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imaginesofeverykind · 14 days

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Witches Brew ~ Chapter 2

Summary: To practice magic is to slight God with the devil's embrace. It is evil, sin, consuming and the price one pays is never worth what one seeks. Yet people, in times of desperation often turn to desperate measures, in Aegon’s case, medicinal remedy is not an option. No healer can undo what has been done. But the Hag tucked away behind reeds, water topped with algae and the voracious bog may be able to. For a price.

Warnings: Catholic-Centric monotheism demonised, language, 18+ Minors DNI

Tags: DnD Fusion AU, Targaryens are just noblefolk, more vagueness

Word Count: 5k

Chapter Song: Harbinger - Kiki Rockwell

Yurisa and Ornmir aren't in a DND pantheon I just made them up for the purpose of the fic!

Series Masterlist

The power of words came from the ability to heed what is said, the Holy word of God revered by many and feared by others denounces the practices that don’t abide his word. Yet, your words — the words of a heretic, a pagan, a ‘devil worshiper’ — haunted the brothers, resounding in disembodied whispers cruelly reminding them of the events that transpired in wake of a seemingly ordinary day.

Neither spoke of what happened, in fear that speaking it outloud would make it a reality. It almost felt as though they shared a deranged and highly realistic dream that stubbornly did not disappear into the back of their consciousness when they were awake. A nightmare they were forced to reckon with when their Lord Father fell mysteriously ill, an infection that appeared seemingly from nowhere had him bedridden for a tenday.

His left eye had begun to fester and rot away.

Troublesome as the sudden ailment came, it all but made the brothers’ blood run cold when they soon realized the eye that had begun its necrosis would have been the same side on Aemond’s if he lost it that day. He did lose it that evening. And then a miracle — dark blood magic — brought it back. This had been the price. The saying ‘Eye for an Eye’ appeared to be most taunting in this instance.

Cycles of the moon that once meant nothing but something to measure time with became a looming presence for Aegon. A beacon of light in the night he looked onto with resentment and disgust where it once bore witness to his acts of sin and debauchery. Each phase a creeping reminder that he must return back to the decrepit hut, a threat he considered hollow until he felt the pull of the moon the closer to full it became.

The swamp surprisingly looked more harrowing during the day, perhaps it were because under the shield of darkness the night brings, many creatures were hidden away. The afternoon sun seared through the treetops, warming the marshy waters and in doing so lifted a pungent odour, souring the deeper into the bog it got. Sulfur fumes so strong it was hard to believe the sounds of nature indicated life thrived blithely, undisturbed in the thick mud pits, reedy bushes or trees when it so easily brought tears to Aegon’s eyes and made his lungs burn.

Fungus, abnormally larger than the toadstools that littered the edge of the Kings Road sat in halo’s of spores it created. Demanding reproduction and relentlessly over taking the grounds of which they grew, the damage a single spore can do to an entire ecosystem of plant life once it infected a single limb of a plant.

Nature was hideous and beautiful, harrowing and wonderous, unforgiving yet forgiving all at once. Amongst it all, as if tying the cacophony of life, death and all that sat in between nature oscillating and constant; A blissful humming. So subtle it was almost easy to miss the gentle caress in the area getting stronger, coaxing more fervently as it neared the epicentre of the swamp.

The Elder Tree and the Hut entwined in its roots.

“Hello little lordling,” You appear behind him, but Aegon doesn’t jump. Almost as if he were expecting you to be exactly there. The same presence that plagues his thoughts, you could tell how restless he had become over since you last met. A smile pulls at your lips, tauntingly smug, “the moon is not full and yet here you are. Five moons early.”

He regards you slowly, though out of fear or caution you can’t quite tell until he speaks, “my father has fallen ill.” There is no sadness in his voice, no guilt, no indication that he is upset by what you’ve done to ensure his brother became whole again.

You drag your feet toward him with a tilted head as you stare into his eyes of Violet, curling a hand around his jaw to look at him with far more scrutiny, your fingernails like thorns into his skin. Part of you is disappointed, the younger brother seemed to be a far more amusing moon servant with his boiled temperament, but when you look into Aegon, you see someone far less self involved — self serving perhaps but not one who uses a holy shield to look down on those who refute one God.

He is as much a sinner as you were but for different reasons.

“That is the price, to meddle with the forces of nature.” You muse, taking away the hand that clawed into his soft cheeks, crescent moon indentations mark where your fingers had previously sat. Head tilted once again, you inspect his rugged appearance, the dark circles under his eyes and how stringy his hair looked. Leagues different in comparison to how he had looked the last time he had enlightened you with his presence. The moon gives and the moon takes, just like magic, just like nature.

”I didn’t come here to hear riddles, hag.” His lips downturn into, what you could only assume was, a frightful grimace with his brows casting downward. Haggard in appearance wasn’t the only change you could note, where he had last been in the clothes of a nobleman now he was wearing commonfolk garb. Though you are inclined to believe this is his choice to do so and not an artifact of disowning from the Lord and Lady of Oldtown.

“I’ve jokes if you would rather,” you smile tauntingly, though he looked less than amused on account of his eye twitching with an ire you had only previously seen with his brother. It must be the Moon. Though you don’t concede in your jest,“forgive me, I was under the impression you were the fun brother.”

He snapped, grabbing the scruff of your cardigan and pulling you up off your feet with a strength that seemed to surprise even him briefly, “there is nothing fun about what you did to me.” His eyes were wild, animalistic like he might just snap a little further over the threshold of man and monster. This anger appeared foreign on him, you could tell. The creases worn into his face like ridges in a tree were that of someone forlorn and closely recognised misery as a friend, not someone who was quick to anger and enmity. His ire was not of desperation as you had seen once before, it was an artificial plague of your making by bestowing him the curse of the moon in your actions of removing it from his brother.

As if reading his thoughts you shake your head, “I cannot undo what has been done.” You have said this many times to many different people who seek you out, an echo of the woman who raised you, as she would say the same to similarly lost souls. This time it filled you with feelings distant to you but not entirely unheard of, it stirred a deep sorrow that you could not understand the origin or why.

“Why not?” His grip loosened, a crack in his voice indicated that he will not lose himself to the beast that lives inside his very being now.

“What is taken, must be returned. Your brother's eye was returned to him, but only because it was taken from someone else,” his father, you don’t need to say as he is sure enough to understand on his own, “the curse bequeathed to your brother removed, but only because it was parted onto someone else.” You, Aegon. Your eyes watch his with great interest, his pupils begin to shrink and the violet in them return, and a faint whisper that barely passes as a thought but still registers in your mind are three simple words that shake you to the core: I’m so sorry.

***

Blood curses on their own are incredibly hostile in nature, to meddle magically with the very rivers that bring a soul life, is to be inherently evil. You recall the night of your eleventh winter, the moon at its highest and forever etched into your memory was that it was red. A Blood Moon. Auntie, (as you referred to the woman who raise you as despite her being anything but) would regale you with stories of the various cities she had visited, the travels she would get up to and despite the discrepancies in her timelines you would always listen with a grin on your face and wide eyed.

While the Moon was the symbol of the wolves, the goddess commanded her soldiers and servants when it was at its fullest. A Blood Moon was the symbol of petrifyingly beautiful harbingers of death, lustful creatures seeking blood to keep their souls appeased and their hunger satiated. Though, to your recollection, you weren’t sure what a moon decorated in a blue hue meant and who served the Moon when she turned blue.

The bones of your beloved childhood pet ferret laid out before you indicated troubling signs for the evening's full moon, it warned of uncertainty and danger. “Gods be good,” you whisper and gather the bones of the late Yurisa, you had named her after the Goddess of Winter aptly because of the fur as white as snow. The Goddess of Winter was known to be cruel and calculating, worshippers often regarding her as the Mistress of Atrophy, for when she brought her touch upon the land, it withered beneath her.

To you, Yurisa was merely a name to call your furry companion.

Now you are well and truly alone. No Auntie left to gently guide you through the mystical arts or teach you kindness and compassion. No more Yurisa to cuddle up with when loneliness crept up like a misfortune or to scuttle around your feet when you went foraging for ingredients. It seemed as though you were destined to be alone, abandoned by a mother, abandoned by another and left alone when death crept up and seized the soul from your small companion.

Perhaps that may have been the reason your thoughts lingered to mournful and sorrowful when lamenting on the impromptu visit for the lordling Aegon days prior. The same reason that voice whispered to offer mercy the night the brothers arrived. Though, you could lament no further out of frustration of not getting any answers and by happenstance due to Aegon’s arrival.

His footsteps were weary, despite being at the hut for a third time, though the weight with each carefully placed step had an adjustment to its cadence that piqued your interest. Blood curses with transformative properties were cruel and unusual on the body and the mind, the ebbings of change often appearing in those infected a few days before and after the Full Moon. It was already taking a toll on him.

You opened the door at the moment he raised his fist to knock, startling him slightly though you don’t notice behind how disheveled and unwell he looked, “little lordling.”

Through his tired eyes rimmed with red from exhaustion, he narrowed them, “stop calling me that.”

“Would you prefer Moon Servant? Wolf Pup?” You are hardly smiling or even joking for that matter, as you stepped aside and waved him through.

”Just Aegon is fine,” he grumbled, compared to last time his anger was at a low level — still foreign on him but low nonetheless. His face was more sunken in, hollowing at the cheeks and under eyes as if he were more skeleton than flesh. One of many unfortunate side effects he was about to endure and he was none the wiser about how awful it was about to get for him.

By the hearth you boil water and whisk around your cupboards for the right ingredients when the question in your mind suddenly fell past your lips, “how are you feeling?” It felt like a mistake to ask such a question, as it often is only asked when endearing someone, “the pain, I mean. Fevers? Anything out of the ordinary?” You quickly add, while fussing about the pot of boiling water and various ingredients swirling in a maroon brine.

”I feel…” He had to think about it, eyes lifted to inspect the ceiling while thinking, “I feel like I’ve been hung, drawn and quartered. Though I s’pose that is meant to be normal right, witch?” His tone laced in a particular type of venom, calling you a witch as if it were derogatory but it was nothing except a label of what you are. Sorceress, Enchantress, Hag, Witch — they all meant the same thing; Heretic.

You remind yourself that as far as he was aware, he was not here of his own free will which was far removed from the truth. The lapse in your wrath the night you had crossed paths with him had you wavering conviction and offering mercy. That mercy being that he would not have to face the Moon’s Curse alone and could do it in a place that concealed him far from the eyes of the many zealots within the walls of Oldtown.

Extending a clawed hand out, you gesture for him, “show me your fingernails.”

”Why?”

”If I wished ill fortune on you or even death, I’d have done it by now, no? Show me your fingernails.” You grew impatient.

He reluctantly holds out a hand for you to grab. Unexpectedly, they were red raw around the nail but not because of the impending transformation, this was purely habitual, a very human trait that indicated he was nervous and anxious often. The nails themselves though, were beginning to blacken at the nail bed and were more hardened than what was normal.

Holding one of his hands steady, you manifest a small jar of medicinal salve and begin to lightly swipe it over the affected areas. It wasn’t going to lessen the pain of his impending transformation, but it would help stave off infection. You feel his gaze on you, not hard or weary, rather just inspecting carefully as you silently tend to his fingers.

”Erm — I’ve had joint aches and mood swings. I haven’t eaten either.” He admits shrewdly, the violet in his eyes washing away from colour in his iris slowly. It felt rather ludicrous, hearing his ailments like he was a patient and you were a healer. Though to a degree you may have been just that, even if the circumstances were very different.

You don’t answer him, merely nodding and turning back to your boiling concoction, opting to add a touch more Docrut ash before scooping a cup full of brine into an aged bowl. It is not grand nor lavish like what Aegon may be used to, but you didn’t care, offering it to him, “drink. It will help with the pain.”

Lifting the bowl to his lips, he grimaced with flared nostrils and took a gulp only to immediately splutter it back out and cough it all over you. Unsure if he was being overdramatic or he simply wished to indignify you for his shortcomings, nevertheless, you wiped your face of his spit silently.

”That tastes like piss,” he gagged, covering his face and mouth as though it would shield him from the steaming brew in his hands.

”I never said it would taste nice,” you smile with slight amusement, “though if you forgo what is helpful simply because of its taste, I can assure you, you will regret it come morning.” He was an interesting individual, thrust into a circumstance out of his control and yet finding ways to nitpick it like the true highborn soul he was.

“Perhaps if you hold your nose and drink it won’t taste so bitter,” you offer, remembering when as a child how much you despised the mushroom bark stew Auntie made. She would tell you the same thing, because out in the Swamp you either ate what was given to you or went hungry. Choice was not a luxury you grew up having.

He seemed taken aback by how childish you sounded, or, you thought, it was because you had said something that wasn’t inherently monsterous in his eyes. So you decide to bite a little, a smile curling at your lips, “what? Even us Hags have to eat disgusting things despite ourselves… I’ll drink some with you, if it helps.”

