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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 12: Dynasty

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. You stand your ground.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to my slap daddy @ewanmitchellcrumbs for editing this monster! Thank you also to @evisnotok, @connorsui and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, dysfunctional family dynamics, brief reference to gore, brief reference to graphic child murder.

It’s been weeks, he seethes as he follows you back to the Keep, and those two fucks couldn’t even bother sending a raven to mark the deed as done? For his decrepit brother to bring the news before the cutthroats themselves…

Daemon reminds himself that it’s likely neither man had ever learned his letters. Nor had he extracted a vow through which he could come to expect confirmation of the slaying. He curses the oversight. How in the hells had he expected to discover if his target was successfully slaughtered without an adequate means of communication? Fucking lackwit.

You maintain as stony a silence as he while stalking your way up the path, past the Garden, through the heavy stone doors etched into the base of the fortress and along the halls of your island home. It is as though the varied aches and pains of childbirth have fled your body entirely, such is the stiffness of your disposition and the chilly wrath that chokes the air around you. The babes, foisted on that plain milk sow—Fredda? Freya? who knows, or cares for that matter—squawk with outrage as they are rattled about in her arms, assuredly disgusted by such indelicate management.

Good. He’d hate for his heirs to willingly submit to ill treatment by lesser hands.

Cargyll is escorting you all to the Chamber of the Painted Table, or so he surmises. There’s little else to be found in this direction. The stairs that wind up and up and up from the Great Hall lead to apartments and the relics of Aegon’s Conquest from long ago. You wave away his every attempt to assist you in climbing the steps, fresh from childbed as you are. He notes with some concern each wince and gasping breath, each press of hand to your side or to your belly like you are trying to hold the fractured parts of yourself together for just a little longer. By the time your party reaches the top of the tower, even he is winded. Too damn young to feel so old, his thoughts protest.

The doors creak open with a resounding echo as his foot meets the landing, the solid mass of Breakbones thumping through the parting of wood with heavy stomps. He pauses when he sees Daemon, a tempest raging across the terrain of his face. His fists ball up at his sides even as he remains stock-still.

Shit.

Daemon takes careful note of his surroundings—the lit torches mounted on the walls, the winding carvings of dragons etched into the rock around the window, the widening of the stairway as it approaches the open hall outside the Chamber—and assesses Strong, waiting for any indication that he will strike. He wouldn’t blame the man if he did. Larys might have been a treasonous viper and a cunt, but he was Harwin’s brother. No, he wouldn’t blame him. But neither will he allow him to attack without putting up a fight of his own.

A pale hand settles on Harwin’s arm. Rhaenyra moves out from behind him, communing wordlessly to her lover with solemn eyes and thin-pressed lips, a subtle shake of the head. The man huffs, working his jaw. Then, with an abrupt lurch, he storms past, deliberately avoiding Daemon as he marches down, down, down the stairs. Each footfall resounds with a dull thump, fainter and fainter.

She turns to Daemon. “With all this time having passed”—his eldest niece hisses as she steps forward to remonstrate him, though her attempt at privacy is utterly lost in the resonant composition of the space—“and you never once thought to tell me you’d ordered the man’s death?”

He glances at you. With a carefully blank expression, you’ve turned away to dandle at the babes in the wetnurse’s arms, tiny fists clenching onto outstretched fingers. You murmur in low tones to your companion, making it clear that you have no intention of participating in the conversation taking place. He knows not what you think of the revelation.

“You would have counselled caution,” he says, never once taking his eyes off you. She blusters in annoyance, but he hardly cares. A cold wash of triumph suffuses the very air he breathes, almost as though it is a tangible flavour collected on the tongue. They’ve done it. The traitor is dead. You are safe now, you and Rhaenar and Aelys. “I’ll not apologise for the deed. He deserved it.”

Rhaenyra sighs. “I know. But… Harwin—” She stops, shaking her head. “Never mind. The King is waiting. He is—most displeased.”

Daemon grunts. “When is he not?”

Her responding smile is wan. She nods her farewell in grave ceremony, sidestepping him and venturing to you. Reaching a hand forth to glide across the feather-fluff softness of each babe’s head, she presses a single, wordless peck of dry lips to your cheek before following her vexed paramour’s path down at a much more sedate pace, slippers barely to be heard on the stone steps.

Daemon’s pulse rumbles in his ears as he enters the Chamber with you and your attendants in tow. He knows most perceive him as someone who enjoys riling the King; but, in truth, he does not take pleasure in this. He never has, though he is by nature one who creates chaos wherever he walks, a blight upon the earth. It is his curse to crave approval from Viserys, even now that age and circumstance have elevated him so by comparison. He will forever be a little boy begging for scraps of his brother’s love, never to be satisfied.

Viserys sits at the head of the table, distinctly out of place. King’s Landing may be the epicentre of Targaryen power, but it is here at Dragonstone that the true vestiges of Old Valyria remain. Draconic, ominous, almost savage—it does not suit a man so affable, indecisive, common as Viserys.

“Brother,” Daemon says, stopping at the edge of the Painted Table opposite the King.

Viserys makes no attempt at greeting, nor any other movement. He simply continues staring at Daemon with a frigid countenance, purple eyes glinting like cracked ice in weak sunlight, dangerous and jagged. An excellent beginning.

Daemon doesn’t bother genuflecting. The concession would be pointless. Still, the King appears to take notice, jaw clenching faintly at the slight.

“I believe you summoned me,” he adds with an air of insolence, testing, needling. Silence in return. He lets his next statement hang. “If His Grace has forgotten the purpose…”

Viserys’s deformed face twists in anger. “I would have you silent, you—you plague! You do not speak unless I comm—”

“Father.”

The King’s gaze darts to you, surprised, starting visibly when he notices the wetnurse by your side and the wriggling forms of the twins in her hold. All at once, his disposition changes. He is no longer the austere arbiter of justice come to scold Daemon for his many failings, but instead a jovial, tender-hearted father. “Oh!” he says, exhilarated and overcome. “Oh!”

Though you smile as you approach him, there is a stiffness to your shoulders and an unhappy pout to your mouth that belies just how deeply the bond between you has fractured. You avert your eyes from the King’s, avoiding his upturned cheek to settle Aelys into the crook of his remaining arm and taking Rhaenar into your own grasp. Your voice is too light as you introduce your children—Daemon’s children—to their grandsire.

“Rhaenar and Aelys?” Viserys asks, distracted from his own words by the whimpering of the babe in his grip. “I cannot recall a ‘Rhaenar’ or an ‘Aelys’ in our histories.”

“They are new. Free from the burden of comparison to one’s namesake.” A moue of defensiveness colours your speech. The King does not notice.

“I’d believed you might call them ‘Viserys’ or ‘Aemma’, for those that bore you,” he says, entertained by Aelys’s scowling expression. He does not see the chill that sweeps across your visage, the traces of warmth that are stifled by wintry resentment, deadening the flush of your skin to pale ice and the brightness of your eyes to dulled jewels. “Ah, but ‘tis no matter. They are a fine pair, my girl. Well done!”

You nod jerkily. Daemon watches the scene with incredulity, stock-still at his post across the Table. Surely my brother is not that obtuse? he wonders. But of course he is. So proficient has he become at ignoring the discontent of those around him that it is probable that he no longer recognises the sight of it.

“I trust your labours were easy?” Viserys asks. It is the wrong thing to say.

You no longer hide your disdain. It mars the sweetness of your features like ink stains parchment, spreading swift and uncontrollable. “Aelys was breech. Maester Gerardys wished to cut me open to take her from my womb.”

Daemon’s gut roils at the reminder even as his brother’s face blanches.

“By the gods!” he gasps, peering up at you. “But—”

“But Daemon refused to allow him to do so,” you say, lower lip wobbling. “My life mattered to him more than the prospect of an heir, you see.”

Dangerous territory. The jibe almost hits its mark. The King’s brow furrows, creasing in concern as he notes your hostility.

“Why have you come to Dragonstone, Viserys?” Daemon asks, stopping the conversation in its tracks.

No good can come of such vitriol. Your umbrage may be justified, but you are too ruled by the irrationality of new motherhood to head down this avenue of discussion. You are too young to risk losing your father to your own bitterness. The time may come that the truth of Aemma’s death can be dragged into the harsh light of day—but it is not this day. He’ll not let you make this mistake. Not yet.

“I’d have thought Ser Arryk had made that abundantly clear already.” His brother appears to shake the uncertainty off as he refocuses upon his sole purpose for traversing the Bay alone, sighing. “Lord Larys was found in his chambers. Or, rather, his body was found in his chambers. His head is… elsewhere.”

“How unfortunate.” Daemon cannot help the drollness. It goads a twitch from the corner of Viserys’s eye. “We’ll all miss him so.”

“Daemon.” Ah, the aggravation has returned. His mouth curves cruelly at the sight of the King’s indignation. “I know it was you.”

“And how do you know this?” you ask, ushering the wetnurse forth to retrieve Aelys from your father. “My husband has scarcely left my side since our return. And whatever time he has had to spare was most certainly not long enough to commit the crime of which you have accused him.”

Daemon calls your name. There is still enough of the biddable little doll in you to follow his implicit command and come to heel at his side like a good wife, to turn willingly into him when his hand rests upon your waist. It’s hardly improper, but close enough to raise an eyebrow or two. His brother observes you, observes how you gladly obey his whims, how you have readily found another sun around which to orbit. How easily he has been replaced.

He stares impassively back while you mutter instructions to the nursemaid and the Mallery knight, while the pair convey his children out of the room, infant squalls fading with the clanging close of the door. Viserys is pained, sorrowed. That much is clear. He tries not to let the conceit play out so obviously on his own expression, but it is most difficult. Modesty does not become him, after all.

‘Do you see, Viserys?’ he wishes to say. ‘You are not wanted here, not anymore. I am her world. We are all each other needs.’

“Will you not confess to it, brother?” The man is resigned now; the wrath has fled, cowed by your frosty reception. “I remember your words to Lord Strong well: ‘One day soon, you’ll be alone. And one day soon, I’ll have my revenge.’ The day has come and gone, it seems.”

Daemon cannot resist drawing it out. “What strange customs you set stock by, Your Grace. Symbols taken from the attacker’s own bodies and confirmation from Harwin Strong himself will not incite action from you. And yet, mere words—spoken in anger, at that—have you traversing the waters to Dragonstone to seek confession? Strange, indeed.”

“Enough of the games!” Viserys snaps, sharp and discordant in the ringing hall. “Admit to the deed and let us be done with it.”

“Ha! ‘Be done with it.’ Yes, we are ‘done with it’—no thanks to you.” Daemon feels the urge to laugh rising, rising. This is fucking ludicrous. “What do you want so desperately to hear, Viserys? That I was the cause of his demise? Take your satisfaction, then. I did. I did it.” He persists through his brother’s gusty inhale of dismay. “I hired cutthroats before I even left your fucking city. I made sure that Larys Strong would be dead before he could come for my children again.”

The King wavers, astonished. It seems that for all his bluster, he had not actually expected Daemon to assert his culpability so brazenly. “You had the man killed? Even after I expressly forbade you from such violence?”

Daemon snorts. He is not ashamed of his actions. “You refused to act, so I took it upon myself to eliminate the threat to my wife.”

“Such—such impertinence!” Viserys sounds utterly winded, scored open at the navel. “Such disloyalty. Why must you betray me time and time again?”

Disloyalty. How insulting. How disappointing. How very like the man to disparage him so.

This time, he does laugh. It is more of a chuckle, but with none of the joy. Rather, it is harsh and biting, mocking. “Disloyalty? We aren’t in King’s Landing now, Viserys. You do not rule here. I’m well within my rights to tell you to fuck off.”

If anyone holds dominion over this rock, Daemon thinks viciously, it is not the battered creature before me. Any other may make their claim. Rhaenyra; you; even he himself.

You do not belong here, brother.

The man stands, slapping the jagged surface of the table with his sole hand. “I am the King!” He sits at the craggy North, where the surface rises and dips with the spiked contours of icy mountains. His action draws blood from skin, welling rapidly and oozing across the peaks. He does not notice, instead turning to you. “And you, girl,” he says. “What have you to say to this treachery?”

You twitch at the abrupt directive, having been but a bystander to the fray. “What have I to say?” Your voice is frosty.

“Yes! I demand you speak, child!”

You move away from him, clutching your hands together before you. The very image of maidenly grace, Daemon’s mind supplies. The sight of you standing so demurely calls forth a faint resonation of desire. It pulses in his gut like a broiling flame.

“What would you like me to say, Your Grace?” you ask flatly, the dawning thunder in your expression so at odds with your stance. “I could say many things. I could say that Daemon did what you would not. That for all my dislike of his methods, I can trust that he will keep me safe. That I have never, not once, been anything other than a loyal and obedient daughter to you—only to find that in my hour of greatest need, you would bend to the vultures that rule in your stead, cast the name of the man responsible for my plight aside like rot beneath your feet, without care. That you have failed me in every conceivable way; as a King, as the head of my House, as a father, as grandfather to the babes you never bothered to enquire after in the wake of the attack.”

Each word lands like a physical blow, and so it is fitting that blood drips readily from Viserys’s flesh. He jerks as if injured by your mounting pitch, as if your diatribe alone lays waste to his form.

You remain immobile, frozen in your ferocity, your seething misery. Still, you speak, trembling. “So, yes. I could say a great many things. Where would you like me to begin?”

Not even he can conjure up a worthwhile response to such a challenge. My poor, precious girl. Though you stand tall with chin jutted forth and brow arched in supercilious question, he can only see the quailing child in you, plaintive and forlorn, eager for the slightest validation from a sire who could never give you what you need. In this moment, he wants to tuck you away, coddle you close, hold you down and surround you so that all you can see or hear or feel is him, him, him—

The hush reigns long—until it doesn’t.

Viserys’s breathing can be heard even from here, nearly the opposite end of the room. His words are weak. “I did the best I could.”

“And yet, it was not enough. You were not enough.” Your address is just as quiet, distressingly saddened. “You did not even ask after me when you arrived, did you? Or you would have known beforehand that I had already given birth. So much for loyalty. Mother would be disappointed.”

It is here that Viserys protests. “Daughter—”

“No.” Daemon can see the threat of tears in your eyes. “You had every opportunity to use your voice before this moment, Father. I will not hear whatever excuse you have to make now.” At this, you turn back, angling yourself away from the King to direct your next words only to him. “I need to make sure the babes are settled.”

“Sȳrī iksā?” Are you well?

He cannot help but reach for you, to cup your jaw in his hand and collect the moisture from the corner of your eye with the pads of his fingers. He sweeps your sorrow away with the brush of skin on skin, shining iridescence that paints your cheekbone in glow.

You nuzzle against him like a cat, like a starved pet, like a little princess aching for care. “Issa,” you say—yes—laying your hand upon his own, cradling him to you as though you are afraid he will vanish if he lets go. “Kesīr humbon daor. Zijomy daor.” I cannot be here. Not with him.

Who else but he can understand that sentiment so profoundly? He nods once, stealing a final touch of thumb to the plush divot of your lower lip. “Jās.” Go.

You revolve like a puppet on strings, staccato motions of rote absentmindedness. Curtseying with perfunctory deference, your parting words to your father are chilling in their detachment. “I pray that you have a safe journey back to the capital, Your Grace.”

Viserys makes an appeal of your name, beseeching, but you are lost to him now. You lean up and—with more zeal than the occasion calls for—press your lips to Daemon’s, parting your mouth to welcome his instinctive drive to claim. He sinks into the flavour of you without thinking, gripping your waist to keep you on tiptoes and pull you tight to him, your soft little sounds coiling dark in his groin.

You withdraw with a smug half-smile, dimmed by your melancholy but beautiful, nonetheless. His impulses drive him to snatch you back to him as you step away. He won’t. Enough has been taken from you today.

You make your escape with poise, turning your back on his brother with a strength he had not known you possessed and seemingly gliding from the chamber, weightless.

When did she become so formidable? he wonders. It is no easy thing to deny a king. Perhaps motherhood—the fire of bearing babes borne of his own blazing nature, their father’s heirs in truth—has ennobled you with a tenacity you have long kept dormant.

“You have turned her from me.”

He’d forgotten Viserys is still here. The man is grey, hollowed out. Defeated. He has sunk himself back into the chair at the head of the Painted Table, hunched over and looking every inch the ailing life-form he has been reduced to. Malady has crept back in, casting a shadow of gloom across Daemon’s ire until it too feels as a void rather than a maelstrom.

With a tone just as resigned as his brother’s, he replies. “You did that yourself.”

Silence.

“I know.” The King stares at some fixed point on the Table, or perhaps he is unseeing. He has retreated into himself, into thoughts unknown to Daemon. “I did not wish for this,” he says, more air than word. “What happened to her… I wanted to strike the head from his shoulders myself. But I am—”

“—the King.”

The King, the King. Make way for the fucking King.

It is always the excuse, the reason, the proof that Viserys will forever remain powerless to the capriciousness of others. If he is the King, he cannot be the husband, or the father, or the grandsire. If he is King, he cannot be Daemon’s brother.

“Yes.” Viserys chuckles. It is a wretched noise, a mournful hacking from crippled lungs. “King of the Seven Kingdoms… and yet I am as limited by law as any other. More, mayhaps.” Finally, he looks up from whatever had taken his focus. When he does, his eyes seem eclipsed, without light or emotion. It is like peering into the face of the Stranger. “Maegor did what he wanted. He ruled according to his every whim. Where did that get him? Who today remembers him as anything other than a despot and a monster?”

Daemon scoffs. “And yet you allow your lackeys to call me by his name—to abuse my temperament and malign my character.”

“Not even I can control what others think, Daemon.” How kindly the man sinks the blade through my flesh. Viserys hums. “Be that as it may, I do not think you to be Maegor reborn. Unruly, yes. Reckless and brutish, at times. But not cruel.” Here, his voice gentles. “She would not love you if you were cruel.”

There are times that he wonders if he’d ever given you the chance to feel otherwise—if he’d taken and taken and taken until you’d reshaped yourself entirely, bowed and bent and broken under the weight of his ceaseless desire. What is worse? To be tormented by the thought that the one woman he’d ever loved had been forced to return the sentiment for the sake of survival? Or to find that very same thought maddening, stirring, thrilling beyond measure?

No, he chides himself. She loves me. She sees me for all that I am, and she loves me anyway.

Viserys resumes after a brief pause. “The details of Larys Strong’s death have been concealed from the commons. But the Council suspects you. They have charged me to summon you to court and arrest you for conspiracy to murder a member of the governing body. And I cannot say now that there is no recourse for it.”

“You’d arrest your own broth—”

“Of course not! Have I fallen so far in your esteem?”

‘You have,’ Daemon wants to say. He does not.

“Brother,” the King says. “You have committed the crime you are accused of, by your own admission. This is true, yes. But I will not throw you to the vipers. The price would be… too high.”

“Death?” At the vociferous shake of the head, Daemon revises. “No… Exile.”

Ah, his old friend. He recalls the occasions in which you had teased him for it in the past. How many times, indeed? It would be galling, yes, if he were alone. But he is not alone.

What of my wife? What of Rhaenar and Aelys and Daeron?

