed, yet he remains as painfully chivalrous as ever, denying being pulled into an unwatched hallway or even a kiss despite his mischievous princess' every attempt to entice him.
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: smut, p with p, mild angst, fluff, heavy romance, swearing, poor gwayne, reader is a menace, yearning, making out, cunnilingus, thigh riding, 18+ MDNI
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐚𝐧: reader is targaryen (rhaenyra’s younger sister)—no physical features are explicitly described other than targaryen features (purple eyes and silver hair since i couldn’t resist)
title from freddie fox's droolworthy reading of Keats' La Belle Dame Sans Merci~ link
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐰𝐜: 8.9k (oneshot)
Gwayne Hightower would not touch you.
It was beginning to feel like a punishment.
He was ever the attentive fiancée. He offered his arm when you walked. He held your waist to help you dismount Dreamfyre, but let go as soon as your riding boots brushed the floor. During feasts, he led you by the small of your back when the crowd pressed too closely, but he never allowed it to settle there. These many years you had been beside him, and he had never even stolen a kiss.
He spent four years before your match as your personal knight. And you had hardly been restrained with your affection for him then.
You pressed kisses to his cheek whenever he did something that pleased you. You threaded your fingers through his auburn hair when he knelt before you to fasten the ties of your riding boots. You touched him at any opportunity. And now that he was your betrothed, your behavior grew tenfold.
You wore your lowest cut gowns, enough to earn disapproving stares from the maids, and leaned over tables when he stood across from you, asking what he thought of your rubies, baring your throat with the peak of your breasts.
A few goblets into any feast, you became a terror. You would catch Gwayne’s hand beneath the table and attempt to pull him toward abandoned halls, empty balconies, shadowed alcoves— anywhere private enough so that he might finally claim what was his.
He always followed where you led him. His fingers would close around yours. He would let you pull him from the hall, his long strides carrying him behind you without protest until the music dulled and the torchlight thinned. He followed until he realized what you planned. Then it was like trying to pull a stubborn mule by the rein.
"Princess…”
"Ser Gwayne." You would wrap your arms around his neck.
He would carefully peel them away. You would press yourself against him and feel, unmistakably, the hard outline of his cock against your stomach. Proof enough that he was not unaffected by you.
Sometimes his eyes closed as though he were praying through some private agony. His breath would leave him slowly through his nose. His large hands would settle upon your hips, warm and tight enough to make you ache beneath the silk.
But Gwayne always stepped away. He always peeled your hands from his clothes and returned you to the safety of the feast like some wayward child who had wandered too close to the fire.
Gwayne was too good a man. Too honorable. A knight who still believed in chivalry when half the realm treated it as a pretty lie told to maidens before men stuck themselves inside. He guarded your virtue more fiercely than you, refusing to take advantage of your wine-softened judgment no matter how you tempted and tormented him. Gwayne never allowed himself to ruin you.
It was the hottest day of the summer when you realized why.
You went to the training yard whenever the weather was warm. When the knights in their exertion would shed their shirts to continue their training. It was improper. This was explained to you endlessly by your ladies, your father, even your sister, but no one succeeded in stopping you. You sat there for hours, watching as sweat ran down his throat and gathered along the hard planes of his chest. His auburn hair darkened at the temples. Broad through the shoulders, lean at the waist, his pale skin flushed from the sun.
You sat beneath a covered gallery with a cup of watered wine and made no effort to conceal your staring at only him.
Gwayne made every effort not to acknowledge it.
But the other knights did not conceal their interest in you. A young knight from the Reach bowed every time he passed the gallery. Another removed his shirt despite having done nothing strenuous enough to justify it. When one of them asked whether you might favor him with your ribbon for his next bout, Gwayne lowered his practice sword and looked at him.
“Ser Roland.”
“My lord?”
“If you possess enough breath to beg favours from the princess, you possess enough to continue.” Gwayne struck him hard enough to send the knight sprawling into the dust. When his opponent rose, Gwayne disarmed him so violently that both wooden swords cracked.
He never looked toward you, but the muscle jumping in his jaw was satisfaction enough. His jealousy was one of the few scraps you had. They were pitiful little things, but they proved Gwayne’s restraint was not disinterest.
When the training ended, you descended into the yard while the men washed and dressed. Gwayne’s shirt lay where he had left it. You only meant to collect it for him. That was all. A sweet, wifely gesture before you were properly his wife.
A ring slipped from the breast pocket when you lifted the linen.
It fell into the dust without a sound. It was gold, old enough that its surface had softened with years of wear. Small, delicate, made for a woman’s hand. A pale green stone rested in its setting, not bright like an emerald but gentle, almost clouded, with tiny filigree vines around the band. It looked like a humble version of your own betrothal ring on your finger set with purple sapphire.
Oh.
For months, perhaps longer, you had noticed him touching something inside that pocket. His fingers would disappear briefly beneath the edge of his doublet, finding something hidden there. You had caught him alone once, holding a small golden object in his palm and staring down at it with such a contemplative expression that you had quietly retreated before he noticed you.
You had wondered what it was. And now you knew. A woman’s wedding ring.
You looked toward Gwayne. He stood beside the well, speaking to another knight as water ran over his bare chest. He did not notice you.
Perhaps she was blonde. Oldtown seemed filled with golden women in your imagination, graceful and pious, with eyes as crystal blue as their waters. Likely she was the daughter of some landed knight, far too low for the son of Otto Hightower. She had to be beautiful.
Like your sister, Rhaenyra, you had been permitted your pick of the eligible men presented to you.
Ancient lords offered themselves beside sons younger than some of their horses. Heirs came from every corner of the realm, gathering at Driftmark until the corridors filled with unfamiliar banners and the stables groaned beneath the weight of their entourages. They waited in a line that curved through the great hall, each man eager for his chance to stand before you and explain why his blood was worth joining to yours.
You had sat on the throne of pale driftwood, made comfortable with plush white furs. Your skin polished with oils and perfume and your hair woven with pearls.
Your father’s advisor sat lower at your side, jabbering endlessly on about advantages in your ear.
The men themselves offered ships, armies, ancient blood, loyalty, gold, grain, any and every resource the crown had want for, they offered at your feet. Young and old praised your beauty, your intelligence, your lineage. You were the fairest daughter of the king. Truly befitting the title Jewel of the Realm. A true dragon amongst women. You rested your cheek on your fist.
One lord promised to give you six healthy sons despite appearing near death himself. Another recited the victories of every knight in his family since the Conquest. A young heir stumbled through a poem about your amethyst eyes, despite never having actually looked at your face since his attention was too caught at your breasts.
Then Gwayne stepped forward and bowed.
Your Gwayne. He was painfully handsome in the green finery of his House and silver jewelry; his auburn hair brushed back from his face.
“My princess, House Hightower has—"
“I accept.”
It was the first time you had spoken since the procession began. Silence spread across the hall.
Gwayne remained bent for a moment. When he lifted his head, his expression was almost comical. His eyes were wider than you had ever seen them, lips slightly parted.
“Princess,” the advisor beside you began cautiously, “perhaps you should consider—”
“Pray, consider what?” you turned on the man sharply. “House Hightower is among the oldest and wealthiest houses in the realm and Ser Gwayne’s father has served faithfully as Hand of the King for years.”
Otto Hightower was the worst of any power-hungry, conniving snake you’d ever witnessed, and his elder brother had only one son, Ormund. A cruel, volatile young man according to what Alicent heard from Gwayne. It was a matter of time before he befell accident and Gwayne would inherit Oldtown in his stead.
You had not spent years dreaming of Gwayne without considering what marriage to him would mean. You were besotted, not a fool.
“Every merchant vessel entering the Honeywine pays for the privilege. Every hold filled with silk, spice, wine, steel, or grain enriches House Hightower before its cargo ever reaches the market. Their wealth may not lie buried beneath a mountain like House Lannister’s, but trade does not run dry.”
You looked back to Gwayne, softening your voice. “I have always longed to see Oldtown. The most beautiful city in Westeros perfumed by endless flowers, I am told, and near enough I would be only two days by dragonback from my most precious sister. I think it a fine match.”
Gwayne looked at you.
You had begged him often enough for stories of Oldtown. Of the Hightower burning against the evening sky. The bells of the Starry Sept. Of the great markets along the Honeywine, crowded with merchants and sailors from half the known world. Of the city in spring and summer, when flowers climbed every wall and spilled from every garden until the streets seemed to burst with them. He always answered you patiently.
Otto coughed into his hand to poorly conceal his delight. He had already been presented and rejected before his son. He stood among the assembled lords looking every bit like a fat cat drowning in cream.
At the time you had thought Gwayne’s reaction adorable.
Now you felt like you were going to vomit—
He would not kiss you because he did not want to.
Gwayne had ceased being your personal protector once the betrothal was announced. A future husband could not stand alone outside your chambers at all hours without inviting questions about your virtue. And you— vain, witless creature that you were— found it romantic. You imagined him restless in his new rooms, him lying awake with the same ache that kept you from sleep.
All the while, he had been touching another woman’s ring through the fabric over his heart.
Suddenly every kindness he’d shown you spoiled beneath the memory of it.
He had been romantic, in his careful way. He remembered which flowers you liked and had them brought to your chambers when the gardens were bare. He stood beneath your balcony in the rain because you had fallen asleep under the covered daybed before dismissing him. He warmed your gloves before winter rides and carried sugared plums in his pocket because he knew you became more foul-tempered when hungry. After you rolled your ankle, he had carried you through half the Red Keep.
That was Gwayne’s particular cruelty. He was too good a man to be careless with you. Too honorable to let his reluctance become unkindness.
He had proposed because his father commanded it.
He was your knight only because he was commanded.
You had seen him joust the day your mother died. Alicent had spoken of her brother, how he was good. He was kind.
You had been lonely, half-wild with grief— you had seen your beautiful mother bleeding out in her bed. His blood in the mud. The unfairness. The helplessness of everything. You fixated upon him like a dragon with prey. You wanted him. You wanted him more than you'd ever wanted anything.
Viserys had always had a fatal weakness for his daughters. Jewels, hawks, gowns, ponies, sweetmeats, if either of you desired something, he rarely found the strength to refuse.
He was only seven-and-ten, already a knight. The scar beneath his left eye a neat line of black thread against pink swollen skin. He spoke his oaths to you. That day onward, his life belonged to you.
Perhaps someone had given the ring to him before he left. Perhaps he had intended to give it back with another promise.
Your stomach lurches painfully and you need to physically hold back the vomit, closing your mouth and constricting your throat.
His back was to you. You dropped his shirt back beneath the tree as though the linen had burned your hands. With no greeting nor blown kisses you turned on your heel.
You returned to your chambers, hand clenched around the ring until your nails drew blood. When you finally opened it, the delicate gold was stained red along one edge.
By twilight, you found Gwayne beneath the Heart Tree.
The sky above the walls had deepened to violet, the last of the sun caught in the highest windows of the Red Keep. Gwayne sat with his back against the pale trunk, his linen shirt only half-buttoned and his auburn hair disordered from the repeated drag of his hands through it. His doublet lay overturned across one knee. The contents of his pockets had been emptied onto the grass beside him
The sight of him scraped away much of the satisfaction you had carried with you.
The goldsmith had worked quickly when summoned by a princess. You had rejected three designs for chains before choosing one fine enough to disappear beneath Gwayne’s clothes, but strong enough that the ring would not be lost again. It was plain gold, without gems or needless ornament. Anything grander had seemed an insult to the modest woman you imagined once worn it.
Now, seeing the strain around his mouth and the bleakness in his eyes, you wished you had not taken it at all. “Gwayne.”
His head lifted sharply.
Relief came too quickly before he mastered it. He rose at once, brushing grass from his clothes, though his attention never left your face.
“My princess.”
You smiled despite the ache beneath your ribs. You had done something kind for him. That was what mattered. You brought the velvet pouch from behind your back and offered it to him. “I have something for you.”
He accepted it carefully, brows furrowed together.
The fine chain spilled over his palm, followed by the ring he had clearly spent the last several hours searching for like a madman. Relief broke naked across his face. His shoulders lowered. His mouth parted on a breath.
“Forgive me.” Your voice came quieter now. “I should not have taken it.”
His eyes rose to yours.
“It fell from your shirt in the yard, and I feared you would lose it. You carry it loose in your pocket as though it were a copper.” You touched one finger to the chain in his hand. “Something so precious deserved better.”
“You had this made?”
You nodded. You would not be cruel enough to let him lose his last piece of her merely because you were a stupid, spoiled little bitch who imagined herself loved.
He looked at the chain again, thumb passing over the links with painful care.
Gwayne had always been good to you. Your blood was not made for gentleness, but he made you wish to be good back.
He was romantic in a hundred small ways. He gave you everything a good man might reasonably give a lady but withheld any single thing that would have allowed you to believe he wanted you as a man.
He slipped the chain over his head and tucked the ring beneath his shirt. It disappeared against his chest, settling exactly where you had intended— directly over his heart.
You looked at his face and wondered what kind of woman could place such grief there.
“She must have been very dear to you.”
Something changed in his expression. Love, certainly. Loss. A tenderness so old and deep that it appeared to have settled permanently into him.
“She was.” he said quietly. “More than I could ever explain.” His hand closed around the ring, “I miss her constantly.”
Something inside you broke like a final cut of a frayed thread. You clasped your hands together so he would not seem them shaking. You smiled once more, though it felt like stretching skin over a corpse. “It is late, I should return inside.”
He stepped toward you. “Allow me to escort you.”
“There is no need.”
“It is dark,” he reached for your hand.
You stepped away before he could touch it. The movement was small, no more than half a pace.
Still, his fingers stopped in the empty air between you. You pretended not to notice, giving a shallow curtsy, “good evening, Ser Gwayne.”
You had never addressed him so coldly in private before and his brown knit.
“My princess—”
You only turned on your heel.
You spent the two weeks before your wedding being haunted by a woman who did not possess a face.
You saw her in every maid with golden hair. Every noblewoman who giggled at something dry Gwayne had said. Every daughter of the Reach who lowered her lashes and found some reason to linger near him.
Sometimes she was blonde and gentle, pale as milk, with a soft voice made for prayer.
Sometimes she was dark-haired and bold. The sort of woman who might have met Gwayne in stables or beneath the shadow of the Hightower, pressing herself against him while he promised her a life he would never be permitted to give. You imagined he liked boldness if it was her.
Sometimes she had a full, romantic body that would have filled his hands beautifully. Sometimes she was slim-boned and graceful, made to stand beside him without making him look like a man burdened.
You imagined him kissing her without having to be begged. Following her into dark halls without stopping halfway to remember his honor. You imagined his hands closing around her waist because she was gentle and he wanted them there, rather than because she had been dismounting a dragon and needed help down.
You imagined him fucking her. The thought arrived most at night, vicious and detailed. Gwayne beneath another woman. Gwayne above her. His auburn hair disheveled through her fingers, his mouth open against her breast, his cock disappearing inside her body.
You became despondent.
The curtains remained drawn in your chambers. You did not rise until later and later in the day. Your meals sat untouched and stone cold or sent back to the kitchens.
Weeks’ worth of unopened gifts all from House Hightower sat piled high and collecting dust. The sent bouquets made your chambers smell of sweet moonblooms and died where they were placed because you would not allow your ladies to put them in water.
Far, far more had already been sent ahead to your soon-husband’s home in preparation for your arrival. You dreaded the thought of seeing any of it. You dreaded ever seeing Oldtown.
Your favorite gowns disappeared into the furthest reaches of your wardrobe. The low necklines Gwayne had once looked away from were replaced by collars worked high beneath your chin. You wore heavy embroidered silk despite the heat and sleeves buttoned at the wrist.
The first afternoon you appeared dressed like a particularly wealthy septa, Rhaenyra had choked on her watered-wine and kept staring like you'd grown a second head.
When you saw Gwayne later in the day, he eyed your gown as well. You gave him the same distant courtesy you might have offered any knight at court. “Good day, Ser Gwayne.”
You did not kiss his cheek. You did not touch his hair. When he offered his arm, you accepted because refusing would cause gossip. Your hand rested lightly upon his sleeve. Nothing more.
You addressed him only when courtesy required it.
Thank you, Ser Gwayne.
That will be all, Ser Gwayne.
You need not trouble yourself, Ser Gwayne.
Within two weeks, Rhaenyra had exhausted both her patience and her sympathy.
“You are ill,” she said, bursting into your chambers, despite it being the midday before your wedding, to find you still in bed. Your wedding gown hung ready for you against your painted screen. You spent the night and morning staring glumly at it.
Your sister planted both hands upon her hips.
“You do not attend the training yard. You have not spoken of your wedding, not with me or the planners. You have not tormented poor Ser Gwayne.” Her eyes narrowed. “And worst of all, you have not even been to see Dreamfyre in three days.”
You groaned, just wishing for her to go away. “I am not ill.”
"I swear to the gods, if you're pregnant out of wedlock—"
You dragged a pillow over your head. “I'm not pregnant, you bloody fool.”
There was a pause and you could feel her gaze burning a hole into your back. “Are you certain.”
“I would first need to actually bed him for that to be possible.”
Rhaenyra crossed the room in several quick strides and ripped the pillow from your face, staring down at you as if it was life and death. “You have not bedded him?”
You glare up at her, face scrunched.
“Your wedding is tomorrow. You have been betrothed for months. By the gods, what have you been doing all this time?”
You rolled away from her.
“Send for him. Have him take you. When the child arrives before the proper number of moons, we can claim it came early.”
You threw a pillow at her. “Are you deranged! I am still a maiden!”
She wore satisfaction like silk having managed to finally rile you for the first time in weeks. She sat heavily at the edge of your bed and laid atop you, her low back across yours. “Tell me.”
You did not want to. But there were no secrets allowed between you. And your sister was a relentless animal. She would remain atop you all day if necessary. She’d lie here till the end of time if it meant you would feel better.
“There is another woman.”
As you told your story, your sister’s expression did not change. You didn’t expect her to understand. She has little interest in your brother-in-law, Laenor, which was hardly surprising considering he possessed even less interest in her entire sex.
“Ah. Well.” She nodded, resolved. “He has always made you too soft anyways. And now the solution is obvious,” her mouth curved faintly. “He will be your husband before the court. In private, you must do as I do. Occupy yourself elsewhere just as he will.”
Your stomach soured horribly again at the thought of another woman in his bed while you were married. But your thoughts moved toward her newest personal knight.
Ser Harwin “Breakbones” had become a frequent presence near your sister. Broad as a fortress wall, smiling too easily whenever she spoke. Due to your sister's scandalous stories, you were far more familiar with the way the man used his cock more than his actual personality.
“Such as your new occupation with Ser Harwin.”
Her smile widened. “Ser Harwin is certainly devoted to his duties.”
“I am certain he performs them tirelessly.”
“He has remarkable stamina.”
You laughed and you saw her face light in the way it always did when she managed to make you laugh. Then you saw the idea form in her head. A devious little spark.
Before you could object, she caught your face between both hands and smashed a kiss against your cheek. It was wet, loud and irritating.
You shoved at her shoulder, wiping her spit off. “Ugh! Get off me.”
“No more of this.” She declared.
“You are not queen yet. You cannot simply command my misery finished.”
She seized you again and smooshed another disgusting kiss upon your other cheek. “Tonight, we are going out.”
Your sister returned after dark. She slipped through the hidden door behind the tapestry without knocking, wearing a rough brown tunic, loose breeches and boots that had been stolen from a stable boy. Her silver hair had been braided tightly and shoved beneath a dark wool cap, though several pale strands had already escaped around her temples.
She carried another bundle beneath one arm.
“Get dressed.”
It was far from the first time the two of you had escaped into the city. Within the hour, your hair had been crushed beneath a cap, your body hidden beneath coarse wool and Rhaenyra was pulling you through the city by the hand. It smelled like piss and roast meat and floral perfume poured over unwashed skin.
You drank first in a tavern where every table was sticky and the ale tasted as though it had been strained through an old boot. Then a brothel where sailors sang were loud and one of them narrowly missed vomiting into your lap.
You would learn later what happened inside the Red Keep.
A maid entered your chambers shortly before midnight and found the bed empty.
She panicked, searching everywhere you may have hidden in your chambers or the kitchens. All your ladies spent years watching you and Gwayne. if you were upset, they fetched him. When you caused mischief, he untangled it. When you disappeared, he always knew where to look. So, frantic, she burst directly into his chamber finding him halfway through removing his doublet.
"My lord," she gasped. "The princess... I—I cannot find her."
For one moment, he simply looked at her.
His mind rejected the words. You had retired hours ago. He had watched you leave the hall, dressed in dark blue, your throat covered to the chin. You had scarcely looked at him all evening.
“What do you mean, you cannot find her?”
The girl began to stammer. “Her bed is empty, my lord. Her ladies thought she was asleep. No one saw her leave, and the window is still locked, and I checked the solar, but she is not—”
“Who entered her rooms tonight?”
“No one, my lord. I swear it.”
“Who was stationed outside?”
“Ser Martyn and Ser Olyvar.”
“And they saw nothing?”
“No.”
“Then either they are liars or imbeciles.”
The maid’s eyes filled with tears at his harsh tone. Gwayne scarcely noticed. Fear had already taken hold of him, cold fingers sinking through flesh and curling around bone. You had been different for weeks. Quiet. So unlike yourself that he had begun to worry you had fallen ill, though every maester he sent to you insisted otherwise. You acted now with perfect courtesy to him. You looked at him as though he were a fucking stranger and it was driving him to madness.
Now your bed was empty.
“Say nothing of this,” he ordered.
The maid blinked. “My lord?”
"You will not wake the castle. You will not summon the guard. You will not speak a word of this unless I command it."
"But the princess—"
"Would be ruined before dawn if the Red Keep learned she vanished from her chambers the night before her wedding."
The words tasted foul. Vanished. The night before her wedding.
He had seen reluctant brides before. Girls wrapped in silk and pearls with red-rimmed eyes. He had pitied them. He never imagined you among them. Not after you had chosen him.
But you had retreated from him. And Gwayne couldn’t understand for the life of him why. He tried everything. He sent flowers, your favorite white moonblooms, roses, violets, and sweet peas till your chambers began to resemble a garden. Every morning your maids carried armfuls of dead flowers out. So jewels followed. Silver necklaces set with sapphire, emerald earrings, rubies meant to lie against the hollow of your throat. You wore none of them. He suffered through two hours with a court poet selecting syrupy verses he knew would make you tease him.
You only thanked him for the politeness shown by House Hightower.
You scarcely left your chambers anymore, and whenever he sought a private word, your ladies intercepted him with smiling excuses. The only place he ever truly saw you was at dinner and he couldn’t bloody well ask why you were no longer trying to entice his clothes off in front of the king.
His last resort, he wore your silk favor around his wrist every morning in the yard. It was almost embarrassing.
A favour was meant for battle or a joust, not an ordinary afternoon in training. The other knights had noticed. One had smiled knowingly before Gwayne put him flat on his back in the dust. Dutifully, he tied your purple and green woven silk to his wrist every morning.
You always possessed some uncanny gift for appearing whenever he removed his shirt. Without fail he would look up from the yard to find you leering over the gallery, licking your lips like a cat— he, your cornered songbird.
But you never came. His heart fell everytime he glanced to the empty gallery and he was mottled with bruises because he kept glancing, failing to notice the blows coming to him.
He knew first where to search.
Dreamfyre’s enormous body rose and fell beneath the darkness of the Dragonpit, blue scales catching what little firelight reached her. When Gwayne approached, one golden eye opened and fixed upon him with displeasure.
He stopped well beyond reach of her jaws. He had known your dragon for four years. That did not make him foolish enough to mistake familiarity for safety.
Dreamfyre released a low rumble that vibrated through his ribs.
“I know,” he said, jumping back, “I very much dislike my being here as well.”
You had not fled the city. You would never have left without your dragon. You loved the beast with a devotion that was purely absurd considering she possessed teeth longer than his forearm and could swallow the both of you without chewing.
Relief came first. Then frustration. He had not spent four years enduring your mischief without learning that when you caused trouble, Rhaenyra was rarely far.
Gwayne closed his eyes “Seven fucking hells.”
The poppy den was warm enough to make your skin damp. Carpets covered every inch of the floor, stained with wine and ash. Smoke curled beneath the ceiling, sweet and burnt, thick enough to soften every face in the room. Men and women reclined against embroidered cushions with glassy eyes while servants moved between them carrying wine and pipes.
Neither of you smoked. You only liked the smell. You had drunk just enough to feel pleasantly warm without guaranteeing tomorrow's misery.
Rhaenyra sprawled beside you with one arm thrown over her eyes and one boot missing. You had no notion where it had gone.
A servant bent to refill your cup. His tunic hung open almost to his navel, displaying a great deal of smooth golden skin. Rhaenyra lifted her arm just enough to watch him leave. “Laenor would like him.”
“Laenor likes anything with a cock and a smile.”
“He is not so particular about the smile.”
Your laughter choked on your wine and burned as it came out of your nose.
Rhaenyra laughed so hard that she rolled onto her side, clutching her stomach.
You did not hear the door open. Gwayne stood at the entrance to the den, chest rising hard beneath his cloak. For the better part of an hour, he had searched every establishment Rhaenyra’s personal guard, Ser Cole, told him of. Dread sitting like lead in his stomach. He had imagined finding you in some alley with your throat cut open. Some filthy bastard laying hands where no man had leave to touch. He had imagined blood staining your silver hair.
He had not imagined you were lying facedown upon a stained carpet, cheeks flushed, drunk off your pretty little arse and laughing with your equally asinine sister
Then you turned your head and your laughter died.
Rhaenyra followed your stare. For several moments, no one moved.
He expected you to rise and come to him with an apology. You’d wear that sweet, sheepish little smile you used whenever your behaviour crossed the thin line between troublesome and outright criminal. You would hug his upper arm, press it to your breast and look up at him with fluttering lashes, telling him it had only been a bit of fun, Gwayne. And, as usual, he'd melt for you.
Instead, you and Rhaenyra looked at one another.
Something silent passed between you. You bolted in opposite directions.
Rhaenyra threw herself through the back entrance, her single boot abandoned somewhere behind her. Her laughter vanishing behind a hanging curtain.
You made it a few steps before Gwayne caught you around the middle.
A startled cry escaped you his arm locked across your stomach, crushing your back against his chest while you kicked uselessly.
“What,” he said against your ear, each word clipped with terrifying precision, “in the seven hells possessed you?”
“Unhand me this instant!” You struggled harder, trying to pry his arm from your waist.
Gwayne only tightened his grip. He had been imagining your throat opened because some Flea Bottom cunt had recognized the silver of your hair.
You drove your heel backward, narrowly missing his knee.
His patience ended.
He bent, caught you behind the knees and you shrieked as he threw you over his shoulder.
Blood rushed to your head. His shoulder dug beneath your ribs with every step as he walked out. You slapped both hands against his back and tried to force yourself upright, but the position gave you no leverage and you hung limp. Your cap slipped free and fell somewhere in the street white hair spilling nearly brushing his boots.
“Gwayne—!”
His hand struck the fat of your arse. It was not hard enough to truly hurt, but it stung even through your breeches, sharp enough to leave you frozen for one astonished breath.
Then outrage flooded you. “You fucking beast!”
Gwayne’s hand remained splayed across the backs of your thighs, keeping your flailing hips pinned against his shoulder.
“Compose yourself,” he said, voice dangerously calm, “If you kick me again, I shall take it as confirmation that the first correction was insufficient.”
“You would not dare.”
“Tonight has already proven that you greatly overestimate my patience.”
You kicked him again.
Gwayne halted. For one silent moment, his hand remained motionless against your thighs. Then he sighed through his nose. “As you wish.”
His palm cracked against your backside a second time. It landed harder than the first, not cruelly, but firmly enough that the sting bloomed hot beneath your breeches.
You gasped. “You—”
“Choose your next words carefully.”
“You sanctimonious cunt!”
You fought him the entire way back to the keep. You pounded your fists on his back and cursed his name, his House, and every Hightower ancestor unfortunate enough to have produced him. You threatened to have him dismissed, exiled, fed like a goat to dragons. When that failed, you informed him with crocodile tears that your ribs were breaking and he needed to put you down. He only huffed and shifted your hips higher upon his shoulder to take the pressure off, and you released a scream of pure frustration.
By the time he reached the hidden passage, his breathing had grown harsh, and sweat dampened the hair at his temples. Still, his hold never loosened. He endured your tantrum until you reached the concealed door behind the tapestry in your chambers. Gwayne shoved the panel open, strode inside, and threw you onto the bed.
You bounced on the mattress with a startled cry. He slammed the hidden door closed and turned upon you. You had never seen him so angry, never at you.
"What," he hissed, "possessed you?"
"It was only one evening."
"One evening in a brothel."
"A poppy den.” You crossed your arms, climbing to your knees on the bed. "Rhaenyra was only trying to give me a night of freedom."
"I do not care if she took you to the Starry Sept.” He looked at you with incredulous anger.
"The night before your wedding you went wandering Flea Bottom," he repeated, running his hand through his hair but saying the words slowly as if to make them sensible. "You could have been recognized. You could have been taken.” He scoffed. “Do you understand what men do to women they find unguarded in places like that? Do you understand what they would have done to you?”
“I do not belong to you yet, lord husband,” You snarled, “You forget to whom you speak, Ser.”
His face hardened. "I have forgotten nothing."
"Then remember our vows are not spoken till tomorrow. Until then, where I go and what I do are of no concern of yours."
“No concern—” His laugh was short and disbelieving. “I have spent the last hour searching Flea Bottom because you vanished from your bed, and you dare tell me you are no concern of mine?”
“You need not trouble yourself. By this time tomorrow, you will have all that was promised to you.”
Something in his expression shifted, though his anger remained. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“My hand. My name. Dragon’s blood for House Hightower.” Your face was inches from his, voice growing colder. “I shall stand beside you before the court. I shall leave for Oldtown when you commanded. I shall spread my legs and give whatever heirs your father expects of me."
Gwayne went utterly still.
You should have stopped. Instead, wounded pride drove the blade deeper. “Is that not enough?”
“Enough?” he repeated.
“You have never wanted anything more from me.”
He looked as if you had slapped him. “You believe that?” he asked.
“I assure you, I will perform my duty as well as you preform yours.”
Neither of you spoke. You only stared at one another, breathing hard. Then something in him seemed to crack, not into anger, but into exhaustion.
“You have not looked at me in two weeks.” His voice had gone quiet in a way that was worse than shouting. “If you cannot bear this match—if you cannot bear me—” He looked at you. “Tell me. Tell me plainly and I will find a way to undo it. I will fall on my sword before I see you miserable.”
Your throat tightened. Whatever anger had been there had quickly vanished. It hurt to look at the despair on his face.
