#When Will Aspen Falls Return From The War
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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 12: And I'm Just The Boy Who's Had Too Many Chances]
Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…
Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), snack time for Sunfyre, dream sequences, murder, sad sad children, the return of an old friend, a road trip (boat trip??)! 🥰
Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.
Chapter title is a lyric from: “A Little Less Sixteen Candles, a Little More Touch Me” by Fall Out Boy.
Word count: 6.2k.
Link to chapter list: HERE.
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She is the third prisoner you have visited in the dwindling hours of their life, as if you are a dark omen, a giver of last rites, the Stranger. Otto was resigned. Baela was overconfident, unsuspecting. But the woman behind the iron bars now—the one the people of Westeros are calling the half-year queen—is restless and pacing like a trapped animal. Her gown is black velvet with gore-scarlet accents. Her long silver hair hangs tangled and limp. You reach into her cell to place two items on the stone floor: a piece of bread, a cup of tea.
“Poison?” Rhaenyra says, sharp, derisive.
“No,” you answer truthfully.
“Why not?”
“Because that would be painless. And I want you to suffer.”
“What happened to you?” she whispers, stunned.
I lived, I died, I was resurrected. “I’m a different person now. We all are.”
“You have aligned yourself with the Usurper. You must have, you would not be permitted to visit me alone otherwise. You have betrayed me. You have betrayed House Celtigar. How could you? I remember how gentle you once were, how kind. I remember your father telling me how you begged him to let you serve in the war as a healer. You just wanted to stop people’s agony. You would tend to men of any allegiance. You were harmless. You were a saint, an angel.”
“The world clipped my wings, it seems.”
“Where is my son?” Rhaenyra demands.
“Wherever the king wishes for him to be.”
It leaps into Rhaenyra’s face: terror, helplessness, desperation. She rushes towards you and grabs for your hands, her arms jutting through the spaces between the iron bars until the metal digs into her shoulders, until the rust leaves stains on her gown. You rip away from her, feeling no mercy at all. “Please,” Rhaenyra whimpers. “Please. Don’t harm my son.”
“It is not my decision to make.”
“He’s all I have left.” She is weeping; she is lurking in the doorway between reason and insanity. “The people turned against me. They killed Syrax, they killed Joffrey. The Dragonpit is gone. My family is gone. Daemon is gone. The prince is all I have left now. Please, please…”
“You could have stopped this,” you say, cold like a blade. “When your father died, you refused to yield the throne. When you captured King’s Landing, you refused Alicent’s proposal to split the realm between you and Aegon. And even now—hated by the smallfolk, staring death in the face—you refuse to surrender. You refuse to kneel to Aegon and send the Stark men back to the North and end the slaughter. Every drop of blood spilled in this war is on your hands. You are filthy with it, you are nothing but red. You took them all from us. Jaehaerys, Maelor, Otto, Helaena, Autumn’s baby, Everett, Criston, Daeron, Aemond. I charge you with their deaths. Your life is the only possible repayment for the debt.”
“Help me and I will give you anything you want,” Rhaenyra pleads. “Free me. Assist me and my son in escaping Dragonstone. I will go to Cregan Stark, he will shelter me, and when he has won the war for us I will lay the world at your feet. I will give House Celtigar dominion over all the Crownlands, you will be second only to the Targaryens in regard. I will appoint Clement to my Queensguard and name you the head of your house. You can spend your wealth as you see fit. You can marry anyone, or no one, or marry a man and push him from a cliff and then marry again. None of it matters to me. Help me now, and I will make you free forever.”
“I won’t help you murder Aegon.”
“He’s dead either way. Only Aemond and Vhagar could stop the Northmen, and they’re gone.”
That’s not true. That can’t be true. “Enjoy your last meal, dragon queen,” you tell Rhaenyra as you turn away. “The king has a fitting end planned for you.”
When you cross through the dungeons into the main castle—your gown fluttering around your ankles, vivid red velvet like fire, like blood—Lord Larys Strong is waiting. He trots after you as quickly as he can, his cane striking loudly against the stone floor. “Your Grace, I must implore you to beseech the king to spare the boy’s life.”
“It’s for Aegon to decide what to do with him.” Presently, Rhaenyra’s last remaining child is locked up in the bedchamber once claimed by Prince Aemond. He is young, afraid, watchful, old far beyond his years…but he is unharmed. Two servants and two guards have been assigned to the boy to ensure his needs are attended to and that he cannot escape. The small entourage that Rhaenyra landed on Dragonstone with—expecting to be greeted by Baela and Moondancer, and swiftly disappointed—was executed immediately.
“He is an invaluable asset to our cause,” Larys insists. “The king needs an heir. Jaehaera, as a girl, cannot inherit. But if she was married to Aegon the Younger, they could unite the warring factions and end any enduring ill-will. Their union could pave the way for peace that will last generations.”
“And that’s what we fought for, so little girls could go on being traded like horses and shoved into whichever marriage bed promises the rest of us the greatest advantage.”
Larys is hurt; you have chastised him for something he has no control over. “That is the way of the world, Your Grace. Marriages are arranged. Women are bartered with. The poor die for the rich and cripples are overlooked entirely. There is no changing any of this, it is madness to try.”
“Oh, are any of us not mad yet?” you quip back, sweeping into Aegon’s bedchamber. Larys breaks away, leaving you and the king alone.
Aegon is standing in front of his mirror. He wears all black, his sword and dagger at his belt, his scars on his face, the Conqueror’s crown glinting with rubies. He rubs at his lower back and winces without realizing he’s doing it. His kidneys, you think with dismay. Aegon says as he stares at his reflection, only half-joking: “Who is that?”
You go to him, lay two fingers on the line of his jaw and turn his face to yours, kiss the rough red scar tissue of his right cheek and then his lips, wet with wine. “I think you should spare the boy.”
“So he can marry Jaehaera someday?” Aegon replies cynically.
“No.” You touch your forehead to his and close your eyes. “Because mercy is increasingly rare, and once the last of it is gone what made us ourselves will be too. He’s just a child.”
“So were Jaehaerys and Maelor. So was Autumn’s son. The Blacks murder children.”
“Yes. But you don’t have to.”
Now Aegon is quiet, gentle. “Show me your hand.”
You give it to him, hastily scrubbed and bandaged the night before. He unwraps the linen and examines your palm, split down the center with a shallow gash surrounded by rusty smudges of dried blood. Aegon presses your hand to his face and inhales deeply, then cleans the maroon stains from your skin with his tongue. He grins, dazed with wine and milk of the poppy. “I can’t waste a drop of you.” And when he kisses your lips he tastes like copper and dreams and the ancient salt of the ocean that breaks against the rocks outside.
Aegon staggers around his room collecting items you once used to save his life: linen, vinegar, rose oil. He wants to take care of you this time, he wants to mend the flesh that once patched his back together. He remembers the steps, you observe; he reenacts them with reverent care.
“I shouldn’t have pushed you away last night,” Aegon says as he tends to your hand. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I’m sorry.”
“You were in shock. You were grieving.”
“What did the witch tell you? You said that’s why you harmed yourself.”
Horrible things. Unbelievable things. “She swore she didn’t know what would happen to Aemond. And that their son will become a knight of House Whent.”
“House Whent? I must have slept through that lesson.”
“For once, your educational apathy is not at fault. It doesn’t exist. Not yet, anyway.”
“I’ll scorch the rubble of Harrenhal,” he says, dark and low. “I’ll have her tortured to death. She took Aemond from us.”
You reply softly: “Killing Alys won’t bring him back.” And if her son is real, he is the only piece of Aemond we have left.
Now there are tears in Aegon’s eyes; he blinks them away so he can see well enough to finish bandaging your hand. “He was there when I was burned. He was there when I broke my legs. He was there for me when I had nothing to give him in return. He shouldered the burdens of ruling without ever trying to take the throne.”
“Yes, he did.”
“I never told him what he meant to me.”
“But he still knew.”
Your hand is your own again. You braid a lock of Aegon’s short silver hair, remembering the first time you ever did: he was a dying adversary, you were a Black loyalist destined to marry Cregan Stark. “The boy can live,” Aegon decides. “But he must learn the price of treason.”
Down on the beach, the guards have driven a stake deep into the sand. The midday sky is thick and tumultuous with dark clouds; the waves of the Narrow Sea thrash and roil, lethal undercurrents, surging riptides. Aegon insists on descending the craggy stone staircase himself, not like an invalid but like a king. He moves haltingly, clutching at the wall for support. By the time he reaches the shore, Aegon’s legs are trembling wildly and his face is flushed, agonized, drenched with sweat despite the metallic chill of winter in the air. One of the maesters fetches Aegon a cup of milk of the poppy and he gulps it down so urgently that opalescent beads of liquid escape to roll down his chin. Lord Larys appears to stand beside him, both hands laced over the handle of his cane.
Now the guards are roping Rhaenyra to the stake. She wears the same gown she arrived in: filthy, ripped, ruined from travelling. She does not fight them; she only asks: “Where is my son? Where is the prince?”
And then she spots him. His tiny hands are clasped by guards. The wind rakes at his silver hair. He is confused, frightened, peering around with huge glistening eyes that are a murky blue like the king’s. He must be about five years old now. He has been led to the beach to watch his mother die. You glance uneasily at Aegon. He does not notice; he attention is fixed on Rhaenyra.
“How did it feel, sister?” Aegon calls out to her. Something glows fierce and mindless behind his eyes, something devours ravenously like fire.
Rhaenyra watches him warily, not understanding. At the edge of the beach, curled in on himself and breathing in slow rattling heaves, Sunfyre glares at the half-year queen.
“My father’s love. I never knew it.” Aegon lurches closer, grinning without any humor, baring his teeth like an animal. “I knew other things, sure. I knew his indifference. I knew his fury. I knew his boots and his contempt. But I never knew his love. Neither did Aemond, though he worked for it, worked himself bloody. Neither did Helaena or Daeron or my mother. Did it keep you warm, Rhaenyra? Did you spend your childhood so instinctively aware that there were always hands waiting to catch you?”
“I had my trials too, brother,” Rhaenyra says, her head held high and defiant. “I lost people. I was compelled marry against my wishes.”
“And you found solace in the arms of others, the same as I did!” Aegon roars. “And Father defended you! He saw proof of your failings—obvious, indelible proof—and he didn’t just forgive it, he erased it, he made it a crime to mention it, your sons cut out Aemond’s eye and still all Father could bring himself to care about was your honor, your wellbeing! Well, he’s gone now, Rhaenyra. Your protector is ashes but I’m still here. The throne is mine. The retribution is mine. And your life is mine too.”
“You will not live a month after me!” she hisses into bitingly cold wind. “The wolves are closing in. Winter is coming. Cregan Stark is the Kingmaker now, it is a title he wears with great pride. He will not pardon your treason. He will have the Boltons flay you alive.”
Aegon cackles; he is toying with her. “Why would the wolves want my skin? It is not so handsome now. Shall I tell you what it was like when Meleys burned me at Rook’s Rest? It was the worst pain imaginable. I begged to die. But I didn’t. An angel brought me back from the dead. And now it’s your turn to burn.” Aegon shouts something to Sunfyre in High Valyrian. Sluggishly, the dragon uncoils himself and ventures towards Rhaenyra, sniffling, salivating. His claws sink into the wet sand; his belly drags on the ground. His golden eyes glint with wounded reptilian wrath.
“Mama!” her son wails, struggling against his captors.
“No, no, don’t cry,” she soothes. She is beginning to sob. “Don’t look, baby. Close your eyes. Don’t cry. Mama isn’t scared. Mama loves you. Now close your eyes and don’t open them no matter what you hear—”
“It’s such a shame that our uncle Daemon is at the bottom of the Gods Eye,” Aegon taunts Rhaenyra. “You two were made for each other. Treacherous, grasping, scheming, beloved by Father in measure that far exceeds your worthiness. What a fated romance. You built such an infamous legacy together. You should have been set ablaze together.”
“Mama!” the little boy screams.
“Dracarys,” Aegon commands Sunfyre. The beast growls at Rhaenyra but does no more than that. He is weak, he is dying. Aegon tries again, almost manic with pain: “Dracarys!”
You lay your bandaged palm on Aegon’s forearm to calm him. “Let Sunfyre smell her blood,” you murmur, and with trembling hands he gives you the dagger that he uses to cut his hair, that you opened your flesh with to summon Alys Rivers and her terrible prophesies. You cross the sand to meet the Black Queen.
“Don’t hurt her!” Rhaenyra’s son shrieks. “Mama! Mama!”
Rhaenyra is bound around her legs, waist, and shoulders; her lower arms hang free and useless. You take her left hand, turn it over, and press the point of the dagger to her wrist. You have done this once before, when you tested Baela for a pulse; now it comes just as easily. As you glide the blade down Rhaenyra’s wrist and open her veins, Rhaenyra says, hushed and venomous: “You have sold your soul, Lady Celtigar. And in the service of a dead man. I hope it was worth it.”
Still gripping the dripping dagger, you leave her and go to her son. Behind you, you can hear Sunfyre snarling and Rhaenyra moaning in dread. As the boy bawls, you wave the guards away and pull him to you, embracing him, shielding him. “Don’t look,” you whisper; and he clutches you like you once held onto Aemond on this beach after Aegon’s legs were shattered, not because he wants to but because you are here, and because you understand the weight of horror like this, the poison that replicates in the marrow of your bones, the debt that can never be paid.
There is heat, a blistering inferno, and a scream that Rhaenyra cannot bite back. You squeeze your eyes shut and breathe in the sickeningly sweet miasma of seared human flesh, and suddenly you are back at Rook’s Rest as Aemond dragged you through the burning woods where embers fell like snow, into the tent of green canvas, to the table where Aegon writhed and suffered and pleaded for death. There are sounds of tearing and crushing. There are dry snaps that can only be Rhaenyra’s charred bones splitting between Sunfyre’s jaws. The dead woman’s son clings to you, and you look across the beach at Aegon. He gazes back, and something flits across his eyes, glassy with pain and exhaustion and wine and milk of the poppy, and he knows he’s done wrong. There is shame. There is an apology, not to the boy but to you. To all the bright, benevolent mercy that his war has carved out of you. Then the king collapses, drained and unconscious on the cold sand.
Aegon is carried to his rooms. The child—in shock, in hysterics—is dosed with a few drops of essence of nightshade by the maesters and put to bed. You go to the castle library and pour over books searching for how to cure ailments of the kidneys, for any scrap of wisdom you might have missed before. You read until you fall asleep with your cheek resting against pages chronicling the signs of doom: paleness, weakness, no appetite, swelling in the hands and feet, pain in the lower back, blood in the urine. Night descends like a wave that pulls you under. Candles flicker on the table. Lord Larys leaves you bread and wine and a bowl of crab soup in case you wake hungry before dawn.
You don’t know that by the time you rise in the morning, the Master of Whisperers will have received word that Borros Baratheon’s army seized the capital for Aegon and sent out calls for the king in hiding to return to the city. It’s time to sail across Blackwater Bay to King’s Landing. It’s time for Aegon to go home.
~~~~~~~~~~
On your last night in the gloomy, beast-haunted walls of Dragonstone, you dream of Alicent’s youngest child Daeron. You are walking on the beach outside, and you know this isn’t real because the sand is warm and golden, and the sky is a cloudless blue, and winter is nowhere to be found, it is summer now and it will be tomorrow and it will be forever after that as well. Daeron soars down to where the serene crystalline waves meet the shore on Tessarion, and the swanlike Blue Queen waits patiently in the frothing surf as her rider strides over to meet you. He stands tall and proud; his long white-blond hair whips in the sunlit wind; he is beaming. His cape billows out behind him like the sails of a ship. He is clothed in bright cheerful seafoam green, just like he was on the day he died.
“I’m so sorry, Daeron,” you say as the sunshine beats down like heavy rain. “You were too young. You deserved more time.”
But Daeron just grins, crooked and cocky. “Do not mourn for me, sister. I was blessed with a hero’s death. There is no better way to leave this earth than in battle. And I roasted as many of those bastards as I could before the end.”
“Why have you come back?”
“I have a favor to ask,” he says; and only now do his large blue eyes go soft and misty. “When you return my cape to Mother, ask her to burn it. She will want to bury it in accordance with the funeral customs of the Faith of the Seven, but I want to be laid to rest as a true Targaryen. There’s no chance for my body. Your wolf threw me into a mass grave.”
“I don’t belong to Cregan Stark.”
“Someone should tell him that.” Daeron sighs. “I miss Aegon. We all do. Things are clearer where I am now. Things like disappointment and bitterness are just words; we’ve forgotten how to feel them. But we do know absence. And we see how he suffers.”
“What can I do to heal him?” you ask, you plead. “I’ll do anything. What can I do?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Daeron says. Then he treks back to Tessarion and they vanish together into a clear summer sky, a fleeting glimmer of ethereal blue like a comet.
~~~~~~~~~~
Aegon is kneeling by Sunfyre, his hand on the dragon’s clever, angular face. The beast is dead. He ceased his labored, clattering breathing in the night and was gone long before the king struggled out of his nest of blankets; Aegon is always cold now. Sunfyre is at peace, he is reunited with the fallen creatures of his kind, Tessarion and Vhagar and Dreamfyre…but the world has so much less magic in it than it did before.
“Your Grace, we must leave now,” Larys nudges, sympathetic yet insistent. At the end of the pier, a small ship bobs in rough slate-grey waves. Everyone else is already aboard, the servants, the guards, the maesters, the captive child. You touch Aegon’s shoulder, knowing what he is thinking: Everything I own, everything I’m given…it is destroyed, gets killed, goes mad. I ruin causes. I ruin people.
“He can’t be gone,” Aegon says numbly. “I don’t know how to live without him. I can’t remember a time before he was mine.”
“He held on as long as he could for you,” you tell Aegon. “He saved your life more than once. He lived and died in your service.”
“I want monuments built for him,” Aegon says, sniffling and swiping away tears. His ring—gold wings, jade eyes—flashes under scant beams of muted sunlight. “And for my brothers, and for Helaena, and for Criston and Otto and the children. Daeron’s statues should be laughing, and Aemond’s should be fierce, and…and…”
“Anything you want, Your Grace,” Larys agrees. “But first we must go home.”
There are jubilant crowds waiting to welcome Aegon into King’s Landing, and not just Baratheon soldiers whose fortunes are staked upon his victory but bakers, butchers, blacksmiths, tailors, potters, drunks, orphans, widows, actors and madams and whores. They do not flinch away when they see his dragonfire scars or his slow, painful gait. They only cheer more deafeningly. They see in him what they all have known: the feeling of being broken, the hope of being resurrected as something greater. They believe he can win the war for them. They believe he can keep the wolves at bay. Meanwhile, Larys smuggles Rhaenyra’s child into the city in an enclosed carriage; he does not want the masses to rip the Blacks’ heir apart piece by piece.
In the Red Keep, Alicent flies through the corridors to rush into the unsteady arms of her last living child, her only son. She is skin and bones, an auburn-haired ghost with translucent skin and fingers knobby with arthritis. She kisses his face and weeps and spills out a litany of mourning for Helaena, Daeron, Aemond, Criston. Aegon tries to soothe her, but he doesn’t know what to say. There are no clocks to turn back or nightmares to startle awake from. This is the world now, there is no escaping it, what is lost will forever remain ashes or earth or bones at the bottom of the Gods Eye.
Along with Alicent emerges Jaehaera, much the same as you remember her, a bit taller, grave for someone so young, but still with Aegon’s oceanic eyes and high cheekbones and the gentleness that he used to have so much more of. The girl does not seem to have much interest in her father—if she recognizes him at all—but smiles and waves timidly at you from behind the skirts of her protector. And this is a face you remember too: a wry smirk, hazel eyes, skin milky and freckled, framed by long coppery ringlets.
“I’m glad you’re still alive, my lady,” Autumn says. “Have you bought me a castle yet?”
~~~~~~~~~~
When you dream of Helaena, she is sitting on the rim of a fountain in the gardens of the Red Keep. Her gown is a soft butter yellow and her hands are crawling with butterflies. They perch on her fingers like rings: ruby, sapphire, amethyst, moonstone, emerald, gold. It is warm, it is summer. It is always summer in the land of ghosts. You join Helaena, and butterflies form a kaleidoscopic blizzard in the air. The water spouting from the fountain trickles cool and clear.
“I didn’t know you were going to jump,” you tell her. “I would have stopped you. I’m sorry I was too late. I’m sorry I looked away.”
“Things are better where I am now,” Helaena says. “It’s miles and miles of gardens. Jaehaerys and Maelor are there. Daeron and Aemond are there. Grandsire is there too, and we all eat supper together each night, and no one ever argues. Everett is there with Autumn’s baby. He is a joyful little thing, he sleeps and smiles and never cries. Everett carries the baby as he walks through the gardens. At night, Everett reads to us. He loves to read. He and Aemond have struck up quite the rapport. And there is no killing. Everyone is already dead.”
You watch her, a tenderhearted sunlit spirit. “What do you need from me, Helaena? Why have you come back?”
“I was not able to be a good mother in life. But now I see my children as they truly are.” She gazes at you with urgency in her eyes like rainwater, orchids, aquamarines. “Jaehaera is so young, so vulnerable. To be a woman at the mercy of men is a terrible thing. She will require a champion in high places.”
And you picture her: the little girl who looks so much like Aegon, the child who is sweet and compliant and forever trying so hard to be brave. “I’ll always do what I can to protect her.”