You scoop yourself a bowl, holding it up as if mocking a ‘cheers’ and bringing it to your lips. He wasn’t wrong at all, it smelt awful, eye wateringly awful and as pungent as the acrid scent of the swamp outside. Gods, don’t think about the swamp water. Yet, with a pinch of the nose to seal your nostrils shut, you tilt the bowl up and begin to drink. Eyes flicking over to Aegon who is dutifully following despite the exaggerated expression of disgust.

”See,” you cough and wince as the brew burned your throat and assaulted the senses, “it wasn’t so —,” an onslaught of coughs prevent you from finishing the sentence, though when you came too it wasn’t the fact that he had finished his bowl that came as a surprise. It was the simple and disturbingly pleasant fact that he was actually laughing - at you, yes - but laughing nonetheless.

The feeling of delight, something as plain as hearing him laugh sent troubling waves of nausea within you. Stop that, you insisted to yourself for thinking too long on such a factor but unfortunately for you it seemed to imbue you with a sense of being.

“I’m pleased to know it isn’t poison at least,” he jests half heartedly, setting the bowl down on the table beside him. His moment of weakness, laughter, subsided and his walls were back up, though as you look out the window you are reminded that he will very much be a very different kind of man soon, and even more come the morning.

There was still some time left before a long night began, a question that had been plaguing you since that night a month ago and had never found a suitable answer by speculating, “why did your brother get attacked that night? The Lycanthropes in the swamp… They are usually docile because of Ornmir.”

He looked over at you, brow raised in confusion that was met with your annoyed sigh, “right of course — The Swamp Spirit, she has domain over this area, nurtures the land and watches over the creatures.” You explain as if it were the most obvious answer, but recognise you were being unfair on someone who most likely had no idea there was a spirit of the swamp.

There’s a moment of slight humour back in his eyes, a scornful snort exhales from his nose as he laughs dryly, “I suppose then this fabled ‘spirit’ is responsible for the attacks on the nearby village then? A beast descends on a village to kill their livestock, that feels rather opposite to being watched over and docile, like you said?”

”hm,” you hum momentarily, letting his words settle, “perhaps it’s God’s will then?” You weren’t mocking him specifically, rather his family and those who sought to eradicate the magic in the world. The surrounding village’s littered on the outskirts of the swamp were often benevolent in the few times you had passed through to get seeds or fruit, yet the cathedral spires of Oldtown were a beacon that infected many people with prejudice and it reached as far as the closest Village.

Ornmir’s domain was relatively benign despite the creatures that reside, so it did strike you as odd that something had been thought to attack the villages, just like it struck you as odd that an attack happened to Aegon and his brother. Though, your question would remain unanswered for a while longer with the light fading to blackness settling outside of the hut’s windows.

It was always darker in the marsh long before the Sun had fully set, which was natural given the thick cover provided by trees taller than Oldtown's giant Cathedral. Though nightfall would turn within mere minutes, and with that, Aegon would be more monster than man. With great haste you beckon him outside of your hut and take him behind the Elder Tree. A lantern in one hand to illuminate the way and an old dagger in the other.

The humming that vibrated throughout the swamp seemed to permeate from the very roots of the Elder Tree; it was the largest and most intricate looking tree in comparison, even shrouded in darkness. Around it, the ground littered with moss and deceptively hidden soft mud that would encase your foot had you taken a wrong step.

You close your eyes and listen softly, to the wind and its direction, to the symphony of creatures and bugs that coexist within the heart of the marshy swamplands, the humming that never ceased. The moon was on the rise. You felt it, like a presence that made the hair on the back of your neck stand, like a feeling deep within the pit of your stomach. Many serve the Moon, but all life somehow feels its pull.

“Aegon,” you address with a softer tone than necessary, “this may very well be the worst thing you will ever go through. It’s excruciating. It’s difficult. You will begin to recede back, as though no longer in control because you won’t be in control yet will feel, see, taste everything. You’re a shattered soul belonging to two now. A man and a beast.”

A Primal beast that will exist on urges that would make men weep at the thought.

”We are going to have quite the night together I believe,” you smile wearily, bringing the obsidian dagger to the palm of your hand and cutting deeply into it. He grimaced at the sight of crimson dribbling down your forearm, but in the macabre lighting of the lone lantern and a cluster of fireflies you watch his eyes wash away all violet colouring.

Black consuming even the whites of his eyes, you gave him a playful smile, one that certainly wasn’t appropriate for the situation at hand and darted off through the swamp

***

Lycanthropy is one of the few curses that shattered both body and soul, and contrary to what is believed that the only instance of change occurs under the full moon, the blight is a month long ailment. To have bones, tendons and muscle rip, warp and rearrange to a completely different structure was harrowing enough to watch, though scholars tend to only source that this happened one night per month.

Mending bones and muscle was no easy feat, nor was it something that could be done in a mere day. Especially under someone’s first transformation. Aegon had slept for a day and a half before awakening to what you could only assume was the worst pain ever to be put through.

He complained, immensely, but you took that as a sign of him feeling better than anything to be annoyed about. Two days after the full moon his fingernails had finally regressed to their normal sizing, and both his hair and eyes had a semblance of life brought back into them.

You had forgotten how nice it was simply having another person around, not even just to talk too, but another presence that made the hut feel less lonely. Though, you remind yourself that much like your Mother, Auntie and Yurisa — loneliness appeared to be your curse to bear.

”I promise this tastes better than it looks,” you hand over a bowl of seemingly beige modge podge that looks less than enticing and more like vomit. Aegon immediately grimaced but seemed to have caught himself and shook it off, probably in hopes that you didn’t notice. But you did.

His eyes widened in surprise when he shoveled a tentative mouthful of the unappealing looking soup, “this is delicious, what’s in it?”

Snake and Eel. Against your better judgment you decide to refrain from telling him, lest he lose his appetite, “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” A sly smile pulling at the corner of your lips as you tend to the daily chores around your abode. His watchful gaze never felt intrusive or rude, it was your understanding that he merely enjoyed people watching though he hadn’t said it, it was your own reticent observation that led to that deduction.

“You are strange, witch.” Without a hint of malice in his voice, it may have been the first compliment you received from him, one that you gladly took on. Invigorating you in a way that was unexpected and worrisome. Auntie had warned you that you had a tendency to grow attached too easily, a facet that rang true for all the creatures you helped mend themselves when they were injured or the travelers that passed through that you assisted her with helping them.

“Strange is good,” you smile earnestly at him, and though your mind was yelling for you not too, your mouth opened on its own accord, “Bramble… Auntie called me Bramble because that's where she found me.” Though you refused to elaborate when he gave you an inquisitive glance. The memory of Auntie was somewhat sacred, that was something you wished to keep to yourself above all.

”An even stranger name…” he murmured, as though in his thoughts and you weren’t supposed to hear that.

The remainder of the morning went as such, light chatter that felt more akin to a strategic game of droughts learning a small thing about the other as the morning progressed. He was a first born of four, wildly incapable of the pressures and responsibility of a first born, liked to drink his body weight in Ale and Fine Wine and was horrid at day to day tasks as you came to learn when he attempted to help you with something as mundane as hanging freshly washed linen out.

”Good lord what the fuck is that?” His exasperated tone caused you to turn, his eyes fixated in the distance and a finger pointed at the flying abomination in the air near a cluster of identical looking creatures. Features that looked not of this world, making it appear as though it was the gruesome victim of alchemistic cross breeding, beady eyes and a rat like face of a bat but its body looked like a giant mosquito.

You looked at it, unfazed and turned back to what you were doing, “Stirges, awful creatures…” While the flying monstrosity didn’t worry you, its presence did unsettle you greatly, having not seen a nest of them so close by before. Something strange was happening and it had started from before the night of the lycanthrope attack. You wished to know what events occurred that caused such a chain reaction. An attack on a human, an attack on the village and now an incursion of horrible blights that aren’t native to the lands.

“Aegon,” you slowly lifted your head to meet his gaze which was already fixed on you, “why were you in the swamp the night your brother was attacked?” It felt as though you asked this question several times before and never got a real answer out of him or the conversation naturally diverted elsewhere.

While he was mostly open about his admissions already, you could sense him hesitate to answer this question. Perhaps he was gifted at deflecting and that was why you hadn’t received an answer for your question yet. Though the trepidation was not for lack of honesty or a need to conceal the truth, his eyes glassy and a slight tremble in his lip indicated guilt more than anything.

“Whatever is eating away at you, is not my concern. The reason is all I care for. Something isn’t right.” You hum, the nagging feeling eating away your insides like a looming sense of dread that was hard to pinpoint and it alarmed you grately that it took this long to figure out something strange was afoot. The humming of the Swamp droned gently, undisturbed and constant and yet there was a disturbance, over by the reedy shallows where the Stirges set their nest up. It was as though they came undetected, unseen.

He sighed, drawing your gaze to him, a look of shame and guilt marred his face, “I want not for ownership of the land, nor title or to become a Lord… but such is duty,” he was resentful and cutthroat, as if the word duty was an unholy word to be spit out. “Yet my father forces upon me what I push away — it’s my fault Aemond was hurt, he should never have been out there.”

Aemond, you repeat in your head, finally putting a name to the younger brother you healed a month ago.

“The village, Watercroft, asked my father to rid them of the beast that started killing their livestock and I was supposed to lead the hunting party. I would not do as he said, I cannot,” he looked away, gritted teeth as he spoke about his father like poison to the tongue. You couldn’t blame him, since you’ve lived in the Swamps his father has ruled Oldtown and whilst the locals revered him for peace, you had vehemently disagreed.

“So I drank, complained and let Aemond take the lead — he’s the one who deserves the power, the title, everything. And we’ve heard stories about beasts within the swamplands from travelers and locals, but this was different. A monstrous scourge that devoured six of our men whole before I sobered up enough to realize what was going on. Aemond.. he… he grabbed me and we ran… right into a den of Direwolves.”

You shake your head correcting him, “not Direwolves.”

“Right.” He agreed quietly.

His story, while jagged and a mess to make sense of slowly began to click into place for you. It was unsettling at best and at worst borderline apocalyptic for the ecosystem within the Swamp and all the land around. There was only one beast in the Swamp capable of doing what he had described and that was Ornmir herself, in her natural corporeal form as a Swamp Drake. But this revelation only offered more questions than answers, the biggest one more alarming than any other speculation you had gone through prior to this.