"What would you have of me to ease this wretchedness I have must have done to you?”
You wanted. God you wanted. Just once before everything changed between you. Just once before he ceased to be your Gwayne when he returned to her.
You leaned up and pressed your lips against his. He was as still as a statue. You moved your mouth against his clumsily, pursing your lips together and then rubbing your lips against his. Gwayne still didn’t move. Your heart pounded painfully in your chest and your face flushed with embarrassment. Tears came to your eyes at his lack of reaction. When you pulled away you tried to hide your face from him. “I am so sorry.”
You still held him, your fingers buried in his hair, tears spilling freely down your cheeks. “I tried,” you say. “I swear I tried to be better.”
"I do not understand." You sobbed and tried to release him, but his hand caught your wrists keeping your palms pressed against his face though it was scrunched in confusion. "Sweetling, by the gods, what do you mean?”
“I tried to stop humiliating you. To stop touching you when you did not want me to. I know I have been selfish. I know what your father made you give up for this marriage.”
His brow drew sharply together. “What did my father make me give up?”
“The woman in Oldtown.”
Silence.
“The what?”
“The ring,” you forced out. “The woman whose ring you carry. You said she was dearer to you than you could explain. You said you missed her constantly.”
For one long moment, Gwayne only stared. The misery of the past weeks lay suddenly naked before him. You thought—
Seven fucking hells.
You thought he belonged to another woman.
Gwayne’s fingers tightened around your wrist.
“I cannot—" your words dissolved around your broken breath. “I am not selfless. I cannot while you bed her. Gods watch her have your children. Please, Gwayne— please— I know you do not love me but please I cannot bear that—”
His mouth cut off your choked rambling.
The force of it bent you backward. His hands cupped your face, almost reverent in their gentleness, a startling contrast to the cruel hunger of his mouth. You made a suprised sound and he swallowed it.
For years he had imagined this.
Every night he stood outside your chambers, he imagined opening the door. He imagined finding you beneath the thin summer sheets, your nightgown rucked around your thighs, and finally taking what you had spent years offering him. Honour be damned, to hold you, press his lips to yours and finally bury himself in your slick, soft heat. Every indecent gown you wore he imagined throwing up your skirts and bending you over the nearest table until you forgot to laugh at him.
But you were his sweet princess. His beautiful love, innocent despite being a demon sent specifically to torment him. Despite what you believed, you did not truly understand the ugliness of men. He had spent years protecting you from his own indecency. He could not endure the thought of you looking upon him with fear or disgust if he acted.
But you were sobbing into his mouth because he had been so restrained that you actually believed he loved another, and Gwayne simply couldn't fucking bear it.
He had loved you since he was a squire visiting, unnoticed at the edge of your father’s yard. You had run right past him, silver hair amess, using your ruffled dress as a pouch for your stolen lemon cakes, your sister hot on your heel, not even noticing he existed. He still remembered the sound of your laughter.
Now you dared apologise for keeping him?
You cried harder.
Gwayne shushed you against your mouth, the sound low and ragged as he tried to soothe you but he did not stop. Each sob was cut short by another kiss. His tongue pushed between your lips with none of his usual courtesy, invading you so thoroughly that your fingers tightened painfully in his hair.
You whimpered.
The sound nearly ruined him. He dragged you closer until your thighs struck his, one hand sliding behind your neck to keep you where he wanted you. His tongue moved against yours with vulgar hunger, licking into your mouth. You only opened for him, trembling while he took and took.
When you finally choked on a breath, Gwayne tore his mouth away. Only an inch. Barely enough to let you gasp.
“The woman,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your lips. “Your supposed rival—” Another kiss. “My mother.”
You froze but Gwayne kissed again before you could reply.
“The ring belonged to my mother.”
His mouth moved over yours between each broken word, as though he could not force himself to leave you long enough to explain.
“She died when I was eight,” a kiss to your upper lip. “I loved her.”
You could not stop sobbing, whether from the wine or the relief or violent exhilaration of having his hands finally upon you.
Gwayne muttered an apology against your mouth, though nothing in the way he kissed you was sorry.
You coughed when his tongue pushed too deep. He drew back just enough for you to breathe, lips still brushing yours in small, feverish kisses, unwilling to surrender even that scrap of contact.
“I am sorry,” he whispered.
Kiss.
“Sweetling, breathe.”
Kiss.
You sniffled and turned your face away, overwhelmed by the rough scrape of his mouth tasing of salt from the humiliating tears covering you both.
Gwayne caught your chin. His fingers forced your face back toward him. Then he kissed your tightly pursed mouth again.
“I love you,” he said between kisses, “I love you. I love you.”
You laughed now against his mouth, still trying to kiss him back each time, still with wet cheeks.
"I should go," He said in between kisses, but he made no move to stand.
You didn’t answer, just tugged him by his collar. You couldn’t let him go. Not now, not after this. The only thing you wanted was to spend this night together, in love. You press yourself against his body with frantic, clawing need to be closer, so that you could cut him open and bury yourself inside his skin. Maybe that would finally relieve that ache you felt within you every day. You rolled your hips, desperate and Gwayne immediately offered his leg without thinking.
Acting on instinct, you hitch your legs around him, and gasp at the sensation. His leg against your thighs and your clit rubbing him through the rough material of your trousers. The friction was exquisite and brutal all at once. You rocked against him, unsteady and wild, while his mouth gentled on yours— his hunger seemingly somewhat satiated by the sensation of you against his leg.
But soon the fabric began to burn, chafing your sensitive skin raw. “Gwayne,” you begged, voice fraying. “Please—it’s too rough.” You tightened your legs around him, holding on like you might drown. “I need—”
He understood, ever your valiant knight. He pulled back just enough to lay you down on the mattress, your body pliant beneath his hands. He tugged at your trousers, the burlap scraping one last time as he dragged them down your thighs.
He looked at you and the intensity of it nearly burned. His eyes raked over your slick, flushed cunt, the faint trembling of your naked thighs, the way your knees tried to edge together in reflexive shyness. His mouth fell open as if he’d never seen a woman before. He groaned as if wounded, “Gods be good.”
You giggled, face hot with the embarrassment of being seen for the first time. It was unbearable. You tried to cross your legs, but his palms eased them apart again with effortless strength.
“Don’t stare,” you whispered, throwing your arm over your eyes.
“You’re so beautiful.” Gwayne's gaze was on your face, dark at the cheeks and vulnerable for him.
He settled down between your legs. He kissed your thigh, then turned his head and kissed the other. He ventured higher and gave a soft bite to the sensitive skin and nosed at the spot before running his tongue over it.
He didn't let you set the pace. When you tried to grind closer, he held you still, forcing you to let him savor. He sucked, he licked, he bit gently at your inner thighs, making sure every inch of soft flesh was marked before he even considered giving you what you desired.
“Husband, please”
As if to reward you for his new title, Gwayne brought his mouth to your center, until his nose was hovering above your clit. You felt him inhaling deeply and you yelped. His eyes were shut tight in bliss, as though committing the very scent of you to memory before he pressed a kiss to your mound. “Gods you’re soaked.”
The first swipe of his tongue was unlike anything you could have imagined. You gasped and slammed your hands down on the mattress. "Gwayne."
Gwayne moaned and pressed closer.
He took it slow at first, so slow you could have died from it. He licked at your entrance without ever quite dipping inside, just tasting the slick on his tongue. He kissed at your clit ever so gently, just to feel you shiver and moan under his lips. But when Gwayne finally, finally licked his way from your entrance up to your clit, the bastard avoided touching it directly with his tongue, instead swirling little circles around the pearl just for the sake of making you twitch and grab at his hair needily, practically humping his face the same way you had his thigh.
He didn’t allow you. One broad hand pinned your hips to your bed, still slowly licking up down and everywhere but where you needed him most. You were throbbing now, achingly empty, and Gwayne was only humming softly above your clit and slowly dancing his tongue in the spaces around it. Not content to let you get away from him without some form of punishment it seemed.
“Gwayne,” your fingers pulled at his auburn hair.
His green eyes opened looking up at you—a direct, flat stroke over your clit that made you gasp, your back bowing off the bed, your knees clamping around his ears as a shock of pure sensation ignited along your nerves.
The game was over. Now his tongue worked you in earnest, lavishing attention directly on your clit before straying from his patterns to trace the hooded flesh around it, only to return again with relentless, focused laps.
Obscene wet noises filled the room, making you shut eyes and turn your head away, body singing in pleasure, a delicious knot building fast in your belly.
But he pulled back and you practically sobbed, your fingers tightening in his hair as he said muffled and breathless against you, “Eyes, wife. Eyes back on me.”
He resumed again only after your eyes were locked on him, though your vision was watery.
His lips sealed around your clit, and he suckled on the bead with a careful mouth, not hard enough to bruise, but certainly hard enough to let the tight knot in your stomach peak and crash through you.
You screamed as you came, having to bite the flesh of your lip to keep from waking the entire keep. Your back arching tight and knees slamming shut around Gwayne’s ears. You couldn’t speak but you whined and Gwayne knowingly went back to licking broad stripes with his tongue, soft enough not to overwhelm you.
He kept licking until you pushed his head away, panting as you came down from your release. Watching the debauched act of him licking his lips, wiping off the excess slick with the back of his hand before his cheek rested, haggard on your thigh.
For a moment all you could do was lay there.
"Was that it?" You ask dumbly. "Was that all?"
Gwayne turned his head and gave a bite against your thigh.
"No," you laugh, pushing his head back as he continued placing punishing bites on your delicate skin. "I meant— will you not let me tend you?"
Rhaenyra had explained to you, in graphic detail, every act she knew to preform and you had always been eager to have him in your mouth, but right now, you could hardly remember how to articulate your own name.
Gwayne laughed and lifted his head. "I do know what you mean." He climbed up over your body and collapsed beside you.
Your fingers toyed with the lace of his breeches, but his hand lifted your knuckles to his lips. "Not tonight, sweetling." He took you into his arms and pulled you close.
You huffed at him and he laughed. “Patience.”
“I have waited far too long already,” you whined but were content enough to turn in his arms and tuck your head into his neck. "Can we not just find someone to marry us now?"
He laughed. Gwayne wondered how you would react if he told you that he would take himself in hand and murmur your name, spilling over himself nearly every night for four year.
"I will marry you tomorrow, in the light of the Seven so all may know I didn’t steal you away in the night.”
He pet your hair and you preened. “Fine... but if you refuse to finally bed me afterwards, I shall lock you in with Dreamfyre and let her have her way with you instead."
Gwayne bit back a laugh. "I am at your service, my princess."
You laughed again and as your eyes slowly closed to sleep, you felt him shift out from beneath you, and your hands fisted to his shirt.
"I must go," he said, gently unfurling your hands. "Before anyone wakes."
"No, stay with me," you whined.
He laughed softly. "Soon, my love, I promise."
He kissed you once, twice, four times, before he pulled away from your grip and slid out of bed.
And when tomorrow came, you two stood together before the altar of the Seven, dressed in white and green, the scent of beeswax and fresh flowers filling the sept. Sunlight poured through colored glass, bathing the marble in pools of ruby and sapphire. You cut one another's lips and were one with him, exactly as you had always been meant to be.
HOTD masterlist
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐚𝐧: if you stayed this long, thank you thank you thank you!! this is my first fic i’m posting after a very, very long slump. I have more queued up and more in the works MWAH!
if you want to be in my tagged for any character i write for let me know :)
morning breakfast with husband! gwayne and your son! daeron. inspired by daeron asking for gwayne in the latest episode .
daeron knows that love exists because you and gwayne exist.
its fluid, golden liquid, dancing in the way gwayne spoons the honey in your sweetened tea before you've even made it to the breakfast hall. he hasn't eaten yet, he waiting for your entrance and the moment his eyes set foot on your frame through the door he's up in an instance. daeron doesn't even hear the scrape of his chair or the clunk of his shoes on cold ground, nor does he hear the small breaths from his uncle's quickened pace. no, this happens at light speed, like a natural born reaction that gwayne is drawn to you.
daeron sees the slow smile mirrored across your faces, a teasing joke that the two of you only know and he sees gwayne take your hand, bring it to his lips with such grace, such nobility and restraint that you scrunch your nose up in delight; feeling exactly how it felt all those years ago when he first courted you. the sound of your laughter swirls like the honey in your tea, like a magnet gwayne's ears perk up and he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. he knows daeron is behind back at the table so he doesn't do more, he knows what it is to be respectful and not, though you do a damn well job of making sure he forgets most of the time. but for the sake of his nephew, he stops. he offers you his arm that you take instantly, slotting in perfectly next to his as his steps slow to match yours, a piece of harmony.
daeron watches with a smile as gwayne reaches the table, he walks past his chair first, knowing you'll want to reach out press a featherly kiss to his hair and a warm palm to his jaw. "good morrow, my sweet," and the glint in your eyes lights his whole world bright. its motherly the way you tend to him, the way he's always ever known it to be you and gwayne. gwayne and you. ormund, when its not you and gwayne. oh how he wishes it will always be you and gwayne.
he misses the heat as soon as your hand leaves his face with a ruffle to his hair and you take your designated seat in between your husband and son, one that gwayne has already pulled out for you and tucks you in. its a marvel how he does this all one handed, one firmly tucked into yours and daeron almost giggles boyishly at how such a love, so firm and strong can exist in turbulent times as such. but this is normalcy, your purpose and when gwayne brings your sweetened tea to your lips, the ceramic a nice warm and not burn just the way you like you sigh in bliss.
"thank you, my love," you whisper tenderly and he smiles, one for himself in pride and the other to you in devotion. your attention turns to daeron as gwayne begins to tuck into his meal. its a rhythm, you talk with daeron about his valyrian lessons, how his dragon riding is coming on, his interests, his rest, all these details are important to you. daeron almost feels bad for the way he's sucking in your attention but gwayne pays this no mind. the subtle shuffle of cutlery against his plate and besides, he's too busy rearranging your plate- he wipes the jam he knows you like clean off his dish and onto yours. and without even taking your eyes off your nephew, you move the fruit he likes off yours and onto his.
gwayne murmurs a "thank you" against your skin, the breath hot and heavy with a kiss to your neck as you're still turned to your nephew.
"you're doing extremely well, daeron," you lean in and pat his hand reassuringly. and daeron's heart swells with immense pride, all he's ever wanted was to do good with the cards he's been dealt.
"very well," gwayne's head bobs from your side of view, "you make our house very proud, you make us very proud," and just like the honey in your tea, daeron melts into something dangerously softer. the love you and gwayne share has always opened its orbit in the presence of daeron, and now it sucks him in whole, a nice warm tuck to an easy rest.
"though i'm afraid you'll have to start eating soon my heart, lest your uncle devours this whole spread," you jest and as daeron's body vibrates with an entertained chuckle, your head is thrown back into a fit of giggles, muffled as your tucked into your husband's chest as he tries to pretend outrage and offense. you look up to him, secure in his hold and soften.
"good morning to you, wife," he teases and for a second, gwayne forgets all about the young one seated centimetres from you and closes your mouth over his. in all the moments daeron has been raised in your care, there's no words to describe how you and gwayne are when you are with each other. daeron's heard the stories, been trained with the noble knight and knows how fearless, how co-ordinated and lethal his uncle can be. but he also knows the whispers, the laughter, the love existing in mundane moments. gwayne doesn't need to be loud to command the room, he certainly has commanded yours and daeron's life with such ease. but never has he seen his uncle so unguarded when he is by your side, so enamoured and oh so, normal.
"yes it seems it is a good morning," you whisper in return, content in his hold and by his side for life.
daeron eats the rest of his breakfast with quiet contempt and as he stares out to the resting sun with all its beautiful blue and white, he wishes that in his lifetime he hopes to get as lucky as you and gwayne have. to find a love seems an easy feat, but to find a love and yourself in another and to find reasons to fight for that love each and every day, that is rare.
Summary: Haunted by dragon dreams that foretell a future she cannot bear, Viserys' second daughter decides to flee her betrothal before it can begin. Her plan falls apart when the very man she's trying to escape finds her climbing over the Red Keep's garden wall.
Notes: Inspired by Queen Charlotte!! I've seen people rewrite this scene with Valarr and I wanted to do it with Gwayne <3
Gwayne had hoped, above all else, that his future wife would be kind.
It was a small hope, perhaps an unambitious one, but it was the only wish he had allowed himself after his father informed him that King Viserys had accepted the match. Marriage had never been a matter left to younger sons or heirs to decide, and though Gwayne had long since resigned himself to that truth, resignation did not make the prospect any less uncertain. He knew almost nothing about the princess he was to marry beyond the fragments offered by gossip, and gossip was a poor foundation upon which to build a life.
Still, kindness, he thought, could make even an unwanted marriage bearable. Everything else could be learned in time.
The rumors, unfortunately, offered very little hope of that.
Some called the king's younger daughter gentle to the point of foolishness, while others claimed she possessed the wildness of Old Valyria itself. There were whispers that she disappeared from court for days at a time, that she drank wine before the sun had set, that she climbed rooftops with her ladies-in-waiting, wandered the city in disguise, and laughed whenever septas reminded her of her duties. Others dismissed her as odd, insisting she spoke more to ravens than noble lords and spent entire afternoons wandering the castle alone.
No two stories resembled one another. The only detail upon which everyone agreed was that she was... peculiar.
He had intended to reserve judgment until they met. That intention became rather difficult when she failed to appear at all. She did not stand beside her father during his arrival, nor his welcome feast.
His sister and King Viserys greeted him warmly enough upon his arrival, clasping his arm like an old friend and speaking at length about tournaments, knighthood, and the honor of joining their two houses before finally apologizing, almost absentmindedly, for his daughter's absence.
"The princess has been feeling unwell," the king said with a tired smile. "She has retired early."
It sounded innocent enough yet Gwayne did not miss the look and sighs exchanged between his father and sister. She looked toward the doors through which the princess ought to have entered, her disappointment obvious before she carefully concealed it behind practiced courtesy.
No one explained further. No one ever seemed to.
By the end of the feast, Gwayne found himself wondering less about the alliance and more about the girl herself.
Was she truly ill? Or had she simply refused to meet the man she was expected to marry?
-
By the time the castle realized you were gone, you had already vanished into the night.
It was hardly the first time.
The servants searched the places they always searched first, the library, the dragonpit where you often disappeared to sit with the hatchlings long after the keepers had retired, the godswood where you sometimes spent entire afternoons reading beneath the heart tree. Even your ladies-in-waiting were questioned, though they could offer little beyond nervous shrugs and uncertain smiles. They had grown accustomed to your disappearances years ago.
Tonight, however, was different as you had no intention of returning.
You sighed as you reached the wall at the far end of the gardens. For a moment you stood there and pondered about when your father announced your betrothal. Your first thought had been your dreams.
Fragments scattered across years of restless nights, all circling the same terrible feeling that settled deep within your chest whenever you imagined standing beside the man you had been promised to. You had seen cages and felt a sorrow unlike anything you had ever known.
Somewhere between those two moments lay a future you could neither understand nor prevent. And for the first time in your life, you did not wish to discover which vision came first.
So you did the only thing that had ever made sense whenever the dreams became too heavy and you left.
That single thought drowned out every other, beating steadily against your ribs as you gathered your skirts in one hand and planted your slipper against the ancient garden wall. Time seemed to press in from every side so you quickly pushed yourself upward, fingertips stretching desperately toward the thick oak branch that hung just beyond your reach. The bark brushed your fingers before slipping away again.
You frowned, it had seemed much lower when you were a child. Surely you had climbed trees twice this height without a second thought. Determined, you shifted your footing higher against the moss-covered stone, ignoring the way your slippers slipped against the wall.
Just a little farther...
"You appear to be losing your battle."
The voice behind you was warm, low, and entirely too amused.
You startled so violently that your foot slipped from the stone altogether. Landing rather less gracefully than you would have liked, you spun around, silver hair whipping over your shoulder as you searched the darkness for its owner.
A man stood several paces away beneath the shadow of an elm tree, the hood of a dark traveling cloak obscuring most of his face. Moonlight caught only the edge of his jaw and the outline of broad shoulders, leaving the rest hidden in darkness.
You did not recognize him nor did you particularly care to.
You were in far too much of a hurry.
"May I help you?" you asked, though the impatience in your voice made it abundantly clear you hoped he would do precisely the opposite.
"I was going to ask you the same thing," he replied pleasantly. "It seems you are the one in need of assistance."
His tone was infuriatingly calm as though finding a princess attempting to climb the garden wall in the middle of the night was an entirely ordinary occurrence.
"I am not," you answered briskly. "So you may leave."
You turned back toward the wall without waiting for his reply, already reaching for the branch once more. Behind you came the sound of unhurried footsteps.
"I will," he said. "But I confess, I am rather curious as to what you're doing."
You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. "I am not doing anything."
"You are trying to do something."
"I am not."
"You are."
A sigh escaped you. Not the graceful sort of sigh expected of a princess, but one born entirely of exasperation. You turned sharply, fixing the stranger with a look that had intimidated far older men than this.
"Who are you, anyway?" Stepping closer, you tried to make out his face beneath the hood, though the shadows remained stubbornly loyal to him, "Reveal yourself."
"I am simply a guest in the Keep."
The answer only irritated you further, "What an exceptionally mysterious guest." You dismissed him with a wave of your hand before turning back toward the wall yet again. "Well then, perhaps you can make yourself useful and lift me."
There was the briefest pause, "I'm sorry?"
You looked over your shoulder as though he were being intentionally difficult. "If you lift me onto the wall, I can manage the rest."
The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the hood. "I see."
"Come now," you urged, gesturing impatiently toward the branch. "Make haste."
His amusement seemed only to deepen. "Well, if I must assist you, I should ask why you intend to climb the wall."
You groaned dramatically. "If you must know..." Your fingers wrapped around the branch again as though the conversation itself inconvenienced you. "...I am leaving."
"Are you?"
"I am taking my dragon," you said matter-of-factly, testing whether the branch might support your weight, "and flying somewhere very far away. And do not trouble yourself with informing the King or my betrothed. I shall be long gone by the time either of them discovers it."
A beat passed.
"Ah." There was laughter hidden beneath the single syllable, "So your betrothed is the reason you're running."
You shrugged, "He is certainly one of them."
"And they won't notice you've disappeared?"
A small, incredulous laugh escaped you. "Well, of course they will," you looked toward the branch again, "Now, please. Enough questions."
You pointed toward the wall with all the authority expected of a princess issuing commands. "If you would simply lift me over the garden wall, I'll reach the dragonpit before anyone notices."
The stranger looked from you to the wall and back again then he sighed with theatrical regret. "I have absolutely no intention of helping you."
You stared incredulously, "I beg your pardon?" You whirled around fully, prepared to remind this remarkably stubborn man exactly who he was refusing. As you did, he reached up almost absentmindedly and pushed back the hood that had hidden his face.
Moonlight settled across familiar features and you instantly recognized the face you had seen in your sleep numerous times. Everything inside you seemed to stop.
"...It's you."
The irritation vanished from your voice so completely that it almost startled you. Gwayne watched the change with quiet fascination. Only moments ago, you had looked ready to order him dragged from the gardens for daring to delay your escape. Now you simply stood there, staring at him with an expression he could not begin to understand.
He smiled despite himself, "You know who I am?"
You didn't answer immediately. Instead, your eyes lingered on his face, searching it with unsettling intensity, as though comparing the man standing before you to someone only you could see.
When you finally spoke, your voice was scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the trees, "I've dreamt of you."
The words were so unexpected that Gwayne forgot entirely what he had meant to say. His smile faded into quiet confusion, "You've... what?"
You seemed almost surprised that the words had escaped you. Your gaze dropped to the ground before lifting once more, softer this time, almost hesitant. "I've dreamt of you."
Silence settled between them.
Gwayne had heard the stories. The king's second daughter was said to possess the old gift of dragon dreams. He had dismissed them as little more than another courtly tale but standing before you now, he found himself less certain.
You did not look mad.
Nor did you resemble the reckless drunk whispered about by servants and lords alike. He noticed there was no heavy scent of wine clinging to your breath, no unsteady sway in your posture, no careless laughter born from too many cups. If you had drunk anything at all, it had been little more than enough to soothe an anxious mind, and judging by the shadows beneath your eyes, even that had failed.
More than anything, you looked tired. Painfully so.
Not the sort of tired that followed a late feast or too much dancing, but the deep exhaustion of someone who had spent far too many nights fighting battles no one else could see.
His expression softened. "Am I so terrible in your dreams," he asked, a small smile returning to his lips, "that you've resorted to climbing garden walls in the middle of the night to escape marrying me?"
He had meant it lightly yet the smile disappeared from your face so quickly that he regretted it almost at once. Your fingers tightened in the folds of your skirts until the silk wrinkled beneath your grasp.
You said nothing.
For the first time since he'd found you, the lively, impatient princess who had argued with him over a wall simply... vanished. In her place stood a frightened young woman trying very hard not to let it show.
His amusement melted into concern, "...Princess?" He took a cautious step forward, "Are you all right?"
You instinctively stepped back.
"I only jest," he said quietly.
Your voice was barely audible, "I must go."
Before he could answer, you slipped past him, gathering your skirts as you hurried back toward the castle, silver hair disappearing into the darkness between the garden paths.
Gwayne remained where he was for several moments after you'd gone. He should have let you leave, instead, he found himself watching the empty path where you had vanished, turning over those four impossible words in his mind.
I've dreamt of you.
Whatever those dreams had shown you, they had filled your eyes not with hatred but with sadness. And though he scarcely knew you, something deep within him recoiled at the thought that he might one day become the cause of it. For reasons he could not explain, he left the gardens that night with only one quiet resolve settling in his heart.
Whatever future your dreams had shown you, he desperately wanted to prove them wrong.
summary: the tourney begins while you prepare for your departure.
pairing: baelor targaryen x wife reader
word count: 8.9k.
based off of this! | masterlist
if you close your eyes and breathe in, it almost seems familiar.
standing upon the balcony that oversees the gardens, it feels as though it was yesterday, even though you know, after all, that it was not.
you have never much been fond of tourneys, either. the noise and crowd was one thing, but the bloodshed was another entirely.
perhaps you did not have the stomach for it. the one at your family’s keep had not nearly been so elaborate as the one his grace has planned. there had been a melee in the morning among the squires, and then the jousts in the evening.
your cousin had won and crowned his betrothed, and before you could think of it, you had been seated inside the hall for the feast, surrounded by faces unknown to you.
that is why it all feels so familiar.
the air is heavy with anticipation—the knights and lords on the tilts, the ladies waiting to hand over their prettily-made favors. tourneys are a thing of hope—prayers and wishes for a victory, for a betrothal, for a memory to hold onto.
you do not enjoy them, and yet, your mind sends you back into time, something in the wind reminding you of a memory you have held onto with both hands, fingers grasping tightly around it, refusing to let go even now.
the moments before you had first met your husband.
you open your eyes, breathing out the clean air and blinking slowly as you take in the view. green shrubs and vines along with flowers of all colors. large, grand trees that have been here since the time of the conqueror.
you will miss it dearly, you know, until such a time that you return to the red keep.
you have spent so many days in this garden, so many mornings wading through it, growing fond of the new feeling of having to do nothing at all but sit and break your fast. a number of evenings spent on this very balcony, waiting for baelor to return to you from his duties.
if you think of it for too long, that horrible feeling crawls its way back into you. wondering if you are making a mistake by leaving, wondering what sort of a princess, what sort of a wife, would run and hide in this manner.
and then naerys stirs gently inside of you and your mind calms itself.
this is for her, you try to remind yourself, as much as it is for you and baelor.
in summerhall, there will be no more tears. no more nights of crying or skipped meals because the castle is too large to notice when one plate remains full. and it will be quieter entirely—no ladies to entertain, no maids gossiping, no royal guests to tend to.
you have only spoken to your future host briefly in the past days. when you had requested his servant to ask if he had a moment to speak with you, maekar had come and opened the door to his study himself.
it all seems far away now. the last few days have quickly faded into each other.
at the very least, maekar had agreed with his brother’s request that it would be best to depart after the tourney had ended, to avoid any conversations or gossip spreading amongst the guests.
you have never cared so much as to what other people might think of you until you came to king’s landing. another burden that seems to lift itself entirely at summerhall. there is no court there, and therefore no one to watch your every move.
you do not even recall the entirety of the conversation now, with how your thoughts are all mixed together. you think maekar had mentioned something about a seamstress that might be brought on to the castle for your new gowns.
and you suppose he is right. it seems of no use to bring your old dresses with you when they will not fit anymore.
you suppose you shall have no need of them until—
until quite some time.
your mind wanders, staring down at the guests king daeron has invited. they walk through the gardens, laughing and talking with one another.
your daughter might be crawling by the time you return to the red keep, to your old gowns and your husband.
if he remembers you by then—
you shake your head slightly, as though you might be able to silence the thought with the motion. you have spent enough time thinking. now it is time to do something, something that you know will help you and baelor, even if he does not yet see it.
you should not feel this way, you tell yourself. this was your decision, your choice.
and still, sullenly, your eyes gaze down towards the garden through a layer of unshed tears at the thought of leaving your home behind.
a young girl skips through the courtyard, not far from where you and baelor had broken your fast not so long ago.
you keep your hand steady on your stomach, rubbing the skin softly. finally you sigh one last time, inhaling the sweet, fresh air of the gardens.
you turn around to return to your chambers. the tourney is set to begin tomorrow, and you suppose it is time to begin packing.
-
the morning light shines beautifully through the curtains of these chambers.
your mind cannot help but compare it to the rays in baelor’s chambers, since that is the only comparison you have in your mind, but it is warm all the same.