“You must whisper into the right ears. You are believed to be merciful; you must be seen to act out of mercy, not for love of who her father was.”
Who her father was, not is. Was. “Helaena—”
“If she is seen as a rival, she will be put to death. Please don’t let them kill her. Please let one of my babies grow up.”
“I promise I’ll help Jaehaera, but Helaena—”
She leans in and grabs your face with her right hand, butterflies still gleaming on her fingers like jewels. “It’s time to wake up now.”
And you fall backwards into the fountain that turns from water to air to the feather mattress of Aegon’s bedchamber.
~~~~~~~~~~
“After Rhaenyra killed my boy, I knew where I had to go.”
When the Baratheons took the city and freed Alicent, she arranged for Helaena’s old rooms to be given to Autumn. You sit by the crackling fire with her as Jaehaera and Aegon the Younger play with wooden blocks across the bedchamber, speaking to each other in tentative, bashful murmurs. They do not comprehend that their families slaughtered each other. They are two lonely, profoundly wounded children, building kinship out of loss and ignorance. Rhaenyra’s son has swiftly become attached to Autumn; he trails after her everywhere, clutches at her skirts, reaches up to ask her to hold him. She has lost one silver-haired child, yes, brutally, horribly; but she has gained two.
“Everett helped arrange for me to escape to Storm’s End,” Autumn continues, sipping hot apple cider to warm her as winter bears down upon the Crownlands. You have a cup too; steam curls up from the amber brew like smoke from a dragon’s jaws. What dragon? you think. They’re nearly all dead now. Autumn looks at you with sad, shining eyes. “You have to believe me when I say that I never loved the king. But I grew to love the baby we made together. And when he was taken from me…when he was dragged out of my arms, still wet with blood from the womb, I…I…” She shakes her head, swallows down the longing that will never quite leave her. “I felt that if I could not be with my own child, at least I could be with his sister, a girl who was so alone in the world.” Now Autumn smiles. “I know I called her an inbred little freak before. That was cruel of me. She isn’t so bad. I love her to death, actually. I would break bones for that kid. She never complains. She tries her best at everything. It’s not her fault she’s inbred.”
“Borros Baratheon let you stay in Storm’s End?” you ask; he is not known to be a generous or trusting man.
Autumn shrugs. “Jaehaera recognized me. She was able to confirm that I had been a handmaiden to the Greens. Lord Borros took some convincing, but…no harm was done. We came to an agreement.”
“I’m so sorry, Autumn,” you say solemnly. “I wish I could have done more for you. But things are different now. You’ll never have to sell your body again.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. The wolves will be knocking on our doors within the week. Whichever way it goes, I intend to survive. I always have, I always will. Whatever it takes.” She peers through the window at dim grey skies, at bare tree limbs. “You heard about what happened to Everett?”
Alys’ vision flares in your skull like lightning, like dragonfire. “Yes.”
“I can’t even blame the people,” Autumn says. “They hated Rhaenyra, and rightly. They hated her for Helaena, for Jaehaerys and Maelor, for my son. They didn’t know the difference. They thought one Celtigar man was just as guilty as the next. Now Everett is dead, his body parts squirreled away in a hundred different households as souvenirs, and from what I understand when Rhaenyra was driven from the city Clement rode north to join Cregan Stark.”
“Of course he did,” you mutter bleakly.
“Angel, the king…he’s…he’s not well, is he? He doesn’t look well. He looks like a dead man. He’s so pale, so slow when he walks, and his eyes are sunken way down in their sockets—”
“He’s healing,” you say, and Autumn just stares at you. “He’s been through suffering, terrible suffering, but when the war is over he’ll finally be able to rest. He’ll get better. He has to get better.”
“Of course,” Autumn agrees; but she bites her lip and takes your hand and holds it so tightly it hurts.
That night as Aegon crawls into bed—the same bed that was his when you were first brought to King’s Landing, the bed where you healed his burns and massaged rose oil into his scar tissue and ensured that the milk of the poppy he received was enough to kill his pain but not his body, the same bed where you fell in love with him—he gathers you into his arms and draws you closer, closer, your head against his scarred chest, his heartbeat slow and drumming beneath your fingerprints.
Aegon says: “Someone finally remembered that Corlys Velaryon was locked up down in the dungeons and set him loose. He has joined my cause in exchange for our assurance that Rhaena will never be mistreated. I’ve told Corlys that Daeron killed Baela and Moondancer. He has accepted this as one of the many tragedies of the war, and he harbors no resentment towards you. And don’t think that I’ve slandered Daeron. He would gladly take the credit if he was here.”
“I’ve done so many unforgiveable things,” you marvel.
“Yes, for me. Only for me. I bear the weight of those sins, not you. Now let me distract you from them.”
But he can’t do it, not any of it; he’s too weak, he’s bloodless, he’s empty. He’s panting out apologies and calling himself useless. You’re trying to console him. You kiss his face, his throat, his chest, all the ruined pieces of him. You tell him you’re not disappointed, that you can try again later.
“I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—”
“Shh, shh. It’s alright, Aegon.”
“It’s not,” he moans, eyes closed, already plummeting into unconsciousness. “But I don’t have a choice.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Aemond is in the rookery of the Red Keep, scrawling letters at the writing desk. Ravens squawk and paw at the bars of their cages. He wears a deep ancient green that makes you think of pine trees, swamps, snakes, lizard-lions. His silver hair is tied back in a single thick braid, as if he might be hurrying off to ride Vhagar into battle soon, as if he might roast the Northmen in their armor. But of course, Aemond can do no such thing. Not anymore.
“It’s cold at the bottom of the Gods Eye,” he says without looking at you.
“You’re still there?”
“I’m everywhere and I’m nowhere. It’s strange. Sometimes I’m in the water. Sometimes I’m in the gardens. Sometimes I’m watching Alys. Sometimes I’m watching you.” He turns around, and you see that he is grinning. His eyepatch is gone and his sapphire glittering, just like it was that night on Dragonstone. “But perhaps that is not so welcome a thought.”
“I wish you would have listened to us,” you say, not with anger but with deep, desperate sorrow. “I wish you could have understood the worth you had and stopped chasing phantoms.”
“I believed that by redeeming myself, I could save my family. You think if you take enough lives Aegon will get to keep his. We’ve all made mistakes. But now the debts have been called in. And there’s nowhere for us to go but down.”
I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to imagine it. “What do you need from me, Aemond? You need something. Everyone does.”
“Please do not harm Alys,” Aemond says, calm, courteous. “She was good to me. She loved me, and I loved her, even if that love was woven of dark, destructive threads. And my son…” Aemond smiles, proud and wistful. “He will have a part to play in what comes next.”
“I miss you,” you say, almost like an apology. “More than I thought I would.”
“I did not always treat you fairly. I did not always conduct myself in the most honorable manner. It is a regret of mine.”
“I’ve already forgiven you.”
“I know,” he says with his sly, taunting smirk. Then he stands and crosses the rookery, and just as he strikes out to catch your forearm you startle awake in a cold, dark room. You roll over, move closer to Aegon, watch his chest so you can tell if he’s still breathing.
~~~~~~~~~~
In the morning, Aegon wakes up alone. This is not unusual; he sleeps at least twelve hours a day now, and when you rise you go about your tasks until he catches up with you. He fumbles for the cup of milk of the poppy that you left for him on the bedside table and takes a swig. It’s enough to bring the pain in his legs and his back and his soul down to an ache, but he is never rid of it. He wonders, as he twirls the drained cup between his fingers, just how much it would take to kill someone. He wonders how much you gave to Baela in the dungeons of Dragonstone.
Aegon tries to climb out of bed but ends up stumbling to the floor instead. He tries to stand and can’t manage it. Groaning, hating himself, he scrabbles around under the bed for the porcelain chamber pot. He grabs it just as the situation is about to get even more mortifying, kneels on the floor, and relieves himself, sighing deeply. He yanks back up his cotton sleeping trousers and ties them snugly around his ever-shrinking waist. Then he looks down.
“Oh fuck,” he exhales in a whisper, hidden like a crime. The chamber pot is full of blood.
I have to throw it somewhere. I can’t let her see it. He peers around frantically. Out the window?? Into a potted plant??
He doesn’t want the servants to deal with it; they might gossip, she might hear them. Aegon is still thinking—no simple undertaking through the haze of milk of the poppy—when he hears footsteps in the doorway.
“Seven hells,” Autumn gasps. Her horrified gaze darts from the bloody chamber pot to the king and back to the porcelain bowl of blood, a bright and unmistakable and murderous red. “I’m sorry, Your Grace…I was looking for extra blankets…the children have never known a winter before and they are cold, and I…” Her eyes snag on the blood again like a fish on a hook. “Oh. Oh gods.”
“Don’t tell her,” Aegon pleads. “She can’t cope with it. She doesn’t want to believe it. I haven’t figured out how to tell her yet. Please don’t say anything.”
“Of course I won’t,” Autumn replies, tenderly now, tears brimming in her small hazel eyes. She knows exactly what it feels like to lose the man you love. “Here,” she says, pointing to the chamber pot. “Let me help you get rid of that.”
#aegon ii targaryen#aegon targaryen#aegon targaryen ii#aegon ii#aegon targaryen x reader#aegon x reader
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Hazel Hunkins was born in Aspen, Colorado, USA on 6th June 1890. Her mother, Ann Whittingham, had been born in England and emigrated to America as a young child. Her father, a Civil War veteran, Lewis Hunkins, was from Massachusetts, and was a jeweller and watchmaker: he died when she was thirteen, but this did not prevent her from attending Vassar College, although in order to qualify she had to go to Mt Ida school to remedy some of the defects of her local education system. But early this century Hazel Hunkins demonstrated a determination that is not all that common among women today despite the twentieth century ‘achievements’: she wanted to be a scientist.
Her childhood, she says, in Billings, Montana, was as happy as any child could wish and was crowned with four glorious years at Vassar and then a wonderful job when she graduated in 1913. For three years she taught at the University of Missouri and began working on a Master's Degree in chemistry (on the possible differences between atomic weight of a lead extract and radio active rock), immensely enjoying her work - and her independence. But then her mother became ill and she was called home: 'Although my brother was at home it was the girl who was the one who had to come home and take care of parents.' she said. She gave up her job, and her research (which was never completed) and returned to her home town.
'I was just stuck there,' she said; and there was nothing she could do. There was temporary relief when she got a job in the local high school and thought she would be teaching science - but her hopes were quickly dashed when she found that was not to be.
'I had spent years being trained as a chemist. I had taken every chemistry course there was at Vassar and I thought I'd be able to teach chemistry. Then I discovered, "Oh no, we only have men teaching chemistry and physics - you will have to teach geography and botany." I knew nothing about botany. I knew nothing about geography. But that's what I had to teach. Only men had chemistry and physics - and so that was one of my first real blows about the limitations that were placed on women. It wasn't very tragic, but to a young girl it was tragic.' (Hunkins Hallinan, 1977)
Then came the summer, the summer of 1916: 'It was a summer of despair and unhappiness,' Hazel Hunkins Hallinan said, 'I was just waiting for time to pass.' At twenty-six, highly trained, wanting to work and do something worthwhile, wanting a purpose, and independence, she was forced into this passive and unpalatable existence. She had systematically written to every chemistry laboratory from one side of the United States to the other trying to obtain a job as an industrial chemist: her applications and correspondence were feet high. And she had for her efforts received over two hundred letters of rejection which simply stated 'We do not employ women as chemists.'
In her opinion many women come to understand the nature and extent of their oppression through their experiences in the workforce. Childhood, school, and even college can provide a relatively protected space where it is possible to rationalise that women are free to make their own choices and to stand or fall by their own efforts. But when confronted with blatant discrimination in employment this rationalisation can quickly disappear and women are obliged to face the fact that they are women and that their choices and opportunities are circumscribed - in the interest of men. It was the acknowledgment that she could not by her own efforts shape her own life and that this was the case for women in general that made a fervid feminist of Hazel Hunkins Hallinan.
-Dale Spender, There’s Always Been a Women’s Movement This Century
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Andrea Gibson - Birthday
At 12 years old I started bleeding with the moon
and beating up boys who dreamed of becoming astronauts.
I fought with my knuckles white as stars,
and left bruises the shape of Salem.
There are things we know by heart,
and things we don’t.
At 13 my friend Jen tried to teach me how to blow rings of smoke.
I’d watch the nicotine rising from her lips like halos,
but I could never make dying beautiful.
The sky didn’t fill with colors the night I convinced myself
veins are kite strings you can only cut free.
I suppose I love this life,
in spite of my clenched fist.
I open my palm and my lifelines look like branches from an Aspen tree,
and there are songbirds perched on the tips of my fingers,
and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath
the first time his fingers touched the keys
the same way a soldier holds his breath
the first time his finger clicks the trigger.
We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.
But my lungs remember
the day my mother took my hand and placed it on her belly
and told me the symphony beneath was my baby sister’s heartbeat.
And I knew life would tremble
like the first tear on a prison guard’s hardened cheek,
like a prayer on a dying man’s lips,
like a vet holding a full bottle of whisky like an empty gun in a war zone
just take me
just take me
Sometimes the scales themselves weigh far too much,
the heaviness of forever balancing blue sky with red blood.
We were all born on days when too many people died in terrible ways,
but you still have to call it a birthday.
You still have to fall for the prettiest girl on the playground at recess
and hope she knows you can hit a baseball
further than any boy in the whole third grade
And I’ve been running for home
through the windpipe of a man who sings
while his hands playing washboard with a spoon
on a street corner in New Orleans
where every boarded up window is still painted with the words
We’re Coming Back
like a promise to the ocean
that we will always keep moving towards the music,
the way Basquait slept in a cardboard box to be closer to the rain.
Beauty, catch me on your tongue.
Thunder, clap us open.
The pupils in our eyes were not born to hide beneath their desks.
Tonight lay us down to rest in the Arizona dessert,
then wake us washing the feet of pregnant women
who climbed across the border with their bellies aimed towards the sun.
I know a thousand things louder than a soldier’s gun.
I know the heartbeat of his mother.
Don’t cover your ears, Love.
Don’t cover your ears, Life.
There is a boy writing poems in Central Park
and as he writes he moves
and his bones become the bars of Mandela’s jail cell stretching apart,
and there are men playing chess in the December cold
who can’t tell if the breath rising from the board
is their opponents or their own,
and there’s a woman on the stairwell of the subway
swearing she can hear Niagara Falls from her rooftop in Brooklyn,
and I’m remembering how Niagara Falls is a city overrun
with strip malls and traffic and vendors
and one incredibly brave river that makes it all worth it.
Y’all, I know this world is far from perfect.
I am not the type to mistake a streetlight for the moon.
I know our wounds are deep as the Atlantic.
But every ocean has a shoreline
and every shoreline has a tide
that is constantly returning
to wake the songbirds in our hands,
to wake the music in our bones,
to place one fearless kiss on the mouth of that brave river
that has to run through the center of our hearts
to find its way home.
- Birthday by Andrea Gibson
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Mountain's solitude
COD Modern Warfare fanfic 🌹
OC (Doe Sullivan) x Canon (141 ¬ a ship)
It's just a harmless short story, please don't eat me :( I assure you I own the games, I played the games and just have big ass luv for the world.
Warnings: OC stuff, mentions of violence/Gore, bad jokes, timeline alternation (AU), guns, mentions of body scars, should be safe otherwise ❤️
I am replaying MW2 remaster And I was simply too in love to not write about this (And also to take a load off of my friend's shoulder cause She had to listen to this for days)
After Doe returned from war, there wasn't much to do.
At first, she sat at the hotel, wondering what to do next. Since most of her adulthood was spent in the ranks of modern world's warriors, childhood in afterschool activities and teenagehood was just a feign memory of highschool - what was there to do for her now, that her contract ended? Idly sitting by the window in Manchester's all inclusive hotel, she sulked quietly. For the first time, there wasn't any urge to run, yell nor fire a gun - she had actual time to relax, be normal. "Gosh! I'll go crazy if I don't do something..." Doe stood up, her eyes lazily giving a judgemental look to her small portion of wardrobe. First thing she should do is definitely shopping. Having finally time to go back to civil life, she realized how much of daily life necessities she missed. For example a house - or an apartment. Yet Doe was falling short in terms of where to live. She came down to the front desk, to give the attendant her keycard. "What's the plan for today, miss Sullivan?" He asked her as he neatly slid the card across to her shelf.
"I don't know, any recommendations?" She smirked at him. Her hair was in these months much darker, framing her softly lined eyes with that strange, yet enigmatic look in them. Around people, she wore a mask that covered her nose and cheeks, pretending it was just a fancy way to dress these days. "You know, miss Sullivan, i tought you're a nurse." He mentioned briefly, trying to figure out her backstory like it was sort of detective case. The attendant didn't know, that this simple guess out of silliness meant Doe regained sense of direction. Her eyes fell on a prospect of a cabin in the woods.
....Cabin in the woods....
Four years later
Doe got up early in the morning - usually. Today she slept in, to give her feet and muscles a rest after yesterday's climbing session in snowfall. Getting out of her bed, her feet getting shocker with cold floor as Doe yawned. Stretching her limbs out towards the ceiling, she begun walking leisurely to the staircase.
Spiral staircase, all lined up in the same wooden color as the rest of the cabin. Her movement around the house became automatic - as she exits the staircase, her finger automatically goes for the voicemail. Hoping she has free day out today, she listened to the sweet dial sound as voice she didn't hear since she went to battle in Caldera came thru. Doe paused, her body frozen in motion as her shoulders tensed. Of course it was John Price, asking for her advice in matters of current world's problems. She didn't find it perhaps that strange, since she did ocassionally work with CIA - however thru that, her superior would of course delegate all the necessities to her. Going around the kitchen desk, her eyes averted towards the voicemail, her hands stuck in air, watching nothing at all - face in disbelief. "Now how did he find me..." She murmured, deciding to pay it no mind. Whatever it was that he had to call her at midnight, it probably got resolved by now.
She had been living in mountains above city of Aspen for 4 years now. She moved up the hill after finishing her nursing course with honors, granting her the eligible skill to help out with search and rescue and of course, in local hospital when they called her in because of being severely understaffed. Ocassionally still helping CIA with whatever they needed her for at a time - consultations or singular recon missions. That kept Doe occupied most of the time, granting her no time to feel lonely and desperate - and if by any chance she had a free time, she'd go take her snow scooter for a spin. Loving the mountains, loving the snow and freedom it gave her as she played tag with the wind riding downhill from her cabin. This made her feel less lonely, reminding her of why she choose this direction in her life. She'd be lying if she said that beautiful interior was her handywork - on the contrary, she bought it because of how large it was. Small spaces made her feel anxious - now a soldier with phobia of tight spaces is a strange choice, but it was manageable as long as it was her work. The lady, or madam, that sold the cabin to her was already retired mother of four, thus the children bedrooms on the ground level floor. Doe never went there, if she doesn't count the ocassional moments of opening the ventilation to let the dust blow out. Turning her head, she looked out of the window. It stopped snowing. After constant grayness of the sky above, this was pleasantly welcome. No work was scheduled for today, allowing her to eat in peace. Playing with the ammount of cereals getting poured into ornamented bowl with Japanese art on it's side, she paused. Ear ripping sound of halo flying right overhead made her groan angrily. "Can't have moment..." She whispered, listening tightly. In the aerial zone of the mountains creating awful acoustic, it pained her greatly to be there to hear choppers or planes fly by. It was rare, and within a while it was gone. Yet today, the heli didn't seem to go away, rather sit down as an eagle registering presence of it's prey. Thinking it's search and rescue, she decided to go outside right away, instead of thinking about life over a bowl or cereal. Tossing on pair of leggins and camo printed jacket, Doe left the house. Alarm switched on at all times. Listening in on the sound of sudden silence, she realized the heli couldn't just land anywhere, nearest H was down in the valley. However the sound of it was stagnant for period long enough to let someone deploy. Starting her beloved scooter that purred in synthetic rhytm with her heart, she took a deep breath, pulling her goggles down so she can see where she's riding to. Used to pious loneliness, too much was happening at once and She needed to clear her head before her marbles get loose.
She loved the wind, combing thru her unbound hair. It was like she grew pair of wings, and for a moment the extasy of belonging hit her body - making her feel all okay. That was for a moment a man crossed her path, she'd almost have a first civil kill hasn't it been for her fast reflex of hitting the brakes before she could hit him. "Woah!" He yelped, almost falling down to his ass. "Woah? I almost killed you!" Doe hissed back, pulling her goggles out of her face. Not even then she realized that her face is all uncovered, showing her nasty scars framing her cheeks. Only when he stared her in the face, did Doe realize why. "What are you doing here?" She asked, voice lowering down briskly. It was simple question, altought she figured by his armor plate that he's one of the task force guys. Just stranded far away. "You're Sullivan right?" He answered with another question, his relaxed smile and teeth showing grin was offputting. Smothering.