Why was the spirit of the Swamp so angry?

~~~~~

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beautifulloverwitch · 1 year

Text

By Fire, Sea and Blood

the untold tale of an approaching collapse

Act I chapter five: children.

Previous ///// next

summary: the children of the house of the dragon have now been divided, incapable of confiding in one another as those around them refuse to spare the younglings from inheriting their hate.

___________________

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Daenerys Velaryon (strong! oc)

Wc: 7k

Warnings: mentions of death.

Taglist: @grungegrrrl

Masterlist

The sullen king Viserys had confined himself to his chambers. His blitheness stifled by the hollowness of the massive structure, even though his wife and children had been dining in the room across from his own. It had been weeks since his daughter and grandchildren departed the castle for Dragonstone, to his displeasure, without his command nor his knowledge of it. One day he was with his grandchildren and children, reading them a story for the night, the next night he was startled to find the dark-haired children absent, as was his daughter. He found himself frequently retiring to his chambers, alone, reminiscing on a time that had long passed. He found himself further dispirited by the tragedy at Harrenhal, how a curse of fire had taken the lives Lyonel Strong and his eldest son.

At the queens adamance, he reluctantly welcomed his old scheming hand, Otto Hightower back to his coveted station. The stoic man found it hard to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his lip as the king reinstated him.

Otto, still filled with pride was sat at the head of the table having dinner with his Queen daughter and Grandchildren, relishing in his return. He was not blinded by his pride as he questioned the presence of an empty seat “Will his grace not be joining us tonight?”

Alicent glanced to the taunting seat beside her “The king has decided to dine on his own,” she excused. Her sons glancing to her before looking back to their plates.

“It has eyes, but it can't see,” Helaena muttered as she pushed her food about her plate.

Aegon grimaced in aversion as his sisters utterances, reaching for his cup his attention was unintentionally caught by one of the serving maids. A smirk dancing on his lips as he rested back against his seat “you,” he called out for her “do fill my cup will you,” he told.

“But the pitcher is right beside you Aegon,” Aemond told, unaware of his brother’s intentions.

Aegon rolled his eyes “congratulations brother you’ve two working eyes,” he told, before returning his gaze to the maid bent down to reach his cup.

Aemond frowned before realising the perversion behind his brother’s actions. Dropping his gaze back to his plate, masking his disgust.

Alicent sternly glanced between the two before dismissing “that will be enough wine for the prince, Alissa, thank you.”

Alissa bowed her head thankfully to the queen before rushing off, face flustered and anxious eyes agape.

Criston entered the room “My queen, a man from the rookery has come to your chambers.”

Helaena and Aemond brightened at the news “let him in! He must have letters from Dragonstone!” Aemond eagerly commanded.

Criston warily looked to the Queen whom reluctantly agreed, squirming beneath the questioning stare of her father.

The man entered and was surrounded by the excited Helaena and Aemond, taking their letters and dashing to the fireplace to sit and read them. Otto asked Alicent “what letters could possibly be arriving from Dragonstone?”

She sighed “Princess Daenerys is continuing contact with Aemond and Helaena,” the disapproval she quickly recognised in her fathers features left her ill at ease, she was quick to explain “they were dear acquaintances before her departure.”

His face communicated how dissatisfied he was by her answer, his attention returned to his plate. The scratching of his utensils against the plate seemed less bothersome to the queen than his words to her “I would have expected you to have distanced her from the children.”

The queen frowned credulously at the suggestion “why would I do that?”

The sound of his utensils clattering against his plate caught the attention of Aemond and Aegon. Otto was unbothered by the attention he had garnered “she is Rhaenyra’s eldest child,” he condescendingly explained “everything she hears she will go on to parrot to her mother,” he sternly told aloud.

The words floated in the air, Aegon awkwardly glancing between his mother and Grandsire. Aemond frowned in disagreement of his Grandsires statement but could not help but consider it. Tucking away the letter to read it later, questioning whether he should have ever sent one.

“How far the tune draws away from their words,” Helaena muttered as her eyes skimmed the words within the letter, her grin grew wider as she found an embroidered cloth neatly folded with the page.

Dragonstone was a terribly grim place, the pale grey steam rising from the Dragon Mont and the smell of sulfur and brimstone made it all the more difficult to settle into. It made the young occupiers almost miss the dour smell of Kings Landing, almost. Night had fallen upon the small island; the dark hiding its worst features.

Daenerys rushed through the corridor to the dining room, confident enough to not bother looking ahead of her as she read the letter in her hand. Her eyes widened with horror as she scanned over one sentence repeatedly. She could only imagine the monotonic voice of her friend reciting them too her, a tone only present when despair had taken grasp of her.

Worry did not seem to disappear from her face as she tucked away the parchment into her pocket before entering the room where her family dined.

Rhaenyra glanced to the door, a stern look on her face as she chided “Daenerys, you’re late, again.”

Daenerys pays her mother no mind as she answered, taking her seat beside the concerned Laenor “forgive me mother, the corridors looked terribly similar.”

Rhaenyra sighed, a hopeful look on her face as she offered “if you wish I can appoint you a guard to escort you to and from.”

“Ser Harwin is coming back?” she questioned with disinterest.

Taken aback, Rhaenyra stuttered out “n-no.”

“The offer is kind mother, but I will manage,” Daenerys spoke, pushing around the food on her plate.

Rhaenyra stared helplessly at her daughter, Daenerys was still discontented by her mothers decision to leave, she understood Daenerys’s anger at the change, but she would have never expected her to remain so bitter about it.

They ate in silence, a terribly uncommon atmosphere, for dinner would always be filled with chatter and laughter. Jacaerys attempted to make amends, to assure his sister that this departure would not be forever but that did not seem to be the thing that bothered her.

Daenerys moved her food around her plate, losing her appetite as she recollected the contents of Helaena’s letter “Helaena has been betrothed to Aegon,” she abruptly told, not looking up from her plate.

Rhaenyra glanced to Laenor “has she?”; their assumptions proven true. They had been made fools of before the court by Alicent, and she was quick in action to prevent the king from realising he needn’t her approval to accept the offer Rhaenyra had presented.

Jacaerys grimaced in disgust “but he’s… her brother,” his frown deepening when he glanced to his sister, imagining themselves married to one another.

Daenerys glanced up from her plate to her brother “the marriage is a custom of old Valyria and our house, tis’ to keep the Valyrian blood of house Targaryen pure,” she explained.

Lucerys nose scrunched as he pictured “Mother? Are you going to wed Jace and Dany to one another?”

Daenerys and Jacaerys shared a look of dread before turning to look at their amused mother, their faces shouted the question that appeared in their minds “Time will tell Luke.”

“Mother!” Daenerys shouted.

She chuckled at their horror “I would not enforce upon either of you such a thing,” she assured before explaining to them a future duty “Our station requires us to marry to strengthen political bonds between houses.”

“Is that why you married father?” Lucerys curiously asked.

Laenor, with a tight smile on his lips answered with a hum. Uncomfortable at the mention of his marriage to Rhaenyra.

Daenerys eyed the two, suspicious of their sudden silence, she shook away her suspicions and asked her mother and father “She invited me.”

Rhaenyra was surprised “Did she?” she questioned before muttering aloud “I would not have expected Alicent to allow her to do so.”

Laenor scoffed “she may yet learn of her daughter’s invitation.”

Daenerys frowned, resting back against her seat. Glancing to her confused brothers, the three of them all wondered, why would the queen refuse their return to the red keep.

Rhaenyra cleared her throat “have you any other news from the red keep?”

Daenerys eyes fluttered away her stupor as she looked to her mother, pondering her answer for a moment “Helaena told me how saddened Grandsire was at our departure,” she told, knowing what spark those words would ignite.

Rhaenyra stilled in her seat; lips rested in a thin line of regret as she recalled her beloved father.

Lucerys sighed sadly “I wish we hadn’t left, I miss Grandsire,” he stated aloud, slumping in his seat “we didn’t even get to say goodbye!”

Daenerys hid her proud grin behind her cup, not effected by the pointed look from her mother “we hadn’t the time to bid him farewell Luke, and besides this is not forever.”

“You’ve yet to tell us why we had to leave so suddenly mother,” Jacaerys said, repeating the question Daenerys had asked her mother far too many times.

“Do not fear brothers,” Daenerys told, tone annoyingly sardonic to Rhaenyra “I’m sure mother can conjure up an excuse just as swiftly as she can make a decision.”

“Daenerys!” Laenor shouted, baffled by his daughter’s rudeness.

Rhaenyra raised her hand, a sign for Laenor to stand aside “Must I repeat myself so much Daenerys, we had no choice but to leave.”

Daenerys scoffed at her answer “we did not leave mother, we ran away.”

Rhaenyra was displeased by her daughter’s characterization, for it was far too true for her liking “you should know that Dragonstone is my seat as princess and heir,” she explained “as it will be yours should the time come for you to be mine,” she told her irked daughter, who glared at her mother through the corner of her eye.

Laenor affirmed “we should not have even stayed at the red keep; we were fortunate enough to be granted the kings kindness.”

Daenerys lips tightened with contempt. The king was kind to them, and they had not even done him the decency of bidding him and his family farewell. Dropping her cutlery, her chair scratched against the floor as she forcefully stood up before she marched out of the room.

“Daenerys, Wait!” Rhaenyra called out, standing abruptly up from her seat.

Laenor frowned in worry for his daughter, reassuring the despaired Rhaenyra “Grant her a moment to herself, I will talk to her,” he gave a warm smile to Jacaerys and Lucerys who sat awkwardly by as they glanced between their parents and the open door their sister had left from.

Rhaenyra glanced up to him, saddened by the fact that her daughter has now become fonder of confiding to her father and not her mother. She wondered if this was the god’s cruel way of punishing her for her years behind her chamber doors, away from her father.

Dragonstone had few admirable attributes, one of them was how thinly spread the garrison of guards was. So many empty corridors to explore, corridors without eyes prodding away at me. Although, I find myself more than willing to exchange the privilege if it meant we would return to the Red Keep.

It has been three weeks since we left, three agonisingly lonely weeks. It had been nice to spend more time with Lucerys and Jacaerys, mother had even granted me more time with little Joffrey, probably to spare herself the headache of my continued complaint.

As I sat on that table, my stomach had twisted shut as I heard my mother’s words.

“As it will be yours should the time come for you to be mine,” she said to me.

How can I possibly spend my entire life in this hollow castle?! As an heir? I have yet to make a decision of it, was the decision already made for me? I mean, how can I not want it, I already intend on making the sane decision, YES. But I won’t be spending it within this excuse of a castle. If I had to, I would fill it with life, I would make sure the sound of the howling wind echoing throughout the halls of Dragonstone would be replaced by the sound of laughter.

As I walked into the only familiar corridor of this dreary place, I eyed the walls for any notable imperfection. My hands skimming them until I found it, a secret passageway hidden behind a rather curious tapestry.

The first day here, I found myself rather… unhappy with this unwelcomed change. So, I searched the castle, for any possible flaw that could allow us to go back.

To my fortune, it led straight to the base of the dragonmont, where the dragon caves resided. Twas’ an obstacle to get down there of course but a few scratches were worth it if it meant I could at least hear the echoing grumbles of the dragons.

Stepping out onto the stoney field, I grimaced as I felt the cloth of my sleeves begin to stick to my skin. Craters of water omitted a thick steam. Had I gotten close enough to them, my sleeves would have melted to my skin. Hopping around them was fun, an entertaining obstacle before the dragon caves. I could only imagine the earful my mother would give me had she known of my whereabouts.

Boulders lined the path ahead, leaving me no choice but to stress my dress even more. Scraping my hands as I climbed atop of them to near the echoing rumble that grew ever louder as I made my way closer.

Steadying myself atop the stone my jaw dropped in awe as my eyes were met with the inky pits of the dark caves a distance away from me. I nearly tumbled back down from the amazement that overtook me. Gathering my skirt around my knees, I brought my legs over the boulder before sliding down to the other side. What terrible night’s sleep I had brought upon myself with all the small pebbles digging into my skin.

By now I was a mess of sweat and mud, my skirt torn and muddy, I recall it being blue. I bet I could sneak back in without anyone noticing, there were no nobles to bother me, and mother was far too busy with little Joffrey and her duties.

As I heard the sounds of echoing croaks and grumbles, I halted in my tracks, I’m not stupid enough to get any closer than I already was. Kneeling behind a pile of rocks, peering up from above them to marvel at the caves. How fortunate I would be if one of them left to wander out of the cave for just a moment, to see them to take to the sky so freely. Should they encounter me, I shall hope their appetite had already been satiated.

“Get some rocks! Let’s lure one out!”

I huddled further behind a rock as I saw five children wandering around the rocky field, they must have been some small folk from the village. Were they mad? To wander so close to the caves was to walk into the arms of the god of death… well… unless you were smart enough to be quiet around them, like me.

Peaking up from behind my hiding spot, I could not help but be curious, they were children without duty, they lived as freely as they could, they were children. Should I warn them, should they stray any closer they might find themselves displeased by the wild dragon’s welcome.

Lost in my own daze of thought, I had not noticed that one of the children had noticed me, a boy. I froze in fear, not knowing what would happen. I was contemplating whether to run or to warn them.