(his chambers are warmer entirely, though not from the sun. the memories come forth even when you try your hardest to suppress them. how it would feel to wake up beside him, his hands and his touch heated as fire on your bare skin. your husband runs hot all the time, and he has never had any issue in warming you up as well.
the air in those chambers is transfixing, and sometimes you could not tell if you are awake or dreaming. especially when baelor would press himself further against you, bringing his lips to your forehead or your cheek, urging you to continue sleeping, even if he had to rise.
you can be entrancing too, you know, because he has never arrived late to quite so many appointments since the time of your marriage. baelor told you so himself, murmured the words against the sensitive skin of your neck, warned you that he cannot keep delaying whatever lord he was set to speak with.
and still, he is tardy that day and the following, and the one after that as well. those mornings in bed, when it felt as though there was no one else in the entire world save for the two of you, trapped halfway between the drowsiness of sleep and the joy of waking. you like to imagine that naerys came into this world on one of those mornings.)
and then you put it aside entirely, sitting up suddenly. you push the quilts away, your skin feeling fervid even though you know very well that this bed is cold and unwarmed.
this is how it will be, and there is nothing to do besides becoming accustomed to it over time.
after all, there is no one to sleep besides you at summerhall.
the squire’s tourney is the first event of the morning. an opportunity for the young men to prove their prowess, each hoping to earn their knighthood along with the sweetness and pride of victory.
you do not care to watch men fight like this, not after what you saw at ashford. even the thought of sitting through this all day feels jarring, but the day is warm and your company is sweet, at the very least. you sit besides lady kiera and maekar’s girls.
kiera looks tired, you can tell. in part, at least, tired in the way that you are—of these people, of the appearances that are required of her. but still, she smiles brightly at you when she takes her seat, valarr escorting her until he is certain she is comfortable. he greets you fondly and kisses his wife’s hand before departing, likely to ready himself for the midday tilts.
the girls chatter with each other after showing you and kiera the favors they had decorated themselves. rhae’s is a rainbow of colors and flowers, and she clutches to it as though it is more an accessory for herself than some strange squire. daella’s is decorated fittingly in the house colors—a comely, soft black velvet wrapped around a circlet with red roses.
but ultimately, she loses interest in the conversation with you and kiera and sets her sights towards the fighters, as though to ascertain which of the young men is most deserving of her favor.
“how are you feeling?” you ask quietly, meeting kiera’s gentle eyes. she turns from the girls to look at you, and there is a wistfulness in her that you recognize.
“i should be asking you that,” she says, smiling softly. her eyes trace to the faint curve of your belly, almost fully concealed under your dress—a pale green, today.
“i am fine,” you say quickly, wanting to avoid the topic of your emotions entirely. “the maids are packing my gowns today. whatever will still fit me, at least.”
“how long do you imagine you will stay there?”
you go silent, your hand tightening up against your own favor, a small circlet of light yellow flowers, the ones from the bouquet baelor had brought you. it begins to tremble under your touch while you attempt to think of an plausible answer.
you find that there is no answer to her question.
“i do not know, i suppose. perhaps as long as it takes.”
kiera surveys you for a moment, almost as if she is deciding what to say next. finally, she smiles, bringing her hand to your shaking one, steadying it under her touch.
“well, valarr and i will miss you dearly. and we shall come visit, as soon as we are able. perhaps we might bring matarys along. he will be eager to meet his new sibling.”
you beam at the thought—valarr and matarys playing with naerys, lifting her up and making her laugh in the gardens of summerhall. you have never seen them, but surely they are just as splendid as the ones of the red keep.
after all, they will be the gardens in your daughter’s memories, at least. that alone makes them special to you.
“and i will be waiting eagerly,” you finally say.
you want to smile. you know you should, that it should feel more natural, grace your expression more easily, even. this is what you wanted, after all.
what you had asked for. but still, you have to force the corners of your lips to turn up. it is only for a moment before you relax your features, focusing instead on someone, anyone else.
for a moment, everyone grows distracted, and you do not have to keep up the appearance.
just near where you are seated, you see the king and queen arrive, taking their places in the high chairs and waving to the audience that has gathered. they each take a moment to turn and smile kindly at you and kiera and their grandchildren.
still, your mind remains plagued.
even as the squires are announced, as the seats around you are slowly filled one by one. the royal family—and you among them, though it is still something you cannot believe—are all seated together. further from you, just besides his grace, are the many lords of his small council and his half-brother.
you can even discern the golden blonde of lenore lannister’s hair for a moment, next to her brother, before you turn away quickly, focusing your attention on kiera again. you do not desire a repeat of the afternoon tea from the other day.
she is nothing if not observant.
“that is one good thing, i suppose,” kiera begins, while you furrow your brows at her. “summerhall will be quiet, at the very least. no ladies of the court to torment you. that is a victory all on its own.”
“you are right,” you agree quietly, though your heart is not behind the sentiment.
you are not allowed another opportunity to dwell on the matter. instead you focus your attentions on a squire from house manwoody, who is advancing his mount towards the the royal box.
but it has never bothered me before, you think suddenly and sharply, the court and the ladies and all these people. but now, all of a sudden—
the boy, whose introduction you thoroughly missed while lost in your own thoughts, attempts to guide his horse towards your direction. he seems nervous, you think, the lifted visor of his helmet revealing his face.
he cannot be more than five and ten.
he looks at the two of you nervously, almost as if he was preparing to ask for your or kiera’s favor. you look at him with widened eyes for a moment, before attempting to direct his gaze to the young princesses sitting before him instead.
the boy blinks, refocusing his attention while holding onto his lance tightly.
daella is beaming. the boy looks more skittish than his horse.
“my fair princess,” he begins, clearing his throat. “would you do me the honor of granting me your favor?”
the sight is sweet, though.
daella rushes to the edge of the box eagerly, her favor clasped in her fingers and her dark hair billowing behind her. she grins excitedly, dropping her circlet onto the lance. the manwoody boy returns a small, shaky smile.
between the two of them, you are not sure which will swoon first.
he drops the visor, riding away with his newly adorned lance and shield, a well-painted crowned skull against a black sky.
“i do hope he wins,” daella announces breathlessly, and you for a moment, you are distracted of all other thoughts, turning to kiera to conceal a hushed laugh.
“with a princess’s favor, how could he not?” kiera says, and daella turns again, still smiling brightly, watching her young knight position himself for the first tilt.
you cannot imagine maekar is too happy about the turn of events. you crane your neck to see if you can find him besides his father, but the seats near his grace, both of them, are empty.
that is odd, you think, as the trumpets roar behind you. they should be here.
“where are they?” you ask, suddenly much too aware that both your husband and his brother are nowhere in sight.
your heart races for a moment, feeling as though you are missing some vital piece of information. the idea of yet another tourney going as ashford had makes you feel ill.
“perhaps with valarr? it is only the squire’s tourney, after all. i am certain they will join us soon,” kiera encourages, clasping her hand over yours.
you calm down for a moment, the thoughts restraining themselves. kiera’s hand is warm on yours, and you nod slowly.
you try to smile, but it does not feel as though you can summon it. why does your expression feels forced once again? you cannot name the feeling, and yet—
and then it begins, the stampede of hooves against the dirt, lances ready to clash. you are left with no choice but to watch the young boys charge into one another.
-
you have never seen daella look more radiant.
she glows from the inside out, her expression glowing as the crown rests easily on her head. it is a pretty wreath too, made of red and pink flowers, matching her crimson gown finely.
the manwoody boy, for all his nerves, had performed exceedingly well. he won the first match-up in only two tilts, three, you believe, in the second round, and finally was decreed the victor in the third after breaking five lances against a squire from the stormlands.
you could not quite distinguish which house his final opponent served, not when you mind was already occupied, consumed by your thoughts.
well, one thought in particular. most of the tourney was spent wondering where your husband was.
you try to reason with yourself, as though you need to justify thinking of him so relentlessly, as though it was not second nature to you.
it is only that it was not like him to miss the entire event. to leave his seat empty, even to leave his parents searching for him every time their eyes wandered to the unoccupied space beside them.
and thus, you are left with no choice but to worry.
you play with your hands and your skirts, fidgeting until you feel naerys stir slightly inside of you, almost as if she is telling you to stop.
you switch then, to rub your stomach slightly, trying and failing to pay attention to the joust in front of you. when it was over, all of you stood to clap. you tried to search for baelor and maekar with your eyes, to no avail.
“well,” kiera begins, as if she can sense you are in need of a distraction. daella rushes to her grandparents to show them her new crown, with rhae running behind her excitedly, “at least she will give you no trouble on the journey, now. she will speak of it for at least half of the trip.”
her words make you smile before you even realize you have.
“it is a special thing. she will never forget it, either,” you say, unsure of where the words come from.
a tourney is meant to be a joyous affair, after all. just because you did not see them that way any longer did not mean it was not still a festivity for others.
at the very least, for daella. she will have no shortage of tournaments in her lifetime, and you know this is not the last time she will ever be crowned.
but it must be unforgettable, you think, to be recognized in front of everyone for the first time.
even if she does speak of it for the entirety of the trip to summerhall, you do not think you could fault her.
for a moment, you are not sure who else she might be able to tell about it, save for her younger sister. you decide then and there to listen intently and make sure she knows you are paying attention and that you care.
that this is something worth being excited about.
“indeed… i still remember when valarr crowned me at the tourney for our wedding.” kiera smiles fondly, recalling the memory. you can only imagine how sweet it must have been. “and, once she grows bored of it, rhae will speak of it for the latter half. either way, you will have no shortness of stories in the carriage.”
the two of you laugh, linking arms as you walk down the path to where everyone has gathered.
the grounds are decorated finely for the day, tents for each of the house with their sigils displayed proudly. the servants work through the crowd with chalices of sweet wine and plates of food, everyone stopping for a moment’s break before the festivities continue in the afternoon.
lords and ladies converse, parting to bow and curtsy as the king and the queen lead the way to the royal tent. daella holds onto the queen’s hand while rhae has been scooped up by the king as they both eagerly talk, likely regarding daella’s recent coronation.
“you are so good with them,” you say suddenly, following as ser donnel leads the two of you away from the crowd.
“as are you,” kiera replies. “and i know perhaps, this is not proper for me to say. but i will say it still. are you… certain this is what you would like to do?”
you turn, meeting her eyes. you had not expected it, but they are watery like yours.
in kiera, you had found a true friend, even despite the origin of your relationship. you, her good-father’s new wife and her, your new good-son’s wife.
even under these uncommon circumstances, you know the caliber of love you are leaving behind. it is bittersweet to imagine days without her and valarr, to think of how close you have gotten to them, only to part so suddenly.
and matarys—you feel your heart clench at the idea of telling him that you have decided to leave after all, that this time it is of your own choosing. you had not thought he or valarr would even like you, much less think of you during a time when their own grief was rampant.
your eyes flicker towards the sigil painted on the tent. a red dragon against black. your sigil, now.
you had not thought you would truly be one of them, one of baelor’s family. and now with this departure looming over you, you wonder why leaving felt as though it was the correct decision.
a decision made in hurt and anger. would you come to regret it, after all? you suppose you will find out soon.
you push the thought aside with all your strength, focusing instead on kiera again.
“i do not know if i am certain about anything,” you admit, finally. your words are quiet. “but it is so painful to be here. for the both of us. this might make it easier until-”
“your grace,” a voice booms, and you turn suddenly to meet the source of it. “my lady. it is a pleasure,” he says.
you recognize him instantly, even though you have never met the man before.
his helmet is elaborate and identifying all on its own, a stag’s antlers plated in iron, and his doublet matching the colors of his house—bright gold and onyx.
you think for a moment that even if you were blind, you might be able to recognize him from voice alone, given what baelor has told you of him.
the laughing storm, they call him.
“lord baratheon,” you say, and kiera follows, watching him with an almost confused expression. “i do not believe we have been introduced before.”
“that, your grace, i can confirm. what, with all that business at ashford. it did not leave us much time to be acquainted, did it?”
you blink, trying to compose yourself so that you do not begin frowning at the memory before him.
“no, my lord, it did not.”
it feels almost silly—to spend the better part of an entire moon’s turn thinking about that day at ashford meadow, only to forget about it in a moment. the force it returns with is like a blow to your chest.
or my head, you think.
“and besides that,” he continues, waving his hand in the air. “i am certain that if we had met first, we would all be addressing you as my lady, instead of your grace.”
kiera’s eyes go wide from her position beside you, and you hold back from shifting your expression to gape at him. at the very least, his lordship has a flair for humor and flattery.
he is just as baelor described him. in an instant, you wish lord baratheon would return to his tent so that you might find your husband.
“that is kind of you, my lord. are you enjoying the tourney so far?”
“deeply. our good king does know how to entertain, after all.”
“indeed. lady kiera and i look forward to seeing you face your opponent in the lists today.”
“not only face, my lady,” lord lyonel says, his words serious and calm. the calm before a storm, perhaps. “destroy. i must live up to my house words, after all. fury, and whatnot.”
“that should be fun to witness,” kiera says under her breath. you bite your cheek to refrain from laughing.
“regardless, we wish you luck, my lord.”
“and i thank you, your grace, but i do not need luck,” lord lyonel says, smiling in a smug, confident manner. you are not surprised. “though perhaps, if i had a princess’s favor on my lance, i would be left with no choice but to win.”
you fluster for a moment.
you had made your own favor yesterday. the supplies had been left out in kiera’s solar where the girls had been working on theirs with the septa.
in truth, you had not planned to make one. why should you, after all, when you had no one to gift it to? perhaps if matarys was entering the tourney, you could have made one for him. maybe even purple and black, a mixture of colors to represent his father and his mother.
but he was not partaking, you knew that already.
it had not taken as much time as you thought it would. your cousin had spent days working on hers, only for aerion to ask some other lady that had been present that day. you had not even bothered to ask your aunt if you might make one as well, knowing what she would say and not giving her the chance.
perhaps that is why you had sat in kiera’s solar, staring at the circlets and fabric for far too long. finally, you selected a shimmery white fabric and brought it to your own chambers with you.
and now you move your hands, deftly hiding the small favor behind your skirts, smiling charmingly at lord lyonel to distract him for a moment while you conceal it.
“that is a generous claim, my lord, but you will have to forgive me. i have brought no favor with me today since his grace is not partaking.”
“ah,” he says, his blue eyes surveying you carefully. they are full of mirth, you think. if he can see through your lie, he does not show it for even a moment. “most commendable, your grace, but rather a shame. your favor deserves to be displayed. where is your husband, if i may ask?”
“right here,” you hear baelor’s voice cut through the noise of the guests that surround you.
before, you could hear it so clearly—her grace speaking with daella, something about no, you may not marry the manwoody boy. his grace’s conversation with lord lannister, who has travelled from his tent and does not seem to leave, no matter how many times the king suggests they discuss business of the court at the next meeting of the small council.
even kiera—she has turned from you to speak with valarr, the two of them exchanging words quietly. she had not made a favor the way you and the girls had, instead selecting a fine pink ribbon that matches her hair. she ties it now around his arm, the color shining brightly against the metal of the armor.
it all melts away now. every time you see him, it feels as though it is the first encounter all over again.
the rest of the world finally becomes quiet and manageable.
you stare, perhaps longer than you should. baelor comes and stands beside you. today he is wearing a green doublet, the color of dark emeralds. you know it is a favorite of his, and it matches your own gown well, and for a moment, it makes you smile.
baelor is smiling too—quickly, only for a moment towards you, before his expression changes as he faces lord lyonel.
the two men speak for some time—you hear bits and pieces. it is as though someone has stuffed cotton into your ears, everything gone soft and making little sense. all you can think of baelor’s hand, which hovers over the small of your back and the warmth of his skin.
you stare at baelor until he finally returns your gaze, meeting your eyes.
“well, your grace,” lyonel says to baelor before turning to you. “your grace. it was a pleasure to finally meet you. keep a close eye on your husband this time, yes?”
you blink at the man, attempting to form a sentence, but he is gone as swiftly as he arrived.
“ignore him,” baelor says, bringing your hand into his quickly. “that is what i have learned.”
your heart thrashes in your chest at the familiarity of his touch. he does it so easily, as though it is natural.
for a moment, you forget that there are dozens of people surrounding you. guests, his family, your family. as though no one else exists.
you look down to where baelor holds your hand, and then to his eyes. he is watching you carefully, concern shining clearly, you think. perhaps he is just attempting to maintain appearances.
after all, he cannot let it seem as though there is some disconnect between the two of you, not when this plan was close to working. you will be gone soon, and then—
baelor brings his hand to your shoulder, tracing the fabric of your dress against his fingers for a moment.
“this color is familiar to me.”
-
the silken fabric of your nightgown rests somewhere on the floor of the chambers. it was green today, resembling the color of sage, one that he has seen before.
baelor still relishes the feeling of taking it off of you—of sliding the straps away from your shoulders, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses where you are now bared to him. you squirm as though it is the first time he has ever kissed you all over again.
something in the expression on your face—euphoric and unrestrained and nothing similar to what you are like outside of the privacy of these four walls—is maddening to him.
baelor cannot help it. he is drunk off it, off of that feeling, that makes him so frenzied he thinks he is some sort of a lovestruck green boy again. when your shyness melts away in his presence, when you are truly yourself when it is just the two of you alone.
even two months into marriage, it is mind-addling. years more of this and he is sure they will denote him too with the so-called targaryen madness that runs in his blood.
it would be well worth it, he decides finally, resting with his back against the bedframe, sitting up just slightly. you rest against his chest, your warm hand pressed to the skin just above where his heart beats.
your eyes are closed, but every few moments, he feels the lashes of your eyes against his skin. you blink, as though you are reminding yourself you are still awake, still here, that he is still here, before resting once again.
but there is nothing that could make him leave.
your body is flush against his, the heat trapped between the two of you. you are covered now with the silks, and he traces his fingers against the expanse of your back, travelling down to your waist and working his way to your neck.
you sigh sweetly, and he feels that pleasant sensation work its way through his body, relaxing every muscle and bone.
you open your eyes again, no doubt to continue your examination of him.
where your skin is soft and unmarred, his is marked and rough. for the last moon, you have seemingly worked up the courage to ask about the origin of his scars. each night he explains a different one, and you listen to the lull of his voice until you have fallen into slumber.
tonight is no different.
you trace it with your fingerpad, a narrow, white scar that has left a small divot in his skin. it sits just below where your palm was resting, a notch below his heart.
“what about this one?” you whisper, as though the words should only be kept for the two of you. it is late enough that the entire keep has gone quiet, no interruptions, no noises.
just the two of you and the sound of the fireplace crackling.
“that one was painful,” he says quietly. “redgrass field. i was not as careful as i should have been. one of the rebels, well… any higher and you would not have a husband.”
you lift your head suddenly, away from his chest, his skin missing yours in an instant. but when he looks to your face, he feels regret bubbling quickly, hot and thick under his skin.
your eyes are filled with tears.
“oh, no, sweet girl, i did not-” he trails off, bringing you closer to him again, his hands wrapping around your skin tightly. he presses into you firmly, trying to remind you that he is, in fact, still here. “a poor choice of words. do not cry, please.”
“the thought is very frightening,” you admit quietly, the words buried with a sob. after a few moments, he listens to you breathe softly, wondering what he has done to earn so much of your affection is such little time.
he feels undeserving of it, of the intensity of your love, but only a fool would deny himself of it. of you.
“let us discuss another one, then. you need to sleep. the hour grows late,” he finally says, allowing his hand to move to stroke your hair gently. he feels it again, that brush of your eyelashes against him.
you move your hand again, selecting the target of your curiosity this time, further up, along where his shoulder meets his neck. a jagged scar there, almost completely faded.
baelor turns his head to look at it, keeping his fingers between the soft strands of your hair.
“that one is from a lance. the tourney for my aunt’s wedding. a knight of house ladybright struck too high.”
“is that when you won? against daemon?” you ask.
“indeed, in the final tilt. i was ten and seven, and-”
and you were not yet in this world.
the thought is enough to bring him to reality for a moment. he tells you these stories, but he had almost allowed himself to forget that you would not know the parts that feel so familiar to him.
and what is worse is that you have suddenly gone very quiet and still in his arms. he knows why.
“-these are old tales, sweet girl. it is not my intention to upset you in the telling of them.”
“i am not upset,” you say, as though you are trying to convince yourself more than him. “i should like to hear of it. were you proud of your victory?”
“i was. it was my first one.”
“that is very nice,” you say, moving slightly until you are comfortable against him once more. your fingers wrap around his, intertwined as you play with them absentmindedly. “and that is when you crowned her?”
“yes,” baelor says quietly.
he is not a fool. he knows what he brought you into—the sort of life that has been given to you now that you are married to a prince. a widowed prince.
memories of jena live in different places in the keep. these chambers, where they used to sleep sometimes. jena would complain about the noises—his snoring and the rustle when he would wake early to start his day—and sometimes preferred her private bedchamber. he would laugh whenever she used to bring it up.
and it is almost impossible not to think of her every time he looks at his younger son.
valarr is him, in every way that a boy can be his father, but matarys… he is jena, through and through. even in their smiles, the way the boys laugh sometimes, baelor can hear it, and the memory takes over him before he can stop it.
there is a portrait of her along with the others, next to the one of dyanna. it is in the corridor by the great hall, and though he does not make it there as often as he should, he knows you have seen it. he saw you standing before it once, staring deeply, not even noticing when he had stepped in and stood behind you.
he had not asked you what you were thinking, though perhaps he should have. it is only that—
“she must have been so pleased,” you say faintly. “it is such a romantic gesture.”
the expression on your face, the sweetness in your voice—he can only describe it as maddening. how you name his past with jena as romantic, how you think of how pleased she might have been.
jena did not care for tourneys, but baelor can still remember the crown of purple flowers he had placed in her lap. oddly, he cannot remember what she had—
another thought takes over him hotly.
“sweet girl, can i ask you… have you ever been crowned at a tourney?”
he already knows the answer. you say something quietly, your voice filled with sleep. something about how the tourney for your cousin, the one where you met him, was only the second one you’d ever attended.
he kisses your forehead, telling you to close your eyes and rest now, and you comply, your body going still against him. he can hear your quiet, even breaths as sleep escapes him.
if only he were ten years younger—he would host a tourney before the turn of the moon, invite every lord and landed knight he could name just to give you a proper audience when he fells them all.
all to crown you as his queen of love and beauty, just as you deserve.
if only.
-
“baelor,” maekar calls, and both you and he turn to face him. “father requires a word.”
baelor turns back to you, watching your wide-eyed expression carefully for a moment, if only to engrain it into his memory.
do you recall the moment he thought of? do the memories remain easily thought of, or do you try and bury them now, suppress them when you can?
he wants to ask, but he knows he cannot.
“baelor,” you say quietly, blinking fast, as though you are trying to make sense of what you have just felt. perhaps even what you have just recalled.
“stay with kiera,” he says. “matarys will come join you as well. he is eager to watch his brother compete.”
“will you be joining us?” you ask, taking a breath and holding it for far too long in anticipation. your hands tremble slightly, a trait he mislikes deeply. he brings his hands over yours again, squeezing for a moment.
“i will try. do not worry,” he begins, attempting to carefully choose his next words. “i may remain in the tent with valarr. but i desire for you to sit and enjoy it. will you do that for me, sweet girl?”
your lips part as though you are surprised by his words. you nod slowly, and he brings your hands up, pressing his mouth against the back of your hands before settling them down.
the tremor seems to have abandoned you, if only for a moment.
“i will be back shortly.”
he leaves you with kiera, turning and walking towards the tent, as painful as it is to deny you something you desire.
this time, he prays, it will be well worth it.
“father was looking for you,” maekar repeats, settling into the tent. the armor is sprawled throughout, different sets and various pieces spread throughout the space.
baelor eyes a rather plain suit, sitting in the corner of the tent. the metal seems tough and hardened, without any of the flairs he has seen in the others. this armor is not pretty, but rather durable.
“i spoke with him already,” baelor responds, not moving from the corner. he continues to stare at the suit carefully.
“about what?” maekar asks. “and what are you staring at so fucking hard? you’ll hurt yourself.”
“no, i won’t.”
not in this armor, at least. it will be well-fitted, i know.
maekar makes his way to him quickly, almost as though he can read his mind.
“what the fuck are you playing at?” maekar says, and baelor turns carefully to face him.
“what are you playing at, brother?”
“speak plainly. i do not know-”
“you know what i speak of. you are leaving… with my wife.”
maekar is silent for a moment.
“so that is what you are so angry about. baelor-”
“no. this is not a matter of anger. you are leaving with my wife. you should have-”
“baelor, she asked me-”
“and you should have said no!” baelor yells, the words hot and ragged as they leave.
and angry too—though mostly at himself.
how could he have let this happen? how could he have been so foolish as to not learn his lesson? he already lost a wife to death, and now he loses one to his own foolishness.
but he will not, cannot, allow himself to lose you without putting up a fight. it all blends together—the way his blood boils at the sight of baratheon asking for your favor, the way maekar intends to take you away, the very fact that his own wife is leaving, just as he is finally remembering those moments that show him why he had fallen in love with you to begin with.
“what am i to do?” maekar says, frustration seeping out of him. “i am trying to… i gave her little choice when you were unwell. i am attempting to correct my mistakes. i-i am trying to help the both of you-”
“if you want to help me… then aid me in convincing her to stay. her place is here, by my side.”
“she decided-”
“maekar. she is my wife. and i have made a great deal of missteps, i know. but i can attempt to fix what i have broken, now, before she leaves. are you going to help me or not?”
his brother sighs.
“how can i help?”
-
the scene is a grand one.
you do not think you have ever seen anything quite like it—scores of guests cheering excitedly as the competitors come out, one by one, much louder and more packed than the morning.
they wave banners and flags, chattering amongst themselves on the outcomes. bets have been placed, you are sure, amongst families. each girl clutches onto her favor tightly, waiting for the moment when some dashing knight comes to claim it.
you watch it with kiera at one side and matarys at the other. aegon sits somewhere behind you, cheering as daeron covers his ears, no doubt.
and every time matarys catches the sun, his auburn hair gleams, and when he turns to greet you, his eyes sparkle just as his father’s do.
no matter the thoughts that run through your mind, you have made a decision, at last. you will enjoy this occasion as you are meant to, shutting away all thoughts of what will happen tomorrow until it has arrived.
if these are to be your final memories with your family, you will make the most of it.
“look!” matarys says, his gaze on his older brother. “there he is.”
valarr is stationed at the tilt furthest from where you all are seated.
and yet, of course, lord baratheon is the closest. he raises his lance towards the crowd, gathering cheers and shouts. you could have recognized him from a league away, you think, giggling with the girls at the look of his antlered helmet.
but still, you do not doubt that he is a formidable foe. it only seems silly for the talents of the warriors to be displayed in such a performance before a crowd.
for glory, you suppose, though it seems an odd way to claim it.
you see valarr more clearly now, the pink ribbon making him shine brightly against the other men near him. it looks as though ser crakehall of the kingsguard is across from him, his white armor shining splendidly in the sun.
ser donnel claps valiantly for his brother from his position near you and kiera.
“the lists have made ser roland his first opponent,” matarys says, and you feel your shoulders sink with relief—at least you know the outcome of his first match.
it is not that you are worried about valarr. it seems as though it is a natural response, your body strung tightly despite how you try to convince it to relax and enjoy the games.
you look around, searching for him by the tents. you recognize the squire serving valarr and two other men, but he is nowhere to be found.
“have you seen him?” you then ask kiera, who is attempting to point out something to the girls.
“valarr? we only just-”
“no, no, baelor. i thought he said he would try to join us, but…” you trail off, unsure of what to say.
the recollection of him calling you that name he always uses makes you feel flushed and warm despite the breeze blowing through the stands.
“no, i do not see him,” kiera says. matarys turns towards you. “ser donnel? do you see his grace?”
“no, my lady.” he leans down to say something else to kiera, but you do not hear the words, not until kiera repeats them close to your ear.
the noise has gotten louder, if possible. the crowd continues to cheer at the new knights as they are introduced and take their positions. you can hardly hear yourself think.
“ser donnel says his grace had an urgent matter to attend to in the castle. but he said father told us to enjoy the tourney and that he will return later.”
“an urgent matter? what urgent matter?”
“something with the council, no doubt,” matarys says, his voice reassuring. “now that all the lords are here, i am sure one evaded the tourney to request a private audience. father would not want us to remain inside bored and miss the first tilt.”
“oh,” you say quietly. he had said that he would try, but you suppose even he could not deny someone who approached him.
in fact, he would not deny someone. you know that very well.
moreover, he wanted you to enjoy the tourney. you suppose it would have been more enjoyable by his side, but it is no matter now.
(a memory rushes back to you as though you are the one who has been deprived of them—the tourney at ashford. aerion had been so cruel, targeting low to harm his opponent’s steed, and baelor had rushed to cover your eyes, but it had been to no avail. you had seen it before your husband brought his arm around you, but still, even the though of it is enough to—)
“my lady,” daella says to kiera, as you feel rhae tugging on your skirts. “who is that one?”
your eyes scan the knights. you recognize colors and sigils. a darklyn and a rosby are set against each other, and you have a feeling the darklyn will win. lord baratheon is set against a knight of house caswell, you believe, when you look at the yellow centaur on his shield. there is a buckler further down, facing some house from the riverlands with a shield that you cannot quite make out.
and then you reach one that you cannot discern at all.
he dons an unpolished steel armor and a plain oaken shield banded with iron. there is nothing identifiable, and you are certain they did not announce a name, and yet—
“kiera? matarys? who is that?”
“ser donnel says a mystery knight has entered the lists,” matarys says, watching intently and sitting up straighter as though he might be able to see through the knight’s helmet.
“a mystery? how exciting,” daella adds.
“i think he calls himself evenstar, or evenfall. or perhaps evenhall. something like that, i did not quite catch it.”
“what?” you breathe, staring at the mystery knight yourself now.
it is impossible to tell anything with his visor covering his face, with the crowd roaring in surprise, but, perhaps… it almost—
you almost think he is looking at you.
“evenfall? he must be a stormlander, then,” you finally say quietly.
“one of lord baratheon’s men, no doubt,” kiera supplies.
who else would have the gall to enter as a mystery knight minutes before the tourney is set to begin? you are not well versed in your histories, but the word sounds familiar—the seat of house tarth or estermont. one of the two, though you are not sure which one.
it does not make much sense.
the journey from tarth would not allow for a knight of the house to arrive in time for the tourney. and, if he was truly a knight of the house, he would wear its sigil proudly.
“why would a man enter as a mystery knight?” you question to matarys, since you and kiera do not have the answer.
“perhaps to defend one’s honor. one of the other knights may have insulted him. or perhaps to defend someone else. it may be a squire from the morrow’s lists, even.”
“i did not know that.”
“father has always said there is more honor in it. it is not for renown, like the others. take the dragonknight, for example. he competed as the knight of tears to crown queen naerys.”
you turn to look at matarys quickly, before your thoughts are interrupted by the trumpets as they burst into sound, as the competitors prepare themselves.
“let us see how our mystery knight fares, then,” kiera supplies with a smile.
you watch silently as it happens. valarr steadies himself, nodding to his grandparents and to kiera, showing off his ribbon as he takes his place. ser roland does the same, tipping his head as he passes his brothers in arms.
lord lyonel meanders over to where of the crowd nearest to him. conveniently, where lady lannister is seated besides her niece. she rises, reaching over to tie her green ribbon around lord lyonel’s lance, before resuming her seat.
his opponent does not move from his position.
your eyes search of their own accord, attempting to see if any of the other knights have shifted from their positions, watching with all the others to see which lady’s favor they will request.
“is that it? but some of these knights have no favor at all-” daella begins, turning to look at you with a combined expression of annoyance and disappointment, one she has mastered by copying her father.