“Most likely.” Viserys’s upturned hand rests on the table, the blood clotting to dark in the centre of his palm. A minor wound by any other measure; but for the King, it is like to be the source of new infection. “Perhaps not a punishment you are unfamiliar with—but for my daughter and grandchildren’s sakes, I should seek some lesser consequence for your actions. There must be a reckoning, Daemon. For the sake of the Realm.”

“If you cared more for her than for your fucking Realm,” is his answering hiss, “perhaps we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Enough! I will not—enough.”

What little vexation that had been stirred by Daemon’s taunt vanishes like smoke in a dark sky. His heart sinks. There is no triumph in conquering a man so beholden to his own feebleness.

Viserys makes his proclamation with the weariness of one that may well have lived a thousand years. “You will be charged with perfidy if you return to the city. Thus… you shall not return.”

“So it is exile, then?” How uninspired. Daemon might have respected the man more if the sentence had been more dire. He is fully aware of how contrary that makes him.

“Is it so terrible? You despise the capital,” the King says. “Remain on Dragonstone, Daemon. Raise your children. Be with your wife. Tour the Kingdoms. Travel across the Narrow Sea, by all means. But you will not—you cannot—step foot in King’s Landing again. That is the price you must pay.”

It is not so bad, he thinks. Better than he had expected, though worse than he had hoped. Some small, naïve, foolish part of him had half-believed Viserys might spare him entirely.

‘But I am your brother, when Father died you made a promise, you swore—’

‘And what of your whore Queen, do you know what she’s done, do you know about the moon tea—’

‘Why don’t you love me as I love you, why was I never enough as I am—’

The possibilities crumble like ash, words floating by on a breeze just out of reach. Things he might have said, might have done, no more than unattainable futures now. There is no point. He is a haunted shade of the man he is, seated at the table in the room on the isle, forever wishing, wanting, waiting for the sun to shine a light upon him. And yet. And yet.

Daemon tries to convey a façade of agreeability. What comes forth is terse, a threat of temper lurking below the depths. “Fine.” Folding his arms, he cannot help but make one last query. “But you understand that you won’t see her again, either?”

His meaning is abundantly clear if Viserys’s reaction is anything to go by. Though the King does not move, he appears smaller, less substantial, the breadth of him collapsing like a dying star. When he concedes, it is with a burdensome breath out, a rattling knell of defeat. “I do,” he says, forfeiting all rights to you in so short a statement.

What a sire! What a man! Viserys may be a wretch, but he loves Aemma’s girls. His love is not enough, it seems.

Such folly it was, Aemma—dear, dear cousin—to depart so soon from this world…

Daemon is tired. “If that is all, Your Grace.” He dips his head, intending to make for the door, to seek out the place in which he truly belongs: in his chambers, by your side, with his children.

“Wait!” his brother says.

He turns back.

“One thing more. I… please. Here.” A scroll is drawn out from beneath the layers of cloak, bound in blood-red ribbon gilt along the edges in brilliant gold. Viserys holds it up, inviting him to take it for himself. “It is a pittance, but I… I hope it might ease the sting, if only a little.”

The temptation is great—too great. Almost without realising, he is where he wishes to be least of all: next to the King, cracking the hard wax of the royal seal open, unfurling the contents within with nary a word of thanks to offer the giver.

Daemon’s brow raises. The living sons and daughters of Our esteemed daughter… will have... the style, title or attribute of Prince or Princess.

Prince Rhaenar. Princess Aelys. Titles worthy of his heirs, after all. It galls him that he has no gratification left to indulge in, no reserves of feeling from which to draw his pleasure at finally, finally gaining at least something he has coveted.

“My thanks,” is all he can offer. It sounds feeble in his own ears, apathetic.

Clutching the parchment tight in his fist, he hopes that his response will not spur Viserys into reneging on the decree etched within. To his relief, the man only nods, ashen smile contorting the open sores on his face.

Daemon swallows; lays his hand tentatively on his brother’s shoulder. “Farewell.” It rings with finality, finality he is not ready for, he is not ready, not ready—

A light touch against his elbow. Viserys pats his arm, rueful, mired by all that is left unsaid. “Farewell… brother.”

Daemon pictures you in his mind’s eye—your strength, your steadfastness, the iron sturdiness of your willpower—and lets the thought surround him, overwhelm him, obscure the churn of his gut and the throb in his chest. He takes a step, and another, and another, resisting the urge to look back at what remains.

The door closes.

You will not deign to see him off.

“Let my disappointment be his last recollection of me,” you say snidely, swaying a whimpering Aelys from side to side. “Mine own mind remembers naught but a coward.”

Still angered, then. Daemon does not dare press you. With a nod and a gentle stroke of each babe’s head—daughter in your arms, son in the wetnurse’s—he goes forth to meet Rhaenyra at the shore.

The skies are dark and grey as he observes Viserys hobble his way through the sand, helped along only by the Cargyll man. Though it galls him to see his brother brought so low, he makes little move to assist. If he wishes to create some great observance of his departure, then let him do so by his own power.

He stands back and endures the parting words between the King and his heir—the only person on this isle he’d ever truly given a damn about—and the weak attempt at light-heartedness from Laenor, idling thoughts keeping him company.

‘Tis a suitable day for dragonriding, he muses. Not too bright, not too cold… Perfect for introducing fragile forms unused to the severity of the changing winds to flight. He is glad to have finally settled on the venture with you earlier.

“… and I’d best not keep Alicent waiting. She was much aggrieved by my venturing here alone,” the man says with a joviality that seems only slightly forced, ignoring the manner in which Rhaenyra’s countenance slides flat at the mention of her once-dear friend. “Alas! She herself would not brave the journey, and the Hand… Well, someone must keep things in order.”

He grits his teeth at the mention of Otto and his bitch of a daughter, paying no notice to whatever words spill next from Viserys’s overeager mouth. More of the same prattle, no doubt. From what he’d discerned, the man had tried his hardest to uplift the spirits of the Keep’s inhabitants for the remainder of his stay, desperate to alleviate the blow the news of the Rogue Prince’s latest banishment had struck.

What follows is of little pomp or curiosity. The King shares but one look with the brother he has forbade from his city, offering no words of leave nor of apology. Daemon had not truly expected any. All that could be said has been in days previous.

The Kingsguard escort their sovereign onto the ship docked at harbour, a further distance than he himself cares to traverse. The faint shouts from the crew above and below deck herald the unmooring of the vessel, the shifting tides taking it swiftly out to sea. He watches, and waits, and wishes that Viserys and he had concluded proceedings under better circumstances—that, for once, the parting had served to bring them closer together than further apart.

Until we meet again, brother. This is not the last time. Daemon knows better than most that exile is not tantamount to an ending.

A flash of silver appears at the window overhanging the beach, bright against the sombre hues of stone and capturing his notice even from a distance.

It is you. He is sure of it.

Never would you forgive yourself if you had allowed your papa to depart without at least seeing the event with your own eyes. A dutiful daughter, even to the very limits of your tolerance.

He thinks to make his way to where he assumes you must be surveying the Silver Firedrake’s slow shrinking on the horizon—but when he arrives at your chambers to don his sturdier riding boots (for if he should think to take the twins on their first trip in the sky, how can he be anything less than prepared for the task?), you are once more to be found within.

A melancholy princess is what he discovers, sitting on the great chair with knees tucked into your chest and staring unseeingly at the empty hearth. Jeyne and Bethany cluck over his children like broody hens across the room, overseen by that exceedingly loud-mouthed nursemaid, clearly waiting for his arrival so that he may take his heirs on the agreed-upon expedition. He disregards them as he always does. They are unimportant, all three of them, useful only in their capacity as your aides.

“Sweetling,” he murmurs, prying one of your palms free from the vice-like grip you’ve established in amongst your skirts.

Though you release easily enough, you do not look up at him. Indeed, there is no outward recognition of his presence from you at all, and so he is obliged to take your chin in his grasp and tug upwards until your gaze meets his own.

The words lodge in his throat. It seems rather redundant to ask if you are well at the sight of your deadened stare, rage and grief and discontent burnt out entirely so that all that is left is the husk of once-feeling. A not-uncommon mood after matching wits against Viserys. The man most certainly has a talent for ensuring the impossibility of victory regardless of the outcome of quarrelling with him. Dark circles have formed under your eyes, a memoir of disturbed nights imprinted in skin, the shade deep enough to tell him that you have slumbered poorly since rowing with your father some days previous.

How many more blows will she be forced to take for the sake of this fucking family?

He tuts, tilting your head to the light to examine the bruise-deep smudges marring your sweet little face.

No, you are not well—but it doesn’t mean you won’t be eventually.

“You’ll get some sleep while we’re gone,” Daemon says, already digging his hand between thigh and calf to curl an arm under your knees.

You squeak softly, fingers digging into the hairs at the nape of his neck as he lifts you bodily and carries you toward the bed. “I am not tired,” you say, stubborn insistence so like the choleric peevishness of a girl so much smaller than you are presently. “I don’t want to sleep—”

“And I don’t recall asking.” He shifts you in his hold so that he can free the sheets from where they have been tucked tight against the mattress and deposit you soundly below the covers.

You frown, glancing past him at the ladies ogling the scene. “But I want to go with you and the babes!”

A firmer touch. He is reminded of nights so long ago—back when Aemma’s love had softened Viserys’s opinion of his carefree younger brother—taking visitation with his King and goodsister (of course, these were the evenings where he had not been trussed up between some brothel whore’s thighs), only to be interrupted by a bashful, sulking girl-child of barely three summers, plump baby-fat fists rubbing gummy doe eyes as you’d toddled in with a babbled refusal of bedtime. “No, no, no,” you’d mumble, swaying on unsteady legs toward your uncle, so sure already that it would be he to support your juvenile rebellion.

He’d had regrettably little patience for the display back then. He’d scoop you up, whirl you about so that you were red-faced and squealing, and promptly march you back to the nursery to trap you beneath your coverlets until the exhaustion of wrestling against his much stronger arms had you fast asleep.

I’ll do it again right here and now if I must, he decides. “Do you happen to find respite easily on dragonback?”

“What?”

Daemon huffs, tapping you on the chin to regain your wandering attention. “I’ll be taking our son and daughter on Caraxes. You need your rest,” he says, a touch of condescension bleeding into his cadence. You flush, whether in ire, embarrassment or the faint stirrings of longing, he knows not—but it is gladdening to see the colour livening your wan expression. “So, you have two options: you sleep here in our bed, or outside in the saddle. Either way, you’ll do as you’ve been told. Unless you’d like for them”—he nods toward your wide-eyed spectators—“to see what happens when insolent girls disobey kepa. Which sounds better to you, hm?”

The hidden threat quails you. You sag into the pillows, no longer warring with him, with yourself, relief lingering in the capitulatory flare of nostrils. “I… I will stay.”

“Good.” Delighting in the sullen lowering of your lashes, he strokes your hair down, more proprietary than soft, and tucks the coverings around you tight, hushing noises escaping at your minute protests. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. Lay down properly, there’s a love. Tired little girls don’t get to make choices, do they? That’s why I’m here. Sh, sh.”

Truly irritable now, you turn away from his wandering hands and his patronising devotions, burying your face into the plush softness of the cushions beneath your head. By the time he has located those damned boots and tugged them on, you are already lost to your long-needed slumber, mouth lax and breathing slow and even.

Predictable, isn’t she? And a terribly easy thing to bend to his will. He takes one final look at you, that trace of uneasiness unclenching in his gut, and readies himself for the outing ahead.

Daemon selects no one save the Mallery man and a pair of the Keep’s guards to accompany him down the path to the craggy sunning spot so favoured by his dragon. He finds the walk somewhat arduous, hyperaware of every bounce his form makes along the uneven trail, every jostle that risks upsetting the babes strapped to his chest. Not the most accommodating of arrangements, it is true, but he had been loath to attach them to his back where he could not reach in the midst of strife. He’ll have to make do with minimal manoeuvrability in the air.

Caraxes chirrups when he approaches, a gust of hot air jettisoning out from between his teeth. It is rank enough to give his companions pause. They cough, stepping further back, ensuring they are well out of range of the Blood Wyrm and his famous capriciousness.

Fat fucking chance of frightening anyone nowadays, Daemon grouses to himself.

The scent of his son and daughter attracts the creature like a moth to flame. His whistling growls cease abruptly, head tilting akin to that of a curious hound as he bends forward to examine his rider closely. Then, what can only be described as a softening occurs, rippling over Caraxes’s massive frame like sunlight dappling across scales. The wyrm blows the gentlest of breaths across Rhaenar and Aelys’s heads, a sweet little greeting before he settles down, seeming to disregard Daemon entirely.

What has happened to my fucking dragon? The scourge who routed the Dornish, the fiercest of beasts—a doddering old fool in the presence of two tiny humans.

He’ll admit it to no one, but he is immeasurably pleased. There are exceedingly few who could claim the protection of so mighty a monstrosity as a battle-hardened dragon, let alone at less than a moon’s turn of life.

“Avy kipagon kosti, Karaksys?” Will you allow us to ride you, Caraxes? he asks, thumping the dragon’s flank good-naturedly. A needless gesture, to be sure—but still, it is best to make it clear that he intends to bring aboard new quarry today.

A soft hoot sounds. The ground shudders as the draconic being’s belly thuds to the grassy surface, wing flattening to a smooth incline so that he may tread upward without the necessitation of climbing.

With a wry grin—how sentimental you’ve become, old boy!—Daemon treks up sinew and cartilage, cupping the babes’ heads to his neck to alleviate the erratic shifting of live flesh below his feet.

Aelys wiggles in her bonds as Daemon adjusts himself in the saddle, neck craning to the side like she is desperate to take in the sight of the world atop this new summit. Meanwhile, Rhaenar has fallen promptly to sleep, utterly at home next to the pulse and warmth of his sire’s heartbeat. Both are endearing in their own way; his daughter for her ceaseless inquisitiveness, his son for his perpetual surety.

“Sōvēs!” Fly!

Rhaenar cries at the rough shaking as Caraxes skitters toward the precipice, ramping up his pace to build momentum, and so Daemon tucks the boy further into the wrappings to secure him more tightly and shield him from the elements. When the dragon takes a dive from the cliff face, Aelys squeals, legs kicking at the booming rustle of wings flapping once, twice, three times, each swift beat careening them up and up into the air.

There are but three things that ignite the flame of exultation in his soul: the newest being his children, whether they be but sleeping or screaming or shitting, because they’re alive and they’re here after so long waiting, wanting; the most maddening being you, his baby wife turned woman, pudgy-cheeked tot turned maiden whore in a mere moment, his obsession, devotion, frenzy; and the longest-serving being this, soaring atop a giant winged beast, the thin air and roaring breeze stealing the breath from his lungs and forcing his heart to pound almost through his chest. Even when he’d had nothing but his reputation across the Narrow Sea—“Rogue Prince,” they’d whispered, “brother to a King who’d rather banish him than address the failings that had brought him so low in the first place”—he’d had Caraxes, he’d had flight, and he’d had freedom.

As Caraxes careens further and further out from the hillside, Daemon glances down to his son and daughter. For once, Rhaenar is looking about curiously, taking interest in his surroundings in a way he has so rarely done thus far. For once, Aelys is silent, eyes wide but carrying none of the vitriol her waking hours usually comprise.

“This is what it means to be Targaryen,” he whispers to them, pressing his nose to the warm buttermilk suppleness of each tiny infant’s snowshine hair. He is sure that this is what love smells like. “Va Zaldrīzo Lentrot jemī jiōran, ñuhus dārannis.”

Welcome to the House of the Dragon, my heirs.

The whipping winds take his words unto themselves, conveying them henceforth to be lost in the great wild world. Still, he feels their power in his bones. His heels dig into Caraxes’s flanks to speed him onward, racing the sun to the very edge of the horizon, hues of brilliant gold nearly blinding him and the saline tang of the sea stinging sharp in his mouth.

Grinning like a boy, Daemon leans forward, revelling in his flight across the open sky.

A new normality weaves itself into the tapestry of life upon Dragonstone.

Soon enough—too soon—that blasted healer deems you healed enough from your labours to move around the Keep unfettered. “She have babe,” Ūlla snaps as she shoves him out of the way, silencing him with an admonishing noise. “You act like she almost die. A natural thing, birth. Calm yourself!”

Daemon had tried to pay her for her services and send her off on her way. She’d merely levied him with an unimpressed look in response to his attempt at a conciliatory farewell.

“I hear you both sometime,” she’d said pointedly, cackling at your red-faced splutters. “New babe come very soon, I think. Better stay here, or I leave for Qohor and you make boat turn around when I get there!”

“I thought you were living in Braavos before?” he couldn’t help but ask.

She’d sighed. “I tell you once, I tell you again: sometime Braavos, sometime Qohor, sometime other place. And now, sometime Dragonstone. I live where I like, stupid boy.”

If the woman wants to make yet another port of Dragonstone, let it not be for me to stop her. Besides, she’s probably correct. There are plenty of rooms in this wing of the castle to fill, after all. He’s not going to fund her bizarre lifestyle, though. She can find her own bloody income.

And so, with you fully liberated from childbed and no longer in need of him, it is with great reluctance and no small amount of relief—for a man can only spend so long staring at tiny beings that do little else but sleep—that he returns to the task of maintaining the fortress.

His routine of old awaits him near unchanged. His men-at-arms welcome him back with congratulatory slaps to the back and cheerful salutations, a whirlwind that ceases only when his particular training methods serve to wipe the smiles from their faces and sap the strength from their limbs. By the time they are finished that first day, not a single man is able to move about without hobbling, clutching at a spasm in their side or stemming a weakly oozing cut with grimy fingers.

Good. They’d gotten too complacent in his absence.

In running drills, reviewing the training of Jace, Luke and Daeron (and Baela, too, it had been decided), rearranging the shift of the guards, recompiling figures upon the ledgers—and he’d have to speak to Robert Quince about his fucking appalling sums, by the gods—it becomes a true effort to find a moment to spare for you or the babes. Gone are the hours of uninterrupted leisure where he could lounge about with a book or with his varied lines of correspondence, using such activities as concealment for his preferred pursuit of watching you learn and adapt to the ever-changing role of motherhood.

Whenever he can, he goes back to you. On those occasions, he makes little attempt to reveal his presence. Rather, he stands at the door to the solar or hall or garden and surveys you and Rhaenar and Aelys. You take tea with Ser Lysan, infants propped up on your laps as you converse over your philosophies and linguistics, treating each squawk or whimper like it is a serious contribution to discussion with solemn nods and mischievous eyes. You arrange and rearrange the furnishings of the cradle, pensive eyes lingering overlong on the stone-still eggs laying within before turning to coo in the tongue of his homeland, sweet words of adoration for the beings you’d made. You wave freshly plucked blossoms at the babes laid out on a woollen rug spread over grass, laughing with Daeron and Rhaena as Aelys sneezes after jamming a flower into her face.

Such a pretty little mama you make. There is a rightness to it, taking and claiming you for himself, a Valyrian maiden for a Valyrian man as it had always been and will always be. He’d felt it when first he devised to make you his, and he feels it ever more keenly now. A sweet baby cunt—a Targaryen cunt—ripened with his seed, pure blood sprung from pure blood as it had since the dawn of dragonbinding, since those with magic in their veins had climbed to the very peak of power so long ago.