"Gentleman doesn't ask, lady doesn't tell." She replied. He stood silly and dumbfounded. "Mactavish, was it?" That killed his childlike wonder, He probably wondered if he died so this unreal situation didn't happen. "How do you know?" He asked quietly. "I can read seargeant." He gazed down to his uniform and let out a desperate sight. "You got a point, lass." Slightly hunching his shoulders. Of course Doe realized who it was right away, she was there when he got that scar, Price was afraid he hit his head too hard that day. "What are you doing here anyway?" He asked in return, making Doe sigh slightly, getting quite confused by everything he does in his life. "I live here, sergeant." His lips did a little ,,Oh,,. He didn't know her personally, but He heard thing or two from Price. "So, I know I am different ward, but what's So urgent you're coming up the hill in full gear?" He was like a puppy, not even much younger than her yet he had so much life in him. Maybe staying with rangers, soundly, was much more healing than Caldera's burning warflames. "I am here to pick off the rookies. They got stuck in some cavern again." Explanation was enough to satisfy her. "Let me guess, Price?" Tilting her head, they both laughed at it. "Ey, sorry to tell you serg, but your rookies are probably still asleep down in the hotel." Doe explained. She wanted to wiggle out of this as soon as possible, but seeing his clueless face And the fact he never been to Aspen before, she sighed. "I'll give you a ride downtown, they came into the valley after doing whatever the poor squad of four was doing." Motioning for him to hop in, He eventually did. Probably wanting to also get back home to his family instead of freezing his bum out there. It took just few minutes before she parked at the tail end of the mountain. "Straight And then right on second row." She gave out the instructions. "Thank a lot, Sullivan." He yawned at her, showing thumbs up. At that she just nodded, pulling her goggles down again.
As she came back into her cabin, she didn't even notice the alarm wasn't turned on. Doe kicked off her shoes into the corner and walked towards the stairs right away to take shower. Humming melodies she used to listen to in the jeep's radio, she took her clothes off, folding them neatly on the laundry basket, never bothered to walk around like that - she lived alone afterall. The water rushing down created perfect ambience, shutting off the real world for few good minutes. When she got out, she walked back to her downstairs living room, putting in her music, finally enjoying the peace.
First new snowflakes fell down, signalizing the returnal of winter's grasp. She smiled to herself, resting her head on the couch's back when she heard someone knock on her door. Thinking she'll drift out without this disturbance, she coughed a little, forcing herself to get up and open the door to poor lost soul that happened to come across her doorstep.
However when she did, she stood there shocked.
"What Are you doing here?"
~
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"You have to talk to her," Frances took the hand of her friend Enid, watching her face glow red from the fires on the shore. "Her Majesty listens to you, she trusts you."
"Her Majesty will do what she so pleases, as is her right as sovereign," Enid replied. The light flickered off of the ambassador's emblem pinned to her shirt. "Tonight is the only night we should have to endure fires and bloodshed."
"We shouldn't be focused on olive branches with cowards hiding in the black," Frances shook her head. "We need to secure our own borders, weed out traitors, and bury them with their treacherous general."
"The traitors are already dying, Frances." Enid turned to her friend.
"There's no way the general acted alone, and there is no way he's the only one out there. We need to find them and execute them all before they can raise their arms--"
"Frances--" Enid took a moment to calm herself, to steady her breathing before she continued on. "You sound like our fathers. We are not our fathers. We are not warmongers anymore. We must not the withdrawal of conquest turn us against ourselves.
"Tell that to the traitors."
Enid sighed. In the distance, she saw fire and safety start the long work of dousing the fires. It would take them all night into the morning to clean it all up. "Her Majesty is the most despised monarch in our history. If we killed everyone that ever entertained a thought against her and her wishes for peace, there would be no country left."
"You're right." The queen's voice, as soft and agreeable as it was, struck the handmaidens' ears violently. They turned to their monarch and fell to their knees...none more eagerly so than Frances.
"Your Grace, forgive me--" Frances fear kept her nose down to the ground as Skylar approached them. A speck of blood struck the marble before her, and only then did she find the cautious courage to look up. She found the white of Skylar's gown soiled by the crimson stain on her shoulder. Slowly, the wound reddened her arm. "Your grace, your wound--!"
"In time." Skylar stepped towards her ambassador, helping her to her feet. "Thank you, for reminding me of how easy it is to fall back into yesterday's habits."
Instinct commanded the handmaidens to stand and follow Skylar to her writing desk. She sat down and began to pen a short letter. "Do you share Frances's concerns? About the meeting with the Shadows? Should I leave them and turn my concerns to my own critics?"
Enid and Frances shared a look. Enid struggled to dictate her heart into words. But eventually, when the words did come to her, they were simple and true. "This Pan and Molly, and the company they keep. If they were our allies tonight... the naval yard would not be burning. And General Arya would be in a cell, and not dead."
Skylar's pen paused. Her eyes flickered in the fiery light. After a moment, she returned her attention to her letter, finishing off the remaining sentences, signing it, and folding it in half. "Frances." Skylar turned to the left and found her handmaiden rushing to meet her gaze. "Carry this to the War Room. You will find General Langhorn and Spymaster Aspen awaiting my next command. This writ gives Aspen command over our forces until I name a replacement for Arya."
"Aspen?" Frances stammered. "Not Langhorn? She'll kill me if I give her this letter."
Skylar's wrist twisted and her pen pointed to the fire outside the window. "No, she will not. Langhorn's ambition is too violent, and I do not trust her with power. She will have her chance to prove me wrong by following Aspen in the meantime. Now hurry along: there is an order to cease the assault and bring in the rest of the rebels alive. The faster you go, the more lives you save."
Francis nodded, took the letter, and started running.
Skylar stood from her desk. "The rest of you needn't worry about me. I'm going to get this wound cleaned and stitched. You all get some sleep."
Enid approached her queen. "Allow me, I can dress the wound myself--"
"No. You and your friends need to sleep. And besides," Skylar tapped the emblem on Enid's shirt. "You, yourself are an Ambassador to this country and a handmaiden no longer." She turned and started for the door. "Which you prove over and over again. Every day."
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[Douglas Jones Photography]
“Throwback Thursday”
This might have been my favorite fall shot from last fall. I was turning down dirt roads off the main highway and was rewarded with this power line that crossed one of these dirt roads. Captured in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. #tbt 🍁
11.9.23 • Facebook
the infrastructure of this world in human development and connection to grow communities and cities
which are built from the starting point of families
and how many are fearing (to have reverence and acknowledgment of) our Creator?
(morality is actually Sourced in God and His truth who instilled us with a human conscience)
One day, truth and purity will be restored to earth. there will be no more disinformation or anything that deceives. the return of the Prince of Peace will cause war to cease. although some will fall for a counterfeit of the One True King beforehand.
the reestablishment of Israel is a prophetic working of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob (Israel) and God is illuminated to us in the Son who will return to rule from Jerusalem for A Sabbath day’s “rest” of a thousand years of time
this is where the world is headed.
it isn’t going to keep advancing according to the terms of man. the pride of nations will come to an end. the pride of rebellion against our Creator will cease along with all manner of idolatry and religious views apart from the rebirth of the eternal Son who is the True Messiah that many of Israel will “awaken” to see with pure (Clarity)
it is God who “conserves” the True nature of things. although the world is set for cataclysmic Judgment that will truly shake its very foundations, since the only True Foundation that exists is in Yeshua
it will be “on earth as it is in Heaven”
eventually.
what do you think of the mountains and the Trees? do these things inspire fear (reverence) in your heart? have you seen a clear night sky from high up in elevation? what do you see when looking out upon a vast valley?
(A valley view)
lava flows like blood through earth, although earth was greatly fractured during the global Flood thousands of years ago during Noah’s time that has been repopulated ever since, growing into the billions
and we have seen many catastrophes on a planet that bears a curse, filled with danger. rebirth is vital.
even the natural human heart is like an inner mountain with blood flowing through the body, and there is “life” carried in the blood (blood is absolutely sacred)
we are redeemed through Sacred Blood alone.
[National Park Service]
“You can tell it’s an Aspen tree because of the way it is.” - Lenny Pepperbottom
If you still can’t tell, what are doing with your life?Just kidding. But really? Okay, but aspens can also be identified by their smooth, white bark marked by scars where lower branches are naturally self-pruned. (We knew not to cut bangs! Shake it off!) Shake, shake, sorry, quake. Quaking Aspen leaves are somewhat heart shaped (work with us), with finely saw-toothed margins and range in size from 1.25-3” (3-8 cm) long. The leaves attach to branches via a long and flattened petiole, so that even the slightest breeze causes the leaves to flutter. Nice, err, neat! This gives the overall tree the appearance that it is quaking or trembling - hence the common name Quaking Aspen (it’s all coming together) and the scientific name’s specific epithet - tremuloides.
Image: Golden colored Aspen trees at Great Basin National Park, Nevada.
11.10.23 • Facebook
@NWF
#GreatLakes states are leading the way in the prevention and clean-up of PFAS through policies that are already working to improve the lives of people and wildlife in the region. ✅
Learn more about policies regulating #PFAS in the Great Lakes 📲
11.10.23 • 12:01pm • X
we certainly live in a greatly imperfect world with so many things that pollute earth and its air and water. we can strive to make things better while here, as we should. but many problems still exist and new problems arise.
it seems a constant struggle.
and everything ages with time. even the changing planet.
so you see the necessity of rebirth?
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Birthday, by Andrea Gibson
For Jenn
At 12 years old I started bleeding with the moon
and beating up boys who dreamed of becoming astronauts.
I fought with my knuckles white as stars,
and left bruises the shape of Salem.
There are things we know by heart,
and things we don't.
At 13 my friend Jen tried to teach me how to blow rings of smoke.
I'd watch the nicotine rising from her lips like halos,
but I could never make dying beautiful.
The sky didn't fill with colors the night I convinced myself
veins are kite strings you can only cut free.
I suppose I love this life,
in spite of my clenched fist.
I open my palm and my lifelines look like branches from an Aspen tree,
and there are songbirds perched on the tips of my fingers,
and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath
the first time his fingers touched the keys
the same way a soldier holds his breath
the first time his finger clicks the trigger.
We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.
But my lungs remember
the day my mother took my hand and placed it on her belly
and told me the symphony beneath was my baby sister's heartbeat.
And I knew life would tremble
like the first tear on a prison guard's hardened cheek,
like a prayer on a dying man's lips,
like a vet holding a full bottle of whisky like an empty gun in a war zone…
just take me just take me
Sometimes the scales themselves weigh far too much,
the heaviness of forever balancing blue sky with red blood.
We were all born on days when too many people died in terrible ways,
but you still have to call it a birthday.
You still have to fall for the prettiest girl on the playground at recess
and hope she knows you can hit a baseball
further than any boy in the whole third grade
and I've been running for home
through the windpipe of a man who sings
while his hands playing washboard with a spoon
on a street corner in New Orleans
where every boarded up window is still painted with the words
We're Coming Back
like a promise to the ocean
that we will always keep moving towards the music,
the way Basquait slept in a cardboard box to be closer to the rain.
Beauty, catch me on your tongue.
Thunder, clap us open.
The pupils in our eyes were not born to hide beneath their desks.
Tonight lay us down to rest in the Arizona desert,
then wake us washing the feet of pregnant women
who climbed across the border with their bellies aimed towards the sun.
I know a thousand things louder than a soldier's gun.
I know the heartbeat of his mother.
Don't cover your ears, Love.
Don't cover your ears, Life.
There is a boy writing poems in Central Park
and as he writes he moves
and his bones become the bars of Mandela's jail cell stretching apart,
and there are men playing chess in the December cold
who can't tell if the breath rising from the board
is their opponents or their own,
and there's a woman on the stairwell of the subway
swearing she can hear Niagara Falls from her rooftop in Brooklyn,
and I'm remembering how Niagara Falls is a city overrun
with strip malls and traffic and vendors
and one incredibly brave river that makes it all worth it.
Ya'll, I know this world is far from perfect.
I am not the type to mistake a streetlight for the moon.
I know our wounds are deep as the Atlantic.
But every ocean has a shoreline
and every shoreline has a tide
that is constantly returning
to wake the songbirds in our hands,
to wake the music in our bones,
to place one fearless kiss on the mouth of that brave river
that has to run through the center of our hearts
to find its way home.
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my bookmarked fics
@fictionismynationality asked me to dump the entirety of my bookmark folder on y’all so here’s what i’ve got (somewhat organized)
(mostly does not include all the WIPs and “to read”s i currently have open in my 21 tabs)
slowburn:
nothing’s quite as sweet – klance, 50k, kitten/coffeeshop, but the coffeeshop is a capitalist machine
all things infinite – klance, 7k, jealous/pining keith, rated M for graphic blood/gore stuff (not sex)
chaser of fate – klance, 7k, don’t actually remember reading the second chapter lol i assume it’s good too? it’s a reincarnation fic and i’m always a sucker for those so
animal magnetism – shatt, 14k, veterinarian au, dork matt, i rly liked it??
sweeter than pumpkin pie – klance, 45k, i didn’t realize there was a second chapter to this now?? lance taking care of sick keith over thanksgiving, pretty cute
cause you’re learning me – klance, 32k, roommate fic w strangers-turned-friends-turned-lovers. i really really loved it and wasn’t entirely sure whether to put this under slowburn or fluff so. enjoy.
how to fake an interest in biomechanical engineering – shatt, 8k, rly rly cute college au, shiro is Relatable, keith is an annoying little brother, highly recommended
where the lions roam – klance, 7k, tentatively putting this under slowburn? blue keeps protecting keith whenever he’s in danger and lance?? can’t?? imagine why??
time out of mind – klance, 28k, RLY FRUSTRATING TO READ LMAO, keith and lance bicker too much so an alien transports their consciousnesses ten years into the future where?? apparently?? they’re happily, sickeningly married?? oh no how will they ever get back to the present (spoiler: they Have to Kiss)
angst:
this house unfinished – klance, 30k, does not have a happy ending, one of the first vld fics i read and it wrecked me, beware. it’s beautifully written though. belongs in a museum.
what a healing pod can’t repair – klance, 55k, LMAOOO THIS WRECKS U the first part is rly good and so is the second part, and it does have a happy ending though if you’re worried abt that
just static – klance, 84k, YOU! WILL! GET! FUCKED! UP! there’s a lot of injury (graphic!!!) so beware!! also a lot of foreshadowing, and i don’t want to spoil the ending so just make sure you read the tags!!
fluff:
nightmares – klance, 15k, i’ll be dead-honest, i don’t remember reading this, but i know it’s been recommended a million times and i must’ve enjoyed it if i bookmarked it so
got got got it bad – klance, 10k, lmaooo another one i can’t really remember but it’s named after one of my fave disney songs and it’s modeled after the five stages of grief bc keith realizes he’s pining for lance and i’m 98% sure it’s mega cute
never been kissed – klance, 3k, lance (and keith i think) have their first kiss in an alien mcdonald’s. i swear it’s super cute. a nice, refreshing fluff read.
call me beep me – klance, 85k, The Texting Fic. if you haven’t already read it...you should.
we’ll make it, you and me – klance, 6k, written post-s1 wherein keith and lance crash together. injured lance (possible warning for bad injury!!), but ends up pretty cute imo.
cheeky – klance, 3k, kiss fic that is rly well-written and kinda funny?? like. it’s an antagonistic kiss? i really liked it, anyway. rly cute. 10/10.
we’ll be counting stars – klance, 3k, the frat bro astrophysicist lance We Deserve
IDK WHAT TO CATEGORIZE THIS AS BUT I LOVE IT:
stormchasing – klance, 18k, y’all adventure fics are my favorite like idk how much klance was actually in this but it was so much fun to read and i love it so y’all need to read it too ok trust me. seriously. best fic ever. read it.
another word for never – ???, 204k (holy shit), i followed this one as it was a WIP so it seemed a lot shorter to me lmao. a MEGA au where matt is the red paladin, allura is the black paladin, shiro is a galra prisoner-turned-soldier, and keith is a galra prince-turned-traitor. super super interesting mostly-gen action fic, there is a sequel that i haven’t touched but i need to, highly recommended if you’re fine with heavy themes. (seriously, read the tags before you start.)
WIPs:
ok i needed to share a few WIPs which i’m too drained to finish/haven’t been updated in a while
ASPEN FUCKING FALLS – kla...nce...? (in the same way 11/mike is a thing though) & shalluratt!!!, a stranger things AU!!!!! half the reason i’m even adding a WIP section!!!!! unfortunately not updating anymore, but it holds a special place in my heart and i will keep it open in my tabs in the hopes that it will one day come back to life. note the the description says ot3 heavy after chapter 8 and it is at 8/25 chapters....that is what i am holding on hope for.
suis-moi – kinda klance and shatt??, 16k, the brothers au, one of the few fics that i have read multiple times. it’s just...very good. read the warnings though! but seriously one of my all-time favorite fics that i’ve almost completely adopted into my headcanon.
homesick at spacecamp – klance, 48k, besides being named after the one song i have most desired a vld fic to be named after, it’s a fake married au which, by the most recent chapter, is resolved, so you can read without fear of being left on-edge. note the tag “gratuitous ballroom dancing”. that’s how you know it’s good.
watercast – klance, 48k, My Friend if you haven’t read this yet, you should. it’s got mermaid lance and hunk, avian keith and shiro, and curious human pidge. klance-centric though. very interesting universe, good character interactions, highly recommend.
on thin ice – klance, 125k (holy shit), apparently there are two new chapters to this which i have yet to read....so.....i assume they’re good? keith is a hockey player who lance teaches figure skating to. lance has Unresolved Issues regarding partner skating. frustrating at times, but i’m pretty sure it will end well?
#fic#i haven't read anything lately sorry :(#so this is all kinda old#hopefully y'all enjoy?#otp: I'd recognize that mullet anywhere#otp: I volunteer as tribute#When Will Aspen Falls Return From The War
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Star Wars Kinktober day- 6
Prompt: Feral kink
Wolffe x AFAB OC
Another shorter one today, I have to get to sleep because I got shit to do tomorrow.
Tags: Chase and catch, predator/prey dynamic, fantasy scenario, full consent they’re just being kinky, size kink, biting, marking, a dash of little red riding hood vibes
Words: 1136
🌳🐺💋
Run, run, run! The mantra was the only thing Mieli knew as she dogged, leaped, and swerved through the heavy brush. Dense groves of thin saplings, dips made by the paths of spring run-off, downed trees, thickets, slopes slick with pine needles, and a multitude of other small obstacles added unwanted seconds to the time that she was making. Between breaths she could hear the crash of her pursuer; smaller obstacles that she had to avoid he pushed through with abandon, but the tighter spaces she navigated with more ease he had to take his time with or circumvent. It was a give and take of lengths and speed: she was fast, but he was a wolf, inexorably possessed with the hunt.
Faster she tried to fly, tried to imagine there were wings upon her back to carry her as the breeze that surely flew above the suffocating blanket of trees, but wishful thinking does not carry feet, and her lungs were burning with the score of her breaths. A slope was before her and she took the opportunity to slide down it, precious seconds being gained as up the other side of the small dip she went. She barely cleared the top of it when she heard him break the cover at the other side. Mieli didn’t stop to look; she knew what she’d see.
The forest started to change around her: less and less was the cover as thick tangles of pine, maple, and oak gave way to a burgeoning meadowland populated by aspens. If she could just get enough distance, she could lose him in the confusion of the dazzlingly uniform landscape. Ghost pipes, lady slippers, and blue-eyed grass now whipped past her ankles among the knee tall grass as she weaved in and out of the trees. A silence settled around her and, finding the sensation of rapacious eyes no longer on her back, she hunkered down and knelt to catch her breath at the base of one of the bright trees. Even though the grass was high enough to mostly conceal her bent form, she still quieted her panting breath as well as she could, not knowing where the hunter was keeping her instincts at full alert.
A howl ripped through the glade of delicate flora and struck the animal within her before she could settle though. Head whipping around on her slim neck, Mieli saw a black shape hurtling toward her, 80 meters approximately and closing. She cursed herself and knew she should have kept running, the seconds taken now to get up and back to speed costing her dearly here where there was nothing to impede him. She tried valiantly, but she’d left her speed behind where she’d tried to rest, and the hunter was only a step behind.
Sounds half breath, half cry to the wild echoed from her lips through the trees as the stomp of his feet creeped closer, closer…
With a snarl she felt more than heard him leap behind her, a second of silence ringing in her ears before two meaty arms wrapped around her midsection and took her into the fall with him. With a small twist in the air they came down, him upon his back with her own pressed into his broad chest, shoulders comfortably swallowed by that solid plane. Escape was her first and only thought. Twisting hard she threw his grasp and went to her stomach on the ground before desperately trying to crawl away on her hands and knees, grasses now tickling the exposed skin of her shoulders and stomach. Before she could make it far, two expansive hands snatched at the meat of her calves, wrapping almost all the way around and causing her to stumble with her upper half, face falling into lilies of the valley. She wailed a shriek as her hands clawed into the fresh earth, trying to crawl away from the hands that held her tight, holding her, dragging her back-
The sharp sting of teeth lanced through her as the man sunk them into the flesh just under the bottom curve of her ass below her shorts. Mieli froze, the sensation of the sudden snap of his jaw having erased anything else in her head, the only thing present being the instinct to remain still and hope that would somehow protect her. Slowly the teeth released, as if testing to see what she would do. When she remained as was, a thick tongue laved over that spot, soothing the soon-to-be mark before he slid further up, nosing her skin before material hid it. Up and up he went, soon licking a small path up her lower back. She shivered, and, as if a trance had been broken, she suddenly came to herself again, the landscape snapping sharply back into focus.
