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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 1 year

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The Silver Dragon (32/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 4559

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: After her visit with the King, Arianwyn returns to her husband.

Warnings: Adult content, Minors DNI.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay with this chapter! Tuesday night, I picked up the second book in a quartet that I had started months ago... and now I'm almost done with book four. Don't ask me how it happened, it just did. Hopefully the content of this chapter makes up for the wait!

Series Masterlist

Taglist: @thelittleswanao3 @trap-house-homiecide @50svibes @literishdegree99 @dc-marvel-girl96 @henriettadreaming @multiple-fandoms-girl @gyuxmilk @somemydayy @kittykylax @whore-of-many-hot-men @slavicvvitch

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The Sound of His Voice

As soon as she closed the bedchamber door behind her, Arianwyn exploded into racking sobs. Alicent immediately rose from her chair, and Ser Criston abandoned his post by the door to collect her from the floor.

“Oh, my dear girl,” Alicent said, rocking her gently in her embrace. Then, with a wave of her hand, she directed Criston to enter the bedchamber and ensure the King was not dead – that his passing was not the cause of Arianwyn’s current state of despair.

Criston emerged only moments later and shook his head.

The King was still alive.

Arianwyn had buried herself in the Queen’s embrace, her sobs showing no sign of wavering anytime soon. She was still angry at the King for all he had done. But more than that, she was angry at herself for being so saddened by the impending death of a man she proclaimed to hate.

Why should she mourn the man who had hurt her so badly, and wounded Aemond in his very soul?

Because, despite her anger, despite her inward shouts of protestation that she hated him, she did not. Not entirely

She loved Viserys. A part of her would always love him.

The sobs and cries came harder, seizing her, body and soul, so entirely that she could feel nothing else but the pain in her chest, the roiling in her stomach, and the stinging in her eyes.

“I know, darling,” Alicent whispered into her hair, stroking the silver curls with all the gentleness and love of a mother. “It is cruel that we must witness him this way, but we can take comfort in that it grants us the time we need to say goodbye.”

Goodbye.

Arianwyn had said so much more than ‘goodbye.’ She had laid bare all of her messy, complicated feelings for her uncle and refused him forgiveness, as was proper when one was on their deathbed.

Would the Seven ever forgive her for that slight?

Despite all the lessons and warnings from Septons and Maesters, Arianwyn had no desire to go back into the King’s bedchamber and apologize for her words. Nor to forgive him.

Forgiveness may be a virtue, but, like respect, it must be earned. Viserys had never done anything to deserve her forgiveness, and now he never would.

As her sobs subsided and her weeping calmed, all Arianwyn desired was to return to Aemond.

“I want to go home,” she whispered into the Queen’s shoulder.

Alicent pulled her even tighter to her chest, furiously rubbing circles on her back. “You are home, darling.”

Arianwyn shook her head, struggling to find the right words through her emotional haze. But there was only one word that came clearly: “Aemond.”

That, the Queen understood. She released her niece and summoned Ser Criston to help them both stand. After taking a moment to straighten both dresses, she took Arianwyn’s hands and helped her hold onto the Kingsguard’s arm.

Arianwyn heard Alicent give Ser Criston instructions, but they sounded distant and muffled. When they started moving, slowly, to accommodate her unsteady feet, she realized that he was taking her back to her apartments. To Aemond.

She turned back to the Queen to offer something. Her thanks, her sympathy, or perhaps her apology. But no words left her lips.

Still, Alicent smiled sweetly and nodded. She was concerned, but she took no offense.

Barely managing to smile back, Arianwyn turned to the door that Ser Criston now held open and left the King’s chambers – including that accursed model of Valyria – behind.

As they stepped into the corridor, Ser Adrew Dutton joined them. The cheerful Valish guard had been her protector for the day, and for it, Arianwyn was glad. He had been by her side since she left Runestone as a babe and had never failed to cheer her.

She had fond memories of Ser Adrew abandoning his post by the door to join her in play when she was a small girl, helping her to build towers of blocks that she could never have managed on her own. On Dragonstone, he had taken it as his personal duty to cheer the entire tower. He was not always successful, but he had, on many occasions, made her smile when she was sure she never would again.

It could only have been a blessing from the Seven that he was there, rather than any of her other knights (who she also adored but were far more formal and serious than Adrew) to support her.

He only allowed Ser Criston to take her to the end of the corridor before he stopped and held his arm out for his Lady. “I will escort her from here. You may return to your duties, Ser.”

“The Queen tasked me with returning her to her chambers, Ser,” Criston replied, his tone strictly professional.

Arianwyn’s head had cleared enough for her to actually hear their words. Without speaking, she removed her hands from Ser Criston and gripped Ser Adrew’s arm tight. Both men knew her well enough to know what it meant.

Criston stood down, but looked into Arianwyn’s eyes. “Are you all right, Princess?”

Leaning into Ser Adrew’s side, she shook her head.

“Is there anything I can do to help you feel better?” he asked.

Again, Arianwyn shook her head.

A twinkle entered Ser Adrew’s honey-brown eyes, and he grinned crookedly as he spoke. “Perhaps Ser Criston could show us that ‘face’ that he declined to make for you earlier. Would that cheer you, Princess?”

The memory of Jaehaerys’ instructions came slowly, but when it did, the suggestion made the corners of Arianwyn’s mouth quirk up.

For Adrew, it was an emphatic ‘yes.’ He braced his arm, bringing the Princess’s gaze to the other knight. “Surely bringing a smile to her face would do more good than the redundancy of having two equally capable knights escorting her through the most secure castle in the realm?”

Ser Criston looked like it pained him not to argue, but he sighed and dropped his head. “Very well.”

When he looked back up, his lips were puckered tightly in mock anger, as if he had just tasted the most bitter of lemons. His usually serene brow was somehow both raised and scrunched, creating countless lines across his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Despite this, his eyes were as wide as he could make them. Though she imagined Jaehaerys had wanted them to project righteous anger, they were filled with only embarrassment and disbelief that he was actually doing this.

But Adrew had been right. At the ridiculous sight, Arianwyn barked with laughter. Just as she had been racked with sobs, a fit of childish giggling now overtook her entire body, forcing her to hold on to her guard’s arm to stay standing.

That the humiliating ordeal had cheered the Princess so thoroughly did tempter Criston’s embarrassment. Enough for him to smile when she looked back at him, though it only sent her into another fit of laughter.

“I will consider that my duty done,” he muttered, glaring daggers at Ser Adrew. “Good night, Princess. I hope you feel better on the morrow.”

After Ser Criston had withdrawn back into the King’s Chambers, Adrew leaned down to Arianwyn, who was finally calming from her hysteria. “Not for one moment did I actually believe he would do it.”

Again, Arianwyn laughed.

At the door to her and Aemond’s chambers, Arianwyn finally released Ser Adrew’s arm. Throughout their walk through the Holdfast, her mind kept slipping back to the King, what she had said to him, and what he had done or allowed to happen to her and her husband. But each time she frowned, Adrew gripped her tighter and said any number of ridiculous things to lighten her heart.

She was far too exhausted to thank him properly that night, but she resolved to make it up to him later. So, for now, she simply lifted herself on the tips of her toes to kiss his stubbly cheek. “Thank you, Ser.”

Adrew looked down on her with the fondness of a father. “It is not only my duty to protect you from physical harm, Aria,” he said. The pretense of protocol all but forgotten. He had protected her for 19 years; he had earned the right to use her name, just this once. “I will also protect you from those who would harm your heart.”

Overwhelmed by gratitude and affection, Arianwyn was again at a loss for words. So instead, she wrapped her arms around his broad, bronze-armored shoulders and embraced him.

Daemon had never been a father to her. For a long time, she thought Viserys was the closest she would ever have.

How foolish she had been to think that.

Half of her guards from Runestone had been with her nearly all her life.

Ser Adrew, who had played with her and made her smile.

Ser Christor Hardyng had always asked her countless questions when she returned from the library or her lessons. At first, she had found it irritating, as though she was being forced to attend another lesson. Over time, she realized that not only was he genuinely curious, having received little education in his own youth, but that teaching him what she had been taught had helped her to retain her knowledge. It meant that on the few occasions when Aemond could not recall an answer, she usually could.

Ser Ruban Woodhull was the most protective. He had always accompanied her to the Dragonpit, never fully trusting the great beasts to not harm her. When she rode through the city, he kept his horse near her window and glared at anyone – noble or lowborn – who looked at her too long. The first few times Aemond had snuck into her rooms, it had been Ruban who pinned him to the wall. Convincing him that the Prince meant no harm had been no easy task.

Ser Sterlan Coldwater, despite his gruff appearance, could always be counted on to serve as an accomplice when she and Aemond needed a mischievous hand. Whether it be keeping watch as they snuck into the kitchen for an extra serving of dessert, distracting the librarians so they could keep reading well after their curfew, or even sending a secret raven to Kiran earlier that day, he was always eager to volunteer to help.

Ser Simon Mullynn was always melancholy, but that was no bad thing. When she had been sad, sometimes what had helped the most was him simply sitting silently by her side, letting her know she was not alone. He even, on the occasions when she was genuinely despondent, held her hand. It was the most emotion she had ever seen from him, the most vulnerability he ever showed. Knowing that he trusted her so always made her feel better.

And dear Ser Warren Crayne. Ever steadfast, she could hardly remember a time when he was not by her side. From her first flight on Emrys to her banishment to Dragonstone, he was always there. Offering fatherly advice, providing support when she needed it most, and flashing a reassuring smile with a twinkle in his eyes.

No, Arianwyn did not have a father. She had six.

And she would never take them for granted again.

“Prince Aemond will be waiting for you,” Ser Adrew said, gently pulling away from the embrace. He smoothed the shoulders of her dress and straightened a few stray curls before reaching for the door. “I know this may be asking too much of two newlyweds, but please, try and get some rest.”

“Prince Aemond is already abed, Princess,” Kiran said, looking up from the fire with soot smudged on his cheeks.

He was sweeping out the hearth, the fire long extinguished. With his right arm perpetually in a sling – the limb had been stunted and weak from birth – he had to secure the dustpan against his knee. While Arianwyn felt the urge to offer her help, she soon realized it was unnecessary; he had the task well in hand.

When he saw the tired, sad look on Arianwyn’s face, his eyes went wide, and he stammered to try and offer what comfort he could from his place on the floor. “I believe he is still awake, though. Likely reading.”

“Thank you, Kiran,” she replied. “For all your help today, you’ve been wonderful.”

Blushing under the praise, he ducked his head back to the hearth. “Just trying to do my best for the Prince. To do what I can to thank him.”

That was a thread that Arianwyn was desperate to follow. But like her thanks to Ser Adrew, it would have to wait until she was not so tired, and every bone in her body was aching for her husband.

“Elsie, could you help me prepare for bed?” she asked the young maid sitting at the table, relacing her riding leathers. “I would do it myself, but there is every possibility that I may fall asleep on the dressing room floor. I will need your help to prevent that.”

The girl could barely suppress a smile. “Of course, Princess.”

Mercifully, Elsie was gentle and quiet, speaking only when necessary to keep Arianwyn awake. Otherwise, she only hummed faintly as she combed the knots from the Princess’ hair, rubbed meadowsweet oil into her skin, and clothed her in a soft cotton nightdress.

Arianwyn’s eyes were half-closed when she stood from the vanity and swayed slightly on her feet.

“Can you make it to the bed on your own,” Elsie asked, “or should I guide you?”

“I can make it,” Arianwyn assured, patting her hand on Elsie’s. “You and Kiran can retire for tonight. There will be plenty of time in the morning for relacing, and I have never seen the point of cleaning a hearth only to light a new fire the next day.”

Elsie laughed as she exited the dressing room. “There is a purpose for it, your Highness, but I will save that explanation for another day.”

Arianwyn wasted no time in pushing through the other door, the one that led straight to their bedchamber.

And there he was. She would never tire of that sight.

Aemond was reclining on the bed with a large book in his hands. He wore no bedclothes. He never did, for he ran too hot. Or at least that’s what he always said. But it went beyond that.

Everywhere he went, for nearly all his life, he felt as though he was wearing a costume. That of a dutiful son and Prince, a calculating warrior, and a fierce dragonrider. The only time he ever truly felt like himself was when he was alone or with Arianwyn.

Once she was taken from him, the only place he could escape his endless life of masks was alone in his bedchamber. Here, he would only be himself. No green clothing, no blades, no leathers, and no eyepatch. The one item he never took off was his sapphire, for it reminded him of Arianwyn, the only person to ever truly see him as he was.

He made no move to cover himself for her – why should he? She had seen all of him, inside and out. So, instead, he only smiled as she entered. “I thought for a moment you would not return until morning. Did you read them the entire book?”

The sound of his voice brought some life back into Arianwyn’s veins, but she still collapsed onto the bed beside him. She burrowed into the furs and blankets he had piled on her side, leaving only a sheet for him, and pressed into his chest.

“Just the one story,” she mumbled. “The Red Wolf.”

“Mmm,” Aemond frowned as he made a sarcastic sound. “Yes, I remember that one. And how did the children like it?”

Arianwyn wrapped her arm around his waist and squeezed, perhaps a little tighter than she needed to, but she was dissatisfied with his tone. “Jaehaera and Maelor had no complaints, and Jaehaerys and I had a wonderful discussion.”

“It must have been for it to keep you away for so long.”

As quickly as his presence had relaxed her, his words now made her tense once more.

Aemond felt it – her jaw clenched against his shoulder, her fingers curled slightly against his side, and her breath hitched. “Aria, what’s wrong?”

She didn’t want to say. But she had to.

“I went to see the King,” she whispered.

Now, Aemond tensed. He knew his father was in a poor state. His mother had asked him to go to his chambers to say goodbye. But he had nothing to say to that man. Or rather, he had too much to say.

But Arianwyn had gone. She had spoken to him. She had been stronger than Aemond to face the man who caused them so much suffering.

He wanted to know what happened. And he didn’t. He wanted to ask how the King was. And he didn’t. He wanted to know what she had said. And he didn’t.

He was afraid to know anything more. And he was afraid to remain in ignorance.

“Will you read to me?” Arianwyn asked softly, beginning to trace a Rune on his chest. In his current state of mind, he had no idea which.

Aemond looked down at her, confused by the timing and content of her request. “It is a book of military strategy – not to your interests.”

“I don’t care,” she declared as she pushed further into his chest and tightened her arms around him, wanting to be as close to him as possible. “I just want to hear your voice.”

Her presence and touch cooled him and slowed the frantic beating of his heart. He stared at his page, waiting for the text to come back into focus before he began. “A siege should always be considered the final measure, to be taken only when all other superior tactics have failed.”

Arianwyn closed her eyes, allowing all her senses to fade away while she focused entirely on the sound of his voice. Low but gentle. Quiet but firm. Every word, every syllable, was carefully pronounced. He could be reading absolute nonsense, and still, it would soothe her.

“Few armies have ever possessed the resources necessary to come out of a siege with a true victory. Even if the cloistered enemy is defeated, the victors often emerge having suffered not only a loss of life but of something far more dangerous: morale.”

His voice hitched once, when Arianwyn’s hand began moving against his chest again. She did not trace Runes, only nonsensical shapes that, he quickly noticed, began moving lower and lower as he read.

“Both knights and soldiers are creatures of war. They require action as much as food and blood as much as water. To force them to stand idle is cruelty. Should the siege last too long, not even the whirlwind of bloodshed that ends it will – Gods, Aria!”

Her hand had left his chest and made its way around his swiftly hardening member. She stroked him slowly, lazily, as if she was only doing so to keep her hand busy as she listened to him. It was entirely maddening.

“Keep reading, please,” she said with infuriating innocence.

“Aria…”

“Please?” she asked again as she finally opened her eyes to look at him. She continued her ministrations, running her thumb over his tip to collect the bead of precum gathered there, seemingly unmoved by his subsequent groan of desire.

But there was such desperation in her silver eyes that Aemond could not refuse her. “…not even the whirlwind of bloodshed that ends it will sate them, making the force harder to control and more likely to fight recklessly.”

“It is for this reason that a siege must be ended as swiftly as possible. History shows us that after ten days, the damage to company morale is ir-” he could not stifle his moan when Arianwyn sat up, momentarily releasing him, and removed her nightdress. Her nipples were already peaked, and he could spot glistening wetness between her folds as she climbed across the bed to straddle his thighs.