He dispels the musings with a toss of the chin. Yes, you’d taken beautifully to your new station, cossetting his babes with a heartrending sort of tenderness that can only be born from having gone so long without that same unwavering dedication. He’d chosen the vessel to bear his heirs well.

But so enamoured of these new lives are you that he has become the one bereft. He’d almost think you barely notice his existence if not for your absent-minded requests to ‘hold Rhaenar, would you, kepus?’ or to ‘take Aelys for just a moment while I use the privy’ when he arrives to your chambers after a long day.

Daemon had never quite grasped how fortunate he’d been to have procured and made himself such a wanton little whore of a wife. He does now. The shifting humours of your blood—the arduous process of healing from the inside out, of producing sustenance for small hungry mouths, of attuning yourself to the innate needs of these whole persons formed from parts of you and him—had rendered desire utterly meaningless to you.

He’d love nothing more than to show you how deeply he appreciates the undertaking of your body and spirit over the previous moons. He mightn’t be able to fuck you just yet, but there are certainly plenty of other acts to partake in. And yet his overtures—sly stroking here and there, a lazy upcurve of lips awash with intent, his solid warmth pressing in in in against your smaller frame—remain frustratingly, vexingly unobserved. He makes do with a spit-slick hand to his cock and the dim of the moonlight casting a dreamy glow over you, ethereal, lovingly caressing your newfound curves and near begging him to follow the path of it with his own unworthy touch.

Alas, as Viserys might say. It is not to be. Thus, he trammels his want as far down as he is able and focuses on the things he can do, such as finalising this evening’s undertaking.

It is like any other evening in recent memory, save for one addition. Daemon sits across from Laenor this time, restraining the urge to beat the man about the head to finally, finally shut him up, the man prattling on and on about nothing of import instead of actually assisting with inventorying the reserves of dragonglass on the isle. The entire enterprise is pointless, he’s sure, but some stupid cunt had told Rhaenyra that obsidian may be a marketable commodity further East.

Not like there’s anything else of value on this rock. Dragonstone is rich in sentiment and strategy rather than in resources. He’d have gotten the castellan to do it, but after the bother he’d made of the ledgers… well.

When he is at last free to escape Laenor’s clutches, he immediately ventures to the relative safety of his apartments. Like any other evening, he finds you alone with the babes, the hearth lit to blazing despite the mildness of the weather outside. The ties at the front of your shift are loose, the smooth swell of your tits peeking out from just below the hemline as you bend down to settle Rhaenar or Aelys—he cannot tell from this vantage point—beside their sibling in the cradle.

Daemon pauses. There is an odd scent upon the air. It reminds him of the Stepstones. His stomach churns.

And then he sees it. The eggs on the table beside the cradle, blackened with ash, the wood beneath smoking at the points of contact.

“What are you doing?” He tries to keep the ire from his voice, but he cannot conceal the bewilderment. What the fuck is she doing? he thinks.

You smile, moving toward him in greeting like there is not, in fact, a pair of scorching dragon eggs destroying the furniture. “Daemon.” He wants to wring your neck. How can she be so simple-minded, how can she endanger herself, the babes—”I solved it.”

“What?”

You lay a hand to his chest, bracing yourself to stand tall and brush petal-soft lips to his jaw, docile little princess, darling baby pet. He grits his teeth against the temptation to teach you a lesson you’ll not soon forget. Grab her and rip those fucking silks into tatters, pin her to the ground and beat her arse until it’s blue, ‘no, kepus, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again’–

Your hand is bleeding. He snatches you by the wrist with too-rough fingers, tracing the thin gash in your palm with the pad of his thumb until you hiss at the sting of it.

“What is this?” he asks sternly. “What’s going on?”

Has she gone mad? It’s not an illogical assumption. Madness runs in the bloodline. ‘Tis the curse of pure breeding, he knows. There’s been a fair share of harebrained, eccentric, even downright cruel members of his lineage. He cannot say for certain that he would not also be named to such notoriety in the annals of history. But this: slicing your own skin open, for it can be nothing else to have done the deed; preparing to place dragon eggs scorched from the fire straight into the cradle beside your newborns, for the scene he’d walked in on can suggest little alternative…

There is a saying about Targaryens. He cannot recall it. Madness, greatness. Something about coins.

“Oh,” you murmur, half-absent, peering upon your rent flesh as though surprised by the blood that wells there. “I forgot about that.”

You hum as you pull away, wandering back over to your little arrangement. Stopping before the eggs, you lean forward and eye the surface of the yellow one with zealous interest.

“You forgot about your fucki—”

“Fire and blood,” you say, the absurdity of such a statement stopping his vehemence in its tracks. “Such strange words, no? What is the reason for them?”

Daemon frowns, heart pounding. He’s never seen this side of you before… this distant creature that seems two steps out of time, floating on a plane just out of his reach. Gael had seemed that way as her waist thickened and then thinned once more, growing pale and frenetic and prone to fits of howling. It had been no surprise to him to eventually learn that his dear, sweet wisp of an aunt had walked into the sea, torn apart by anguish.

The fear—that same fear—renders him mute.

You continue on. “I found it peculiar that the eggs had not yet hatched. My sister’s boys’ did on the days of their births. Why then did ours not?” You look up at him, brow furrowed, struggling with some great puzzle.

Fuck. Perhaps he ought to have taken more notice of your concern when the eggs had remained stone-still, unchanged by the emergence of their riders-to-be. He’d not been too bothered. Long has the notorious volatility of dragonspawn been known. Most Targaryens of note had had to claim a mount from among the riderless dragons. Still. He’d not been paying attention, clearly. Fuck.

“Rhaenyra told me a story earlier,” you are saying to him, earnest now. “How she’d been presented with Luke’s egg while her hands were still wet with birthing blood. He’d only just come from her, and the cord was not yet cut. Laenor put the egg back into the brazier, you see… the smell of burning blood made her retch as she delivered the afterbirth. That night, the dragon hatched. She meant nothing of it, but… I thought about it.”

You take the purple egg in your grasp, still smoking beneath, and what comes lurching from the bowels of his chest is a strangled noise of terror. It dies as quickly as he’d given it life.

You do not scream. You do not cry. There is no aroma of singed flesh nor sizzling sound of skin crisping like overcooked meat. Instead, you hold it out like an offering, mouth twisting up in recognition of his fright.

“There is magic in our blood,” you say, and suddenly your inexplicable fanaticism bears great weight. “We are the ones—the only ones—able to bring the fire to life. Fire and blood. Fire of home… and blood. My blood. It is no adage, don’t you see? It is a secret. It is the secret.”

He is torn. Part of him wants to dash the egg from your hands, to bellow for the guards to bring the healer or the maester, to force potions and tinctures down your gullet until the gleam, that perplexing, unnerving gleam, fizzles out and you are returned to him. But the other part—the other part wants to bend the fucking knee.

He chooses neither.

“Come, riñītsos”—little girl, oh gods, please just stay my little girl—“let’s go to bed.”

Daemon cleans and binds your hand himself, shoving you backward in spite of your stubborn insistence that the eggs “really must go in the cradle, kepus, please, wait a moment,” and so he does that, too, shrugging off his coat to use as a barrier between the consuming heat and his bare skin, only to find that the eggs really aren’t hot at all, though the wood still smokes and the table is singed and ruined. He ignores the significance of it. It’s too mad, even for him.

The babes—his Rhaenar, his Aelys, his littlest beloveds—are fast asleep, stirring not once at the exchange between mother and father, and they care little when he places the eggs beside them. Purple for him, yellow for her. He knows not why, but it’s a simple thing to heed your intuition. A brief caress to each small head is all that he can spare this night, all the disturbance that he can stand to risk what with their milkdrunk mouths slackened peacefully and their gossamer lashes unmoving upon their cheeks.

When Daemon sinks into unconsciousness, he is plagued by fragmented visions, your words spun around upon themselves until all he knows is the tang of copper stealing through the air and the choke of ash fumes and charred dust. ‘Fire and blood,’ your voice haunts him, the egg in your grip but this time the blood stains you dark, running rivulets down your arms and spurting from between your teeth as you grin, maniacal, an unholy light in your lilac stare. ‘Fire and blood,’ and he sees his own unwieldy fists as from above, watches his hands lay themselves upon Rhaenar and twist, wrench, birdbones cracking like paper overdried in the sun, watches himself hook around Aelys’s chin and tear the head from her shoulders like pulling apart bread, ichor coating his tongue. ‘Fire and blood,’ and the eggs hatch but they are no dragons, no, they are shrivelled and misshapen, maggots wriggling from deep wounds in the belly and claws snapping into a thousand pieces like hard wax, and when they scream it is not the sound of a dragon but your own voice, wailing, “I think I will die, oh, gods—”

He starts awake.

At first, he thinks it is his own mind to have drawn him from an uneasy rest. Casting his eye upon you—splayed out on your stomach in the moonlight, face turned to him, slow, even puffs escaping parted lips—he is satisfied that his dreams have not become reality. Rolling closer to you, suddenly cold, he draws the covers up higher around you both and presses his nose into your hair.

And then, he hears it.

A cry in the night. But it is not you, not Rhaenar, not Aelys. It is different, foreign. Wrong.

Someone is here.

Daemon lurches from the bed with a grunt, Dark Sister already in hand and drawn from the scabbard. The snick of the blade and the clatter of the wood-and-leather sheath as he casts it upon the floor is enough to rouse you, though he is heedless of the befuddled exclamations you emit, eyes straining through shadow to acquire a sense of whom has entered his chambers so brazenly.

One of the babes squawks. It is this that breaks his standstill. Stumbling toward the cradle, his pace quickens at that same hooting, unnatural cry, louder with each step he takes.

No. No, no, no. Not his heirs. Not his son and daughter, please…

“Daemon?”

“Wait!” he barks in your direction, barely registering the rustle of you fumbling with the tinderbox beside the bed. In the darkness, he is forced to feel rather than see, fingertips outstretched to ascertain the wellbeing of the babes. “Fuck!” he hisses. His hand throbs.

A dim light draws nearer. You follow his path onward, slower, the golden glow bathing the nearby furnishings. Daemon chances a look down into the cradle, searching for the cause of the sharp sting in the meat between his thumb and finger.

“Oh,” you say, stunned. “Oh!”

The paler one cocks its head at the sound, tiny snout craning up from where it had rested upon Aelys’s swaddled thigh. Unfurling wings so thin he can nearly see through them, no bigger than the span of his palm, the creature totters forward on unsteady legs, hooting again when it falls flat. This rouses the darker one—the shade of deep, glittering amethyst, tinged gold by candlelight—from beside Rhaenar, and it straightens itself much like a kitten might, stretching its spine out and hissing low, tinny. Though Daemon’s children are awake, they remain unbothered by these curious interlopers, these fragments of stone shell littered about their place of slumber, wide eyes watching as the baby dragons make themselves familiar with the world in which they have arrived.

By the gods.

“See, kepus?” you whisper, exultant. “Do you see?”

“I do,” he says, stunned and overcome, overwhelmed and overawed. “I see them.”

“Fire and blood. I was right. I was right.”

He sees. He hears. And he knows, in his gut and in his heart, that you speak true.

“Prince Daemon had at last a son and daughter both of his own blood, delivered unto him by his lady wife. Indeed, the early years of the marriage are widely regarded as some of House Targaryen’s most fruitful, as the young Princess proceeded to bring several of her husband’s children forth in quick succession. All would receive dragon eggs in the cradle, and all would hatch, bringing the might of the royal dynasty to astounding new heights.”

- 'Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros' by Archmaester Gyldayn

Read it on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44058132/chapters/119324212

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misguidedasgardian · 1 year

Text

The Winter Sun (13)

13. Dragonstone

MASTERLIST

Summary: You travel to the White Harbor and Dragonstone to see your family again

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Fem!Targaryen Reader

Warnings: Cursing, medieval and asoiaf customs, AGE GAP, Cregan is 12 years OLDER than reader), arranged marriage, SMUT, shenanigans on top of a Dragon, might miss some warnings

+18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 3,3 k

Notes: uff hope you like this one

Your stay in the White Harbor was brief, very brief, you arrived when the sun was already setting ni the horizon, and it gave you a breathtaking view of the city

The harbor was huge and beautiful, many ships were making port there, Cregan had taught you that New Castle, the seat of the Manderly’s and all the houses around it were built using a strange was rock they found in the shores of the White knIfe, the river, withered by the salt and waves, so it indeed looked like the entire city was white

But the most impressive part of them all had to be the huge wall that surrounded the city, it was the same color and the New Castle, that rested on top of a hill looking at the harbor

It was quite a sight

You landed in a huge patio surrounding the castle, Vhaelar behaved herself spectacularly, letting you and Cregan climb off of her, standing very still, purring even. And when you guessed was Lord Manderly approaching, she didn’t even move

“My Lord and Lady Stark!”, he greeted with open arms, and Cregan smiled widely and went to his embrace, hugging him tightly

“Lord Manderly”, they separated quickly and the old man’s attention falls on you

“My lady Stark, what a sight you are!”, you don’t remember him from your wedding, so you guessed he hadn't attended, he took your hand in his and kissed your knuckles, making you blush

“You flatter me, My Lord”, you whispered. He looked over your shoulder towards Vhaelar

“Fearsome creature!”, he admired, “sometimes I can’t believe they are real”, he laughed, with a sign of his hand he led you both inside

The insight of the castle was as white as the outside, it gave it an ethereal feeling, it seemed like it was midday when in reality the sun was hiding in the horizon

“I’ve taken the liberty to prepare a small meal”, Lord Manderly said, “to receive you”, inside the very hall was a table set to receive you, and you were looking up at the gallery of the main room of the castle wide-eyed, everything was so beautiful, it looked like it was made of marble.

“My Lady, My Lord”, a sweet voice greeted you and you were met with what you guessed was Lady Manderly

“My wife, the Lady Mara”, presented Lord Desmond

“Thank you for having us”, you said with a wide smile, “your home is beautiful, White Harbor is beautiful”, you admired, and by the look of wonder in your face they knew you weren’t lying. You missed the tender look Cregan gifted you

“You are too kind, my lady, I see the tales of your beauty were told short”, she said, “they didn’t do you justice”, you laughed nervously

“Please, let’s be seated, you must be hungry”, the truth is that we were hungry, servants showed up to show you to your seats, you sat right by Cregan’s side, and he grabbed your hand over the table and gave it a gentle squeeze, you smiled at him widely.

“I’ve been told you are on your way to Dragonstone”, Desmond started the conversation

“Yes”, Cregan said, “we are visiting Princess Rhaenyra, my wife’s cousin”, he said

“We are also taking my dragon”, you added, “she will rest in the dragonmount as Winter is at its worst”, you implied

“We will be honored to escort you from Dragonstone in your way back”, he said quickly

“You are too kind Lord Desmond”, said Cregan

“The journey will take two full weeks”, he said

“So we request you departure immediately after we left”, said Cregan, “it will take you two weeks to get to Dragonstone”, you found yourself loving seeing your husband all “lord” and commanding, you bit your lip as you looked at him

“Of course My Lord, it will take me one week to get the ship ready”

Cregan as he looked at your face of wonder looking at everything you could, promised you would stay a few days on your way back, and you were happy to do so, you had found White Harbor beautiful, and furthermore he had said that here is where the rest of his family lived, his uncle, and his children.

He only held you that night, kissing your shoulder gently, the rooms of Lord Manderly being next door you felt so nervous to do anything.

And early in the morning, you found your dragon resting in the forest in the back of the city, you prepared her as Cregan discussed the last details with Lord Manderly, and then, he climbed on your dragon and you did as well. And you departed White Harbor as quickly as you came.

You couldn’t help but turn around to look at the fai city as you flew South, the views from the air always took your breath away.

“Now, this is our chance”, Cregan whispered in your ear, hugging you and taped you to your side

“Cregan”, you giggled, holding into your reigns

“You looked so beautiful yesterday”, he whispered, “all cute, nervous, my little lady wife”, he purred, creating goosebumps in your arms

“And you looked so handsome”, you whined needily, as his hand sneaked down the front of your riding pants, “all bossy, and commanding”, you mocked, he kissed you under your ear, and then he kissed down your neck

“What happened with “no funny business on top of my dragon?” my lady?”, he asked mockingly

“Fuck that… mmm”, you moaned when his fingers found you wet and ready for him

And your husband stuffed you with his fingers all the ride south to Dragonstone

And you landed in Dragonstone in the afternoon, you planted your feet in your family’s ancestral home, in your riding gear, your hair braided like a Targaryen, but with your beautiful white cape, symbolizing house Stark, and Cregan right by your side

You were greeted by a group of soldiers, and Vhaelar roared but took to the skies again to fly over the Dragonmount.

“This is truly breathtaking”, whispered Cregan, as he placed his big hand on your lower back and guided you, you flinched as you walked, your sore pussy bothering you, and he chuckled darkly.

“See that is the dragonmount, possibly the most dangerous place in the seven Kingdoms, there lies dragons, wild and bonded alike”, you told him.

The guards led you through a long stone bridge, that is was as much dangerous as gorgeous

Cregan looked everywhere wide eyed, and you smiled widely, grabbing his hand

It was a long and silent walk towards the castle, and soon, the great doors were opening in front of you.

This led directly to the main hall

“Lord Cregan of House Stark and his Lady wife, princess (Y/N) of House Targaryen, Lords of Winterfell, and Wardens of the North”, presented a white cape, and soon the doors opened and show you both to the room filled with Rhaenyra’s family

“Cousin!”, she greeted, even though she had never greeted with such a wide smile before

“Cousin!”, you greeted back, and you received a somewhat warm welcome with smiled and hugs

“I see marriage has treated you well”, Daemon’s voice made you shake where you stood

“It has”, you said sincerely, and he looked you up and down and smirked, you didn’t even know what it meant, but he seemed pleased.

You now were greeted by your nephews, they had grown more in this two years, they were young men now

“I am pleased to receive you both here” Princess Rhaenyra said as Baela hugged you

“You are too kind, Princess Rhaenyra”, said Cregan, “it is an honor to be in the ancestral home of house Targaryen”

“We were surprised to read your letter”, said Daemon, “is there something you wanted to tell us?”, he asked, and you and Cregan exchanged looks

“We request a private audience with Princess Rhaenyra, and Prince Daemon”, said Cregan, and Daemon only nodded

It was not accustomed to talk business within the first day of one’s arrival, but, this was kind of important

Everyone, Daemon’s daughters and Rhaenyra’s children left the room, leaving you with her, Daemon and Cregan

“We have come here because we have something to tell you”, said Cregan, and he looked at you, he found fear in your eyes, he knew how fearful Aemond made you.

“What is it?”, she asked gently

“Speak!”, demanded Daemon

“Aemond Targaryen had threatened my wife”, said Cregan

“I took care of him”, said Daemon, “I told the fucker that if he ever bothered you again…”

“His threat included something in the likes of treason”, explained Cregan

“He spoke of treason?”, asked Rhaenyra

“I know this might sound like nothing”, you said with a broken voice, “but he said, and these were his exact words, “When my brother is King he will annul your marriage and I will come for you "", you repeated exactly as he said it.