He seemed to sense the second her body tensed and prepared to flee again, because just as suddenly as the notion came he was all over her, the breadth of him more than enough to consume her petite form. His knees rested on either side of her while his shins replaced his hands as they pinned her legs to the ground; in one more desperate attempt Mieli pushed back with her arms, hoping to throw off his core balance, only to be met with the unforgiving hardness of his hips against her ass. She stopped dead, and he took that opportunity to wrap his left arm under hers and around her throat, his right coming to possessively cup her sex.
Her left arm immobilized and his weight bearing down on her upper back, Mieli was forced to fall to her chest, moaning in defeat. His mouth returned to her skin, licking and mouthing the skin at the nape of her neck before he bit her, hard, in the thicker flesh where her neck and shoulder met, and growled. The sound was low and she felt the rumble of it pass through her entire body. It was a message without words: ‘you’re mine’, and ‘submit’. Knowing she was beat, she mewled, helplessly arching her back and pressing herself back into his hips. The length of him was a hot, steel rod pressing into the cleft of her ass, trapped in the confines of his own pants. His teeth still latched onto her, he growled a softer tone at her submission and lessened his bite by a fraction before slowly, torturously, beginning to rut against her.
Turning her face into the ground she grinned and gasped at the sensation of his cock dragging over her. The chase was long and hard but the big, bad wolf had finally caught her. Mieli knew there was nothing to fear though, because this wolf was her Wolffe, and she’d let him devour her mind, body, and soul.
🌳🐺💋
So maybe not all of the plants technically belong in the environment, or together at the same place and time, but I’m just setting the mood here boys.
My OC’s name is derived from the Finnish goddess of the hunt, Mielikki. I came across her a while ago when researching pine-deities and I just thought her name was cool and didn’t want to go with Diana or Artemis (as nice of names as they are). I pronounce Mieli as me-ELLE-ee, but I really have 0 clue as to how the original Finnish is pronounced so, whatever.
Planning this one shot I accidentally started outlining a whole fic, so maybe we’ll see that in the future (if we do, I’ll definitely have either this scene or at least a similar one, so you’ll be getting all the feral smut your little heart's desire).
I just keep making ideas for other longer works while working on these, huh?
Kinktober works
Masterlist
#sisterofleatherfrogwrites#kinktober#kinktober 2021#star wars#the clone wars#sw#tcw#sw tcw#wolffe#commander wolffe#ct-3636#wolffe x oc#minors dni
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Chapter 3: Unified In Differences
Pairing: princess!y/n x prince!Chenle
Themes: royalty au, fluff, angst
Warnings: arranged marriage, violence, war, injury, illness, descriptions of injury and blood
Words: 5.8k
Inspiration: BTS - Blood, Sweat and Tears - orchestral cover
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Finale
——————————————————————————
It had taken three days to travel to the site of the battle. Chenle was sat in his tent, the fighting having just finished for the day. The army had followed Chenle’s change of plans and approached from the mountains. They had surrounded the Odin’s troops with cavalry and archers and the first three days were triumphant. It seemed as though this battle would be easily won.
But it didn’t stay that way for long.
The fourth day arrived and Odin had called in for reinforcements. Chenle watched as your troops marched fearlessly into battle, even though they were now outnumbered 3 to 1. The past two days had been the most difficult. Odin’s army began to overpower them and many knights of your land were killed, the previously high morale and hope among your army was dropping.
Chenle stood up, stretching his aching muscles slightly as he relished in the light feeling of taking his armour off after a full day, and left his tent. He made his way to the tent on his left, the King’s, and one of the guards went inside to let the King know that Chenle was waiting.
As the guard disappeared from sight, Chenle took the time to take a look around the campsite that the army had set up upon arriving. He watched as knights and servants bustled around, mending armour and sharpening swords, preparing for another hard day of fighting. He spotted Jisung sat by the fire and watched as he spoke closely with the head of the royal guard. Chenle had learnt that Jisung had spent almost his entire childhood being trained by that man, and that he had taught him everything he knows.
‘Your highness? He’s ready for you.’ The guard reappeared, easily grabbing Chenle’s attention.
Chenle nodded in thanks and ducked into the tent.
‘You wished to see me your majesty.’ Chenle spoke as he entered, bowing in respect to his King.
‘Ahhh, yes, thank you for coming Chenle.’ The King looked up, his face somber. ‘As you are aware, the odds of us winning this battle are shrinking by the day. I see little hope in sending word for reinforcements of our own, as it would take them three days to reach here, and I feel that, one way or another, the battle will be over by then.’
Chenle stayed silent, not quite sure yet what the King wanted him for.
‘There is also one more problem.’
Chenle raised his eyebrow as the king continued to speak.
‘We still don’t know who the traitor is. Someone had to leak our route to Odin, someone has betrayed us and we still don’t know who it is.’ Your father’s face grimaced into a frown.
Chenle could hear the frustration in his voice and thought back on all the knights he had met.
‘Your majesty...’ Chenle began, his mind whirring as the king looked up at him expectantly. ‘May I ask who knew about your route to begin with?’
‘What do you mean?’ The King questioned, furrowing his brows at Chenle.
‘I mean, who knew the route you were planning to take. Did all the knights know about it?’
The king shook his head at that.
‘No... Only a select few... We had a meeting with the head of the royal guard, Jisung-’ The king continued to rattle off a couple of names that Chenle didn’t recognise, but he nodded along, a plan forming in his head.
‘Then we have our list of suspects. You can’t give away information that you don’t have, therefore the traitor has to be one of the few people present at that meeting.’ Chenle revealed. The King’s eyes widened with this new information.
‘You’re right.’ He breathed. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. We need to keep an eye on them, make sure that none of them slip away without us realising it. Now how do we figure out which one is the traitor?’
‘Well...’ Chenle trailed off. The King looked back at him, motioning for him to keep talking.
‘Please, speak Chenle. Tell me what’s on your mind.’ The King urged, desperate to hear the young prince’s idea.
‘I was just thinking, they’re likely to switch sides if we lose the battle, right? Therefore, as soon as they think that the battle is won, they’ll swap over to Odin’s side. Now it’s a last minute revelation so it doesn’t really help, but, if we can somehow convince the army tonight that we’re at much worse odds than we are. Maybe tell them that we may surrender the day after tomorrow, the traitor is sure to abandon us.’ Chenle said, his eyes drifting back to the King to see his reaction.
The king was nodding slowly again, a plan seeming to form in his head.
‘Let’s do it. We have nothing to lose.’ He sent Chenle a smile, one that he gladly returned.
Chenle turned to leave, prepared to go to sleep and ready himself for the next day of fighting.
‘And Chenle?’ The king called out, stopping the boy where he was. ‘Not a word of this to anyone. It doesn’t matter how close you are to them, somebody out there is not who we thought they were. Understand?’ The King warned.
Chenle swallowed slightly and nodded. He knew that the king was referring to his close friendship with Jisung. As much as he wanted to believe that it wasn’t true, he knew he couldn’t trust Jisung until he had concrete proof that he wasn’t a traitor.
Chenle couldn’t trust anyone.
---
Dawn was just appearing over the horizon when Chenle was woken. The servant outside his tent knocked politely on the wooden poles as a form of greeting and waiting for Chenle to call him inside.
‘The King wants to address the whole army before the battle continues today.’ He informed Chenle, bowing as he entered.
‘Thank you.’ Chenle mumbled, his voice still slightly groggy from the short amount of sleep he had managed to get.
Chenle was exhausted. The entire army was, they fought from dawn until dusk and then came back, got a few hours sleep, dressed back into their armour and prepared to do it all again.
His muscles were noticeably more sore as he pulled himself up into a sitting position. He stood, walking around a bit to wake himself up and splashing some water on his face as well. He got into his clothes, the servant just reappearing to help Chenle with his armour.
The servant bustled around him, tying and buckling certain straps to ensure that everything was tight enough. Chenle winced, feeling the growing weight of the armour pull him down. His servant turned away for the final time, grabbing the final two items before facing Chenle again.
In his hands he held Chenle’s helmet and his sword. Chenle took a deep breath, steadying his already racing heartbeat and put his sword in his sheath before grabbing his helmet. With his sword hanging by his side and his helmet under his arm, Chenle felt ready for battle.
‘Thank you.’ He said to the servant as their eyebrows raised in surprise at his words. It was very uncommon for a royal to thank someone working for them, but Chenle knew that they didn’t have to be here at all. All the servants who had joined the army to the battle had volunteered, wanting to do what they could to protect the kingdom they loved.
‘Just doing by job sire.’ The servant bowed before leading Chenle outside.
Chenle left his tent, falling quickly in stride with all the other knights who were doing the same. Jisung randomly appeared on his left, making Chenle jump slightly.
‘You’re skittish.’ Jisung observed, raising a confused eyebrow.
‘Just nervous.’ Chenle muttered.
Jisung nodded in understanding.
‘Me too. Do you know what the king wants to talk to us about?’ He looked sideways towards Chenle as they neared their destination.
Chenle stopped walking, keeping his eyes in front of him.
‘No.’ He lied.
The knights were all lined up just outside of their camp. The head of the royal guard and Chenle were both required to be in the front row due to their seniority in the castle. Chenle spared Jisung a nod before moving away from him, through the ranks to reach his designated spot. He felt guilty treating Jisung so coldly, but Chenle didn’t know what he would do if his closest friend, the first proper friend he made since he arrived here, turned out to be the one who betrayed his kingdom. He knew that he also had you as a friend, but that was different. He didn’t want to just be your friend, whereas, he felt as though he needed Jisung as one.
The King approached the front of the army. He turned to face them before raising his voice to speak.
‘Knights! It is no secret to any of you that this battle has started to go sour. The reinforcements from Odin have made it increasingly difficult for us to gain an advantage over them. I am not going to lie to you, men, we are heavily outnumbered and out chances of surviving are shrinking. I am asking every one of you to put you everything into the next few days, they could turn the tide. You were all knighted because you are brave, loyal and honourable, and I, for one, am proud to lead an army of such men. I am going to fight for my life, and my kingdom. Will you fight with me?’ He raised his voice even more for the final sentence.
The entire army roared in support, people punching the air or raising weapons of their own. Even the horses began to whinny, rearing as if in support for the statement.
The king turned around and faced the battlefield, where Chenle could just see Odin’s troops appearing over the horizon.
‘Ready men?’ He bellowed, unsheathing his sword and holding it up high. The entire army followed his lead, pulling out their weapons in preparation. ‘On me!’
The army unleashed another battlecry, spurring into action. The cavalry galloped ahead and men launched into a run. Chenle had left Aspen behind for the day, having ridden her consistently for the previous ones. He ran side by side with the other knights into battle.
---
That day was a turning point. The army fought with a vigour and dedication that allowed them to obliterate a majority of Odin’s reinforcements. Their victory levelled the playing field for what everyone was now realising would be the final days. The fighting had stopped for the day and the army was counting their losses from the safety of the campsite.
Chenle ran desperately through wounded knights searching for the king. He had promised to stay within eyesight as much as possible and, with a traitor in their midst, Chenle was worried that your father would be targeted.
Chenle was looking around when Jisung came up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder to still his erratic movements.
‘What’s the matter?’ He asked, getting straight to the point.
‘I can’t find the king.’ Chenle admitted.
‘Holy... did we check the battlefield?’ Jisung asked as dread flooded through Chenle’s system. He hadn’t checked if the king had been among the dead.
‘The king wasn’t there.’ Another voice piped up, one Chenle had been recently introduced to. A knight by the name of Lee Jeno. ‘I did the rounds today, he wasn’t killed in battle.’
‘Then where-’ Jisung’s question was cut off by a shout and the sound of metal on metal. The three boys shared a worried look before all heading off quickly in the direction of the noise.
They turned a sharp corner to find the head of the royal guard. The three boys relaxed slightly until the man in front of them turned around. They watched in horror as he pulled his dagger out of the king’s chest, the blood coating the pierced armour. The king collapsed to the floor, hitting the ground hard, and Chenle found himself staring in shock at the traitor standing over the fallen body of the king. The head of the royal guard turned his head and smiled at the three boys.
‘Is this your ruler?’ He asked, pointing to the injured man on the ground.
Chenle drew his sword, both Jeno and Jisung following.
‘Step away.’ Jeno commanded. Chenle had to admire the tone of his voice, it was so clear and authoritative that even Chenle felt compelled to move from where he was standing.
The head of the royal guard laughed, sheathing his blood coated knife and drawing his long sword.
‘The damage is done. It’s too late now.’ He laughed manically, and Chenle felt Jisung shaking slightly from beside him. ‘Oh, little Jisung, you must be confused. It’s called glory, that is why we fight. Not for honour, not loyalty, but glory. You’d do well to remember that. And you-’ He turned to face Chenle. ‘The filthy foreigner that they think can rule our kingdom. You don’t know the first thing about what it means to be one of us. And you never will. Don’t try to kid yourself by pretending to be something you’re not.’
That seemed to snap something in Jeno. He moved like lightening, striking at the twisted man in front of him.
‘You do not attack our king and insult our prince.’ He shouted, his voice shaking with rage.
Chenle nudged Jisung and pointed towards the king, relieved when the boy knew exactly what to do. Chenle himself, however, moved forward to help Jeno, coming towards the head of the royal guard from behind. But the man had been trained in combat his entire life, and didn’t seem to have any trouble with taking on the two of them at the same time.
About 30 seconds into the fight, Chenle had a sudden idea. He waited for the man to face Jeno and, as fast as he could, lifted up his sword and whacked him on the head with the butt of it. The force of the hit caused the man to crumple into a heap on the floor.
Jeno looked at the head of the royal guard before back up at Chenle.
‘Nice idea.’ He commented, slightly out of breath.
‘Thanks.’ Chenle replied, opening his mouth to say something but a groan emitting from the injured king stopped him.
Both him and Jeno fell beside Jisung, looking at their ruler.
‘How is he?’ Jeno asked.
‘Not good.’ Jisung admitted. ‘He’s losing a lot of blood. I can’t... I can’t believe he would do this. That man trained me my entire life, he took me in when I had no one, he’s the reason I have the life that I have now, I just-’
Jisung trailed off, his voice shaking and Chenle watched as Jeno placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
‘Sometimes people aren’t who we thought they were. No matter how well you think you know someone, they can always surprise you.’
Chenle looked over his shoulder at the unconscious traitor. He had no idea how any of the knights would feel when they learnt that it was him. He had no idea how badly Jisung would take this. As he had just said, that man had practically raised him. The king was finding it difficult to breath, his breaths short and jagged. It was clear he was in bad shape.
‘He can’t stay here. We need to send the King back home to be treated.’ Chenle said as both Jeno and Jisung nodded in agreement.
‘No...’ A weak voice called out as the king raised a shaky hand to Chenle’s arm. ‘I must address the knights first.’
‘Your majesty, you really must get back to the castle where there are healers to help you.’ Jeno calmly insisted.
‘I will speak to my army first.’ The king declared, his power still reigning true, even in his weakened state. ‘I must appoint someone to lead in my place.’
Jeno bowed his head in understanding, helping the king to stand. Together, the three of them brought the king forward towards the army. Luckily, most of the knights were still out of their tents, making it only a few short minutes before they were all ready to listen to their king.
For the second time that day, the king looked out at the army in front of him. Raising his voice to insight passion and hope in the wounded men. His revelation as to who the traitor was caused a ripple of surprise to go through the men, none of them expecting the head of the royal guard to be the one to doom them.
‘And so, I must appoint someone to lead you in my stead. I cannot join you on the battlefield tomorrow, I, along with other wounded knights who are in no shape to fight, will be making our way back to the citadel. In my place, I leave Chenle.’
Chenle’s head shot up at his words and all eyes turned to him. The last thing he had been expecting was to be appointed to lead the army, assuming that it would be a knight of far more experience and someone who knew most of the people they were fighting with.
‘He is to be crowned as Prince upon our return to the kingdom, and I believe this to be his first test as leader. The previous head of the royal guard, the traitor, claimed that he would never be one of us, that he didn’t belong. You had proven already that you have more honour, more loyalty, and more bravery than any of us could have expected. You came to me, and asked permission to join this army and fight for your kingdom, even though it was not asked of you, and that shows your values loud and clear. I have every faith that you will bring us to victory.’
A few gasps and murmurs surfed through the army at the king’s revelation of Chenle asking to fight for the kingdom, but none of them showed any displeasure at the king’s choice. A knight by the name of Lee Taeyong stepped forward, one who Chenle knew was a natural leader and likely to be chosen as the new head of the royal guard. He had spent the last twenty five years of his life training and fighting for his kingdom, and Chenle remembered you telling him that Taeyong is the most popular and well respected among the knights, due to his unwavering morales and values.
‘Your highness, in your short time here, you have shown us that your values are pure and your moral compass true. I would be honoured to fight under your rule.’
Taeyong crouched onto one knee, holding his right arm to his chest. The army slowly followed after him, each man kneeing down after the other. Chenle saw both Jeno and Jisung send him a smile before kneeing down too. Then, Taeyong let out a deafening cry.
‘Long live the Prince!’
‘Long live the Prince!’ The army repeated, their voices unified.
And in that moment, they were all one. It didn’t matter where you came from, or what your wealth or social status was, they were one army, fighting for one kingdom, and they were unified through their differences.
---
The next morning, Chenle rose before any of the other knights. He walked into the king’s now empty tent and looked at the battle plans he was given. The king had left the previous knight, accompanied by all the wounded knights and a few healthy ones as protection. They had already begun their journey back to the kingdom. The king had been wounded much more severely than Chenle had previously realised and his only chance of survival was to head back. A messenger had been sent as well, travelling at a faster speed than the wounded were capable of, hoping to inform the castle physicians and make sure that they were prepared for the men they were about to receive.
Already fully dressed in his armour, Chenle was leaning over the battle plans what a guard appeared.
‘Your highness? The knights you requested have arrived.’ Chenle was informed.
‘Thank you, send them in.’
The guard nodded at Chenle’s command, bowed slightly and left. Only a few seconds had passed before five knights entered the tent. Taeyong led them, with Jisung and Jeno following close behind and two new faces that Chenle knew went by the names of Jaemin and Jaehyun brought up the rear.
‘Thank you for coming.’ Chenle began, moving the plans so that the men could see what he had been looking at. ‘We know from the battle yesterday that our numbers are roughly even. And we know from this past week and previous battles that both our armies are of similar strength and skill. That means that, if we stand any chance of finishing this today, we need to outsmart them. We need new tactics, something they haven’t seen before, or aren’t expecting.’
Chenle looked up to make sure that the other knights were following and was greeted by nods of confirmation and furrowed brows.
‘I say we utilise our archers.’ Jisung offered the first idea. ‘It was the prince’s idea to use them initially and, if we can reinstate them into a good position, it may give us an advantage.’
‘Jisung is right. You cannot defend from attacks coming from both the sky and the ground, it’s not possible. But this is the problem, there are no suitable places to situate enough archers to make a difference. If that were to happen then we would need to move the fighting to here.’ Taeyong pointed to a different area on the map. ‘This area is surrounded by mountains, giving us lots of space.’
Chenle shook his head.
‘But the second we try to move the fighting there they would know exactly what we were planning. Who’s to say that they don’t send up archers of their own? No, we need the element of surprise.’
‘What about cavalry?’ Jeno suggested, but Jaehyun shook his head.
‘We’ve lost a lot of horses sending back the injured knights, and the ones that are left are exhausted. They wouldn’t be able to go for long. If we did something with cavalry, it would only be able to be around ten minutes long.’
‘Where are our archers situated now?’ Jaemin asked, his eyes never leaving the map.
‘We don’t have any archers there, all of them are on the battlefield.’ Chenle explained, all the other knights looking on with confused expressions.
Jaemin’s head shot up.
‘Are you sure?’ He asked.
‘Positive.’ Chenle replied. ‘Why?’
‘Because this morning, before I came here, I took a detour to collect more firewood for camp. When making my way back I passed this area.’ He circled a spot on the map with his finger. ‘And there were at least fifteen archers preparing their station there.’
All of the knights around the table shared worried looks.
‘They’re planning an ambush.’ Taeyong said, looking to Chenle for what to do next. The four other men at the table also turned their eyes towards their leader.
Chenle took a deep breath to calm his nerves, wracking his brain to come up with a solution.
‘Ok, here’s what we do. We don’t have the numbers to survive an ambush like that, so, before the fighting begins we are going to send out small groups of our archers to these three areas. They are the only places where you could possibly have archers positioned, so if Odin has prepared this is all over, that is where it is going to be. Now, they don’t think we know about them so they won’t be expecting an attack. That’s useful for us. We ambush them and our groups will take the place of Odin’s archers. Then, when they receive the signal, they will fire on Odin’s army instead of ours. Now, while our ambush on their archer groups is happening, we are going to send our a majority of our army out to the battle on foot, around 2/3 of it. This will be the main bulk of the fighting but also the main distraction. Before the archers fire, one of the groups will head back to the ground. But, they’re not going to join the fighting.’ Chenle paused to take a breath, his mind racing at a million miles an hour.
‘What are they going to do?’ Jisung asked, the rest of the knights scared to interrupt Chenle’s thought process.
‘They’re going to attack Odin’s camp. Not massively, not even enough to draw attention to themselves, but, they should aim for their prison. If they can free our war captives, then we really stand a shot as that increases our army size.’
‘That’s genius.’ Jaemin breathed out.