She stopped with her hand hovering over him. “Keep reading,” she insisted.

He knew she would not move unless he obeyed. This newfound confidence was thrilling. Just the sight of her above him had his cock twitching and hips rolling to try and find friction. But she pushed his hips back to the bed with both hands, holding him in place until he began again.

“…the damage to company morale is irreparable.” The moment he began to read, her hand resumed pumping his length, and it took all his strength to remain focused on the words. There was no restraint left to stop him from rutting into her hand and squeezing her between his legs to try and coax her closer to where he wanted her.

“However, there have been examples in history… Aria! …there have been examples wherein a siege upon a useless target has been successfully utilized as bait to draw out a more desirable… f-fuck, Aria! … a more desirable one.”

Arianwyn had inched herself forward and released his cock from her hand only to begin grinding it against her wet folds. In the back of his mind, Aemond realized what she was doing and wanted desperately to guide her. She had never taken him with so little preparation. But his vision had narrowed to see only the book before him and her breasts bouncing above it.

“Keep reading,” she commanded again. She could not look away from his face. His violet eye flicking incessantly between his book and her. His slackened jaw working desperately to form words despite each tantalizing brush of her skin against his. And his beautiful lips trembling as he struggled to speak.

But speak he did, each word sounding gruffer than the last, each syllable sending a thrill down her spine. She had read to him so often in the past, but this was the first time he had read to her – and it certainly would not be the last.

“A small target, such as a farming village or small port, can be targeted by a larger invading force. It is recommended to have – at a minimum – two men for each opponent within the target’s walls – Aria!” She was immensely glad she sent Kiran and Elsie away, for he screamed then, as she guided herself down onto his length.

He had always taken such care to prepare her to take him, as he was so large and she so inexperienced. But she had distracted him too well, and he had no time to bring her to release even once.

The stretching sensation was more intense than ever, even when he had taken her from behind. She lowered herself slowly, stopping when the pressure was too much to allow her time to adjust. But she never waited long.

Aemond could not form a single word until he was fully sheathed inside her. But, even then, only one escaped his lips, over and over: “Aria!”

She was too stunned by the feeling and sight of him below her to move. He had been pressing against the headboard so often and so hard that hair formed a tangled halo around his head, and his eye was glazed over as he looked up to her, a pleading in his brow that he could not express in his blissful state.

But she did not know what to do next. When Brynna had briefly, in her poppy-addled stupor, mentioned riding Aemond, the Queen had silenced her so quickly that Arianwyn did not have the chance to glean any details as to how.

All she could do was listen to the needs of her own body and hope they would satisfy him as well.

Unsure whether she could lift herself onto her knees so soon after the exertion of lowering herself so slowly, she settled for rolling her hips back and forth to start.

At her very first gyration, Aemond shouted and dropped the book, sending it tumbling to the floor. He reached for her, grabbing her by the shoulder and pulling her against him for a demanding kiss.

Gods, they had not kissed yet. The realization surged through her as their lips met, and he devoured her with teeth and tongue. She returned the same passion he showed her, moaning at the kiss and the pleasure their new position brought.

By pulling her against his chest while he was propped against the head of the bed, Aemond had inadvertently found an angle where the tip of his cock pressed perfectly against that spongy spot inside of her that brought stars to her eyes. Not only that, but her clit was also finding friction against him and the wispy white hair at the base of his cock.

She ground down on his hips, pressing harder and harder against that spot. Then, once she was sure of the angle, she cautiously lifted herself up and down, savoring the sensation of being filled over and over again, and the warm pounding against her most sensitive spot.

“Aria,” Aemond moaned against her lips, trying valiantly to help her in her ministrations, but his arms were too weakened by his pleasure. There was nothing in the world but the feeling of being inside her and the soft noises she made each time she fell back against his hips.

“Keep reading,” she pled, knowing that the sound of his voice was the only thing that could increase her pleasure.

He groaned, “I dropped the book, Aria.”

“Please,” she begged, gazing into his eye. “I need to hear you.”

“Iksā gevie,” he said, rolling his hips up to meet hers with each syllable. You are beautiful.

She gasped, falling forward until her forehead was pressed against his. Her hips never stopped as she clasped his jaw in one hand and supported herself with the other braced on the bed.

“Tolī, Aemond,” she whined. “Ivestragon tolī, kostilus.” More. Say more, please.

He obliged as he began fucking up into her in earnest, infinitely pleased when she returned his vigor from above. “Iksā vok. Iksā se qēlossās. Iksā se hūra. Iksā se vēzos.” You are perfect. You are the stars. You are the moon. You are the sun.

Her desperate whimpers turned into cries of euphoria as he continued, feeling her walls clamp down on him as they both neared their climax.

“Iksā tolvie run sȳz isse se udir. Se Avy jorrāelan. Avy jorrāelan lēda mirre bona iksan. Avy jorrāelan, Aria. Avy jorrāelan, Avy jorrāelan, Avy jorrāelan!” You are everything good in the world. And I love you. I love you with all that I am. I love you, Aria. I love you, I love you, I love you!

He came just breaths after her, hands seizing her hips to hold her steady as she shuddered against his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck as they both slid down the headboard to lie flat on the bed.

Arianwyn was so exhausted by the emotions of the day and her release that she could not even bring herself to roll off of Aemond’s chest nor pull any blankets over them. She just lay there, inhaling in his scent and listening to the sounds of his heaving breath.

But Aemond had finally returned to at least some of his senses, lifting her limp body off him so he could fetch a cloth to clean them both. As he worked, she stared at his face with bleary but reverent eyes.

“Avy jorrāelan, tolī, Aemond,” she said, the particulars of Valyrian pronunciation lost as she slipped closer and closer to sleep. “Avy jorrāelan sīr olvie bona kostan renigon ao isse ñuha ānogar. Avy jorrāelan, se nyke jorrāelagon naejot gīmigon bona ao gīmigon ziry.” I love you, too, Aemond. I love you so much that I can feel you in my blood. I love you, and I need to know that you know it.

Though she had fallen well asleep by the time Aemond set the cloth aside and slipped back into the bed beside her, pulling her flush against his chest, he replied, nevertheless.

“Nyke gīmigon ziry, Aria. Se issa skoros tepagon nyke ābrar,” he whispered as sleep came for him as well. I know it, Aria. And it is what gives me life.

Next Chapter

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basiccortez · 1 year

Text

Coming Home From Tour | The Baby Series

series masterlist | main masterlist

synopsis: The boys come home from tour :)

word count: 3.7k

warnings: babies, mentions of sickness, mostly fluff

note: surprise??? I've had this sitting in my drafts since the end of DiG and now that those pictures of Josh are floating around I thought 'heh why not'. This is terrifying, so lets see how it goes:)

JOSH:

You knew that the moment Josh walked out the door, he was counting down the days until he could come home to you and Oliver. Josh was such a homebody before becoming a partner, now it was even worse. He always found it hard to leave home, spending months on the road, traveling around and playing show after show. He used to call Karen at least once a day, getting updates on things back in Michigan. Now, he was calling you at least twice a day, wanting updates, pictures and videos of his son.

Oliver was now nine months old and sitting up by himself. You had sent the group chat a video the other day of him banging a toy tambourine on the ground and Josh had never felt so much pride in his life. As much as technology was a blessing, Josh still felt like he was missing out on so much. It was almost daily that Oliver seemed to change or have some new milestone checked off the list. The best thing Josh could do every night while on stage, a million miles away, was to make sure to sing for you and Oliver. And somehow, you both knew that Josh was singing for you.

You were somewhat privy to what the boys were planning for their last show. Josh hadn’t given you too many details in your last facetime call, but you knew that they wanted to go out with a bang. You were fast asleep by the time they took the stage in California, after having put Oliver down and listened while you played a recording of Josh reading a bedtime story to him. You were doing your morning debrief, which consisted of scrolling through tiktok and twitter while feeding Oliver and drinking tea.

“Oliver Kiszka, stop putting bananas in your hair,” You scolded the little boy, who just gave you a gummy smile and continued to smash bananas in his brown curls. He for sure had his father’s taste for mischief. You playfully rolled your eyes and placed a couple more pieces of bananas on his highchair tray, “It sounds like half your daddy’s fans are dead this morning. Can you believe that? Can you believe it!?”

“Ah!” Oliver exclaimed and you laughed.

“Yes, I know! Crazy man, I tell ya!” You kissed his cheek, “Let’s get you cleaned up, sticky boy,” You had put on a Jethro Tull album, which just so happened to be Oliver and Josh’s favorites. You believe it was more Josh’s favorite but Josh swore that Oliver told him it was his favorite too. You couldn’t help the giggle that arose from your throat as ‘Reasons for Waiting’ started playing. It always sent a delightful shiver down your body, remembering the first time you heard that song and the first time you and Oliver both saw Josh and the boys on stage.

“What a sight for my eyes,” You sang softly as you wiped your son's cheeks with a damp rag, “To see you in sleep. . .” Oliver had the same big soft brown eyes as his father, and he watched your every move with such intent. You believed that the two were more similar than everyone thought. Everyday you watched Oliver grow, the more you saw the same personality as Josh.

“Came a thousand miles-” You sang the last line of the verse, when another voice jumped in.

“Just to catch you smiling.”

You turned your head around, to see Josh standing in the doorway, his backpack on his shoulders and tired, soft brown eyes looking at you. Tears welled up in your eyes as you ran towards him, and threw your arms around his neck. He grunted as you crashed into him, but held you tightly, breathing in the scent of you. He felt his throat tighten up as he ran his hands soothingly down your back as you cried into his neck. This was the moment he had been waiting for for months.

“Da!” Oliver’s voice broke them apart, and Josh’s smile beamed like a megawatt light. You stepped out of the way so he could go grab his son.

“My sweet boy,” Josh held his hands out as the little boy reached for him. He undid the highchair tray and pulled him into his arms. You smiled as Josh placed kisses all over the little boy's face and Oliver giggled. Your two favorite sounds had become Josh’s voice and Oliver’s laughter.

“My god, he’s gotten so big,” Josh shook his head, running his hand over Oliver’s soft hair. He pressed his lips to the little boy’s forehead, taking a sniff of his hair, “He still smells the same. Like baby powder and lavender. It’s addicting, I had to take one of his blank-”

“So that’s where Hawky went! You had him!” You were going crazy thinking you left one of Oliver’s blankets at some venue across the country, but it was his father who had it the whole time.

Josh just shrugged and went back to loving on his son, “I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. I never want to leave you again.” Josh walked to you, and put his free arm around you, pulling you into him. You placed a hand on his chest and looked up at him. Tears brimmed his brown eyes, and you gently cupped his cheek, brushing away a stray tear, “Ever. You’re both going to get so sick and tired of me, you’ll be calling Jake to haul me away.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” You smiled and Josh pecked your lips.

JAKE:

He knew it was absolutely insane, but Jake couldn’t wait the next day to fly home with his brothers. Don’t get it wrong, Jake absolutely loved what he did. He thanked Josh nearly every day for deciding to embark on this crazy journey with him. Without Josh, there would be no Greta Van Fleet. Jake’s dream would’ve been just that. . . a dream. He would’ve been just another crazy kid who had true talent that never went anywhere. But Jake’s second dream had come true nearly ten months ago, the dream of becoming a father.

Dylan Rose Kiszka had been the greatest gift Jake had gotten since he got his first Gibson SG. He was terrified of becoming a father, and he still had his fear. But everyday it evaporated a little bit more seeing Dylan grow. It had torn him to pieces to have to leave her and go out on the road, but you assured him that she wouldn’t want him to stay here and not go share his talent with the world. Every place that they had been, Jake made sure to buy a postcard (or send someone to go get one) so that he could start a scrapbook for her to look back on. You and Dylan had gone to a couple shows, and made sure to get the concert poster and hang it up in her room with the rest of her posters.

“Are you sure you still want to take this flight?” Ben, their tour manager asked as he dropped Jake off out front of the airport.

“I can not spend another night away from them,” Jake said, grabbing his backpack. Josh was sitting in the back seat and grabbed his brother’s shoulder, “The parental scolding can come late-”

“Give her a big kiss from us,” Josh smiled, “I miss my Dyl Pickle.”

Jake smiled and nodded at his twin, “Thank you.”

“Now go! Or I'm gonna kick your ass for making us drop you off at 1AM,” Josh pointed towards the door, and Jake quickly scrambled out of the car and ran towards the ticketing counter.

He couldn’t remember the last time he took a redeye flight, probably when Sam and Danny were still in high school and they had to be back from playing a show to get to monday morning classes. Jake pulled his sweater on and sunglasses, hoping that he could get through this flight without being noticed. Which, luckily he did, and sat down in his seat near the window. It was bittersweet leaving the tour so soon. He would’ve loved to stay and celebrate the end of what felt like the longest tour in history, with his brothers. But he also wanted nothing more to get home to you and his daughter.

— — —

Nearly four hours later, Jake had landed back in Nashville. The earth was still and quiet as he got into the car waiting to take him home. His heart started racing and his hands grew clammy. Why was he so nervous? He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the fact he’s spent the last five months of his daughter’s life on the road? Would she even know who he is? Yes, they had facetimed and called, and you even spent a week with them on the road, but that was different than this moment.

He was home. The tour had come to an end. There was no more packing up to wake up in a new city or country. There would be lazy moments just the three of you in the morning while you tended to Dylan and Jake made his famous blueberry pancakes and eggs. There would be sessions at the studio where he would try and get Dylan to walk or maybe even bang some keys on the piano. There would be nights where he’d help get her to bed so that you can relax from spending the day with her.

The driver pulled up in front of the small craftsman that you inhabited, and Jake thanked him, giving him a tip. He stood there for a moment in front of the house, just taking in the sight of it. It felt like it had been years since he had been there. He looked to his left, at the mailbox that you insisted on painting for your first house. Your hand print, his, and Dylan’s were on it, like the house in UP. A smile broke out on his face as he fished his keys out from his bag and unlocked the door quietly.

Jake did his best to avoid the creaky parts of the floorboards as he made his way upstairs to the nursery. The mobile above the crib was going, softly playing the melody to ‘Light My Love’, which made Jake’s heart pound in his chest. He walked over to the crib, which he noticed had been lowered and made him a bit sad to think about his little girl growing up. Dylan’s light brown eyes were looking up at the mobile as Jake leaned over the crib.

“Look at you, wide awake,” Jake smiled and reached in to pick her up. Dylan didn’t stir, as if she knew who Jake was. He grabbed her baby blanket from the rocking chair, and sat down, laying her head on his chest and rocking gently, “You remember me? Remember who I am?” Dylan looked up at him, her quiet way of saying that she did, in fact, know who was holding her. You had told Jake during the last phone call that Dylan had started to become clingy and tearful around people she didn’t know.

“Kinda expected you to yell at me, or something,” Jake smiled, playing with the curls at the base of her neck, “But you know me, don’t you, baby,” He placed a soft kiss on the top of her head, and she laid her head back against his chest. She sucked gently on her thumb as Jake rubbed her back, “I missed you like the sun misses the moon at night. But there’s no more needing to miss each other. Cause I’m home. We’re all together again.” Jake settled in the chair, letting out a deep breath, as he kicked his feet up on the footstool in front of him.

He slowly rocked, not only himself, but Dylan back to bed. And a couple hours later, you arose to find both people you loved fast asleep. You walked over to the rocking chair and gently ran your hand over Jake’s hair, kissing his forehead.

“Welcome home, rockstar,” You whispered.

SAM:

Raising twins was hard. Raising twins on your own was even harder. You had found a much deeper appreciation for the people of the world who raised babies on their own. You knew that your single parenting life was only lasting for a short period of time, but you were so ready for Sam to be home to help with Harrison and Lennon. The three of you had stayed home the whole tour, you were too anxious about flying with two newborns by yourself to wherever Sam was. Even though you knew that you would have help with the babies, you just weren’t ready to go through all that yet.

It had been harder than you thought having Sam away. The first month was fairly easy, since the twins were only about three months old. They slept most of the time, and you had Karen around to help you. Then they started getting older and sleep regression had hit. Then on top of sleep regression, came teething. And on top of teething, came sudden weaning (which had hurt more than you were willing to admit). Now Harrison was standing with support and Lennon was crawling, both of them getting into everything.