You saw Rhaenyra shared concerned looks with Daemon

“When my brother is King?”, she repeated

“We wouldn’t have come all this way if we didn’t think this was serious”, said Cregan, “those are the words he threatened my wife with, and it makes me believe not only he is unhinged and the very life and comfort of my wife is in danger but, that he speaks of the highest treason”, he said seriously

“It makes me believe the Hightowers will betray you and take your throne”, you said with certainty, “they have faithful friends in the royal council, they have the means and the desire to do so, cousin”, you said, “I’ve lived with them”

“We thank you, for coming all this way to speak these words”, said Daemon, “we will not take them lightly”

“My father bend the knee to you, Princess, he swore allegiance to you as heir, our word is not to be taken lightly, is part of our oath to report anything we might perceive as treason”, he said firmly

“And for that we thank you” , she said with a shy smile, “you are welcome here to stay as long as you need too”, she took your hands in hers, “Aemond will never come close to you again”, she whispered, “not If I can help it, I’ll see to it”

“Thank you cousin”, you whispered, and she smiled softly as you

“Now that the worst is over, let’s drink and feast for the god’s sake!”, laughed Daemon, placing his hands on Cregan’s shoulders, and he smiled, “I have questions for you boy”

This welcome truly surprised you, they treated you as one of their own and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was because they wanted your allegiance, of because they truly saw in you a member of her family

Perhaps a mixture of both

Perhaps they didn’t received much visits here in Dragonstone, and they were bored

Perhaps a mixture of those three things

A feast was arranged pretty quickly, and soon when the sun hid under the horizon you were drinking and eating with your family. Jace and Luke seemed particularly chatty, and Jofrrey had gotten so big, and Aegon and Viserys were so cute and small.

The good thing is that you did start to feel at home here, surrounded by your family.

Jace was seated right beside you and asked you a lot of questions, which was surprising, he asked if you liked the North, and if you were comfortable, and you found yourself smiling at him and said you were.

He seemed pleased by your answers so he nodded, drinking from his cup

“What about you Jace? have you been practicing with the sword?”

“Oh yes, and also hIgh Valyrian”

“Gaomagon ao vaoresagon īlon ȳdragon Valyrio Eglie?”, [Do you prefer we speak in High Valyrian?”

“Iksan zūgagon ñuha Valyrio Eglie iksis daor hae sȳz hae aōhon”, [i'm afraid my high valyrian is not as good as yours], he said a little but rough, but it was pretty good

“Ao jiōragon konīr”, [you’ll get there], you assured him, and he smiled at you, you turned to Cregan and realized he was getting grilled by Daemon, who was whispering in his ear while his arm was over his shoulders bringing him closer

“You married my niece without any man there to gave her away”, he threatened, both were a little drunk by now

“It was Princess Rhaenys”, he answered, truly concerned for his accusations, “she gave her away, didn’t she, my dear?”, he asked looking at you, and you, amused, nodded

“She was there, my lovely drunk husband”, you giggled, and he smiled dreamily at you, he leaned in and kissed you gently and shortly, and then he turned towards Daemon, who watched the scene with a silly smile

“See?”, asked Cregan, “we conducted affairs with diplomacy and decorum”,

“I’m glad then”, he said, palming his shoulder, “she is the last reminder we have of my brother, Aegon the conciliator”, he said

Those words stuck with you for the rest of the night.

“Why don’t you wait out Winter here?”, suggested Rhaenyra, over Daemon

“I’m the Warden of the North”, Cregan said, “I have to be with my people when winter is at its worst”, and then he looked down at you

“And my place is by your side”, you said then, and he smiled, kissing you again on your forehead. And you continued feasting and drinking with your family

“I could get accustomed to this”, Cregan laughed as you reached your room, he looked all around the room, he was marveled at the carved dragons decorating the walls, as you were, “even for only a few weeks”, he whispered, looking back at you

“You heard Rhaenyra, we can come whenever we wish”, you said with a smile, he stumbled towards the bed, still a little drunk, and with a wicked smile on his face

“Cregan!”, you warned and he threw himself, ever carefully, on top of you

“My lady wife”, he purred, kissing you sloppily, “oh no”, he whined, frowning

“What? what is it?”

“I am a little too drunk”, he whined, kissing you one last time

“Yes me too, that feast was too much”, you muttered, he smiled, and kissed you one more time

“Let’s sleep wifey”, he said, “I love you”

“I love you too”, and you both fell asleep right there, holding each other

Daemon kidnapped your husband the very next morning, to show him around and to train, and you decided, on your own, to enjoy the day here, until you had to return to the frosty North.

A walk along the beach seemed like a fantastic idea.

Using your riding gear and your cape you abandoned the safety of the Castle to walk amongst the coast, your silvery dragon flew over the Dragonmount, it was a beautiful day, the skies were clear, the sun shining, but still a cold breeze told you something undeniable… Winter was coming.

Jace found you walking slowly on the beach, and he reached up to you running.

You turned around to receive him with wondering eyes

“Jacaerys”, you called, and he fought to regain his breath

“Hey”, he said, “My Lady”, he greeted with a shy smile, “Sorry for interrupting your walk”, he said, scratching the back of his head lazily

“It’s quite alright”, you said with a shy smile

“I wanted to talk to you, no, actually, I wanted to apologize”, he said, you didn't know why, but he was nervous, you both started walking, side by side, as you thought it was going to be easier that way

“For what?”, you asked

“I was awful to you when we were children”, he started, “I know what it sounds like”, he said, “That I’m saying this to you because we want your alliance, but the truth is, it had been in my mind since I saw you when we visited the capital about the succession”, he said sincerely, “only then, and thanks to Aemond I realized that we didn’t laugh with you, we laugh about you, and that was terrible”, he took one of your hands in his, and you let him, “And I’m truly happy that you found a home, and a family, that deserves you and cherishes you, it is clear that Cregan Stark adores you, and you deserve that and more”

Your eyes shined with unshed tears

“You are too kind”, you whispered, “We were only children, and I, accept and appreciate your apology”, you said softly, and he smiled

“It eases a weight from my shoulders”, he said, he took your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, and you decided that wasn’t enough and you hugged him, he returned the hug.

You kept walking along the beach together, talking and laughing, sharing stories.

When you returned to the castle, right by lunchtime, another Targayren entered the hall

“Aunt Rhaenys!”, you greeted, and she received you in her arms

“I heard you were making the journey and I wanted to see you”, she said, with a wide smile

“I’m glad you are here”

With her came the other of Daemon’s daughters, Baela.

And now it was a true family gathering

Cregan will have to brace himself…

So you spend three long weeks, feasting and drinking, with a great portion of your family, and Cregan and you had fucked everynight, sometimes in the day time, sometimes more than once time per night.

He was insatiable

And you were too

You liked the fact that he and Jacaerys were becoming friends, and in a more weird way, you were happy Daemon seemed to approve of him, you didn’t know why, but you were glad.

Lord Manderly was close to arriving, and you were preparing mentally to return to Winterfell, not that you didn’t want to, but you had spent three marvelous weeks with your family like never before.

But you smiled, content, as you were leaving the Maester’s tower to confirm what you already suspected.

You smiled tenderly, caressing your belly.

You couldn’t wait to tell Cregan

So much so you ran to your room and you found him there, looking over the balcony towards the dragonmount, something you noticed he enjoyed doing

You hugged him by the back and you noticed how he grabbed your arms too, caressing them

“I’m with child”, you whispered, so softly you doubted he even listened

“What?”, he said, in a second he turned around, still in your arms, he looked down at you wide eyed, and with a wide smile

“I’m expecting”, you said more surely, looking up at him with eyes filled with hope

“Are you sure?”, he asked, you noticed he drew a sharp breath, but he held you tighter

“I am, I’ve miss two blood moons, and the Dragonstone maester just confirmed it”, he laughed, letting out a relaxed breath, and he hugged you tightly, and kissed you repeatedly

“My love!”, he said, “I’m so happy!”, he said, he grabbed you in his arms and led you to the bed. You giggled when he laid you there gently, and climbed in the bed right behind you

“Cregan what are you doing!?”, you laughed, as he accommodated himself between your legs and starting raising your dress to uncover your lower part

“I wish to speak with my unborn child”, he said, like it was obvious

“I’m not even showing yet!”, you felt a little self conscious, when he uncovered your belly, “Cregan!”

“Shhh woman, I’m speaking to my baby”, he said gently, and then he leaned in over your stomach, “hey little pup”, he said softly, laying soft kisses around your belly button, “this is your papa speaking, be nice to your mother, mmm?”, he purred, you giggled with his warm breath tickled you, “grow big, strong, and beautiful”, he said winking at you, “come when you need too, but come healthy, and happy, we will be waiting for you, my little pup”

“Maybe is a dragonling”, you suggested

“Shhh”, he shushed you again with a smirk, “we love you, we will be waiting for you”, he said, placing a longer kiss in your lower belly

And then he laid there, hugging your midsection

You didn’t know it then, he was not only happy, he was also fearful.

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defectivevillain · 7 months

Text

this broken design, ch16

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts.

Your experience in criminal profiling means that you've met a wide variety of people from all different walks of life. You've stared down hardened criminals and fought for your life against people hellbent on killing you. Even so, something about the FBI's new target, the Chesapeake Ripper, seems to elude you.

Then you meet Hannibal Lecter: an enigmatic jigsaw of a man with jagged corners and misshapen pieces.

Fortunately, you've always been rather good at puzzles.

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

some of this chapter is born out of me realizing, as i read The Red Dragon, that i essentially limited Alana’s presence in this fic to that one rather tumultuous interaction, instead of expanding on her potential as both a strong, intelligent side character and a friend to the reader. Hopefully this makes up for that a little bit. Alana’s pretty cool. I sort of lost sight of that.

warnings: negative self talk, suicidal ideation/thoughts, panic attack, hyperventilation, derealization, canon-typical blood, violence, & gore

The darkness swirling around you is relentless in its writhing, distorting and jerking you around in its shadowed grasp. For a while, you’re content to let the shadows take control. You float in an endless abyss. Memories flit before your eyes, just long enough for you to reach out to try to grab them. They never stay long enough, flickering and disintegrating before you get the chance to grasp them and dissect every miniscule detail.

Stay awake, says a whisper itching at your skin.

You take a deep breath. The next time you blink, you find yourself standing in a far too familiar place. Hannibal’s kitchen is quiet—eerily so, you think as your footsteps echo against the floors. There is hardly a sign of life on these countertops, hardly a stain or sprinkling of powder to assure you this place has ever been used. There is a single light boring down on the back of your head: a spotlight. You swallow hard and step to the side in an attempt to escape the light, only to find Hannibal’s rolodex sitting in the middle of the brightness. Your business card sits on top, displaying your name, phone number, email address, office location at headquarters, birthplace, height, weight, eye color, age, and any other demographic information you could possibly imagine. The font is tiny, yet you can read it with ease. Feeling a sudden urge to touch, you grab the business card and let it lie flat in your palm. There’s a tear in the corner, you realize. Frowning, you move to touch it, only for the tear to extend further down the flimsy material. Crimson dots appear on the white background, swirling and twisting until there’s blood collecting on your fingertips. You look down, only to realize that the dark red stains have permeated the fabric of your shirt. Puddles are gathering at your feet, marking your footsteps with every movement you make. The card melts into the blood gathered in your hands, and you’re left holding the tattered remains of your identity.

Stay awake.

You blink again. Abel Gideon is peering at you from behind the bars of his interrogation cell. “You have Lecter on a leash, don’t you?” Gideon remarks with a laugh. You huff a laugh under your breath. The thought amuses you, for reasons you cannot quite discern at the moment. “A very long leash, but a leash nonetheless.” Your hands tremble at your sides and you restlessly shift your balance from one foot to the other. Gideon’s gaze is knowing and it pins you to the ground.

Stay alive.

A blink. You’re standing in the doorway of your office at headquarters. Everything is as you left it, save for your chair, which has an inhabitant. Franklyn Froideveaux stares at you with empty eye sockets and a gaping maw. Blood slips down his gaunt frame, leaving murky red-brown streaks down his cheeks and around the cavity of his chest. You blink and his skin turns a murky yellowish green from decay.

“See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs croons from over your shoulder. You can feel the smile on his face, feel his breath hitting your neck and provoking a deep nausea in your gut.

Another blink. Blood slips hotly down your fingers as you stand in a dimly lit hallway. Your skin feels lit with flames and the knife in your hand gleams a sickening crimson. You want to release the weapon from your grip, but your fingers are locked around the blade with unshakeable force. The smell of death and decay wafting through the enclosed space makes your stomach turn. None of these sensations are powerful enough to rip your attention away from the corpse at your feet.

“Killing must feel good to God, too,” Hannibal remarks with a hum, hands behind his back as he regards Abel Gideon’s form. There is a mildly intrigued expression on his face as he studies the body, before looking back to you with eerily crimson eyes. As he pivots, bloodstained antlers stretch from his perfectly coiffed hair. They disappear in a moment—a trick of the light. His voice is dark and airy all at once. “And are we not created in his image?” You swallow past the nausea building in your chest. Time stretches on with terrible slowness. His gaze is flaying you apart. “Don’t you want God To want you?” He asks softly.1

“See?” Stay awake. Stay alive.

Darkness, then light. “To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal says, a flicker of a smile settling on his lips. His hands are folded and he leans forward. Your chairs are close enough to force you to knock knees with him, but Hannibal doesn’t seem bothered by the prospect. “You are the first person to see through his façade, through the layers of his mask.” His skin looks strangely patterned, as if it's made of ceramic. You reach out to grasp his face, to yank off his mask, only for Hannibal to catch your wrist and hold it in a tight grip. Suddenly, your chair is tipping backwards precariously, lurching further into the abyss. You try to reach out and grab onto something, but Hannibal’s hold is the only thing that keeps you tethered. The void crawls up your skin mockingly, waiting to drag you into its umbra. Your momentum is slipping backwards and you’re filled with an unsettling anticipation. Contrary to your expectations, Hannibal’s grip remains strong. You look at him. The Ripper looks back, a bloodstained smile on his lips. You feel his fingers trace the edges of your skin with a mocking gentleness, before you’re falling backward into the darkness again.

You slip out of the darkness and bolt up, only to find yourself in a painfully bright room. You can’t quite stop the gasp that comes from your lips, nor can you suppress the urge to look around frantically, searching for the signs that this is a dream. The incessant pain in your abdomen is a harsh reality check. You look down at the area, only to find meticulously wrapped bandages covering your lower torso. Your upper forearm stings from the IV burrowing under your skin.

“Hey,” a voice says. You squint in the bright light, waiting for the blurred figure in front of you to sharpen. It’s a nurse—the same one who helped you the last time you were wounded. She holds her hands out in a placating gesture. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You were just dreaming.” Her eyebrows are furrowed in concern, a sentiment you feel you don’t deserve.

You bite back your questions—knowing the answers are clinging to the blinding white walls around you. The nurse asks you several questions about your symptoms and your pain level, before departing with the promise that she will return soon.

The events that transpired in Hannibal’s office cling to your skin with fervency. Your abdomen burns, especially when you remember that Hannibal inflicted the wound. You shouldn’t feel betrayed. You shouldn’t be afforded the privilege of being betrayed, not when you knew Hannibal Lecter’s nature since that night you sleepwalked out into the middle of the street.

Even so… you enjoyed being in Hannibal’s presence. You enjoyed the song and dance you had gotten so accustomed to playing. You spent so long spectating the game that you forgot your role in it. You were a pawn, and nothing more. The thought displeases you. With each passing second, the ugly feeling in your chest grows and swells within the confines of your rib cage. It’s getting to be too much.

There is no one to sit at your bedside this time. When she returns, the nurse pointedly does not mention your husband. You don’t have the heart to tell her that your “husband” was the same person who stabbed you, or that your husband was never really your husband in the first place. She seems to understand anyway. Pity is hidden beneath the kind smile on her face. You stop making eye contact with her.

Lying in this hospital bed is a lonely existence, dominated by a constant state of pain (at worst) or mild discomfort (at best). The only interaction you get is from the nurse herself. You get the feeling she’d be a good listener, but your tongue feels ironed to the roof of mouth and your conversations quickly morph into anecdotes about her life. You’re grateful for the small kindness—for the prospect of being treated like a human being, despite it all. These small moments of humanity push you to keep going, even amidst the several voices crooning in your ears about your cruelty.

You don’t expect any visitors. Indeed, your first visitor is entirely unexpected. When you’re first told that someone wishes to speak to you, you think of Beverly, Jack Crawford… hell, even Freddie Lounds. You certainly don’t foresee Alana Bloom walking through the door, a gentle, reserved expression on her face. Seeing her brightens your day, and her presence reminds you that you’re not entirely alone. You welcome the thought.

“Alana,” you greet her, your voice rather raspy. You cough to clear your throat. “How are you?” You ask.

“I should be asking you that,” she responds with a wry smile. She stands at the end of your bed, before walking to the side. Alana regards the lonely chair at your bedside, before placing her hands on the back. She looks well—albeit a little tired. “I’m good. And you?”

“I’ve been better,” you decide to respond honestly. There’s no point in lying to Alana—she used to be your psychiatrist, your girlfriend. She would be able to see through your dishonesty anyway. Sure enough, Alana seems to appreciate your honesty, because her eyes momentarily widen before she moves to sit down. Seeing her sit in that chair makes your stomach turn. When you blink, you see Hannibal sitting there—lithe frame effortlessly arranged, tupperware in hand. You rub your eyes roughly, dispelling the image to the recesses of your memory. Alana was courteous enough to visit you—the least you can do is acknowledge her presence, instead of imagining her as someone else.

For a moment, you stare at Alana. A mundane sense of envy strikes you, but it’s fleeting. You don’t deserve to be envious of her good health and safe wellbeing. Your own hubris is the reason why you’re currently confined to this cot. You look at her for a moment longer, before letting your eyes rest on the plain walls around you. You can feel Alana staring at you with concern. Instead of acknowledging that sentiment, you let the first question on your mind pass through your lips. “Where’s Jack?”

Alana is silent for a few seconds. Is it a difficult question? You don’t think so, yet Alana almost seems to falter. Eventually, she must manage to find the words. “Busy, as I’m sure you can imagine,” she evidently settles for saying. Upon closer examination, her hands are clasped in her lap—whitened knuckles betraying her otherwise tranquil image. Alana’s next words are quiet yet firm. “He’s tracking Hannibal—the Chesapeake Ripper.”

You inhale slowly. Somehow, hearing her say that cements the reality of it all. Everyone knows Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper. It’s not just you anymore. You bring up an arm slowly, before tilting your head down and pinching the bridge of your nose. Somehow, it is this statement that reminds you of the pounding sensation behind your eyes and the aching clustered around your temple.

“Are you alright?” Alana asks, lips twitching into a slight frown.

“Yes,” you respond flatly. Your answer sounds devoid of emotion and purpose.

“Are you sure?” Alana persists. You don’t have the heart to lie to her twice in a row.