“do not speak so soon, daella,” kiera warns.
your eyes are fixated on the tent—wondering if baelor might step out if his meeting ends. the only lord you can imagine would bother him while his son was set to compete is lord lannister, and you know the man can speak for ages—
your eyes move again, this time to lady lannister.
she is beaming, no doubt planning a golden wedding with lord lyonel in her head.
but she is speaking to her brother, seated beside her, meaning that he cannot be the one inside the keep with baelor now.
then who could it be, if not—
“princess,” matarys says. “princess.”
“yes? i am sorry,” you say, feeling as kiera’s hand comes to yours.
“your grace, look.”
you hear daella gasp, and then whisper to rhae—it is the mystery knight!
and for a moment, it seems as though the world stops spinning.
the knight, in his plain armor, has positioned himself carefully near your seat. it seems as though the rest of the audience has gone quiet too, as he silently lifts his lance until it is resting against the barrier.
“it would be an honor to wear the princess’s favor.” his voice is deep, and unfamiliar, no doubt deepened through the metal of his helmet. he still does not lift his visor, as all the others had done.
you suppose you cannot blame him—after all, he is a mystery knight.
and before your mind can dwell on it, before your fear and your nerves stop you, you feel your body rising. you move to the wooden balcony that separates the two of you. from here, you can look down at the knight clearly, at his chestnut brown steed and the shield that bares no sigil.
you release a shaky breath, bringing your small favor into your hands. they are not trembling, to your surprise. the petals of the flowers seem to glow in the sun, as you drop the circlet around the knight’s lance. it falls, resting midway.
“i wish you luck, ser.”
the mystery knight does not say anything, bowing his head at you curtly before he rides away to claim his position. you catch carefully as he goes, not yet returned to your seat.
you can see it clearly now—his opponent’s sigil. he will be facing a dalt of house lemonwood. and without thinking about it, you hope the lemonwood knight is not impressive today. it is wrong to wish for any knight’s downfall, and yet—
“look, your grace,” daella says as you finally resume your seat. the noises of the crowd are still muffled, and you do not know what to think of it. you have never been asked for your favor before, but—
“it is a good thing father is not here to witness this,” kiera whispers to you.
you watch as the knight tilts his lance, capturing your favor in his hand. he tucks it safely into his armor, saving it from ending up in the dirt when he clashes with his rival.
Series summary: When you are unexpectedly reaped in the 47th Annual Hunger Games, your only hope of survival is your mentor, Aemond Targaryen, who won his Games a decade ago. Aemond is very good at his job, and he’s your only friend here in the luxurious and depraved Capitol. But this professional partnership might be turning into something personal…and forbidden…and dangerous.
Series warnings: Language, blood and violence, serious injury, sexual content (18+ readers only), prostitution, references to noncon/dubcon, character deaths (obvi), bugs, cakes, drugs, drinking, smoking, references to suicide, survivor’s guilt, desert trivia, mentions of pregnancy/children, a special Targaryen guest star, the curse of the pharaohs 🐪
Word count: 9.1k (I went too crazy with this, lock me up 🙈)
Dividers were made by the wonderful @saradika-graphics 🎨
⏳ Character list can be found HERE! ⌛
⏳ All of my writing can be found HERE! ⌛
"Dreams as big as the sky but pockets as empty as the desert." - Dipti Dhakul
You wake up thinking of Aemond, his long fingers, his full lips, and your hands slip beneath the silk nightgown the Capitol makes you wear; but now you’re wondering about what the arena will be and how you’ll be killed in forty-eight hours when the Games begin, and the mood vanishes faster than you could gut a fish.
“Fuck,” you sigh, and abandon the mission and stare up at the ceiling, listening to your heartbeat pounding in your ears and the trains zooming by outside and the cold mechanical vital signs of the Tribute Center. Then you climb out of your too-large bed to begin the day.
You strip off your nightgown, a smooth rippling like water. You sit in the bathtub and let the nozzles pummel your back and your shoulders until the aches from training fade away and you imagine your bruises being erased. You throw on a royal blue sweatsuit that Salem left for you and clean the steam off the bathroom mirror to check your reflection before you head out to the common area for breakfast. Before I see Aemond.
The girl in the glass—the woman, actually, although it feels strange to think of yourself that way, especially here where it is children who are fed to the meatgrinder—is afraid…and the lighting must be kind in here, because she’s a little beautiful too. There’s nothing important on the agenda for today, so Salem isn’t here to attend to your hair or your makeup. You try to smooth down rogue wisps, then glaze your lips with a mint-smelling balm until they shine.
Okay, enough, you think, still inspecting yourself. He’s seen me crying, he’s seen me bleeding, he knows what I look like. Enough. You leave your reflection behind.
You’re about to open your bedroom door when you hear Charm say on the other side: “You’re too attached to her, Aemond.”
You drop to your knees and press yourself against the door, listening intently. You don’t hear Aemond respond; you can picture him being avoidant as he so often is, gazing down at the floor or at his own hands, penning his meticulous notes, puffing on a cigarette.
“You remember what it was like for you before, don’t you?” Charm continues after a moment. She sounds soft, and sympathetic, and human. It occurs to you that while the tributes change each year, Aemond and Charm have been teammates for a very long time. “With the girl…with Sirena…?”
“This is different,” Aemond says.
“Yes. It might be worse.”
Again, he doesn’t respond. The television must be on, because a faint unfamiliar voice is talking about the weather.
“Aemond, she…she’s not going to win. She’s not going to be able to kill people like Commodore and Roosevelt and Brookie. And even if, miraculously, somehow she was the victor…you’re never going to have what you want with her. You know that. I’m so sorry, but it’s not in the cards for either of you.”
Is that true? you think desperately, clinging to the door. How can that be true? How can we be so close to each other and yet so far apart?
“She’s good with a knife,” Aemond says, and he’s frustrated like it’s something he’s been wrestling with. “I just have to figure out how to keep her alive long enough to use it…”
Charm gasps at something. “Oh, look!”
Then you hear a voice that is impossible here in this cold, metallic, dry, mechanical place, and yet it’s unmistakable. Misty?!
You burst through the door and into the common area, and there on the television is your oldest sister, smiling with tears in her eyes as she answers a journalist’s questions. Daddy and Fleet are with her. They are home in District 4: blue skies, cliffsides, the ocean breeze in their hair. Misty is saying: “We’ve always known she was special, and now other people are realizing it too. And we just…we just really want her to be able to come home someday.”
“She’s a good girl,” Daddy says, like he’s driving a hard bargain in the marketplace, like he’s trying to negotiate. “Never asked for nothing. Never caused no trouble. Never complained about being stuck helping me on the boat rather than running around having fun someplace else. Never brought home a boyfriend. She’s only ever wanted a simple, quiet life. She don’t deserve to be hurt. She don’t deserve to be scared.”
The journalist has one last question. She thrusts the microphone back in Misty’s face and asks: “Your sister received a training score of 7 from the Gamemakers, which isn’t disastrous but certainly separates her from the favorites. Do you still think she has a realistic chance to win the Hunger Games?”
“Well, I’ll tell you this,” Misty says, abruptly severe. “She’s damn good with a knife. And Aemond knows that. And I guarantee you he’s figuring out how to help her kill those other kids right now.”
Aemond says to you from where he’s sitting at the dining room table, like it’s good news: “They’re giving you more coverage.” Sure enough, the screen is now awash with a montage of clips from the party at President Snow’s mansion last night: Aemond’s hand on the small of your back, Aemond standing between you and an unruly throng of admirers, Aemond glaring at the tributes who are most lethal to you, Commodore, Roosevelt, Brookie. We do look like a couple, you marvel, two lavish hostages in matching funeral black.
The journalist in District 4 has found Commodore’s mother, a gargantuan grey-haired woman who—for some reason—is beaming and has her hands on the shoulders of a young boy. When she’s asked how she’s holding up, instead of talking about her son she says: “We’re doin’ alright, it’s very kind of you to ask. My sister’s in a bad way, cancer most likely, and she sent my nephew here to stay with me and be properly looked after. Isn’t he a sweet little lad? Go on, Leeward, say hello…”
Commodore shuffles out of his bedroom, yawning and rubbing his still-bleary eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, sea monster,” Charm says fondly and changes the channel. She is lounging across the couch in a flowing white sundress accented with gold: buttons, hooks, dainty chains and jangling bracelets.
Someone knocks at the front door, which is odd. Salem has a key and comes and goes freely, as do the housekeeping staff. Charm checks her glittering gold pocket watch. “He’s not usually awake this early.”
“He must have slept on the train,” Aemond says, and then he tells you, because you’re closest to the door: “You can let him in.”
Who? you think. You open the front door and there’s a man standing in the hallway with a rolling suitcase. He wears neon green sunglasses, thin flat sandals, tan linen shorts, and a white shirt that’s unbuttoned down the front. His hair is shoulder-length and silver and greasy like he got sunscreen in it days ago and hasn’t scrubbed it out yet. He is carrying a glass fishbowl, clutched to his soft bare chest with one arm. A single goldfish circles restlessly inside.
There isn’t much of a resemblance, but the hair is striking and rare. Aemond’s brother??
“Hey, Sparkles,” the man says and pushes rudely past you into the suite. His sandals slap against the floor; he shoves his sunglasses up into his tangled hair. He startles when he sees Commodore, letting his suitcase topple over. “Goddamn, you’re big as fuck.”
“Hello, Aegon,” Charm says pleasantly from the couch.
“What’re you doin’, girl? You usually run such a tight ship. How’d you let a walrus in here?”
“He’s a very well-behaved walrus, you’ll see,” she says, and then to Commodore: “Sea monster, there are waffles on the table. Make sure you have something.”
Obediently, Commodore sits down—as far away from Aemond as he can—and fixes himself a plate.
Aegon plods over to the table and slides the fishbowl onto it. He points to the goldfish and instructs Commodore sternly: “Don’t eat that.”
Commodore, unsure of whether he’s joking, just nods.
Then Aegon ventures towards the couch, smiling sheepishly, clasping his hands behind his back like Aemond does sometimes. “You’ve always been such a gracious hostess, Charm. Don’t disappoint me now.”
She smirks, produces her compact from a small gold purse, opens it and flips down the mirror. She coats a finger with white powder and offers it to Aegon. He grabs her hand and snorts as much of the powder from her skin as he can through one nostril, then licks off the remainder as Charm laughs. “You’re a fucking animal,” she says.
“I know. I’m the one who belongs in a cage.” He straightens up again and turns to Aemond, who stands to greet him with a sigh; not like Aemond is disappointed he’s here, necessarily, but perhaps because he heralds the start of the Games like the boom of cannon fire. Aegon grins and dashes over to him, his arms thrown wide. He collides with his brother, but Aemond isn’t knocked off-balance.
“It’s good to see you,” Aemond admits, surrendering to the clumsy embrace.
Aegon pounds on his back. “You alright? You hanging in there?”
“I’m okay.” But when Aemond pulls away, he reflexively glances towards you, and Aegon follows his eyeline.
“Oh, that’s a problem,” Aegon says softly, gazing at you, wondering and sad.
Charm sniffs as she rubs white powder into her own nostrils. “How are the waffles, Commodore?”
“Good,” he dutifully replies. He is staring at the television as he forks soggy pieces of blueberry waffles into his mouth, a documentary about manta rays.
“Get your breakfast,” Aemond commands you, pointing to the table. You sit down next to Commodore and watch the manta rays with him as you both eat.
In the elevator, when you are alone, Aemond hits the Emergency Stop! button and opens his notebook, skimming his tidy black-ink annotations.
“Monty has something wrong with his left knee,” he tells you. “An old injury, maybe an ACL or meniscus tear that never fully healed. He tweaks it every once in a while. It’s a vulnerable spot if you need to find one on him.”
Aemond looks at you expectantly, and you nod to show you’re paying attention. I can’t kill those people, you think, as if you have a choice.
His wave-blue eye flicks back down to the paper. “Pluto has bad lungs from the mines, but everyone already knows that. If the arena has dust or sand, he’ll suffer. Brookie is excellent with an axe, she can reliably hit a target from thirty meters away, so don’t think you’re safe unless you have much more distance than that between you. She’s the type of tribute sponsors like…” A Career. A beauty. “But you might be in luck. She’s eighteen, but she still has a girlish look to her, a certain juvenile quality. Don’t get me wrong, there are men who prefer that. But there are plenty of others who want a woman, not a girl.”
Like me, you think, shuddering.
“Commodore’s eyes are so deep-set that his visual field is limited. Only slightly, but it might make a difference. He can’t see as well if the attack is coming from above or at the edge of his peripheral vision. He’s been trying to hide it.”
“I won’t hurt him,” you say. “He’s from our district. He’s from home.”
Aemond frowns; he’s disappointed in you. You feel his rebuke like knuckles to the belly. “I might not be there when you wake up on the day of the Games. Sometimes the news about the arena starts getting out early, so I always go a few buildings over to the Control Room and hang around for a while to see if I can learn anything. But I’ll be back in time to see you off.”
“Is that safe?”
“I have a connection there. I know what I’m doing.”
“How did Isla get an 8 from the Gamemakers?”
“She had to pick peaches twelve hours a day back in District 11. Of course she’s strong.”
You’ve rarely seen her do anything but halfheartedly stretch and receive lessons on survival skills. “If she is, she’s kept it quiet.”
“Because she’s smart.”
I can’t kill those people. You know you can’t. “Any tips for Roosevelt?”
“Yes,” Aemond says as the elevator doors open and he snaps his notebook shut. “Don’t try anything unless he’s asleep or otherwise incapacitated. Stay away from him.”
“He’s my friend.”
“You don’t have any friends,” Aemond says, and you follow him to the gymnasium.
It’s an easy day, a free day, the training scores already awarded and the interviews with Caesar Flickerman tomorrow night. It’s the tributes’ last chance to rest and unwind. Roosevelt is running on his favorite treadmill while his mentor Sherman slurs and slumps against the machine. Brookie is leisurely tossing axes that hit the bullseye every single time; Isla is providing encouragement as she stretches nearby. You go to join her. Monty and Pluto are playing catch with little Babylon from District 5, and you think as he laughs and grapples with them: Does he even understand what’s happening? Does he know these same people are going to be trying to kill him in two days?
At lunch, you chat with the people you believe are your friends. But as you sample today’s spread—cured meats and aged cheeses, dried fruit, honeycomb, an assortment of raw fish served on rice, something called sushi that turns out to be way more delicious than you would have thought—Aemond sits down beside you, and your companions instantly fall silent, their eyes wide and shifting and skeptical. Is he here to spy on and sabotage them?
You tell Aemond: “I don’t need you to supervise me to make sure I eat.”
He swipes a piece of salmon sushi off your plate and eats it in one bite. “I’m not supervising you. I’m spending time with you.”
“Oh.” And you smile, your face flushing as he sets a fresh glass of pineapple juice down in front of you. “Okay. Then that’s fine, I guess.”
“She guesses it’s fine,” Roosevelt quips to the others, snickering, his dark eyes flashing.
For a while no one is sure where to look or what to say, and then Pluto works up the courage to ask Aemond a question. “I hear the Capitol can fix anything that’s wrong with you. Is that true?” You all know that he means his lungs, the coal dust in his capillary beds and the dark poison in his bloodstream.
Aemond nods. “Just about, yeah.”
“And the food is always this good,” Isla says.
Aemond chuckles. “The food is really good.”
“And the victor can have a mansion here in the Capitol if they choose to,” Roosevelt says. “A big one like yours. And they can live here, and have anything and anybody they want.”
Aemond looks him dead in the eyes and smiles as he lies. “Exactly.”
At night you can’t sleep, and you hear the television on in the common area. Thinking it might be Aemond, you go out to meet him, but it’s just his brother: eating ice cream straight out of the carton at the dining room table, watching a game show on the huge blue-white screen as the rest of the room is draped in darkness. The contestants are at the top of an artificial mountain, perhaps ten stories tall, and are racing each other down an ice-coated path to the finish line at the bottom. They are shrieking as they slip and crash into each other, spinning helplessly on their backs like flipped turtles. Large mechanical penguins wander around nudging the contestants off the ledge, where they are caught by safety nets as the studio audience boos.
No safety nets in the Hunger Games, you think bleakly. Just rocks, and spikes, and darkness, and depths.
“You want some?” Aegon asks, offering you his spoon. Beside him on the table, his goldfish swims around his glass bowl in lazy revolutions like a planet.
The ice cream in the carton—soft and soupy, evidently some sort of cookie flavor—is less than tempting. Also, you don’t really know Aegon. “Uh, no thanks.”
“You’re going to regret passing this up when you’re in the arena eating leaves and worms or whatever.”
He has a point. “On second thought…”
You sit down next to Aegon and he grins, his teeth gleaming in the darkness, looking you over as he passes you the spoon. You sample the melted lagoon of ice cream. It’s better than you expected: very rich, very sweet, a pinch of salt to round it all out, chocolate chip cookies and ice cold milk in one. Aegon brought a suitcase, but he must have forgotten to pack pajamas because he’s commandeered some of Aemond’s clothes instead. The black sweatpants are too long, hanging past his feet, and the white t-shirt too tight across his belly. Aegon’s silver hair hangs in wet curls; he’s finally showered.
“So you visit Aemond every year for the Games,” you say.
“Yup.”
“Do you always bring the fish with you?”
Aegon laughs. “His name is Sunfyre. I rescued him from Charm’s shoes once, years ago. I can’t trust anyone at home to remember to feed him.”
“One fish doesn’t seem like too much of a commitment.”
He shrugs. “The house is chaotic. My sister’s too busy with her bugs, my little brother is always knocking down walls for his latest home improvement project. Mom has cats. Disaster seems inevitable.” He’s studying you again, not leering—which you’re very grateful for, the silk nightgown is not really appropriate for mixed company—but only seeking, contemplating. “I was wondering if it was an act,” Aegon says. “The you and Aemond thing.”
“It’s not,” you confess quietly.
“I know that now. I knew it as soon as I saw the way he looks at you. On the tv, the Capitol can show anything. They choose the angles and the clips, they write the narrative. And it would be a good strategy to get you sponsors, if Aemond had thought of it. It makes you both seem more desirable. It makes the romantics sigh at the tragedy and the predators willing to do anything to fuck you. But it’s real, and that’s not good.”
“We can’t help it,” you offer in a weak defense. “Do you hate me?”
Aegon is taken aback. “Huh? No. I don’t even know you. But I don’t want him to do something stupid and get himself killed. If he breaks the rules to help you, he’s slitting his own throat. He’ll never get to escape from this place. He’ll never get to discover what other world is out there.”
“You know he’s planning to leave?”
“Yes. And he deserves to. He’s done his time.”
You give the spoon back to Aegon, but he seems to have lost his appetite. He stirs the melted ice cream, peering down absently into the carton. “Aemond volunteered for you,” you say.
Aegon sighs. “He did.”
“Because you were younger.”
“What? No, I was eighteen. I’m the oldest.”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “Sorry, I just…assumed.”
He smiles miserably. “Yeah. I get it. I wasn’t so impressive then either. They called my name on Reaping Day and my mother lost her fucking mind. She was screaming and sobbing, and everyone knew…you know…that if I went, I wasn’t coming back. The Peacekeepers grabbed my arms and started dragging me to the stage, and then I heard Aemond shout that he volunteered. I think he wanted to help our mother, and I think he wanted to save me, because he’d actually have a shot. But I think he also wanted to be more than just some boy from District 4 who always had his face hidden in books and got ignored by girls. We’re all sold a mirage of what it means to win the Games, and by the time we realize it’s not real, there’s no going back.”
Fifteen years old, you think, the horror of it overwhelming. Fifteen years old and a killer. Fifteen years old and losing his eye. Fifteen years old and having strangers crawl across the bed to him, their weight shifting the mattress, their mouths hungry.
“He shouldn’t have volunteered for me,” Aegon says, watching the television again, cold blue-white light on his face. His eyes—ungouged, unruined—are larger and darker than Aemond’s, deep wells, nightscape currents. “He should have let me go to the Games, and I would have died in the arena, and the nightmare would have been over. But now he has to live with what he did. None of us knew what winning meant. The rest of the family still doesn’t. Aemond can’t bear to tell them, it would break their hearts. But I come for the Games every year, and he can’t hide it from me. It’s the least I can do, sharing the weight of it. I’m the reason he’s here.”
“I think he likes that you visit, Aegon. Even if he doesn’t say it.”
Aegon looks at you, profound futile pity…but there’s a warning too. Don’t get in Aemond’s way. “You know, they won’t let you go if you win. You’d be the new toy. They have to keep you long enough to rub off all the shine. Aemond’s done ten years, and I’m not convinced even that’s enough. They might make him stick around a little longer. So don’t think he could take you with him or give you his ticket. Don’t kill those other kids because you think you’re going anywhere.”
“I understand,” you say, gazing though the window at the starless void of the night.
Tomorrow is the 47th Annual Hunger Games, and today things are strange.
There’s hardly anyone in the gymnasium, and the tributes there aren’t speaking to each other. Roosevelt is running on his treadmill, red hair flying, dark eyes straight ahead and vacant and humorless. The kids from District 3 are at separate stations; Kista is doing some sort of pattern recognition game on a computer, while Tendo is weaving hemp and tree back into a hammock almost compulsively. The girls from Districts 7, 8, and 9—Oakellen, Calico, and Gotha—aren’t braiding each other’s hair anymore, but silently and grimly stretching, repeating the same poses they’ve seen Brookie and Isla do…the same ones you’ve done. Commodore is lifting colossal weights with a cackling Jackline Humboldt.
In the cafeteria, as Aemond stands by the wall and colludes with Mags and Beetee in whispers, you fill your plate with food from the everchanging daily spread. A Taste Of Greece! the banner hanging above the buffet reads. You’ve never heard of Greece. You wonder if it is one of those other places that Aemond knows so much about, like Tanzania or Mexico or Egypt. You try a little bit of everything, as Aemond once advised you to: lamb, olives, spanakopita, pita, hummus, tzatziki, dolmades, a salad with tomatoes and cucumbers and feta, baklava for dessert.
You see Roosevelt eating alone and go to join him. But when you sit down across from him at the table, he doesn’t even look up. “What’s wrong?” you ask, worried, wounded.
He doesn’t answer for a while. “I don’t want to kill you,” Roosevelt says at last. “And I don’t plan on killing you. But I still have to hope that you die. I can hope that it’s as quick and painless as possible, a rock falls on your head or you take a blade to the carotid, or you freeze to death in your sleep, or you fall off a cliff and don’t even have time to be afraid before you hit the bottom. But I have to hope that you never leave the arena, because that’s the only way I get to survive, and see my Mom again, and win the life that I want. So I’m sorry, but I can’t be your friend anymore. It just feels too ingenuine.”
He picks up his plate and leaves.
You can hear the audience roaring through the concrete walls as Salem heaves and jerks you into your gown for your interview with Caesar Flickerman, the famed host of the Games, much-adored here in the Capitol (and much-maligned at home in District 4).
You are in an underground dressing room, walls of mirrors, nowhere to look except at yourself. Your dress is made from thousands of small glass beads arranged to look like waves on the ocean, blues and greens and whites. It is very tight and stops at mid-thigh in the front; the back has a train, ropes of beads that dangle all the way to the floor, dragging and clattering, flowing like a tail of a fish. Salem has lifted your hair off your neck with a single large claw clip made from mother of pearl; you are given earrings to match. Now comes the essential glimmering step, the one the Capitol expects, the one you are becoming known for. Salem picks up the bottle and begins to squirt your arms disinterestedly.
Gently, you push Salem’s hands away. “Can Aemond do that?”
Salem smirks, like they aren’t surprised by the request. “Of course he can.” They gather up their stylist equipment—makeup to paint you with, sprays and oils for your hair—and disappear. Moments later, Aemond is here misting your skin, drawing glittering half-moons under your eyes. He does not look at the knife that hangs from your throat, or the ornate gown, or where it sits low and smothering across your chest, held up by two flimsy bejeweled straps. He only sees you. Aemond is wearing a dark blue suit, like the beads that form the water’s deep currents. When he turns, you notice that they’ve given him a matching mother of pearl clip to secure a portion of his long silver hair, just a small flat one.
Aemond goes to the door and pauses when he sees you aren’t following him. “Everything alright?”
You hesitate. “Salem didn’t give me any underwear.”
An apologetic smile. “I think that was purposeful,” Aemond says. “Are you nervous? Did you want to rehearse again? Do you know what you’re going to say?”
“I think so. I understand what they want.”
“Do you?”
“My advantage isn’t being fast or strong or vicious. My advantage is that people want to fuck me.”
He opens the dressing room door. “Keep your legs crossed during the interview and you should be okay.”
You walk with him into the hallway, your blue heels clicking on the cold concrete floor. There are production crew members hurrying you along as they franticly check and recheck the time on their pocket watches. You trot as fast as you can without stumbling. Aemond’s palm comes to rest on the small of your back.
You are both ushered up a flight of stairs, and then there’s a studio set up with blinding lights and chaotic racks of props. The tributes are all in a row, their mentors and escorts fluttering around giving last-minute counsel and practicing lines. Charm, dressed like a clownfish and with her hair dyed orange, is beaming up at Commodore as she pins something to the lapel of his cerulean blue suit. It’s a tiny silver Loch Ness Monster.
The photographer approaches, clapping his hands impatiently to get everyone’s attention. “Alright, these photos are for promotional material. You’ll each take your turn, then you’ll wait to go up the next stairwell for your interview with Mr. Flickerman. Every tribute gets three minutes with him, and three minutes only. There’s a light on the stage that will go green, then yellow, then red. When it turns red, you better be on your way off that stage. Got it?”
A chorus of nervous agreement from the tributes. Brookie is wearing a gown made of gold coins that jangle merrily; they remind you of the chimes of bell buoys back home on the sea. Roosevelt is in a black suit, his hair slicked back, a choker of onyx stones around his throat. Monty and Pluto are trying to count the atoms on little Babylon’s flame-colored jumpsuit, spinning him around and making him laugh.
As the tributes are being photographed—posing sweetly, or formidably, or wielding prop weapons—a group of adults stand in the corner of the room watching, women in gowns and men in suits. Maybe they’re Capitol executives, or Gamemakers, or people who won some sort of raffle for VIP tickets, you have no idea. But they ogle at you and the other tributes, and hiss to each other, and pick you over like bones stripped of meat.
A woman, perhaps forty, grins as she gestures to Commodore: “Yes he’s an ugly brute, but do you think he’s that big everywhere?”
You are abruptly furious. You’re sick. He’s just a kid.
But he isn’t, and you aren’t either; none of you are. You’re fish in a net, you’re fillets to be portioned and sold and devoured.
“You next, sweetheart,” the photographer calls to you with a yawn. He’s already getting bored. We waves you closer until you are standing in the middle of the floor, stark lights, a whirring fan. He stands in front of you and raises the camera, expecting you to do something cute: a blade flourished, a kiss blown.
You have to want to live more than you want anything else.
You drop to your knees so hard you bruise them, unsheathe your knife, shove the blade between your teeth like a horse’s bit, like the way Aemond’s ring finger stifled your moans on a wet metal table. You crawl on all fours towards the photographer as the extravagant observers gasp and the fan rips tresses of your hair from the clip. The photographer is immediately revived; he goes down to the floor with you, gushing encouragement, the shutter of his camera clicking over and over again. Aemond just watches, his arms crossed, not saying anything but his eyebrows raised.
“Okay, you’re done!” the photographer announces, glancing down at his camera. “I got the shot. Good God, did I get it. They’re going to be putting that on billboards and buses. Who’s next…?”
You struggle to your feet, no easy task given the height of your heels and the constriction of your dress. Aemond swoops in to help you up. Some of the tributes are chuckling awkwardly, not knowing what to think. The Careers are gaping, and you see something in their faces that gives you horror and hope: fear. They know people are starting to notice you. They know you’re going to have sponsors. You click the sheath back onto your knife and let it swing loosely from your neck again, the long silver chain shimmering.
They’re herding the first group of tributes up the stairs to meet Caesar. They make you all stand just off-stage, your ankles trembling, your hearts racing. The mentors and escorts allow their tributes no free rein, as if they are skittish horses that could bolt at any loud noise or sudden movement. After a moment, Commodore arrives behind you, unspeaking, unsmiling. Charm is chattering away unimpeded, mostly about how dreadful the District 10 outfits are, fur and horns and cow print. She’s trying to distract him, you think.
The production crew instructs each tribute when it is their turn to be interviewed. They grab Brookie first and thrust her out onto the stage; she swiftly gets her bearings and smiles and waves for the crowd. Each three-minute segment goes by so fast you can’t really retain anything. Your thoughts are a hurricane, your skin is cold with sweat. Brookie and Roosevelt are quick and funny. Hawk and Sara are earnest. The kids from District 3 are well-versed in statistics and emerging technological innovations. Tendo shakes Caesar’s hand in goodbye. You’re next.
“I’ll be right here,” Aemond assures you, as if that means anything, as if he can save you; but you feel better knowing he’s so close. The spotlight roams to the edge of the stage, and you step into it.
The stage feels as vast as an ocean. The audience is almost deafening, although the lights are so bright you can’t really see them, just blooms of color and the prismatic glinting of gemstones. You try to remember to smile. Caesar is standing by his chair and beckoning to you. “Welcome, welcome, our lovely young lady from District 4!”
You reach for him and he seizes your hands, squeezing them, his face exuberant and radiant and…open, somehow. Ever-curious. Empathy that endlessly regenerates. It occurs to you that he’s the best kind of person for a job like this. When you’re in front of him, you’re his whole world, and he means everything he says, and he feels every joy and sorrow; and then the second you leave you cease to exist, and his devotion begins anew for the next transitory subject. “Thank you, Caesar!” you say as you both sit in your large cozy violet lounge chairs. “It’s so generous of you to invite me here tonight for this interview. Not that I had a choice.”
The audience laughs, and so does Caesar. His hair is tied back and dyed jet black, accented with silver pins of stars and the moon. He wears a black suit freckled with constellations. “Hahaha, that’s positively true, you did not volunteer!”
You say, smiling so widely it hurts your face: “It’s not too late to send me back and pick someone else!”
Caesar wags a finger like you’re being naughty. “But the Capitol, despite all its grandeur, would be a little less dazzling without you, dear. I mean, look at you! Look how you sparkle! Tell me, what is the inspiration behind all this glitter and glamour?”
“Well, the ocean is a bit like that, isn’t it? The wave crests sparkle so invitingly, but then below the surface are sharks and riptides and rusty fishhooks waiting to cut you. District 4 is famous for our sparkling, lethal water. I just don’t want anyone to forget it.”