“You! What are you doing out of the village?!” he shouted at me, gesturing for his friends to come towards me.

Words seemed to have escaped me, they must have thought I was from the village as well, if they were to get any closer, I would have been found out for who I truly am.

“Um… I got lost…” I winced at how terrible I had sounded as I spoke. I bowed my head to allow curls of my hair to fall in front of my face, shielding my eyes from them all.

They all looked at me funny before glancing at once another, seemingly they knew one another well enough to know the others thoughts. It was three boys and two girls. Two of the boys for as young as they looked were quite brutish, the other boy was much his age in appearance, the girls looked just like me, only a bit malnourished. I would have expected them to have food, the castle has been empty for a decade, who were the fishing ports feeding?

“We seen you before?” the girl narrowed her eyes at me “I don’t forget faces,” she was taller which made it easier to hide my eyes as she grew too close for comfort.

I gulped as I shook my head, damning myself for being blunt enough “I’d remember a face like yours.”

The girl’s brow shut up in surprise, and through her dirt covered face I could notice the blush of embarrassment grow upon her cheeks as her friends laughed. Her surprise was soon replaced by a cutting glare.

“Hard to forget ugly!” one of the boys shouted, I disagree, I don’t think she’s ugly, just memorable, I have seen ugly before it does not look like that.

The girls shoved the boy “put a cork in it Mouse!”

I stood awkwardly before them as they burst out into an argument.

“Both of you’s can stuff it, I plan to see a dragon not be its dinner!” the shorter boy told, picking up a rock in his hand. Smarter one of the bunch.

“Have you seen one before?” I asked, curiosity getting the best of my caution.

The other girl nodded excitedly “We ave’, pretty things they are, from afar of course,” she extended her arm out to me “I’m Lory,” I happily shook it, a refreshing kindness emanated from her, she pointed to the smart boy “that’s Robert, we call him Bertie, she’s Ellis,” she pointed to the girl whom continued to eye me down, she did not seem to appreciate being introduced. Lory looked to the two brutes “that’s mouse, his true name is Alwyn, and that’s Baldwin!”

“Why do they call you mouse?” I asked Alwyn, only for him to be answered by Bertie.

“Too smart a name for him,” he answered, before telling “Come on, they take to the skies round this time,” he hid behind the rock I was once at “now all of you get down, Imma throw a rock and I don’t care if ones of ya’s is still on yer feet.”

I frowned at his words before following his warning, kneeling down a ways away from the group. I found myself amused as they shoved one another about, trying to get the best spot to see the dragon.

Robert stood up and tossed the rock as far as he could before falling back down to hide. It clattered about the ground before it fell still just outside the entrance of the caves. It was so still for a moment, until a bellowing roar burst from the cave. The ground began to shake with each heavy step.

A shape began to form from the shadowy cave, pushing myself up I wished to get a closer look, only to pulled back down by Robert “a death wish you ave’ or somethin’? stay down!” he loudly whispered to me.

I reluctantly nodded, before turning back to look at the cave, and my what a sight it was. A dragon of slender build, skin as brown as my hair and crescent horns wandered out, as slender as he was, his size must have granted him some strength.

“Damn it!” Mouse whispered, he sounded terribly annoyed at the sight of the dragon “its Sheepstealer! he’s going to take the lot of my father’s sheep he will!”

Sheepstealer, a fitting name, what trouble he must be causing for the small folk. The boy beside me dismissed the concerns of the brute boy “better your fathers mutton than us, mouse.”

As we heard Sheepstealer groan its tiredness away we huddled further behind the rock. A quiet giggle escaped me as I watched the sleepy dragon stretch his dark wings. For a moment I had feared that it had seen us as it charged our way.

“Gods! RUN!” Baldwin shouted as he stumbled back and began to scurry away.

The rest were startled as they stumbled back. I was too amazed to move. My mind was embraced by the naïve hope that this was it, this was my time to claim a dragon. My hopes were soon shattered as the dragon took to the air with a beat of his wings, the gust of wind throwing us all to the ground.

As I fell upon my back, I grunted as my head bumped against the stone ground. As my eyes fluttered open, everything was so blurry, for a moment I had thought three dragons had taken to the sky, then two, then one, then two, I soon realised it was just Sheepstealer and my vision playing a game with me.

“I ought to tell father to herd the sheep back into the farm!” Mouse told before running off.

“Mouse, Wait!” The other brute told before frantically running off.

“why not warn the small folk?” I asked the remaining three, the two girls and the boy.

Ellis eyed me with revulsion at my credulousness “you’d know Sheepstealer don’t attack the village,” she stepped up closer to me, I was quick to duck my head before she got close enough “abouts you come from, girl?” she asked me, rightfully doubtful of who I was “Oi! I’m talking to you!”

I breathed in before answering “I’m from the village, my parents keep me inside-.”

"Parents? Both of em?" she interrupted, I looked up from the ground at her, seeing the sad envy in her eyes.

"it is not a rare thing Ellis, some men did return from the war," Robert reminded.

she glanced over her shoulder towards Robert "but none returned whole, some part of them was lost, is that not right Lory?"

Following her gaze, I frowned worriedly as I saw Lory run her hand up and down her arm uncomfortably.

Robert noticed the confusion that still lined my brow "a decade ago, when the Lord fleabottom still had power over Dragonstone before the heir," Lord Fleabottom? Who was that? mayhaps it was a title of sorts, and I surmise it to not be an endearing one judging by the scowl on Roberts lips as he said it "he planted a few seeds of loyalty with the guardsmen on the island before he left for the stepstones with the Sea snake, but they needed men to fill the many ships in his garrison, so the rogue prince sent word to Dragonstone for the guardsmen to join him at the stepstones with every man old and young that can wield a sword in his hands."

The rogue prince? Prince Daemon "They asked men from the village to join them?"

I shrunk beneath their gazes, clearly I had asked a stupid question "Ah yes they were invited to a feast and kindly asked to join them, cause we small folk are born with such a privilege."

I could not believe it at first, but then I remembered how literally he had represented his title. He demanded mothers, daughters and sisters to bid farewell to their sons, husbands, fathers and brothers. Then never granted them their place in history, celebrating a short lived victory over their rotting bodies. committed all of that without consequence from the king, mayhaps the king did not even know?

"That cunt prince took my father to his death and threw my mother to madness," such venom laced within her voice as she retold. No wonder she was of such a strong stature for her age, she had no choice but to grow up for the sake of her mother.

"How do you not know this, have your parents hid you to keep you daft beneath their roof?" Ellis asked me, my credulousness is going to get me killed if I stay any longer, I need to leave soon.

"I suppose they've the habit of lying," I excused.

Her eyes looked me up and down, trailing over my torn and dirty clothes, whatever patterns or embroidery existed on this dress had been covered my dirt thankfully "I have met everyone in the village, no house have I not visited, never have I seen a girl stowed away in one of the homes by her two parents."

"My father is not around much, he works at the port sailing to and from," I cringed at how quickly the lie fell from my lips, it was not entirely false, nor was entirely true. My ears did not miss the sigh of relief coming from Lory.

The girl continued to tear me apart with her eyes as they darted around what she could see of my face. A twinge of disappointment in them

“Lots of people are good at hiding back home, Ellis, leave it be,” Robert defended, as I glanced to him, I could not deny the fright that overcame me as he warily looked at Ellis.

She hummed as she looked me over with suspicion one last time before turning to look at him “I ain’t trustin her, Bertie, she should scram. Ellis turned to look at me, frowning in offence “this our spot,” she declared, I thought not much of it until she warned “and you've far overstayed your time here, and your lucky I'm letting you go."

There was a glint in her eye, one of which I had never seen before “why would I be lucky?”

She narrowed her eyes at me before stalking towards me, staring down at me with such an intensity, I felt myself shrink beneath her “because I wouldn’t ave’ a beanpole runnin around tellin everyone bout’ my spot,” her voice low and unwavering as she spoke “I’m feelin generous today.”

“Ellis this ain’t necessary,” Lory advised, glancing to her she looked as though she knew what that warning had truly meant.

I pondered her words a moment before I answered, “I don’t want trouble, I’ll be away,” I told, as steadily as I could.

"I'll be lookin' for you back home!"

The once office of Lyonel Strong now belonged to the new hand, Otto Hightower, who made quick work of ridding it of anything that belonged to his predecessor. He sat at his desk, reviewing every decision that was approved by Lyonel, a hum of disapproval leaving his lips whenever he found an order that he would have never allowed. Scoffing at the dead mans work.

Aegon grimaced as he looked around the dark room, illuminated by the very few candles and the cool Moonlight. “I’d have expected less of a drab for you, grandsire.”

“The tower of the hand was not made for comfort Aegon,” he told as he wrote down his concerns and critiques “and this is my office, not my bedchambers.”

Aegon glanced to his grandsire before taking a long drink from his cup and collapsing against the chair behind him. Looking over to his brother that sat across from him, he frowned at how he kept his letters close in hand “You plan on burning that yet or shall I fulfil the task for you?” Aemond took the letter away from Aegons reach caging it in his arms as he sent a warning look to his drunken brother, Aegon whined “Oh come on! I wish to know how our niece is faring without the attention she so enjoys.”

“Let us hope she writes a letter to you the next time then,” Aemond told as he denied his brother.

Otto glanced up from his parchments to his grandsons, eying the letter in Aemonds pocket “what does she write to you about?” he asked, expectant for an honest answer from the boy.

Aemond was surprised by the question but still answered it “Nothing important, she tells me of how dreary Dragonstone is and how much she misses the red keep.”

Otto hummed, a reaction that a frowning Aemond could not discern if it was positive or negative. He continued “she enquires about us and wishes us well.”

Otto stilled for a moment before he spoke “attentive, is she?”

Aemond frowned, wondering how such a kind trait could be bad “she’s always been that way.”

Otto hummed, a tight smile on his face as he told, his voice missing the note of obscurity that confused Aemond “a well-mannered and caring child, how fortunate you are to have her as an acquaintance.”

Aemond frowned at his grandsires characterization, she is not an acquaintance of Aemonds, she is his dear friend. They have known each other for far too long for them to be called acquaintances of one another.

Aegon also found his grandsires words odd, he had been gone a great amount of time yes, but the girl’s relationship with the family is no secret. He shrugged away his confusion before taking a long sip from his cup before asking his grandsire who approached the table they were sat at “I’ve been meaning to ask you grandsire, what could have prompted my father to reinstate you?” he frowned when his cup was snatched away from his hands by Otto.

“Do you have a doubt in his grace’s decision?” He questioned with a masked offence.

Aemond was keen to know as well “No, we were just told that Lyonel Strong would be resuming his duties once he’d return from Harrenhaal.”

Otto sighed before he sat down “He’s dead.”

The two boys froze as they heard the news, how casually their grandsire had had said those words perplexed them. Such news spoken without pity for the victim, without care, it confused them in a manner that nothing has before.

“A blaze engulfed Harrenhaal days ago, killed him and his son Harwin,” he continued, unbothered by their silence.

The two boys sat a bit longer in their silence, Aegon eventually shrugging and relaxing into his chair. Aemond was still bewildered, questioning his grandsires intent. Wondering if this is how he should behave, how he should act. To be detached from the dead, to care not for them anymore.

Shaking away his unease at the spiral of thought he had been sent into, he stood up from his seat “I think its time for us to go to bed.”

Aegon let out an exasperated sigh before smacking the table “finally,” he said, before standing up and lazily walking to the door.

“Aegon, Wait,” Otto told, as he walked to his desk, and facing Aegon with a pile of books in hand “take these.”

Aegon frowned “why? What even are they?”

“Everything you need to know about the realm and your duties,” Otto explained pushing them into the slightly dazed Aegon, who stumbled back as he adjusted their weight in his arms.

Aemonds brows shot up in surprise as he read the titles on the spine of the books. They were all familiar for he has seen them in Daenerys’s chambers before.

“Why must I read them?” Aegon whined.

A cold expression fell upon Otto’s face “you are to be king someday, best you prepare lest it’s too late,” he reminded, unbothered by the look of dread on Aegon’s face “I shall send a Maester for you upon your completion.”

Aegon reluctantly nodded his head before turning around “and Aegon,” Otto spoke again, causing the boy to hold still in his tracks “I’ve had a squire empty your hostelry of a room, do set aside your unbecoming habit,” He advised.

Aemond glanced back to his tense brother, astonished by how quiet he was, no sharp remark leaving his brothers tongue. As he watched him leave the room, he stood up to follow his brother out, but his path was blocked by his grandsire “do sit, Aemond, I wish to speak with you.”

Aemond sat back down, head anxiously hung low as he awaited his grandsire to speak “your mother, the queen, has told me that you have made an effort of claiming a dragon, have you not?” Aemond nodded in answer “Have you achieved such?”

Aemond shook his head as he explained “All the dragons in the dragon pit have been claimed.”

Otto hummed in dismay “what a shame…” he spoke his thoughts aloud, his words causing Aemond to squirm ashamedly in his seat eyes darting around the ridges of the table in front of him, he felt the room shrink around him, as though he was not welcomed here at all “offering your brave efforts, only to be denied a right you are entitled,” Otto told, before leaning back into his chair “the gods are cruel.”

Aemond glanced up at his grandsire, but was met with nothing he could decipher, glancing back down he told “Daenerys taught me that patience can be rewarding.”