“...No.” You acquiesce. You rub a hand over your face, feeling rather small in this hospital bed. The sheets are slightly scratchy and the weight of them feels constricting, rather than comforting. You’ve never felt so small.

“I’m sorry,” Alana sighs. She seems entirely sincere and it almost makes you want to scream. You don’t deserve her sympathy. “I know you two were close. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” That statement is incredibly reassuring, despite the frenzy you had worked yourself into surrounding Alana. When you reflect on the events of the past months, you realize that you have few allies and even fewer true friends. One of those true friends is sitting right next to you.

“Thank you,” you nod. Guilt stirs in your chest as you stare at your old psychiatrist and ex-girlfriend. Every time you’ve seen her since she kissed you, you’ve purposefully cut conversation short. Somehow, the thought feels silly to you now. Perhaps almost dying a second time does that to a person. You stare at Alana for a moment. She looks well put together, as always. “Alana?”

“Yes?” She questions patiently. That’s another thing you envy about her—her unwavering compassion, her unflinching patience. You could stand to learn a few things from her, you think.

“I’m sorry,” you remark. The sentiment has been dancing on the tip of your tongue for the past several weeks, yet you never got the chance to verbalize it. Life has been a whirlwind lately. You’ve been so caught up in everything swirling around in your mind that you never paused to think about those around you, or how they were affected by the recent turn of events. “For…” You break off, unable to articulate it. You settle for a vague hand gesture. Alana seems to understand anyways, as her eyes momentarily widen before comprehension passes over her face.

“Don’t apologize,” Alana is quick to say, nothing but sincerity written in the lines of her shoulders. Her eyes look slightly glassy for the briefest of moments, before she shakes her head and looks at you once more. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m sorry for kissing you without warning.”

You nod in acknowledgement. Silence descends upon the brisk air, leaving the two of you to your thoughts. You’re not content to let this overbearing tension rule over your conversation. You clench your fists slightly, filled with renewed resolve. You stare at Alana for a few seconds, until she notices your gaze and returns it. “Friends?” You ask, extending a hand towards her.

“Friends,” Alana responds with a smile, rising from her chair to meet your outstretched hand. Your handshake is short but reassuring. It’s enough to convince you that there are no hard feelings between the two of you. Alana fills you in on some of what’s happened since your admittance to the hospital; mostly, though, the two of you talk about the small things. You know Alana is trying to give you some semblance of normalcy. You appreciate the effort, you really do… but you’re not sure you’re capable of pretending everything’s okay. Furthermore, the small things seem inconsequential—now that you’re entrenched in the middle of everything. Even so, you make sure to thank her before she leaves. You don’t know how you would have coped without seeing a familiar face. Alana smiles and promises to be back soon.

As you expect, Alana doesn’t turn up the next day. You certainly don’t expect her to stop by, since you know she’s always rather busy. Ultimately, you come to the conclusion that you want nothing more than to be out of this hospital. Even worse… apparently, the stunt you pulled with Beverly during your past hospital visit did not go over well. You’re firmly reminded to avoid any attempts at an early release. You’re too tired and embarrassed to argue. You don’t have anything better to do than rot in this hospital room, anyway. Besides, you’re certain you’ll be met with some unpleasant reminders of Hannibal as you get home. You think you have a few cardigans in your closet that you meant to give back to him. The thought sends a bolt of nervous excitement through you, and you have to actively talk yourself down that precarious ledge.

Alana does visit the day after. Beverly turns up the day after that and gives you several hugs. After that, at least one of your friends—Alana or Beverly— visits every day, which you’re extremely grateful for. You’re certain you’d go absolutely stir crazy in this hospital bed if you didn’t have anyone for company. Your conversations are typically fun and refreshing, like light breezes of summer air. Sometimes, though, you’re bogged down by your memories. Sometimes, you’re forced to remember the corpses you left in your wake.

Even with Alana and Beverly visiting, you’re given more than enough alone time to contemplate everything. You have ample time to pick apart Hannibal’s actions and discern his true motivations. So, when Jack Crawford finally visits, his shoulders drawn tight with stress, you’re prepared to recount that night to him. Jack is insistent on the fact that you don’t have to speak about anything you don’t want to, but you know the offer is more for pretense than anything else. He needs this information, needs to understand the Ripper’s past actions and how they govern his future. With that in mind, you wave off his concern and tell him about your late night meeting with Hannibal.

Jack is silent throughout, never once interrupting you or reacting in a manner other than an affirmative nod. It’s very characteristic of your boss; you think that you would have been unsettled if he responded with heightened or dramatic emotions. Jack’s cool composure is an anchor that you quickly latch on to.

“He wanted you alive,” Jack states, once you’re finished explaining everything. He says this with frightening assuredness. His utter conviction surprises you, prompting you to ask how he knows that.

Of course, you certainly considered that same possibility yourself, but it feels more real when you hear it from Jack. “The stab wound wasn’t fatal,” he points out. His gaze falls to the edge of your abdomen. The bandages feel extremely constricting. You wonder if they need to be changed soon. “It easily could’ve been. The Ripper is a skilled killer—he wouldn’t have missed unless he wanted to.” You take a shuddering breath in.

“He’s toying with us,” you manage to agree. Your hands fidget restlessly along the rough blanket thrown over your form. You feel restless once more.

“He’s toying with you,” Jack supplies. There is no room for argument in his voice. He doesn’t look restless, afraid, or frustrated. Not for the first time, you wish you had Jack’s control and constitution. However, you know Jack well enough to see the signs of tension in his clenched fist and drawn lips. “Taunting you, and the rest of us, by proxy.” That statement in particular sets everything in stone. Your theories are no longer just theories—they are unobjectionable facts.

“Jack.” you remark, trying to push the words past the dread settling on your tongue.

“Yes?” Jack asks, patient and restless all at once. You’re choking on the words. It’s such a simple sentence, yet so dangerous of an admission. If you told the truth—confided in Jack about how you suspected Hannibal the moment you met him, and grew to realize that he is the Ripper—you would certainly lose your job, not to mention all of Jack’s trust.

Selfish, your victims croon. Your psyche nods in agreement. It’s truly selfish of you not to provide Jack with your utmost honesty. You’re doing a disservice to every person Hannibal has ever killed, every waking moment the team spent hunting for the Chesapeake Ripper. You wasted so much time, so much space.

“I-” You try to continue. I knew. I knew and I did nothing. I am complicit in his crimes. Tears are slipping down your cheeks. You’re a rotten excuse for a human being. You don’t deserve to be alive. Why hadn’t Hannibal just finished the job? It’s cruel, almost. He allowed his other victims the mercy of death, yet he left you alive. You will forever be scarred—both by Hannibal’s knife and by the bone-deep knowledge that your silence made you an accomplice to his crimes.

Breathing is suddenly a far more arduous task. Your lungs burn and your throat feels as if it’s closing in on you. Your vision is extremely sharp and your shaking hands are drawn with harsh lines and even harsher edges. The world around you is suddenly rendered immensely inconsequential. The beeping of the machines at your bedside, Jack’s steady breaths, the traces of conversation slipping in from the hallway… It all fails in comparison to the chimes of the grandfather clock in your mind. You dig your fingernails into your skin, desperate for unspoken confirmation that you aren’t dreaming.

At this point, you’re panting. Drool falls from the sides of your mouth and hits the scratchy blanket. Every nerve in your body feels as if it’s on fire. You’re a puppet cut loose from the puppeteer’s careful hand, yet you’re still strung together with wooden bones and durable string. You bring your hand to your chest and try to breathe, but the more you try, the harsher and more rushed your attempts become.

“Agent.” There’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s enough pressure to make you feel as if you’re melding with the thin mattress below you, sinking into the floor and the shadows. For a moment, you can see Hannibal looking down at you in your mind’s eye, a contentious expression on his face as he lets you fall to the darkness below. “Breathe.” Jack grabs your hand and brings it to the inside of his wrist. His pulse beats steadily beneath your fingertips and you latch onto the rhythm. Jack begins counting, prompting you to breathe in time with him. You’re not sure how long it takes you to clear your airways—you just know that, at some point, Jack migrated from where he stood at the end of your bed to the side of the bed.

“Jack,” you try again. Your lips part but nothing slips out. It’s such a simple confession—a mere few words, yet you can’t utter them.

“Agent,” Jack interjects, before you can choke on the words you don’t want to say. His expression has returned to a combination of rigidity and anticipation. You know what Jack will say before he says it. “Can I trust you to handle this case? Do I need to remove you from this case? ” He doesn’t say that last part, but you hear it anyway. You take a deep breath and rub a hand over your face. Your eyes burn from all the tears you shed.

“I can handle it,” you assure him.

“You’re close to all this,” Jack remarks. He gets up from where he had been sitting and walks back to stand behind the edge of the bed. His gaze meets yours, but you know he isn’t really looking at you. That expression on his face means Jack is looking through his options, puzzling out the future in his head. You wait for him to refocus. “You know I don’t typically assign agents with personal investments in cases… But, you’ve been on this case for a long time. You know the Ripper better than anyone else does, whether you want to admit it or not.”

You stare at Jack silently, daring him to take you off the case. You know that your words will fail you here, so you hope your conviction shows through in your eyes. Jack stares back and, for a long moment, you’re both trapped in silence. Eventually, Jack seems to ascertain that you think yourself capable. He takes a deep breath.

“In terms of the Ripper, we currently have a unit determining his whereabouts,” Jack begins. “The Ripper—Lecter—covered his tracks very well. The last time he was seen was…”

“When he stabbed me,” you say for him.

“Yes,” Jack confirms. “As you know, Lecter is proficient at leaving behind very little—if any—evidence.” You nod, thinking back to all the crime scenes he created. There was hardly any evidence left behind. Hannibal was always meticulous and careful in his crimes.

“He only leaves clues when he wants to,” you continue. “He is not so kind hearted as to leave us clues for the hell of it, or because he slipped up. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

“We found very little in his office,” Jack concedes with a sharp nod. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Stress seems to tighten the line of his shoulders. “We did manage to find several concealed weapons, upon closer examination.”

“He stabbed me with a knife that was disguised as an antler on a deer sculpture,” you recall flatly. The thought makes your side flare up with pain again. “I shouldn’t have gone to his office. I should’ve come to you first. I knew, and yet…”

“Frankly, Agent, that is not my concern,” Jack states matter of factly. “The past is the past. If I were to dissect every minute mistake we’ve made along the course of this investigation, we’d never be able to proceed.”

“True,” you answer. You still don’t think Jack has truly comprehended the implications of what you just said. You knew Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper long before that night. After all, you didn’t explicitly state when you first discovered the identity of the Ripper. Of course, you suppose it is also likely that Jack was able to intuit that from your response. If that were the case, you can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t kicked you off this case or fired you.

You know it’s best for you to drop this particular line of questioning, so you do. For the duration of Jack’s visit, he debriefs you on what the team has deduced so far—both in terms of his current location and where he’ll go next. After an hour passes, however, your luck runs out. Your nurse enters the room and promptly shoos Jack out, claiming that you need time to rest. She is entirely impervious to his objections, even when he tries to pull rank on her. You’re rather impressed. Jack manages to get a last remark in, before the nurse can guide him out of the room.

“Lecter will turn up soon enough,” your boss states. With that, Jack departs. His cryptic remark leaves you with a lot to think about. You spend the rest of your hospital stay grappling with the implications of that statement, with the implications of Hannibal deciding not to kill you. You’re released from the hospital a week later with a troubled conscience and another scar to add to your collection.

Somehow, news of your battle with Hannibal has reached the press, Jack tells you as he drives you home in the dead of night. Ultimately, Jack decided it would be best to get you home during a time when most people are sleeping. You’re grateful for his foresight, because when you return home, there are no flashing cameras or microphones shoved in your face. You thank Jack for the ride and he nods, sending you one final unreadable look before driving away.

When you unlock your front door and swing the door open, you’re surprised to find that your house appears the same as when you left it. You close the door behind you and take in everything before you. Dust is beginning to collect on the shelves and surfaces—the space desperately needs a dedicated cleaning, but you know you don’t have the energy just yet. Right now, you’re content to cautiously walk to your closet and grab clothes. Despite the fact that Jack brought you a pair of old trainee clothes to change into when he arrived, you know you need a good shower to feel clean. The lukewarm water sliding down your skin is rejuvenating, but it doesn’t wipe away the dirt of your sins. You step out of the shower with clean skin and a muddy conscience. Drying off and putting on your clothes is an annoying affair, but you manage.

After your shower, it’s safe to say that you’re entirely lost. You don’t know what to do next. You need to eat, you remember. Unfortunately, your fridge is pretty much empty. You sigh and survey the space that you call home. It doesn’t feel familiar, despite the knowledge that it’s been yours for several years. These are all your belongings, yet it feels as if you’re standing in a stranger’s shoes. You look around the room, pausing when your eye catches on a scrap of newspaper. The TattleCrime article from before rests innocuously on the kitchen counter. You walk towards it immediately, as if possessed.

Criminally Insane. You stare at the photos featured in the article. The second photo—the one of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane—led you to realize that Frederick Chilton had been kidnapped. The first picture… It unsettles you. There are hints of the dark circles under your eyes that you now possess, but there’s also an unspoken confidence in your posture in the photo. You choke on a laugh, running your fingers along the rough newspaper.

It’s a miracle you’re still alive. Well, it certainly feels that way… but you know your survival can’t be put down to mere fate. Inexplicably, Hannibal did not aim to kill you. You contemplate what would’ve happened if he had aimed that way. You would have died in that office, certainly. Would you be free of this terrifying helplessness, this aching despair?

You manage to tear your eyes away from the article. After a moment of thought, you stuff it in a drawer—hoping you will never need to look at it again. Unsurprisingly, you still feel incredibly restless. You begin pacing slowly around the room, desperate for something to do. Perhaps this urge to do something is indicative of a deeper sentiment.

The cicadas buzz from the trees outside. You’re suddenly struck with a perplexing urge to step outside. You follow that urge and walk mechanically to your front door. Maybe someone is on your porch. You peek through the peephole, unsurprised to find no one there. After a second’s contemplation, you step out onto your porch, letting your arms rest against the railing.

The brisk night air doesn’t help your worsening mental state. You still feel numb, empty. Nothing feels real anymore. As you look out at your driveway, at the other houses lining your street, you’re hit with an immense sonder.2 How did you end up in this situation? How did you end up here, staring out at the suburbia around you and wishing you could take on the life of another person—someone who isn’t desensitized to blood, gore, violence, and murder?

You don’t know where to go from here. Your feelings are a dizzying combination of remorse, regret, and contempt—combined with an unhealthy amount of wishful thinking. You raise your arms and put your head in your hands for a moment. Succumbing to darkness has never felt so comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“Lecter will return soon enough.” Jack had said. There was a certainty in his voice in that moment—a sincerity that was surely unfounded. He was making a prediction and nothing more. Yet… the conviction in his tone made it seem as if he knew the Ripper’s next move. Surely, Hannibal hasn’t grown so predictable. Surely, he will continue to elude capture for as long as he wishes.

A car’s headlights reach your vision, and you watch as it slowly cruises down your street. There is a certain nonchalance to the way it slowly rises on the horizon. You frown, wondering what this person is doing driving down your street at such a late hour. Perhaps it’s a neighbor. You continue to watch warily. For a moment, you swear it seems as if the car’s slowing as it approaches. Surely that can’t be the case. It’s too dark to make out the details of the car—let alone the driver. You settle for staring in silence as it moves along. Within the blink of an eye, the vehicle moves past your driveway and into the dark expanse enveloping the space past your street. You exhale in relief, just realizing that your breath had hitched during the car’s brief stint in front of your house.

Why were you nervous? What were you expecting? You don’t want to acknowledge the answers to those questions—those solutions will only bring more problems. You shake your head. Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, and everyone knows. There should be nothing to be afraid of, except for a single thought that never seems to leave you. He will return for you, a voice whispers against the wind. He wants to finish the job.

You’ve never gotten so close to a case before. You almost wish you could travel back in time, to the first time you locked eyes with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. In that moment, you hadn’t been able to rationalize the intense foreboding and trepidation that seemed to crawl up your skin as he stared back at you. You had no true grasp of the danger you would soon experience, the lives you would soon take. When did you stop trusting your instincts? Your intuition is part of the reason why you’re such a successful criminal profiler, yet you were more than willing to entirely ignore it.

A chill hits your skin, but it’s not from the brisk breeze of night air that gently rustles your clothes. The unsettling feeling comes from the car in your driveway, the bright headlights illuminating the woody forest behind your house. Were you so lost in thought that you neglected to notice someone approaching your driveway? You squint and take a step closer to the driveway, wavering on the edge of your porch. The car looks familiar, and that realization nearly pitches you off the porch and careening to the ground below. The driver turns the car off and swings the door open with taunting slowness. A roaring sound fills your ears.

“Hannibal,” you remark. The driver closes the door and takes a step forward, close enough to the porch that the light hits their face and reveals familiar angled features. His lip is bleeding and there are droplets of blood scattered about his face. His clothing is ever so slightly rumpled. Other than that, Hannibal appears at ease. The Ripper looks at you, and utters your name in response.

You don’t know what to do, what to say. Your hands clutch the railing in front of you with enough force to send bolts of pain through your fingers. It feels as if your heart is racing faster than humanly possible. You’re reminded of the pain in your abdomen, the scar slicing dangerously close to your eye. You clench a fist at your side and walk down the steps of your porch, before turning and moving to stand at a strategic distance from Hannibal: close enough to see his face, far enough to have an illusion of control and safety.

The night is still. If it weren’t for your unexpected visitor, you might take solace in the tranquility of the midnight sky. Now, the stars seem to wink at you in warning. When Hannibal speaks, you nearly convince yourself that you imagine it. “I have evaded capture for long enough.” An ugly, foolish sort of hope settles in your chest. You try to push it away.

“You’re… surrendering,” you remark cautiously, waiting for him to dispel that notion. The Ripper does nothing of the sort. Instead, Hannibal stares at you, making strangely heated eye contact with you as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife. The moonlight briefly hits the metal, causing it to glimmer mockingly. Your stomach turns. The moon’s warm glow reveals more than just a shimmer—there are murky brown stains on the blade. You recognize the splatters as dried blood and your skin crawls. Hannibal is holding the very same knife he stabbed you with. He maneuvers it expertly, holding the blade and extending the handle towards you. Everything about this moment feels like a trap, but you willingly reach out and take the proffered knife, fastening it at your belt.

After a stretch of time in which neither of you elect to say anything, you decide that Hannibal must be telling the truth. Eyes locked on the man, you fumble around in your pocket for your phone and pull it out, dialing the only number you have memorized. Your intended recipient answers before two seconds pass. “Jack,” you say, your gaze still firmly fixed on the Ripper.

“Agent,” Jack responds. Hannibal is staring at you with intense scrutiny, evidently attempting to decipher what Jack is saying to you. That recognition causes you to pause for a moment. At your hesitation, Jack’s voice takes on a concerned yet impatient tone. “What is it?”

“I have him,” you say, vaguely satisfied that your voice sounds clear and composed despite the emotional rollercoaster you’ve been subjected to. “The Ripper. He’s in my driveway.”