The boys had played their last show the other night, and Sam was due to come home today. He told you to not make a big deal out of it, but he should’ve known better than to tell you that. Because you, in fact, were going to make a big deal out of it. You and the twins had survived your first tour. You had gotten through six months of being alone with two Kiszka twins.

You planned on cleaning the house, picking up all the stray toys that were strewn everywhere. Finishing up the mountain of laundry that you had been ignoring for days. You were going to have Harrison and Lennon make a banner that said ‘Welcome Home’ on it. And cooking Sam’s favorite, breakfast for dinner. But that was all thrown out the window when a cry woke you up at 3AM.

“Shh, Harrison,” You tried soothing your ten month old. Somehow both the twins woke up sick. Lennon had thrown up all over the second you picked her up, and Harrison had hardly stopped crying since he woke up. This was the one test that you hadn’t gone through while Sam was on tour: the first flu. Lennon was crying in her pack-in-play, having pulled herself up to stand as you ran around the kitchen trying to make a bottle for her.

“I know, I know,” You sighed, opening up cabinets and looking for the motrin, “You’re just so sad and. . .” You grimaced as you heard the sound of a hiccup followed by a splash, “Your tummy hurts. Mama’s getting you medicine.” You set Harrison down in his high chair, which was hard since he was clinging to your shirt for dear life, “One second baby, gotta help your sister.”

You pulled away from your son, to grab the bottle and syringe of motrin. You measured out the correct dosage of the liquid, before grabbing the now heated bottle and going to Lennon. Avoiding the vomit that was now on the plastic mat of the pack-in-play, you picked her up and placed her on your hip. She squirmed her head around as you tried to give her the medicine.

“C’mon, Lenny, it’ll make you feel better,” You tried convincing her. But if there was one thing about these Kiszka twins, it was that they were smart, “It tastes so yummy, see momma tries,” You putthe syringe on your lip, “Now baby tries!” Lennon shook her head and wailed even louder, if that was possible, “Lennon May, it’s good for you!” She shook her head around again, and you could feel the frustration starting to settle in. You took a deep breath, ready to try and give it to her again when a voice came in from behind you.

“Oh is the baby sad?” Sam’s voice was like a breath of fresh air as you sighed and closed your eyes. You turned to face him, near tears as he walked to you. You handed him Lennon, and he gently squashed her, taking the syringe of motrin from you, “My dear, sweet, girl, you’re so sad. Why? Why is my baby sad?”

“Both of them have a cold,” You said and went to pick up Harrison, “I’m sorry. This isn’t the welcome home you deserve. I had a plan with a clean house, balloons, and a cooked meal cause I know you’ve been eating nothing but-”

“As much as all that sounds great,” Sam said, as he finished giving Lennon her medicine, and set the syringe back down, “I would think something is even more wrong if I came home to a clean house and dinner on the table.”

“But you-”

“But I, nothing,” Sam smiled and looked at you, “If I wanted nice and quiet I would’ve gone to my parents. I want loud and chaos. I want to spend the day with my twins, sick or healthy.”

“But Sam, you-”

“Get to cuddle my babies back to health? Why yes, I do,” Sam said, and kissed Lennon’s cheek. He walked over to you and placed a kiss on your lips, “This is the best welcome home I could ever have.”

“I’m covered in baby puke and haven’t washed my hair in four days,” You pouted.

“And you look so beautiful. What is a better welcome home than my girl, and my babies? Nothing,” Sam said, and grabbed your hand, “Now come on, I want cuddles and Bluey.”

You giggled and followed him into the living room. You sat down on the couch, each of you holding a twin in your arms, as you grabbed the remote and went to all the recorded episodes of Bluey. You found one that seemed to be the twins favorites and settled in next to your baby daddy, as he sang along to the intro song.

DANNY:

Danny sighed as he walked into the house, quietly kicking off his shoes. It was late when they had gotten in and unloaded equipment from the bus. He had sent you a text not to wait up, that he would probably be home late. He didn’t want to come home after you and Jude went to bed, wanting to spend his first night home from a long tour with you and him. But, he also didn’t want you staying up late past Jude’s bedtime either.

Jude was almost one, and Danny felt like he had missed most of his life already. There were milestones that Danny had missed due to being on the road, or being at the studio. He hated it. You had told him over and over again that it was okay, that Jude wouldn’t even know the difference if Danny was there or not. It still didn’t help Danny feel any better.

The house looked pretty much the same as he had left it a couple weeks ago, but there were a few more toys laying around which was curtesy of Jude Francis. Danny picked up a couple of them, putting them in the basket by the fireplace where you kept them. He found a sticky note on the mantle that said you left him dinner in the microwave.

“Always one step ahead,” Danny whispered, and picked up the note, making sure to place it with the others he kept from you.

He moved around the kitchen quietly as he warmed up the plate of food you had left for him. He smiled at the new picture on the fridge that looked like Jude had drawn at daycare. The front of their fridge had become covered in pictures of Jude and them, pictures Jude had scribbled at daycare, or projects they had him do. Danny cherished every single picture like it was a masterpiece. While Danny was away, you made sure to facetime him as you put the new picture on the fridge and cheered for Jude as you did so.

When Danny was done eating, he walked up the stairs quietly, looking at the various family pictures that littered the walls as he walked to the bedroom. He smiled at your sleeping frame as he moved around in the half lit room, taking off his clothes and putting on something more comfortable. He washed his face and brushed his teeth, throwing his hair up into a bun. He walked over to you, and gently ran his hand over your hair, and leaned down and placed a kiss on your cheek.

You moved slightly at the feeling of his body, and gave him a sleepy smile, “Mm, welcome home, baby.”

“Glad to be home, honey,” Danny whispered and leaned back down to kiss your lips, “How was your day?”

“Good. Jude drew a new picture at daycare.”

“I saw. Might need him to draw my new base drum cover.”

You let out a tired chuckle, “You eat?”

“Yeah,” Danny nodded, “Go back to sleep, I’m gonna go check on our boy,” You nodded and Danny kissed your lips once more before he walked down the hallway to his little boy’s room.

His heart felt warm as he walked into the room, and could see his son’s sleeping face, with his thumb tucked into his mouth. Jude was fast asleep on his back, small little sighs leaving his mouth as he slept. Danny crept over to his crib, leaning over it as he watched the little boy sleep soundly. Danny watched his chest rise and fall, still scared that he was going to have a lapse in breathing. Jude had finally grown out of his sleep apnea, but it didn’t stop Danny from still being worried about it.

Danny sighed and leaned his head on his arms, closing them for a second when he heard Jude stir. Danny picked his head up quickly and watched as the little boy moved around, readjusting to get more comfortable, and shifting the soft blanket that covered him. Once Jude was settled back into sleep, a deep sigh leaving his mouth, Danny fixed the baby blanket, slightly tucking him back in. Danny gently patted the back of his head, feeling his soft brown curls, and then leaned in to kiss his head.

“Goodnight, baby,” Danny said, and left the room, to go lay down next to his wife.

taglist: @seventieswhore @zoelle16 @wildmoonchild906 @m1rkw00dpr1ncess @canyonmirrors @ohitselliana @gretavanfleas @callmebymym @thatcatbsong @gvfvanfleet @bigberkinbagholdfive @caprisunsister @strugglingtodoshit @idk-maddie @Age_of_Kristin @brokenbells11 @kirbishifts @fatefellshortthistime @myfriendtheghost @mylifeisjustafeverdream @shutupdevvie

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storyofmychoices · 11 months

Note

HEY! Today is International Surfing Day!

What is Bryce up to? :)

Whispers of the Sea

[Bryce Lahela x Olivia Hadley Masterlist]

Pairing: Bryce Lahela x Olivia Hadley (F!OC) (feat. Malia Lahela) Book: Open Heart Word Count: ~630 Rating/Warning: General (all the fluff, pregnancy fic) Prompt: @choicesjunechallenge: surf

Synopsis: Bryce and Olivia enjoy a day at the beach.

Her face glowed beneath the golden sun. Her fingertips glided across her growing belly as she sat on a blanket along the sandy shore on the cape.

"Your daddy loves it here, and so do I," she whispered, gazing out at the glistening blue ocean and its shallow waves.

"It's nothing like where he grew up, but it's our home. I know you're going to love it too, my sweet girl, maybe even as much as your daddy." Olivia watched Bryce wait patiently for as perfect of a wave that could be found at this time in Massachusetts. "Daddy is amazing," Olivia marveled as she continued narrating the day to their daughter. "You'd be so proud of him if you could see him. He is so wonderful at many things, but when he's in the water, he's different. You'll see one day. Maybe you'll love the water just like him. Mommy loves the ocean but not surfing. She tried to surf once—" she giggled softly. "It didn't go well."

Strands of her red hair fluttered in her face from the strong breeze rolling over the water. She couldn't help but smile as she tucked them back behind her ear, the salty scent of the sea dancing around her. She let herself relax and enjoy the moment, knowing all too well that quiet moments would be more of a dream than a reality in just a few more months. "You'll love it here. The ocean is magical, even if you're not a surfer. You can just close your eyes and listen." Her eyes closed as she listened to the roaring waters as the waves broke along the shore, the hum of the wind swirling around them, the song of the seagulls flying overhead, and the laughter of children playing down the beach. She whispered of the magic of the sea, painting a beautiful picture for her daughter and of the remarkable man surfing the waves that she would call her father.

Her eyes popped open as a flutter stirred in her womb. Her eyes welled, sparkling with tears of joy. She cradled her stomach; another kick followed the first. "I knew you'd love it here," she cried into a joyful laugh. Olivia jumped up, unable to contain her excitement. She waved frantically, calling Bryce in from the surf.

"Liv!?" He threw his surfboard down, abandoning it at the water's edge as he rushed to her side. "Are you okay? What's wrong?" His cold hands cradled her face as his thumb brushed her tears away. "Talk to me?"

She shook her head, unable to form words; her heart fluttered, caught in her throat. She took his still-wet hands and placed them tenderly upon her belly.

His mouth fell open as understanding flooded his senses.

Her teary eyes met his, and with a nod confirmed his conclusion.

His knees weakened at the miracle of this moment. They had been waiting for this moment, but he never dreamed it would be here. "Our daughter."

"Our mermaid."

He looked up at her through glistening eyes, shaking his head in confusion.

Olivia laughed through her tears. "I was just telling her all about how magical everything is here, the beach, the ocean, the sun, you... I don't think she could wait anymore. She heard the whispers of the sea calling her to it, just like you."

"Our little mermaid," he agreed, kneeling to kiss her stomach.

Olivia's fingers tangled in his wet hair as Bryce rested against her, her free hand beside his, marveling at their daughter's first movements.

The symphony of the crashing waves and the gentle breeze quieted around them as the pair stayed lost in the moment, brought closer than ever before with the gift of their daughter growing between them.

I had no idea it was International Surf Day!!! Thank you so so much @jerzwriter for inspiring this drabble! I've missed these two so much!

It's kind of nice that it fell right before father's day and at this time Olivia is about 17-18 weeks pregnant so it's right around the time she can start feeling baby Malia dancing with happiness at her two awesome parents.

#bryce lahela #bryce lahela x mc #bryce lahela x oc #bryce oph #open heart #open heart 2 #playchoices #choices #choices game #olivia hadley #bryce x olivia #brylivia #lovealexhunt #open heart 3 #oph bryce #fan fiction #open heart fan fic #june2023

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blogger-yura · 11 months

Text

Entry #47 June 12th '23

#YurasLife #DailyYura #SpringMemories

𝐃𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐘𝐮𝐫𝐚- Life recap ♡

Hello hello once again, my friends! Ah, it's been quite some time, hasn't it? Almost a year, really... Did you think I was gone forever? I could never! Life has just been... Challenging, I'd say (→.←)

Ah, so many faces I don't know... Coming back after so long surely does have some PROS and CONS, uh? I will apologize, shouldn't have left without a "see you soon"! I hope everyone's doing just fine, though. Those who stayed and those who didn't, too.

What have you all been up to during the last year or so? I wonder! If you're new here, you should know I LOVE hearing your stories and interacting! Please never doubt (over)sharing with me, my favorite thing is connecting with you guys! Me? I've been up to quite some stuff! Allow me to begin sharing first... ﾟ.+:｡∩(・ω・)∩ﾟ.+:｡

In the last year, I've dyed my hair around 5 times, traveled 3 countries, visited family for a whole month, cried my heart out many times, perfected my business, took on modeling jobs, took on new challenges, missed people dear to me, lost people, made some new friends, but overall in the last year I have grown. I've grown so much. I've gotten to know myself, my limits, what I deserve and am willing to take from others.

I've bettered myself as a friend, a sister, a daughter.

So many people has come and gone... I think my greatest achievement has been being able to let go of the things holding me back, making me doubt myself, causing me anxiety and fear of giving the world a taste. My greatest achievement has totally been allowing myself to be me unconditionally.

I've figured out it's hard to enjoy life and find our essence when we're constantly surrounded by people who asks more of us than we can give. I've learned that sometimes it's not about not giving enough or people asking too much, really, but just sometimes priorities, languages, personalities not matching well. It's easy to feel sad and frustrated and like you're not enough; it's not as easy to learn from mistakes and grow better when there's no support around.

I hope, now that I'm back and thriving on my experiences, that I can do better. For myself and for others. It's been tough, really, but it's been totally worth it being away and allowing myself some me time away from everything I thought I knew. ♡

I'm super excited to be back, though! I hope there's new friends to be made, and I hope there's some others who have decided to wait for me. Maybe that last one is kinda selfish, but there's nothing wrong in being selfish from time to time.

Anyway, that's been my year in a nutshell. I'll be posting little memories soon! If you're interested in knowing more about my year you can check out the "yura's memories 📌" tag!

What about you, though? What has the last year taught you that has made a change on your life, if there's been anything? Have you managed to travel? Finish that degree or maybe start that career? Has your work treated you well? Or did you maybe decide to find something better! Have you found love with someone, or yourself?

I'd love to hear all about it! If you feel like sharing, please be my guest! (*≧∀≦*)

I'll get going now, I'll see you guys again, real soon this time! Don't go anywhere! -Yura ♡

💗: @clubwnderland [💙] @jinju-oc @moonlightchn @kimheebby @nana-n-nono @coffeexdreamcb @silcntxnight @livealittleoc-cb @minsour-r @multi-esme @urtwice @san-cb @reve-rv @domrachaa @oppositesattraxt @lunaaofthemoon @badbf-cb @thepatchedpaw @domxbot @fantasyxkingdoms @the-hellhounds @monsterhigh-cb @theinvitation-bot @hwangroyaltycb @welcometosector1 @multi-joong @vanilladaises-rp @beastfights-starting @halloween-idols @redlight-cb @yourmysticalgirls-cb @theonesxcb @hybridsheltercb @3rachabot @kardpackcb @beaconhillsxbot @yandereyeri @glamrockpop-cb @angelsxdemons-cb @screamcb

#Yura types 🧡#Daily Yura

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countrymusiclover · 1 year

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Ch 38 - The Lannister Heirs

Part 39

Fire OF A Stark

@dragonixfrye

Jaime and I had been living at the rock for awhile now. Strolling the hallways of the vast castle I was on my own for entertainment since he was now in charge of the Lannister army. They were needing to get a new sense of the new lord of the Rock. There was a thought that wouldn't stop crossing my mind and it was Sansa. She was forced to remain in King's Landing. I desperately wanted her here by my side and away from Cersei and Joffrey. Footsteps came down the hallway where someone put their hand over my eyes. "Jaime, what are you doing?" Seeing it was the golden hand I gently pushed it down turning to face him.

"Looking for my dragon wife. My war meeting ended early at my request. Since I would rather be spending time with you." He explained wrapping his arms around my tugging me into his warm embrace.

He was wearing a golden tunic and trousers that almost matched what he wore the day he fought my father Ned in the streets of the city. He had even left his hair to grow out a little longer after I had told him I preferred it a little longer. "Well I am glad because I am not permitted by the Maester to do anything really. It gets rather boring just roaming the hallways all day."

"I aim to change that, Lynesse. Come with me." He offers his hand, staring down at my choices of clothing. I hadn’t worn many of the Lannister dresses unless we were meeting with the members of his household. Otherwise he would find me wearing his tunics and other things. Even with my growing belly I still managed to have my sword with me.