‘While, they’re there, they need to grab one more thing. Horses. Steal just enough horses for one for each man in your group, and head out onto the battlefield. When on their way back, one of them will need to send a signal to our campsite. That is when we use our cavalry. Jaehyun was right, the horses are tired so this will have to be done quickly. The cavalry will approach from both sides and circle the ground fighting. Our foot soldiers will need to use this distraction to either climb up onto a horse, or exit the main area. That is when the archers fire. If they rain their arrows down from above while Odin’s army is caged in with our cavalry, we can take out a lot of them. Whatever’s left shouldn’t be too hard to pick off.’
Chenle looked up at the rest of the knights, hoping to get their opinion. The five around the table were staring at him in utter shock. Chenle’s nerves started rising, not knowing if it was a good look or not, until they started to speak.
‘Oh my god-’
‘How did you come up with that?’
‘We actually stand a proper chance now.’
‘You need to tell the army this-’
‘That’s incredible-’
Chenle laughed slightly, looking back at the maps in front of him. Taeyong reached out and placed a comforting hand on the younger’s shoulder.
‘Let’s finish this thing so we can head home. How does that sound?’
The six of them all cheered at that, craving to sleep in a proper bed and without the fear of what they would face the next day.
‘Let’s gather the knights.’
Chenle nodded at Taeyong’s words.
‘At the same place as last night, I’ll be out in a few minutes.’
The rest of the boys nodded at Chenle’s instruction, all of them leaving the tent one by one until it was just Jisung left. Chenle looked up at his friend and saw the teasing smile on his face.
‘What?’ Chenle questioned.
‘You thought I was the spy.’ Jisung declared, watching as Chenle’s jaw dropped.
‘What? I- No, I- But I mean- You see-’ Chenle stuttered, trying to explain himself and praying that his friend wouldn’t be too upset with his worry.
‘No I get it. I was one of the few people to know our route, so I wasn’t surprised that I would be on the list. I’m just joking with you.’ Jisung grinned as Chenle let out a breathy laugh. ‘I’m actually glad you thought it might be me. It shows that you wouldn’t let your personal feelings put the kingdom in danger. That’s the sign of a good leader. It didn’t matter to you that we were friends, you just needed to find out who betrayed your kingdom.’
‘Well... I’m not sure I’d say we were friends....’ Chenle groaned, a teasing smile of his own appearing on his face.
Jisung gasped in fake hurt.
‘How dare you? Maybe I will become a traitor after all.’
‘I’ll have you beheaded!’ Chenle dramatically declared, reaching for his sword.
‘You don’t have the power, you’re not king yet.’ Jisung deadpanned, whacking him on the head gently. ‘Come on, let’s go tell the knights.’
---
Chenle and Jisung were stood at the front of the army, waiting for the signal from Jeno to head into battle. The small groups had been sent off to reach the archers’ positions and, once Jeno sent Chenle the signal, it was time to start the main battle so that his group could sneak into enemy territory.
‘I should have kissed her.’ Chenle said out of nowhere, causing Jisung to send a confused look towards his friend.
‘What?’ He asked, both of the boys keeping their voices low so that the army behind them couldn’t hear their conversation.
‘I can’t even kiss the girl I’m in love with, how am I supposed to lead an army?’ Chenle could feel himself beginning to panic, the weight of his position resting heavily upon his shoulders. If they failed today, it would all be because of Chenle. The men who die today, their blood will be on his hands. It’s his job as their leader to protect them, and he wasn’t sure he could do it.
‘Y/n?’ Jisung questioned him, causing frustration to flow through Chenle’s veins.
‘Of course y/n!’ He bit back.
‘Kiss her when you get back then. It’ll give you something to fight for.’ Jisung said offhandedly, but staring his friend down with a supportive look. Chenle knew that Jisung believed in him. He knew that Taeyong, Jeno, Jaehyun, Jaemin and all the other knights did as well. He just needed to believe in himself.
Suddenly a light flashed from the side of one mountain. It was the sun reflecting off a sword. It meant that Jeno’s group were heading towards Odin’s camp. It was time to start the battle. As the king had said the pervious morning, one way or another, this would all end today.
---
The army let out a deafening cry, with Chenle at the head, they launched themselves forwards into a run. Jisung ran steadily at Chenle’s side, his determined eyes fixated on the battlefield in front of him. Chenle couldn’t spare to look behind him, but he knew that all the other knights were following him. Their footsteps echoing across the plain.
Odin’s army copied this movement, bellowing out a battle cry and moving across the battlefield as well. Their dark armour was a sheer contrast to the silver that Chenle and the rest of the army was wearing.
It didn’t take long for the two armies to meet. Crashing onto one and other in a collision of swords and angry shouts. The people around Chenle blurred into the distance and he only focused on the enemy in front of him.
One man at a time. Even the battlefield one man at a time.
It was as if everyone knew that this would be the deciding day, as both your kingdom’s and Odin’s kingdom fought with a renewed strength and vigour that hadn’t been seen yet. It was easy to see that Chenle was right, the two armies were very similar in size and skill. They would have to pray that this plan would work, otherwise there was no hope at all of ever making it back home.
Chenle refused to let that be the case. Every time he felt his arms tire, his muscles sore from the relentless fighting of the past few days, every time he wanted to give up, he pictured you. He pictured your face. He thought about how much you loved your kingdom, and that, if you were here, you would be fighting alongside him right now. Chenle thought about what he would do when he got back to you. How he would finally hold you close, tell you the truth, and just enjoy being with you. He thought about how he would never take peace for granted again.
The was no concept of time during the fighting. Chenle had no way of knowing if Jeno had managed to get into Odin’s camp, he just had to hope. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long as the sound of multiple horses galloping was gradually heard over the fighting. Chenle noticed this, while locked, sword on sword with an enemy. Chenle pushed with all his might, throwing the other man back and swung forwards. He cut the man deep across his chest and kicked him to the ground before turning where he stood.
His eyes landed on Odin’s hoses galloping towards them at full speed, he watched as the knight on top drew his sword, encouraging those following to do the same. For a moment Chenle’s heart sank. He couldn’t see the trademark silver armour, nor could he make out any knights he knew. Until, the group of them galloped into the sun, their armour shining brightly. Chenle was blinded by the flashes of silver but he couldn’t help the laugh he let out.
Jeno had done it.
Chenle looked behind him and saw the cavalry approaching them from their camp and knew that the time had come. He angled his sword, sending a signal to the archers before calling out to the army.
‘Fall back!’ He yelled, listening as the men repeated it, making sure that everyone knew the command. The knights ran in between the horses, falling behind as the circle of cavalry gradually drew in on the armies.
Odin’s army watched in confused, not understanding why Chenle used a call that usually symbolises surrender. By the time they realised what was happening, it was too late. The horses had surrounded most of Odin’s army, only a few strays on the side. Chenle held his breath and counted down.
‘3... 2... 1...’
Like clockwork, arrows rained down from the sky. With deadly precision they took out many of the trapped men. Yells came up from Odin’s army as realisation dawned on them that their ambush plan had not only failed, but also backfired on them. The men from Odin’s army gradually fell and it seemed as though everything had worked, that the battle had almost been won.
The horses dispersed, exhausted from the past few days, and, what was left of both armies threw themselves into battle one final time.
Chenle could feel victory within his grasp. Odin’s army were weak, they were tired and there weren’t many of them left. It was clear that the battle was nearly over and that he would be able to make his way home to his kingdom, to you, victorious. For the first time since they had arrived, he was feeling confident about the chances of him returning home. Chenle was even thinking that the battle couldn’t have been going better.
Then he got stabbed.
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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 11: I Know This Hurts, It Was Meant To]
Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…
Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), lots and lots of death and destruction, literally nothing good happens in this chapter don't even read it, a Wolfman sighting, a wild Alys-Whent theory appears, more witchcraft! 🔮
Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.
Chapter title is a lyric from: “Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying” by Fall Out Boy.
Word count: 6.2k.
Link to chapter list: HERE.
Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes
Only 2 chapters left! 🥰💜
“Why isn’t Aemond back yet?”
You’re standing in the Dragonstone rookery with your arms crossed, brow furrowed, ravens pacing through straw and flapping their dark captive wings inside the cages. Through the window, you are watching the waves break against rocks where the Narrow Sea meets the shoreline. Outside it is overcast, misty, grey, cold. When you stepped into the gardens this morning—while Aegon was still sleeping, something he does with ever-increasing frequency, though you aren’t sure if it is more of a physical necessity or mental escape—frost crunched beneath your boots. Lord Larys Strong has shuffled into the room, his cane tapping on the stone floor; that is why you have spoken.
“Perhaps my sister was wrong about Daemon being at the Gods Eye,” he offers demurely. He is trying to be helpful; he is trying to comfort you. But you remember how vividly Alys showed you Everett being murdered by a mob in King’s Landing. You remember his screams, his flailing arms, men ripping the rings off his fingers and women stabbing the blades of their rusty kitchen knives into his eyes. Alys has never met Everett; she could not possibly have known what he looked like, what his voice sounded like, without gifts beyond what you once believed to be possible. Her sight is true and terrible.
“No,” you reply softly, still gazing at the iron-grey ocean. Any minute I’ll hear Vhagar flying over again. I’ll see her vast, reptilian shadow and know that Aemond has won and the war is all but over.
“Perhaps Aemond felt compelled to go south immediately after defeating Daemon and Caraxes. Perhaps he’s with Prince Daeron now, and they’re burning Northmen in the Reach. Perhaps he wants to return with Cregan Stark’s severed head.”
There’s no logical reason why this can’t be the case; but in place of relief, what you feel instead is a heaviness like stones being piled up, like ships filling with seawater. You turn to Larys. “If the king asks about Aemond, I want you to reassure him the same way you’re speaking to me right now.”
He bows his head. “Of course.”
“But I want you to do it more convincingly.”
Larys startles a bit, then regains his composure. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Is Aegon awake yet?”
“He was just getting out of bed when I checked on him.”
And that’s what you’re always doing now, you and Larys and the maesters and the guards: always looking in on Aegon, always making sure he’s not in too much pain, reminding him to eat, distracting him, soothing him, lifting his spirits. “Good. Have the cooks make something that will give him strength.”
“Not crab?”
“No. Something heavier. Beef, venison.” You recall the feast in King’s Landing to celebrate Rhaenyra’s taking of the city, slabs of rare meat glistening with blooddrops like rubies. Red like war, red like the banner of the house you were born to. “Boar, if the kitchens have any.”
In his bedchamber, the king is gazing out of his own window, but slumped in a velvet-cushioned chair instead of standing. He’s sipping a cup of red wine languidly, glazed eyes and slow blinks. There’s a dagger on the table beside him, the one he uses to cut his hair when it starts to grow too long. There are locks of white-blond hair scattered around him on the floor like a thin dusting of snow. Outside, grey clouds churn and waves shatter when they meet jagged boulders and cliffsides, the earth’s own bones.
Aegon glances over at you and says thoughtfully: “Where’s Aemond?”
“He’ll be back soon. I know he will.” He has to be. We can’t win without him. You go to Aegon and kneel down on the floor beside his chair. You lay a palm on his thigh, light as a feather, like you’re just a ghost or a memory. He places a hand over yours. Seconds tick by, late-autumn wind rattles the glass of the window.
“Aemond used to talk about us not being real Targaryens,” Aegon tells you. His voice is faint and dreamy. His eyes are still cast outside—miles away, years away—where he is willing Vhagar’s monstrous shadow to appear. “When we were very young. The Hightowers don’t have any Valyrian blood, they’ve been here in Westeros forever, since men lived in caves and worshiped…” He gestures flippantly with his wine cup, rolls his eyes. “I don’t know, I don’t care, sticks or rocks or whatever. That bothered Aemond. He felt that made us less than Rhaenyra and Daemon. Our father rejected us, he ignored us, he broke every precedent to keep us from the throne. Being a Targaryen…it didn’t matter to me.” He smirks wryly and looks down at the flurry of silver hair around his chair. “I didn’t want it anyway. Sunfyre was the only part of my inheritance I didn’t think was a curse. But Aemond needed that legacy. He always wanted to be a hero. He was willing to put in the work, he had the discipline, he had the skill. It meant so much to him, and I…” Aegon shakes his head, his voice breaking. “I shouldn’t have said those things before he left.”
“He didn’t think you meant it. He knew you were speaking out of pain and frustration.”
“I have to be able to apologize to him.”
“You’ll get the chance. He’ll be back soon.”
And Aegon’s eyes—huge and shimmering and a tumultuous blue like the ocean—drift to yours. The words are there, though you don’t hear them aloud: Will he really?
You have to divert him. You have to make him smile. “And don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll bring your favorite swamp witch with him.”
Aegon laughs; crinkles spring up around his eyes, pink rushes into his pale cheeks. “Oh, seven hells. He better not expect us to host her here while he flies south to roast the Stark men.”
“You don’t enjoy her company?” you tease.
“I’d throw crab shells at her. I’d make her sleep in a tree.” He sighs. “Borros Baratheon is going to be furious.”
“I suppose we don’t always get much of a choice in who we fall in love with.”
“No,” Aegon agrees. “We certainly don’t.” He sets his wine cup on the table, leans down to cradle your face with both hands, draws you in close to him and kisses you, deep and tender and slow. He tastes like wine, and weakness, and heat that he is fighting desperately to keep kindling. Everything he does now is full of effort, even just speaking, even just love. He moves like his arms weigh a thousand pounds, like his jaw is iron and his spine is lead. But he lifts it all for you, for you.
Your palm skates to the apex of his thighs. He is hard, he is hungry for you; but he breaks the kiss and covers his face with both hands, moaning. “Aegon?” You thread your fingers through his choppy hair, tuck his braid behind his ear, bring your lips to his forehead. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He chokes out: “I’m so fucking pathetic.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. I’m just this scarred, crippled, useless man. And everyone I touch is ruined by me. I can’t let anything bad happen to you. I don’t understand how you could still want me.”
“I do want you,” you swear, taking his hands from his face: the tears glistening there, the rough red burn on his right cheek. “You and no one else.”
Aegon stares at you with his wet, wounded eyes. “You can’t just give in because you think it’s something you owe me. We can’t allow this to become something that’s poisoned.”
Poison. You think of the tea you brewed Baela, of the milk of the poppy in the glass bottle on Aegon’s bedside table across the room. You think of the night you surrendered to Aemond for nothing, no gain, no strategy, no heir, just treason that grows heavy and unmistakable within you like a child would. “It’s not poison with you, Aegon. It’s the only time I feel pure.”
Aegon staggers to his feet and kisses you again as the wind howls outside. His tongue darts between your lips; his arms circle around your waist to help him keep his balance. He follows you to the bed, a moon chasing its planet, and helps you shed your gown of emerald green velvet, just one of your many skins. He’s lying beside you, he’s touching you everywhere, he’s nipping ravenously at your throat, your breasts, down to your belly, your hips. He’s parting your thighs like pages in a book. He’s dragging his tongue through your drenched folds. And then it flashes in your skull like lightning: memories of Aemond, of betrayal, shame and nausea and scalding blood rushing into your face.
“Come back,” you murmur, and Aegon obeys. But then he does something strange. He heaves himself up with great effort, repositions himself behind you, kisses the bumps of vertebrae down the back of your neck as the scars that riddle his chest scratch against your shoulder blades. When you try to roll towards him again, Aegon stops you.
“No,” he pleads in a whisper, hushed and desperate through your hair. “Don’t turn around. Don’t look at me.”
And before you can protest, his fingertips have skimmed over your hip to stroke you where you are warm and slick and aching, and you are gasping helplessly, begging for more, and his cock slips into you with slow, powerful thrusts that he battles not to break the rhythm of until you’ve come. But in the midst of the pleasure, you are aware that just like the moon in its withering phases, Aegon is somehow less, and so are you, and so is everyone, and so is the world itself.
When it’s over, Aegon doesn’t hold you like he usually does. He doesn’t sink into sleep like deep water. He rolls over, fumbles for his bedside table, pours himself a cup of milk of the poppy with shaking hands.
~~~~~~~~~~
You sit on the bottom steps of the stone staircase, your bare feet in cool wet sand. Your gown is scarlet velvet, a bear fur cloak clutched around your shoulders. You are reading a book from the castle library about the medicinal uses of berries. Across the beach, Aegon is trying to coax Sunfyre into eating a goat that the guards have brought for him. The dragon is sluggish and flightless, and his own blood stains his muzzle; but he peers at Aegon with pained golden eyes like he wants so desperately to please him. And for the first time, you are at last able to see dragons as something more than animate destruction. You see intelligence in them; you see what might even be love.
There are distinct footsteps approaching as Larys descends the staircase, his cane tapping ever-closer. News of Aemond? News of his victory? You twist around to greet the Master of Whisperers. “Do you bring something to lift our spirts, Lord Larys…?”
But no; his face is grim, and he’s holding a bundle of fabric under one arm. He lowers himself down onto the step where you are perched, sets his cane aside, and grasps the bundle with both hands. He stalls for a moment before he speaks. He is in shock, he is terrified. “I’m afraid, Your Grace, that I must inflict great heartache upon the king.” His eyes flick to you. “Perhaps you could help me. I don’t even know how to begin.”
Your veins feel icy; your pulse is thundering in your ears. Aemond? Vhagar? “What’s happened? Is it…about the Gods Eye…?”
“No.” Larys gives you the fabric, folded into a neat square. You pull it apart to examine it.
“What is this…?” But then you know. It is a cape. It is not a regal emerald color, nor a deep envious viridescence; it is a vibrant seafoam green, bright and bold and showy. The clasp is still attached, a gold that glints like the dragon ring on Aegon’s left hand. And the cape is riddled with dark maroon smudges and places where the fabric was singed away, leaving only a gash like the puncture mark of a fang. It smells like smoke and the coppery sickness of blood. Soot rubs off on your palms. “Daeron,” you breathe.
Larys nods gravely. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“How? How did you get this?”
“I have informants in the Reach. After the battle, one ensured that this made its way to me. It should be preserved. It should be given to his mother when we are reunited with her, I believe. Perhaps it will bring her some small consolation. It is the only relic of him she will have to bury.”
“Daeron,” you say again, and you can see him like he’s standing in front of you: daring, arrogant, brave, capable far beyond his years, cunning blue eyes, a shock of silver hair that he was so proud of. Alicent has lost two children. Can she survive this? Will she want to? “I don’t understand, what battle…?”
“Cregan Stark and his men met the Hightower army at Tumbleton,” Larys explains. “Addam Velaryon returned on Seasmoke to join the Blacks and prove his enduring loyalty to Rhaenyra. Perhaps the bastard was genuine, perhaps he only wanted to convince Rhaenyra to free poor Corlys from the Red Keep’s dungeons. It doesn’t matter which now. The boy is dead.”
“Dead,” you repeat. Addam Velaryon may have been a boy, but he fought for Rhaenyra. He fought for Cregan Stark. And you say before you can stop yourself: “Good.”
“Daeron on Tessarion, Hugh Hammer on Vermithor, and the Velaryon bastard on Seasmoke tangled in the sky above the battle. Vermithor was killed by a scorpion bolt fired by the Northmen. Seasmoke was killed by Tessarion. Daeron fell from his dragon in the midst of the clash. Once the Blacks emerged victorious, Tessarion was found alive but mortally injured, and she was shot to death by Stark’s archers.”
“And Cregan Stark, he’s…he survived?”
“Yes. He is unharmed. But the Hightower army was devastated.”
“What about the other Betrayer? Ulf the White? Could he and Silverwing—?”
“Ulf slept through the battle. Drunk to the point of unconsciousness, I’ve heard. He was slain afterwards. The riderless Silverwing has vanished.”
No Tessarion. No Vermithor or Silverwing. Sunfyre is dying. The only Green dragon left is Vhagar. You can’t believe it. You won’t believe it. “But…but Aemond was supposed to fly south after the Gods Eye, he and Daeron were supposed to fight together, and if Vhagar was there this never would have happened—”
“No, it wouldn’t have,” Larys concurs somberly. “But evidently, Aemond has not yet left the Riverlands.”
You study the cape, this ash-and-blood tapestry of the youngest Targaryen brother’s demise, the fifteen-year-old boy who was so much like Aegon. Where is Aemond? Still waiting for Daemon and Caraxes? Holed up inside the crumbling towers of Harrenhal with Alys? Where the hell is he? We need him. We need him. We can’t win without him.
“Your Grace,” Larys says gingerly, like trying not to creak floorboards. “I think it’s time for you to consider what your options are if a Green victory no longer appears to be viable.”
If the Greens lose, Aegon will be executed. You shake your head. “No.”
“I don’t say this to cause you distress. I do it to save your life if that time ever comes. The king would want you to survive, and so would Alicent.”
You hug the mangled cape to your chest, your throat full of embers and your eyes blurring with tears. “There’s nowhere else for me to go.”
“To Claw Isle?” Larys suggests. “The Blacks believe you to be innocent. Your family would take you back.”
“Clement is the head of my house now. He idolizes Cregan Stark, I think he loves him more than he ever loved me. If Cregan is still alive when the war is over, Clement will give me to him. How can I marry a man who fought against Aegon’s cause? Who murdered Greens?” Who is, at least in part, responsible for his death?
Larys scrambles for another solution. “I could try to send you somewhere far away. Dorne, Essos.”
“And then what?” you demand; and Larys cannot answer. You do it for him. “I’d be a woman alone in the world. I would be vulnerable and friendless. I have no idea how to fend for myself. Autumn knew it.” And you remember what she told you before she accompanied you to Dragonstone, a journey that feels like a lifetime ago: I mean no offense, my lady, but you know nothing of the world beyond your castles and gardens and books full of naked men drawings. You would not last a day on your own.