Jack’s end of the line is quiet. You know it must be nearly impossible to believe. You look at Hannibal and then look back at the phone, realizing what you need to do. Taking a deep breath, you bring a shaky hand up and press the speaker button. Despite every instinct in your body screaming at you, you take a small step forward—and another—until Hannibal is close enough to the phone. For a moment, he stares down at the device pensively. Then, in the blink of an eye, he grabs your wrist and tugs you closer—evidently to get to the phone. You glare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hello, Jack,” Hannibal remarks, voice laced with amusement as he grasps your hand— the phone, you tell yourself—with unshakeable strength. Despite the severity of the situation, you can’t do anything but roll your eyes at his chosen greeting. It seems Hannibal’s dramatics know no bounds. Even when his very freedom is threatened, he will continue to wear his carved mask of politeness and elegance. You try to listen for Jack’s response. There’s still silence on the other end—Jack is probably dispatching a unit as you speak. You’re sure Jack himself will be on his way before long.

Indeed, Jack confirms that a team is on the way. He hangs up and your phone screen fades to black. Despite the call’s termination, Hannibal is still holding your wrist. “Can I have my hand back?” You ask wryly. You try to shake his grip off and pull away, but he doesn’t budge. Your heart is racing as you try to find an escape. Hannibal doesn’t seem keen to let go, instead looking at you with mild amusement written all over his face. It doesn’t take you long to come up with an idea. You attempt to shake off his grip once more, knowing it will not work. The moment you try to pull your wrist back, you take advantage of the momentum and aim a harsh kick just above his knee. Per your expectations, he doesn’t anticipate the attack and is forced to fall down to a kneeling position to avoid falling over. You lock eyes with him and tear his grip off.

Hannibal looks up at you on bended knee, entirely silent. You begin to realize just what you’ve done—you just disrespected him. You were the epitome of the rudeness Hannibal abhors. You swallow. If you weren’t dead before, you’re certainly dead now. The Ripper is still silent, before tilting his head down to hide his face. Fuck, you’ve really done it this time. You feel yourself taking an instinctual half step backwards, and you’re moments away from turning on your heel and running when you hear an odd sound.

Hannibal is laughing, you realize. It’s a far cry from the typical gesture of joy you’d associate with laughter, but his amusement is still evident. He brings his head up once more and regards you with interest. “You never fail to surprise me,” he remarks amiably, getting to his feet and pushing the dust from his pant leg with a quick swiping motion. Hannibal doesn’t give your threat any consideration, instead simply regarding you with that same eerie look you’ve grown to associate with his full attention.

Your hand twitches to grab the bloodstained knife at your side. You imagine yourself plunging the blade into Hannibal’s side, watching his smirk falter and his victorious expression crumple. The vindictive thought thrills you for a second, before you come back to yourself and feel immense revulsion and disgust. Hannibal almost seems to sense the mental gymnastics you're going through, as an intrigued expression flickers across his face before it’s gone in a flash.

Truthfully, you don’t know how long you stand there—across from Hannibal, staring him down as he stares you down, prey regarding predator—until Jack arrives. It feels like an eternity. Time seems to entirely stop during those moments. Somehow, the quiet is more informative than a conversation ever could be. You don’t need words—not when you can see the tight line drawn across Hannibal’s shoulders, the persistence in his gaze.

Even eternity must come to an end, though. Police sirens blink in the distance, drawing you away from your thoughts. You watch as several police cars find their way to your driveway. Jack sits in the passenger seat of the car at the front, and he’s quick to step out of the car. S.W.A.T. officers swarm out of the cars, weapons pointed at Hannibal. There is a horrible tension settling in the air, thick enough to make your breaths occur just a little faster.

Despite the exorbitant amount of fully-armed S.W.A.T officers, you’re still afraid. Hannibal is closest to you. If he wanted to, he could kill you—even with so many people present. You don’t doubt his strength or agility. These recognitions leave your heart drumming in your chest at an incessantly quick rhythm. You glance over at Jack and he nods, holding a hand up to the officers and walking towards you.

“Doctor Lecter,” Jack remarks. Even now, he is incredibly composed. You latch onto his composure and try to emulate it, though you know it won’t look convincing enough. The headlights from the cars are blinding and you turn your head, giving your burning eyes a brief reprieve.

“Jack,” Hannibal responds, his hands raised in the air in surrender. The Ripper is indeed powerless, yet the gesture looks mocking. A few officers step closer and surround Hannibal, who kneels down with his arms still raised high. “You finally caught the Chesapeake Ripper.” His hands move to rest behind his head.

Jack stares at the killer with an indecipherable expression. “You surrendered.”

“I want you to know exactly where I am,” Hannibal responds to Jack. After that remark, his head turns and dread rises in your chest as you realize he’s looking towards you. His eyes are glittering in the moonlight. “And where you can always find me.” You’re frozen, limbs locked as his crimson eyes pierce through you.

Vaguely, you hear Jack order for Hannibal to be placed in his car. The officers pull Hannibal up from his knees and escort him to the police car. The Ripper’s gaze is locked on you until he enters the vehicle. Jack remains where he stands, sending you a look. You incline your head slightly, to wordlessly encourage him to leave you. Jack seems hesitant to do so, but his sense of responsibility must win out, because he walks back towards the car. You still feel as if you’re being watched, and you get the feeling Hannibal is staring at you from behind the dark tinted glass. The police car slowly reverses out of your driveway, before heading down your street and eventually out of sight.

You purse your lips, before walking back up the steps to your porch. Everything seemed to have happened far too fast. In the blink of an eye, you’re left to stand alone, with nothing but your conflicting feelings of grief, anger, and remorse for company. Memories burrow their way under your skin. Each breath is a testament to your own cruelty.

Inexplicably, you reach up to touch the jagged scar cutting down your face. Your fingertips brush against the marred skin and you jolt. Your abdomen burns in remembrance. Hannibal Lecter has given you the quiet evenings, the comfortable silence settling in the air, and the thrill of an attentive, burning gaze that sends warm embers dancing up your skin.

But he has taken so much more from you in return.

Gone is the gentle caress of a hand on your cheek and the comfort of having unquestionable support. Gone is the hard-won feeling of being truly seen for who you are. Gone is the excitement, the anticipation of knowing that your companion can never truly be predicted. All of it is gone.

You look up at the moon glimmering in the dark night sky. You idly wonder if Hannibal sees it too. It’s a foolish thought. His cell likely won’t have windows. He has probably been confined to four walls of cement, a metal toilet, and a thin, dingy mattress on a cold metal frame. There is no hope for someone like Hannibal—he will earn several life sentences and spend his entire life in that cage. You have to wonder: why? Why would he surrender?

It was a tactical surrender—that much you know for certain. Hannibal could easily have spent the rest of his life moving from place to place, taking on new identity after new identity. He could have spent however long he wanted, camouflaged but free.

Freedom. Maybe that’s the answer. After all, that kind of aggressive mimicry is not necessarily freedom. Hannibal Lecter values being an enigma. The mystery that surrounds him, in part, relies on his reputation. Life spent in hiding isn’t really life at all. Even someone like Hannibal—someone with arguably everything to lose—would understand that sentiment.

You exhale slowly, watching as your puff of breath fades into the air. You suppose Hannibal’s statement may have carried some truth. You will always know where to find him; you won’t be able to bury the memory of him next to the other skeletons in your closet and leave him to rot. Whenever your psyche falters, Hannibal will be there—imprisoned within your mind palace, gathering strength and lying in wait.

Your phone rings in your pocket. You pull it out, momentarily surprised by the time displayed. It’s getting late. You hadn’t realized how long you spent lost in thought. When you answer, your voice sounds unfamiliar to your ears.

“Crawford,” Jack clarifies, cutting right to the chase, “We got him.” There is no further explanation needed.

“We got him, Jack,” you echo. The recognition sounds hollow, empty. Your gaze is pulled towards your driveway once more. Jack’s voice reaches your ears, but you can’t discern what he’s saying over the ringing in your ears.

Hannibal Lecter is behind bars now, yet you’re the one who feels trapped. You’re a prisoner—trapped in a cage of your own broken design.

1. Dracula by Bram Stoker

2. Sonder refers to the feeling of realization that everyone, including strangers and passersby, have lives just as complex and vivid as your own.

Sorry if the intro parts were confusing. I wanted to *try* to write it in a way that showed how weird and unusual dreams can really be, especially after traumatic events.The mind is infinitely powerful, able to conjure up a new reality at a moment’s notice. I liked the idea of the reader drowning in a whirlpool of their own mind’s creation—as they fight to get back to reality. (also, I found the word “umbra,” which is apparently used to describe the shadow created by an eclipse. I think that’s cool as hell, so I included it.) Dream logic never quite makes sense and can be extremely convoluted, which is why the intro is a messy assortment of memories with no clear beginning or end.

Y’all seemed to like my rationalization for the previous chapter, so I’ll include some similar notes for this chapter if you’re interested:

Hannibal’s surrender in this chapter is very much calculated. He realizes that he’s no longer free—since the FBI are onto him. There is a sort of cruelty in the life he would have to lead, as his “freedom” would include lots of mental effort, relocating, and subterfuge. Hannibal likely weighs his options, and decides between a life of constant stealth and relocation, and a life behind bars. It’s reasonable to assume that he also would have realized that his status as the Chesapeake Ripper would grant him special privileges as a prisoner—he’s aware of how much the Ripper has dominated the cultural zeitgeist and knows he will be able to use that notoriety to his advantage in captivity.

Of course, Hannibal also knows how to best dominate your thoughts: by remaining in one place. As he mentions, you will always know where he is and where to find him. You will not have to track him down by following the calculated clues he leaves behind—rather, you will constantly have to live with the underlying knowledge that Hannibal is accessible at any and every moment. In this case, Hannibal’s surrender is quite a tactical and manipulative move. He truly chooses to go to prison. It would be unsettling to know that the Ripper was on the loose, yes. But, the Ripper has been on the loose and free for several years already. On the other hand, it would be downright disturbing to know that Hannibal’s presence in prison is a willful choice—one that can be taken back at any moment. That can easily manifest a constant lingering fear in the back of the reader’s mind, in addition to an eternal desire to pin down exactly why Hannibal is remaining captive, chained. The chessmaster is willingly surrendering, but the game is far from over.

And now… Act 1 of this story is complete!

Never fear, Hannibal will return in Act 2! As for the other characters… Well, you’ll have to wait and see. ;) I will say that Act Two embraces some elements of The Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs. Don’t worry, though—you don’t need to have read either of them. :3

Here’s a scrap for your efforts! (*throws you this unused dialogue like a scruffy middle-aged man with grey hair and a scratchy quarter-zip throws a piece of raw beef to the wolves outside his cabin*) This was one of the MANY options I had considered (but never used) for the big reveal:

“How long have you known?” Hannibal asks. “From the moment you invited me into your home,” you answer. There’s silence for a dreadful moment. “And you stayed.” “I did.” “Why?” “I like talking to you, I enjoy your company.… Does one really need a reason to keep the company of another?” You finish. A beat of quiet. “... I suppose not,” Hannibal acquiesces.

Act 2 will be posted as the second part of this series. Here's the link to the AO3 series: these jagged scars. I'll also post it over here on Tumblr. :)

Thank you so so so much for all the support! Your likes, comments, and reblogs keep me going! <33333

taglist 🖤: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

#male reader #x male reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal Lecter x reader #hannibal x reader #Hannibal x gn reader #hannibal x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #yall get the idea #transmasc reader #I CAN'T BELIEVE I FINISHED THIS FIC #LITERALLY ALMOST CRIED HAPPY ACCOMPLISHED TEARS LAST NIGHT

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laurrrelise · 3 months

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mike schmidt headcanons

i’ve never posted before but i’m a huge jhutch fan and i had fun writing these :)

mike is absolutely a cat person. the only reason they don’t have a cat is because he was too embarrassed to look “un-manly” and buy one himself. he found one outside at one point, and kept trying to get abby to want to take it in and keep it, but she didn’t really want a pet to have to take care of so mike just let it go. mike leaves leftover food outside for it when he remembers, and stops and spends time with it when it’s lingering outside his porch.

he likes to surprise abby with new toys, even if he doesn’t have the extra money for it. her favorites are dragon action figures and stuffed animals (polar opposites ??) and he finds cool smaller ones at the dollar store. she can tell the difference, but pretends not to notice to make mike feel proud of himself. she also likes them, anyways.

mike drinks a lot of water. he drinks almost nothing but water. he very rarely drinks alcohol because he was invited to a high school party at one point, got super drunk, then jumped on a pool table and tried to do a backflip. he broke his leg and was humiliated, and vowed that he’d never drink again. (not completely true, because he goes for a beer once in a blue moon, but it’s so rare that it barely counts.)

him and abby have a 15 year age difference, but she takes care of him just as much as he takes care of her. when he’s super tired after work, she reminds him to brush his teeth before he goes to bed. she brings him a blanket when he falls asleep on the couch. she grabs his keys when he leaves them on the dining table, the kitchen counter, his nightstand, or her dresser, and puts them on the coat hooks so he’ll never lose them. she picks up on when he’s having really really hard days, and even though it’s hard for her, she eats for him.

(i’ve realized this one really isn’t canon, but i don’t care, it’s cute and i want it) mike has curly hair. abby doesn’t. neither does their mom, or their dad, or their little brother, garrett. (he’s older than abby, but shut up and let me have this) abby is jealous of mike’s curls. so, reluctantly, mike taught himself how to curl hair. he found a cheap curling iron at the convenience store down the street from their house and practiced on himself, burning his hands like crazy, and hiding it from abby. the first time he successfully curled her hair, she gave him the biggest hug and ate her entire dinner without having to be begged.

mike loves cleaning. he hates waking up early, but he doesn’t mind when he gets to turn on his music and spend an entire morning cleaning the house. he also really loves his music. he loves divorced dad rock. nickel back, green day, smash mouth, the black keys, etc. he loves putting a cd (he burned some illegally, abby helped him) into his boombox and blasting it at 7 a.m. he’ll walk into abby’s room, nodding to the music and singing along confidently, waking her up and laughing with her when she makes fun of him. but, still, she helps him clean.

abby is really good in school. she has to be, because mike is a bit of a bumbling idiot when it comes to math and english etiquette. the last time she asked him for help on her homework, even though it was just simple multiplication, mike ended up staring at the page for ten minutes before calling his neighbor to ask if she could help because he was “busy”. (he was bored out of his mind, but he couldn’t figure out what 36x5 was, and was too embarrassed to admit it.)

mike loves sweets, but he prefers his coffee bitter. he has a chocolate stash that he keeps on top of the kitchen cabinets for when abby is really good. he also has it because chocolate is his #1 craving when he wakes up in the middle of the night.

mike loves when abby draws him. sometimes, he’ll find her looking at him while she’s coloring, and he’ll hold the pose for as long as he possibly can to be a useful reference to her. he will never criticize her art. drawing is abby’s comfort place, so even when he’s so upset with her that he could rip his own hair out, he would never even think to insult her artwork.

mike despises shopping. in fact, he despises spending money, which is mostly due to the fact that after his mom died and dad left, he’s never had much of it. and he hates the fact that he has to give so much of it back to a government that hates him. so, to make up for it, he prefers thrift stores. not goodwill, essentially a corporate office that helps no one but it’s filthy rich CEO, but small, local thrift stores. the kind that are always filled with volunteers, whose profits exclusively go to keeping the shop running and a small cause, like dental care for youth in Guatemala or starving kittens who would be put down without proper funds to keep them alive. he likes knowing that his money is going to a good cause, even if he hates handing it over.

mike does, however, love picking out the clothes. he scours through the kids’ section for the brightest pairs of overalls, t-shirts, cardigans, skirts, and sneakers. he loves the look on abby’s face when he finds her a pretty sundress, because the smile that so rarely appears is filled with such innocent bliss. for himself, however, he moves as quickly as possible. he pretty much exclusively wears old hoodies, sweaters, jeans, and work boots. as long as it’s comfortable and in a size medium, it works for him.

that’s all for now but i love thinking about this man so i’ll probably end up writing more eventually 🤷‍♀️ who knows

anyways have a good day <3

#mike schmidt #mike schimdt x reader #mike schmidt smut #jhutch #fnaf #fnaf movie #headcanons #josh hutcherson #im losing my mind i love mike so much #abby schmidt #he and abby have the cutest relationship

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tinfairies · 1 year

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The Fairy Garden

My Ko-Fi

Commission Directory

My Art Tag: tin art

My ask box and DMs are always open for people to come chat or be horny little freaks!

I no longer take requests for writing.

Don't like it? Block me!

Don't be a cunt.

Dark content including rape, self harm, suicide, murder, domestic violence, drug and alcohol abuse, necrophilia, cannibalism, incest and bodily fluids will be present here.

My only major boundary is scat. It just doesn't interest me.

Bestiality and pedophilia are entirely off the table. Yuck.

I do not consent to my writing or art being translated and/or posted to any other website or being fed to AI.

I go by Tin or Lu, I'm 23 years old.

Filthy American 🦅*eagle noises*

I am bi, enby and more fem presenting. I use any pronouns but use she/her by default since it's just easiest. (what I'm used to)

I represent myself with bears, tigers and orange cats.

About Lu

Lu's tumblr

Lu is similar to an alter ego or imaginary friend if you will. I blame shit on him and project my problems onto him. I use him so I don't have to feel negative emotions. He is my punching bag.

Lu is me and I am Lu and I am in full control of my actions and words.

Lu is represented by black dogs/wolves

I "talk" to him and he "talks" to me

Fun Facts

I have 2 kitties named Mercury and Jasmine and 2 leopard geckos named Mister Man and Dracarys

I do lots of art, I used to write a lot but I haven't had the muse for it lately

Mentally ill but who isn't these days (we live in a society fr)

Kink Stuff

Bisexual, switch. Lots of nasty, icky kinks.

BDSM, pet play, age play, knife play, cnc, dumbification, and piss are some of my top kinks.

A mommy dom, or a ma'am but I like being called daddy and sir too. I love puppy and kitty subs and littles.

I am a kitty sub and a little sometimes.

I like being a brat.

I can be a mean dom or soft dom depending on what my sub wants

Fandom List

(this list updates frequently and you're always welcome to pop into my ask box or DMs to talk about these fandoms!)