He tugged me by the arm leading me down a section of stairs I wasn't familiar with. We had to go up quite a few more large staircases before we came to a stop outside a large red door. He pushed it open revealing a large tower room with multiple open windows to gaze out from. Walking forward I could recall the rumors that they said about the Rock. One late Lannister that had died years before our time had said that on a good day you could see all the way across and see nothing but clear waters before you. "So the tales were true about this tower. It's beautiful, like our own little island away from the rest of the Seven kingdoms."

"I thought you would like it. I have also been talking with the castle builders to see if we can make a platform for Joanna since she can't very well fit in the walls." He responded back wrapping his arms around my waist from behind.

Turning around in his arms I leaned up on my toes kissing him softly. "I always thought I would dislike my new home that I would be forced into. Yet I was wrong I love it here with you."

"There's nowhere else I would have rather heard you say that, Lynesse. You will always be my Lady Lannister regardless of you being a dragon-wolf." Jaime leaned down, capturing my lips with his, making me grin.

A few months after Battle of White Walkers

"Seven hells…Jaime!" I screamed clutching the bedsheets in my fingers making my knuckles turn white almost. He was standing beside me with my handmaiden on the other side. I bared my teeth down pushing longer than I cared for. We were finally having our second child after the battle at Winterfell.

My white hair was sticking to my forehead where I threw my head back crying. My sister Sansa was now to be declared Queen in the North and she was talking with me about what should be done. Rhaenyra was tended to by another lady in waiting and Maxon since we both trusted they would look out for her. Blinking through tears of my own I could still make out that Jaime was terrified for me because he was crying himself. "Lynesse, you…you can do this…"

"Oh geez…argh!" I cried hearing the midwife instructing me.

"Just a few more big pushes, Lady Lannister."

Clutching my hands into fists as tightly as possible I closed my eyes shut. Pushing as much as I could two or three times we finally heard a baby cry. The midwife caught the baby while I collapsed back onto the pillows. "You did good, Lynesse." The handmaiden Bridget wiped away sweat from my forehead with a cloth.

Jaime had convinced me to take on a lady to help me since he was rather busy when we returned from Winterfell. She became a very close friend when I learned that we were to have our second child. "My lord. My lady, congratulations it is a boy. You have an heir." The older woman declared wrapping the little babe in a red and golden blanket.

"Oh sweet boy.." I whispered when she placed the babe in my lap once I had shifted into a sitting upright position in the bed.

Jaime sat on the edge of the bed pushing hair behind my face, dropping his gaze downward onto his firstborn son. I didn't have a preference of what our next child would be. Jaime and I had agreed that no matter what Rhaenyra would be heir to Casterly Rock. "I have a son…I have a son." He muttered repeatedly for a few seconds. He could never claim that Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella were his. He told me that Cersei had claimed them as only hers alone.

"Have you chosen a name, Lady Lynesse?" Bridget was standing beside the window watching us while the other attendees were fixing the room trying to make it more presentable.

Turning my head in the direction of my husband we locked eyes letting silence fill the room. His blonde hair had grown longer but he didn't have it as long as when we first met in Winterfell. He placed his left hand on mine, staring closely at the baby. "You choose, little dragon."

"I think he should be…Eddard Lannister." The baby boy had bright blonde hair like his father but he has my eye color. The baby lifted his hands so I gave him my finger where he attempted to grip it as tightly as he could making me grin brightly.

The chamber door opened with the handmaiden carrying Rhaenyra in her arms and a sealed letter appeared also. She curtsied to the two of us handing the scroll over to my husband. "My lord my lady, a raven from King's Landing. It appears to be from Jon Snow."

"I'll take the lioness from you Chloe." Bridget walked over, sending the other girl off.

Jaime tears open the letter unfolding the piece of paper. "Dear sister, I am writing to inform you and your lord husband that we have defeated Cersei. But we also had to remove Daenerys from power, she has burned the city just like her father. I am here to say I won't be placing myself on the Iron Throne. It is yours if you wish. I am just informing you that there is a small council meeting in a few days with the remaining lords and ladies of Westeros."

"Jaime I…I'm sorry." I attempted to say knowing that it would be hard for him to accept that his twin sister was dead. She was his first love and meant everything to him.

He crumpled the letter in his left hand a little, dropping it on the ground. His green eyes were welling with heavy tears. I had never seen him cry except for the night we reunited after the battle against the army of the dead. "Bridget, could you watch the children for a while…" He muttered under his breath.

"Of course, my lord." She bowed her head picking up Eddard and carrying him in one arm and Rhaenyra in the other.

Shifting in the bed I reached forward grabbing his hand making him meet my gaze. "Jaime…" I was only able to say his name before he climbed in the bed beside me. He laid his head in my lap crying heavily.

"She…she’s gone. I…I'm sorry I shouldn't be crying to you…" He started to apologize until I tilted his chin up so he would look me in the eye.

“Jaime, you don’t have to apologize for crying over her. She was your sister and your twin. I don’t expect you to act tough about this. Just cry if you need to. You don’t have to be a strong soldier all the time, not around me.” I declare wiping away the tears that were falling down his face. Running one hand through his hair he buried his face into my chest.

He sniffed and gripped onto my tunic shirt just crying for a few hours. I may not like Cersei but she was his sister after all. It would be like when I learned that Robb, Rickon and my adopted parents were dead. “Thank you…Lynesse.”

It took us a few hours to get ready and the trip back to King's Landing was very long. Jaime was wearing his tan leather tunics and trousers with his sword clipped to his side. I had my white hair completely loose wearing a red dress and some black combat riding boots. I also had attached my sword back to my belt carrying Eddard in my arms. Jaime did his best to carry Rhaenyra until we entered the castle being greeted by Tyrion. “Jaime. Lynesse, I hope the trip wasn’t too bad. Oh and I see we finally have a boy dragon infant.”

“Yes. My brother in law Tyrion, I'd like you to meet your nephew Eddard Lannister.” I held the infant boy up with a bright smile before I noticed one of Danny’s men walking up and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Why is he here?”

The soldier responded sternly, leading us into a small set of chairs outside of the castle. “He is our prisoner after he told Jon Snow to excite our queen. Follow me now.” Everyone was sitting around in a circle where I saw that they had two open chairs that were meant for Jaime and I.

“Jon committed his crime here. His fate is for our king to decide. Or our queen.” Tyrion glanced around at all of us with me and Jaime each holding a baby in our laps.

A random lord I didn’t remember responded back. “We don't have a king or queen.”

“You're the most powerful people in Westeros. Choose one.” Tyrion points out meeting my gaze softly as if he was trying to tell me to step up.

“My lords and ladies... I suppose this is the most important moment of our lives. What we decide today will reverberate through the annals of history. I stand before you as one of the senior lords in the country. A veteran of two wars. And I like to think my experience has led to some small skill in statecraft and underst--“

Sansa cut her uncle off, clearly not agreeing that it should be him. “Uncle? Please sit.”

“Well, we have to choose someone.” An older lord declares where I leaned back in my chair. I had no real intention of putting the idea of me on the throne out there. I may have dragon blood but I wasn’t raised to be a queen.

Baby Eddard started fussing where Jaime let him suck on his thumb making me smile before I noticed Arya reach into her pocket drawing the crown of Rhaenyra that I had accidentally forgotten back in Winterfell. “Cadence - uh sorry Lynesse. You left this back home.”

“Thank you, sis.” I take it from her hand’s holding it with my freehand.

Sansa suddenly spoke up, making me whip my head around in shock at her. “Lynesse, you should wear the crown. You are after all the last living Targaryen and raised as an honorable Stark child.”

“Sansa I…” I couldn’t finish my thoughts, unsure of what to say.

Tyrion and Jaime both declared together making me get a little embarrassed. I valued their opinions but it wasn’t theirs that scared me the most. “Lynesse Targaryen-Lannister for queen.”

Whipping my head to the youngest Stark girl she got to her feet standing before me and her brother Bran sitting in his wheelchair since Jaime was on my right side. “Lynesse, I say aye.”

“Will you wear the crown, Lynesse. If we were to choose you…or even if we choose someone else, would you stand by their side and sit on your rightful place on the Iron Throne?” Tyrion slowly walked up to me making his handcuffs squeak. His green eyes shifting from his brother and over our two children.

Comments really appreciated ❤️ Hopefully I can write two more chapters like I hope before I complete this story

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kasienda · 5 months

Text

Love Remains - Ch 8

Written for @thelibraryloser‘s birthday, which was way back in July! But I'm making steady progress again! Woot!

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 |

Read on Ao3

Chapter 8

Still forty-three days since Marinette lost her memory.

“I have something to say.”

Both her maman and papa froze in their tasks of cleaning up the bakery, and turned to her.

She shifted from one foot to the other, her fingers tightening around the strap of her purse.

“I know you’re both sad that I lost my memories, and that in a way that the daughter you knew is gone. And I respect that and understand that—“

“Marinette,” her maman interjected.

“No wait! It’s just, I love you both so much, and I don’t want to disappoint you, but I’m going to stop feeling guilty about the fact that I’m not her. I don’t need my memories to come back, and I hope you can love me as I am now.”

Her parents both stared at her for a moment with wide eyes. But then her mother set broom she was holding aside, and came around the counter. She cradled Marinette’s face in her hands.

“You could never disappoint us.”

Her father nodded in absolute agreement.

Tears burst from Marinette’s eyes and her maman pulled her into a hug. Her father was behind her, with his arms around them both ten seconds later.

Marinette melted into their warmth as she cried.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed.

Her papa stroked her hair. “Shhh. We love you, Marinetta. We have always loved you, and will always love you, with or without memories no matter how you change or stay the same. You are the light in our lives.”

Her maman kissed the top of her head. “And of course we’re sad that you lost your memories. There’s moments that we shared, obstacles that you fought your way through, things that you were so excited about. But part of my sadness is not that you don’t remember - it’s that it doesn’t seem fair that you have to start over in so many ways, that you should have to struggle more than is normal for a teenager growing up.”

She pushed the bangs out of Marientte’s eyes and looked at her.

“Doesn’t seem fair that you have to doubt or feel guilty for who you are now. And I’m very sorry if we made you feel that way.”

Marinette fell back into her maman’s arms. “Thank you.”

Her papa’s chin rested on her head. “And just so you know, you’re really not all that different.”

Marinette laughed through her tears and pulled back a little. “Will you— will you tell me about me? Share those moments we shared that I can’t remember?”

They both smiled at her. “As long as you promise to do the same when I’m old and can’t remember things as well,” her papa said.

She laughed again, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Promise.” She hugged them both a second time.

“Thank you. I love you both so much.”

Her papa grinned at her with unbridled enthusiasm. “What do you want to know first? We could tell stories of toddler Marinette or about your very first day of school? Then just a month or so before your accident—“

Her maman put a hand to papa’s chest and he stopped talking.

Marinette let out a breath of relief.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and get cleaned up, and over dinner we’ll each tell you one of our favorite stories?” her maman suggested.

Marinette smiled. “Sounds perfect! Dinner at the usual time?”

Her maman nodded.

That gave her just under three hours. She hoped that was enough time. She definitely didn’t want to miss dinner now.

The second the door to her room was closed, she transformed. She messaged Chat Noir first. He agreed to meet her in an hour.

Then she messaged Rena who showed up faster than Marinette had thought possible.

“Everything okay?” Rena asked the second she came in through the window. Her masked brows pinched together in concern.

“Yes!” Marinette instantly soothed. She hadn’t met to worry her. “I’ve just made a decision.”

And did she imagine it or did Rena Furtive’s shoulders tense up?

“About what?”

“Can you stop trying to recover my memories?”

Rena looked like an anvil had been dropped on her.

“I mean, I suppose, but are you sure?”

Marinette laughed. “Positive. I have felt like I’m living in her shadow, but now I’ve decided it’s my life, that I don’t have to keep doing what she did just because she did it.”

“Do you… do you want to keep being Ladybug?”

Marinette started at the question. “Of course! I love being Ladybug!”

Rena Furtive visibly relaxed. “Oh, thank goodness!” Then she grinned. “Trixx, let’s rest.”

In a flash of orange light, Rena Furtive dissolved into Alya.

“Alya?”

Alya grinned. “In the flesh.”

Marinette had foisted the Guardianship onto her best friend? How could she do that? Marientte had read pages and pages of old Marinette’s resentment towards the responsibility and the position. And she had given it to Alya who now couldn’t give it up without sacrificing all her memories?

Her fingers tore into her pigtails.

Who else would Ladybug have trusted with all things superhero related?

Chat Noir?

That would have been just as horrible. Maybe worse.

And so the decision made sense, but she hated it all the same.

“I passed the Guardianship to my best friend?”

Alya frowned, putting a hand on Marinette’s shoulder immediately.

“How could I do that? I hated being the Guardian.”

Alya shook her head. “You hated being Ladybug and the Guardian. It was being both that was hard. Not one or the other. I don’t hate being the Guardian.”

“You don’t? You're sure?”

Alya grinned. “I actually kinda love it? I’ve always been obsessed with superheroes and being in the know! And now I get both! You knew that.”

Marinette laughed in spite of everything. This was why Alya had helped her get away from the crowds for her very first akuma, why she always made herself scarce or “believed” Marinette’s terrible excuses when the alert went off. She had known!

“And it’ll be even better now that I get to share it with you,” Alya added softly, her eyes searched Marinette’s. And Marientte would never leave her waiting in uncertainty.

She leapt forward, wrapping her arms around her best friend’s shoulders.

“Of course, you can share it with me! I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but whatever you need, I’m here.”

Alya laughed. “You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit sometimes. You’ve always been an amazing friend and an amazing hero. I wish you could remember it all. Maybe you’d trust yourself more.”

Marinette pulled back, suddenly anxious. “Are you disappointed that I don’t want my memories to come back?”

Alya smiled again before shaking her head. “I’m furious that they were taken from you to begin with, and I probably would have been mad if you told me this at the beginning. But I’ve been with you these last few weeks, watching as you struggle between what people expect of you versus what you naturally want to do, and I think I get it. But what brought this on?”

Marinette blushed.

Alya’s grin turned wolffish. “Tell me everything.”

And Marinette did. She told her about her confession to Chat Noir, and his reaction.

“That idiot!”

“Right?”

And what Adrien had told her.

“Aww! That’s so sweet though. Are you sure you don’t love him, too?”

“I don’t—“ but then Marinette took a breath. She couldn’t say she doesn’t love Adrien because she knows now that she does. “I’m choosing Chat Noir.”

Alya’s grin exploded. “That has always made sense to me.”

“I’m supposed to go meet him like now. I’m so nervous!”

Alya laughed. “Don’t be. You’ve already done the hard part! Now you just have to go yell at him until he sees sense, and then kiss him.”

Marinette buried her face in her hands. “Alyaaa!” she whined.

But Alya was having none of it. “You’re always nervous when it comes to boys, but not when something is trying to kill you! I don’t get it!”

“There’s no time to think when something’s trying to kill me!” Marinette countered.

Alya just smiled. “So don’t think. Put your spots on, and go!”

“But I’ll be super early!”

“He’s already there, girl. And he’s probably going out of his mind. Just go!”

Marinette hugged Alya again. “Thank you for always being there for me, for always talking me through my silly fears, and for always accepting me as I am.”

Marinette had read enough about Alya to know that this was always their dynamic even before she had lost her memories. Maybe everyone was correct in that she wasn’t that different now than she had been. And hopefully now that she knew Alya was the Guardian and a hero in addition to her best friend, Marinette would be able to reciprocate.

“Of course, girl!” Alya said, squeezing her back just as hard. “Always and forever.”

Then she pulled away. “Now scat!”

Marinette didn’t need to be told twice.

…

Alya was correct. When she arrives, Chat Noir is sitting on the edge of the rooftop, with his legs dangling over the edge. She thinks he’s been sitting there for awhile - maybe since the moment she messaged him - if his unfocused gaze on the horizon is anything to go by.

He leaps to his feet the moment he sees her, offering her a hand she doesn’t need to steady herself, but she takes all the same because she wants to touch him.

He smiles, but his lips quickly press together in obvious nerves, and she squeezes his hand, hoping to reassure him.

He pulls out a single red rose with his other hand and offers it to her.

“For you, M’lady.”

She accepts it, holds it up to her nose, and breathes in the fragrance, hiding her smile behind its soft petals.

“Thank you,” she says. “It’s lovely.”

“Not nearly as lovely as you.”