“You read, you write, you study medicine,” Larys says, rather frantic now. “Perhaps I could arrange to have you taken to the Citadel and you could train under the maesters there…I could try to contact some who are sympathetic to the Greens, and if they agree you should depart immediately—”
“I won’t leave Aegon.”
“Your Grace, if the Greens lose this war…I fear the king will not survive. He is already weak. He is already ailing. There is very little you can do for him now.”
“I won’t leave him,” you hiss fiercely. “As long as he breathes, I belong where he is.” He’s risked his life to save mine. He’s taught me the joy that can be found in marriage. I will never stop repaying that debt.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Larys concedes. Then you refold the cape and walk barefoot across the beach to meet Aegon.
Sunfyre has at last appeased the king by setting the goat ablaze with a sickly gasp of flames. Now he is gnawing listlessly at the corpse. His golden eyes catch on you and track your steps as you approach, dully curiosity but with no malice. Aegon takes his leave of the dragon with a gentle pat of his angular face, struggles to his feet, and joins you under the bleak grey sky. Once he could not step into the sunlight without it burning him; now the sun rarely shines at all. He knows there’s something wrong. He can read it on you like clandestine letters.
“Angel?” Then he sees the cape that you’re holding. “What is that, a banner? A blanket? My bitch half-sister’s funeral shroud, I hope.”
You give it to him. Aegon shakes the cape open, surveys it, then gasps, a sharp inhale like the whistle of a blade through the air. His knees buckle; the fabric flutters to the wet sand. You drop down beside Aegon and embrace him, shelter him, shield him. He grabs at you desperately, like a drowning man clawing for scraps of buoyant wreckage in the waves.
“It was quick,” you murmur as you hold him. “He fell from Tessarion. He didn’t suffer.” You don’t know that, you have no idea what Daeron’s final moments were like. “The battle happened at Tumbleton. The Northmen are in the Reach.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Aegon rasps. “I don’t want to be the king. I never wanted it. I want to go back to before everything happened. I want to give Rhaenyra the throne. She can have it, I don’t want it, I don’t want it. Can we go back to when my father died? I’ll let Rhaenyra have the Seven Kingdoms. I don’t care what Otto and Mother and Criston say. They wouldn’t fight for it either if they knew what would happen. All of us are dead or broken. It’s not worth it. Nothing could be worth it. I don’t want to be the king. I don’t need the Iron Throne. I need everyone I’ve lost back. And I need you.”
“I’m so sorry, Aegon.” Your fingers are snared in his windswept silver hair; your heartbeat is thudding against his. There’s salt on your cheeks: his tears, your tears, the spray of the ocean. “It’s not your fault. Rhaenyra had the chance to end the war. She was offered terms and she refused them over and over again. Daeron’s blood is on her hands. She will pay the debt.”
And a tiny voice inside you says: Hasn’t she already lost four children? Hasn’t she paid enough?
The answer is dark and resounding. No. Nothing will ever be enough. But her life is a start.
“Where was Aemond?” Aegon sobs. “Where the fuck was he? Daeron wasn’t supposed to face the Northmen without him. He was a kid…just a goddamn kid…”
“I don’t know.”
“Are Daemon and Caraxes still alive? Is Aemond at Harrenhal?”
“I don’t know, Aegon. We haven’t heard anything.”
“I should have been there.”
“You would have been if it was possible. But you’re not able to fight. Sunfyre isn’t either.”
“I’m useless,” he weeps bitterly. “I can’t win the war. I can’t save anyone.”
And you brush his hair back from his face and feel his forehead for fever as you say: “You saved me.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“What’s she like?” Lord Bolton asks as he and Cregan Stark warm their large, weathered hands by the fire, their breath foggy in the wind and the stars glimmering in a cold cloudless sky.
The Northmen are still clearing dead and wounded from the battlefield at Tumbleton. Split bones must be forced back into place, infected limbs amputated, gouges scrubbed and stitched, burns treated, corpses buried, soldiers who cannot continue evacuated back to Winterfell via the Kingsroad. All of this must be attended to; Cregan Stark is a man of honor, and honor demands that he care for those who have pledged their lives to him. When the task is done, the Northmen will begin their assault on King’s Landing. The riots must be put down, the rightful queen must be protected, the succession must be secured. And Cregan must find and claim the woman he has been promised and yet denied by the wickedness of the grotesque, amoral, soulless Usurper.
“She’s beautiful, of course,” Cregan says. He speaks in subterranean rumbles, dark and rolling like thunder, booms and quakes, always a little louder than he means to be. He takes up space; he bends the light and gulps down the air. He smiles wistfully, remembering. “But that’s not the important thing. She’s clever, she’s tough. She’s not afraid of gore. I’ve seen her help set a compound fracture that pierced straight through the skin. She had blood all over her hands.” He grins and holds up his own, stained with earth and ash and half-dried maroon that looks as black as ink in the firelight. “We are made for each other.”
Lord Bolton whistles admiringly, his breath like mist. “She is a rarity.”
“Like treasure, like gemstones.” Cregan lays his blade across his knees, a longsword taller than some men and with a hilt carved in the shape of a wolf’s head. He cleans it, he tends to it, it is a part of him as immutable as his spine or his heart. “But she is not prideful. She behaves like a true noblewoman. She is quiet and modest. She defers to her father, to her brother, to me. She obeys.”
“That is essential,” Lord Bolton notes. “Nothing breeds discontentment like a willful wife.”
“She will give me sons with Valyrian blood. She is fertile, surely. Her mother bore six children.” Cregan polishes his blade, his unruly dark hair blowing in the night wind. Now he is pensive. “Her maidenhood was entrusted to me. It was a great honor, a great responsibility. It was something only I ever should have had. It is not her error, but she is less now.”
“You are a good man to still take her, the way she is now. The very best of men.”
“I cannot seem to forget her,” Cregan muses, quiet in a way that is rare for him. “I dream of when I first met her at Winterfell, snow in her hair and pages of books rustling beneath her fingers.”
“What will you do when you capture the Usurper?” Lord Bolton asks; this is the part that most interests him. “Burn him? Gut him? My men have brought their flaying knifes with them from the Dreadfort. They are eager to use them.”
“No,” Cregan says firmly. “No flaying. It is against the laws of war.”
“What use are laws to animals like Alicent Hightower’s children?”
“They preserve us. They safeguard our own humanity, our own honor.” Cregan holds his longsword aloft and scrutinizes it, gazing at his own reflection in the glinting blade. “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”
“So you will do it yourself,” Lord Bolton says with grudging awe. His own flaying knives are suddenly very heavy in his pockets; his fingers itch to use them.
Cregan Stark—the Warden of the North, the new Kingmaker—nods under the starlight. “Yes. I will end the Usurper. It can’t be anyone but me.” He sheaths his longsword, gliding it into its leather scabbard, thinking of his long-awaited wedding night with the woman whose purity was stolen from him like pieces of gold thieved from a vault. “And I will enjoy it.”
~~~~~~~~~~
In bed, surrounded by candles that flicker when cold drafts blow in through the crevices of the castle, you read to Aegon from a book cataloging all the bones of the human body. He doesn’t care about the content, you know that; he just likes to hear your voice. As you read, Aegon—his arms linked around your waist, his chin resting in the dip of your clavicle—interjects with drowsy commentary. “I’ve broken that bone,” he says. “Oh yeah. That one too.” “Grandsire almost cracked my radius in half when I was ten and I replaced his beard cream with cake frosting. He put it on just before going to sleep and woke up assailed by stray cats.”
You chuckle, a lightness that lasts mere seconds. Now Lord Larys Strong has appeared in the doorway, the orange-gold glow like dusk on his face. He rests both hands on the handle of his cane like he often does, but his expression is one you have never seen before. He is not just mournful. He is paralyzed, he is shattered. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, blank. He swallows noisily. He opens his mouth, but no words escape. He closes it again.
“Don’t tell me that,” Aegon says, deathly quiet, winter still. He pulls away from you. You shut the book and place it on the bedside table beside his glass bottle of pearlescent milk of the poppy. Then you watch Larys.
The Master of Whisperers takes a deep, tremulous breath. “I have received word that both dragons disappeared into the skies above the Gods Eye, and then—”
“No,” Aegon whispers. “No, he’s coming back.”
“Your Grace…”
“No, he’s coming back!” the king roars. “He has to, he has to, you know we can’t win without him!”
Aemond? you think, terror-stricken.
“I have three separate reports. They all agree. Caraxes and Vhagar destroyed each other. They plummeted into the lake and sank, along with their riders.”
“No—”
“Both of their riders,” Larys says.
Aemond??
“The reports are wrong,” Aegon counters. “They have to be.”
You can picture Aemond: smirking, teasing, bitter, brilliant, thoughtful, visionary, blind. How can he be at the bottom of the Gods Eye, eternally chained to Vhagar’s saddle, fish nibbling at his fingers and lips and the gristle between his ribs? “Aegon,” you begin, reaching for his hands; but he flinches away from you.
“No, no, he’s coming back!”
Larys says gently: “Your Grace, I am so profoundly sorry for your loss.” But of course, it is every Green’s loss. Who is left to stand between them and Cregan Stark’s army of archers, cavalry, Boltons with their flaying knives? The Baratheon men? And does anyone truly believe they can defeat the Northmen, assuming they arrive to wage war at all?
“He’s coming back.” Aegon is hysterical. His murky blue eyes stream like riptides. “He has to. We need him, Larys, you know how much we need him. It’s a mistake. Aemond is okay, he’s coming back, he’s coming back, we can’t win without him!”
You try to take his hands again. “Aegon, it’s not over yet, we’ll—”
“Don’t touch me!” he cries, breaking down in breathless sobs. Then he covers his face, ashamed, broken. “Everyone I touch dies. I’m a curse, I’m a monster. I ruin people.”
Larys rushes to comfort the king. You retreat from the bed, watching Aegon as he howls and moans, feeling that although there is one of Alicent’s children left alive, all of them have already been taken from you.
The witch, you think, poisonous, venomous, bloodthirsty. She led Aemond to the Gods Eye, and now he’s gone. He’s dead, he’s nowhere, he’s doomed us all.
What had Alys said before she returned with Aemond to Harrenhal? I can appear and speak to you briefly, perhaps for five or ten minutes. I will be like a mirage, a ghost. Find a closed door and write my name upon it in blood. Then knock three times and open the door. I will be there.
You dart to the table beside Aegon’s favorite chair, cushioned with deep red velvet, and snatch the dagger he uses to cut his hair. Clutching the hilt of the weapon, tears searing in your eyes, you bolt from the room and out into hallway. Dragons of stone and steel, fire crackling in their gaping jaws, watch as you flee past them towards the bedchamber Aemond always used when he visited the castle. You can’t fathom that you will never see him again. He was a weed that grew into you and put down roots, he became a part of your landscape. He was dandelions, he was clovers, he was ivy, and now he is earth scorched to ash.
I’ll never speak to him again. I’ll never see him again. How is that possible?
Blood. You need blood. Would there be any in the kitchens? Should you have a goat or a boar butchered?
No, no. Your mind is a maelstrom of storms and rage, fire and blood. I can’t wait.
You go to the closed door of the room that was once claimed by Aemond. He never owned anything; he only took things and penned his name to them in void-black ink. You take the blade of the dagger and rip it down the length of your left palm. Then you write on the wood of the door two words in a rust-colored scrawl, one on top of the other: Alys Rivers.
You ball up your bloodied fist and knock on the door three times. Then you throw it open. And in a black mist, there she stands: onyx gown, obsidian hair, black moonstone eyes, tears of blood that fall in a torrent down her alabaster cheeks. She is grief-stricken. But you have no compassion left for her; your mercy was once an ocean and has now receded to a creek, a puddle, sparse raindrops that people pray for during droughts.
“You told Aemond that Daemon and Caraxes would be waiting for him at the Gods Eye. You encouraged him to go.”
Alys shakes her head, an inhumanly slow motion. Her voice is deep and echoing, like a shout through a long tunnel. “I didn’t know this would happen.”
“You see things, don’t you?!”
“Not everything,” Alys sobs. “I saw him take flight. I didn’t see the rest of it. I didn’t know. I never would have let him go if I’d known.”
“And you killed him. You murdered him, you ruined him, you might as well have driven a blade into his heart.”
“Aemond went of his own volition,” Alys says. “I told him the truth of what I saw. He was certain that Caraxes could not meet Vhagar in battle and emerge unbroken. And he was right. Caraxes did not survive. But neither did Vhagar.” Her blood-streaked face crumbles again. “He was stabbed through the eye. His beautiful sapphire eye…”
“You’ve doomed us. Vhagar was our last adult dragon, Aemond was our best warrior after Criston died. You’re a murderer. You’ve killed us.”
Her glare turns hateful. “You are not such a stranger to killing.”
“Careful, witch,” you warn. “Or when Aegon sits the Iron Throne, we will send men to the rubble of Harrenhal to burn you alive.”
“No. My son and I will live. And I’ve seen your children, too,” Alys says, and for all the times she did not intend to be cruel, now she is grinning with savage madness.
Panic rises in you; you try to conceal it. “I don’t believe I’ll ever have children.”
“Oh, you will,” Alys insists gleefully. “You will. I’ve seen it. Snow in your hair, furs around your shoulders, children who are dark and rugged, wolf pups with dirt and ash on their faces.”
The North. The Starks. “No,” you say, horrified. I can’t marry Cregan Stark. If I’m given to him, that means Aegon is dead. “No, no, you’re lying. You’re lying!”
“You are not a woman who motherhood will come easily to. It will take time to conceive, but you will give the Warden of the North heirs. He will enjoy putting them in you. He will have to try often.”
Your voice is hoarse and helpless. “You’re just trying to hurt me, it’s not real—”
“Wolf pups,” she says again, insistent. “After Aemond died, I saw them all in a row. And my son,” Alys continues dreamily, tracing her belly with one palm, not showing yet but full of potential like blue-white lightning flashing from inside a storm cloud. “My son will be a knight of House Whent.”
“There is no House Whent, you lunatic.”
“No.” Alys smiles, leers, gloats. “But there will be. I will be driven from Harrenhal, but they will reclaim it. And a Whent will marry into Tully, and a Tully will marry into Stark, and your blood will mix with Aemond’s after all. Isn’t there a certain poetry in that?”
Your hands have flown up to cover your ears. Aegon can’t die. I won’t survive it. “No, no, no!”
“The blood of wolves will always sing to dragons. And that is because of you, I think. The mind forgets, if it ever knew at all…but the bones remember. Pieces of you threaded into the marrow. Murmurs of your voice in their dreams. Do not attempt to resist it. This is your fate, and it could be far worse. The wheel goes around and around, and we all take our turn being crushed. Be grateful you’ll still be alive. Be thankful you had the time you did with your broken king.”
“No!” You slam the door shut. The blood on your palm is drying; the slit you cut there burns.
She’s lying. She’s mistaken. She’s a witch and a madwoman and I don’t believe a word she says.
And before you can dwell on how little comfort this brings you, you hurry to return to Aegon’s bedchamber.
“Borros Baratheon will expect you to take his daughter as your wife,” Larys is telling Aegon. “He was promised a royal marriage. With Aemond and Daeron both gone, you are the only suitable Targaryen left.”
“I won’t do it,” Aegon says quietly. He looks bloodless and haunted; he looks half-dead.
“Your Grace…please…failure to appease him might inspire Borros to withhold his military support from us. His army is the only substantial force the Greens still possess. It is not a personal decision. It is a strategic one. And without having an heir with the queen, her political utility is minimal…”
“No,” Aegon snaps. “I will not be parted from her. Do not ask me again.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Larys yields, bowing deeply. You know he does not act out of ill-will towards you. He is an advisor, and he is trying to advise. You are not the logical choice. And if Aegon loses, you will reap no rewards because he chose to call you his queen. The world will end for you as well.
“What is that?” you ask, and they both jolt to see you in the doorway; but you aren’t looking at Aegon or Larys. You are peering out the nearest window at pinpricks of firelight that dance over the waves. Larys shuffles to the window, his cane rapping against the floor. With agonizing effort—though he refuses your help—Aegon crawls out of bed and stumbles across the bedchamber to join you and Larys.
“It’s her,” Aegon says; and you can hear the vicious satisfaction in his voice like glistening strands of saliva dripping from the jaws of a ravenous animal, a wolf or a bear or a dragon. The fire is from the glass lanterns they carry. There are no signs of Syrax or Sheepstealer, not even little Tyraxes, no squeals or shrieks or shadows that pass over the moonlight.
Stepping off a tiny boat moored at the end of the pier—attended by only a handful of servants and tugging her white-haired son along behind her—is Rhaenyra Targaryen.
#aegon ii targaryen#aegon targaryen#aegon ii#aegon targaryen ii#aegon x reader#aegon targaryen x reader
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The Scent of Fire | #HW202
Prompt: Unusual Familiars
Summary: When the witch trials hit the small town that Chloe Beale calls home, she turns to the only person she can think of; Her Familiar.
Read it on Ao3 here!
The scent of fire nipped at her lungs until they burned. Chloe swallowed the metallic taste in her mouth and stared at the cracked wooden floor. Some of it reflected the ash tracked by Father Aspen’s shoes. She tried to ignore the way they looked like faces screaming for the very mercy he preached about each Wednesday and again on Sunday before the sun had even risen to its highest point.
This fire smelled different.
Her mother pressed the only silk handkerchief she had against her lips to stifle what they were all too afraid to mention. It was her nice one, the royal blue one that had their family monogram stitched into the side. Her father brought it home from the city. He brought Chloe a snow globe that sat next to the oil lamp on her school desk.
Chloe wished she had one of her own, that she didn’t have to pretend she couldn’t smell it. The rest of the church sat in an odd silence while Father Aspen wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He smeared ash on his beaded skin.
She moved her own hand against the base of her nose but felt her mother’s razor-sharp nails dig into her thigh. He was scanning the crowd, clutching the podium. Chloe struggled to ignore the strangled sobbing of the woman in the front pew and the half-hearted attempt of her husband to quell it.
“Revelations 21:8 ” Father Aspen had breathed in too much smoke, his voice was gravelly “as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.”
The mother in the front row screamed out again, her cries muffled in pain. Chloe grimaced and turned her face to the side. Her own mother didn’t condemn her this time. Father Aspen was panting with exhaustion and a few around the room spurred his dark smile on.
“This town has been in the unknowing presence of Evil for far too long!” He shouted, calming the room “Miss Prescott is a clear example of what we do to the unholy in Barden. Let it be a warning to clear the filth from our streets and stir the rebellion from our children. Let it be a warning.”
Chloe dug the blade of the knife into the soft skin of the third potato that she had pulled from hard soil. The winter season was upon them, and her stomach clenched at the idea of a quality meal. It would be the last of the year.
It was just the two of them when her father traveled for work. Her mother had quickly closed the door to his study as they returned from church. She was penning him a letter now, she guessed, despite not much ink being left in the little vile. Barden had had its first real witch burning, and that was big news. It wouldn’t be long before it’s second.
“You could have done something to stop this,” She mumbled softly, taking a good chunk of hard skin away from the yellowed vegetable. “Isn’t that your job?”
She had felt the woman’s presence in the church, just beyond the stained windows as smoke coated the air. That scent of burnt flesh wicking into her Sunday clothes. Her familiar lurked and watched and worried like the rest of them.
Chloe heard her scoff “Puritan panic is nothing short of entertaining. Though, what happened to Abby is tragic. Your priest wants to make an example and he would have done it regardless.”
“What comes next?”
“The same thing that happened in Salem, I suppose. They’ll string them up like Christmas bulbs on a Douglas Fir.”
Chloe dropped the knife and let it clank against the cutting board loudly before turning quickly to face her familiar. She sat in one of the kitchen chairs, slumped back on its hind legs with her own feet crossed at the ankles. Beca had a smug look on her face. Chloe would have thrown the kitchen utensil if the demon wouldn’t find it amusing.
“Careful, Chloe, if your mother senses you slipping into madness, she’ll turn to her religion for help.”
She ignored the comment. “What if it’s I they make an example of next?”
She scrunched up her nose as if she were thinking, but perhaps she hadn’t been at all. “Tragic.”
Chloe Beale didn’t mean to fall into witchcraft, just as Abby Prescott hadn’t. A group of them gathered in the graveyard one night, the only one in town. Aubrey Posen had raided her father's stuff and found a book that none of them wanted to touch- but they had. After a few slices of the palm and magic words, they had fallen deep into a habit.
A rush of dark magic made Chloe feel alive. So she read on, she receipted more incantations by the light of oil and the cover of darkness. She had reached the back of Aubrey’s book and ended up with Beca.
“You were supposed to be of some use to me,” She growled under worn breath. “I haven’t yet called on you.”
“No take backs, I’m afraid. A demon can sense chaos from millenniums away. I knew that you needed help.”
“You fed off of the fear.”
“oh, that’s cruel. Maybe I genuinely want to help you, Chloe.” She said “Lay off the witchcraft for a while. I know the feeling of dark magic is intoxicating but if it cooks you like dear Abby then is it worth it?”
“I’ve thought of that.”
“And the verdict?”
Chloe ran her dirt-stained palms against her apron. “I can use it to my advantage instead.”
Beca let out a loud groan and placed all four legs of the chair back onto the dusty floor. The young girl in turn picked up her knife once more and made even cubes of the vegetable before dropping them into the broth that boiled above a lit fire. Witchcraft was no different from cooking- maybe with more consequences than a full stomach.