Anime/Cartoons: Hunter x Hunter, Death Note, Fruits Basket, One Piece, Black Butler, Hazbin Hotel, Jojo's Bizarre Adventure, Ouran High School Host Club, Princess Jellyfish, Bungo Stray Dogs

TV Shows: Supernatural, The Boys, Gen V, Alice in Borderland, Game of Thrones, House of the Dragon, Criminal Minds, Percy Jackson, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Movies: Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, The Hunger Games, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, MCU, DCU, X-Men, Slasher/Horror Fandom, Star Wars, The Last Unicorn, Repo! The Genetic Opera, Twilight Saga, Phantom of the Opera

Video Games: Left 4 Dead, Fallout, Mass Effect, Dragon Age, Borderlands, Resident Evil, Dead By Daylight, The Sims, Stardew Valley, Red Dead Redemption, Animal Crossing, Boyfriend to Death, The Price of Flesh, Sally Face, Fran Bow, Night in the Woods, Fear and Hunger

Misc: Creepypasta, Marble Hornets, Homestuck, The Vampire Chronicles, Lychee Light Club

Other Interests

Art, writing, history, archeology, anthropology, architecture, vintage era, edwardian era, medieval era, dinosaurs, cryptozoology, speculative evolution, science, mass tragedies, chernobyl meltdown, cults, fashion, historical fashion, horror, true crime, music, musicals

My Hunger Games/TBOSAS Masterlist

My One Piece Masterlist

My Hunter x Hunter Masterlist

My Old Masterlist

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emkini · 1 year

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You are not passing their vibe check

[ID: An illustration of Zuko and Azula from Avatar, roughly a few years older than their canon ages, sitting at a table. Azula sits properly, facing the viewer with a mischievous expression on her face. One hand rests on the table, while the other is held up so she can rest her chin on it. Zuko sits next to and slightly behind her on top of the table. He is in side profile, looking at the viewer with a very Zuko-typical irritability. One hand rests on the table, the other is out of view. Both siblings are dressed in ornately patterned robes. In the background are two golden pillars, with a wall behind them decorated in dragon-like patterns.]

#atla #avatar the last airbender #zuko #azula #fire siblings #atla fanart #if you see all the mistakes in this shh no you don't #I'm tired as fuck let me be #em draws #this isn't explicitly canon but like. it's not necessarily au either #idk it's just the result of various vibes I've been having #id under the cut

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affixjoy · 4 months

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I’ve been trying to bookmark the fics that I like more often so I can actually remember where to find things, but I like the idea of talking about them here more too. I’ve been blown away by the talent and creativity in this fandom and I want to shout it from the rooftops!

With that in mind, here are some Spirk fics that I’ve loved lately!

Time After Time by spaceisgay (ChancellorGriffin)

Summary:

Sam Kirk’s younger brother James is posted to the Enterprise on a six-month rotation. Spock, preoccupied with thoughts of his sister, regards this as an unique opportunity to study another pair of adult siblings in their natural habitat.

That is very much not what happens.

My thoughts: guys I feel absolutely insane about this one. It’s just so, so good. It was one of the first Spirk fics I read when I started getting into it a few months ago, and I just reread it last week because I wanted to know if it was as good as I remembered. It very much is!!!

Highlights: sibling feelings, horny mind melds, THE DINNER TABLE SCENE, dungeons and dragons.

Entering Orbit by museaway

SUMMARY:

Jim escapes to Iowa to avoid the media frenzy following the Narada incident, but a late-night miscommunication results in Spock turning up on his front porch.

My thoughts: this was great to read after watching Star Trek (2009) a few weeks ago. I don’t love the Abrams movies but there is some really spectacular fic out there for them that almost makes up for it.

Highlights: Bartender Jim and cooking for each other.

Not in Front of the Klingons by @android-and-ale

Summary: Our beloved Old Married Spirk have been sent off on yet another diplomatic mission. They’re an (in)famous presence in Federation politics, so really, everyone should know what to expect from them. If you bug their rooms you deserve what you see and hear.

Enjoy canon level “diplomacy,” the eternal mediocrity of conference centers, and lighthearted middle aged sex.

My thoughts: this is DELIGHTFUL and I adore it. Old married Spirk has become one of my favorite things to read lately and this nails it.

Highlights: the way they banter and laugh during sex. They’re so comfortable and happy together, it’s lovely.

The recitation of names by Moreta1848@jennelikejennay

Summary:

Two hundred crew members died in the attack on the USS Farragut by a sentient cloud creature. Now the ship has to limp home with traumatized survivors and a borrowed crew. Lieutenant James T. Kirk is doing the worst of anyone, but he won't admit why and doesn't want help.

One of the borrowed crew is Lieutenant Commander Spock. He feels a strange magnetism toward the troubled lieutenant, but the chain of command and his duty to the ship must always come first.

My thoughts: I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the idea of the recitation of names. It’s a beautiful way to grieve, and having Kirk and Spock do it together here is such a moving way for them to get to know each other.

Highlights: unplanned roommates, a lot of feelings about therapy/healing, just a lot of FEELINGS.

the yeomen of the garden (and laundry) by @cicaklah

Summary:

“So you and El-Tee Kirk?” Greig said as Spock came to collect his clothing again after yet another incident. “Is something going on there?”

Spock just blinks. “Which Kirk brother are you referring to?”

Greig shrugs. “I didn’t know there was more than one of them.”

Spock nods. “I am not in a relationship with Sam Kirk, if that is what you are asking.”

Greig gives him the finger-phasers. “Oh cool, cool, that's what I thought. Sweet. Tell your buddy to get better okay? His chest must be so raw after everything he’s been through to damage so many tops.”

My thoughts: this whole series has been a blast to read, but this is probably the one that has stuck in my head the most. There’s something about seeing what other people are up to on The Enterprise that hits me in the right way, and I love the laundry guy here.

Highlights: the garden, laundry workers having all the best gossip

K'diwa: A Steamy Novel of Interspecies Romance, by Jim Kirk by branwyn

Summary:

Jim wrote a romance novel just to prove he could. Then someone leaked it on the public Starfleet server, and suddenly his embarrassingly smutty and sentimental Human/Vulcan love story is all over campus. Luckily for Jim, no one knows that he’s the author. Unluckily for Jim, someone forwarded the novel to the staff of the Vulcan embassy. Now, every Vulcan in San Francisco is reassessing the logical merits of taking Human bondmates.

Spock reads a Human/Vulcan romance novel because he can hardly avoid it. Suddenly, he is consumed by the need to locate the author, ascertain their wellbeing, and instruct them in the way of Vulcan mating bonds. Luckily for Spock, it doesn't take long to identify the author as Jim Kirk. Unluckily for Spock, Jim is unconscious and surrounded by interested Vulcans who also read the book.

My thoughts: this was so fun to read! I love Jim writing a romance novel, I love how they set up all his friends at the Academy, and I love Spock falling in love with him through reading his work.

Highlights: all the Vulcan culture stuff was interesting, and I really love Gaila in this one.

#star trek #spirk #fanfic #star trek tos #ao3fic #james t kirk #spock #spirk fic #fic rec #what I’ve been reading #I’m relatively new to tumblr and don’t know the etiquette of tagging people in rec posts like this lmk if I need to change it up

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thorgans-guide-to-thedas · 10 months

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Streets of Shadow: A Dragon Age Table Top Campaign

"The city of Highmire sits atop a mountain pass at the border between the Free Marches and Nevarra. This town controls much of the trade between the two countries, and its success was not so easily granted. Over the last several years, the trade empire that flows through the bottleneck of Highmire has been built out of the shadows of corruption and exploitation. After the accidental murder of one of the city’s most beloved and cherished artisans, a rebellion is brewing in the shadows. Their anger in turn is being fueled by a mysterious killer who has begun targeting wealthy merchants in the upper-class district of the city. It is up to the party to get to the bottom of this mystery and figure out what’s going on in Highmire. Will they see this killer as a heroic vigilante or a serial killer that must meet his end?"

Estimated 5-8 Sessions.

This campaign does not have any set levels and can accommodate an array of player characters and backgrounds. A majority of the set and world-building is written, but this is a campaign that you can make your own!

Read the PDF here!

Looking for Dragon Age inspired ambient music for your campaign? Click here!

#thorgans campaign #thorgans guide to thedas #darpg #darpg campaign #table top resources #camapign #tabletop campaign #dragon age ttrpg #dragon age table top #dragon age #campaign

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shay-does-art-things · 10 months

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Perrin Jurobei

We all have our reasons.

#ocs #perrin jurobei #dragon age table top #darpg #dattrpg #dragon age inquisition #dragon age #the red crow company

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iron-shears · 8 months

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Ignota's Top Surgery Fund Commissions!

Hello! I am Ignota. I am a 25-year-old non-binary artist, known mostly for my pixel animations, my comics, the Godot games/interactives I've made/am making for the SCP Wiki, and TikTok videos. I recently FINALLY got my insurance to cover top surgery(I live in California, but my insurance is out of Florida)

I just found out my insurance kinda lied about my doctor being in-network. My insurance agreed to cover the top surgery itself but does not cover the surgical center I need to get it done at. I've been quoted at $2140, not including additional medical workup, prescriptions, travel, and temporary living expenses.

I am trying to reach out to my insurance to see if it'll be covered, but I am about to age out of my current insurance and I am not in a position to afford new insurance. There is still a chance I can convince my insurance to cover it, but this is time-sensitive and I want to have the ABILITY to do it regardless. So, I am doing commissions now.

PRICING

Pixel animation $50-$400

$50(Art similar to the first image): Maximum of 12 frames. One character. Very limited movement. Canvas size under 135x135

$80(Art similar to the second image) Maximum of 24 frames at any framerate(Typically 4fps for 6 seconds or 8fps for 3 seconds), Simple Movement, 1-2 characters, maximum canvas size of 135x135. Price can be adjusted to accommodate more detail

$200(Art similar to the third image) a couple characters, a detailed environment, and a moving scene. Maximum canvas of 256x240. The scene can be converted to a simple one-room HTML5 format that can play in-browser.

$400+(Art similar to the fourth Image) A complex environment, multiple characters/moving parts, and the ability for a scrolling background.

Illustrations $50-$250

$50(Art similar to the first image): A simple close-up shot in any style.

$100(Art similar to the second image) A simple scene or full body with no background.

$250+(Art similar to the third and fourth images) A complex environment. Alternatively, a detailed comic page.

All features are negotiable and individual requests might change the price. If there's something from one tier you want but don't want all the other stuff, chances I may be able to work something out that will fit your needs. These descriptions are suggestions to make it a little easier, not solid outlines of what they need to look like. Feel free to bring other ideas to the table. I have worked on background illustrations and pixel animations for indie devs making games, Dungeons and Dragons character sheets, individual character pieces, and many other things in the past.

Contact me through my Email([email protected]) or my Discord(ironshears)! Alternatively, I do have a Ko-Fi if you want to support my art.

Alex Thorley's Blind Date(The Dating Sim) by me under CC-BY-SA

Kuobach's Eyes(Orange Comic) by me under CC-BY-SA

Nacre Series by me under CC-BY-SA

The other pixel game in question is tentatively titled Brand New Colors and has not been completed yet, but you can find more of it on my blog. It will also be under CC-BY-SA

#artwork #commissions #lgbtq #top surgery #scp foundation #scp #transgender #nonbinary

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demetris-cocksleeve · 4 months

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(A/n: We all know about Dragon! Kirishima.... But what about Dragon Slayer! Kirishima? With that thought in mind, I present you with this:)

(Inspired by this from cookiecosplayers on tiktok)

(I have a confession... this was supposed to have smut, but it's just been sitting in my drafts for 4 months... since I can't find the flow to the nsfw, you guys get this unfinished and un-beta'd fic. Maybe I'll finish it some day🤷‍♀️😭)

Word Count: Good question

Summary- While sitting in a shady pub, you encounter a very intriguing stranger

Warnings: None

Age Rating: None

Dragon Slayer! Kirishima x Fem! Reader

------------------------------

You're sipping on a pint of stale mead when he slips into the booth across from you, interrupting your self-imposed pity party. The stranger glances around the pub, taking in the drunks and thugs with an unreadable expression before looking back to you.

"This isn't a place for pretty little things like yourself." His voice is gruffer than you'd assume from looking at him, though not unpleasant. In fact, the entirety of your sudden companion is more pleasant than you were getting used to seeing from your table.

His rogue leather armor -just a chest plate and cuffs, really-, and weaponry the only things pointing to his belonging. Armed with a claymore and various daggers, he certainly makes an imposing figure. From first glance, you'd say he's probably some type of mercenary. 'Murder for hire,' your mind unhelpfully supplies.

He's tall with bright red hair that's pulled off his face with a thick leather cord, broad shoulders and thick, veiny forearms. His face is deceptively soft, his right eye sporting a singular scar spanning from his eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone. His bright red eyes bore into you with an intensity that has the hair on the back of your neck stand on edge.

Any attraction you may have felt for him goes out the window at his choice of words, though. His condescending tone making you bristle in your seat.

Your eyebrows furrow as you glare at him. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, honey. You belong in a pretty little dress with pretty little flowers, not here with a bunch of lowlifes." He crosses his arms, and leans against the back of the booth, and regards you with a neutral expression. "Before you bite my head off: I'm just tryna look out for ya. You don't belong in a place like this, darlin'."

"And how do you know where I belong?" You snark, arms crossing as you continue to glare at the man in front of you.

"I just do..." He jabs a thumb at the rowdy patrons, "A little girl like you shouldn't be spending her time with these... creeps. This place is a cesspool of drunks, thugs, and low lives."

"If it's so bad, why are you here? Associating yourself with such bad people?"

A wolfish smile spreads across his face as he leans forward, resting his arms on the table. The faint lighting casting his eyes in an almost scary light. "Considering I'm one of the King's big, bad dragon slayers, I'd say I fit in here quite well..."

He grabs your pint and drinks from it. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Hey- You know what? Never mind, keep it," You're quickly realizing that arguing with this strange man is a losing battle. The distraction of his drink-stealing makes it take you a second to process his words, "Wait- Dragon slayer?"

You eye him for a second, not quite believing him. He may look strong and have the weapons, but he doesn't quite fit how the stories describe the King's most hardened warriors. You have to say, he doesn't look like he could take on such beasts.

Not the massive, armored creatures you've been warned about since you were a kid, anyway. With skin tougher than diamond, teeth shaper than the best blacksmiths' steel and claws longer than your forearm. You've been told even the smallest ones stand above even the tallest of men.

"No offense but you don't look like a dragon slayer."

He quirks an eyebrow at you. "And how am I s'posed to look, sweetie?"

Your face heats at the veiled accusation. "I dunno... Bigger, nastier. I've heard the dragon slayers are all filthy brutes that even the king cannot convince to be more civilized."

He smirks, briefly looking you up and down before leaning against the booth again, arm thrown over it as he manspreads.

"So, you don't think I'm a big, nasty brute?" He teases.

Your back straightens as you prepare to squawk out a defense only to be cut off as he laughs. "Calm down, sweetheart. I'm just playin with ya." He takes another swing from the stolen mead.

The man sets his -your- pint down to unhook his chest plate and pull his jacket aside, revealing a multitude of burn marks and various other scars. "How this for a brute?"

Your eyes widen at the suddenly exposed skin, any disbelief at his claim squashed with a single look at his marred skin. A small gasp leaves your parted lips at the way the pink flesh and silvery scratches and bites make his torso look almost like stained glass. Definitely the scars you've been told stories about.

Before you can stop yourself, you're asking, "What happened there?" As you point to a fairly large burn scar on the left side of his chest.

"That... was from a Firefury. The fucker's fire blasted me square in the chest. Burned straight through my armor like it was kindling." A smug smirk appears as he finishes, "Still managed to take him down, though..."

Any annoyance you held from his snide nicknames and earlier behavior is thrown out the window at the prospect of hearing about the dragons that plague your kingdom from someone who has actually been up close and personal with them. You can deal with his insufferable pet names in favor of firsthand stories.

He fixes his jacket in favor of rolling his left sleeve up to reveal a patch of slightly raised flesh molted with reds and purples. "This one, as you can probably guess, was from a Blue Terror."

You shift to the edge of your seat to get a better look. The noise of the other pub goers fades as you listen to the stranger's story.

"What did it do?" You look at his face only to find him already looking at you, a small smile gracing his lips unlike his previous smug expressions. You look back to the scarred skin to avoid eye contact.

Wondering what the skin feels like after such an injury, you start to reach for his arm before stopping yourself. You may be interested in the stranger now, but you'll be damned if you make a fool of yourself like that.

Seeing your intrigue, he gestures at you that it's okay to touch his arm as he speaks. "She got a lucky hit in; turned my forearm into what felt like a block of ice."

Apart from a few dry, scaley patches along the edge of the mark, the skin feels surprisingly smooth if not a bit tight.

"It lost some feeling after that and if it gets hit too much, it feels like my arm is being flamed all over again."

Confusion floods you at his words, "I thought they didn't breath fire?"

The man's eyebrows knit together before he seems to realize something. "I forget villagers don't normally come into contact with the beasts... Blue Terror's spit flame just like most dragons, contrary to what the folklore says about them breathing ice. Their name comes from where they live and the frigid feel of their flames. They're still very much flames, though. Don't be mistaken."

"Really?" If that piece of folklore was wrong, you wonder how else the dragons are different from what you've been told.

"Ye-" A loud bang from across the tavern interrupts him. A quick look reveals one of the drunks at the bar had merely slipped out of his seat and hit the floor. Shaking your head in distain, you turn back to your new-found acquaintance.

He lightheartedly snorts as the patron climbs back into his barstool.

You hate to do it, but you have to admit, at least to yourself, that looking past his introduction, the man was actually interesting company; not the zealot you would expect from a place like this.

Looking back to you he asks, "I have one more big one if you're interested?"

"You're quite fond of your scars, aren't you?" You lightly chuckle, resigning to take your mead back. You chug a bit before placing it back on the table.

He chuckes as well, "Yeah, I guess you get that way when they're all you've got to remember everything you've fought for."

At your curious look, he continues. "They're a reminder of the dangers of my job and of just how close I came to death. How many times I've pulled through a tough spot."

"The nightmares are a whole other issue though," he jokes.

You tilt your head at the man, "That's... kind of a beautiful way of looking at them..."

"Hey, don't get all sweet on me, honey. I'm a big, mean, uncivilized dragon slayer; I'm not supposed to feel emotions, remember?" He laughs, waving down the bar maid to order another pint.

You can't help the laugh that makes it way up your throat.

"What~?" He sips his drink once she brings it, chuckling. "It's true!"

"I'm sure it is," you're not sure how this went from you being chastised to an actually pleasant conversation, but you can't say you're complaining. "You said you had another one to show me?"

"Right," he turns to the side, moving his hair to reveal a massive star-shaped scar reaching across his neck, just touching his jaw and creeping under the shoulder of his jacket. "This one was the nastiest: A massive Ivorywing managed to get behind my while I was fighting and bit a clean chunk of flesh from me. No reason I shoulda survived, but here I am~"

He spreads his arm wide as he flashes another sharp smile your way.

You return it with a small shake of your head. "The rewards must be worth it, no? Along with the fame, that is?"

"I guess," he muses.

"The reward is nice - the recognition, though? That's the worst part," he continues. "The way I'm treated like some sort of hero or something. I'm no hero, doll. I'm just a guy doing my job; I don't need no damn fame..."

You furrow your brows at him. "What do you mean? Dragon slayers have saved hundreds of civilians - noble and peasant alike - I think that makes you well deserving of the 'hero' title."

The man in front of you has fallen some of the biggest beasts on this earth - has the scars to prove it - and doesn't think he is any sort of heroic? Insanity.

"I know it probably sounds dumb, but I stand by it..." He finishes his mead, chugging the rest of it in one go. "You know who doesn't get called heroes? The blacksmiths that make my weapons, the armorers who design my armor, the doctors who patch me up... They're the ones who should be called the heroes."