Ottos brows knitted together before nodding to him in dismissal ��you go off now, it is getting late, we’ve an early day tomorrow, bid your mother and sister goodnight for me,” Otto told, not looking up from the table as Aemond walked past him “And Aemond,” he slowly stood up from his seat, pleased to see Aemond facing him. He spoke, taking steps towards the boy “Listen to me boy,” Daenerys’s letter in his hands “Daenerys may be kind to you, you may call her a friend, but she will never value you as much as she values her family,” he told the confused boy “if it comes to it, she will throw you to the wolves for the sake of them,” offering the letter back to the wary boy he continued “learn that from her.”

Aemond glanced between the folded parchment and the sincere dejected expression upon Otto’s face. The seed of an unpleasant thought began to take root in his mind, he hesitantly took the letter from him and bowed his head to his grandsire before dashing out of the room. As Aemond’s back turned to Otto, his sincerity seemed to fall away swiftly. Otto returned to his desk, as though he had not subjected his grandsons to a restless night.

Daenerys looked horrible, for the time she had been gone, her dress was torn and muddied, her face covered in a sheen of sweat and dirt. She seemed entrapped in her own mind as she approached her concerned father who had spent an awful amount of time searching for his daughter, for she was absent from her chambers.

“What happened to you!?” He asked, squishing her face in his hands as he inspected it “How did you get out here?”

Her eyes fluttered before she tried to squirm away from her father’s grasp “I went for a walk, and I got lost.”

He frowned, not trusting the answer she had granted him “you’ve been gone hours, I’d been worried you’d ran off again,” he told, lifting her chin in his hand “you may wander around Dragonstone as much as you wish, but please, tell me, tell your mother, or tell one of the guards to accompany you.”

She shook his touch away “if I were to do that, I’d barely be allowed past the hall of my bedchambers!” she told with a passion, for she was irked by the truth of it “mother would confine my wandering to the castle alone, I’ve already seen all of it.”

He chuckled, shaking his head at how inconvenient his wife’s motherly instinct was to the girl “your mother worries for you Embar anne,” he told “tis’ cruel of you to ask her not to.”

Daenerys huffed “but I’m capable, I know where not to go, what not to do!” she explained “I am careful father I swear it!”

“Dany, I care not for how careful you are, I will forever fear for you,” He looked at her worriedly as he pondered a solution to avoid any calamity to befall upon the curious girl, he sighed before pulling her into his side, walking her towards the shore “from now on, you are not to leave the castle-.”

The girl’s eyes widened with confound at the words that left her father’s lips “Father! You can’t-!”

He squeezed her shoulder, prompting her to go silent for him to continue “before you tell me,” He told, gladdened to see his daughters face glow with joy, a subtle smile grew upon his lips “I would very much enjoy joining you on these little ventures of yours.”

A smile slowly began to grow upon her face, before she leapt into his chest, holding him in a tight embrace “Thank you.”

Laenor was delighted “I’m your father, I am to keep you safe, til' we find a man daring enough to follow you on your gad abouts,” he told, brushing away her hair from her face “it will be our secret,” this earned him an eager nod from his delighted daughter “now sit down, let us clean that face.”

The two sat upon the water, Daenerys let out a shrill shriek as she sat upon the cold water. Laenor rolled his eyes “Oh HUSH, had you not made a mess of yourself this would have been unnecessary,” he told before rubbing away the dirt from her face with his water covered hands “I’ll simply tell your mother that I taught you how to swim.”

Daenerys grimaced as she tasted the salty water, she asked “did mother send you?”

“No, I came at my own accord,” he answered defensively. He attempted to meet her gaze as she hid ashamedly behind her cloak of hair “your wrong to think your mother a villain-.”

“I never called her a villain,” she interrupted defensively before she explained “she’s been terribly absorbed in her duties, and keeping me in my chambers, all because my stupid uncle cut my hair,” she cringed as she recalled the to be union between the vile boy and the sweet Helaena.

He stood up and guided her to the sandy coast, not taking the risk of giving her a terrible cold in the water “has anyone ever told you the anguish and fear your mother had spiralled into?” he asked earning himself a tentative shake of her head “it was as though fire had followed her every step that day,” he told, earning a look of surprise from his daughter “Had she the power, she’d have taken apart the keep if it meant she’d find you,” he joked, only to frown when she had not laughed along with him “to keep you under her watch while she prepares the throne for herself and you, is a prudent choice.”

Daenerys huffed before she looked at her father “you all speak as though I am to be her heir.”

He shrugged “Your right, it may be you, or it may be Jacaerys, either way, your mother must prepare for that time,” he told “do you intend on refusing it?” Daenerys tentatively shook her head in response “Westeros has never known a queen, let alone two, your mother wishes to face the brunt of it, so you don’t have to.”

Daenerys looked out across the sea, thinking back to her encounter with those children "When I am queen, hardship will settle forever upon history not this realm."

He chuckled "I pray I May live to see such a world."

Daenerys lips twisted to the side, guilt befalling her as she recalled how uncooperative she was with her mother “is she angry?”

He frowned as he pondered his answer “no, just sad,” he told glancing over too her “she loves you, and she needs you to be patient, for her and your brothers.”

Daenerys dwelled a moment longer in her thoughts before she nodded “I’ll try.”

He smiled in triumph, taking off his leather tunic and resting it upon his daughter’s shoulders “good, now come on, let us not have your mother make an enemy of a cold,” standing up and making his way back towards the castle.

Daenerys chuckled snuggling into the warm tunic before she stood up to follow him, but a shadow in the cloudy sky had caught her attention “father?”

He hummed in response, frowning in worry as he noticed where her gaze drifted about the sky. Looking up, he grinned as he saw the familiar figure.

“Who is that?” Daenerys questioned, confused by the red dragon that grew closer.

“Your grandmother,” he told, his daughters confusion soon infected him. What would cause his mother’s sudden visit, after a decade? He gestured for his daughter to remain where she was, forgetting to mask the worry in his voice “wait here.”

The red queen, a suitable mount for my fearless grandmother, I had never been granted the pleasure of meeting her before, I have only ever heard stories. The woman who could have been the first queen of Westeros, undermined by the men of the realm and robbed of her own birth right, I wonder if she’s irked of how my mother has been granted the right that she was stripped of. I wonder if that’s why this, is the first time I had ever seen her.

Meleys glided down to the coast, splashing against the shore. A dangerous landing, but it seemed as though neither dragon nor rider had cared. Meleys thrashed about, cries of what I could only assume distress escaped her.

From afar I could see grandmother attempting to calm her anguished mount. Her lean and lined face had a solemness that seemed so brittle. How it bothered me to not hear their exchange, but gods, were their actions loud enough.

Father approached mother with such joy, arms outstretched in welcome for her.

As she climbed down, her back remained towards him. Her demeanour quelled the joyousness of my father, his arms lowering to his side as he called out to her worriedly.

With a deep heave of her breath as she adjusted her posture, she slowly turned to face her son. Her composure beginning to shatter as she spoke and locked eyes with his own.

I narrowed my eyes to focus upon her lips, hoping to make something out of it. All I could distinctly recognise from their movement were the words: your sister.

My focus returned to my father, dread dawning upon me as I saw his arms go limp at his sides. His body eerily still. Away was his awkward posture, now replaced with something I could only compare to despair. A despair I had never seen before, nor have I known it to exist within him.

Grandmother approached him and he stumbled into her embrace, legs giving weight beneath him as he fell to his knees in his mother’s arms, taking her down with him. His body shook with heaving sobs. As grandmother soothed him, she could not prevent tears of her own from cascading down her face.

I had yet to know what exactly happened, what caused the both of them such anguish. The pieces were there but, I had not known how to put them together. They slowly began to collapse in place as the sky filled with his cries, a sound so guttural, so visceral I wished to have been spared of it. I prayed to the gods to make me forget the frightening sound that was so foreign to me.

How cold it had now become, the cold fear of not understanding the weight of this now settled against my shivering wet skin. From afar you could hear Seasmokes heart wrenching song clashing with Meleys’s cries. As thunderous as they may have been, neither were more haunting than my father's roars.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond the kinslayer #hotd #aemond fanfiction #aemond x oc #alicent Hightower #rhaenyra targaryen #viserys targaryen #helaena targaryen #aegon targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #lucerys velaryon #harwin strong #laenor velaryon #dragons #a song of ice and fire #aemond targaryen x reader #want for nothing

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a-kind-of-merry-war · 2 years

Text

all the ghosts that are never gonna—

Geralt needs Jaskier for a hunt. When he arrives in Oxenfurt, he receives devastating news about his bard. But a witcher’s work is never finished, and life moves on— apart from sometimes... it doesn’t.

5.3k. Rated T for swears. Contains: MCD-fakeout, hauntings, ghosts, death mentions and yes it has a happy ending. Promise.

It's a shockingly warm late autumn day. Overheard, the sky is dazzlingly blue, and completely cloudless. Geralt rides unhurriedly down the wide road. He's headed to Andole, following a missive from a pack of nobles with a problem they need dealing with discretely. Geralt's never been discrete a day in his life, but he is efficient, and he suspects that at this stage that's more important to his employers.

It's a tricky little contract: a vampire disguised as a duke. Or perhaps it's a duke disguised as a vampire. Either way, Geralt suspects it will end in bloodshed. He hates these sorts of hunts. Less tracking, and more... mingling. Asking difficult people seemingly simple questions. Arguing. It's been a while since he's gone through the rigmarole of it, and he'd be the first to admit that he's woefully out of practice. If only he had someone who could—

Jaskier. Of course. He's always been Geralt's secret weapon for these contracts, partly because he's much more charming and beguiling than Geralt is, and partly because—somehow—the bard seems to bloody know everyone. Andole is only a few miles East of Oxenfurt, too.

He tugs Roach's reins around, guiding her West.

He's not sure where Jaskier actually is, so rents a room then makes his way to the Academy. He skulks around the music hall for a moment before a man appears: a bard in a lurid yellow doublet. If anyone knows where Jaskier is, it will be this person. He has sleeves like church bells, offensive facial hair and a feather in his hat the length of Geralt's arm.

"Jaskier?" The bard says disinterestedly, when Geralt asks where he can find him. "Oh, yes. He's gone."

"...Gone?"

"You know, he's moved on. He's in a better place." The bard flicks the feather out of his face with a shrug. "Gone to the other side."

Oh.

It's like the ground has dropped from beneath Geralt's feet. The world feels pin-prick sharp, honed in, too close. His hands are shaking, he realises.

"When?" He asks, weakly.

The bard shrugs. "Seven weeks ago?" He says blithely. "Eight? What month is it?"

Eight weeks. Gods.

"Oh," the bard adds, as if only just remembering. "He gave me this to give to you, should you grace us with your presence."

He pulls a folded piece of paper from somewhere inside his doublet. Geralt reaches for it.

"You are the witcher, yes?" The bard drawls. "I mean—" he looks Geralt up and down. "I assumed, of course, but one always has to check."

"Yes," Geralt says, wondering what on earth it could be. What Jaskier had deemed important enough to leave him.

The bard hands over the paper. Geralt takes it, tugs it open, and—

The paper bursts into flame. The fireball hangs in the air for a few moments, and there's a twisting shape writhing amongst the licking flashes of light. Geralt tries to look closer, but the fireball suddenly sputters, exploding into dust.

"What the fuck—"

The bard peers at him. "Oh, you're still here?" He frowns, then sniffs the air. "Is something burning?"

Geralt leaves the bard without so much as a farewell. He cannot feel the tips of his fingers or the uneven cobblestones beneath his feet.

He thinks of the note. Of the flames. The weird shape—

But, of course, it doesn't matter. None of that matters.

Jaskier is dead.

There's a—a hollow, inside him. He thinks back to the last time he spoke to Jaskier, and realises, with a pang of guilt, that he can't even remember what their conversation had been about. Jaskier had been saying goodbye, he thinks. He'd been too busy to give an adequate answer. An hour later, he was gone.

Fuck. He makes his way back to the inn in a daze, barely aware of where he's going. All thoughts of the contract drop away—the duke who might be a vampire, his subjects, the hastily scribbled missive demanding Geralt's attention and the hefty reward he was promised. He'd trade the bag of gold to bring Jaskier back. He pushes his way into the inn, and ignoring the shocked look of the innkeeper and other patrons quickly heads upstairs.

He opens the door to his rented room to see Jaskier perched on the bed, covered in blood.

No. Not perched. Hovering, six inches from the coverlet. He looks around as Geralt enters.

"It's about time," he says.

And—despite years of training and fighting and seeing the worst things any living person can see—Geralt faints clean away.

When Geralt comes to, Jaskier has vanished. Geralt puts it down to an overtaxed mind and an overworked body, and tries to shake the horrible image from his head.

He can't. It haunts him. He finishes the contract alone, finding the vampire—disguised as a kitchen-boy, it transpires—and seeing it off. The fight is messy and drawn-out: Geralt is suffering from a lack of sleep, too troubled by the image of Jaskier, blood-soaked and floating, and the creature takes advantage of his distraction.

He does kill it, and accepts the bag of gold. He shoves it into the bottom of his pack and does his best to forget it.