He simpers, almost flirtatious. “How could we forget how dangerous you are with that knife hanging around your neck all the time?”
“Oh, this?” You rip the sheath off the blade and twirl it effortlessly between your fingers, the steel flashing, the mother of pearl hilt smooth. The crowd whistles and applauds. You spot the tiny green light on the floor of the stage, right by the ledge, your timer. “It’s been in Daddy’s family for at least three generations, and I’ve been using it to gut fish since I was ten years old.”
“And you think your experience will be an advantage in the arena?”
“Fish and people have a lot of the same parts, once you get past the fins and the tails.”
Caesar chuckles heartily. The crowd hoots. “And what a gorgeous decorative sheath! Are those little fish? With gemstones for eyes?”
You can’t keep the heat from your cheeks as you cover the blade again. “They are. Aemond had this made for me.”
“Ah, Aemond Targaryen. Your mentor. A very popular victor here in the Capitol.” Caesar looks to the audience, his tone conspiratorial, and they fall quiet, leaning forward in their seats. “You know, there has been some chatter about the two of you…how close you appear to be…and how ravishingly good you look standing next to each other! Rather like a couple, frankly.”
For the first time, your face falters. This isn’t for show. This is real. On gigantic screens mounted on either side of the stage, every expression is magnified. You catch a glimpse of yourself and think: How did they make me so beautiful? “He makes more of an impression than I do, but I’ll accept the compliment and I’m very grateful for it.”
“But how do you really feel about this buzz surrounding you and Aemond?”
You can see him waiting just off-stage on the periphery of your vision, a pillar of blue, a flash of moonshine. The audience is pin-drop silent. You tell them the truth. “I certainly find myself wishing that we could have met under different circumstances.”
Caesar’s voice is soft, sympathetic, cajoling. The light at the edge of the stage is yellow, but he pays it no attention. “Do you?”
“Well…” You gaze out into the audience, and now that your eyes have adjusted you can see them better. They stare back at you, not bloodthirsty, not grinning, not hungry. Their faces are solemn. Their eyes shine with impending heartbreak. “Before I came here to the Capitol, I’d never been in love before. And there are still so many things I haven’t done. I’ve never been kissed. I’ve never had anyone to call mine. I’ve never had a ring or a wedding. And with Aemond, I think…”
The light has turned red. Your time is up. Nevertheless, Caesar grasps your hands again, urging you onwards. “Yes, my dear?”
“I…” Your voice breaks, and a single tear skates down your cheek. The audience gasps, mourning along with you. With great effort, you begin again. “I think I want more with him than I’ll ever get to have. And that’s very difficult.”
The crowd erupts into grief-stricken sighs and whispers. Some people are crying. Caesar, his own eyes brimming, raises your left hand to kiss your knuckles. “You might yet have it, my sparkling tribute from District 4,” he says. “You just might.”
You aren’t conscious of standing up, and bidding Caesar goodbye, and waving farewell to the audience; but suddenly you’re standing just off-stage with Aemond again, in the shadows, in the gloom, and he’s leading you away as the other tributes and mentors and escorts glower at you, terror and vitriol in their faces, because you’re giving the people of the Capitol what they want and it’s working.
Far behind you, Caesar is saying as Commodore marches out to meet him: “Now folks, I promise I’m not as short as he’s making me look…”
Aemond leads you through the concrete labyrinth and out into the night, where the cars are waiting. Pedestrians scream when they see you. Cameras strobe and journalists shout questions. Aemond opens a car door and helps you in, your gown a straightjacket, your ankles quivering in your heels. You don’t know if you’ve made a mistake; he hasn’t said a word. He ensures you’re settled in the back seat and then goes around to the other side. He gets in, slams the door, doesn’t give the driver a destination. Everyone must return directly to the Tribute Center tonight; there’s nowhere else in the world for you. Aemond exhales shakily and looks down at his palms as the wheels begin to turn.
“Was that okay?” you ask him.
His voice is quiet, like he’s very far away. “It was great.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Aemond says. “No, you were perfect.”
“Then why can’t you look at me?”
Aemond says, still staring down at his hands: “You are so beautiful.”
You cross the seat to reach him, to lay your palm over his scar as streetlights and camera flashes strobe into the indigo cabin. And he kisses you, not soft or gentle like you always thought your first kiss would be but messy and famished, not the kind of hunger that steals and bleeds but something satiating, necessary, life-sustaining. You don’t know how to find a rhythm, and you don’t know which way to tilt your head, and you have no idea what your tongue is supposed to be doing, but it’s magic anyway, him pulling you into his lap and gripping your bare thighs beneath your gown, your hands clasping his face, his scarred perfect face.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, breaking away. “I’m probably terrible at this—”
“You’re not,” Aemond promises, smiling, and he kisses you again. You can hear people shouting through the glass, and you know they’re watching, they’re taking pictures, they’re encapsulating you into video clips to play on the news, but you don’t care. It could be your last night on earth. It could be your last night anywhere. And anything they see won’t really be you. “I’ve never done it this way before,” Aemond confesses, and at first you don’t know what he means. Then you understand: He’s never been with anyone who didn’t pay. He’s never had something real.
“Hey,” you tell him, your palms cradling his jaw, streetlight constellations in his eye, fractured luminescence sparkling in his sapphire. “I’m looking at you right now. No one else is, but I am.”
His left hand skates around your waist, beads rattling like windchimes of shells and shark teeth. His long lithe fingers tuck an unbound lock of your hair behind your ear. He touches your face like he’s been waiting to since the moment you met on Reaping Day, in the shadow of the Games, in the autumn of your life: your cheekbone, your lips. Then his mouth is on yours again and the cadence like a pulse, hot and pounding, is not so elusive. Your tongue tastes him. Your teeth graze him. The car makes a sharp turn and you lose your balance and slide out of Aemond’s lap, giggling and clawing for the backrest. He follow you down to where you end up sprawled across the seat, on top of you, still kissing you, his silver hair like moonlight and his hips braced against yours, knowing you wear nothing beneath your gown but sweat and secrets.
At the Tribute Center, Aemond draws you to the elevator and presses the button for the fourth floor. The metal doors close and he is on you again, your back to the wall and your lungs gasping in sharp scarce air. You take his hands and put them on your chest because he won’t touch you there until you’ve told him it’s alright, and he yanks down one of your gown’s thin glittering straps and tastes you, licks the salt from your skin, bites your nipple as you rake your fingers through his hair and moan. The elevator doors open again and you scramble to fix your gown before diving out into the hallway.
The television is on in the common area of the District 4 suite, Caesar Flickerman’s interviews with this year’s tributes ongoing. From the couch, Aegon gapes at you both: disheveled hair, dazed faces, Aemond’s rumpled suit jacket, one strap of your gown hanging off your shoulder. “So, what have you guys been up to?”
“Stay out here,” Aemond orders him, still breathing heavily.
“Obviously! This is where the tv is, where else would I be?!”
“Good,” Aemond says, and grabs your hand and disappears with you into your bedroom.
In the time it takes him to close and lock the door, you’re already on the mattress waiting for him, your shoes kicked to the floor, your outstretched palms impatient for him to fill them. He meets you there and drags you roughly into his lap again, the hem of your beaded gown pushed up to the tops of your thighs, and when his fingers slip between your legs you’re amazed by how close you are already, bright like clear skies, warm like summer, your blood pooling there until it is heavy like an anchor and dragging you someplace sublime. You’ve never been able to force this to happen no matter how hard you tried; he gives it to you so freely.
Instinctively, without premeditation or self-consciousness, your hips begin to circle and press against him, only the ocean blue cloth of his suit separating you, and even this is too much. You unbuckle Aemond’s belt in the twilight shadows and he realizes what you want. He reveals himself: staggering length and thickness, and you can’t claim to know your body well, but the prospect of the culminative act seems to defy physics. You move against him as he touches you, coating him in your wetness, teasing you both, his tongue darting between your lips as you moan, his fingers coaxing you into the depths of blue water, the riptides of a kind storm.
You cry out too loudly and he clamps a hand over your mouth, laughing as he whispers for you to be quiet, kisses your temple, strokes you beneath your gown until the tide starves away and you are empty and too sensitive. You shake his palm off your face, reach down to grasp his fingers that are dripping with you, raise them to your lips. Aemond watches, transfixed, as you lick him clean, and then he kisses you, the room whirling, scalding blood thrashing in your ears, your skull filled only with him.
Your lips rove to his jaw, down his throat, following the line of his breastbone as you unbutton the white shirt beneath his suit jacket. Then there are the taut muscles of his belly, and the slopes of his hips, and then…
Aemond, alarmed, lifts your chin to make you look at him. “What are you doing?”
“I want to,” you say. You want to learn everything about him, you want to touch him, you want to taste him. And you want him inside of you, but this way seems easier than the other. No pain, no blood, no irretrievable rite of passage, nothing that could poison this night-blue haze you’re both lost in. “Can you teach me how?”
He hesitates and glances to the wall, maybe because when you’re so far away it’s easy to forget that you’re the woman here with him, and phantoms begin to creep in, and nightmares and shame.
You come back to nuzzle his throat—shared salt, ghosts of smoke—and put his hands on you, the swell of your chest, the downy inside of your thigh. “It’s just me,” you remind him.
Aemond closes his eye and nods. “Lips over your teeth.”
You cover them, like a blade with a sheath, and sink low to take him in your mouth. He’s big, so there are adjustments to be made: how to keep your jaw open wide enough, how to draw in your cheeks to create friction. Your hair, fallen out of its mother of pearl clip, drags over his lower belly; Aemond knots his fingers in it, not to push you lower but to feel anchored to you like a boat safe in harbor. You pay attention to when he jolts and his breath hitches: your tongue lapping the underside, your lips sucking the tip. You’ve drenched him with saliva, you realize; he’s dripping and glistening with you. You peek up at Aemond, embarrassed.
He chuckles, and he isn’t so tense anymore. “It’s supposed to be messy.”
Reassured, you continue, and it’s getting easier now. You alternate between the motions he seems to like best; and your technique can’t be so impressive, but perhaps it’s the knowledge that you’re the one doing it to him, because low euphoric sighs are escaping from Aemond’s throat and his hold on your hair is rough and distracted. You don’t mind; it’s minute violence from harmless hands, like when he held you down on the metal table in the prep team’s pod.
“Give me your hand,” he says, panting, and places it at the base. He shows you how to grip him and you can feel him pulsing against the lines of your palm, the whirls of your fingerprints. When you caress and squeeze him, his head falls back and he gazes up at the ceiling, his ribcage heaving as his lungs battle for oxygen, his fingers twisting in your hair. When you glide your thumb up over the tip, he whimpers. Seconds later he gasps: “You should let me finish myself.”
Not a chance; he didn’t leave you to finish yourself. You keep stroking him, your hand tight and slippery, your lips and tongue edging him closer towards the feeling he taught you was possible. It’s an indescribable high, giving him the same gift. It’s the only time you’ve felt powerful since Reaping Day.
“Don’t,” Aemond begs. “You’re going to…you have to…”
He moans and tries to push you off, but you plunge down as far as you can like diving into clear water, swallowing him, devouring him, not to harm but to savor, not ravening but worshipful. It’s a potent mineral rush, metallic and a little jarring, but it’s a part of him. You linger there, working him until the very end, licking those last slow drops from the slit.
But Aemond doesn’t immediately begin to soften as you expect him to, as you’ve heard men do; instead he pulls you back onto the bed, an urgency like adolescent zeal, because this is almost like his first time too. You’re grinning as he covers you and kisses you deeply—salt like the sea, warmth like golden sand—and then his hand is skating between your thighs again, not merely to touch you but to open you. What you feel now is not pleasure at all but pressure, and stretching, and a sensation that is so foreign and intrusive it’s almost nauseating. You hold your breath, hoping it will pass, not wanting to ruin this, not wanting to disappoint him.
And he’s so much bigger than his fingers.
“I can’t,” you gasp, and Aemond stops, startled, wondering what he’s done wrong. But it’s not his fault. It’s my fault. I should know myself better, I should have explored this before now. But how could I have known my life was almost over? “I’m not ready. I’m sorry, I know I don’t have time to get used to the idea. But I’m just not ready yet.”
He shakes his head. He’s lying between your legs, nearly as close as it’s possible to be to another person, but you know he won’t do anything you don’t want him to. “You have time.”
Your voice is hushed; there are tears in your eyes. “Do you really think I can win?”
“I do,” Aemond murmurs, like something sacred, a secret or a vow. He kisses your forehead and then draws away, and you almost break and say: I take it back, I want you to do it. Even if it’s horrible, even if it hurts me. I’d rather bleed for you than for anyone else. “I have something for you.”
“Really?”
“It’s in my room. I’ll go get it.” And then, when he’s climbed out of bed and is buttoning his shirt and buckling his belt: “You should get cleaned up.”
“I should,” you echo numbly, realizing it’s over. You have to go to sleep, because you have to wake up early, because tomorrow is the start of the Games. Nothing on earth can stop it. Nobody on earth can save you.
“This is probably for the best anyway,” Aemond says, and he’s businesslike again. He’s your mentor, not your lover. He has to be. Maybe he couldn’t stand it otherwise. “You shouldn’t go into the arena right after…I mean, the first time…you could be sore, you could be cramping and spotting, you could develop a urinary tract infection. It’s a wild card to add to all the rest of the factors, and you don’t need that.”
“I don’t,” you agree, and he leaves.
Faintly, you hear Aemond tell Aegon out in the common area: “Everything is fine.”
Aegon snorts and replies: “Sounded a whole lot more than just fine to me…”
You tug off your gown and get in the bathtub, fill it with hot water, turn on the bubbling nozzles so there is something to disrupt the quiet instead of your own thoughts. Aemond comes back with a small plastic pill bottle, and you hit the button again so the nozzles shut off and the water goes still. You don’t hide your body from him; he’s seen it already. He sits on the rim of the tub and shows you the present he’s brought. From out in the common area, you think you can hear Charm’s voice; she and Commodore must be back from the interviews.
“I know you’ll be too anxious to sleep tonight,” Aemond says, shaking the bottle so the pills rattle inside. “These will help. Most sleep medication knocks you unconscious but actually suppresses REM sleep, which is the stage most necessary for physical and mental recovery. These won’t do that. They’ll put you into REM sleep within thirty minutes, and you’ll wake refreshed. It’s a good advantage to have. You’ll go into the arena well-rested and thinking clearly, and you’ll last longer than the others if there’s sleep deprivation.”
“How did you get them?”
“I have a client who’s a doctor.” Aemond twists the cap off the plastic bottle. “Open your mouth.”
You smile. “I think I can figure out how to take a pill myself.”
“Sure, but I’m not leaving them with you.”
No, of course not. Just in case you decide to try to swallow all twenty or thirty at once. You open your mouth and Aemond places a single white pill on your tongue, where it almost instantly dissolves. He touches your face, ghosts his thumbprint across your unscarred cheek, leans in to kiss you goodnight. You tease, already drowsy: “I’ll contaminate you.”
“No worries. I’m going to need one too.” He administers himself a dose, a cupped palm, a flash of white vanishing. “Finish up. Get into bed.”
Aemond stays until you’re beneath the blankets, and then he departs for his own room. You lie there on your back in the darkness—still breathing in his sweat and smoke and cologne, still surrounded by him—for maybe five minutes before you force yourself to get up, knowing you can’t fight against the pill much longer.
You tiptoe across the common area, Aegon peeping curiously at you from the couch, and steal into Aemond’s bedroom. He’s left the door unlocked. He gazes up at you through the shadows, murmurs of moonlight glimmering in his sapphire. He’s taken off his suit, but he’s not wearing anything else. His hair is still dry; he hasn’t washed it yet. There are stray flecks of your glitter on his skin.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, but he doesn’t seem surprised to see you. And when you seek refuge beneath the blankets, he holds you against his bare chest and tells you hushed beautiful lies, that everything is okay, that you’re safe.
“I’m so scared,” you whisper as you descend rapidly into the dark currents of sleep.
“I know,” he says, and he really does. He remembers the night before.
─ house of the evening bloom
avatar: the last airbender au
monster hunter!zuko x vampire!courtesan!reader
you've spent decades trapped inside the house of the evening bloom, a vampire pleasure house ruled by the cruel lord kage. escape is impossible, but when a warden arrives in ba sing se hunting monsters, instead of running in fear, you see an opportunity. all you have to do is get him into your bed first.
⤷ word count: 22.8k
─ tags
18+ content minors dni: adult zuko, smut, p in v sex, spit kink, spit swallowing, fingers in mouth, finger sucking, mouth covering, faking orgasm, exhibitionism (lowk dubcon?), dirty talk, rough sex, hair pulling, blood drinking, blood drinking as an aphrodisiac, kissing, mention of death, mention of parricide, violence, suicidal!reader, torture, psychological torture, starvation, noncon sex work, noncon vampirism, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of hazing, swearing, mentions of drugs and alcohol, violence, age gap ig, reader is sometimes referred to as 'spider lily', ancient japan inspired setting with some chinese and european influence but set in the atlab world, lmk if i missed anything.
─ authors note
this fic is if blue eyed samurai and the witcher had a baby. please let me know if you enjoyed, this took me over two months to write im not even joking. big thank you to @firingstars for helping me workshop the dirty talk and to @pinksplace for reading the first half to reassure me <3
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It was said that deep within the Pleasure District lay a garden unlike any other in the Earth Kingdom.
The garden in question was maintained by Lord Kage, the Red Prince of the Pleasure District, and like all great collectors, he was known for his discerning eye. Rumours claimed he spent vast sums in search of the perfect additions to his collection—beautiful blooms, delicate blooms, rare blooms—flowers worthy of being cultivated beneath his care. City-goers whispered that he had agents in every corner of the world, that they tirelessly wandered the streets and marketplaces, the festivals and temple grounds, all in search of the next perfect flower to capture their master’s attention.
Most laughed the stories off as little more than idle gossip or folklore spun to frighten badly behaved children, while others were perceptive enough to change the subject. Lord Kage was wealthy and well-connected enough that no officials ever questioned his unchanging appearance over the decades. He was powerful enough that no magistrate or imperial official dared investigate his affairs. Lord Kage paid his taxes, entertained the right nobles, and kept Ba Sing Se’s elite well supplied with pleasures they could never publicly admit to enjoying.
Despite Lord Kage’s vast wealth, everyone understood that neither riches nor influence could silence the whispers of high society or the common folk. Those whispers spoke of the grand crimson manor tucked between neighbouring pleasure houses at the far end of the Pleasure Mile, with its lantern-lit balconies and silk-draped rooms. They spoke of the flowers that inhabited its halls, none of which ever appeared to wilt. Much like a peach pear, one could savour its sweet flesh and get lost in the ghost stories murmured in the dark over campfires. However, if one wasn’t cautious enough and bit too deeply, they risked chipping a tooth on the pit at its centre, because in Ba Sing Se, everyone knew that wherever there were whispers, there was always a rotten truth at its core.
As a girl, like many others, you had been fascinated by those stories. After lessons, you and your friends would linger at the edge of the Pleasure District, peering down the streets you had been expressly forbidden from entering. You would stand on your tiptoes between the crowds, trying to catch a glimpse of the House of the Evening Bloom. From a distance, it had hardly looked sinister. Just another elegant manor of dark-polished wood and red-painted pillars, with curved, barrel-tiled roofs that glowed red beneath rows of lanterns when dusk settled over the city. You used to dare each other to sneak as closely as possible, to witness those fabled unwilting flowers. Were they truly as beautiful as society claimed, and did they only bloom at night? You had imagined rare orchids hidden behind the shoji, night-blooming jasmine unfurling beneath moonlight, exotic peonies brought from distant corners of the world.
But you’d never once imagined the flowers were girls.
Girls who had once been just as young and foolish as you, girls with painted lips and empty smiles, girls given the names of flowers in place of their own.
Girls who never grew old.
Girls who thirsted for blood.
And above all, you had never imagined that one day Lord Kage’s attention would settle upon you. Or, that over a century later, you would no longer remember the sound of your true name, only the one he had given you. Because what were you, if not just another unwilting flower in the garden of the House of the Evening Bloom?
There was a rumour, floating like a petal in the wind—a whisper passed from flower to flower, that the Blue Spirit had been sighted in Ba Sing Se.
Although none of you were permitted to step outside the confines of the House of the Evening Bloom, lest you be dragged back screaming, you were all keenly aware of the happenings beyond its walls. Men liked to talk in pleasure houses; they would boast over cups of sake or baijiu, eager to impress whichever flower they had chosen to entertain them for the evening. Merchants bragged of their adventures and riches, generals recounted tales of military victories, and government officials often spoke too candidly of politics after enough wine. It made the flowers, and likely every other courtesan lining the Pleasure Mile, remarkably well-informed despite never truly participating in the world they heard so much about.
You and the others received little compensation for your work—silks and jewels, a place to hide from the sun, a steady supply of blood to stave off the gnawing hunger. Gold was meaningless when every coin you earned ultimately found its way back into Lord Kage’s coffers. No, information held far greater value within the House. Over the decades, the flowers had begun trading whispers amongst themselves. A noble's scandal for details of a political appointment, rumours of war bartered for stories of a distant province she would never see again. It was a pathetic sort of currency when viewed from the outside, but one many of you clung to all the same. The gossip symbolised the world beyond the lacquered gates that still existed, a reminder to stay grounded as the time ticked by and the House remained unchanged year after year.
So, when one patron mentioned the Blue Spirit, the flowers listened. When another repeated a similar tale several nights later, you all remembered. When a third swore he had seen the masked hunter himself stalking the lower ring of the ring, the rumour spread through the House like wildfire.
Tales of the Blue Spirit varied depending on who recounted them. Some claimed the Blue Spirit was merely a man. Others insisted he was something far older, a spirit sent to punish creatures that had overstayed their welcome in the mortal realm—and that was why he wore the blue oni mask, to conceal a face beyond comprehension. Entire covens were reportedly wiped out beneath his blades—century-old demons and beasts, powerful enough to command cities and armies, reduced to little more than cautionary tales and ash. One merchant—though thoroughly drunk and petrified—swore that he had witnessed the fabled man emerge from the Foggy Swamp one evening, with the severed head of a Jorōgumo attached at his hip. Because when it came to the Blue Spirit, details changed, but the outcome never did. He brought death to those deemed monstrosities by the mortal world.
He was a Warden—a monster hunter.
Unsurprisingly, the House of the Evening Bloom had grown restless in response to the talk of his presence in Ba Sing Se. What had once been mere whispers suddenly felt tangible enough to taste. The thought of the masked Warden climbing the manor steps, twin blades in hand, should have frightened you.
It certainly frightened Madame Yoru.
The Mother of Blossoms maintained the same cold composure she always had, but you had noticed there was a strain beneath it these days. Courtesans were snapped at for the slightest mistake, servants hurried from room to room with their heads bowed in the hope of not incurring her wrath, and even the most favoured flowers appeared careful not to linger too long in her presence. If Madame Yoru was worried, then perhaps there was some truth to the rumours after all…thatthought had settled over you with a sick sort of clarity, and you had allowed yourself one dangerous thing: hope.
Though, unfortunately, it was difficult to entertain such thoughts with Madame Yoru’s nails currently digging into your jaw. The Mother of Blossoms stood before you in a haze of crimson silk and gold jewellery, her sharply painted lips stretched into a smile that had never quite reached her eyes. She was beautiful and elegant, yet monstrous. Just after you had readied yourself to enter the parlour to begin a night’s work, she had cornered you in the hallway with a particularly murderous look and forced your face up to meet her gaze. Her dark eyes swept over your face with open disapproval.
“You’re becoming a poor investment,” she tutted.
You remained silent—you had learnt there was little point in arguing.
“You were once one of Lord Kage’s favourites,” she continued. “Men crossed the Earth Kingdom itself to spend an evening in your company. Lately, however… you appear determined to waste his generosity.”
The word generosity almost made you laugh the moment it slipped from her tongue. As if sensing your wayward thoughts, Madame Yoru’s grip tightened.
“You mope, you sulk, you spend every free moment hiding away in your rooms as though sorrow were a particularly attractive accessory.” She paused with a sneer, assessing your reaction for any sign of defiance. “Men do not pay for melancholy, Spider Lily. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Madame,” you uttered in response.
“Good.” Her thumb brushed across your cheek with mock affection.
“You are wilting, my dear girl.” She murmured, and that callous, predatory smile of hers had returned. “And all of Ba Sing Se knows that the flowers here do not wilt.”
Your gaze lowered as Madame Yoru leaned in closer, breath cold against your ear. “If you fail to earn your keep tonight, then perhaps another few months in the box will remind you to be grateful.”
For a long moment, everything fell silent. The noise that had wafted down from the parlour—chatter, laughter, the shuffle of footsteps and the clink of cups—faded away, replaced by a sudden, piercing ringing that filled your ears as a sob clawed its way up your throat. Absolute, indescribable terror seized you so suddenly, so violently, that a wave of vertigo washed over you. It wasn’t a gentle lapping at your ankles, but a tidal wave—powerful and large enough that the impact knocked the breath from your lungs and caused you to lose your footing, your body being thrown and spun wildly in the imaginary current. If you were still human, you would’ve emptied the contents of your stomach onto the floor. But in that moment, you couldn’t even find the words. Could get a breath past the lump in your throat, not blink away the tears stringing at the corners of your eyes—
No.
No, no, no, no.
You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t go back there. You couldn’t do it, no, you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it again. They wouldn’t send you back, right? You wouldn’t go back there. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it—
Madame Yoru had always been frighteningly perceptive when it came to her flowers, and she caught your reaction at once. The widening of your glassy eyes, the visible tremor that rattled through your body as you gaped at her, still speechless, rooted in place and defenceless—
You couldn’t do it. They couldn’t send you back. You couldn’t do it again—
Madame Yoru hummed, satisfied, wearing the look of someone who had found the knife and knew exactly how to twist it. Only when she had satiated herself on watching you come apart into a thousand tiny pieces, did she finally release your jaw.
“Run along, Spider Lily.” She gave your cheek a little pat, though with the ferocity with which she executed it, it felt closer to a slap. “Best find a client before it’s too late.”
It was the sting across your cheek that finally pulled you from your spiralling thoughts. Your feet carried you down the corridor before your mind could catch up, silk whispering around your ankles as much as your own consciousness as you walked.
You couldn’t go back.
The thought repeated itself over and over, drowning out everything else, that tidal wave of panic returning every time you thought you’d wrenched yourself from the waters.
You couldn’t do it again. You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t go back again—
You would smile, let them touch you, and take whatever they desired. You would perform. You would endure every humiliating moment of it if it meant avoiding the alternative. Because all the flowers knew that the House would never dare beat them. A misplaced blow could split skin and damage a face, leaving a mark no amount of powder could fully conceal, and the Red Prince did not tolerate damage to his property. He had perfected other methods of breaking in his flowers and keeping them broken.
You couldn’t go back there, not again—
You forced the thought away before it could fully form and willed your hands to stop shaking. The world around you blurred into crimson silk, polished wood and the warm glow of lantern light as you stumbled forward. You only became fully aware of your surroundings again when the grand doors of the parlour stood open before you. With Madame Yoru’s threat still echoing through your skull, you stepped inside.
The House of the Evening Bloom was designed to impress. The parlour occupied the very heart of the manor, rising through two lavish storeys, with the high ceiling above hidden behind silk banners and hanging lanterns. Black-and-red-painted pillars rose to support balconies that encircled the upper levels, allowing wealthy patrons to observe the entertainment below from private vantage points. Performers played soft melodies from raised platforms while servants drifted through the crowds carrying trays. The air smelt of oudh incense—potent enough to disguise the scent of predators.
At the centre of the room, sat the flowers. The display platform rose in broad tiers, forming a pyramid of embroidered cushions and low-backed seats. From a distance, it resembled a carefully arranged bouquet, every flower positioned to best display her beauty for prospective buyers. To outsiders, the hierarchy likely appeared backwards. The women seated closest to the floor on the lowest tiers of the display belonged to the most sought-after courtesans. They were the favourites; they occupied the lowest rows because they were the easiest to reach. Patrons entering the parlour naturally gravitated towards them first, and those women had spent decades ensuring it remained that way. They laughed loudly, flirted shamelessly, and guarded their positions by tearing one another apart whenever an opportunity presented itself. Many had been in the House long enough that they scarcely remembered life beyond its walls. The higher tiers belonged to everyone else—the timid and overlooked, the freshly broken, the ones men admired from afar but rarely approached. In recent years, you had found yourself preferring the solitude of the top; it was far more peaceful than the dogfight down below, even if the Mother of Blossom’s threat hung around your throat like a noose.
You climbed the platform in silence.
You couldn’t go back.
Layers of crimson silk flowed around your legs, embroidered with golden spider lilies that shimmered in the lantern light. Golden and tortoiseshell ornaments adorned your carefully arranged hair, delicate chains and ivory-carved blossoms brushing your shoulders with every step. Settling onto your cushion, you scanned the room.
You wouldn’t go back.
Below, the evening had already begun. The men laughed over their cups of sake, baijiu and wine. Flowers smiled and entertained, weaving between servants and guards as they pulled clients into private rooms.
The performance was underway.
And as you folded your hands neatly in your lap, and fixed a pleasant smile upon your face, you allowed only one thought to echo through your mind.
You had to be chosen tonight.
After an hour of observing from atop the display, a disturbance near the entrance diverted your attention from the creeping dread that still lingered despite your best efforts. Ordinarily, you would not have cared. The House of the Evening Bloom was never truly quiet. Patrons drifted in and out throughout the evening, servants hurried along, and every so often, a drunken noble would become convinced that his wealth entitled him to more attention than he had paid for. Such disruptions were common enough that they rarely merited more than a fleeting glance from the flowers.
This disturbance, however, carried an alarming scent.
Your attention shifted immediately. The man standing near the entrance looked entirely unlike the usual clientele who frequented the House. There was no silk draped across his shoulders, no expensive rings embellishing his hands, nor the carefully cultivated confidence of a noble accustomed to buying whatever caught his eye. In fact, he looked as though he had spent the past month on the road. Dust stubbornly clung to his boots and the hem of his clothing. A worn pair of dao swords were strapped across his back, with a small saddlebag thrown over his shoulder. His dark hair had fallen loose from whatever effort was made to tie it back, framing a face marked by an old, marbled burn scar that extended across one eye and down his cheek.
Despite his scar, or perhaps because of it, he was handsome. Beautiful, even.
Not in the polished way of wealthy men, but in the manner of a blade that had seen years of use. There was something undeniably striking about him, from the broad set of his shoulders to the strong, calloused hands hanging at his sides. He possessed the lean, powerful build of someone accustomed to surviving by skill rather than privilege, a man who carried every possession he owned upon his back and trusted only his swords.