She arches her eyebrows.

His free hand flies to the back of his neck, and the gesture tickles at her memory. The same way his smile sometimes does. She’s seen the gesture before, from someone else. Why can’t she place it?

“I want to apologize.”

She nods.

“I never ever meant to take anything away from you, make decisions for you, or dismiss your feelings. You of course get to choose your own mind and heart. And I was wrong to overrule what you were telling me.”

His eyes are so green, and he’s saying exactly what she needs to hear, so all the tension in her shoulders evaporates leaving her only with bubbly giddiness. She wants to kiss him now, but she’s far too aware that the last time she tried, he pushed her away.

So instead, she glances down into the rose.

“Thank you for saying that. I understand that it might be hard to trust someone who only has six weeks worth of memories.”

He grips her hand in his own, and she looks up at him again.

“No! That’s not it. I’ve trusted you since the beginning and I never stopped trusting you. I just am not always great at accepting good things,” he says sheepishly. “I don’t usually get to keep good things.”

Her heart breaks at the admission. She squeezes his hand harder. She wants to give him all the good things from here on out.

“You deserve good things,” she whispers.

He smiles. “God, I love you so much and I have for so long and I’ve always hoped, but I always had to hold myself back to respect what you wanted in the past. I might be too practiced at that.”

Her smile grows. “I can understand that. I’m sorry I snapped and ran away yesterday before you had the chance to speak.

His smile stretches wider across his face. “It’s okay. I understood that I had stepped on a landmine. And it was good for me to get some time to think about why.” His gaze drops to their joined hands before he looks up again. “I could never actually say no to anything you wanted. I would love for you to give me another chance if I haven’t blown it.”

She stands up on her tiptoes and kisses the tip of his nose. “I was never going to let you go that easily.”

He turns a delightful shade of pink. “Just so you know, I didn’t react to what you told me yesterday because I thought you had to stay true to your old self.”

“Then why did you say that?”

“Because I’m—“ and then he stops, and looks her in the eyes, and she knows they’re on the edge of something, but what she doesn’t know. “May I tell you who I am?”

She swallows. “Am I allowed to know who you are?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t asked Rena about it, but at this point I’d rather ask for forgiveness than permission.”

“Does she know who you are?”

He shakes his head as he brings her knuckles up to his lips, leaving her with a kiss that sends shivers shooting up her arm.

“And you want to tell me?” she makes herself ask.

“I’ve always wanted to tell you.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “Then why didn’t you?”

“You always said no,” he admits.

She scowls. “Well, screw that.”

He laughs. “So you want to know?”

She nods eagerly. “So much.”

He detransforms, and she’s not prepared, but she somehow isn’t surprised either. Adrien’s smile on the first day of school and Chat Noir’s nervous tick just a few minutes ago had been familiar for a reason. A reason that slammed into her conscious mind so hard she wonders how she never saw it before.

“Oh.”

And he’s doing it again - rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

She giggles. “I feel stupid now for making such a big deal about her being in love with you instead of you.”

He laughs, and pulls her into a hug. “No, please don’t say that. I don’t know what made her love Adrien that time or you love Chat Noir this time.” He pulls back just enough to see her eyes. One of his hands cups the side of her face. “But, I know that you’re not stupid. You’re absolutely brilliant on every side of your mask both with and without all your memories.”

“It was when you gave her your umbrella.”

His expression dissolves. “What?”

“She fell in love with Adrien when you apologized and gave her your umbrella. She wrote that it was because you were kind and patient and were willing to give her another chance after she had misjudged you.”

His eyes turn glassy with tears, and he clings to her. He’s shaking so hard she thinks she might be the only thing keeping him standing.

“And I fell in love with Chat Noir for making me feel like I am enough. And she was right about you being genuine and kind. You as Adrien threw me for a loop earlier today.”

He laughs through his tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to complicate things for you.”

She shakes her head in fond exasperation. “Apparently, I tend to be pretty loyal to the first person I fall in love with.”

And then they’re both laughing. Her head is pressed against his and she can only think of one thing that would make the moment better.

“May I kiss you?”

His lips find hers in answer, and she may not remember the first sixteen years of her life, but she’s certain that this is the best moment of her life.

…

#miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #memory loss #amnesia #marinette gave up the guardianship #but not as angsty as the trope usually is #adrien agreste #ladynoir #happy ending #identity reveal #love remains #my own content

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squishablesunbeam · 2 years

Text

The Palette Pt. 13: Stranger

Prev. Next

TW: dehumanization, whumpee as an object, discussions of selling of human beings

The palette pressed its hands deep into the soil. It was cool and gritty between its fingers. It pulled its hands back out, bringing the soil with it and turning it over, exposing the darker earth beneath. Mark had shown the palette exactly how to do it. Living things were in the soil that the palette didn't want to hurt. It picked out the worms and put them over by the side of the house and helped the little spiders and bugs with their delicate legs get to safety. It found itself wanting to name each one, like the palette was given a name, but there were so many.

Jesse reached deeper into the soil this time, almost covering its hands completely and pulled the earth out again. The palette was given tools to break up the soil but it liked the feel of the earth in its hands. Mark said it was okay. There were roots this time and the palette didn't want to break them. It was scared it would sever the life of one of the little plants growing in the garden bed. Mark said it was okay three times now. He called it tilling and said it was important in order to help the new seeds grow. The palette trusted Mark so it kept going, hoping the plants would be okay.

Mark couldn't help but watch Jesse, elbows deep in the earth. He was fascinating by the little garden. Mark had watched him just light up at the chance to help plants seeds today. It would take days to plant one garden bed at this rate but Mark didn't mind one bit. The compassion in that kid about broke his heart. Jesse had dropped one of the worms he was transporting and damn near cried until he knew it was alive and well and wiggled back into the ground. How this young man remained so painfully innocent after all he's been through, Mark could never understand.

The dogs perked up at the sound of a truck coming up the long drive before Mark ever heard it. He checked his watch. It was only 3pm. Mitchell wasn't coming until 5pm for dinner.

He set down the tape measure he was supposed to be using to cut up more planks for another garden bed and brushed off his hands. The truck finally came into view through the heavily tree lined driveway and Mark looked over at Jesse. He didn't seem to notice at all, his face almost pressed into the dirt at this point.

Mark walked up to the truck as the man put it into park. It was expensive. One of those that wont ever see one scratch in it's overly large truck bed. The man looked just as expensive.

Mark told the dogs to stay back and waited for the man.

He hopped out, tipping his non-existent hat.

"Afternoon, I'm looking for Mr. Mitchell," The man's eyes barely connected with Mark's. They were immediately roaming over the house and the property. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He already didn't like this man.

"Mr. Mitchell is my brother. You can call me Mark," he went to shake the man's hand and it was a surprisingly firm grip.

"Mark, well, I do tend to air on the side of formal in business dealings but so be it. I'm Mr. Pike, but you may call me Drew."

"Business? What kind of business is that, Drew?"

Something caught the man's eye and his face lite up. Mark followed his line of sight. He was looking right at Jesse.

Mark felt his shoulders pull back almost involuntarily and moved to step between them, "I asked what business."

"Yes, of course. I understand that you made a purchase at the old Sinclair estate sale about a month back, did you not?"

This man was already getting under Mark's skin. He wanted him off his property and away from Jesse immediately.

"I don't see how that is any business of yours, Drew."

The man finally made direct eye contact with Mark and it chilled his spine. Hell no. He wanted this man gone.

"You see," the man began carefully, "I'm a collector of Mr. Sinclair's work. There's this rumor..." Mark cut him off.

"No. You. Leave right now. I wont hear another word."

A few of the dogs picked up on Mark's agitation and started to stand up, watching intently. This was not something the man failed to miss.

"A living palette," the words came out breathy, almost in admiration, "Mark, surly you understand the value."

"No." He started walking towards the man, herding him back to his truck.

"I can pay handsomely. Is it true Mr. Sinclair cut the palette?" He was rushing out his words, trying to get as much information as possible while being forced off the property.

"I asked you to leave. I meant it."

The man put his hands out in front of him while backing slowly back to his truck. Then, something came over the man's face.

"I just need to be sure."

Mark barely had time to respond before he yelled, "Palette! To your master!"

Jesse's head shot up and he was on his feet faster than Mark had ever seen him move. He turned to intercept him but the kid practically fell to the ground, kneeling at Mark's feet.

"No, Jesse," Mark was halfway to kneeling in front of Jesse before he remembered the man and turned to face him.

He was angry.

"That is the palette," the man marveled before he was shoved hard, right in his chest. He stumbled but caught himself and practically ran back to the safety of the truck.

"Get the fuck off my property!"

The dogs started barking with their hackles raised and the man jumped into his truck and leaned out the window, "Everything is for sale, Mark."

Mark could barely hear his own voice over the blood pumping in his ears, "You have 30 seconds before I consider you trespassing and I drag you back out through that fucking window."

The man saluted him, almost casually, and put the truck in reverse, swerving his way back out the way he came.

Mark could barely breath. He turned around to find Jesse still kneeling.

No, no, no, no.

"Jesse," Mark didn't know where to begin. They couldn't keep doing this. Please be okay.

He crouched down and gently lifted the boy's face up. There were tears in his eyes but he was there. Jesse was looking right back at him.

"Hey, are you okay? I'm so sorry, Jesse."

Jesse's brow creased and he looked hard at Mark, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

"You didn't call the palette."

"No," Mark put his hand over Jesse's laying still on his lap and squeezed, "I would never call you like that. Do you understand?"

Jesse licked his lips and nodded.

"He wanted to buy the palette."

Mark swallowed hard, "He did."

Jesse sat for a minute thinking hard. Hope and fear fought for attention in Mark's heart. This was more words than the boy has spoken since he got here, but Mark was suddenly terrified of what he was going to say.

His eyes flicked up again and he looked hard at Mark, "I am a palette," he said definitively. He was watching Mark's face very carefully, as if he was trying to predict a reaction from him. Mark just waited and let the boy speak. He didn't argue even though every fiber of his being begged for him to.

"Shouldn't I- the palette, um, shouldn't it be sold to someone that wants to use a palette? Maybe-maybe Master should sell it."

Mark's heart sunk in his chest. What was he supposed to say to that? He brought his hand up to the back of Jesse's neck and pulled him forward, pressing their foreheads together. He just needed a minute.

There were tears in both of there eyes when he pulled back again.

"No. Jesse, I know I'm not like your old, um, master, or owner, I don't know. I'm not an artist. But I want you here. I like having you here. If you're happy? If you want to stay with me?"

Jesse lips turned up into a small smile.

"It wants to stay. It wants to be useful." He said that last with emphasis and a pleading in his eyes.

Mark squeezed the back of Jesse's neck, "You are. I promise. You are the best palette I could have ever asked for."

Jesse's small smile broke into a grin and it was the most precious thing Mark thought he'd ever see in his life.

Drew barreled down the interstate. He couldn't believe it. That palette was there, with that brute of a man.

He gripped the steering wheel tight in his hands.

Everything has a price.

Goddamn, the palette was more beautiful than he expected. Big wide eyes and that face.

Disgust boiled through his veins at the thought of such a fine item so covered in dirt and filth. It deserved to be cleaned and put properly on display, right alongside the paintings that he was now 90% sure held the palette's blood. The rumors were true.

He licked his lips. He wished he could have seen it's back then he could be 100% sure. That man had actually giving the item clothing...and a name. Jesse. Absolutely ridiculous. Still, there wasn't a price he wouldn't pay to have his collection complete. The display case was already all set up, just waiting for the palette to be hung in place.

It would be glorious.

He just needed to be patient.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @hold-him-down, @maracujatangerine, @pigeonwhumps, @boxboysandotherwhump, @darkthingshappen, @octopus-reactivated, @whumpzone, @unicornscotty, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @keep-beach-city-werid, @whumpthisway, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump , @onlybadendings, @canislycaon24, @joeywhumpsitup, @thebirdsofgay, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @whumper-soot, @whumpworld, @haro-whumps

#the palette #dehumanization #discussions of selling human being

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goodeapple · 1 year

Text

i had all and then most of you / some and now none of you

*speaking into my oversized megaphone* HELLOOOOO 2023, HOW Y'ALL DOING OUT THERE TONIGHT?

*crickets, someone coughing*

HELL YEAH, ALRIGHTY, ME TOO!

hi guys! did ya miss me?? because I sure missed all of you! apologies, apologies, apologies for the wait. two jobs, first Christmas in my apartment, and a new baby nephew makes a month go by like THAT but excuses excuses, blah blah blah and FINALLY, HERE IT IS.

*Sid’s voice from Toy Story* “It came, it finally came! The big one…”

this monster took it all out of me. I cried, I screamed, I agonized and I was the one writing it! what has this story done to me??

but on a personal, sappy, feelingssss note, thank you all so fucking much for reading this and enjoying this. never ever did I expect for so many people to love this story as much as I love writing it and the reactions have been overwhelmingly lovely. I can’t wait to see what this year brings and to have you all on the ride with me. I hope you all enjoy. don’t hate me <3

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC)

warnings : no smut here today :(( just trauma

word count : 10,000+

masterlist

Ysilla’s cries strike the walls like lightning, threatening to crumble the stones and forcing the shadows to sink further into their corners.

The calming sonance of her handmaids’ voices, hushing her screams with sweet croons and encouragements, make Ysilla want to slice her ears off with a rusty blade. Her body is hot and cold all at once, legs shaking and muscles bunching. Fire streaks through her belly, painting flames of more pain yet to come as it travels between her legs. She keeps drawing big breaths in, stretching her lungs until they protest before easing out in an exhale, imagining she’s breathing out all the pain in her body with it. It doesn’t help- the stinging incessantly sharp and persistent, but it keeps her focused.

Ysilla paces the length of her chambers, up and down, back and forth, her feet bare and padding a rhythm as she goes. Maybe she’ll carve a gulch out of the stone, a lingering reminder of her plight. Ysilla childishly hopes someone will catch it with their toe and spill out over the floor.

Another breath out and the cramps ease, Ysilla sighing in relief as she rests an unsteady hand against a pillar for support. The swells of The Narrow Sea are blacker than the night, salt spray traveling to her on the breeze. The sun had set and with the moon’s rise, the calmness had drifted out alongside it. For days, as her misery climbed higher and higher, the winds had caressed her cheek, the sun cut through the ever present fog of the island to warm her down to her bones. Almost like nature was bidding her a fond goodbye before rolling in a storm that would topple towers in greeting of her new addition.

Ysilla had swaddled herself in a plush, sheepskin throw that had found its way bunched into a ball at the foot of her bed as her temperature rose with her discomfort. Stripped down in clothing too, a silk shift is the only thing she can tolerate on her sizzling skin. Not as sheer as something she would wear to bed with Aemond- a bit more opaque in the threads.

But around her midsection, the cream cloth is stretched so tight that the almond hue of her skin is visible. Her belly is so big now, it has pushed her toes out of sight for close to two moons. Such a change she’s undertaken to bring her little one into this world, her body telling a story of her babe’s journey to life.

Ysilla stares over the waves, temple resting against the cool stone of the pillar. Her babe.

“Boy or girl, you think?”

Ysilla posed in the mirror, turning side face and pulling her nightgown tight over her barely-there-bump. She ran her palm over the budding swell, curious at how large she would grow in the coming months.

Aemond emerged from the hall leading to their privy, a drying linen slung low over his narrow hips. His slick hair dripped a puddle over the floor, and Ysilla chose the more amicable route of watching a droplet race down her husband’s defined abdominals and into the tied cotton rather than chastising him like a mother for getting her floor slippery. Ysilla’s heart skipped a beat. Mother. She’s going to be someone’s mother.

She wiggled her toes anxiously against the stone, twisting a loose thread from her hemline around the tip of her finger until it turned purple.

“Hmmmm,” the familiar rumble of her husband’s hum soothed her spiking nerves better than any healing balm.

“Maybe there’s two in there- you’ll give me one of each. A matching set.”

Ysilla tried not to choke at his fantasy, a sudden terror winding around her throat at the thought of birthing not one, but two dragons from her body.

“Neigh, Maester Gerardys said he only felt the one.” Ysilla busied her hands with pinning up her curls for the night, winding up the long strands and securing each methodically with a gold barrette.

Her mind a whirl of babes with gold hair, lavender eyes, and slithering tails, her vision grew hazy as her thoughts wandered away.