He can't stay in the town, even though his host has offered him room and board for the night. He rides until both he and Roach are exhausted, then makes camp in a tiny clearing at the edge of the woods. He catches a hare, spits it, and sets it to cook above the fire. He's starving—but more than that, he needs something to keep his hands and mind distracted. The silence is deafening. He thinks of plucked strings and hummed half-songs.

The flickering light of the fire twists. It blinks out for a moment. And then...

There he is, illuminated in gold and yellow, sat on the log across the way. The blood is gone, but there's a ring of dark purple bruises around his neck.

"You're not going to pass out again, are you?" Jaskier says. "Only I'm not exactly equipped to pick you up if you are."

He raises a hand to demonstrate. Geralt can see the trees behind him through his palm.

"Jaskier?" Geralt swallows. He doesn't move, in case it breaks the illusion. "Is it really you?"

Jaskier rolls his eyes. "No, Geralt," he says. "It's sweet Melitele herself."

"You're really dead?"

"I am really dead." He says it like he's passing comment on the weather. "And I know what you're like," he adds. "I know what you're going to say. Some bullshit about this being your fault?"

Geralt hangs his head. "But it is—"

"It's not," Jaskier says over him. His body may be wispy and transparent but his voice is as strong and steady as ever. "I did dangerous work, Geralt. I did dangerous work as a bard, too. I knew what I was risking when I started it. I knew what might—what would happen."

"I should have been there to stop it from happening."

Jaskier gives him a long, sad, look. "You have other things to worry about. More important things. You always did." He looks down at his formless hands, then starts to speak again before Geralt can respond. "If it makes you feel better at all, being tortured probably was your fault." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Although you could say it was my fault, for hanging around where I wasn't wanted for so long. If I'd thought with my brain instead of my—" he cuts himself off. "Doesn't matter. This—" he gestures to the bruises, "—was not your fault."

"But—"

"Geralt."

"But I should have—"

"Even when I'm dead you don't listen to me, do you?" Jaskier's voice has changed. There's an edge to it, now. He stands, and the fire reflects off of his shimmering form. "See you around, Geralt."

He's gone just as suddenly as he arrived. The fire crackles. Above it, the roasting hare pops. Geralt suddenly doesn't feel very hungry any more.

Geralt heads North, following nothing more than instinct. He spends the evenings in anxious anticipation, waiting for Jaskier to appear again. He doesn't.

A week later, he's on the cusp of another night's fitful sleep on the hard ground of the forest when a bright light startles him awake.

Jaskier's face, glowing like a star, takes up his whole vision. He's lying on the ground beside him like they've done so many times before, no distance at all between them. Geralt's blurry vision focuses. Jaskier is soaking wet. He blinks.

"Oh," he says. "What—"

"I'm sorry." The words slip out before Geralt can stop them.

Jaskier blinks. He opens his lips, which have turned a dark purple colour.

And then the light inside him implodes in upon itself, and he's gone.

"Oh bollocks. Not again."

Geralt spins around. He's followed the trail of a wraith to an abandoned catacomb, and the curse echoes oddly from the ancient stone walls.

Jaskier—glowing, ephemeral, and angry looking—stands with his arms folded across his chest beside a half-collapsed pillar.

"Jaskier?"

"You really can't get rid of me," Jaskier says, shaking his head.

This time, the bruises are gone, but there's something dark and sticky-looking dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Jaskier seems to notice it at the same time as Geralt does. He presses his fingers to it with a grimace.

"Eurgh," he says. "This tastes foul."

He spits a thick globule onto the mossy stone floor, where it immediately vanishes. "Huh."

He doesn't have time to say anything else before the wraith bursts through him with a screech. He doesn't even move as she barrels through his body. By the time the wraith is little more than a pile of ash, Jaskier has disappeared.

Geralt feels him before he sees him, this time. He's sitting on the bed sharpening his swords in a room above a busy tavern when the air suddenly feels... different.

"You're back?" He looks up. He half-wishes he hadn't. "Fuck."

Jaskier stares down at him. Rather: Jaskier's body stares down at him. Jaskier's head, tucked under his arm, is just about eye level.

"Hello to you as well," he says.

"I was going to ask what happened to you," Geralt says. "Just to know. To stop thinking about it."

From beneath his own arm, Jaskier raises his eyebrows at him. "I don't want to talk about it."

Geralt keeps his gaze. "No," he says. "I'm sure you don't." He puts aside the sword. "Will you—" the request catches in his throat. He can feel Jaskier's ghostly eyes on him. "Will you stay?"

There's a long, heavy silence. A sigh, like the wind blowing through a cracked window.

"Move over, then."

Geralt does as he's told. Jaskier sits beside him on the bed. Again, he doesn't quite make contact with the sheet. As if noticing Geralt's discomfort, he slowly lifts his own head and replaces it on his neck. Geralt's expecting it to simply tumble to the floor, but somehow, it sticks. There's a horrible red line where head meets body.

"I thought you might have Ciri with you," Jaskier says. "Where is she? Is she okay?"

"She's with Yen."

Jaskier nods. Geralt knows that he and Yen had patched up the animosity between them. He'd never taken the time to ask how, or why. Somehow, right now, it doesn't feel important.

"You worked it out with her, then?"

It's not the most accurate way to describe the uneasy feelings that still linger between Yen and himself, but again: Geralt doesn't want to get into it.

"Yeah," he settles on. "Mostly."

"Good," Jaskier says. It sounds like he means it. "I'm glad, really. Ciri needs—" he takes a breath. "She needs both of you, I think. And Yen isn't altogether entirely terrible, I suppose." He hesitates again, and Geralt waits, letting him speak. "Does she know?" He gestures at the mark around his neck. "About me?"

Geralt shakes his head. "I've not seen anyone else in weeks," he says, truthfully.

"Oh."

Secretly, Geralt has been glad of that. He doesn't know where Yen and Ciri are, to start, and even if he did, he's not sure he would seek them out. He knows that he ought to tell Yen about Jaskier's death, but the mere thought of that conversation makes his blood turn to ice. It's almost as if by keeping it to himself, it will make it stop being true. A foolish wish, when the evidence that it is true sits so irrefutably beside him.

"Geralt..."

"I miss you."

Jaskier falls silent. The mark around his neck bleeds, sluggishly. His eyes are huge.

"Oh, Geralt," he sighs. "It's too late for that."

Like the dawn breaking—like a sunbeam slicing through glass—he fades away, until all that's left of him are motes of dust, dancing in the air.

Geralt is making camp beside a field of wildflowers when Jaskier appears next. This time, there's a dagger sticking horribly from his back.

"Where's your lute?"

Jaskier turns to look at him. "Lutes don't pass on," he says a little sadly.

"So you can't play music, like this?"

Jaskier smiles at him, but it doesn't reach his shimmering eyes. "No," he says.

"Can you sing?"

Jaskier hesitates. Through him, Geralt can see the fields of gently swaying wildflowers.

"Is that a request?"

Geralt shrugs. It's barely more than a twist of his shoulders. Jaskier smiles—a real smile, now, that makes his see-through eyes suddenly flash.

He sings all evening. He sings until Geralt slips into the first good sleep he's had in weeks. When he wakes, Jaskier is gone, and the air smells of wildflowers.

Lockerly is a tiny village. There's nothing here but sheep and pigs and—unfortunately for the riverside populace—a rather tenacious nest of drowners. Geralt sees them off easily, and refuses the villager's payment. He can tell from a single glance that the paltry purse of coins is all they have. Instead, he accepts the offer of a place to sleep for the night and a good meal from the middle-aged woman who'd posted the notice in the nearest town.

The woman—called Alayne—has a modest home on the edge of the village: a pretty little cottage with rose vines trailing up the brick and a garden full of herbs. She spots Geralt eyeing them, and promises he can take his pick before he leaves the next morning.

"It's the least I can do," she says.

Geralt wants to refuse—she's done so much compared to what little she has—but he knows that to do so would be an insult. So he thanks her, and makes a mental note to check which ingredients he's lacking before he goes to sleep that night.

The meal Alayne cooks smells delicious, and Geralt realises he hasn't eaten properly since the contract for the kitchenboy-turned-vampire. Since he first saw Jaskier again. As she serves him a second portion, she laughs.

"I'd forgotten what it's like to feed someone other than myself," she says. "It's not even been that long."

Geralt pauses. He thinks about the house—too big for one person—and the gardens that would certainly take a couple to tend.

"I'm sorry," he says, swallowing down the mouthful of food.

She gives him a sad smile. "Thank you," she says. "It's funny, that we can forget... but, we never forget, do we? They never let us forget."

Geralt thinks of the ghostly form of his friend. "They really don't," he agrees.

"Nine months," Alayne says, although he didn't ask. "She's only been gone nine months, but—" There are sparkling tears in her eyes, which she quickly blinks away.

Geralt is struck with a horrible thought. "The drowners?" He asks, carefully.

"Oh, no." Alayne shakes her head. "She was just... sick. She probably would have preferred it being a drowner, by the end."

"I'm sorry," Geralt says again. "I..." he swallows, feeling stupid—whatever Jaskier was to him, it pales in comparison to Alayne's grief.

She spots him hesitating. "Go on?" She prompts.

"I lost my..." he pushes away his half empty plate. "My friend," he finishes. It doesn't feel quite right.

"Oh," she says. "I'm so sorry."

He's about to brush away her words, to tell her he doesn't deserve her pity, but— it sticks. His eyes feel hot.

"I miss him," he admits. "And he wouldn't even know—"

They retire to the garden at the back of the house. The space is mostly given over to useful things—vegetables, herbs, a small flock of chickens—but there's a space in the very middle with two roughly hewn chairs which are bathed in the light of the setting sun. Alayne finds a bottle of strong mead, and together they sit, and drink, and discuss their losses.

"I haven't told anyone," Geralt says, feeling the mead making his lips sticky. "No one else knows."

"How long..?"

"Weeks," he says. "Just weeks."

Alayne places a hand to his arm.

"I let him down," Geralt says, slowly. "I thought— I didn't even see it, then. That he was there, and I wasn't. Not in the way he needed me." He peers out towards the horizon, where the sky is reddest. "He always just... came along. He agreed to help me even when he shouldn't have. I don't know why. He should have told me to fuck off." Finally, he turns to look at her. "Why didn't he?"

She chews on her lip. "It sounds like he cared for you a lot," she says. "And... Geralt, you will forgive me, but when you call him your friend..."

Geralt frowns. "Just friends," he says. This conversation feels oddly familiar.

"Right," she nods. "Just friends."

They talk until the sun has truly set, and the stars fill the sky above. The more time passes, the more Geralt feels his tongue loosen, the easier the words come. Perhaps it's how safe Alayne feels. Perhaps it's knowing that he'll never see her again. Perhaps it's that it feels like a relief, finally, saying it out loud. Perhaps it's just the mead.

She shows him to the guest bedroom. He tugs off his boots a little lopsidedly, then his clothes, then crawls beneath the quilt on the bed. He sighs, then rolls onto his side.

When he finds himself staring into a familiar, glowing face he's not even shocked. That is the mead; he feels a little numb, like he's floating in warm water.

"Just friends?"

Geralt can feel Jaskier's cool, tickling breath on his lips. He finds himself edging forwards. When their lips touch, it's like nothing at all. All Geralt can feel is tingles.

Jaskier laughs. There are sparkling, diamond tears on his cheeks.

"Oh, Geralt," he says. "It really is too late for that."

Tonight, at least, he doesn't leave. He doesn't seem to sleep, either, and the last thing Geralt sees when he drifts away is Jaskier staring at him.

It's only when Geralt wakes with the dawn that he realises that Jaskier had looked whole, for the first time. No blood. No wounds. Just him.

Running into Yen really is an accident, even if it's clear she doesn't believe him when he says so.

They talk through Ciri's education, and what they've been doing in their time apart, and how they both are, but it's clear that Yen can tell something is bothering him. They take two rooms in an inn for the evening, and once Ciri has been sent reluctantly to bed, Geralt tells her. He spits it out, quick and fast, to stop himself holding onto the secret any longer.

Yen frowns at him.

"No he's not," she says.

Geralt's already slow heart stops. He's sure he's misheard her. His ears ring.

"What?"

She sips at her drink, makes a disgusted face, then continues to drink regardless.

"Unless you're telling me he was killed in the past..." she pauses, counting, "three days, then... no. He's not."

"What?"

She sighs. "We saw him just outside of Maribor. He certainly seemed very much alive then. Who told you he was dead?"

"Someone at the academy," Geralt says, weakly.

"You didn't think to check?"

He looks at his ale. He should have checked. Fuck.

"He's been fucking—" he realises his voice is raised, and quickly quietens himself. "He's been fucking haunting me, Yen."

Yen's look of amusement turns to concern. "Haunting?" She repeats. "Haunting how?"

Geralt looks around, as if someone might be listening in to his confession. "He's been... turning up. At camps, during hunts..."

"Like a dream?"

"Like a ghost, Yen."

She places her cup down. "You've seen him?"

"Yes."

"You've spoken to him?"

"Yes. He asked after you, in fact."

She sits back. "That's... concerning."

It feels an entirely inadequate way to describe how Geralt is feeling. "So what?" He says. "Am I mad?"

Yen purses her lips. "Or cursed. Who have you pissed off lately?"

"No one," Geralt says bitterly.

"Hmm." She looks doubtful. "Fine, then. You could have cursed yourself."

Geralt blinks at her. "Is that possible?"

She shrugs at him. "For anyone else, I would have my doubts. But for you..." she raises her cup. "It wouldn't surprise me, no. You hear of our mutual friend's apparent death, and—sick with guilt—you refuse to seek further information. You convince itself it's your fault and, knowing you, you manage to do so in only a few minutes. You convince yourself so thoroughly that you saddle yourself with a fairly run of the mill haunting curse, made more intense because of your connection to chaos. Were you in the possession of any unusual magical items? Any strange hunts?"

"No, noth—" Geralt pauses. He thinks back to the moment he learned Jaskier was dead. Or: the moment he thought he'd learned he was dead. "No, there was," he says. "The man who told me gave me a note. He said it was from Jaskier."

"What did it say?"

"I don't know," Geralt said. "It burst into flames when I opened it. There was this... shape, inside."