Most importantly, he smelt… dangerous.
It was faint beneath the oudh incense and lotus perfume that saturated the parlour, hidden beneath road dust, sweat, and woodsmoke, yet your senses recognised it immediately. Judging by the way heads began to turn throughout the room, you were not the only one. One by one, the flowers detected it, then the guards, then the servants. The mortal patrons remained blissfully unaware, continuing their conversations and laughter without interruption, oblivious to the silent ripple that had spread through the House of the Evening Bloom. Yet beneath the music and chortling, an unspoken understanding had settled over every undead creature present.
A Warden had entered the room.
Beneath the aroma of travel and humanity, something far more familiar lingered—the scent of death. Not the rich scent of fresh bloodshed, nor the stale odour of a battlefield long abandoned. It was something deeper than that. Something that seemed to soak itself into a person over the years, settling deep beneath the skin until it became impossible to wash away. You had encountered Wardens before; every flower in the House had. No matter how often they bathed, no matter how expensive the oils and balms they wore or how carefully they disguised themselves amongst ordinary travellers, they all carried that same scent eventually. It clung to them like a second shadow, marking them as surely as any uniform ever could. And this Waren was especially ripe with it.
“You’re not welcome here, friend.” Your gaze shifted towards the entrance, where two guards had stepped into his path before he could properly pass through the threshold into the parlour. “And Lord Kage isn’t receiving visitors tonight.”
A subtle tension settled across the room. The servants continued their work, carrying trays between tables. The musicians played on without interruption. Flowers laughed at jokes they had likely heard a hundred times before and poured sake for patrons eager to believe themselves charming. The performance continued, yet beneath it all, every eye remained fixed upon the stranger standing in the doorway.
It was never a good omen when a Warden appeared at the House of the Evening Bloom. Over the decades, dozens had attempted to destroy it—Lord Kage, being an impossibly old vampire, had naturally amassed some enemies along the way. Some foes came seeking glory; others sought coin. A handful simply believed themselves righteous and powerful enough to purge the Red Prince and his coven from the mortal realm. Most had perished before reaching the upper floors. But what unsettled you was not that this Warden had come—it was how causally he had done so. There was no attempt at stealth, no disguise beyond ordinary clothing, no effort to conceal the weapons strapped to his back or the purpose that seemed to radiate from him. He stood before the guards with calm patience, despite being a man willingly walking into a den of creatures powerful enough to reduce entire districts of the city to bloodless husks. His stoic expression never wavered. If he felt fear, he hid it remarkably well.
“I have business with him,” the stranger’s voice carried easily through the room, rough from disuse. His tone suggested he was accustomed to being obeyed, or perhaps even feared. Not because he demanded it, but because few people were foolish enough to argue with him once he had spoken.
“Business,” one of the guards scoffed. “What business?”
“Personal.”
The guards exchanged a look. “You’re not with the Crimson Ward.”
At that, the stranger’s eyes narrowed slightly, “No.”
Several flowers perked up immediately—you weren’t the only one listening. The Crimson Ward were the only Wardens authorised to enter the House and sample its goods without scrutiny. Lord Kage employed and paid them generously to deal with troublesome do-gooders and fellow, overzealous Wardens alike. Most of the Crimson Ward had long since discovered that guarding a wealthy vampire lord was significantly easier and more profitable than hunting one. You knew for certain that the scarred man was not among their number; you would have remembered him otherwise.
“Then Lord Kage won’t see you.”
“He will.” The certainty in his voice made the guards hesitate. There was no arrogance in his tone, no bluster. He sounded as if he were merely stating a fact—whatever this man had come here for, he was completely convinced he would get it.
You found yourself leaning forward slightly.
Eventually, one of the guards sighed. That alone released some of the pressure rising in the room. “Your name?”
The Warden hesitated for half a breath. “Lee.”
A lie. You had spent a century listening to people deceive one another. The falsehood was obvious. Apparently, the guards recognised it as well. Their expressions soured, but after a moment of consideration, they stepped aside.
“We’ll send word.” There was no kindness in their tone, rather something closer to a snarl. “Indulge a little in the goods, won’t you? It’ll be some hours before Lord Kage can see you.”
Unbothered, the stranger inclined his head and entered, posting himself near one of the pillars at the entrance, appearing entirely unmoved and uninterested by the dazzling display of women before him. The reaction from the lower tiers was immediate—Peony was first from her seat, moving with the effortless confidence that had made her one of the House’s most sought-after flowers. Her crimson robes swept across the floor as she approached him with a smile that had ruined countless men.
“You’re certainly causing a stir,” she purred, a hand stroking down his dusty outershirt. You could only find yourself surprised that she had lowered her dignity enough even to consider looking at dirt, let alone touching it. The Warden looked at her politely enough, clearing his throat as he stepped away from her touch.
Undeterred, Peony continued. “If Lord Kage is occupied, perhaps I could help pass the time?”
“I’ll wait.” The answer arrived so quickly and with such finality that a small crease appeared between Peony’s brows.
Nearby, Orchid stifled a laugh, and moments later, she tried her own approach, only to receive a similarly disinterested response. Camellia followed shortly after. Then Jasmine. You watched the rotating exchange unfold with growing fascination. None of them managed to hold his attention for long, and the rejection irritated the lower tiers considerably. The stranger answered their questions cordially, offered little in return, and continued to scan the room. That, more than anything else, confirmed your suspicions.
While the flowers vied for his attention—the looks they exchanged were nothing less than feral, like a street dog guarding its next meal—his gaze continued to drift across the room. He studied the exits, the balconies, the guards stationed throughout the parlour, and the patrons occupying the surrounding tables, cataloguing each detail unabashedly. A Warden without question, a dangerous one at that. Perhaps—if you dared to consider it—an opportunity. The thought arrived unexpectedly, carrying all the recklessness that hope often brought. You should have dismissed it; any rational person would have. Yet before you could reconsider, before you could remind yourself of all the reasons why such an idea was foolish, you found yourself rising from your seat.
The movement immediately drew attention. Conversations faltered, and several nearby flowers turned to stare. Regular visitors to the House of the Evening Bloom had long since learned that Spider Lily rarely descended from the upper tiers to hunt. In recent years, you had become something of a fixture there, content to remain beyond reach. Most men admired you from afar, too intimidated by your melancholy to ever approach. The fact that you were moving now was shocking enough to silence an entire section of the parlour. You ignored them—ignoring people had become a particular skill you’d developed, along with making a man finish before he even had a chance to stick his cock inside of you. Gathering your skirts, you descended the platform. Whispers rippled down the display in your wake, but none were bold enough to stop you.
The soft rustling of silk followed every step. Gold and tortoiseshell ornaments chimed softly amidst your hair. Around you, conversations resumed in hesitant murmurs, though more than a few eyes continued to track your progress down the tiers. Your gaze never left the stranger, and as he noticed the whispers, he looked upwards—towards the display, towards you.
The change was immediate.
You’d spent decades studying people, studying men, learning the subtle shifts in expression and posture that revealed what words often concealed. You recognised it the moment it happened, the instant his attention focused on you and the room simply… disappeared from his awareness. The guards, the flowers, the patrons, the exits he had been so carefully cataloguing—all of it vanished, and all his eyes could do was remain fixed upon you.
Even from across the parlour, you watched as he inhaled sharply, a breath that seemed to shudder in his chest as he took you in entirely. His shoulders stiffened imperceptibly before relaxing again, and for the first time since entering the House, he looked almost uncertain about what to do with himself. It was almost amusing. Peony had practically draped herself across him and earned little more than polite indifference, yet now he stared as though he had forgotten what he was saying… or thinking, or perhaps where he even was.
You continued your descent, neither of you looking away. By the time your feet touched the parlour floor, the whole room felt strangely distant. Peony gave you a miffed expression that implied she had every intention of exchanging words with you once dawn broke. But none of it mattered—by the time you reached the Warden, your course had already been set.
Lord Kage rarely granted audiences to unknown visitors, particularly Wardens. Any meeting required trust, and trust within the House was established through a simple test. A Warden intending to kill the Red Prince rarely spent an evening in the company of one of his flowers. Those willing to drink sake, share a bed and permit themselves to be fed upon were generally considered safe enough to entertain—at least long enough to determine whether they posed a genuine threat.
You circled the stranger in a slow, lazy loop, close enough to smell the road dust and steel, close enough to confirm that beneath the scent of death lingered something warmer.
Human. He was entirely human.
Your gaze flicked briefly to the burn scar before returning to his eyes, observing how, for the first time since he entered the House, a sliver of emotion leaked through his stoic expression, his brows twitching ever-so-slightly.
“You smell of death, Warden.” You hummed, not even offering him a smile. “You need a bath.”
It wasn’t a request; the words left your mouth before you could reconsider them. Turning, you began walking towards your private room without waiting to see if he followed.
You already knew he would.
And sure enough, moments later, the sound of footsteps echoed behind you as the House of the Evening Bloom watched in stunned silence.
You closed the shoji behind you, shutting out the noise of the parlour echoing down the corridor. Your private entertaining room was mostly quiet, with only faint sounds from neighbouring rooms and the servants' corridor seeping through the walls. Like everything in the House of the Evening Bloom, the space was crafted for beauty. Tatami covered the floor, and silk wall hangings featuring cranes and plum blossoms decorated the walls. Embroidered cushions surrounded a low, polished table near the entrance, while a raised sleeping platform at the back was draped with sheer red silk curtains. Twisted wood carved into flowering branches outlined the edges. It was less of a bed and more of a stage upon which Lord Kage’s prized flowers were expected to bloom.
It was a quiet, feminine gasp that drew your attention, your head twisting fast enough that the dangling accessories in your hair clinked together. Beside the Warden stood a servant girl, a tray clasped to her chest. She was cowering in place, clearly startled as she had just bolted upright from her previous position seated at the low table. The Warden did not appear particularly surprised or bothered by her presence. He dumped the worn saddlebag that had been slung over his shoulder haphazardly at her feet, along with his dao swords. They landed heavily enough that the girl jolted—the poor thing looked as though she had seen a ghost. You suppressed a smile.
She was probably no older than seventeen when she was turned, maybe nineteen at most. Like most servants working for the House, her role didn't tell the whole story. Any patron who took a moment to look at the servants would see that everyone in the manor was unusually beautiful. In truth, she was a fledgling, a flower in training. Just another one of the many unfortunate souls still undergoing the long and often brutal process required before Lord Kage deemed them suitable for receiving clients—there was more to being a flower than simply perfecting the arts of pleasure. Newly turned vampires were dangerous creatures. Their hunger ruled them completely, and few possessed the restraint necessary to feed without killing. Before they could be trusted with patrons, they were subjected to years of training, punishment and correction until they learned precisely how much blood to take and when to stop. Lord Kage liked to call the experience of laying with a vampire a little death—ecstasy from the orgasm, but also the adrenaline of sacrificing the body to be fed on, with the trust that the taker would stop before the afterlife came knocking.
When Lord Kage or Madame Yoru weren’t tormenting the fledglings, it was the other flower’s turn to sink their fangs in. Perhaps that was why you’d become soft over the years, offering the fledglings some reprieve by letting them hide in your rooms. You’d once been the golden girl of the House of the Evening Bloom, the type to lash out, the one who ruled the bottom of the display like Peony or Orchid. You’d allowed them to turn you into the monster they wanted you to be. You weren’t sure what had been the turning point in your attitude—maybe the day you realised none of it had ever mattered, that you’d lived a fuller and freer life in the few decades you’d spent as a mortal than in any of the centuries you’d spent as an immortal. As a result, you had rarely entertained guests in recent years. Most evenings, the fledglings could slip into your room under the pretence of cleaning or preparing you for the night, stealing a few precious moments of peace away from the endless demands of the House.
Judging by this one’s expression, however, she had not expected her moment of peace to end so abruptly—particularly not with a Warden. You simply inclined your head at the girl, and she was quick to rush to your side, practically quivering behind you. You squared your shoulders, and with a practised smile, you turned to face your guest.
“Are you a sake or a baijiu man?” You inquired.
The question caught him slightly off guard. You got the impression that, despite his self-assurance, he wasn’t the type to frequent brothels. Now, out of the parlour and fully under the weight of your attention, you wondered if he expected you to pounce on him then and there? Or maybe he simply didn’t appreciate the art of building tension.
“Tea is fine.”
You arched a brow. Most men requested alcohol before anything else; it gave them the sense that they were more witty and important than they actually were. It gave them the confidence to perform under the scrutiny of an experienced, beautiful woman—or maybe simply the guts to let you plunge your fangs deep into their neck.
“What type?”
“Jasmine.”
That surprised you more than it should have; the answer felt strangely domestic coming from a man who smelled so strongly of bloodshed. Nonetheless, you masked your disbelief with a perfectly composed smile, inclining your head. You waited for the servant girl to move, but quickly realised she was still cowering behind you. Your gaze slowly shifted towards her as you glanced over your shoulder expectantly.
“You heard him, Petal. Have the kitchens prepare tea, and ask the boys to bring up water for a bath and a change of clothing—these are filthy.” You gave the Warden a pointed look, and he huffed in response.
The girl blinked.
“Oh. Yes, Miss,” she replied, bowing so swiftly that she almost lost her balance.
The Warden chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he rubbed a hand along his sharp jaw, watching as she vanished through the shoji. “I thought the point of these places was to get your patrons undressed, not dress them up?”
You clasped your hands together, slinking forward with slow, graceful steps.
“It is,” you hummed, coming to a stop before him. “Doesn’t mean I can’t treat you a little, hm? Can’t have you wandering back onto the street in those, the Pleasure Mile will think we serve any ruffian who comes knocking at the door.”
“So, it’s all about appearances and money then?” He asked, his voice lowered now that you had drawn closer. His amber eyes surveyed your every move. “Eliteism… it runs rich with you vampires, doesn’t it?”
You grinned wide enough to show your fangs, testing him with your next words. “It isn’t always about money. You’re not only here because of the mercy of my master, but also on the account of your trade. You can pay in other ways if you have skills deemed useful enough—that is what the Crimson Ward does.”
He scoffed at that. It didn’t take a genius to understand he didn’t think favourably of his kin, likely taking issue with the fact that the Wardens had taken the easy route out by serving the Red Prince rather than killing him. His tongue darted out as he wet his bottom lip, his eyes trailing down the expanse of your silk robes, catching on each embroidered detail.
“I take it they call you Spider Lily?” He asked, the subtle irritation in his expression neutralising. “They’re embroidered on your robes.”
“Yes, very perceptive of you,” you dipped your head. “And what do they call you?”
“Lee.”
The lie arrived quickly this time, and you gave him a sly look. “Your real name, I mean.”
The Warden looked mildly inconvenienced—as if debating feeding you another lie was worth the gamble. A reluctant sort of resignation settled across his features as he must have decided you were far too perceptive to fool.
“It’s Zuko.”
“Zuko,” you drawled, testing the sound and taste of it on your tongue. “It suits you, it is handsome sounding.”
Stoic as ever, he didn’t so much as blink at your praise.
“What is yours?”
A laugh escaped you before you could control yourself, a palm flying to cover your mouth.
“My name?” You giggled. “Spirits—if you had asked me several decades ago, I might have had an answer.”
You twisted your wrist, your hand gesturing as if flicking the thought away. “In truth, I don’t even remember anymore.”
The lie slipped easily from your tongue, and if he didn’t believe you, he didn’t let it show. With a sigh, you felt the fleeting amusement drain from your body; instead, a quiet intensity settled as you met Zuko’s eyes.
“When they turned me into one of them, they remade me,” you uttered. “The girl I was before is dead. She has to be dead, because she never could have survived this place or these people. So I killed her, I tore her apart until she no longer existed. So understand when I say that even though I may smile like her, and speak in her voice, and wear her skin, inside I am something monstrous—”
You cut yourself off as the shoji slid open, servants flooding into the room. The serious look that had taken command of your features dissolved as you smiled in that artful way you had mastered, ushering in the two young men carrying a large, wooden bathing tub. More followed, emptying steaming buckets of water into the tub before retreating. When you glanced back at Zuko, he remained rooted to the spot. You could have sworn there was a crack in his stoic composure. Perhaps your eyes were simply fooled by the lantern light, but for a fleeting moment, as he watched your performance, a look of pity crossed his features.
By the time the servant girl re-entered, carrying a tray with jasmine tea carefully balanced in her hands, the bath was filled, and the other servants had excused themselves with quick bows. You watched as she placed the teapot and cups on the low table before stepping back with a bow of her own. However, unlike the others, she didn’t leave. She lingered, if only for a moment—just long enough to fully draw your attention. When you looked at her, meeting her gaze with the full weight of your eyes, she immediately lowered her eyes. Still, she remained in place, as though she had something she desperately wished to say.
“Run along now, Petal. You wouldn’t want the Madame to catch you gawking.”
The girl’s spine straightened, startled as though she had been caught stealing. Colour rushed to her cheeks, and she immediately dipped into a hurried bow. “Y-yes, Miss Spider Lily.”
She turned towards the door and made it all of about two steps before stopping in her tracks.
Your brow furrowed, “Petal?”
The servant girl hesitated, fingers twisting in the fabric of her sleeves. The inner struggle she faced was evident on her face—initially, fear reigned. She took a few more steps until concern clouded her features, and the guilt weighing on her conscience eventually triumphed. Spinning around, she blurted out the words, probably before she had a chance to think better of them.
“Miss Spider Lily, be warned! I overheard the guards and Madame Yoru, they’ll be watching through the hole in the wall—!”
The words died abruptly on her tongue, and her eyes darted towards Zuko. Only then did she seem to remember that the Warden was still present, and mortification flooded her expression.
Between the private rooms, there was a narrow, dark corridor. It was intended solely for servants to move discreetly through the House. It saved the fledglings from weaving around temperamental flowers and clientele who often reached a point of blind lust that they would fuck anything that breathed. But it was not only a safety measure to protect patrons from the fledglings and their uncontrollable thirst, as it also served as an observation point. Each private room was not as private as one might think, as each one had a concealed hole somewhere within. It wasn’t a large hole, just large enough for one to hold a single eye up to the gap and spy without being noticed. One of Madame Yoru’s favourite activities was slipping into the hidden corridor, sliding open the shutter and checking that the flower within was blossoming to expectations.
“Oh,” you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Oh, dear.”
The poor girl looked ready to throw herself from the balcony. Crossing the room towards her, you reached out and gently cupped her cheek. “Thank you, sweet girl.”
You knew, deep down, she was only trying to do you a favour, out of whatever kindness was still left within her undead heart, even if she were simply stating the obvious. The tension left her shoulders immediately at your reassurance. Her gaze lifted to yours, and the look she gave you landed twisted and uncomfortable in your chest. You had seen it before, in Petal, in countless servants before her. An unspoken attachment formed between frightened young women trapped beneath the same roof. Perhaps it was because you listened when others didn’t. Perhaps it was because you remembered what it felt like to be new here and how easy it was to become cruel. Whatever the reason, Petal had attached herself to you years ago. You felt sorry for her, sorry for all of them—the girls who came before, the girls who would come after—each one believing themselves special enough to escape the fate waiting for them.
Your thumb brushed her cheek once. “Hush now, and go before you are missed.”
The girl nodded, and this time she obeyed. The shoji slid shut behind her, leaving you alone with the Warden. His interest seemed piqued by the unfolding events, and he watched expectantly as you let out a shuddering breath, silence settling over the room. For a breath, your thoughts drifted. You hoped, no, maybe you even prayed to the Spirits that no meddling ears had heard the girls' outburst. The House of the Evening Bloom was a dangerous place for those at the bottom of the pecking order. The slightest indication of betrayal or spilling House secrets in front of a client, a mysterious Warden no less… she would be doomed to the box.
A creeping sensation snaked over your skin—cold. So very cold, and dark… and quiet. It had been so quiet, so quiet that your own thoughts had sounded like the tolling of a bell against your skull. And your legs, oh your legs and your back, how they had ached and ached. The gnawing hunger had ached too, until the scent of iron and fear all blended into one, and you would press your lips against the tiny holes and scream and scream and beg—
The Warden cleared his throat.
“From what I have gathered, I won’t be able to meet your master until I lie with you and allow you to feed from me?”
His voice startled you enough that you realised that for a fleeting moment, you had allowed your mask to slip. Nevertheless, he was straight to the point, and you found yourself liking that. He certainly didn’t seem eager to dig into whatever haunted you. You shook off whatever strange, maternal feeling that had overtook you and spiralled into despair. You turned away, crossing the tatami towards the bathing tub, leaving those terrible thoughts far behind. Steam curled lazily from the water’s surface, filling the room with its warmth. You perched yourself lightly upon the wooden edge. While trailing your fingers through the water, you considered the question.
“You are correct,” the corners of your mouth faintly lifted. “All Wardens who pass through our doors must face this test.”
An empty reflection stared back at you as you disturbed the surface, ripples breaking up the shimmering surface.
“If it reassures you, being fed upon is not painful—most patrons become rather fond of it. It heightens the feelings of pleasure during sex; some say it’s the best way to experience orgasm.” You glanced up at him, catching the tail end of his eyes narrowing, as though he were attempting to determine whether you were mocking him. You held his gaze, expectant. He crept closer as he replied.
“What I have heard is that it is addictive. That all those merchants and noblemen out there are no better than those who frequent opium dens.”
His hand vaguely motioned back in the direction of the parlour, and your head tilted in thought.
“Well, yes. That has been said too. It’s a biological thing, I imagine, to make our prey relax. Some find themselves feeling a little lethargic afterwards, depending upon how much blood is taken. Is it not said that the calmer the animal at slaughter, the better the meat?”
The Warden didn’t appear to like that answer, a scowl hanging from his lips as you laughed airily. You pulled your fingers out of the water, then gave them a quick shake to get rid of the droplets.
“Part of our hunt is to become… irresistible,” you reminded him.
Then, apparent that he had nothing more to say, and having allowed the silence to linger just long enough, enough that it rattled you a little—silence bothered you now, much like the dark, it came with the taste of iron—you spoke a single word, regaining control of your own simmering sanity.
“Strip.”
Going off your prior assumptions that the Warden wasn’t one to frequent such places, you had anticipated resistance from him. A snarky remark, perhaps? He seemed fond of those. A challenge, even? At the very least, a flicker of hesitation? Rather, Zuko merely held your gaze before reaching for the ties of his outer shirt. There was a practical, matter-of-fact element to his movements, as though removing one’s clothes—in front of a probable enemy at that—was no different than sharpening a blade or cleaning mud from a pair of boots. Most men who entered your chambers either treated the act as a performance or approached it with nervous anticipation. Instead, he shrugged off the first layer, dumping it atop his saddle bag. Beneath it was a lighter layer, old, stubborn stains soaked into the fabric. Old blood, a mixture of his and others, dirt, sweat, rain… you caught it all in a single whiff. It certainly painted the picture of a man who lived one contract to the next. You watched silently as he grasped the collar, tugging it over his head in one fluid motion. And as you had expected, bare skin revealed all. There was obvious strength in his build, powerful arms and broad shoulders shaped by years of repetition—training, battle, survival. Your eyes drifted down his sculpted chest, lingering on the scars that marked portions of his skin. A rather large impact branded his midriff, similar in severity to the mark on his face, and joining it was a collection of scratches and gashes. Some were faded, nearly white with age, while others remained fresh. You wondered briefly how many creatures had left their mark upon him before he had buried a blade in their hearts.
You were so intrigued by the thought, in fact, that it took you a delayed second to realise that during your pondering, he had already loosened the tie of his pants. Before you had the mind to relish in the reveal, to coax or tease, to enjoy the drawn-out tension of it all, he was already standing completely naked before you. Your eyes drifted down, following the trail of coarse hair to where his cock hung between his muscular thighs. Larger than most, you would give him that—but—did he know how to use it? That was the real question. You found yourself studying him longer than necessary, long enough that he noticed. One dark eyebrow lifted as he watched you expectantly in return. The silent question amused you enough that your lips tugged into a smirk, and from your position perched on the edge of the tub, you motioned towards the steaming water.
“You’ll do.” You teased, which earned the smallest twitch of irritation from him—you considered that a victory. “Get in.”
Without protest, he stepped towards the bath. Steam curled around him as he lowered himself into the wooden tub, water sloshing softly against the sides. You grasped a washcloth, soaking it in the rising water as he settled himself. As he leaned back, sighing through his nose and resting his arms on either side of the tub, some of the tension left his posture. Though not all of it—even at rest, he carried the impression of a drawn bowstring. His amber eyes lifted through the steam to watch as you wrung out the rag. The scent of cypress soap mingled with his musk of death as you placed the cloth against his shoulder and began working away the grime accumulated from weeks on the road. Zuko seemed content to sit in the silence that had fallen between you, leaving only the occasional splash of water as you worked from one shoulder to the other, alternating between soaking and wringing out the cloth.
With a splayed hand, you leaned closer, the washcloth sweeping across his chest, past the line of the water to his sculpted abdomen. You were close now, close enough that your breath fanned across his cheek, close enough that the sleeves of your robes were soaked as your fingers paused just above his groin—
Zuko’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and your eyes snapped to his neck.
His blood smelled delicious.
You could sense it now that you were inches away, the subtle thrum of his heartbeat, the blood pumping through his veins… how many days had it been since you had a full meal? You hadn’t thought you were that hungry, but now, faced with his neck right there, you were ravenous—
“You don’t seem to be afraid of me.”
His observation startled you out of whatever bloodlust-induced trance you had found yourself in, your hands immediately finding his thigh as you swept the washcloth down his leg. You glanced up at him, only to find he had been watching your every movement intently.
“Should I be?” You asked, innocently.
His expression remained unreadable.
“No, I’m here to kill the Red Prince, and anyone who stands in my way.” His husky voice made you go unnaturally still for a beat. “If you stand aside, I will show you mercy.”
If he had expected your reaction to be more instinctual or guttural to his reveal of intentions, something more reasonable to such a threat, he didn’t show it. His heart remained beating steadily, his breath even. You slowly straightened your spine and looked down at him. A smile pulled faintly at the corner of your mouth, which then surfaced into a giggle.
Mercy.
If only he understood what mercy looked like to someone in your position.
“You’re rather blunt, aren’t you?” You murmured, the giggle still on your breath. As if anyone within the House of the Evening Bloom was not aware of his intentions. A Warden simply didn’t just show up to enjoy the goods—no, there was one of two reasons: one, to join the Crimson Ward, or two, to kill you all. “I can’t tell if you’re brave, or simply a fool.”
“Hmf,” the sound he made might have been a sign of amusement or annoyance. With him, it was difficult to tell.
The conversation lapsed again as you worked the washcloth down his arm. Water glistened against his skin, tracing the old scars and faded marks. There were more of them than you had initially realised, smaller nicks that hadn’t been immediately obvious in the low light. Your eyes eventually drifted upward, towards the awful scar encircling his left eye. Without really thinking, you reached forward. A single, damp finger trailed a wet line down the warped flesh.
“How did you get this—”
His reaction was immediate, his whole body flinching as his hand shot up, water splashing as he closed his grip around your wrist. You grasped the edge of the tub harder with your other hand, steadying yourself as you teetered from the sudden motion.
“My father had…” His head turned to face you, his mouth opening as he ran his tongue over his teeth, and then slowly released his hold. “...interesting ideas around how to best punish his children.”
The answer caught you off guard—you had expected something far more heroic, some grand tale of his journeys as a Warden. But as you had come to understand, it appeared Zuko was not one for boasts. You twisted your hand where it was still loosely encircled in his grip, pulling his arm towards you as you placed his palm face up in your lap.
“He did that to you while you were a child in his care?” You asked, head dipping as you focused on his hand. You swept the soapy washcloth down his forearm to his wrist, then across his palm, lacing your fingers with his as you worked the suds between each digit.
The thought of a parent doing such a thing to their child felt deeply wrong. The memory of your own father had faded over time, but what remained was gentle. A hand resting atop your head, ruffling your hair. Laughter around the dinner table. The sensation of being carried to bed, the feeling of safety as you were tucked under the blanket. Those were from earlier on, but the older you had grown, the murkier those happy memories became. You supposed your father had hurt you once, too. Not in a physical manner but rather… expectations that had crushed parts of your soul. Expectations that had strained and bittered your relationship. As you massaged the mound of his thumb, pushing your soft digits against the calluses of his palm, he spoke up once more.
“Does that surprise you?” He asked quietly, though there was thickness to his voice, like he was on the edge of letting a groan slip out. “That some of the worst monsters out there are human?”
Your eyes flickered upward, your fingers continuing to massage down his forearm to the crease of his elbow. You realised how beautiful his eyes were in the low light, like molten honey. His pupils dilated as he awaited your reply, the weight of his full attention solely resting on you. You had been human once. So had Peony, Orchid and the other flowers, Madame Yoru, too, and even Lord Kage himself. You didn’t know at which point you had slipped between human and monster, or if the monster had been within you all along. Maybe that was why all those who remained in the House of the Evening Bloom became the way they did in the end—hungry, spiteful, depraved—because you had all always been that way.
“No,” you uttered. You dropped his arm back into the water to wash the soap off. Slowly, you stood, circling the tub. A trail of water dripped from your sleeves onto the tatami as you perched on the opposite side. Your attention turned to his other arm, and you repeated the same process of carefully working soap between each finger. The task gave you something to focus on besides his distant expression.
“My father was a cruel man. He tried to make me cruel, too, but I was always… resistant to his teachings. He said, I was disrespectful and weak for always questioning him, so he challenged me to an Agni Kai.” Zuko continued, and your brows rose. A firebender—you supposed you should not have been surprised. Many Wardens were benders of some kind; the elements often came in handy when hunting particular beasts. Firebending, especially, since so few creatures possessed an immunity to flame itself. You dimly recalled ancient stories of some of the first Warden clans originating in the Fire Nation, before their trade and message spread beyond borders. “After I was defeated, he banished me. Said I couldn’t return home until I became a real man, brought pride to my ancestors and regained my honour.”
His gaze drifted somewhere beyond the room, beyond the House of the Evening Bloom, likely beyond Ba Sing Se itself. “I became a Warden shortly after, like my Uncle, and have walked that path ever since.”
You considered his words, eyes cast down, as you pressed your thumb down his forearm, massaging the hard muscle just beneath the skin. “Well, most would say the path of a Warden is an honourable one.”
A scoff escaped him, though the sound held little amusement. His arm slipped away from your grip as he dipped it back under the water, washing the soap and grime away. “I wouldn’t say that for that Crimson Ward of yours.”
There was genuine disdain in his voice now, enough to make you glance up from the soapy water, a teasing lilt to your voice. “You really don’t like them, do you?”
“They’re an insult to our trade,” his jaw tightened. “Cowards are what they are.”