Tendrils of ice froze the skin at the back of her neck, cold fingers weaving through her roots and shaking loose all her hard work. The hair pins clinked as they fell to the floor. Gooseflesh pebbled along Ysilla’s chest, her nipples perked at the chill of her husband’s deft digits.

“Then we’ll just have to try for another one then, won’t we?” The wet linen once around Aemond’s hips joined her accessories at their feet. Ysilla smiled, her hands drifting behind her, finding his wrist and sliding up the corded muscles in his forearms. She turned, pulling his hands from her hair to the skin of her chest, the thundering of her heart astride under Aemond’s hand. He stroked the softness there, pressing his hand forward solidly until Ysilla bowed under the pressure, hips flitting closer to him and back arching away. She slung her calf over his naked hip for balance, the thinness of her gown keeping the two apart. One hand left her chest, smoothing down her side until it found the dip of her waist, Aemond’s thumb brushing the edge of her blooming bump. The thought of her, full of him, growing proof of his claim on her, made him feral and needy. He wanted his wife naked and now.

Ysilla laughed as he pulled her to him, melting into his skin, her lips finding his collarbone as she wound her other leg around him. He carried her to their bed, sheets already rumpled and astray from their earlier lovemaking. Their nest, soon to be joined by a hatchling. The thought just as frightening as it was thrilling.

Ysilla knows it’s a girl- can feel it in her soul. A mother’s intuition, she presumes.

Ysilla settles on her bed, her back once more tightening in protest at the position. Sitting, standing, lying, or squatting, her babe is set on causing her as much discomfort as possible. A parting gift from daughter to mother, a horrid thank you for sharing her body and then letting herself be torn apart to give her life.

The maesters are whispering, every few words jumping out of their hushed voices. Stalled. Papers rustle on the table. Too long. A pestle grinds down into its stone mortar. The Prince. Old withered eyes glance at her over shoulders. Maybe pity is there, maybe sorrow but Ysilla’s eyes are so blurred with exhaustion that she can’t be sure. She rolls over on her side, wincing slightly at the disagreeing kick her sprog voices, rubbing at the spot tenderly. Ysilla needs sleep, rest. She feels like she’ll splinter apart if she doesn’t.

Another word- words, jump out, clearer than a bell’s chime, seizing her attention and locking down with its jaws.

Certain measures.

The Prince. Too long. Stalled.

No, the babe is just taking her time. She will not be rushed- a Princess already, everyone waiting with bated breath for her arrival. There’s no need to worry.

Her eyes refuse to shut.

Ysilla swallows, mouth suddenly dryer than the Red Waste. She ticks the hours it’s been since her pains have increased on silent fingers. She thinks of all her reading, the texts that detailed pregnancy and birthing and motherhood that she devoured with voracity, and compares them to her situation.

It has been a bit long, hasn’t it?

A soft knock at her chamber door breaks through Ysilla’s spinning thoughts, the brush of the wood along the floor calling her gaze to the newcomer.

A white head of braids peaks in, a brilliant smile that glows brighter than the moon above casts away the darkness poking at Ysilla’s mind. The young mother-to-be can’t help but smile, rolling to a half-sit to welcome her guest.

“Room in here for one more?” Rhaena ignores the disappointed looks from the old men, waltzing inside the familiar chambers and scurrying over to her cousin’s bedside. Ysilla finds her hand promptly, lacing their thin fingers together.

“You are a most welcome sight, cousin.”

Rhaena’s grin spreads even wider, delighted eyes taking in the roundness of Ysilla’s belly that will soon be absent.

“Thought I’d check-in with the new muña, see how she’s coming along.”

Ysilla smiles, a weak laugh croaking from her throat.

“Nothing to report quite yet, I’m afraid. Zaldrītsos is a bit late to the party.”

Rhaena chuckles, her dainty hand patting the bump with love.

“Just like her mother then- she runs on her own time.”

Ysilla snorts but it’s a good-natured sound, rolling her eyes at her own bad habit.

“Everyone else is simply early- a Princess is never late.”

Her cousin mumbles something along the lines of sure, sure but Ysilla can’t be positive. Her mind is being unkind once more, loaded words pinging between her ears. Late, late, late, why is she taking so long? Ysilla curses as another pain sparks up, Rhaena whispering words of comfort in their mother tongue as Ysilla shakes.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Silly girl, why don’t you just come out already!” Ysilla begs, feeling absurd for arguing with her babe but she’s tried everything else, why not a little motherly encouragement?

After a few minutes, the burn dissipates and Ysilla sags against the pillows. Her eyes are so heavy, it feels as if boulders rest upon her lids. Her mouth continues to move, half-formed thoughts slurring into words she barely registers.

“Are you still in there, little one? Can you hear mother? Don’t make these mean old men come in there and get you themselves, that wouldn’t be too fun for me.”

Rhaena’s grip tightens so hard that Ysilla feels the bones in her hand creak in protest. Her eyes draw open, mind catching up to mouth.

Shit.

“Ysilla,” there’s a haunt draped over Rhaena’s whispered word. Her eyes are wide and dark. “Don’t speak like that. You are going to be fine. This baby is going to be fine.”

Ysilla wonders if Rhaena can hear the desperation in her own voice. Who is she begging more, Ysilla or herself?

Who does Rhaena see when she looks upon her cousin?

Ysilla tries to wiggle her fingers and Rhaena relents with a frown, easing her hold. Her eyes, however, don’t waver in their seriousness. Ysilla strokes the younger girl’s knuckles with her thumb, trying for a believing smile.

“You’re right, sweet girl, I’m sorry. Don’t fret, I’m just… very very tired.”

Rhaena stares at her, unblinking, and Ysilla grits her teeth. She won’t break her gaze first; Rhaena needs to believe her. Maybe Ysilla will believe herself too, if someone else does. By the Gods’ grace, her cousin finally relents and drops her eyes to the sheets. Ysilla exhales a relieved sigh.

“You can do something for me though, if you wish.”

Rhaena’s eyes brighten once more, and Ysilla’s heart bursts with love for the younger girl.

“At once, Silli, anything you need.”

“I yearn for a pot of tea- anything with berries if we have it. Bump likes the sweetness.”

Ysilla will spew if she even catches a whiff of honey, her appetite long gone as the pain makes her nauseous and dizzy but whatever will get Rhaena out of here. Make her take her too-knowing eyes that pin Ysilla in place like a butterfly trapped by its wings.

Rhaena is nodding before Ysilla finishes her sentence, rising to her feet and bouncing on her toes, eager to raise her cousin’s spirits. She departs with a brush of a kiss across Ysilla’s brow, holding her gaze until she swishes out the door, red skirts a waving goodbye that make Ysilla exhale a tightness in her chest.

“Princess, how are you feeling?”

A moment of peace would be nice, thank you. Ysilla rolls her eyes to find one of the maesters at the end of her bed. The kindness in his withered stare doesn’t look the same as earlier. Ysilla tries to detect if there’s something malevolent lurking in those cerulean depths.

“Fine, just tired.” Ysilla brushes her palm over the valley of her belly, the skin wiggling under the tickle. Her girl likes to dance.

“And your pain?”

Ysilla’s stare is hard, unable to ease the clench in her jaw as she speaks again.

“Manageable.”

The man nods, mouth pursed in thought. His fingers are threaded through one another, and his thumbs tap together in a rhythm that irritates Ysilla greatly. She doesn’t care for small talk.

“I was thinking… we should send for the Prince Aemond to join us. He hasn’t returned here nearing a day and a half, and we would like to update him on your progress.” Or, lack thereof. The unfinished sentence swims in the stale air between mother and maester.

Ysilla frowns. “I don’t want my husband in here, I thought my earlier actions made that quite clear.”

The earlier actions Ysilla is referring to is when she hurled every Valyrian curse Daemon had ever taught her at Aemond, blaming him for her predicament and her pain, and forbade him from returning until she had brought forth their child. An iron candelabra aimed at his head struck the point true, and her doting husband had vanished from her sight.

Ysilla loves him for understanding her rage. They make quite the pair, the two dueling dragons. Marriage suits them splendidly.

The maester nods, but the smile he sends her is patronizing and Ysilla tries not to growl.

“I am aware, Princess, however, I believe it best he returns so we can discuss some matters.”

What ‘matters’? She wants to question but another spasm steals her air and an uncontrollable recoil rocks through her. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Sharp inhale through her nose, heavy exhale from her mouth. Rinse and repeat.

The maester nods again, as if Ysilla’s reaction to her laboring is answer enough to his request.

“Yes, yes, we’ll fetch the Prince at once.”

He whispers something to the other, smaller man and the two exit quickly. Ysilla is finally alone, something she’s wished for since she first felt the telling cramp in her abdomen at supper earlier this week but now, the shadows of the candle flames lick up the walls. Creatures spring forth from the dark flickerings, dancing about the bed’s feet, nipping at the ends of her toes.

Ysilla tries to focus and calm her nerves, staring out her windows towards the sea, the sounds of the growing swells drowning out childish hallucinations that only come from her frazzled thoughts.

A twinkle of light catches the edge of her vision and Ysilla blinks, peering towards the table that the maesters have spread their tools over.

Vials, powders, books, and herbs litter the sturdy wood; Ysilla spent her youth with her drawings and texts taking up every available inch of space that the lengthy desk had to offer. And now, means to help her firstborn into this life were there and Ysilla would warm at the parallel if not for one worrying setup placed innocently in the middle of the table.

A row of small knives she hadn’t noticed before, tucked away in their leather binding had been unfurrowed, the top cover strewn back and displaying the sharps to her gaze. A flame glints off the metals, the blades slick and shiny with polish, glowing brighter than the jewels in her royal tiara.

They wouldn’t.

They’re awfully sharp, as sharp as Dark Sister or even Aemond’s longsword.

He wouldn’t.

Aemond would be here soon. Ysilla suddenly found herself impatient on his arrival and with him, hopefully her returning sanity.

Too long. Stalled.

There are iron bars closing over the windows and the creatures are back, chittering and cackling, snapping at her ankles. Waiting to pin her down and hold her steady as the maesters and Aemond- no he wouldn’t, he would never-

Certain measures.

Ysilla thinks of her grandsire, of his kind eyes and the love that was always there for herself and her mother. Of the crushing devotion that poured from them when he would speak of his dearly departed Aemma. Her grandmother, dead long before Ysilla’s time in this world, lost to her birthing bed and the loving hands of her husband.

Ysilla swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

She wanted to give birth on Dragonstone, her treasured home, the only place she felt comfortable enough to have her first child in. But it came with consequences. Alicent is in Oldtown, praying for a quick delivery and a healthy babe. She had sent Ser Criston by way of boat, bearing her best wishes detailed on a lengthy scroll and a cart full of gifts for her second son’s firstborn. Grandsire Corlys, along with her brothers and Baela are only across the way at Driftmark, but they might as well have been in the Iron Islands for how close they felt. But the greatest tragedy was the absence of her parents. Kept in the capital by duty of the crown, Ysilla thinks to regret her decision of birthplace. If she were in King’s Landing, her mother by her side and Maester Gerardys monitoring her labor, she would have her worries soothed. She would trust in the advice of those around her. She wouldn’t be battling the uncertainties manifesting from her own mind.

Frighteningly alone, the walls seem to press in further and further and further until Ysilla can’t stand it any longer and she staggers to her feet.

Regrets aside, as it is much too late to do anything about it now, a silver lining cuts through the gloom of her decaying spirit as she realizes a benefit to her surroundings.

Ysilla stumbles forward, pressing her palm to the furthest wall from the hearth, right underneath the huge talon of an illustrated Grey Ghost, etched deep into the stone wall by picks and chisels. She lifts up, and pushes down again, shoving herself forward until a timeworn click sounds, the stone wall shuttering as a small passage swings open. Stagnant air rushes to her, the secret door unused since her earlier years when she would sneak down to the beach and watch the stars shimmer, mapping out constellations until her eyes crossed. Ysilla gathers her shift up until it bunches high on her thighs, slipping through the dark entryway, closing the stone behind her.

Starting down the steep steps, memories carry her feet down down down until tiny grains of sand bite into her heels and salt swims up her nose. Ysilla breathes in deep; a bit of fresh air will do her good.

A small kettle, mugs, and an elderberry scone balance precariously on the tray Rhaena holds in a tight grip. The stairs up from the kitchens were treacherous and she nearly tripped twice on the too-long skirts of her secondhand dress. Her mother's gray gown still needs to be hemmed to fit Rhaena’s smaller stature but everytime she tries to bring a needle to the garment, her hands shake so terribly she pricks her own fingers bloody.

It’s one of the only things she has left of her mother. If she were to ruin it, even by accident, Rhaena would never be able to forgive herself.

She turns the corner carefully, finding Ysilla’s door open a tad, shadowed flames from her fireplace dancing along the floor. Hisses travel out from the ajar door. From her spot just outside the entryway, Rhaena has a clear view of Ysilla’s bed. Disheveled sheets, pillows sunken and imprinted from Ysilla’s body, but the most important thing seems to be unaccounted for- Ysilla herself.

“Where is she?”

“She can’t have gotten far, not in her state.”

“The Prince will be here in minutes, we have to find her!”

“Her labor has stalled- if she doesn’t return soon, the child will not make it and neither will she!”

Rhaena can’t breathe.

No. She remembers her mother’s screams, worming their way through the walls, seeking out her ears and shredding her soul.

No. Recalls peaking around the corner, dreading to see her mother in so much agony that it dared to upturn her stomach, only to find the bloodstained bed curiously absent.

Not again. Her father, sallow and ashen, sand caked on his breeches, tears dried on his face, horror hollowed out in his eyes. Her mother, nowhere to be found.

Rhaena feels a breeze brush over her face and she wonders briefly if she’s caught a draft in the lofty castle but it isn’t until she shoulder checks a poor maid with a basket full of linen out of her way that she realizes she’s running. Sprinting, winding her way through the halls towards… where? Where is she going? Her feet know something her brain does not. Her feet- they’re wet and she smells raspberries. The tea, she must’ve dropped it. Rhaena will have to remember to clean it up later.

She rounds a corner, ducks into another hall, and there! The door! Her feet can’t stop, legs pumping her forward until she flings herself against the wood, fists slam, slam, slamming! so hard she’s sure it’ll splinter.

“Aemond! Aemond, open the door! It’s Ysilla!”

Ghosts of the women in her family guide the way, Ysilla’s feet carrying her on a path she has no knowledge of. The terrain is familiar, a beach she learned to walk on steady under her feet but her endpoint is unknown. The winds whip her sweat soaked hair around her face. The gusts are welcome, unobstructed by the castle walls, letting Ysilla feel the sheer force from the storm rolling in. Clouds a shade lighter than the night sky are fat and full of coming rain, thunder somewhere far off climbing in sound as the waves crash fiercely along the cliff’s steep incline.

A contraction, stronger than any before it, bowls Ysilla over, a shocked scream wrangling itself free from her chest. Her nails sink into the sand, trying to cling to something, anything for dear life as agony reduces her to near madness. Fuck, it’s getting worse but there’s no pressure, no need to push that she’s been warned about. Ysilla snakes her hand between her legs, down on all fours in the sand and she tries to feel for a brush of hair, a bulging head but as she retracts her fingers, the moon casts the blood dribbling from them an inky mess. Nausea swims up her throat, and Ysilla moans as she pulls herself to her feet. Her arms wrap about her middle, drumming up a ballad with sand-laden fingers that she’s sang to her belly her whole pregnancy.

She’s gotten her air, breathed in the freshness but Ysilla’s head spins faster than it did when she was in the castle. Her hopes are dwindling, fear tickling at her until Ysilla’s teeth chatter with its song as twinges of pain take root everywhere.

What is she doing out here? She has to go back to the castle, she has to speak with Aemond.

A deep rumble pulses through the air, a sound she had dismissed as the ocean breaks through her consciousness and Ysilla squints into the night. Her breath stutters- she thought he had left her on the other side of the island.

Vhagar sleeps restlessly, growls and groans blending with her snores, curled in on herself with her tail slapping the sand with a loud boom whenever her dragon dreams grew too exciting. Ysilla’s feet have brought her straight here. This is her final resting point.

A sign. An omen. A miracle.

Ysilla can’t go back. She knows she won’t make it. She’ll die in the hidden passage or on the start of the beach. But this… this is poetically fitting. What could be more Targaryen, then by departing by way of flame?