Yen looks thoughtful. Then she reaches into her bag and pulls out a notebook and thick pencil. "Can you draw it?"

Geralt does his best. Drawing has never been his strong suit. When he's done, Yen pulls the notebook towards herself with a frown.

"It is a curse," she says. "Cheap, though. He probably picked this up from some... spell peddler. It's just a generic revenge spell."

"Revenge?"

She shrugs. "It's fairly simple. It taps into whatever it is you've done to piss off the caster—that would be Jaskier—and turns it against you. But they're short. There's not enough chaos in them to make them last longer than a few hours, at most." She looks up. "You were cursed by someone else," she says, "but the intensity of it... I suspect that was you."

Geralt is about to ask the obvious question—what did I do to piss off Jaskier?—when he realises that, of course, he knows. Jaskier's ghost, even if he was no more than the shadow of a curse, had made that clear. He'd realised it himself, in the moments between grief.

"Oh."

"You're not going to ask what you did?"

"I think I know."

She smiles at that. "Good. I'd hate to insult your intelligence by explaining it to you. Now you know he is not, in fact, dead, it should lift on its own."

"...Right."

She finishes her wine and stands.

"I should make sure Ciri is actually asleep," she says. "We have an early start tomorrow." She goes to leave, then turns. "We saw him in Crenwall. It's about two day's ride East, following the main road."

Before he can say anything, she sweeps away.

Geralt peers from the window. It's completely dark outside. Too late to start a ride that will take two days, especially when the brief time he has with Ciri is so rare—and so precious.

He looks into the dregs of his beer and wonders what Jaskier would say. He sees off the drink, then heads upstairs to his own room. Tomorrow, he'll see Ciri off, and set off towards Crenwall. With any luck, they can all leave with the dawn.

In the end, Geralt doesn't even make it to Crenwall. He spends only a single night on the road—a night uninterrupted by spirits—and is riding through a market town the following morning when he hears a familiar voice drift from the tavern. He pulls Roach to a stop, and listens. It wouldn't be the first time he's seen Jaskier where he isn't, after all.

—everything we did, we saw, you turned your back on—

There's pain in Jaskier's voice like Geralt's never heard before. He remembers the curse; and who put it on him in the first place.

—that butcher burn—

It hurts. The words hurt. Part of him wonders if he hasn't suffered enough through the endless parade of ghosts: each grizzly death. Apparently not. As the words wash over him, he winces. He did this. However cruel Jaskier's words... they exist for a reason. Fuck.

Part of him wants to push the door open and rush in, just to see him. Just to know that this time, he's real. But that pain is too strong. To barge in now would just prove Jaskier right, he fears.

He tries to ignore the urge. He hitches Roach, and waits.

It doesn't take long. It's too early for a full set, and no doubt Jaskier has charmed the innkeeper into trading room and board for a song. It's something he's done countless times before, and Geralt knows through experience that he likes to leave them with a brief performance. Keeps them wanting more, he'd say. Inside the tavern, there's a smattering of applause from the early risers—or the late sleepers—and then the door swings open and...

This is Jaskier. Of course it is.

Geralt strides forwards. Jaskier spots him immediately, and his expression shifts through fear and anger and relief then—

Geralt doesn't know what makes him do it. Perhaps it's the memory of the horror of that first ghost, or the tingling, tickling relief of the last. He grabs Jaskier around the waist, and kisses him.

Jaskier splutters. Geralt lets him go and steps back immediately, instantly regretting his decision, reminding himself that it was the curse that had wanted him, not the real bard. The real bard still hates him.

"You— no you fucking don't you piece of—"

Jaskier chases him, crashing into him with equal fervour, and suddenly they're kissing again, Jaskier's hands cupping Geralt's jaw. Geralt gasps against his lips but doesn't back away. It's awkward, and messy, and more than a little desperate, and when Jaskier finally releases him Geralt realises he isn't breathing.

"You," Jaskier pants, "have some fucking explaining to do."

"I thought you were dead."

This catches him mid-rant. "You— you what?"

"It's... a long story," Geralt says, eyes down. "Can we...?" He gestures back to the tavern behind them.

Jaskier peers at him. He relents.

"Fine," he says. "But you're buying breakfast. And lunch. And dinner." He stops. He looks Geralt up and down, almost like he's assessing him. "And breakfast again tomorrow if you're good."

"Wh—"

"Come on." Jaskier grabs his arm and pulls him back towards the tavern. "Tell me how I died."

Jaskier refuses to let him speak until they're sat at a table, each with a full pint.

"Right," he says. "What the fuck?"

"I thought you were dead."

"I gathered that part. Why?"

"I went to Oxenfurt looking for you. I didn't know where you were, so I asked a bard... he said you'd gone. That you'd passed on."

Jaskier groans. "Was he wearing a doublet the colour of baby shit with sleeves like church bells and an offensively trimmed moustache?" He asks, raising his eyebrows.

"How did you—"

Jaskier sighs. "Fucking Valdo," he says. "What a prick. May his balls drop off and be eaten by rabid kikimores." He shakes his head. "No, Geralt. I am not dead. Obviously."

"He said you'd gone to the other side!" Geralt cries.

"Well, yes," Jaskier says. "Oxenfurt was stinging me on pay so I transferred to the university in Lyria. They're academic rivals. Valdo's been pestering me about working for the enemy ever since."

"Oh."

"What a fucking shit-stir—" Jaskier falls silent. His eyes go very wide. "Shit, Geralt, did he give you a—"

"A note? Yeah, he did."

"...Fuck."

"Hmm."

"Did it... did it work?" Jaskier peers at him over his pint, apparently attempting to look contrite.

"Yes," Geralt says. "It did."

"And, um..." Jaskier looks abashed, at least. "What did it do?"

"You put a fucking curse on me without knowing what it did?" Geralt snaps, disbelieving.

"The seller said it was just a revenge curse!" Jaskier quickly clarifies, holding up his hands in surrender. "That it'd just... make you feel bad for a few hours." He spots Geralt's unamused expression. "Was that... not... what it did?"

Geralt stares at him. "You've been haunting me for weeks."

"...what?"

"Your ghost. Several of them. You want to know how you died? Fine. One was covered in blood. One was poisoned. One stabbed. One beheaded. One—"

"Fuck, okay, I get it." Jaskier rubs his eyes. "Shit."

"You spoke to me. You were angry, the first time."

Jaskier seems to be struggling to keep his gaze. "I was angry," he says. "I... I am angry. Fuck, Geralt, you heard the song."

Geralt's heart squeezes. "I heard the song."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to be that bad." He swallows. "The curse, I mean. Not the song. I meant the song. At least I did, when I wrote it."

"I'm sorry for making the curse that bad." Geralt feels a twist of remorse. "And the song. You wouldn't have done either if I didn't hurt you. And it was my guilt that made the curse last so long anyway."

"Gods," Jaskier laughs, hollowly. "We fucked it."

Geralt takes a drink at that. "We did."

"What happened?" Jaskier asks. "With the ghosts?"

"We... spoke. A lot. Eventually. I worked it out. Why you were so hurt. Why losing you hurt me so much that your ghost was following me around."

"... Oh."

"I tried to kiss you." Geralt feels his cheeks prickling. Even his staunch self-control can't keep the flush back. "It was like... like ice. Like a breeze. Like nothing, and— you said it was too late."

Jaskier too is blushing. He pushes a long strand of hair out of his eyes, and Geralt suddenly regrets not being there in that awkward in-between stage, when he was still growing it out. Jaskier reaches across the table, placing his hand gently over Geralt's. His fingers twitch. The tips feel smooth and shiny.

"It's not too late," Jaskier says, his voice so low that only Geralt's enhanced hearing could ever pick it out. "Not if... not if you want to try again?"

"You'd want that?"

"I want..." Jaskier shakes his head and squeezes Geralt's hand. "I've wanted that for over two decades, Geralt. You ripping out my heart and pissing all over it doesn't change that, even if it should."

Geralt stares at him. "Two decades?"

"Give or take."

Geralt threads their fingers together. It feels good to feel Jaskier again, not just chasing the shimmering, untouchable afterglow of him.

"But..." Jaskier continues.

"Yes?"

"But we need to change. Both of us. I can't—" Jaskier swallows. "I can't pretend, anymore. And you don't get to hurt me anymore, either. We need to talk." He grins. "I assume weeks of being haunted by me have at least begun to teach you a little more about talking about your feelings?"

Geralt's lips twitch. "A little."

"Good." Jaskier pushes aside his tankard with his free hand and leans forward. "So. You tried to kiss my ghost?"

Geralt mirrors him. "He was in my bed."

"Which explains why you kissed me earlier," he says. "Wanted to see how it really felt?"

"I kissed you," Geralt says, voice low, "because I wanted to know what it's like to kiss you. Because I—" he swallows. Jaskier's eyes are huge, and blue. "Because I care for you. A lot."

Jaskier's lips quirk. "Is this you talking about your feelings?"

"This is me trying."

The quirked smile melds into a real grin. He pushes forwards, and presses their lips together. This time it's soft, and sure, and lingering. When Jaskier finally breaks the kiss, he rests their foreheads together, mouths brushing, breaths mingling. He's so warm. He sighs.

“It’s about time.”

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt/jaskier #i...have no idea where this came from but here it is!!#in which geralt gets super duper haunted #theres a happy ending dont worry #spoiler alert hes fine

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buwheal · 2 months

Note

(ignore this if the other anon sends their story I suppose) I am new, not the same storyteller, but I can still give you the end you look for.

CONT.

And the stars said to the boy as his body in the dream became charred under their gaze yet, "We see all things the world upturns, and know how nothing ever returns. Your grief and despair have swayed us. We have seen you turn your head towards our domain since before you even knew what we were. We have watched you grieve and watched you yearn, for things that never were, and thus can never return. And so, we will offer you one boon, little one who mourns."

And to the stars the boy said, "I cannot bear being trapped on the ground. Please, can't you make me like you? I wish to be untethered from the cold mud and colder oceans in which I feel drowned. Let me shine and sing, hung up in the heavens with the stars and moons that dance like angels. That will be my wish, to be freed from this indifferent and sodden mound that pulls me down. If you could make me bright and gleaming like you, I could find what I grieve and what I mourn."

The sky accepted his wish to be cut away from his home and strung up, woven into the sky, but not without a warning.

"You should know: that to be a star is to be a fire that eternally burns. There are so many things that a star can never be, places that can never be visited and thus never returned to. Nor are the void of our skies Heaven, nor are they Hell. Such places exist, but both are empty. Our home however is so, so full and so, so loud. What you grieve and what you yearn are not things that your wish will earn. Though determined as you are, we will help you search and help you learn how to find a way to return to a home never built. And when you burn, we will be there, beside you in the sky."

The boy heard the stars, but did not listen to their words because the sight of his dreams blinded him. Blithely he pleaded to the heavens for instruction on becoming divine.

The stars answered in turn, "Travel to the tallest mountains where the air is thin and the rocky peaks are so sharp they could pierce the hearts of giants. Then, look for the darkest cave upon the mountain and crawl into its narrowest passage. Once you are there, gouge a small groove into the wall until from the stone gushes sticky ink that shines so brightly it hurts to look. For one year you must drink nothing but the sanguine ichor that bleeds from the carving. Through this you will be transformed, and become like us."

The boy asked the stars why the mountains bleed light.

"Long ago, a god abandoned its body and hurled the hollow vessel upon the mountains so that it may become mortal. The gilt and rotting tallow that melted from the carcass made the mountains last eternal, and now within the stone burns the same molten power that we in the sky radiate," the stars sung to him.

When he awoke, the boy obeyed the stars' orders and it twisted him, but not into a star, nor into a moon. His parents grieved his absence, and yearned for his return which would never come. The mountain blood scalded his tongue and throat and sat cold and heavy in his stomach. If from the pain he allowed rivulets to spill down his face, it melted and burnt his skin, searing lines down from the corners of his mouth to the bottom of his jaw. Still he persisted, unable to put to rest that which never was, and will never return. By year's end he felt heavy and strange, the ichor in his system like leaden weights upon his limbs and his voice, stretching and breaking his body into bizarre proportions. He did not care. He believed it would earn him everything that he grieved and everything he mourned.

Waxen wings made of the soft and pure gold of the abandoned god's rendered tallow sit upon his back.

The stars gladly welcomed him into the sky, but upon finally meeting his heaven face to face, their light and their heat set his golden tallow wings ablaze like candles.

As his wings melted, the stars were saddened, but offered him another boon, in hopes he could be saved from such a nasty fall. The boy wished for another chance to sit in their sky. The stars thought quick, and wove ropes and cables from the tails of green comets. The boy was gifted the cables, and he gladly tied them into harnesses on his own body. The stars hung his cables from his world's moon as a pale reflection of their own light and every day they sung their songs to him as he swayed in step with the tides of the oceans he tried so hard to escape. He saw his parents, who grieved upon the muddy ground he ran from, but had no body of their child to bury. He saw all the presents and treats they left to rot at the headstone of an empty grave. He watched his parents tell the people who asked: We grieve. We yearn. For our child who could only bear to be turned towards the sky and now will never return.

- 🥩🕊

answered

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kemendin · 1 year

Text

Contentment

What can I say, I woke up today and chose snuggles. Small sequel scene to my fic ‘Cover Your Crystal Eyes’.

Jedi Knight x Lord Scourge Words: 925

The first morning he wakes up next to Scourge, Cas turns a look over his shoulder, and smiles.

They must have shifted positions during the night. He remembers being settled on top of Scourge, drifting off with his head tucked beneath the other’s chin, feeling the slow swell and fall of the Sith’s broad chest beneath his cheek.