She heard the floor creak behind her and felt Beca’s hot touch on her hip. Her fingers burned hungrily through her cotton dress and apron. Chloe stopped her task and made her stance rigid. She focused on the iron pot hanging from a little hook on the wall. Her hand clenched the knife.
“Chloe, I am your familiar, whether you like it or not. Though I am here to serve you and patronize you, I ultimately have a say in your actions. After all, we share the same master.”
“I serve no one.”
Beca scoffed and withdrew her touch. It made Chloe turn once more. This time she was mere inches from her familiar. Her features were cat-like, long, and slim. Her eyes dawned the same brightness of a black feline wandering around the barn on the edge of their property. She hadn’t thought of the connection until now.
Beca smelled of ash. Not the same thickness as the particles from this morning before the service, but ash all the same. “Before my God, you served the one you worship every Sunday. That, we both know. The second you spoke those words in the land of the dead, you were bound.”
Beca placed her molten touch under Chloe’s chin, leading the girl's eyes up to hers. Her palms dug deep into the counter behind her and breath caught as if to fight off the scent of fire and old magic.
“Love, I am here to assist you in your ultimate immortality. You’re my master in this battle, but not in this raging war. In order for you to lead, you must not be burned at the stake. Do not abandon your practice or your patience, but don’t feed into it. Not for the next month.”
Chloe swallowed hard “And what of Aubrey?”
“Aubrey is not of my concern. The girl does seem intelligent enough to do the same. Neither of you shall speak of this. Abby was a great loss.” Beca moved her hand away and Chloe cleared her throat. She missed the touch sorely but turned back to her task, mind reeling.
She had moved on to peel another potato. She knew her skin was raw and angry where Beca's hand was. Her fingers trembled, wishing to soothe the ache. The door to her father’s study creaked open and she heard her mother’s footsteps. They stopped near the kitchen. There was a dark and labored silence.
“Chloe,” her mother croaked. She had been crying, her voice was scratchy. “Who were you speaking with?”
“No one, mother”
“I heard you speaking to someone.”
Her voice was accusatory, and more importantly, whatever cracks the ordeal had left this morning were filled abundantly with fear. Chloe lifted her stormy eyes from the task of a solid meal once more and focused her entire body on stilling her breath and her words.
Chloe let out a sharp sigh “I was receipting scripture, mama. The Prescott’s have been a part of this community for a long time. I was quite close with Abigail and I” She forced her voice to shatter like a mirror “I hope she’s found peace despite straying from the house of the Lord.”
Her mother scrutinized her for a long moment but seemed to believe the words eventually. Chloe grasped a ladle and spooned some of the mixture into two bowls. She placed them each on the table before purposely sitting in the chair that Beca had been. It was still warm.
After long moments of silence, she started shoveling spoonful’s of the stew into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully as if to avoid any type of conversation.
She felt the hasty touch of a long black tail curling around her ankles. Her lungs still hissed with the scent of burning flesh, and an even hotter touch.
#HW202#hw2020#Pitch Perfect Horror Week#beca mitchell#Chloe beale#Bechloe#Pitch Perfet#pitch perfect fanfiction#pitch perfect au#Prompt: Unusual Familiars
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Nebraska
Macey daydreams about spending winter break somewhere else, with some envy sprinkled in there, too; suite shenanigans and some $300 Bose noise-cancelling headphones. One-shot. Content warning: themes of parental neglect, mentions of alcohol use, smoking + abuse.
(Read it on AO3 here.)
There are moments when Macey wishes everything could just be stable and balanced.
“Normal” is too much to ask for; it’s a big ticket item that’s just out of reach, that she hasn’t worked quite hard enough for just yet. Instead, she’d settle for stable: an ideal situation with no boat-rocking, no absent fathers or narcissistic mothers, no forced appearances or quick-changes in the back of limousines, no hidden hangovers, no concealer on the bruises along her upper arm. Stable. Secure.
Idealistic. At this point in her life, there’s no chance she’ll ever know balance. If she keeps down the path that Gallagher has her going down, it’ll be a constant chase – maybe not a sprint, but a jog, and even that can get exhausting after a while.
She envies Cammie, even despite her hardships. Cammie has support, she has crumbs of normalcy to cling to, a warm home to run to during breaks and tight spots and panicked moments. She has options, even when she thinks she doesn’t. Even when she feels like every door is closed, there are always more.
Macey watches her chatting with Bez and Liz, her feet curled under a blanket, back to the wall of their suite. Cammie has a slight smile on her face, a fullness in her cheeks that made a return when she did, another escape on a lark that she magically realized had consequences; Bex is trying to reverse engineer a heist, Liz is French braiding Cam’s hair, which is brown now, thinner but longer. She can only slightly hear her roommates over the music she’s blasting, $300 Bose noise-cancelling headphones be damned, but she can imagine the conversation, more or less – more homework trouble, more boy trouble, more girl trouble, more acne trouble, more TV cliffhanger trouble, more “I can’t believe I got a B on this test” trouble, more normalcy. A feeling she’ll never have.
The conversation halts for a moment, all of them on the precipice of laughter, but they look to her, expectant, waiting on an answer; she points to her headphones and down to her book (Art of War, of course), and loudly yells “What?” as though she’s clueless and miffed, out of the loop. Bex laughs, Liz joins in, Cammie smiles and her volume goes back up. Stability. Everything is level again.
She’s damn great at playing the part, something she was born to do. (Is she talking about herself or about Cammie? She’s not sure. Projecting, much?) Macey is the perfect daughter, even when she’s a rebel; she’s the supermodel even when she’s strung out and hungover in the Great Hall at breakfast, stumbling through Farsi between sips of Gatorade; she’s America’s Sweetheart, Vermont’s darling, even though she hasn’t been back to Vermont in years. (Not that there’s anything there for her, aside from a hiking trail where she used to run or smoke cigs, plus the parking lot where she had her first kiss – awkward, sloppy and too much teeth – and her childhood home – her permanent address, she should say, because it’s not like she’s ever really felt like it was a home for her at all.)
They’re talking about winter break plans now. “Nebraska” floats past the music, clinging to her brain, cloying and sweet. What she wouldn’t give for a proper, home-cooked meal, a scratchy wool blanket, a too-warm-but-too-cold room with a draft. Farm smells. Barn chores. Callouses. Sweat. Burnt coffee in smooth metal thermoses, a cold winter sun, some dustings of snow, a hot mug of potato soup – a too tight pickle jar lid. It’s so vivid it hurts, digging into her brain like it’s eating her alive from the inside out, starting at her brain and burrowing its way into her heart. Nebraska.
She can only imagine what that reality would be like; there’s something lived-in about it that she won’t be able to come close to touching, an inherent familiarity that she’s just not cut out to experience. Her winter break will likely be Aspen or Geneva, maybe both, and that’s a dream, too – she’ll probably see some classmates there as well, the ones that fit the Gallagher mold, the one that she’s apparently supposed to fit, too.
The trip will be booked as a family affair, but her parents will be anything but present, her mom chasing after seasonal ski patrol staff, college students in their prime, her dad on “work calls,” probably brokering some deal that will just line his pockets a bit more than his congressional salary. She’ll be drunk and alone, partying with ski bunnies or diplomats’ kids, settling into her old-money-rich-heiress role like she has so many times before.
Maybe if she’s lucky she’ll be able to slip away – if they’re preoccupied for a few days into the weeklong trip, she could pack a bag and hitchhike her way a few towns over, blending in like she’s new in town and visiting extended family, weaving a cover story for herself and patching it up every time she gets caught in a lie. She might have normal clothes on but she’s still anything but; they’ll remark on her beauty and her perfectly-manicured nails, ones that wouldn’t be in such pristine condition if she were just a girl from just a farm in just Nebraska.
Then she’ll get call after call to her phone, her parents demanding an appearance because it’s time to fly home now, and she’ll have to abandon the fake life she created for herself in this little mountain town, the cover that was just on the verge of being blown. She won’t be a girl from Nebraska with boy trouble and homework trouble and normal trouble, she’ll be the Macey McHenry, heiress and stone-cold bitch, sugary-sweet but too much to handle.
She’s not sure how Bex was able to get on her bed without her knowing, but she’s got a hand on the right ear of her headphones before Macey can turn to stop her with a bewildered laugh. “We’ve been trying to get your attention for ages,” Bex says, sitting back on her haunches, glancing at Cam and Liz. “What movie do you want to watch tonight? Tina’s running a Bourne marathon, but we were thinking Clueless, but then we realized you haven’t picked a movie yet, so it’s your call.”
Macey slides the headphones off fully now, settling them around her neck. She pauses her music. She pauses herself. Maybe this is the closest to stable and balanced that she’ll get: the closest thing to normal is four teenage girls watching 80s movies in their pajamas, LUSH masks smeared on their faces, shitty manicures and burnt microwave popcorn, falling asleep on the floor next to an overheated laptop and projector and her roommates, snoring softly.
Tomorrow’s Saturday. She could sleep in, pretend like the meal she’s having is home-cooked. She could wander around the halls and act like this was the home she deserved all along, because it was, and maybe even talk a bit more about winter break plans. Macey knows enough social graces to not invite herself to spaces where she might not be welcome, but maybe it could happen; maybe things will balance out in her favor. It might not be Nebraska, it might be London, or maybe it might just be here, in the mansion, if she can talk her way into it. The only people who normally hang back anyway are ones who either can’t go home or won’t go home, and Macey surely falls into both or either.
But that’s neither here nor there, and they’re still waiting on an answer. Macey dogears her book page, the same page she’s been stuck on this entire time, reading the same paragraph over and over, and sets it aside. “Clueless for sure,” she finally says, forcing a grin, cutting a glance at Cammie. “But only if we stay up way too late talking about how much Paul Rudd kind of looks like J-O-S-H.” (He doesn't.)
Liz squeals, Bex laughs, and Cammie blushes. Mace flashes her a knowing smile and grabs her blanket, ushering them up, while Bex says something about stealing cookie dough from the kitchen. Liz is convinced that they need to swipe Madame Dabney’s projector, even though there’s a perfectly good one in their room (apparently the one that isn’t theirs is 10 times more energy efficient and smells like the essential oil of their choice), and Cammie is watching her, grabbing her hand, helping her up. Cam’s hand doesn’t have callouses yet, but it will, and Macey thinks about what they’ll feel like after break. Will they be rough and ragged, or torn, exposing new, smooth, bright pink skin, the outline just barely visible?
Macey snaps back to reality for a moment; Bex and Liz have left on their respective conquests, and Cam is lingering near the door. “You coming?” she asks, gesturing to the hallway with her chin, and Macey can’t help but remember the annoyed (and annoying) girl that she met on her first visit, the one who just wouldn’t leave her alone. “You know we can’t let them traipse around by themselves; Liz will end up with a sprained ankle and Bex will probably burn the place to the ground.”
“Let’s do this,” Macey shoots back, grabbing a compact fire extinguisher that Liz had made in the labs a semester prior. This was normal. And she’d create balance and stability where she could, starting with her two renegade roommates. “I’m right behind you.”
#gallagher girls#macey mchenry#cammie morgan#gallagher girls series#gallagher girls fic#also on ao3#one shot#ally carter#hahahahah this is my distraction from zoom university
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Day 21 - Oathkeeper
August 24, 2876; Inner System Space
Azra floated in the weightlessness of space. Weightlessness was a lie. You are at all times under the effect of something’s gravity- the difference is if you feel it or not. Azra did not feel it because she was drifting, already caught and falling in the asteroid’s pull.
Asteroid-hopping was fun. Normally jetpacks weren’t very useful, but it was easy to escape the weak gravity of the asteroid belt. It reminded her of rock climbing in a way, moving from handhold to handhold, gravity well to gravity well.
Her chosen asteroid was big, but not big enough to naturally put out the force that grasped at her. She hit the ground hard. Soft dirt was kicked up in her wake, hanging in the air for just a second too long. Someone had set this hunk of rock up with artificial gravity, though only about half of Earth’s, and had given it an atmosphere and cultivated the rock into farmable soil.
They hadn’t chosen to farm it, though. Azra stood before a forest of young trees. Their leaves lifted a bit too high, branches perfectly still in the unstirred air. They were Earth species- cottonwoods and white-trunked aspen.
They were enough to hide someone. Azra brushed the dirt from her knees, looked up, and was suddenly staring death in the eye.
Well, she was looking down the shaft of an arrow laid on a very impressive bow by a very impressive woman. She had been waiting in cover- active camo, probably, the tree trunks were thin- and had stepped out when Azra had turned her attention away.
The woman’s skin had the Awoken blue tint and her eyes were like moonfire on ice. She was tall. Taller than Shaxx, even. "You're trespassing on Awoken territory, Guardian," the woman called out in a rough alto. "Declare yourself."
Azra put her hands up and flicked through her HUD to turn on her external speakers. “My name is Azra Jax,” she announced. “I’m scouting for the Vanguard, I didn’t know I’d crossed into Awoken territory.”
A truth and two lies. Kind of. She was here for her own mapmaking efforts. The Vanguard hadn’t sent her. And she’d known she’d be intruding on Awoken territory at some point, but she didn’t know where the exact border was.
The Awoken woman didn’t lower her bow. It was tall as the woman was, massive limbs pulled back with such force Azra fancied she could hear reality creak with tension. No doubt that arrow would punch through her armor like wet paper. Bulletproofing didn’t work so well against edged weapons.
“Alright,” she admitted, meeting the Awoken’s icy eyes. “I’m not here for the Vanguard, I’m scouting for fun, though I’m sure they’d take any map data I gave them. I genuinely don’t know where the border is.”
The woman’s voice was cool with a thinly-veiled threat. “This asteroid is part of our claim. The one behind you is not.”
Azra didn’t turn to look at the lifeless rock floating a few hundred meters away. “Ah, so the border is here,” she said.
The Awoken woman had impressive arm strength. The arrow-point never wavered, even though the draw weight of the bow must have been incredible.
“There’s no need for violence,” Azra said. “I didn’t- and I still don’t- intend harm on you or your people. I was just exploring.”
“Then leave,” the woman demanded. “You are not welcome here.”
“Well, what about next time?” Azra said.
The woman lowered her bow, though Azra didn’t doubt she could have it at full draw in a heartbeat. “If you enter our territory again, I will kill you.”
“I don’t know what’s your territory and what’s not!” Azra exclaimed. “That’s why I’m here. This entire region is so poorly mapped because nobody knows what’s fair game and what’ll get you in trouble!”
“You are here for maps?” the woman said incredulously.
Azra crossed her arms. “I’m not here to screw spiders.”
“I know your kind,” the woman said. “You would cross the border willingly even if you knew where it was.”
A correct assumption, Azra had to admit. “At least I’d be discreet about it. But like, the whole reason you have borders is to keep threats out. I’m no threat to the Awoken. I don’t see how me standing on this asteroid as apposed to that one hurts anything.”
“You Guardians change everything you touch,” the Awoken woman said.
“And you don’t?” Azra challenged. “Last time I checked, asteroids don’t have trees growing on them.”
The Awoken woman didn’t respond. She frowned and fingered the fletching on her arrow.
Azra set aside her frustration and her fear. “Listen. Until you claim the whole asteroid belt, you can’t get upset at me for accidentally hopping onto the wrong rock.”
The woman shook her head. “You knew you would enter our space eventually, but you didn’t hesitate.”
“Can’t find the line ‘till you cross it,” Azra said. “Old Hunter saying.”
The woman paused, reaching for an inside pocket on her jacket. If Azra were to make a move, it would be now, when her opponent only had one hand on the bow.
She let the moment pass. The woman pulled a datachip clear and turned it between her fingers. “How can I be sure you will keep your word? Not just abandon a deal when it suits you?”
The woman was talking about deals now. This was good. Maybe Azra wouldn’t have to spend the next couple of days crossing lines and getting shot with arrows. The Arcstrider spoke with conviction. “Your word’s the only thing you have. Things break, people die, places change, but your word- your honor, is the only thing that will always be with you. I don’t break promises.”
The woman seemed to come to a decision. “I will give you a map of the asteroid belt, up to the border of our space but no further. In return, you will swear to never cross that border uninvited.”
Very tempting offer. Azra eyed the datachip, a war raging in her head. On one side, being banned from somewhere was a steep price to pay. She did not do well with interdictions or exclusion zones. On the other hand, map data…
Azra approached the warrior slowly. She was taut as her own bowstring, eyes lit, expression challenging but wary. Azra was careful to keep her movements even and her hands far from her weapons.
She stopped a few feet away. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Sjur Eido,” the woman replied smoothly. “Queen’s Wrath.”
Azra stuck out her hand. “Sjur Eido, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Sjur looked at her outstretched arm like it was sharp, but grasped the datachip in her bow hand so she could accept Azra’s handshake.
“On my word, never broken, and my knife, never dull,” Azra intoned. “If you give me a clear, readable map of exactly where your borders lie, I won’t willingly cross them without permission.”
Sjur Eido nodded, let go of her hand, and held out the chip. Spark appeared in realspace to take it.
Then, like a child on the Dawning who couldn’t wait to open their present, the Ghost turned sideways and projected the map in the air. As promised, there was the thin, well-defined line of the border. Everything past it was empty blankness. Everything outside, though…
“Oooh,” Azra cooed. “This is good.” The individual asteroids and shipwrecks were as detailed as Azra would have made them. They even had relative velocities and masses labeled, so the map could be extrapolated and altered as the asteroid belt continued its messy rotation. “We’re friends now,” Azra declared.
“Friends?” Sjur said, sounding a little appalled.
“Yes. You gave me a map. A good map. We’re friends.”
“I did not agree-“
Azra waved her off. “You will take my transponder code and you will like it. I’m not good with penpals, so don’t expect letters or anything.”
“…Friends.” The Awoken woman still didn’t sound impressed.
“It’s too late, I like you.” She poked at the projection. “This has a map of Pallas, too? ‘Like’ is too weak a word.”
“Don’t you have an oath to keep?” the Awoken woman said dryly. Azra looked up and saw what might have been a hint of humor in her eyes.
The Arcstrider performed an informal salute. “Right. I should go. Pleasure meeting you, Sjur Eido. Genuine.”
She jumped high so her jetpack wouldn’t blow the dirt away and drifted, weightless, out of Awoken space.
AO3 Link
#destcember#destcember2020#destiny#destiny the game#sjur eido#Congratulations! You are being befriended#Please do not resist
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Getaway
This is for a request made @sathlens I hope that you like it <3 Please let me know what you guys think in the reblogs/comments! 💜
Warnings: noncon sex (oral and intercourse). This is dark!(nomad)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.
Summary: The reader is away on vacation and finds something, or someone, in the woods.
Note: So in my head, to make this work, after Civil War, Steve’s kinda running around on his own. He was on a mission and got separated from the team. He’s found himself in the middle of nowhere but no alone.
Anyways, hope you all enjoy some scurry Steve and let me know what you think as always. Love ya <3
---
It had been a few years since your last real vacation. Well ever, because who could really count that disastrous road trip as a vacation. Time away from it all; stress, work, your boyfriend. You loved him but you didn’t realize how much you needed time to just be you. A girl’s week on the northern shores was nothing to complain about and you were ready to take full advantage of the serenity. The isolation.
You deposited your cars at the docks and climbed aboard the small boat, crammed in with the luggage of four other girls, plus the girls themselves. It was Kaya’s family cottage, concealed by thick pine, aspens, and spectrum of fragrant foliage. After hours of driving, the sun was well into its descent and it was a race against daylight before the pearly ripples turning dark and foreboding.
You watched the shoreline come into sight. A small dock where you could see yourself sunbathing, a carpet of twigs and dirt turned to grass the further you ascended, the wooden deck that fronted the cottage peeked out from between the crowd of trees. A small stream trickled away from the dock; a small finger off the greater lake. You smelled the purity; the unfiltered wild. It was refreshing after the filth of the city.
After you docked, it took a couple trips up and down the trail to unload all the bags, and the two large coolers of assorted goodies. One was filled with all varieties of alcohol with more stored warm in a box. The other contained the more important staples; bacon, sausages, tofu, milk, eggs. Enough to feed your small army until another boat trip was made to the closest town.
Kaya claimed the master bedroom; your sister, Gia, and you shared the bunk beds across from those occupied by Camile and Milani, while Coretta took the fold-out sofa. All were situated by nightfall and cans were opened as sausages grilled on the stove. With the generator awaking from its seasonal sleep and the cabin groaning in welcome, you settled in for a late night of cards and rowdiness.
The first morning greeted you in a golden dawn. You drank your coffee on the dock and spent most of daylight reading a book in the sun. The hours were punctuated by empty cans and drained bottles. You fed your buzz enough to relax and lose yourself in the natural lull of the lake. After dinner, you tried your hand at fishing and after an accidental dunk into the stream, you returned with the other girls to the cabin. Drinking games to end the night; one in which you did not reach your bunk, awaking at the table in shame.
The next day, the rest of the girls wanted a trip to the waterfall. The thought was enticing but your stomach grumbled from your previous day’s excess and you hoped the painkillers would help ease your hangover. You had several more days at the retreat, you could go tomorrow. You helped clean the dishes from breakfast and bid the girls farewell as they boarded the boat for the opposite shore.