“Vhagar.” Ysilla's voice is scratchy, barely audible over the sounds of the sea- not nearly loud enough to wake a sleeping dragon.

“Vhagar!” She tries again, the dragon releasing an even louder snore, mocking the Princess’ measly attempt. A vice grip on her belly squeezes and Ysilla winds her eyes shut, screaming as loud as she can. “VHAGAR!”

A mammoth head raises dreadfully slow, coming to find the tiny form of Ysilla, collapsed on the dunes, shoulders shaking with her torment.

“Vhagar…” Ysilla’s head meets the sand, bowing in her plea to the creatures of her blood. “Kostilus. Dracarys.”

She begs her husband’s dragon, voice cracking like a log in the hearth. Her heart is so heavy she can feel it choke her throat- this isn’t what she wants.

She wants life, long warm days spent in the Godswood, sunny trips on the sea, cold days bundled in the library. She wants Aemond to take their daughter on a ride with Vhagar, scaring Ysilla half to death. She wants to braid her babe’s hair with honeysuckle and sing songs of warrior women and their doting knights. She wants to see her brothers and sister grow tall and mighty, to see her mother and father rule fairly over their people and age to gray. She wants her husband, her Aemond, nights and days and months and years spent together, living as one and never parting, tangled in sheets and bored in court and it all inbetween. Ysilla wants it all so badly she can’t stand it.

But that is not her fate.

Vhagar groans, the sound ancient and bone chilling. Her head raises, her dark green scales blending into the sky until two giant orbs of flaming yellow alight where her eyes are. They stare at each other, dragon to dragon, some unspoken thing spilling onto the sand between them.

A delicate touch ghosts over her shoulder, first the left then the right. A tickle at first, that builds to a solid press after a few moments. Ysilla breathes out, the pain in her belly easing just so. Aemma’s hand, Laena’s hand, one on either side of her, a comforting weight that settles the race of her pulse and the barrage of her thoughts.

Vhagar’s roar drums through the air, the stench of dragon breath and smoke wafting into Ysilla’s face. Her gaping maw stretches to its full capacity, rows and rows of jagged teeth putting the Iron Throne to shame. Ysilla sees an orange light bloom in the back of her mouth, like the sun peeking its head over the horizon to signal a new day. It feels like an ending, a final burst of light to guide the way from this life to the next.

Ysilla closes her eyes. She sends a prayer to whoever may be listening that it will only feel like the burn from the sun after a day spent on the water, and that she will at last be able to hold her girl in her arms.

She can’t wait to meet her.

Ysilla opens her arms wide, pain leaching from her breaking body as she gives herself over to the freeing flame.

“NO!”

The scorch of Vhagar’s fire whooshes passed her, singeing the ends of her shift.

Twin steel bars in the form of Aemond’s arms are locked under her breasts and above her belly, unrelenting even as Ysilla wrenches her nails into his skin, blood bursting hot underneath her fingertips. He’s dragging her back from Vhagar’s massive form, her toes kicking up wet sand wildly as she flails in his hold.

“No, no, no! Ilībōños! Release me! Let me do this!” Ysilla’s own voice is foreign to her ears; a desperate wail, broken and pleading, snot thick in her nose and a ball in her throat.

Aemond shouts at Vhagar to stay put, the answering grumble from the winged beast shaking the sands. Aemond is saying something against her ear but she can’t make it out over the plummeting of her thundering heart. Panic rises in place of the acceptance of her demise.

“I won’t let you cut me open and drag her from my womb! I won’t die in that room, please, please, please just let me go!” Ysilla’s legs give out underneath her, Aemond’s arms sliding from her and her knees burrow into the beach.

Ripping cries tear from her throat, her hands cradling her belly, stroking the bump, attempting even in her sorrow to blanket her babe in her love. She can still feel blood trickling down her thighs, bolts of tension lighting up her abdomen. Ysilla is so tired of the pain, exhaustion long settled into her muscles from the days rolling into one another.

She feels someone crash to the sands beside her, a forehead bumping at her temple. Orange oil and leather drifts to her nose, the scent that she would catch first upon awakening and last upon falling asleep, one that brought her comfort and peace now makes her recoil, fear darkening her heart.

“Ysilla, my love, my wife, please.” The defeated tone of Aemond’s voice makes her cry harder- she’s never heard him sound like this before. And the idea that he’s defeated, because he knows what he has to do, makes Ysilla scramble away from him. Her feet slip underneath her, and she turns over, nails clawing into the thick sand as she tries to right herself.

Polished silver boots halt her escape, white gloved hands grip around her elbows and haul her to her feet. Ysilla gasps for breath, shaking herself free of Ser Criston’s hold. She stumbles back, arms cradling her belly defensively, the two men illuminated under the heavy moon. Aemond is still crumpled along the sand, waves coming up to lap at his boots. Cole has one palm raised to her, worry an uncharacteristic look haunting his face.

“Princess, calm down, please.” His other hand rests on the hilt of his longsword and Ysilla wonders what he would do if she were to run. Would he strike her down? Draw blade and cleave it through her leg? Her neck? They were already going to gore her like a trapped bore, did it truly matter if they pulled her babe from her after she was already dead?

They would have to work fast but Ysilla has seen both of these men train; savage and bestial, they could slice clean through her in a blink. The rising tide could take her body into its caress within the hour, a true Velaryon burial for an untrue child of the name. If not flames, then by water. Ysilla could make final peace with that.

“Do it here then, Cole.” Ysilla feels delirious from the agony and the terror, pleas falling from her lips without thought. “Slit my throat and take her after I am gone, just don’t do it while I’m awake. I am so tired of the pain. Be merciful please, just… just let me rest.”

A green parlor tinges Ser Criston’s face, his dark eyes dropping from her unhinged stare and finding comfort in the grains of sand. Aemond staggers to his feet, stumbling closer to Ysilla. She fights the urge to flee- she has no more energy to run. She has accepted her fate.

“Ysilla, please stop.” The pain lacing Aemond’s voice feels like a knife in the gut. Or maybe that’s another labor pain.

“I would never, ever do that to you. I would sooner take blade to my only fucking eye than let anyone touch you.” Ysilla thinks she can see tears swimming in his silver orb but she can’t be sure in the dimness of dusk.

He reaches her, a cautious hand finding the one gripping her belly tightly. Ysilla remembers just the other morning, the two of them lying in bed, Aemond’s fingers tracing drawings into the taut skin. This man is her husband. He loves her so much she feels like she could drown in it, feels all consumed by it. Aemond would never hurt her.

Ysilla’s face breaks, swaying forward into his arms. He wraps them so tightly around her that it feels like he’s trying to force all of her fractured pieces back together.

“She will not come, my love.” Ysilla sobs against his shoulder.

Aemond shakes his head, hands stroking her back, weaving through her undone braid, feeling the kick of their babe against his stomach. She’s still here, still violently alive against him. He was so close to losing her. The heat of Vhagar’s breath had never felt so deadly as before this night. Terror he’s never known sinks icy claws into his heart and makes a home there.

“She will, she will, she just needs more time.” Aemond peels away strands of her hair sticking wetly to her face, her lids swollen and nose running. Perspiration soaks her brow and her hairline, the gauzy cream of her shift nearly transparent with blood and sea water.

“A bit morbid, don’t you think, wife?” Aemond mused into her ear, Ysilla pausing in her humming to laugh at the uneasiness in her husband’s words.

“Jenny of the Oldstones is as haunting as it is beautiful, husband. Our little sprog kicks up a storm whenever she hears it.”

She turned in his arms, pecking his cheek and easing his worry.

“Plus, her truly terrible father would slay any ghoul or goblin that would dare cast a shadow of fright on her in these Seven Kingdoms.”

Aemond rumbles an agreement, lips finding his favorite spot at the curve of her neck and shoulder, the one that makes Ysilla shake so lusciously in his arms.

“I would take on the Gods themselves for either of my girls.”

Aemond realizes that he would be Jenny of the Oldstones, waiting for his spirit wife to find him in the night and twirl her about the stones. Would there be a babe in her belly still? Or would their child be wrapped in a crimson shroud, doomed for all of eternity to haunt the castle halls?

It’s a nightmarish thought that pairs well with this nightmarish night. The helplessness Aemond feels is foreign and unwelcome. With a blade in his hand, the knowledge in his mind, and his dragon beneath him, Aemond has never felt lacking. Even with one less eye, he excelled past his brother, his nephews, his own teachers. He grew into a force to be reckoned with.

But now, faced with something only the Seven can control, he’s once again a little boy with a pig with paper wings, trailing after his niece with lilac eyes and hair the color of Balerion.

“Come now, ñuha vys, we have to go back.”

Ysilla whimpers, head shaking before Aemond’s voice can settle her.

“You don’t have to return to your room. I’ll nail the door shut if you wish. But I have to get you back inside, Silla. We need to get her out- together.” Aemond cradles her face in his hands, thumbs mirrored on the edge of her temples. He is so gentle with her, always.

Together, together, together. He won’t leave her, he won’t hurt her.

Ysilla breathes, hanging on to her sanity by the skin of her teeth. And finally, she nods.

Aemond scoops her up as if she weighs nothing and if it were any other time, Ysilla would blush and giggle and swoon like a young girl in love. But right now, she’s just thankful for the assistance. Her legs feel as if they’re made of sodden hay. Aemond starts the long trek back up the beach, Cole hot on his heels as they head for the winding cobblestone path leading to the castle.

Ysilla gazes up at the sky, the clinking of Cole’s armor hurried behind them, Aemond’s breaths quick and short. She forms out the stories of the stars, remembering Harwin’s favorites that he would whisper to her as she was slung about his shoulders. Weightless and floating, Ysilla thinks if she were to reach out a hand, she could pull the glowing patterns from their aerial home and hold them in her grasp. She wonders if she’ll see Ser Harwin again, much sooner than she ever meant to.

Unfamiliar pressure between her legs causes her back to bow, a yelp startling herself and Aemond as his muscles jump around her.

“Aemond, fuck! What was that?” Ysilla stirs, wiggling in his arms, thighs tightening around nothing… something?

“Hold on, love, we’ll be there soon.”

Ysilla thinks someone else might be too. Too soon, not soon enough before they’re back in the castle. Another press, this one insistent, somewhere from deep in her that feels like a knock. Ysilla curses her luck.

“No, no, no, shit, she’s coming now!” Ysilla kicks her legs wildly, squirming in Aemond’s arms, pounding on his back to let her down.

“Stop it, Ysilla, we’re almost there!” Aemond fights her, trying to adjust his arms around her twisting body but relenting at last when a solid punch lands against his collarbone. He winces, setting her on her feet. Ysilla bends in half, breathing harshly through her mouth and out her nose, bunching up her ruined dress to crowd along her hips. Her hand darts between her legs, head snapping up to cast a horrified look at her husband and his accompanying knight.

“I can feel her head!”

Twin looks, complete with the same bug eyed expression find their way onto her companions’ faces. Cole appears as if a stiff breeze could knock him over. Ysilla is not in the fucking mood.

“Seven fucking Hells, you men will march off to war without a second thought but turn upside down at child birth. Get a godforsaken grip and help me!” Ysilla snarls, another strike of pain threatening to send her over the edge. She curses, hands braced on her knees as she battles the instinct to push.

Cool hands find her elbows, a familiar leather-covered chest meeting her back as Aemond braces behind her.

“I got you, come on. Lean back love.” Aemond’s breath is hot against the nape of her neck and Ysilla drops her head against his shoulder. Her eyes are so heavy, she feels like she could sleep for a thousand years. But a brash kick in her belly stirs her, and groaning, she lets Aemond take on her weight and lower them to the walkway. The stones are chilly through her shift but Ysilla can barely feel anything but the ripping pain coming from her lower body. The pressure is a new feeling and Ysilla won’t even let herself feel the bloom of hope at the thought of this being over. Of her child finally making contact with this world.

They’re not in the clear yet.

“Cole! You need to help me.” Aemond barks at the knight, breaking him from his still stature. Cole crashes to his knees, spreading Ysilla’s legs open, eyes going big in the dim moonlight.

“I can see a head!”

Ysilla wants to laugh. Ysilla wants to cry.

“She was waiting for you, my love.” Ysilla gasps into Aemond’s ear and he makes a wounded sound he smothers into her hair, his hands finding the dip behind her knees and pulling her in half.

“Push, Ysilla, come on strong girl, you can do this.”

I can’t, I can’t! Ysilla wants to argue but she must. So she does. She pushes and strains and bears down until her head feels like it might burst. She relaxes, breathes, hanging on Criston’s direction, awaiting Aemond’s guidance. Then she does it again, and again, screaming to the heavens, cursing the Gods, begging her ancestors, for this pain to end. For her daughter to be alive. For herself to survive.

And then finally, finally, when Ysilla thinks it will never cease, the crushing pressure eases and she can breathe with the lightness of a feather. She collapses back against Aemond’s unwavering chest, exhaustion casting its spell over her and threatening to send her down into a pool of comforting nothingness.

A cry, so clear and so tiny, similar to birdsong, breaks the trance and Ysilla’s eyes shoot open in a blink.

There she is. Cole’s hands look gargantuan in comparison to her daughter, her tiny form wiggling in his palms. Ysilla sees little feet stretch in the air, kicking at the cool breeze and miniscule fists shake with rage. She wants to look at Aemond, see if their expressions match- the awe slackened mouth, the eyes swimming with tears. But Ysilla can’t break away from her baby girl.

“Criston.” The knight is frozen, gloved thumb caught in her babe’s grip, not even close to closing around the tip of his finger. He blinks at her. Ysilla doesn’t quite know what to call the expression that graces his face. She can’t dwell on that right now.

“Criston.” He spares a look behind him, promptly ripping his cloak off with one vigorous pull, balling the billowing fabric up into a swaddle. He scoots closer to Ysilla, Aemond pushing her forward, hands tight and digging into her hips. Ysilla finds enough strength to cradle her girl in her arms. So tiny and yet so heavy- so alive. Ysilla is dizzy with it, the sudden shift from despair to elation, a drug all of its own.

Gods she’s beautiful. A sprinkling of blood speckles her skin, the dots black in the night but her eyes glow brighter than the stars. Little constellations dance in her gaze, and her form turns watery as tears of joy blur Ysilla’s eyes. She made it, they both made it.

“Hello Daenerys. Welcome to the world.”

“I don’t quite understand how you lose an entire person.”

A comfort blankets Ysilla at the sound of her mother’s disbelieving voice. Ysilla can’t recall catching sight of either Syrax or Caraxes, however, she has been quite busy this last hour. Nearly greeting death face-to-face and birthing her daughter takes up a lot of one’s time.

Aemond rounds the corner to the hall leading to her childhood room, Ysilla swept up in his arms once again.

Her mother and father are staring down the servants of Dragonstone with murder in their eyes and Ysilla feels a touch of relief that she’s arrived before anyone’s blood could be spilt. Rhaena is the one to catch sight of them first, a ragged gasp stunting in volume behind her smothered palm. The others spin at the sound, paling at the sight the trio must make.

“Sorry muña, I just needed some fresh air.” Ysilla tries for a grin but it comes out more as a mangled movement of her mouth. Her mother’s horrified, wide eyed expression lets Ysilla know her joke didn’t land quite as well as she’d hoped.

Daemon yells at the maesters and maids, springing them into action, the room suddenly a twister of bodies. The maesters rush to Ysilla, Aemond’s arms tightening around his wife, growling at the hands that start to poke and prod at her. He nearly bites a chunk out of the man who attempts to ease her out of his hold. They choose to usher him towards the bed after that.

Rhaenyra flutters to her daughter’s side, all wet eyes and frenzied hands, switching between speaking to Ysilla in Valyrian honeyed words to ordering about the maesters in the common tongue.

Daemon eyes Cole, stuck in the doorway like a stone statue. The knight is ignorant to the rest of the room, eyes fixated on the tiny squirming thing held in his arms. He’s shifting awkwardly, swaying in place and rocking from side to side, the bundled white cloak shielding her from her family. The Rogue Prince crosses the room in an instant, eyeing the Dornishman with unbridled disdain. Give me a fight. I dare you. I’ll give my grandbabe your head as a name day present, Ser Crispin.