Now Scourge is a bulwark of warmth against his back, his body not so much moulded to Caspian’s as Cas is to him. One weighty arm is wrapped easily around the Jedi, his scarlet hand spread over the dark skin of Cas’ abdomen, where he can feel the steady rhythm of his partner’s breathing against his palm.

Cas studies the Sith fondly for another moment, soaking in the view, before passing an idle glance around the cabin of his ship. Early sunlight is threading itself through the narrow windows, melding with the muted glow of the gold-lit panels that border the walls and floor. With the Seeker at rest in its glade behind the Alliance base, and no other occupants aboard, the entire ship is so quiet, so calm, and the Commander is basking in it.

Sighing happily, Cas shifts himself closer against Scourge, sinking deeper into the Sith’s heavy embrace. Sleep is still dragging at his eyes and his brain, and the temptation to succumb to it again is undeniable. But there’s something to be said for savouring this as well, this liminal place between consciousness and slumber, where his entire existence has been reduced to the softness of sheets and the warmth of unyielding muscles now relaxed against him in repose.

A tiny smirk pulls at the Jedi’s lips. The irony of the situation has not escaped him; that for all the Jedi Order’s talk of finding serenity, and clarity, and peace, Cas has at last found all of this here: in the powerful, protective arms of a Sith.

Absently he seeks out Scourge’s hand with his own, weaves his fingers into the empty spaces between the Sith’s stronger digits. To his surprise he feels a slight squeeze in response, and then a tickle of breath across his ear.

“Awake so soon, Jedi?” Scourge’s voice is a thick hum that Cas can almost feel upon his skin.

Caspian rolls back against Scourge, turning his head around to regard him. The sight of the Sith’s half-lidded yet still-bright gaze causes his smile to broaden into a lopsided grin.

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” he admits.

“I promised I would be,” replies Scourge. There’s a light rebuke in the tilt of his browstalks. “And I keep my promises.”

“Well, in that case - good morning, Scourge,” Cas says, more brightly. He cranes his head farther to deposit a blithe kiss on the nearest of the Sith’s chin tendrils.

“Good morning, Jedi,” returns Scourge, before nuzzling his face into Caspian’s silver hair and inhaling deeply.

Cas laughs a little. “Does my hair smell that good?” he teases.

Scourge considers. “It smells - like you,” he answers after a moment, slightly muffled, and Cas chuckles again. He understands that this is as good as a ‘yes’.

Raising his head again, Scourge lets out a low groan of satisfaction and tightens his hold around the Jedi. “You are a very sound sleeper, Caspian,” he goes on. “I was beginning to wonder if you would ever wake up.”

Cas makes a wry expression at this. “I’m not, usually. But this….” He exhales a similarly contented sound, and tilts his head back, and smiles again when he feels Scourge meet the crown of his head with a kiss. “This was the best I’ve slept in… years. No tossing and turning, no waking up in the middle of the night. No awful dreams.”

Scourge hums deeply again. “I have not felt this well-rested for as long as I can remember,” he agrees. “Being bound by the Emperor’s ritual, I was not disturbed by dreams - but sleep was always hollow and unsatisfying. And the return of my emotions only made me more restless.”

With some effort, Cas manages to squirm onto his back while remaining cradled against his partner. He reaches up and brushes his thumb across Scourge’s lips, and the Sith’s mouth quirks beneath his touch.

“Ssshhh,” the Jedi scolds him, still smiling. “Don’t talk about all that, you’ll ruin the moment.” His forefinger strokes along the other’s ridged cheek. “None of that matters right now, remember? It’s just us, here, together.”

He stretches up to catch Scourge’s mouth in a full, tender kiss - only to have this blissful sentiment rudely interrupted by the sound of the ship’s hatch opening. A moment later the familiar trill of an astromech droid burbles from the central deck.

Scourge lifts a browstalk, pushing himself up on one elbow and glancing towards the door, even as Cas falls back with a disappointed groan.

“Just us - and the droid,” the Sith corrects drily. “I suggest you relay to him that there is no more room in the bed, before he starts getting ideas.”

A whir of servos approaches the cabin door. [T7 = bringing breakfast for Jedi + Sith!] comes the proudly beeped announcement.

Cas lets out a loud sigh, and looks up at Scourge. “What d’you think?” he asks ruefully. “Should we let him in?”

Several light thuds vibrate from just outside - like an astromech droid is running repeatedly into the door.

“I think,” says Scourge matter-of-factly, now speaking over the distinctive sound of a lock being overridden, “that we are being given very little choice in the matter.”

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #swtor fanfic #lord scourge #jedi knight #swtor oc #swtor scourge #swtor jedi knight #swtor fic #star wars the old republic #swtor:caspian #kem oc #kem writes #kem fics #just felt like spewing out some somfts today

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papermatisse · 7 months

Text

Perchance To Dream || L.SY

† genre: horror

† word count: 1.7k

† warnings: disturbing content, murderous intent, controlling behavior, self harm (actively keeping self awake and consuming energy drinks and caffeine), mentions of insanity, paranoia, fear, psychosis

† synopsis: when a monster has taken your one unconscious refuge from the world and now seeks to hunt you in your dreams.

† (a/n): this is based on a few things: the one twilight zone episode where a guy was being hunted in his sleep and the Russian sleep experiment. I just think both are neat lol. this one goes out to my friend, britt :))! also thank you to my friend jinnie for helping me lay down the warnings bc I had no idea what to say about this thing.

anthology | main masterlist

It's been three days. Three days filled with coffee and energy drinks coursing through her system at all times. Three days filled with hourly alarms blaring 24/7. Three days of utter fear and debilitating paranoia eating away at her psyche.

Three days she's been awake.

Three days since she last slept.

Three days since she last saw him.

(y/n) remembered what it had felt like when he first came to her. A pleasant, if ever fleeting, moment within a dream. She couldn't even remember what the dream was about, but she remembered him.

Like a beacon of light, he seemed like an angel. A handsome face with a charming smile, doting upon her as she went about her dreamscape. His touch still lingered on her as she awoke the next morning, a barren emptiness filling her heart as she came to terms with her literal dream man being nothing more than a figment of her imagination.

The next night, however, he was there again. And she began to process where she was. A heaven like realm of pink skies dusted with light and fluffy clouds, viridescent plains of grass stretching over hills and weaving between woods, distant mountains reaching above and towering over the little nook she found herself in.

And there atop a hill, leant against a tree, staring forth into the beauty of this world, was that boy again. His eyes lazily trailed over to her, and upon spotting her, a smile stretched across his face.

His touch was gentle as he brought her over to him, his hands calloused and rough yet tender upon her as he spoke endless mantras of adoration. Sweet nothings that warmed her insides and relaxed her muscles. It almost felt like taking a calmative of sorts, that numbness that spreads through your body until all you want to do is sleep. Instead, she remained talking to him for what felt like hours of the night.

His name was Sangyeon, and he introduced himself as what her dreams are made of. It sounded nice and lovely, just like him, and she grew even more enamored by the man her mind created.

For the next week, her nights were filled with nothing but Sangyeon. And just as he had assured her, he truly was her personal fantasy. The sickly sweet, saccharine sensation of happiness seeping from every encounter she had with the man. That blithe elation which comes with love. That hollowness when she'd wake up, that undeniable yearning that ate away at her, was still present, though grew weaker as the days passed, knowing she'd fall asleep and reunite with him once more.

At first, nothing seemed astray. Her days seemed brighter, her nights more comfortable. Sleep had gone from being a vague or otherwise tasking matter that was inevitable of her to pursue, to the thing she looked forward to most at the end of the day. She craved the feeling of Sangyeon's arms wrapped around her, his voice as he spoke sweet nothings into her ears, his all consuming presence that swarmed her every waking thought.

(y/n) didn't think much of it the first time she slept past her alarm. It was only five minutes. Five minutes well spent with her fantasy of a man serenading her with lovely songs and sending her into this tranquil state of peace. Though five minutes soon became ten minutes past the initial alarm, and soon thirty. It had gotten to a point that her boss had to pull her aside and warn her of the penalties of being consistently late.

She didn't know what was happening. Why it was becoming harder and harder to wake up. One solution she came up with was to have three alarms, all at full blast, loud enough to jostle her through that muddled dream state that drowned out all the noise about her. She was getting to work on time again, albeit still acutely aware of the concerning matter at hand.

Though soon the cycle of late wake ups commenced again, and she was now considering other options. Even creating a Rube Goldberg machine that would dunk water on her head, or something similar to this extreme.

It was four nights ago. Sat beside Sangyeon, pressed to his side while he hummed lovely melodies for her. Comfort. Serenity. Warmth. Her lovely, perfect dream. Her ears were tuned into his low voice playing a tune of sorts, though she began picking up another sound. A monotonous droning, overlapping in a way, though still consistent enough for her to detect that it wasn't human.

"Oh, my alarms!" (y/n) called out, scrambling to her feet. "I have to go."

"Why?" Sangyeon asked from behind her.

"I'm going to be late for work." How does she get out of here? Usually she just jolts awake. She's never been this aware of the situation at hand, though now that she was, she realized how loudly the alarms were blaring.

"Why do you care?"

"Well, no job, no money, no food, no rent, no life." She kept wandering about the plains of the dreamscape, head turning about in all directions in hopes of finding an exit.

"You can always stay here with me. I'll take care of you."

"That's a tempting offer, but you're just my dream! I'll see you again when I go to sleep."

A hand grasped her wrist, tugging her back almost violently in a way. She whirled around to face Sangyeon, his face as gentle as it always was.

"It doesn't matter that I'm just a dream. Come with me. We can live here together forever."

It was a tempting offer. It truly was. With how repetitive her days were becoming, as well as that dull and tedious ambience that seems to encompass much of life, the thought of living in an Eden of her own creation with her literal dream of a man was quite the proposal.

Sangyeon's charming smile swept her off her feet, and for a moment, she truly was compelled to abandon everything beyond this paradise, and fall further in Sangyeon's embrace. Though the alarms seemed to only grow louder and louder with intensity.

"I… I can't, I have to go. There's so much—" She was cut off with a yelp as her arm was yanked closer to him, his grip unforgiving as he suddenly glowered down at her with these cold and murderous eyes. Eyes which gleamed with this insatiable hunger. Eyes she's never seen from the man before.

"You think I'll let you go after I've gotten this far?" He spat out, voice laced with this venomous disdain towards (y/n) that left her trembling beneath his presence. "You think I've escaped the confinement of your consciousness just to let you slip away?" His fingers near dug into her skin, (y/n) wincing as he grew more and more violent in his mannerisms.

So many things ran through her mind. Questions and concerns, wondering what was happening, why couldn't she get out of this, why did this feel so terrifyingly real? Yet her mind blanked as she stuttered out the only words she could muster.

"What are you?" A grin spread across his face, a rictus of utter madness, as if her state of trepid vulnerability delighted him to no end.

"I am so much more than a figment of your imagination. I am what your psyche tries so desperately to hide. I am that ceaseless darkness that lurks in the recesses of your mind. I am your worst fears, your crippling insecurities, your intrusive thoughts that drive you mad. I am the insanity that is staved away by sleep." He drew closer to her, nails digging into her skin. His other hand grasped her face, squeezing it between his grip with only a fraction of his strength. "But I've so nearly got you. I'm so close to having you. You just need to give up."

"No." She didn't know where that sudden surge of confidence derived from, but it seemed to only spur on Sangyeon and his madness as he leaned even closer to her face.

"Give up." He spat out. "Give up. Give up. Give up. Give up—"

(y/n) awoke with a shuddered jolt, heart hammering away at her chest, breath labored as she attempted to regain some semblance of a composure. The alarms blared incessantly around her, their jarring ruckus grating upon her ears, though the sound was a near symphony to her. The things which managed to save her from near death. Because as she woke up, she still felt the remnants of his iron grip upon her, and a glance down at her wrist confirmed her worst nightmares.

Hopelessly cradling the now bandaged wound to her chest, which was once bruised and bloodied beyond recognition in the same spots that Sangyeon had grasped her, she glanced at the clock on her wall. It had now officially been four days since she last slept. She didn't have much time left.

In a predicament like her own, she was met with two conclusions. Either she falls asleep, accepts what her body has been craving for so long, allow herself to shut down and embrace slumber with its ever so loving embrace, only to then get devoured by the creature living within her subconscious; or, she lives until her body decides for her, crashing in on itself with the degradation of exhaustion plaguing her weary from. Either way, this was the end of her. A test of her might, and how far her physical corporeal form could reach. Seeing what her limit as a human was.

Because even now, as she remains fully conscious, fresh dose of coffee running through her system to keep her as alert as possible, she can feel it. She can feel his presence inside her head. She can hear his voice somewhere deep within. She can feel his eyes monitoring her. She can feel him waiting for her.

He knew he won. It was only a matter of time, and he could wait a few more days.

#sangyeon x reader #lee sangyeon x reader #sangyeon fanfiction #lee sangyeon fanfiction #lee sangyeon fanfic #sangyeon fanfic #the boyz x reader #tbz x reader #the boyz fanfiction #tbz fanfiction #the boyz fanfic #tbz fanfic #koop x reader #kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic

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