You found yourself curious despite everything; Wardens rarely spoke about one another—at least not in your experience. Yet something told you that if Lord Kage’s hired hunters and Zuko ever crossed paths, his blood would not be the one to follow shortly afterwards.
Your hand slid under the water once more, scrubbing the washcloth along his submerged thigh, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The lantern light danced across the water’s surface, casting shifting reflections over damp skin and wood alike. You found yourself studying him again as you swept your palm down past his knee, your chest dipping lower towards the water’s edge.
“Does your father know you are a Warden?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Zuko’s gaze lowered to the water, watching as you slowly rose, levelling your spine.
“Oh yes,” there was something dark settled behind his stoic, amber eyes. “Some years ago, I returned home. He was happy to receive me, saying I had become a true man during my banishment. That his judgement had been correct all those years ago.”
The bitterness in his voice was hard to miss. The water shifted quietly as he leaned back against the tub, elbows resting on the edge on either side of him. His broad chest expanded as he sighed. You placed the washcloth over the side of the tub with a quiet slap, water trickling down the wood into a puddle below. You found yourself reluctant to break the silence, yet curiosity won in the end.
“What did you do?” You asked softly, though the words were not accusatory.
The bathwater was beginning to grow lukewarm, the tendrils of steam that had drifted lazily between you now gone. It was the warmth of his body that made up the space between you, that and the weight of his gaze that had somehow grown more scathing than it had been previously.
“I did what any honourable Warden would do if they came across a monster,” he answered with absolute certainty and complete absence of regret or guilt. “I killed him.”
Absolute silence followed, and Zuko watched you from across the narrow gap separating you, waiting. Almost as if he was expecting something, though what exactly, you couldn’t say. Your expression remained carefully neutral, save for the slight crease between your brows as you studied him in return. His pupils were fully dilated now, swallowing almost all the amber in his eyes. Beneath the water, his heartbeat remained strong and steady, each pulse loud enough for your sharpened senses to detect. You could almost imagine seeing the faintest ripple spread across the surface with every thump of his heart against his ribs.
You were hungry, so very hungry, it had been days since your last feeding—
The distance between you suddenly felt even smaller, especially as Zuko leaned forward. Water sloshed against the sides of the tub as he shifted, one arm leaving the edge so his palm could brace against the rim. His gaze dipped briefly towards your mouth, lingering there for a moment that felt a little too long to be accidental before returning to your eyes. His hand snaked around your waist, damp fingers settling against the silk gathered at your side, and before you could fully process the gesture, he was drawing you closer.
One moment, you were watching him and the next, his mouth found yours.
Instinct took over, decades of training clicking into place as you half gasped, half moaned into his mouth, automatic and reactive. He swallowed your breath whole, groaning as your hands skimmed up his shoulders to the hair at the nape of his neck, threading through the damp strands with a tug. His head lulled back, a chuckle rumbling in his chest as your lips parted, then met again properly. His head slanted as he adjusted his grip on your waist, tugging you even closer. His tongue teased along your bottom lip before sweeping into your mouth, and for a fleeting moment, you met him halfway, allowing him to pull you under—
A thought struck you suddenly. You hadn’t heard the telltale sounds of Madame Yoru stalking down the hidden corridor, nor the quiet scrape of the shutter being slid open—
You pulled away abruptly, chest heaving from the effort. Your hand slipped from his hair, down his shoulders to his chest as you pushed back, putting a small but deliberate distance between the two of you as he tried to chase your lips.
“Patience, Warden,” You huffed, watching as he tried to calm his own breathing, one hand still gripping your waist. His expression was guarded, save for the faint narrowing of his eyes as he tried to determine why you had stopped. “You haven’t even had your tea yet.”
Gently, you removed his hand from your side, then rose from where you sat. He didn’t look the most pleased about it, but nevertheless, he relented to your authority. You motioned to the pile of clothes and towels the servants had left nearby before turning back to where the teapot sat on the low table. As you knelt upon one of the cushions, you heard the slosh of water behind you as he rose from the tub. The patter of water over the tatami followed as he stepped out, unhurriedly crossing the short distance to the pile. You kept your gaze averted, not out of bashfulness but rather not wanting to encourage any lingering lust that coursed through his veins before the right eyes were watching.
Your attention drifted to the clay teapot that had been quietly brewing all the while. Your fingers brushed against the warm surface, along the delicately painted cherry blossom petals that embellished its curve. As you gripped the handle and carefully poured the steaming liquid into the cup furthest from you, you could hear the rustle of fabric. By the time you lifted your gaze, placing the teapot back down, Zuko had half-heartedly dried himself off. The small towel hung low across his hips as he settled down onto one of the cushions across from you. He accepted his cup without thanks, eying you as he took an audible sip, the scent of jasmine merging with the cypress soap and the underlying aroma of death.
“How did you end up here?” he asked. For a brief moment, you couldn’t tell if he was asking because he was genuinely interested in an answer, or if he simply wished to distract himself from the fact that his cock was half-hard. A weighted silence settled over you both again.
You smiled at him over the rim of your cup, although it was empty. That was a trick the Madame had taught you years ago, to at least pretend to be mortal. The best way to please a client was to make them feel at ease, and the best way to do that was to make them forget entirely that they were face-to-face with an undead monster. You had learnt to pretend to drink alongside them, to hold your wrist and hand in the perfect position that implied weight, to act as though your cup was always overflowing even when it was bone dry.
“Lord Kage took a liking to me.” The answer came easily. Only because it was an answer that had been practised countless times over the decades, one that had been drilled into you since your arrival. But even if your answer was flawlessly spoken, with the perfect inflexion and sweet, empty smile to match, displeasure flickered across Zuko’s expression.
“When were you turned?” He asked.
You leaned back slightly. Normally, you wouldn’t have entertained such questions, rather you would have artfully steered the conversation away, but you already knew there was nothing normal about anything that had unfolded so far. The memories were distant, a faded quality to them, the edges fraying the more you tried to hold onto them. The harder you reached, the more they seemed to slip, until you began to wonder if you weren’t remembering the moments themselves at all, but rather the memory of memories. Details blurred and condensed until your mind filled in the gaps incorrectly, like they were events that happened to someone else entirely. Sometimes you felt like two beings were warring within you—Spider Lily and the girl you once were. Those fragments felt like they belonged to her, the girl, your true self. But you weren’t her anymore, you were Spider Lily. And no matter how much that girl tried to claw her way out, she was trapped, deep underground in that box. And you had learnt that the only way you could survive was to become the monster, to become Spider Lily, to become just as terrible as the rest of them.
“I couldn’t tell you,” you finally replied after a pregnant pause.
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember pieces.” Your fingers tightened around the cup. “After a while, the years all blur together. Seasons become decades, decades become centuries.”
A faint smile graced your lips. “Though, I remember it was spring.”
The Warden’s brow quirked.
“I was supposed to debut after the summer solstice—my mother had spent all winter preparing the last of my yomeiri-dogu, my father a dowry to ensure I would be secure.” As your eyes lifted to meet his, you could see the pieces clicking together as he realised exactly the type of wealth and status you had once been born into. “I was supposed to be the catch of the season… but I couldn’t help but feel terrified.”
At the time, you believed you had been afraid of marriage, of leaving your home, family, and friends, of marrying a man who would have been a stranger to you. But in recent decades, you began to wonder if, deep down, you had known all along. Perhaps you had a premonition of what was to come.
“Terrified of what?” Zuko’s rumbling voice asked.
“Of making a mistake—” you laughed softly. Your reply had layers to it. It hadn’t just been the idea of making a mistake during your debut, of tripping over your own feet or making a fool of yourself. It had been the fear of making a mistake by marrying, of committing yourself to a life of lies. “—Of marrying a stranger, only to become some trophy wife within a gilded cage.”
The answer seemed to surprise him, and you knew you could both see the irony within your words.
“I had seen my mother live that life, and I did not wish to repeat it. I wanted to… continue school, travel, fall in love. So I ran away.” Your brows knitted together. “I ran away, and made it all of what? A few blocks? Only to end up within another cage entirely, I—”
You reeled yourself back, smoothing over your expression with a pleasant smile.
“I think I was nineteen at the time, maybe twenty at most.”
A beat passed as Zuko studied you, and a wavering thought wondered if he was undergoing some horribly misguided attempt to try and discover a flicker of humanity left within you. Madame Yoru and the guard still weren’t at the spying hole; the most you could do was steel yourself.
“Do you remember who ruled at the time?”
You snorted. “No.”
“No?” He repeated, eyes narrowing.
Did he think you were lying?
“It’s funny, isn’t it? How a girl’s mind works?” Your thumb traced the rim of your cup. “I remember the colours of silk everyone wanted that year and the styles we wore our hair in. I remember the rose hip and hibiscus perfume my friend wore and how she always took her tea lukewarm with honey. I remember the boy I spent months pretending not to like.”
Your smile turned distant.
“But Kings? Wars? Politics? No, not a single recollection.” You shook your head. “It’s all so ridiculous now, thinking back on it.”
The Warden grunted in response, displeased. For a second, you thought that he would allow silence to fall over you both again, to allow himself some peace as he drank his tea, while you sat across from him pretending to do the same. In contrast to your expectations, he spoke up once again.
“I take it that you were turned against your will then?”
The question made you hesitate, and suddenly you had the uncomfortable realisation that this entire time he hadn’t been interested in your replies, but rather your reactions. You lowered the empty cup you had been nursing, properly lowered it until it connected with the table with a soft clunk. It wasn’t a graceful movement, not perfected and artful in the way Spider Lily would, but rather the actions of a girl caught entirely off guard. You looked up sharply, and he simply stared with a smug expression.
The mask slipped. A short, bitter laugh escaped you. “You think any of us are here willingly?”
Zuko’s arrogant expression didn’t change.
“Lord Kage likes to collect pretty faces. Girls, boys—anyone who catches his attention,” you spat. “He turns us and brings us here to be broken in and serve. There’s nothing more valuable than a whore that doesn’t age.”
“And if you refuse to serve?” Zuko questioned.
“Oh,” you hissed. “I think we both know there are plenty of ways to break a person, immortal or not.”
“They beat you?”
“No,” you muttered with a mocking little pout. “You really think Kage would damage his own merchandise?”
“What does he do then?” The Warden pried.
Your gaze drifted towards the floorboards, and for a fleeting second, you could feel it. That creeping darkness at the edges of your vision, shaking hands against rusted iron, and the stench, Spirits the stench—
Your eyes snapped up, and you found he was watching you intently as you teetered dangerously on the edge between reality and a dream. Eerily, you spoke.
“They put us in a box.”
“A box?” he repeated, confused.
Realising he was baiting you for more information, your expression twisted. You sucked in a deep breath, planting your hands hard enough on the low table that the teapot rattled. For a moment, you juggled between indifference and performance, before finally settling on one of your practised, pleasant smiles, even if there were a few cracks in it.
Zuko looked mildly vexed by your sudden withdrawal. It was entirely obvious to you now that he didn’t seem concerned anymore with covering up his true intentions with his line of questioning.
“Are you finished with your tea? I can pour you—”
“You want something from me, don’t you?”
Despite the abruptness of the Warden’s interruption, his tone and expression were entirely calm, perhaps too calm. Your smile fell while his only grew, your composure fully cracking. You pushed up until you were kneeling on the cushion, hands braced against the table as you stared across at him. Had your intentions truly been that obvious? A horrible thought dawned upon you, enough to make a cold chill run down your spine. If it had been that obvious, had the others noticed, had Madame Yoru? Is that why she was taking so long to take a peek? Were they all out there, secretly planning Spiritsknew what—
You couldn’t go back.
You couldn’t go back to that box—
“You willingly came to me. You walked down from the display and sought me out, not the other way around—”
“Careful, Warden.”
The warning came smoothly, so smoothly that the look in your eyes would’ve made any normal man quiver with fear. As you knelt, slightly towering over where he sat, still naked aside from the towel that clung around his hips, an unnatural stillness took over you. It was the kind of stillness only an apex predator on the hunt could hold. Zuko looked unimpressed.
“Is it revenge on your master?” He queried, leaning forward with an emboldened expression. “You want me to kill him, to create enough of a commotion for you to escape?”
Your eyebrows scrunched, head tilting as you examined him with a perplexed expression.
“Escape?” You laughed, though it was humourless. “There is no escape from this place.”
You cut your laugh off shot, expression abruptly steeling as you stared at him, speaking with complete and utter seriousness and sincerity. “The only escape from this place is death.”
That finally seemed to throw him, his face screwing up in confusion. The first genuine surprise you’d manage to get from him all evening. You leaned further over the table, until your faces were inches away, until you could feel his breath tickling your lips. Your next words would require his full attention.
“I want you to kill me.”
“What?” Zuko barked immediately, bewildered.
The words felt strangely easy once spoken aloud, like a weight had been lifted off your tired shoulders. You smiled steadily and unwaveringly, as though you were discussing the weather and not proposing your own execution. “I will help you get an audience with Lord Kage, as long as you promise to kill me before you leave this room.”
The silence that followed was palpable. All Zuko could do was stare, obviously struggling to contain whatever emotional leakage was slipping through the cracks of his usually stoic expression.
“After your master is dead, you will be free to leave this place—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” you muttered. “Unless you are the Blue Spirit himself, I do not think you are capable of killing the monster that is Lord Kage. I appreciate the sentiment of your mercy, but the only true kindness you can show me at this point is ensuring I am dead regardless of whether you defeat him or not—”
“What if I am him?” Zuko cut over you, and you blinked.
“What?”
“What if I am the Blue Spirit?”
A scoff escaped you before you could stop yourself.
“If you were the Blue Spirit, we would not be having this conversation. I would already be dead,” you sneered. “So, I am asking you a favour. After I fuck you and feed from you, enough of a performance to get them to trust you, I need you to kill me.”
You watched his expression harden, yet he didn’t even flinch as you leaned in close, a sharp, seductive smile pulling at your lips. You couldn’t even hear his heart change from its steady beat as your breath ghosted his bottom lip. “Do you agree to this?”
Zuko’s eyes narrowed, the scar pulling tight as he leaned backwards sharply, establishing some distance. “Why would I agree to that?”
Anger flooded your face, your fangs peaking out over your bottom lip as you hissed at him.
“I need you to grant me that one mercy. It shouldn’t be hard for you, should it?” The low table groaned under your weight as you dug your palm harder into the surface, the wood nearly splintering under your inhuman grip. “You are a Warden, after all.”
“Hold on—”
His voice sharpened for the first time all evening, and you knew he was about to argue. But the words had scarcely left his mouth before both of you went deadly still in unison, hearing the warning sign you’d been waiting for since the moment you entered the room. It wasn’t anything immediately obvious, no raised voices or knocks at the door. Just footsteps, unhurried, circling the room in the inner, hidden servants' hallway tucked between the walls.
Your head turned instinctively towards the far wall of the room, near the raised bed platform. Anyone ordinary or unfamiliar with the House of the Evening Bloom would have heard nothing more than servants passing by, but you knew better. You had learned the rhythm of those footsteps years ago. Madame Yoru wasn’t one to hurry; she was the worst type of predator—the one that liked to torment and toy with her food long before the thought of ending its misery ever crossed her mind. She wanted you to hear her. The heavier tread alongside her steps was likely one of Lord Kage’s guards. The Madame to confirm you had performed and earned your keep, and the guard to confirm that the Warden had allowed himself to be defiled and filthied by his enemy.
Instinct took over just before the footsteps paused. You surged to your feet, sweeping the low table aside with far more strength than any mortal woman could possess. It skidded across the tatami, a sharp crack sounding as it struck the opposite wall. The clay teapot and cups rattled violently as lukewarm tea spilt across the floor.
Zuko didn’t bother questioning your actions or urgency as you closed the distance between you, just as the cover on the eye-sized hole on the far wall slid open.
You tumbled to the floor, him flat on his back, the towel twisted and barely covering his lower half as you straddled his hips, kissing him. There was nothing gentle or hesitant about it; it was intended to be heard as much as seen. Your fingers tangled into the loose strands of his damp hair as you pressed yourself close. He groaned into your mouth, tongue sweeping against yours as his hand settled on the small of your back. You arched into his touch, only the silk of your robes separating you as you teasingly ground your hips against his already rehardening cock. The movement earned an irritated little grunt from him, and he pushed himself up. You followed the flow of his movements, allowing him to manoeuvre you as you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist.
Zuko lifted you as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Blindly, he guided you both to the bed, your lips working desperately and needily against one another. Perching himself on the edge, he settled you onto his lap, the mattress dipping beneath your combined weight. When you finally drew back, the Warden eagerly chased your lips. You huffed out a breathless laugh, resting your forehead against his. The towel had been lost at some point, leaving him completely bare beneath you. You dragged your fingernails across his shoulders and chest, giggling as he kissed a wet trail of kisses along your jaw and neck.
Slipping gracefully from his lap, your bare feet met the floor without a sound. You slowly rose to your full height between his spread thighs. His cock stood flushed and heavy against his stomach, the head already glistening with precum that caught the lowlight. You met his gaze with a knowing smirk, taking two measured steps backwards, fingers finding the fastening of your robe.
Was he performing as well? All too aware of the unseen eyes that were watching from behind the wall? Or had genuine lust slipped through the cracks of his restraint? The question flickered once before you snuffed it out. Zuko had been caught in your web the moment you kissed him, and already the persona of Spider Lily had settled over you like a second skin, fangs digging in. Given the irregularities of the evening, it was startlingly easy to push every opposing thought aside. Decades of training had carved this routine into your bones—the slow reveal, the calculated arch of your back, the precise tilt of your chin. Your mind would quiet, it always did when you let the mask take over. There was no room for doubt when every movement had been rehearsed and executed a thousand times.
You were numb to it.
The embroidered silk loosened around your frame. You eased it from your shoulders, letting the crimson fabric slip down your arms in a slow, liquid cascade. The Warden’s brow lifted, the only outward sign of interest, but neither of you could deny how his eyes tracked the motion hungrily as the robe peeled away from your breasts. Your peaked nipples caught briefly on the silk before the garment continued its descent, sliding over the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, until it pooled in a shimmering circle at your feet.
You stood bare before him. Zuko remained seated on the edge of the raised bed, elbows braced behind him, amber eyes dragging over every inch of your exposed flesh with unapologetic focus. His gaze lingered on the swell of your breasts, the drip of your navel and the smooth line of your thighs. You stepped out of the robe at your feet with unhurried grace and closed the short distance between you. Your bare skin brushed the inside of his knees as you sank slowly to the floor. Your fingertips trailed down the hard lines of his abdomen, mapping each scar and ridge of muscle before your lips followed, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the same path.
Zuko’s breath stuttered ever-so-slightly, his throat working as you settled between his thighs. His heartbeat thrummed beneath your mouth, quickening with every brush of your lips, the steady pulse of blood rushing just beneath the surface. The closer you drew his thigh, the stronger the scent became—rich, metallic, threaded with the faint sweetness of arousal. It filled your senses, and the barely restrained hunger that had been growing within you honed. You could smell the artery pulsing beneath his skin, the blood hot and eager, and the need to taste it clawed at the back of your throat. Your tongue flicked out, tasting the salt and the clean bite of remnants of cypress soap, but it was the iron-rich promise beneath that made your mouth water.
There was an ache in your belly, a deep, gnawing ache. You’d known aches in your time. The ache of slick heat between your thighs, never to be satisfied. The ache of sobs that rattled your chest and tears that stained your cheeks. But this ache had nothing to do with desire or agony, but rather everything to do with the veins pulsating so close to your teeth.
With no warning or even an indication of what was to come, you sank your fangs into the saddle-worn, meaty flesh of his inner thigh. The Warden hissed, the sound breaking into a low groan as your mouth sealed over the punctures. His blood flooded across your tongue, thick and warm, laced with the tang of adrenaline. It was far richer and cleaner than the thin, alcohol-tainted taste you were used to from clients. You swallowed greedily, each pull sending a fresh wave of heat through your own veins.
It took everything within you not to consume him entirely, to suck him dry until only a husk remained.
No.
No, you had to remind yourself.
Your hunger would settle, and soon it would not matter at all. You needed him alive for your meeting with Death to come to fruition.
The aphrodisiac in your bite hit him almost instantly, your eyes catching how his cock twitched hard against his stomach, another bead of precum sliding down the flushed head. His thighs trembled beneath your hands as pleasure rolled through him. You lingered a moment, savouring the taste with a muffled, wanton moan, then forced yourself to draw back enough to lap at the bite wound. Your tongue moved in slow strokes, sealing the punctures with saliva, while Zuko’s breath came ragged above you. One of his hands found your hair, fingers threading through the strands and dislodging a few of the gold and tortoiseshell pins that held it in place. The soft clink of metal against the tatami barely registered over the sound of his breathing.
You looked up at him through your lashes, lips still wet with his blood and smiled.
“You taste… delicious,” you murmured, voice low and velvet-smooth, every syllable curated for the audience you both knew were watching.
His molten honey gaze burned into yours as you braced your hands on his knees and rose from the floor. Blood still slicked your lips and chin, thin streams trailing down your throat, pooling along your collarbones. You leaned in again, pressing your mouth to the hard plane of his stomach, then higher, kissing and licking your way back upward in a glistening, sticky path of spit and blood. His muscles jumped beneath your lips.
Reaching his chest, you paused, breath ghosting over his nipple before your fangs sank into the firm swell of his pectoral. The flesh gave way with a soft, wet pop, and fresh blood welled up against your tongue. Zuko groaned roughly, his body convulsing beneath you as you drew another slow mouthful from the wound—
The moment did not last long.
With a low growl, his hands clamped around your waist and hauled you upward, dragging you onto his lap in one powerful motion. Your knees settled on either side of his hips, and the length of his cock was wedged between your bodies.
The aphrodisiac-like effect in your bite was taking hold fast. There was nothing left of the cool, calculating Warden who had walked through the door. His breathing had gone ragged, pupils blown wide and dark, the grip on your waist unconcerned with care. His fingers dug into your skin with bruising force, pulling you closer, rutting his cock against your belly in short, desperate rolls of his hips. His heart hammered against your chest, every exhale carrying an edge of a groan he couldn’t quite swallow.
“I can tell,” you cooed, voice syrupy-sweet, “that my bite is taking effect on your system now.”
Zuko’s only answer was a strained, half-irritated grunt, his jaw tight as he fought to keep some thread of control. His eyes were heavy-lidded, lashes fluttering, but the tension in his body told you he was losing the battle fast. Very much aware of the watching eyes from the wall, you continued teasing, hips grinding a slow circle that had his blunt nails biting deep enough to leave marks.
You smiled against his throat, listening to the rush of blood just below the surface.
“That’s it, Warden. Feels good, doesn’t it?” You hummed, taunting. “Understand why men get addicted now? Are you going to get addicted to me too?”
Zuko’s only answer was a strained, wordless sound caught somewhere between indignation and raw need—his sharp jaw set in a way that spoke of a man fighting to keep his composure.
“That’s alright,” you whispered, breath hot against the shell of his ear. “I like you better when you don’t talk, Warden.”
His cock remained trapped between your bodies, each lazy roll of your core smearing his warm, slick precum across your stomach. With the taste of his blood still in your mouth, a wicked thought crossed your mind. “Want to taste yourself?”
Pulling back enough to meet his eyes, you could see the internal battle that raged within him—pride, restraint, the knowledge that this was still a performance? You were unsure. And, as if relenting to some hidden urge, he finally mustered a nod, his eyes glazed over.
Your mouth hovered over his, close enough that the word brushed his lips. “Open.”
He obeyed without hesitation.
You gathered the mixture on your tongue—thick saliva laced with the copper tang of his blood—then let it drip slowly. A long, glistening strand stretched between your mouths before it broke, the warm, pink-tinged glob landing half on his waiting tongue and half across his lower lip and chin. Zuko flinched at the sensation, a low, involuntary sound catching in his throat, but he didn’t pull away.
You watched the slow motion of his throat as he swallowed, his eyes fluttering half-shut like the taste had hit him like a drug. With a soft giggle, you used your thumb to smear the remaining mess across his lower lip, pressing it onto his tongue so he could taste every drop.
To your surprise, he reciprocated the motion, tongue sweeping over the pad of your thumb. You watched intently as he savoured the taste, suckling and nibbling at the digit—
A flicker of arousal pooled warm and unwelcome between your thighs, surprising enough that you felt your cunt flutter in response as your composure faltered. Before he could catch his breath, you withdrew your finger and leaned in again, your mouth crashing against his in a messy, open kiss. Your tongues slid together, the taste of his blood shared between you. His lips parted wider as he chased the flavour, a groan rumbling from his chest. Your hands framed his face, holding him steady as you licked into his mouth, sucking his tongue.
While he was distracted, you rose smoothly onto your knees, guiding the flushed head of his cock between your thighs. The moment you began to sink onto him, Zuko’s hips jerked upward in a helpless thrust. The kiss broke on a rough, breathy moan that spilt from his throat into yours, and you took him in one slow motion, until your hips met his and he was buried to the hilt inside you. The stretch forced a shallow sound from your own throat, more for the watchers than from any real pleasure, but the heat of him was undeniable. You could feel every thick inch pulsing within your walls as they adjusted around him.
Once you were fully seated, you began to move, hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm that dragged him in and out of you. Each rise and fall was calculated, each squeeze of your inner muscles timed to wring the most reaction from him.
Zuko groaned. His hips bucked up to meet yours, driving himself deeper, and you felt the exact moment his control began to fracture. Your fangs found the strong column of his throat, and the skin gave easily beneath your bite, his hot, rich blood flooding your mouth in a sudden rush. Zuko’s cock jolted hard inside your cunt, pulsing in time with every swallow, his hips stuttering upward in short, desperate thrusts as the pleasure of your bite crashed through him. His head tipped back, a broken groan tearing from his chest, and you felt him throb and twitch as if the act of feeding was dragging him closer to the edge with every mouthful.
“You’re losing control, Warden,” you whispered against his throat. A thin line of blood escaped the corner of your mouth, rolling hot and sticky down your chin. “I can feel it.”
Your hand pressed flat on the centre of his chest and pushed. Zuko went willingly, letting you tip him onto his back until he lay flat against the sheets.
Still straddling his hips, you moved on him with the same poise you had perfected over decades, each rise and fall of your hips made to look desperate while remaining entirely controlled. Your inner walls squeezed him at carefully chosen intervals, timed to the rhythm of his breathing so he would feel every calculated flutter. Every moan pitched just right—soft at first, then louder, breathy, the kind of sound that made men feel powerful. Your hands rested lightly on his chest, fingertips tracing idle patterns across his skin, but your real focus stayed locked on his face. You watched the subtle twitch of his brow, the way his throat bobbed when you clenched just right, the faint flare of his nostrils when you sank to the hilt. You were looking for the smallest flicker of a reaction that told you whether to slow down or grind harder. The head of his cock was dragging against sensitive places you knew were better to ignore. You noted the way his breathing had quickened, the slight tremor in his thighs, and the way his eyes rolled back as he lost himself in the sensation. All good signs—you catalogued each one.
When his grip tightened, and his hips began to lift to meet yours in short, involuntary thrusts, you decided it was time. You let your performance build, your moans growing louder, more breathless, your body moving with just the right amount of desperation. Your head fell back, exposing the long line of your throat, and you let out a carefully crafted cry—high, broken, the sound of a woman coming undone. Your walls fluttered around him, your thighs trembling on cue as you rode out the fake climax, every detail flawless.
But when you looked down again, Zuko’s eyes were no longer half-lidded with pleasure—they were sharp, focused, and unmistakably irritated.
His jaw was set, mouth pressed into a thin line, and his hands had gone still on your hips—
He hadn’t finished.
The tension in his body wasn’t the kind that preceded release; instead, he was watching you with growing displeasure. You felt the shift immediately. The air between you changed, the heat of exasperation swelling. His gaze pinned you in place, and you could see the realisation dawning in his expression: he had seen through the act.
Fuck.
He hadn’t orgasmed.
He hadn’t even been close, like somehow within those last moments he had willed himself not to, just to prove a point, but worst of all—
He knew you had faked it.
For an uneasy moment, you wondered why he was so angry. After all, wasn’t this entire arrangement for the benefit of Madame Yoru and the guard? A performance meant to earn their trust so he could reach Lord Kage? Your pleasure had never come into the equation—only your ability to seduce and filthy what was supposedly an honourable Warden. When had he even noticed the moment your moans turned scripted, your body moving on muscle memory rather than genuine need? The entire evening, it seemed the Warden was determined to unearth something solid beneath the act, as if he were deeply offended by the idea of interacting with Spider Lily, but rather desired you, the girl hidden behind the mask.
“Finished with your fun, are you?” he growled.
Before you could answer, he flipped you over in one swift motion. Your stomach met the sheets, and his hands pressed down hard—one between your shoulder blades, the other pinning the small of your back—so you couldn’t even lift your hips or escape the weight of him. Using his knee, he spread your legs wide, every inch of you open and helpless beneath him.
“What are you—?”
“Does that act really work on other men?” He snarled low enough that only you could hear it. You squirmed under his weight, not entirely from discomfort or the desire to be free. An intense, unwelcome pulse of heat flared low in your belly at the sudden dominance in his tone. “Kind of pathetic, really.”
How had he managed to fight through the aphrodisiac so cleanly? You could only hazard a wild guess that he or Warden’s as a whole must have built up defences to such tricks. Zuko leaned down until his chest was flush against your back, his breath searing against your ear.
“You truly thought I wouldn’t notice that you didn’t finish?” His hand swept over the curve of your spine, fingers sliding between your thighs to stroke through your folds. The touch made both of you pause—his fingers came away slick.
The realisation that you were genuinely wet, genuinely aroused, startled you.
“Pathetic little courtesan act, moaning on cue like I’m some green client you can play. You feel that?” He dragged his fingers through the wetness again. “That’s real. You’re drenched.”
You were suddenly, painfully aware of Madame Yoru’s single watching eye behind the hole in the wall. You could imagine her straining, trying her best to hear the words being rasped into your ear.
“Why do you care?” you hissed back, voice tight. “I’m just trying to help you—”
He cut you off with a hard, deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. You cried out, body jerking beneath him.
“If I noticed,” he growled against your ear, hips already snapping into you in a brutal rhythm, “then they certainly did. We’re going to have to make it more believable if I’m going to see your master.”
“Fuck—!” The word tore out of you raw as he drove into you again and again, the angle forcing every thick inch to drag against places you’d spent decades ignoring. You squirmed, trying to adjust, but his weight kept you pinned flat, unable to do anything but take it. Your hands fisted the sheets, knuckles white, and for the first time in years, the sounds spilling from your throat were desperate and involuntary.
You weren’t acting anymore.