“My grandchild, if you would, Cole.” Daemon’s voice seems to spook the knight, his arms tightening around the Princess until he realizes who's speaking to him. Cole stares at him and then back down at the babe, before gently lowering the swaddled sleeping girl into Daemon’s arms. Daemon quirks a brow at the lack of a fight, but aims his focus instead to his first grandbabe. He finds his wife’s side by Ysilla’s bed.

Rhaenyra cannot disguise the wobble in her lip as anything other than staggering, paralyzing love. Her very first grandchild from her very first babe. She is so blessed in this life, it rattles her to her bones at times.

“Hello, my sweet.” The Queen paints the babe’s face with her teardrops. She leans into Daemon’s side, weak with bliss.

“What is their name, beloved?” Rhaenyra looks down upon her daughter, pride evident in the spread of her smile. Ysilla is sweaty and sandy, bedraggled and bloody, but her gazing eyes burn with the force of a thousand suns. A mother, blooming like a flower in the coming of her daughter.

“Her name is Daenerys.” Rhaenyra coos in admiration and Daemon nods, grinning with approval.

Ysilla looks at them all surrounding her, her family, with even more scattered throughout the realm and finds herself brimming with happiness. To think, she had nearly made final goodbyes with all of this… grief threatens to make her weep.

Ysilla locks stares with her mother, and the fire there stirs something in Rhaenyra, eyes alighting with a question.

“Go, clean her up and bring her back to me. Let me collect myself and ready her bed. Rhaena,” the younger girl wavers before starting forward, coming to her cousin’s feet at once. Ysilla bores her eyes into her.

“Downstairs in the Great Hall, by the hearth, I need you to bring up something for me. It’s right in front of the mouth of the fire- you can't miss it. Bring it to my mother once you have it and don’t spare a single second. She’ll know what to do from there. Listen to me Rhaena, this is very important. I would do it myself if I could but there’s no one else I trust to be fast but you. Will you do this for me, cousin? Please?” Ysilla teeters, shrinking back along the headboard as the adrenaline starts to wear off and the weariness starts to sink into her muscles.

Rhaena knows, inexplicably, that when the day comes, Ysilla will make a fine Queen. Even now, she fights the urge to bow before her request.

“I will make you proud, Ysilla. Leave it to me.” Rhaena speaks with a quivering voice, going to Rhaenyra’s side as the two ladies make to depart from the room.

“Rhaenyra.” The Queen can’t recall a time her little brother has ever spoken to her so directly. Civilities, greetings, yes but he- just like the rest of his siblings- have been absent from her life for years. She pauses, awaiting him to continue. Aemond stares hard at her, before dropping to the babe cradled in her arms.

“Stay with her. Don’t leave her side.” Rhaenyra thinks Aemond is trying to sound strong but the residual terror in his face takes away all power. He looks so young, every bit a boy and not quite yet a man. But her grandchild stirs in her arms and Rhaenyra nods at the new father’s demand.

The duo starts down the hall, the screams of the storm raging somewhere beyond the walls, and Rhaenyra bounces Daenerys as the sounds aim to frighten her.

“Go, Rhaena.” The girl is off in a flash, dashing around the bend in the wall and down the stairs two at a time. Rhaenyra walks a bit further, coming to her old chambers and letting herself in. Her chests have been tossed haphazardly about, Daemon’s impatience once they had landed on Dragonstone manifesting in him tossing their belongings off of their dragons in quick haste to escape the whipping winds. It was just the two of them; she had opted to leave the Queensguard behind in King's Landing, much to the opposing vehemence of Rhaenys. Her Hand did not agree with her decision to come without protection, but once the raven had arrived announcing the breaking of Ysilla’s water, it would take the entire Seven and then some to keep her from her daughter.

She lays Daenerys, still wrapped in the silver surcoat, in the center of her bed, tucking her in tight before turning to her cold hearth. A chill seeps in from the chimney, shivers rolling through her as she takes flint in hand and works at starting a fire to warm her and her granddaughter.

A timid knock at the door doesn’t distract from her task, keeping at the metal and stone until orange embers shoot from the collision. Another knock, maybe two, come a few minutes apart. Rhaenyra scoffs, tossing several pieces of wood onto the sparks before starting towards the door, wiping off her hands on her skirts before pulling it open.

“Rhaena, just come in darl-”

Criston stands in the doorway, shoulders hunched and wisps of black hair falling into his eyes. Rhaenyra blinks, half expecting him to vanish into the night like a conjured vision.

The man looks ready to fall over, sea spray and sweat tacky on his forehead, Ysilla’s blood staining his gloves. They make a ghastly sight, even in the low light of the hall. Rhaenyra will make sure they’re torched before the light of day can touch them. His voice is a trembling imitation of his usual utterance.

“You and I need to talk.”

The maesters buzz around her like bumblebees in springtime, preparing her milk of the poppy, wiping away at the blood still trickling a thin stream from her nether regions, dodging Aemond’s fierce gaze anytime Ysilla dares to let a whimper slip out.

He hasn’t looked at her since they returned to the castle. Ysilla has shot him a glance or two, the heaviness of what she had nearly done starting to weigh itself in the air between them. She has to speak with him, has to plead her plight and make him see what she had seen.

“Leave us, please.” Her voice is soft and Ysilla doesn’t think the men would’ve heard her if they weren’t already hanging on every breath the two royals released. One of the maesters- Ysilla has no energy to remember his name- casts her a doubtful look, worry in the many wrinkles around his eyes.

“Princess, I don’t think that wise. We need to examine you and prepare your healing.”

“Will I perish in the next ten minutes?” Ysilla raises a brow, sarcasm heavy in her tone. Aemond inhales sharply, fists tightening in the bed sheets. Ysilla winces, regret taking hold of her and she aims it in the look she sends his way but it is lost to him as he still won’t look at her.

“Just a few minutes alone; you may return shortly. That is an order.” Ysilla commands without breaking gaze from her husband. He’s pale, more gray than white. His lips are bitten and bloody and the bones in his fists threaten to split open the skin of his knuckles.

The maesters and maids trickle out of the room, taking their time, edging about until a final look from Ysilla sends them behind the door. Daemon had drifted out shortly after her mother departed with Daenerys and Rhaena, dropping a kiss to her forehead with a promise to return later. Ysilla lets a minute tick by, she counts off the seconds in her head before releasing a breath shakier than she meant to.

“Aemond, can you please loo-”

Aemond’s sudden grip on her jaw is pinching and it hurts but he doesn’t let up, not even at Ysilla’s insistent hand pulling at his wrist. His breathing is ragged, mouth snarled and mean.

“How dare you.” Venomous are his words and the dryness of her eyes is suddenly gone, replaced by a flood of wetness.

“Do you think there is anywhere you could go that I would not follow? Do you think, if Vhagar would have been successful, or if I had been a second too late, that I would not have chased you into the afterlife? That The Stranger himself could keep you from me?” There’s no sadness in his eye, not even a fleck of it. Just cold, unflinching anger.

“I was scared, Aemond. I thought, I thought she… I didn’t know if you would…” Ysilla doesn’t know what to say. The betrayal in her husband’s face is more agonizing than her daughter’s coming. Ysilla wants to look away from him but she doesn’t. She’ll force herself to bear this, too. She deserves it.

“Scared of me, you mean.” It isn’t a question. Ysilla just keeps looking at him, a tear slipping down her cheek and mingling with the drying sweat on her neck.

“Scared of everything.” She can’t bring herself to speak above a whisper, emotion thickening her throat. “Scared of losing her, of losing myself. Fucking petrified at being held down and ripped apart, and looking into your face while it’s being done.” The tears are too much to be held back as they race each other down her face. The headache behind her eyes is trying to split her skull, Ysilla is sure of it.

Aemond stares back at her, emotions flickering like a flame in his silver depths. Ysilla feels as if she’s been flayed with a dull blade. Her emotions are fried and her energy has abandoned her, but still, she almost wants a fight. At least that would make her forget the horror of her actions. She’d feel a rush of something other than self loathing. If Aemond hates her instead, maybe it’ll feel better.

Aemond releases her face, heat flaring where the worst of the pressure had been. “I wouldn’t have. Agreed to it. The fact that I have to make that clear to you tells me I’ve failed you somehow.”

Ysilla swallows down a sob. She just wants him to hold her, to watch over her while she sleeps so she can finally get one minute of rest before they can properly meet their daughter.

Their daughter. Ysilla wants her with her. Her breasts are heavy with milk, her womb feels like it's been turned inside out. Something inside her howls for her child, a vicious instinct to prowl room to room until she finds her little one and keeps her by her side forever. But she can’t fucking move, the poppy potion turning her legs to lead and causing her spine to sink into the bed.

“You should’ve called for me. You should have… trusted me enough to do what was best for you and our daughter. All these months spent waiting for her to come, thinking of the day when she would finally arrive and this is what comes of it.” Aemond jumps to his feet, shaky hands raking through his hair, tugging painfully at the knots that formed in the blowing night air. Ysilla can feel him drifting away, leaving her afloat as he heads in the other direction. Her panic is muddled and fuzzy, the effects of the poppy starting to cloud her mind. She reaches for him, hand outstretched in an offering of apology. Ysilla knows it isn’t enough but it is all she possesses.

“Aemond, please.”

The door doesn’t slam behind her husband but it might as well have.

Ysilla bursts like a dam, sobbing as she circles her arms around her vacant belly, yearning for a weight she didn’t expect to miss so soon. She cries as her handmaidens enter on silent feet, shifting her around with gentle hands as they sponge her clean and change the bedsheets. She cries as one of the maesters checks her over, his soft whispers of her and her babe’s health doing nothing to soothe her aching heart.

Ysilla cries until her eyes run dry and only then, when she’s so alone in her bed that she feels as if she’s the only star in a barren sky, does she let her eyes slip close and drift down into blissful blackness.

Daemon watches his nephew from where he’s perched against the table. The younger man is a mess- hair matted from ocean air, sand crusted on his boots, a shock of blood smeared across his cheek. He’s a spitting image of Daemon ten years ago. A terrifying memory he’s forced to relive through the younger man’s torment.

They’ve found solace in the Chamber of the Painted Table. He’s pacing- no, stalking- wildly through the room, close to bouncing off the walls with furious energy. Aemond’s hand keeps darting to the hilt of the blade at his belt, then back to yanking at his collar and if he’s not careful, he might unwittingly draw the blade and pierce his throat in his mania.

Daemon feels sympathy wash through him, an emotion he does not welcome. There is no love lost between him and his brother’s son; Daemon would have rather seen his stepdaughter marry a Lannister than marry the One-Eyed Prince… well, perhaps not a Lannister but Aemond was lowest on the list of potential good-sons and he was certainly not welcomed into his and Rhaenyra’s brood with open arms. But Dameon knew when the trio entered Ysilla’s room that something must’ve happened out on the dunes. Both men’s faces were haggard, more so than the girl who just birthed a child, and the burnt ends of Ysilla’s dress told a story that Daemon didn’t need to imagine. He had already lived through it.

Lived, something Ysilla managed to do where Laena had done the opposite.

“You need to pull yourself together, boy. You have a wife and daughter waiting on you, they need you by their sides.”

If looks could kill, Daemon would be ash in the wind.

“Do you know what happened out there?” Aemond asks, a storm rivaling the one outside brewing in his voice and in his lone eye.

Daemon grunts. “I have a good idea.”

Aemond’s incredulous look is paired by a disbelieving laugh. “And what? I am just supposed to move past the fact that she almost killed herself, and our child?”

“But she didn’t.”

“But she would have!” Aemond snarls, eye wild and lit with anguish, with betrayal.

“Laena!” Daemon cursed, trudging through the thick sand, searching for a white flame of hair in the darkness, the moon hidden behind the clouds.

“She was scared.” Daemon states, too simply for Aemond’s liking as he scoffs at the remark.

A figure blinks into his line of sight from the horizon, a shape of a person, the familiar frame of his wife coming more and more defined as Daemon draws closer. What in the Seven Hells is she doing?

“That is no excuse.” Aemond spits out a glob of saliva, missing the golden spittoon in the corner by inches.

A searing river of fire scorched his eyes, not prepared for the glow to set ablaze the obscure night sky.

“She is your wife, through all of her mother and I’s deterrence, all of our opposition, Ysilla has stuck herself in the mud and refused to budge when it comes to the matter of you. If you judge her for this one act of weakness, if you wash your hands of her because she was frightened of something happening, mind you, something that has already taken one of the women in her bloodline out of this world and… would have taken another.” Daemon swallows, wishing to be anywhere but in this room with this boy who, ironically, rides the same dragon as his late wife. It’s all too much.

“Then do it and be done with it. Release her now- her mother and I will care for her and her child, don’t fret. But if you are to be cold to her and never let her forget this night, be a man and spare her the suffering.”

Daemon stared at the pyre Laena had made for herself, the fetor of burning meat rolling his stomach, bile coating his teeth as his vomit splashed against the sand. He stared and stared, watching as Vhagar tilted her head side to side, snuffing at where her rider had once been, a broken whine braying from her throat.

Aemond pulled back his thin lips, teeth glistening and tongue lashed at the ready, aching for a duel that would unleash every bit of his fury but Daemon simply glides past him, the Rogue Prince spent for the day, echoes of his daughters’ wails of heartbreak splitting through his memories.

“I almost lost her, and there’s nothing I could’ve done to get her back.”

Aemond sounds so much like Viserys after Aemma, that Daemon has to battle the instinct to turn and bump foreheads with the Targaryen son. There shouldn't be so much pain on the day of his granddaughter’s birth. Fire and blood, even on the most joyous of days.

“But yet, you still have her. You still have them both. Center on that and hold that in your heart, and forgive her. It is the only way through.”

Ysilla’s face is serene and without the lines of worry for the first time in days. The sheets and her shift are clean, the smell of blood, sweat, and tears long gone, replaced by the medicinal sterileness of wormwood and poppy. A handmaiden readies a cradle at the foot of the bed, pulling out vermillion cloths along with pear-shaded linens from the trunks gifted by both grandmothers. Aemond sends her away with a tilt of his head, the young ginger-haired girl curtseying before bustling out.

Aemond stares at her, his niece, his wife. He ghosts his palm over her hair, hesitant to even touch her, unwilling to rouse her from her rest. Alas, as if his mere presence in the room is enough to alert her, Ysilla sighs, angling up into his touch.

“Stay with me.” Aemond does not know if Ysilla is even awake, for her eyes are still closed and her mouth barely shifts, but still, her hand finds his, pulling his knuckles to her lips so she can gift him a kiss.

He’s still so angry, still so fucking scared, as if he’ll blink and he’ll be back down on that beach, staring at a pile of smoldering bones where Ysilla once stood. Mayhaps he was too late and all of this has just been a dream- wishful thinking of what could’ve been if he had run faster at the first sound of her terrible shriek breaking the repetitive cacophony of the ocean.

She’s still here and he is still here, and that has to count for something. He finds a seat in a stool by her bedside, bringing her lax hand to his own lips and pressing his mouth to her palm. His eye is heavy with unshed tears and unshakeable anxiety. He breathes in her scent and grieves the loss of her in another life.

“Always.”

In her cradle, sleeping soundly with her parents mere steps away, the Princess Daenerys is wrapped in a crimson blanket with delicate, seven-pointed stars embroidered in black thread. By her feet, tucked tightly by her warmth, is the egg Rhaena was sent to retrieve from the fireplace in the Great Hall. Ysilla’s dragon egg, the one she’s had since she was a babe herself, shares her firstborn’s bed now.

A shock of white hair is dusted sparsely over her head, feathered pale lashes brushing bulbous buff-colored cheeks. Firstborn to the future Queen and King Consort, an ascension already written in her name, the little dove has a prosperous future laid miles and miles ahead of her. With her mother and father by her side, Daenerys will grow loved and cherished by all who know her.

And when that navy emerald egg nestled by her covered toes begins to stir, splintering cracks forcing the hard shell to crumble away, a hatchling with a forked tongue, amber eyes, and scales the color of House Hightower peeks a little snout out into the world, the Targaryens welcome not one, but two dragons into their family.

muña

mother

Zaldrītsos

Little dragon

Kostilus. Dracarys.

Please. Fire.

Ilībōños

Bastard

ñuha vys

my world

*lights a match* alright, who's not dead, sound off.

if anyone would like to be tagged when i update, just lemme know!

#hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen angst #ysilla targaryen #i had all and then most of you / some and now none of you

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