"That's very..." You struggle to find the words, "humble of you to say..."

He shrugs, "It's just my opinion. I don't deserve that title just because I have the shiny scars and cool stories."

There's a brief pause as you process what he says and he takes a breath to steady himself from the rant.

"You never answered my question, doll."

"What?"

"What you're doing in a place like this? I've talked enough about me, I wanna hear about you."

#eijirou kirishima x reader #eijirou kirishima #kirishima x reader #kirishima eijirou x reader #mha fantasy au #dragon slayers #dragon slayer au

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exhausted-archivist · 7 months

Text

Art Used in the Dragon Age: Official Cookbook: Tastes of Thedas

While there was some new art, previously seen concept art, there was also the use of ending credit slides. Some possibly denoting certain world states that I briefly referred to in the master post here.

I've split it into sections of:

New Art

Previously Shown Art

Character Art and Slides

General World State Ending Slides

Everything is going below the cut because this will be long. I will also note which page and recipe each image accompanies in the book for easy reference. (Here's to hoping tumblr doesn't mess with the image layout.)

Edit 10/30/2023: Added the page numbers that were missed because it glitched out and deleted things when I tried to go over 30 images and didn't notice till now.

New Art

Page numbers from top left to right going down:

Orlesian Woman: Sour Cherries in Cream, p. 121, Tevinter Pumpkin Bread, p. 151

Building Etching: Crow Feed, p. 43, Antivan Sip-Sip, p. 161

Spider Design: Posion Stings, p. 115

Sea Creature: Lamprey Cake, p. 147

Smoking Meat Racks: Smoked Ham from the Anderfels, p. 95

Antaam Spearman: Unidentified Meat, p. 37

Admiral Isabela: The Hissing Drake, p. 157

Etching of Bowl: Rivaini Couscous Salad, p. 19

Etching of Platter: Nevarran Blood Orange Salad, p. 13

Table Setting: Goat Custard, p. 127

Red Bear: Conversion Charts, p. 172

Giant: Lamprey Cake, p. 149

Blue Building: About the Authors and Photoghraphers, p. 175

Mabari and Army: Roasted Turkey with Sides, p. 99

These are all new images with three of these looking to be concept art: the presumably Orlesian woman looking at Andrastian themed items, the antaam spearman preparing to throw a spear, and the table setting of what looks like it might be for Rivain or Tevinter based on the aesthetic. Though I lean more Tevinter due to the snake on the basket.

The bowl and platter look to maybe be prop designs, and they are distinctly bird themed with what looks like feathers around the base of the bowl and then mirrored crows on either side of the platter with a dagger etched in the center.

The red bear shown here is new, though it is similar to a mural in Dragon Age: Inquisition in the barn where there is a green-ish bear with stars on its muzzle breathing what might be fire, while holding the white silhouette of a figure with antlers. (Couldn't attach it due to there being a photo limit.)

Then to further note that the dark blue building image looks similar to some concept art/Development images from Dragon Age: Dreadwolf (DA4)

Previously Shown Art

The piece below have been shown elsewhere before, but there are some new additions so I am showing it here separately from the new art.

Ferelden Spread: Roasted Wyvern, p. 85

This is was first shown in The Art of Dragon Age: Inquisition and is labeled as "Fereldan Fineries". It was coloured and lacked the two figures in the back left of this image. (Below)

Character Art

Cole and Maryden: The Emerald Valley, p. 169

Sera: Sera's Yummy Corn, p. 103

The Iron Bull and Krem: Hot Chocolate, p. 159

Varric and Aveline: Varric's Favorite Pastries, p. 143

Josephine and Inquisitor: Fish Chowder, p. 59

Leliana: Grilled Poussin, p. 77

Cullen: Croissants, p. 137

Morrigan and Keiran: Nettle Soup, p. 65

King Alistair: King Alistair's Lamb and Pea Stew, p. 67

These were mostly character specific ending slides you could get in DAI, going from the top left to right they are slides for: Trespasser: Human Cole ending up with Maryden. Trespasser: Partial image of a slide for an Inquisitor who agrees to become a red jenny with Sera and the Inquisition is disbanded. Trespasser: Iron Bull and the Chargers are alive and taking jobs throughout Orlais and Ferelden. Trespasser: Varric is Viscount Trespasser: Josephine, her personal quest completed. This is the romanced Josephine version. Trespasser: Leliana, not Divine Trespasser: Cullen, having not taken lyrium during Inquisition Inquisition: Morrigan and Keiran leaving Skyhold World of Thedas vol 2: King Alistair

Ending Slides

Antaam Slide: Lentil Soup, p. 63

Halamshiral Slide: The Hanged Man's Mystery Meat Stew, p. 57

Grey Warden Slide: Sweet and Sour Cabbage, p. 61

Disbanded Inquisition Slide: Sugar Cake, p. 145

These were all ending slides you could get at some point in Inquisition, from the top left to right: Trespasser: The Qunari threat Inquisition: Kicked out of Halamshiral with low approval Inquisition: Grey Wardens were kept in southern Thedas to rebuild, they are estranged from the Wardens in Weishaupt Trespasser: The Inquisition was disbanded

Final Thoughts and Implied World State

Overall the world state makes a lot of sense I think, they went with the one that would be less quantum - so no one is dead or could be dead and is in an important role; hence Cassandra being Divine,

Summary

Inquisition is disbanded

Grey Wardens are divided; though as of the comics and Tevinter Nights we know regardless all Wardens have been called back to Weisshaupt. Unclear if the civil war mentioned in DAI is actually happening.

Morrigan has Kieran and he doesn't have the old god soul anymore

Cole is human

Josephine had her personal quest done.

Leliana wasn't killed in Origins, she is fully human and now retired.

Alistair is king

Cassandra is Divine, no clear answer on the state of the Seekers.

Cullen is retired and established the sanctuary for former templars.

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misguidedasgardian · 1 year

Text

The Winter Sun (18)

18. The Calm before the Storm

MASTERLIST

Summary: When everything is this calm under such horrific circumstances, you know a storm is coming

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Fem!Targaryen Reader

Warnings: Cursing, medieval and asoiaf customs, AGE GAP, Cregan is 12 years OLDER than reader), arranged marriage, war! and all that comes with it, death of a character, talk about war and battles, the dance is coming folks!. might miss some warnings

+18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 3 k

Notes: things are heating up!!

“My brother died alone”, whined Jacaerys, at least by now, three days later, he had stopped crying, he raised from his chambers to eat and drink, and now he was drunk on arbour wine, but at least he was processing it

“He died on top of his dragon”, you said, caressing his arm, “like a true Targaryen”, you had to hide your own sadness and fears.

Aemond had killed him.

The man that had said that he was going to come for you when his brother is King.

His brother was King

“I should have been there, it should’ve been me”, he said

“No”, you said

“You don’t understand!”, he said, “that day he was so nervous, I told him to “man up””, he whined, “he didn’t want to go, he wasn’t ready, he told my mother so, and we made him go anyways”

“You could have never predicted this”, said Sara, touching his other arm, you looked over the table at Cregan, and it was kind of comical how he was sitting there alone and you and Sara were comforting Jace

“I know… but…”, you only shushed him gently as you kept comforting him. You were snowed in Winterfell, and you and Cregan had to restrain him and prevent him from taking to the skies to return to Dragonstone, a few yards into the sky and he was sure to freeze to death.

Bitter tears fell down his cheeks

“My baby brother”, he whined, “he was only sixteen”, you laid your head on his shoulder

“They will pay for everything”, you said, determined, “they will”

But you weren’t certain, the last thing you wanted to do was make the North march on the South, to battle, were thousands could die, it was certainly not the best idea, but you had to do something, Cregan was sworn to Rhaenyra, if she said to march, they will have to.

Getting Jace into bed was tricky, he was drunk on wine and he stumbled down the corridors, Cregan grabbed his arm to pass it over his shoulders to help him to his chambers, you and Sara shared concerned looks

“We need to make reinforcements on Winterfell’s walls”, she said decisively

“You think he will come all the way here?”, you asked, fearful, she only looked at you worried

“He just might”, she whispered, in her eyes there was sadness, but you probably just imagined it

You met Cregan again in your chambers, the nannies had taken Rickon, but they were soon going to bring him back to you. Cregan was so tense and silent, not with you, but you could feel it in the air.

“You are worrying”, he said

“You too”, you accused, he sighed

“I am”, you shared looks, “we have barely survived winter and a war is coming”

“I know”, you whispered, and you couldn’t help but feel a little guilty, even if you had nothing to do with it, it was your family that was going to fight each other, “you don’t have to go”, you assured him, “we don’t have to fight this war”

“I’m sworn to Rhaenyra”, he said, “the Hightowers.. they betrayed her, they usurped the throne, they need to be brought to justice”, he said, and you realized this has somehow struck a nerve inside of your husband

“You don’t have to be the executioner of that justice”, you said softly

“I will support my Queen”, he said, “with us, as will others, we will be a great army, half the continent at the least, they will not stand a chance”

“They have dragons”

“The blacks also has dragons”, he said, “more by our counts”

“Still”, you whispered

“War comes at a great price, but in the end…”, he said walking until he held you in his arms, “we will prevail”, he said, you looked into his eyes and saw nothing but certainty

“But Cregan…”, you tried to fight but he shushed you gently”

“My love”, he called back, his eyes had this immense power over you.

“But what if we do not prevail?”, you asked with tears in your eyes and a trembling voice

“I’ll tell you why”, he said, he made you sit on the edge of the bed and he seated right next to you, “I will tell you a part of a speech my father gave me when I turned fifteen, in his eyes I was a man, and he believed I needed to hear this words”, you looked at him wide eyed, “I believe we will prevail because you need to believe certain things…”

“What things?”, you asked

“That people are basically good; that honor, courage, and virtue mean everything; that power and money, money and power mean nothing; that good always triumphs over evil; and I want you to remember this, that love... true love never dies”, he cradled your face between his hands, “You remember that, my love. You remember that. Doesn't matter if it's true or not. You see, a man should believe in those things, because those are the things worth believing in”, you close your eyes and just cherish the moment. You closed your eyes and he kissed your lips softly

“I love you”, you whispered, love-drunk and in a Cregan-haze

“I love you, my true love, my silver dragon, my summer princess”, he praised, and you buried your face in his chest as he held you.

“Aemond what have you done?”, Alicent snapped, “you killed Lucerys!”, Aemond but all ignored his mother, serving himself a cup of wine

“He was intended to rally allies against my brother”, he said, “what would you have me do?”, he asked then, looking at her

“Not killing him, we have given then a reason to throw the Kingdoms into war!”, she all but yelled, looking at him with teary eyes

“I think we gave them a reason to when we imprisoned them and usurped her throne”, he mocked

“You don’t seem upset that you killed your nephew”, she whispered, scared of what she saw in her son, her favorite and most favored son

“I did not command my dragon to swallow his”, he said simply, “Vhagar decided on her own to eliminate that threat”

“I don’t believe you, no one will”, she said with a trembling voice

“It happened what it needed to happen”, he said, “the war was going to start one way or another”

“Aemond…”

“I need to speak to my brother”, he said bitterly, and left the room

To the surprise of no one, he found his brother - The King- in his chambers, laughing, already drunk and the sun had barely set on the horizon.

As soon as he saw him, Aegon began to clap and laugh hysterically

“If it isn’t the Kinslayer”, he laughed, Aemond flinched at the sour nickname, “don’t make that face brother”, he said, “I’m actually congratulating you”, hes aid bitterly, “our cunt of a sister will take months to weep and cry, you have given us the perfect opportunity to attack that wretched island and kill everyone on it”

“We have yet to prepare the army”, he said, “the Lannister fleet in on the other side of the country, an attack on that scale is going to take months to prepare…”, but Aegon moves his hand, dismissing his brother’s words

“The little shit is dead…”

“yes”, he whispered, Aegon looked into his brother’s eyes and laughed even harder

“You are here for her, aren’t you?”, he mocked, “Gods, brother, you are so predictable”

“She is in the North”, he said

“And she will remain there, until that freaking snow melts”, he said, it was funny, Aegon’s mouth moved but the words that came of it were his grandfather’s

A marvelous thing

Aemond didn’t liked the answer, but it made sense

“We are assuming the Starks will side with the bitch, but they will nor march now, we have months…”

“And then?”, he asked

“When the Starks and the North show their true colors I will give you what you asked of me brother”, he said with a teasing smile, “I will strip those dogs of everything they have, and as they are marching we will burn them, they will never get past The Neck”

This didn’t pleased Aemond

He considered himself a patient man, but with you? he couldn’t wait no longer, but he had to

“And then?”

“You can go and get her yourself”, he said with that wicked smile of his, “but leave the pup to the northerners”

And with that Aemond left the room.

The armies were gathering, the dragons were restless, Westeros was going to burn.

And he couldn’t wait

As the Baratheon prepared his army, Aemond was preparing the Royal army, and together they were going to march North and burn everything and everyone that sided with Rhaenyra.

But it could take months

You had not commented on it, but Jacaerys spent a lot of time gazing at your son, you only smiled and encouraged it, in his eyes was longing, and dreams of a future, a shy smile on his lips as he let Ricked grab his index finger in his small hand.

Sara would often join him with a soft smile and kind words, they were spending an awful lot together, and Cregan grew worried, very worried.

But how could we deny him?

Cregan was growing distant, not with you personally, but you could tell he was preparing for something, he was getting in a tough mental state to be in.

He was preparing for war, for battle, for the hunt and for the kill of his enemies

It wasn’t easy

You were growing restless as well, a storm could be seen on the horizon. you wanted the snow to melt, so you could go with Jace, fly back to Dragonstone and get your dragon, you will feel so much better once she is here, near you. Vhaelar was one of the biggest dragons in the family, well, nothing could compare to Vhagar, but… she was similar in size with Melyes, and just as formidable.

She was the hatchling of one of the Conquerors, after all, the same one she was expected to fight.

But you were getting ahead of yourself.

As you looked at Rickon, sleeping soundly, unaware of the dangers and the cruelties of the world, you wanted to convince yourself that Aemond was not going to come for you, he wasn’t. Why would he want you to know? you had a child, you belonged to another man, surely he was now after a marriage pact with the Baratheons or the Tullys, or the Tyrells, the Lannisters even, why would he want you for? after all this time?

He had probably already forgotten you.

You were interrupted by Cregan

“Autumn finally came back”, he said, “she was hunting but… she is here”

“Great”, you said with a wide smile

“I think it’s time”, he said, looking a you wide eyed, expectantly, and you sighed, but nodded

“Very well”

You stood by the entrance to the Godswood as Cregan took Rickon in his arms. He has told you he wanted to do this, you weren’t quite sure but you couldn’t deny him, you wanted to do the same when Vhaelar was here.

Between the trees appeared the dark fur of your husband’s direwolf, her golden eyes looked at his bonded human, but she approached slowly, lowering her head when she sniffed at the air and realized Cregan wasn’t alone, but in fact, she looked over him at you, and then back at Cregan.

You were amazed at how intelligent she was, she reminded you of Vhaelar in some capacity.

“Autumn”, called Cregan, “this is Rickon”, he introduced them, still with your baby glued to his chest, he showed the little face of your son to the Wolf. And took a step forwards so he was at Autumn’s reach, that made you uneasy, but he was safe, safer than ever.

Autumn came so close to him you gasped, but remained calm, because you trusted your husband completely

The Shewolf sniffed at Rickon, and she drew a delightful, soft whine, identifying the boy as a part of Cregan, you guessed, and then she leaned in and lapped at his little face. Cregan laughed wholeheartedly

“Good girl, this is your boy now”, he presented and you smiled widely, Rickon sneezed and Autumn drew back but then she leaned forwards again.

She rested the tip of her snout on Rickon’s chest, and then, she took some steps back, to turn around and disappear back again into the woods. Cregan turned back to you with the brightest smile he had drawn since your son was born, and you, as well, were terribly happy.

That night Cregan has convinced you to leave Rickon to the nannies, you reluctantly agreed, so you could have a proper dinner, seated with your family, Sara, Jace, and the Lord and Ladies that had managed to come to Cregan’s calling. You were also celebrating the soon end of the winter season. The days were getting long back again, the sun was shining in the sky.

Even though a war was coming, you felt the need to celebrate, and deep down you were scared that what you truly wanted to do was enjoying what you had as long as you had it.

But you shake your head as you nibble on your lamb chop, certainly a delicacy that you could enjoy now the snow was melting.

You looked over at Jace, that, omitting tradition, was not seated by your side but he asked to be placed next to Sara, at the other side of Cregan, and they were chatting amicably.

You didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

To your knowledge, Jace was betrothed, promised to Baela Targaryen, daughter of Daemon, and Sara, well, Sara was too nice, kind and beautiful to have her hopes up by someone who was promised to another girl.

You needed to have a chat with them later, as you take Cregan’s hand in your and squeezed reassuringly , he looked back at you and smiled warmly, and then you both turned to look at Lady Bolton, to keep chatting with her about the Dreafort’s defenses and how she could assure you that the maester she had in her disposition had been in Dorne and he was certain he could replicate scorpions to take down the Green’s Dragons.

And how that was going to make a difference

If it was up to you would have made hundreds of them to palace them in the Winterfell’s battlements, but Cregan wasn’t particularly interested in the tale.

Even though you were already fully healed, mostly, your lack of sleep made you tired, so you excused yourself from the table and stood up to go back to your chambers. Cregan promised he was going to follow soon after, but you will not hold him up to that.

The guards smiled at you as you walked by and you smiled back, but as you reached the last floor, your chamber’s floor, you came face to face witht he nannies, that had pale expressions in their faces

“What is going on?”, you asked

“My lady, we can’t go into the room”, squealed one

“Why not?”, but you did not care for the answer you ran down the corridor and over to your rooms and one of the nannies, the youngest and fastest, ran to fetch Cregan. The door was open so you couldn’t understand why… and then

“Autumn” you called, standing so still, she could easily jump you and maul you to shreds, the she-wolf looked back at you, and you gasped when you saw what she had on her jaws.

A puppy

And then you heard it, the moans and whimpers of puppies.

She leaned over the crib and placed the pup besides Rickon, and alongside her whole litter of six pups, all of them cuddling and sharing the crib of your son

You didn’t know if you were going to cry, or shout, or faint, or laugh or die with the cuteness.

She had placed her pups in your son's crib and you couldn’t believe it.

Cregan found you still on the doorway, smiling, and as he followed your eyes…

“It appears that she wasn’t hunting”, you told Cregan, and he only laughed loudly, “she was having pups of her own”, you said with a smile. Autumn laid down at the foot of the crib, and towards the door, protecting her cubs, all of them.

“What a great thing”

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@lyannesworld @arujee @kamisunshine @mss-nthng @partypoison00 @grimistangel @elleclairez @may-machin @prettykinkysoul @justagurlwithships @champomiel

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More notes: that “speech” is from my favorite movie, “Secondhand Lions”, my comfort movie, and those words are what I sometimes have to remember myself hehe

#misguidedwinter #cregan stark x reader #cregan #cregan x reader #cregan stark #targaryen!reader #hbo house of the dragon #house of the dragon #house targaryen #house stark #targaryen!oc

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