The pleasure was building too fast, and Zuko seemed to have forgotten this was supposed to be a performance. His grip on you was possessive, his breathing uneven with something that felt dangerously close to real hunger. You were too far gone in the overwhelming sensation to stop it now.
“Fuck—Warden—”
His fingers slid into your hair and yanked, gathering a fistful at the roots and hauling your head back until your throat arched in a taut line. The sharp pull sent a bright sting across your scalp that only enhanced the pleasure already tearing through you. He drove into you again, the wet slap of skin loud, your mouth fell open, each thrust forcing another, a high, shameless moan to spill out of you before you could catch it. The shock of it hit like ice water. This wasn’t part of the act—
Your walls fluttered around him without permission, your thighs trembling, heat coiling and snapping low in your belly so abruptly that you couldn’t breathe. Every plunge of his cock was too much and not enough, and you couldn’t stop the noises pouring out of you, gasps, whimpers, broken little cries that pitched higher each time he bottomed out.
Zuko leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, and hissed words directly into your ear, breath harsh.
“Shut the fuck up,” he commanded. “I’m trying to work here.”
“Ah—fuck, I—I can’t—” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. Your hands clawed at the sheets, and you realised you were shaking—actually shaking—because the pleasure was cresting too fast, and you had no control over the way your body answered him.
His hand came up, palm clamping over your mouth, then two thick fingers pushed past your lips and pressed down on your tongue, trying to muffle the sounds. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes.
“Mmf—please, I’m—mmm—” Your voice cracked, the words muffled around his fingers, and the realisation that you were begging, truly begging, sent another helpless flutter through your cunt.
You couldn’t stop it, couldn’t fake it, couldn’t slow the way your hips tried to push back against him, even though he had you pinned flat. A choked sob left you, half-moan, half-cry, and you felt your walls clamp down around him. The pleasure kept building, surging higher, and you knew there was no stopping it now. You were lost to it, lost to him, and the only thing you could do was moan around his fingers as he fucked you through it. You couldn’t tell anymore if he was still playing his part or if the aphrodisiac and the heat of the moment had finally cracked his restraint. Every snap of his hips drove him deeper, the angle forcing the thick head of his cock to drag over the exact spot you needed him—
“I can feel you’re close,” he breathed into your ear. “Make it real this time.”
You quivered around him, the pressure inside you winding tighter and together until it burst. A raw, broken scream tore out of you, muffled against his palm, your body locking down hard, pulsing and clenching so violently that your vision spotted. You convulsed beneath him, thighs trembling, a flood of slick coating his cock as the orgasm ripped through you.
“Fuck, there you are,” he snarled, voice rough.
He didn’t stop.
He kept driving into you through the aftershocks, using the frantic, fluttering squeeze of your cunt to chase his own release. The wet, obscene sound of it filled the room, the slap of skin against skin loud enough that you knew Madame Yoru and the guard could hear every filthy detail. His fingers stayed buried in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue while his other hand kept you pinned flat. He used the tight grip of your body like a man starved, hips burrowing in short, brutal strokes that dragged your orgasm out until you were sobbing against his palm, over-sensitive and shaking.
You felt his rhythm falter for the first time, hips stuttering, and then he buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan. Heat flooded you in thick pulses, his cock twitching hard as he emptied himself inside you, grinding through the last shuddering waves until he finally stilled, chest heaving against your back.
The room was thick with the sound of both of you panting. Zuko’s weight still pressed you into the mattress, his breath hot against the nape of your neck, each exhale shaking slightly as he came down. You lay beneath him, body limp, every muscle trembling in the aftermath. Your mind was reeling, struggling to catch up with what had just happened.
You had orgasmed.
Really orgasmed.
There had been no performance, no calculated moan, no careful scripting of your reactions. A strange mix of disbelief and fear curled in your chest.
Zuko shifted above you. With a low grunt, he pushed himself up onto his hands, his softening cock still nestled inside you. To your surprise, he didn’t pull out. Instead, one of his calloused hands left your shoulder and began to stroke down the length of your spine, palm warm and unexpectedly gentle. You stayed perfectly still beneath him, too stunned to move, the steady rhythm of his hand grounding you even as your thoughts spun wildly.
The hole in the wall slammed shut with a sharp crack. Madame Yoru and the guard were obviously satisfied with what they had seen. At the sound of their retreating footsteps echoing in the inner corridor, you shot upright so quickly that Zuko’s cock slipped free. Before you could even register the loss, you were on him.
Your lips crashed into his, hands fisting his hair and dragging him down into a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. He met you with equal force, one hand clamping around the back of your neck. The taste of his blood still lingered between you, and you poured every tangled, confused feeling into his mouth.
When you finally tore away, both your breathing was ragged, foreheads touching. You could feel his seed beginning to ooze out of you, and all you could do was swallow down the dread lodged in your throat.
Steeling yourself, you finally spoke, your voice scarcely more than a whisper—
“I need you to kill me now.”
For a long moment, Zuko simply looked at you.
He slowly leaned back, putting a few inches of space between you. The warmth that had temporarily blossomed vanished as his expression settled back into that familiar, unreadable mask. It was that stoic look you’d become accustomed to in your short time together, that hardness that swallowed every flicker of emotion before it could fully surface. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was angry with himself; he certainly gave off that impression. Perhaps, even if just for a moment, he had forgotten why he was here—forgotten Lord Kage, forgotten the House of the Evening Bloom and all its flowers. If only for a fleeting second, it was just your two souls meeting—like two stars colliding in the darkness—like the Spirits had willed that you meet on this one fateful day before you were both cast back out into the abyss. Regardless, it seemed your repeated request had shattered whatever illusion he’d allowed himself to entertain.
Without answering, he rose from the bed in one smooth motion. You dared to hope that his silence was a reluctant sort of acceptance. You remained seated, tracking him with your eyes as he crossed the room. His broad shoulder blades flexed beneath weathered skin as he bent to retrieve your discarded robe. For a second, you foolishly thought he meant to hand it back—
Instead, he tossed it at you.
You jolted as the embroidered silk struck your chest, sliding down your lap.
“You’re going to kill me, right?” you asked, voice tight.
He ignored the question entirely, as well as the pile of clean clothes the servants had left out. Returning to his discarded dirty pile, he dragged his blood and sweat stained undershirt over his head, followed by the heavier outer layers that carried the dust of half the Earth Kingdom upon them.
“Warden,” you tried again, rising to your feet as you gathered your robe around yourself. Humiliation curled hot up your spine. “We had a deal—”
He let out a slow breath through his nose as he adjusted his scabbard over his shoulders. “Just run away.”
You scowled, a bitter laugh escaping before you could stop it. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
You thrust your arms into the sleeves of your robes with more force than necessary, fingers fumbling against the silk as anger began to eclipse despair. “That the only escape from this place is death.”
Only then did he fully look at you, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowed in irritation. “Can you even hear yourself—”
A deafening crack echoed through the room as the shoji slid open so violently that it rattled in its frame. At the sound, Zuko had immediately assumed a fighter’s position, feet placed a shoulder-width apart, fists raised, while all you could do was gape in disbelief.
Peony stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling in quick, furious breaths, dark eyes fixed entirely upon you—
“You stupid, greedy bitch.” The words left Peony before either you or Zuko had the sense to react. All you could muster was to stare back at her in complete and utter bewilderment. You couldn’t believe she had the gall to march in, especially knowing the Zuko hadn’t left your side yet.
“Peony—” you started.
She crossed the room in three quick strides—entirely ignoring Zuko, who tracked her every movement with a Warden’s assessment—and slapped you hard enough that the force made your head turn. Pain blossomed across your cheek as your balance faltered, one hand flying instinctively to your face as you recoiled in shock. It took you a few baffled seconds, but you eventually lifted your head to look at Peony. She was trembling, not with fear, but with fury.
“I claimed him,” the words came through clenched teeth. “I was there first.”
You blinked at her, still dazed from the blow. Of course, the flowers often fought among themselves; the environment had always been built to pit you against one another, you were each other's competition after all. Though it was historically in the form of public humiliation or a not-so-subtle tongue-lashing, never anything this unbelievably reckless and blatant. But it seemed Peony had long passed the point of caring about consequences.
“The moment he walked through the doors, everyone saw it.” She took another step forward, eyes frantic. “He was mine.”
You couldn’t place her distress. You had expected her to be angry with you, yes, but this fury came from another origin entirely, like beyond the resentment was all-consuming fear. Deep down, you knew this had the stench of Madame Yoru’s meddling attached to it.
“Peony—”
“No,” she snarled. “Don’t you dare.”
The decades of polished smiles and practised elegance you had observed her hold over the years fractured all at once. The closer you stared, the more you noticed the details out of place. The slight smudge of her painted lips bleeding into her white face powder, the decorative pins in her hair slightly askew, eyes glistening with unshed tears—
“You’ve spent years sitting up on your little perch, pretending you were above the rest of us.” She jabbed a finger towards the direction of the display beyond the walls. “Too miserable to work, too miserable to smile, too miserable to earn your keep. Leaving the rest of us to deal with the disgusting, filthy scraps.”
She took another step forward, a manic laugh slipping past her sharp lips. “But the moment a handsome Warden walks through the front doors, suddenly Spider Lily remembers how to descend?”
Your jaw tightened, teeth grinding. “He chose me.”
“Oh, spare me.” Peony laughed with a gasp, clutching at her chest before her dark eyes narrowed with a hiss. “You challenged me. I wanted to drag you off him the moment you left the parlour.”
She pointed her finger at your chest. “I would have, if Madame Yoru hadn’t ordered me to wait until your little performance was over.”
Peony smiled wider, shoving your shoulder with a single, hard blow. “You’ve always been Lord Kage’s favourite, haven’t you? It has to be why Madame Yoru still keeps an embarrassment like you around.”
She shoved you hard again, hard enough that your calves struck the edge of the bed, her hands catching your robes as she made a fist around the embroidered silk. “I’ll make sure you pay for this. I’ll see you stripped of every scrap of favour you have left.”
“And when Lord Kage hears about this—” she yanked you forward, “—he’ll put you back in the box.”
Your hands instinctively flew to her wrists as dread washed over you, your breath hitching—
Her smile had turned vicious, knowing exactly what she was doing to you. “This time they’ll leave there until you forget your own n—”
Her hand drew back, intending to strike you once more. You braced yourself for the impact, frozen in place by just the mere mention of that box. But Peony faltered, her body jerking. You felt her grip loosen, her jaw going slack, a mixture of shock and horror flooding her features.
Confused, she slowly turned her head, and you followed her gaze.
Zuko was no longer half-dressed on the opposite side of the room. The Warden didn’t even seem to be present, replaced instead by a figure wearing a weathered, blue oni mask that obscured their face. But it was only when twin amber eyes met your gaze through the narrow eye slits that the scene before you clicked—
The Blue Spirit stood before you. Zuko, the man you’d spent all evening with—teasing him, sharing stories from a childhood you’d long since pushed to the recesses of your mind, drinking his blood and allowing him to fuck you senseless—was the Blue Spirit. You felt sick, yet almost laughed aloud at the same time. Was this what the Spirits had rewarded you with after a century of waiting and agony? Was this what fate had considered necessary? Two stars, burning fiercely in the night sky, only to explode on contact. Two stars destined to bring destruction to this place, like locusts to a garden. The petals would shrivel, and the flowers would wilt, and the House of the Evening Bloom, the greatest garden in the Earth Kingdom, would finally perish.
Peony’s eyes widened.
“No…” the word barely escaped her lips, and you followed her gaze down her robes. A wooden stake was punched cleanly through her chest, the pointed tip peaking out through a tear in her robes. For a moment, you both stared down at it, disbelief washing over both your faces.
Then the flesh around the wound blackened.
“Peony—” you gasped.
Lurching forward, your instincts overpowered reason, your hands catching her shoulders just as her knees threatened to buckle. For the briefest of moments, you thought you had caught her—until she began to fall apart. The flesh beneath your fingers cracked with a dry, splintering sound, fine fractures appearing across her throat and jaw. It spread over the rest of her body like frost across glass. You watched, horrified, as the colour drained from her skin. Flecks of ash lifted from her cheeks, drifting weightlessly between the two of you.
Her mouth opened as if to scream, but nothing came out.
Peony collapsed inward—not to the floor, but instead through your grasp—dissolving into a cloud of grey ash that slipped through your fingers and settled softly across the tatami. Her crimson robe crumpled a heartbeat later, folding neatly into the empty space where she had stood, as though the woman inside it had never existed at all. The room fell deathly silent, your gaze fixed on the pile of ash. Your empty arms were still outstretched where Peony had stood mere seconds before, your hands curved around nothing. Slowly, very slowly, you lifted your eyes. Zuko—the Blue Spirit—stood motionless, stake still clenched in one hand. The carved, wooden oni mask concealed every trace of expression, but something about the way he stood unnerved you all the same.
And to your disgust, and absolute horror… You couldn’t muster a shred of sadness or grief for Peony. Neither of you had been close, no, one did not make friends in the House of the Evening Bloom. But you had been trapped all the same, two gilded cages directly opposite each other so you could watch the other pace like a wild animal.
No, the only thing you felt was envy—envy that she had been taken, freed from this place, and you had not.
With wide, glassy eyes, you swallowed and slowly lowered yourself to your knees. The movement stirred the ashes scattered around Peony’s discarded robe, her essence swirling briefly across the tatami before it settled once more.
“Go on, do it,” you breathed. “I’m ready.”
The mask tilted, and you couldn’t help but feel there was something almost animalistic about his silent assessment. When he finally spoke, his voice was muffled behind the carved wood.
“No.”
You stared at him. “...No?”
A laugh bubbled in your chest, tight and high as your chest shook. Zuko remained still, towering above you, watching with what you could only imagine was disdain. It was only as tears began to blur your vision, thick, fat droplets pouring down your cheeks and under your chin, that you realised your laughter had morphed into ugly sobs. They rattled your entire body, rattled you so thoroughly that each wail went a wave of pain and nausea through you, your body folding in on itself as you braced your palms against the tatami.
The longer you sobbed, and the longer he silently watched, the hotter the flicker of resentment deep within you began to burn. Your head snapped up, your tearful expression pulled into a snarl as your voice rose despite yourself, finally unconcerned with anyone overhearing your demands.
“Why?” you shouted. “Why won’t you just kill me?”
Zuko scoffed—actually scoffed—and through the slits in the mask, you could see his eyes narrow. “You said only the Blue Spirit stood a chance of killing Lord Kage, that the only reason you wanted death first was because you believed no other man could achieve it. That you were afraid of the consequences of running if he didn’t fall—”
“Stop—”
“So I will kill him. I will kill him, and you will be free.”
“Zuko—”
“Run, run while you still can. You still have a few hours before the sun rises—”
“This wasn’t our deal!” You snarled, finally cutting over him loudly enough that he paused his spiel. “You agreed to kill me.”
He went quiet in a way that made you think he was making a face behind the mask, and his tone hardened as he finally replied. “I never agreed to anything.”
“You don’t seem to understand, do you?” You snapped, exasperated. Sniffling, you wiped at your face with ash-stained hands, anger finally forcing you back into your kneeling position to meet his eye fully. “Everyone and everything I have ever known is dead! They are all bones and dust in the earth now—where would I go, who could I even turn to? There is nowhere for me to run!”
“Then make a new life for yourself.” His voice was sharp enough to cut as he stared down at you, a hint of coldness in the way he held his shoulders. “You survived, what are you so afraid of?”
You laughed again, bitterly, looking at him as if he had lost his mind. Your next words came out in a snarl. “I haven’t seen the sun in years. I am a relic of a time that no longer exists! I don’t even remember my own name—how am I supposed to simply make a new life?”
“You remember enough, even if you pretend you don’t.” Zuko sneered. “That much is clear.”
“I thought you were supposed to be honourable,” you taunted. Maybe if you angered him enough, he would snap and kill you. Maybe if you provoked him, he would abandon the moral high ground, which he appeared determined to sit upon. “I thought as a Warden you were supposed to kill monsters, not fuck them."
The blue oni mask tilted again, his shoulders rising with a deep breath—the only sign that your words had affected him—before slowly settling. The fingers that had been curled into a fist at his side relaxed, the accusations you had hurled fizzling out as he denied you the reaction you desired.
“You’re not a monster,” he muttered, almost pitying. “I never thought you were.”
His softheartedness surprised you enough that you paused, chest heaving, voice trembling. You were a fool. A fucking fool. Kneeling before him, his seed still inside you, begging him to kill you when it was obvious he had never seen you as a threat. For all his callousness and coldness, you’d never expected the Warden to look beyond the act, to want to look beyond the mask.
“I am broken,” you confessed, head hanging low. “I am broken beyond repair. No matter what I do, I will never be free of this place.”
Whatever begninity had overtaken him waned; the familiar sound of a scoff reverbrating from behind the mask. “You are only broken if you allow yourself to remain that way. Pull yourself together.”
You swallowed hard, nails digging into your palms. “Do you know what they do if we disobey? If we try to run away? He will hunt us down, no matter where we run or where we hide. He will find us, and he will drag us down into that box—”
“What box? You all keep talking about this damned box—”
Your eyes flickered to the floor as his voice faded, shrinking in on yourself. Zuko shifted his weight, an uneasy mood sweeping over both of you as he realised your expression didn’t match the reaction he had anticipated.
Darkness flooded your mind, the weight of silence, walls pressing in…
You couldn’t go back.
“What is the box, Spider Lily?” Zuko repeated himself, his tone suddenly and eerily calm.
You couldn’t go back.
“The box…” You began, although your words sounded distant now, muffled and warped. It reminded you of the quiet mornings when all the clients left and the House fell into silence. You would bathe yourself in the lantern light, then slip under the surface, holding yourself there until your lungs burned. “It’s beneath the manor. They keep it past the cellars and wine stores in a room made of stone.”
A tremor passed through you as you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself, unable to look up at the Warden.
“It isn’t large,” you continued after a long, shuddering pause. “Not much taller than a child. It’s wide enough to fit one person, but only just. You can’t stand or lie down. The best you can manage is crouching—knees tucked against your chest, your back bent, and your head lowered.”
“The cramps start after… I don’t know.” You frowned, frustrated, eyes locked onto the tatami, Zuko’s boots at the corner of your vision. “Hours, perhaps. Maybe days. It’s impossible to tell how quickly or slowly time passes. But eventually, your body knows time has passed, your muscles seize and give out. You slump over from exhaustion.”
Your eyes squeezed shut, the room around you disappearing—the darkness, the silence, the phantom iron walls—
“Eventually, you stop trying to find a comfortable position, because there isn’t one.”
Zuko was deathly silent and still across from you.
“It is completely dark, so dark you can’t even see your own hands in front of your face.” Your breath hitched. There was a reason why you and many of the other flowers always kept your rooms lit, even when morning broke. “And silent too, so very silent.”
“You’d be surprised how loud silence can become—at first, you listen for footsteps, voices, anything. Your own mind becomes so loud, so you try to distract your thoughts. You count, you recite songs, poems, recipes, anything your mind can grasp onto.” You laughed softly, a disturbed little sound. “Then you begin hearing things that aren’t there.”
The words left your mouth before you could stop them, rushing out like a tidal wave—
“You hear conversations, laughter, people calling your name, scratching and knocking at the walls. I used to hear my mother singing—” You abruptly cut yourself off. You hadn’t meant to admit that.
You exhaled loudly. Loud enough that your shoulders shook as you finally dared to look up at the Warden. Only the blank oni mask greeted you.
“They never feed you at the same time, they’re careful at making sure you don’t recognise patterns. They don’t want you knowing whether it is morning or night… whether you’ve been there for three days or three weeks. They want you disoriented and afraid.”
Your eyes narrowed as you recalled it.
“But the hunger…” Your hands drifted to your stomach without thinking. “It becomes so terrible and all-consuming that you stop caring. You find yourself licking the inside of the box, because the iron tastes of blood. You convince yourself the rust tastes sweet.”
Another tight laugh bubbled to the surface, caught somewhere between your teeth.
“When they finally do feed you, they pour it through tiny holes in the lid.” Your voice was bitter as you recalled it. “And even if you’ve spent hours telling yourself that you’ll keep your dignity, that you won't give them the satisfaction of seeing you beg, you throw yourself under it. You scramble for every drop—it runs down your face, your clothes, the floor. And they laugh. They stand above the box and laugh while you lap it from the floor. They laugh while you beg for more.”
You held the oni mask’s stare, sullen as you recalled it, the sensation of sticky, half-congealed blood running over your head and face, of sucking the clots caught in your hair. “By the time they let you out, you’ve forgotten why they even put you in there in the first place. So you beg forgiveness for a crime you can’t even remember committing.”
“I’ve been in the box three times,” you admitted. “I don’t know how long for, but I am certain it was months, if not years. All I can remember is that when they opened that lid, I thanked them. I thanked them for their mercy and kindness. That I begged them to put me back to work instead of sending me back to that darkness—”
Zuko turned abruptly. He didn’t so much as spare you another glance before striding towards the shoji. His boots struck the tatami with enough force to make the floorboards underneath creak. You still couldn’t read his expression beneath the oni mask or fully discern the emotion behind his silence, but everything he refused to say was revealed in the stiff set of his shoulders and his precise, clipped movements. A predator, a hunter, a killer—whatever the label, he effortlessly adopted the persona within moments, just as casually as you changed into your robe each evening.
He reached the shoji in three long strikes, his hand shooting out. The wooden frame shuddered violently from his grip, his fingers punching through the paper before he realised the force he’d used. For a heartbeat, he remained locked in place, head bowed ever-so-slightly as though overcoming whatever storm threatened to surface beneath the mask. You had a sickening realisation. The longer you watched his mannerisms, the more obvious it became.
He was furious.
When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerous enough to send a chill through you.
“I am going to kill your master.” His fingers tightened around the frame until the splintering wood creaked. “And then I am going to burn this place to the ground. You’d be wise to run while you still can.”
He slid the shoji open, and the distant, faded sound of sanxian strings and the laughter of drunken patrons floated down the empty hallway. You lurched to your feet, so quickly your knees nearly buckled beneath you.
“No!” The word tore from your throat raw. Your foot caught in the discarded folds of your robe, pitching you forward. You stumbled blindly across the room, crashing hard against the abandoned bath. The heavy wooden tub lurched at the impact, long cold water sloshing over the rim and soaking the sleeves of your robes. You barely felt it, your attention locked onto his back as he began to walk away. The one person capable of ending your ongoing, century-long nightmare was disappearing into the hallway. “I need you to kill me!”
A sound escaped your chest, and you shoved yourself away from the path, palms skidding over the wet timber. Half crawling, half stumbling, you threw yourself after him. Your vision blurred so thoroughly by tears that the doorway became little more than a smear of light. But, by some miracle, you caught him just before he crossed the threshold, your knees striking the tatami with enough force that your teeth clattered as you clung to his ankles.
“Please…” The word came out as a sob. You clutched at the worn leather of his boot, as if your sheer desperation could anchor him in place.
“I need you to…” Your forehead dropped against his shin. “Please… please.”
Your shoulders shook uncontrollably. The tears came harder now, droplets pattering across the leather as your breath dissolved into ragged sobs.
“I need you to free me. I can’t…” You choked. “I can’t do this anymore.”
With a quiet exhale through his nose, Zuko looked down. The carved blue mask peered at you, molten honey eyes lost to the shadows. Ever stoic, he shifted his stance. Not to comfort you, but rather free him himself. Stepping back, he broke your grasp with a firm tug. Your hands closed around empty air.
Without another word, the Blue Spirit disappeared down the corridor.
As the shouting began, you remained collapsed in the doorway, hands still outstretched, sobbing so violently that you were sure your ribcage would cave in.
You did not know how long you had remained on the floor. Time had become meaningless again, dissolving into the same shapeless darkness that had swallowed entire decades of your existence. At some point, the tears had stopped falling quite so freely, though your cheeks remained damp and tight with salt. You stared blankly at the tatami beneath your face, following the woven igusa with unfocused eyes.
Beyond the room, there had been screams. The crash of splintering wood as furniture was thrown, the pounding of hurried footsteps through the corridors, and the shoji slamming open and shut. The carefully rehearsed illusion of the House of the Evening Bloom—the laughter, the music, the flirtation—had collapsed into naked panic. You had barely reacted to any of it. The sounds reached you, distant and distorted. Every cry blurred together until they became little more than white noise—like an earthquake, or the sound of blood rushing in a silent room.
At some point, others had tried to rouse you from your catatonic state. Patrons, fellow flowers, the servant girls you had tried and failed to protect. They had pleaded with you, begged you to move before the flames creeping through the manor swallowed you whole.
Unbeknownst to them, you welcomed the idea.
Each of them eventually gave up, leaving you where you lay. All too terrified by the fire—or maybe rather they were fearful of the Blue Spirit that still prowled the halls. The scent of smoke grew stronger as time passed. At first, it had been faint, an almost pleasant layer to the oudh incense that permanently clung to the walls. Then came the heat, creeping beneath the shoji, filling the room one slow breath at a time. You couldn’t quite find the will to care, to even react to the fact that the House of the Evening Bloom was quite literally burning before you. You simply watched as the smoke became thicker, listening as the walls and roof groaned and shuddered around you. If this was how it ended, then perhaps it was fitting.
You had resigned yourself to your fate, that was, until the shrill voice of Madame Yoru sounded over the chaos. It was as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over you, waking you from your fugue state, suddenly aware of how hot and suffocating the room had become—
“You!” She hissed, and you slowly lifted your head. She no longer resembled the immaculate Mother of Blossoms. Half of her elaborate hairpins had come undone, black hair hanging loose around a face streaked with soot. One sleeve of her expensive, crimson robe had been burned away entirely, exposing blistered and blackened skin beneath, yet she seemed oblivious to the injury.
Her usually cruel expression had melted into something feral, for once her immaculate posture and composure were shattered. She stalked towards you with a snarl. Her nails buried themselves deep into your hair before you even managed to push yourself upright. Agony exploded across your scalp as she dragged you across the tatami.
“What have you done?” she shrieked. “Do you understand what you have done?”
She threw you, hard. You struck the edge of the low table, which was still pushed up against the wall—one of the ornate carved legs splintered on impact, collapsing onto your side.
“What did you tell him—?”
A kick caught you in the ribs.
“What deal did you make with him—?”
You curled instinctively around the blow, arms shielding your head as another strike glanced off your shoulder. Smoke was pouring through the open doorway now, the ceiling groaning above you. Madame Yoru seized your sleeve, hauling you upright, only to slap you hard enough that your vision flashed white.
“I never understood why you were his favourite,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “You were always weak and ungrateful. I should have let you starve in that box—”
Her hand shot towards your throat, and you stumbled backwards instead, managing to wrench yourself free as silk tore beneath her fingers. Instinct seized what little remained, and you tore out of the room. Stumbling down the hallway, you dodged upturned furniture, fallen beams and splintered shoji. Somewhere behind you, Madame Yoru screamed.
You burst into the parlour, your hand flying to your mouth as a series of hacking coughs tore from your throat. Thick smoke clawed at your lungs with every inhale, while a wall of blistering heat rolled across your skin so fiercely that your eyes watered. You knew you should’ve kept running, should’ve sprinted out the doors into the street beyond, taken in the world before the sun crept over the horizon, lost yourself in the maze of Ba Sing Se… but instead you were rooted at the centre of the room. Your gaze drifted upward, and you laughed.
The display was burning.
The great tiered platform, once the pride of the House of the Evening bloom, had become little more than a towering pyre. Flames climbed hunrgily from perch to perch, devouring lacquered timber until blackened and spilt apart with deafening cracks. Silk cushions shrivelled, embroidered fabrics curling in on themselves before erupting into showers of glowing embers. How many nights had you spent up in the highest tiers, looking at the men below? How many times had you prayed never to descend those steps again? One by one, the carefully placed seats where you and the other flowers had spent decades waiting to be chosen gave way. You watched as it collapsed inward, showering you in a spectacular burst of sparks and hot wind.
The fire spread greedily across every familiar corner of the parlour. The paint of the red and black pillars crackled, the draperies that had once enshrouded the room billowed as pillars of flame, and the lanterns that had once hung above were lost in the smoke. The low tables lay overturned amongst shattered porcelain, abandoned cups of sake and baijiu bubbling.
Your laughter caught in your throat as movement stirred beyond the smoke—at the mouth of the corridor stood Madame Yoru, and with no hesitation and fangs bared, she lunged.
But to your surprise, and maybe horror, she made it all of half the distance before a blur of blue and black crossed your vision. And much like Peony, Madame Yoru was frozen in place, mouth agape in confusion as she slowly looked down at the wooden stake protruding cleanly through her chest.
Almost immediately, cracks spread across her skin, the shrill sound of her scream cut short as her body fractured, collapsing into a pile of ash that scattered across the burning floor, revealing Zuko. The masked Warden’s chest was heaving, visible wounds poking through slices in the fabric of his clothes. Despite it, deep down you knew. You knew that if Zuko was standing before you… That if the House of the Evening Bloom was burning around you… No, Lord Kage would never have allowed it. So it could only mean… You knew it could only mean that…
Lord Kage, the Red Prince of the Pleasure District, was dead.
The monster was dead.
The Blue Spirit had killed him—he had done what centuries of Wardens before him had failed to accomplish.
He had killed him.
Your knees buckled, and you collapsed before him, a sound caught somewhere between a cough, sob and a laugh escaping you. Suddenly, the smoke no longer felt so unbearable, nor did the heat radiating from the fires surrounding you. As Zuko stepped closer, over the pile of robes and the scattered ashes Madame Yoru had left behind, you raised your chin to meet his gaze with a sniffle. Up close, you could see the full extent of his wounds; some were deep, but nothing life-threatening or crippling. You could even see the bite mark you’d left on his neck peeking out at you from under his undershirt. Blood and ash were smeared over the oni mask, and you studied the blank, smiling expression carved into the wood.
“Lord Kage is dead.” Zuko finally spoke, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the flames, though his voice was gravely from the smoke. “You’re free now.”
Free.
The word felt foreign.
You smiled up at him, not the practised smile of Spider Lily, but simply your smile. Perhaps the first honest smile you had worn since entering the House of the Evening Bloom. And it seemed to tell him all he needed to know, as he didn’t appear surprised as you reached out with trembling hands for the stake still clenched in his fist. He did not stop you as you guided the sharpened point towards your chest, resting it directly over your undead heart.
Still smiling, though tears blurred your vision, you pressed it into your skin, just hard enough to feel the promise waiting on the tip. When you finally spoke, there was no performance left within you. Only the girl Lord Kage had stolen all those years ago, asking for one final act of mercy. You curled your fingers around his and spoke what you hoped would be your final words.
“Kill me.”
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