A day alone would be nice. You had never minded solitude. In fact, you had hoped for it. The idea of being trapped in a small cabin with half a dozen others had been intimidating. You had trouble enough with just your boyfriend in your cell-like apartment. You watched them roar across the lake, the engine fading to a distant whir until the noises of birds and critters were the only left. You hung your legs off the dock as you dipped your toes into the water and basked in the ambiance. The soft ripples eased the stone set in your forehead.
You pulled your feet up after a while and went to grab your book from the kitchen table. You changed into your bathing suit and grabbed your sunscreen. The sun was strong today. You opened a can of cider and sat in the low deck chair as you opened the novel and delved into fantasy. A sword shining in the dark; a gloom most sinister on the rise.
The water and summer breeze mixed to lend a calming vibrance to the dock. You eased deeper into the chair and listened to the occasional flick of a fish’s tail as it ventured close to the surface. You sighed and rested your book across your chest as you leaned your head back. It had been what, an hour since they left. You loved how time seemed to slow down here. How you could just be; not think.
Your eyes popped open as you heard a distant rustle in the trees. You shrugged and set aside your book to sip on your cider. You had seen a deer earlier that day, some other critters hung around when they thought no one was looking. Near the outhouse, you had even thought you saw wildcat. Kaya said it was possible but not likely.
Another rustle. The snap of a twig. You drained half your tall boy and peered around your chair up into the trees. Whatever it was, it would scare itself away. You stood and stretched in the sunlight. You went to the edge of the dock and onto the large flat rocks that led to the water. You dipped down into the shallows and squeaked at the chill. Your body attuned to the temperature and you ducked your head under, rising with a gasp. It was nice. Revitalizing. Your headache started to slake away.
You heard the jostle of leaves and again glanced towards the forest. It did sound so much like there were footsteps out there. You tried to laugh at yourself but the shiver that went up your spine kept your self-deprivation at bay. You made your way back to the rocks and climbed up on the dock. You took the towel from the back of your chair and rubbed your hair and body as dry as you could. You let the towel fall across the arm of the chair and slipped on your sandals as you followed what you were certain weren’t footsteps. There was no one else here. You were alone. Of that you were sure. There was no way anyone else could have stumbled upon this little hideaway.
You didn’t bother calling out. You were quite convinced it was only a confused deer. Or an overly zealous rabbit. You walked up past the outhouses and the noise stopped. You exhaled but stared through the trees. You were still curious about what had caused such a ruckus. You saw no sign of flight. The sound had just died. It was almost eerie.
Assure yourself it was nothing and you could return to your book. You sighed at yourself and wandered into the brush. A chipmunk here, a woodpecker above, several other avian calls through the trees. You glanced around at nothing more than leaves and bark. You were definitely psyching yourself out. You finally laughed and turned back.
You cried out in surprise at the figure that waited behind you. Your yelp was smothered as his hand went over your mouth and he saved you from falling out of your sandals. You pushed against the tall man in your terror and confusion. He pressed his palm tighter to your lips and you silenced your murmurs as he shushed. He held you against him, his dark clothing rough against your bare stomach.
“Quiet,” He warned gruffly and carefully removed pressure from his palm.
He watched you as he lowered his hand and you stared up at him with wide eyes. Even if you screamed, it would be muffled by the branches above and none were anywhere close enough to hear. He released you and stepped back. He leaned against a tree and wiped the blood from the corner of his lips. As you got a good look at him, you realized he was injured. A man of poorer stature would not be standing.
He pushed himself straight and growled as he examined the blood on his fingertips. It was dry; flecks scratched from his flesh. His wounds were at least a few hours old. You hoped that meant they had not been dealt near here. He reached out and grabbed your shoulder firmly. Your body went stiff as he guided you past him, back in the direction you had come.
“You have a place around here,” He said. His tone was steely, his fingers left your skin tender as he rescinded his hand. “Show me.”
“How did you get here?” You asked as you wove along the path, past the outhouses and towards the back steps.
“No questions,” He retorted, “Are there others here?”
“No,” You answered, uncertain. “Well, not right now. They’re at the waterfall. Across the lake...they’ll be back soon.”
“Will they?” He sounded doubtful at your last-minute addition. “It’s barely noon. I’m sure they’ll want to enjoy the sun.”
You swallowed and remained silent. He wasn’t going to answer your questions; only discern your lies. He marched you up the steps and you opened the screen door. He caught it behind you and followed you inside.
“Any weapon?” He nudged you against the counter as he looked around. “I’ll find them and I can promise you, I can wield them better than you.”
“Just a flare gun…” Kaya’s family weren’t the hunting types. The most dangerous possession they had were fishing knives and those were down in the shed. “Just beside the fireplace in the next room.”
He nodded and pushed past you. He opened and closed each drawer. He huffed and neared the round table. A few half-empty cans remained from the night before and the deck of cards in a crooked pile. He pulled out a chair and sat heavily.
His dirty blonde hair hung in sweaty knots around his face, his thick beard a shade darker. His narrow blue eyes shone beneath long lashes as they never stopped searching. He wore a dark blue uniform; some sort of combat suit. A harness stretched across his broad chest and the belt around his waist was lined with several pouches. His boots were worn and covered in grime and what looked to be even more blood. There was more crimson along his shoulders, small cuts along the corner of his lips and top of his forehead. You could guess that he had won the fight, even if he had taken a few blows himself.
“Well, you got a first aid kit or something?” He asked as he planted his elbow on the table. “Something stronger than…” He lifted an empty canned cocktail and eyed the label, “Whatever this is.”
“In there,” You pointed to the cooler by the door. “The kit is just…” You moved slowly, afraid that you might provoke him. When he had grabbed you in the woods, you had felt his strength. Even in his state, he could easily overpower you. “Over here.”
You crossed to the table just inside the living room; the space divided by the change in flooring. He watched as you opened the slatted door beneath and pulled out the metal box. It looked to be right out of the seventies. It must have been as old as the cabin. The man stood as you set the kit on the table and he kicked open the cooler. He bent and grabbed the bottle of gin you hadn’t yet uncorked. He resumed his seat and placed the bottle down beside him.
He dragged the box over to him and undid the metal clasp. He stirred through the contents and pulled out gauze and the small bottle of peroxide. Then he fished around for a spool and a curved needle. They looked like they’d never been used. That was reassuring. He shifted in his chair and pulled off his fingerless gloves. Next he pointedly loosed the buckles of his harness and slipped it past his arms with a pained grunt. He piled each piece on the tabletop between the cans and the open first aid kit.
You began to back away as he tugged at the hem of his shirt and he paused. He looked up at you and shook his head. He kicked another chair towards you, “Sit.” Your throat contracted and you obeyed. Despite the hot air trapped beneath the sun-cooked roof of the cabin, you felt ice in your veins.
You sat and he finished stripping himself of the sweat-stained shirt. His chest and torso were laced with thick muscles, his right shoulder gashed and bloody. You watched his bulging arms as he reached over to grab the gauze and peroxide. You had never scene a man in such peak condition. Not outside the television screen. The power which lay in his form kept you from admiration. It was more intimidation.
You watched as he cleaned his wound. He hissed through gritted teeth as he touched his tender flesh and blood flaked away. He dumped the reddened gauze on the table. He unscrewed the cap of the gin and drank heavily before he reached for the needle. He sterilized the metal in peroxide before he began the agonizing work. You wanted to look away but you didn’t want to seem weaker than you so obviously were. The only sign of his discomfort was the tic in his jaw.
Time dragged by as he wove the stitches. He glanced up at you when he finished, his brow lifted and he tilted his head. He was surprised that you hadn’t looked away. Then you did. You didn’t like the weight of his eyes on you. There was something behind them. The crystal-like irises could not disguise the darkness beneath. This man had been good once but now...something had corrupted him.
You listened as he cleaned the needle and wound up the thread. He packed it up with the unused gauze and closed the box with a click. The gin swished as he lifted the bottle and swigged. You kept your gaze averted until a speck entered the bottom of your vision. You turned to look at the short neck of the bottle. He held it out to you with a staunch look. You bit your cheek and accepted it.
You took a small sip and handed it back. He gulped again and pushed his shoulders back as he looked around. “How many of you are there?” He asked.
“Five,” You answered in a half whisper.
“All girls?” He passed the bottle back. Another small drink; your stomach was sinking and the alcohol wasn’t helping.
“Yes,” You should’ve lied but you suspected he already knew.
“Didn’t know you were still here,” He took the bottle back and drank again. He set it on the table as he turned his chair and leaned forward. His blue eyes held yours. “Was hoping to hang back and sneak in and out. Maybe steal a few pieces of bacon if you hadn’t ate it all.”
“I won’t tell,” You said in a small voice, “You can still go. Take whatever you want.”
“Aren’t you curious about what happened?” He leaned his elbows on his knees as he gauged your expression.
“I think the less I know, the better,” You replied grimly.
His eyebrows shot up and his lips twitched. “Smart,” He sat up and his chest rose and fell as he exhaled. “You should’ve gone with your friends.”
“I should’ve,” You agreed. “You were watching us then?”
“Watching you.” He countered. “You were talking to yourself when you came out to the dump the dishwater.”
You recalled how you had in fact been muttering to yourself as you tipped the large steel basin over the side of the porch. It meant he had been close enough to hear you. He had been lurking in the trees for at least several hours. You nodded. Your voice was trapped in your chest.
“Have a drink.” He took the bottle and held it out to you again. You looked down in defeat and numbly accepted the gin. You raised it to your lips carefully. “A real one.” He pushed up the bottom of the bottle and forced you to gulp back the searing alcohol until you choked. He grabbed the gin and put it back on the table as you grasped at your throat.
When you recovered, you looked up at him. There was a frightening confidence to his gaze. “You can take the gin...there’s more bacon in the fridge and--”
“I don’t want it. Gin doesn’t affect me that much. Not very hungry anymore,” His features set as his pupils dilated. “Well, in a manner of speaking.”
“My friends--”
“Have got five, six hours before they need to start their boat and head back.” He said evenly. “It’s summer, they might have even longer. At least eight hours before dusk. I’d say we’ve got all the time in the world.” His tongue poked out between his lips as a smirk spread across his face. “You and me. All alone.”
You swore your heart stopped. You stood but he was faster. He shoved you back to your chair, his hands on your shoulders as he loomed over you. His nose was only inches from yours. “How far do you think you’ll get?” You blinked. Resignation shadowed your face and you knew he could see it. He could feel it as your shoulders fell. “It’s a vacation, isn’t it?”
He stood straight and his hands ran along the front of his belt. His fingers deftly unbuckled the leather and you looked to the wall. You listened to the metal as it clinked and the zipper of his pants as it descended. Your fingers sank into your thighs without thinking. The brush of fabric, the movement in the corner of your eyes, his breath steady and determined with his movements.
His hand was on your chin as he forced your head straight. You closed your eyes and his fingers squeezed harder. He could break your jaw with a single pinch. “Look at me,” Your eyes opened and you kept them aimed up at his face. He had his cock out, you could see it at the edge of your vision, smell it even. The odor of sweat and something else. Of him; dusky. “Just you girls up here...must be boring.”
Your nostrils flared as your fear melded with anger. Then shame. You thought of your boyfriend waiting for you back home. You had felt bad enough going away without him. Now look at you. It might not be of your own volition but you weren’t fighting it much were you.
“I don’t want to tie you to the chair.” He warned. “But I saw the rope in the drawer and it wouldn’t be hard. So stop that little mind of yours from running astray and open up.”
You did as he said. Your lips parted mechanically as his hand moved to cradle your cheek. His fingers spread and he gripped the side of your head as he pressed his cock to your lips. Slowly he pushed further and you couldn’t look him in the eye. You lowered your gaze so that you stared at the trail of hair along his pelvis. He sank deeper until he poked at your throat and you struggled to take more of him. He was bigger than your boyfriend. Much bigger.
“It’s been about a month since I’ve talked to someone else.” He spoke as he forced himself down your throat and you pushed against his thighs. You were at the edge of your seat as you tried not to gag. “Been running. Fighting.” He pulled back and then back in. He worked himself in and out as he urged you to accept more. “Lonely.”
Your eyes rolled back and your lids finally closed. You slapped at his thighs as he kept his motion steady, slowly building his speed. The room filled with the sound of his cock sliding in an out of your throat. Slobber spread across your lips and up his shaft. Your nails dug into his skin as he held your head between his hands. Your head spun as you were suffocated by the gin and his relentless fucking.
You were just about to fall out of the chair when he pulled out. He held onto your head with one hand as he stroked himself with the other. “Open.” He commanded and you kept your lips as you were as he tilted your chin. Erratic ribbons shot along your tongue and around your mouth. You waited until he finished and at last released you.
“Swallow.” His voice was smoky as he stared down at you. You closed your mouth and urged yourself to do as he said. His cum slid down your ragged throat with a painful gulp. “Strip.”
There was something about his tone, the way he ordered you around, that told you he was used to being in charge. You rose and stiffly untied the neck of your bathing suit top. The cups fell forward and you undid the back as well. You tossed away the bra and braced yourself as your fingers slid under the waist of your bottom. You bent and drew them down in one swoop. You stood straight as you stepped out of it.
“Turn around,” He twirled his finger in the air. His cock hung out of his pants without shame and you turned to hide your stray eyes. He looked even bigger than he felt. “On the chair. On your knees.” You approached the wooden chair and got up on your knees. He growled in approval as he came up behind you. “Do you swallow your boyfriend’s cum?”
“How--” You stopped yourself and bit your cheek instead.
“I heard you mention him to your friend. Something about him working too much. Wasn’t really listening.” His hands came up on either side of your head and brushed through your hair. He dragged his nails over your scalp and you resisted a shiver. “So, do you?”
You shook your head. You couldn’t have spoken if you tried. He gave a soft chuckle as his hands settled on your shoulders and kneaded them. His fingers then danced down your shoulder blades and along the curves of your body. He cupped your ass in his large hands; his palms calloused and rough. He pulled the cheeks apart and pushed them back together.
“Should I feel special then?” He teased. You sucked in your lip as he slipped one hand below your ass. He felt around and you closed your eyes as you felt your wetness at the same time he did. “Maybe less work and more play for you.”
“Shut up,” You whispered, “Just shut up.”
He slapped your ass so hard you fell against the back of the chair. “Too bad he’s not here to see how it’s done.” He continued. “Hmm? He could probably use some pointers if your quivering like this.”
You wrapped your fingers around the back of the chair. You clung to the top bar as you clamped your lips together. He felt around with his fingers until he found your entrance. He pushed inside with two fingers and you bit down. He added a third and you squirmed. He roughly worked in and out of you as he slid his cock down between your cheeks.
He pulled his fingers out and pressed on your lower back, your juices spreading across your skin. You arched your back as he lined his cock up with your entrance and you exhaled slowly. As he pushed inside you couldn’t help the whimper. The signal of your surrender as you hung your head. With every inch, you leaned forward, aiding his delve inside. When he bottomed out, he sighed. He slapped your ass with both hands and bucked his hips, poking your cervix sharply.
At first, his thrusts were slow, as if to allow your body to adjust. Your walls strained against him, aching as he stretched you to your limit. You grunted as you tried to withhold your moans. His hand slid up your back and his fingers wrapped around your shoulder as he curved your back further. He slipped out of you so that only his head remained and paused.
He slammed into you and you cried out as you slumped against the back of the chair entirely. Your breath picked up as his thrusts turned sharp; rough. He was done playing nice. The chair creaked and wobbled beneath you as he threatened to fuck it to splinters. You held on as you feared its collapse. His other hand was on your hip as he rutted into you like an animal. The grunts and snarls which rose from him assured you of nothing else. This was a man unhinged. A man who had left his humanity far behind.
Your walls clung to him, pulsed around him as you felt the bloom. The sudden surge and your head flung back. His fingertips dug into your shoulder as his pelvis clapped against your ass. You whined as your orgasm flowed through you and shattered the last of your strength. You spasmed against him. You dropped your head down and leaned it against the back of the chair as you chased the breath that had whisked from your lungs. You could barely keep yourself from crumpling to the floor.
The chair almost tipped as he pulled out of you suddenly. He drew you off your knees and turned you to face him. He swiped the empty cans, the bottle of gin, and the first aid kit from the table with his arm. He grabbed you and lifted you so easily your head spun. You landed on your back atop the wood and he was quick to move between your legs. His hands went to your thighs as he pushed your legs up as far as they would go. He entered without delay, even deeper than before.
His blue eyes glided up your body and watched the twitch of your cheek as you tried to restrain the pleasure soaring through you. His gaze retreated as he smirked and he pressed his thumb to your clit. You moaned and reached to latch onto the edge of the table as he resumed his former rhythm. There was no patience left in him. He pounded into you so that the table shook and your body added to its tremble.
You swore as another orgasm tore through you. Your legs were flush to his torso as he grabbed onto your thighs and held you close. He rocked his hips into you in violent thrusts. Your ass was almost off the table as he bit his lips and threw his head back. His strokes turned spastic and he slowed as he came. His heat seeped through you as he buried himself as deep as he could.
You shuddered as he let your legs fall around him and your chest beat a melody. You lay prone across the table and he removed himself after a moment. He huffed and fell back into the chair. He was still hard but fatigue lined his eyes and hung from his broad shoulders. You raised your head as you sensed his gaze. He watched as his cum leaked from between your legs and you pushed your thighs together as you sat up.
“Come on,” He patted his thigh and held the base of his cock with his other hand, “Might as well have some fun while your friends have their own, huh?”
+
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#steve rogers x reader#dark steve rogers x reader#dark!steve rogers#nomad steve rogers#mcu#marvel#captain america#fic#au#steve rogers#dark!fic#dark fic#darkverse#dark!verse#dark steve rogers
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Was tagged by @forgotten-envies for this tag game. Warning, it’s a long one.
your name and then what you would have named yourself: Name’s Jessi (short for Jessica). I think I would have named myself after a tree or plant. Like Aspen or something. I really like tree names.
astrological sign (sun/moon/rising if you know them): I’m a Virgo. That’s all I know lol. I’ve never really identified with it much—I’m just not a nice/gentle enough person for it.
when did you join tumblr and why?: I joined a little over a year ago because I wanted to get involved with the Star Trek fandom. I started writing fanfic for Star Trek pretty soon after I watched TOS, and I wanted a platform to interact with other fic writers and my readers.
top 5 fandoms: Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, Stormlight Archives, Star Wars, and the Witcher.
top 5 favorite films: Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, The Voyage Home, Pride and Prejudice, The Princess Bride, and Phantom of the Opera
go to song when you wanna Feel something: “Hold On” by Chord Overstreet
what’s your religion or faith if you have one?: Good question!
a song that makes you feel seen: “She Used To Be Mine” by Sara Bareilles
if you could have any career: Any career? Something in space for sure, especially if it involved discovery of distant planets or functioning as some kind of ambassador to aliens. More realistically, a professor of English and Literature somewhere, with an emphasis on how science fiction reflects humanity.
do you have a type?: I want to say no, but I bet I do. I mean, I’m demi, so it’s more of a personality thing with me, but it varies from person to person. People who give good hugs/cuddles are high on the metaphorical list though!
what does your heart/soul yearn for: To be remembered when I’m gone. I want my name—or at least my deeds—to be spoken of in generations. I want to do something meaningful with my life.
if you had to describe yourself in 5 words to someone who doesn’t know you: sarcastic, writer, observant, nerdy, passionate (wow that sounds really lame idk man)
favorite subjects in school: English by far, although I also enjoy history (specifically World History) and Physics.
where does your soul feel most at home: Curled up on the couch surrounded by my family with a fire going. We don’t have to be talking. just existing in the same space in comfort and love is enough.
top 5 fictional characters: Kaladin Stormblessed, Spock, Aragorn, Obi-Wan, and Elizabeth Bennet. (That is a very male-dominated list, which I have some thoughts about, but I’m not gonna derail this post.)
top 3 moments in a show that made you ugly cry: Hmm. I don’t cry very much...I cried when Spock died in The Wrath of Khan, I might have cried when the Fellowship parted ways in The Return of the King, and I definitely cried at some point while watching the Clone Wars, although I can’t pin down a specific moment.
the earth, the sun, the moon or the stars: The Stars.
favorite kind of weather: Thunderstorms with heavy rain and plenty of lightning.
top 3 characters you kin with: Idk. Spock, I guess. Annabeth Chase (more when I was younger, but yeah), and Mr. Darcy maybe?
favorite medium of art: Books. Although I really like traditional paintings that utilize a lot of different textures.
introvert/extrovert/ambivert: Introvert.
a favorite literary quote: You want me to just choose one??? I don’t think I can do that... How about “The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you what to think but to give you something to think upon” from The Way of Kings (I think) by Brandon Sanderson
some of your favorite books: Mistborn, The Way of Kings, and the Alloy of Law all by Brandon Sanderson; Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen; The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde; and The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
if you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?: Somewhere with a forest where the leaves change color in the fall and there’s a mountain nearby. Not in the city, but not too far either.
if you could live in any time in history when would it be?: Probably the Renaissance, which is likely a basic answer.
if you could play any instrument masterfully it would be: Well, I play the clarinet moderately well, but I would love to be able to play the cello masterfully.
if you have one, what mythological god or goddess do you feel a connection to: Hmmm. Once upon a time I would have answered Athena without hesitation, and I suppose that’s still somewhat true, but I’m not sure.
and lastly, favorite recent selfie in your camera roll:
The screen protector in front of my selfie camera is broken, which is why there’s that weird lighting lol
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