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toyourheartandback · 1 month

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WAITING LINE

book!percy jackson x reader

in which you have been waiting to be percy’s first choice since the first time you met him

word count: 1.45k

warnings: bad english and crearly ooc percy (because he’s such a complex character and i strongly believe his relationship with annabeth is fundamental for his development)

a/n: currently reading son and feeling very inspired to write a second part with older percy, but first i gotta see if at least one person gets interested in this one

you met percy jackson for the first time at 12 years old. the two of you stumbled across each other on the lakeshore by the limit of the forest, some days after him returning the lighting bolt and luke’s betrayal. camp halfblood was a mess, trying to recover from the possibility of a war between gods and the realization of being backstabbed by their favorite counselor, and that’s why both of you decided to search peace far from all of that.

when you approached the lake, percy was sitting into the water with damp clothes looking at the sun in front of him. it was time for apollo to rest from his work, but there were still enough light to let you see the tears on the boy’s cheeks once you got close to him. “can i stay here?” he moved his head in your direction at the question while attempting to get rid of the tears with his hand. “yeah, sure.”

the sand and the water were still warm when your bare feet touched it as you reached the close side of the son of poseidon and sat there. sea green eyes full of curiosity followed all of your movements. “i’m percy, what’s your name?” you giggled a little too loud at his first statement that he looked at you confused.

“do you really think i don’t know who you are?” of course you knew him. how could you not? everyone at camp talked about the little kid who killed a minotaur, returned the master bolt and saved olympus all in one week. he was a hero and a cute one as well. “i’m y/n between.”

percy blushed at your words and you couldn’t help but feel yourself do the same at the sight. “nice to meet you, y/n” he had a bright welcoming smile on his face and the two of started talking for hours after that moment. sharing insecurities, passions, feelings and moments. everything that came to your minds. the both of you felt finally seen after some tremendous weeks.

that time was one of many through the years. during the school year you would send letters to each other and while at camp you would meet up when you could make time for that, between his quests and the war. it was always at that same spot on the lakeshore after dinner. just the two of you, alone.

your friendship was like a whisper, a quiet secret. you weren’t that close outside of your private encounters full of emotions and doubts about your lives. percy had his friends, his adventures and a prophecy to fulfill. he didn’t have the time for you.

nonetheless you didn’t care if you were able to see each other just once a week because it was enough. until the letters stopped arriving in your mailbox and percy started ignoring you at camp. the first time was because of rachel and then when he started dating annabeth. you were very happy for him, but you were also crying in your cabin at night missing the guy who knew you the best.

at some point you had to move on with your life. percy and annabeth were perfect for each other. he didn’t need your silly conversations anymore when he could just talk to his nice little girlfriend. so you moved on and it was like you and him have never been anything for one another. simply two people whose lives never crossed.

that was all before he decided to startle your life again. “since when do you still pray?” his unexpected voice made a shiver go through your spine. you were in the waiting line for burning your offerings to the gods at dinner and percy was just right behind you, probably also waiting for his turn like you were. “i could tell you the same thing” you said looking at him smirking at your words.

he seemed more mature since the last time you two had an interaction together. probably it was achille’s curse or the weight of the war on his shoulders, but to you it was deeper than that. he wasn’t the little kid crying on the lakeshore that you met years prior anymore. he almost resembled a god and you would have believed he was if you didn’t know better.

“i don’t” percy answered you with a shrug of his shoulders and deep green eyes looking at yours. “usual spot tonight?” you were at loss of words but a million thought in your head, so you just nodded. he showed you the biggest and most radiant smile ever and left you baffled in front of the burning fire.

perhaps it was stupid agreeing. after months trying to forget him, you just didn’t need the wound to be open again. but you still went to that same old spot that night right after dinner and percy was already there, waiting for you. all of your doubts were swept away when he looked at you.

gods, you missed him.

“i’m glad you came” he genuinely seemed happy to see you, almost relieved. his hands were fidgeting with riptide as a pen and his puppy eyes were focused on yours. your heart was doing cartwheels and backflips at the mere sight of percy jackson. you pulled yourself together by focusing your gaze behind the boy and reminding yourself of your well thought argument that you prepped before approaching him. “percy, why are we here?”

“I think we should talk” you sighed at his answer, fixing your camp t-shirt nervously while still facing the shining water instead of his deep stare of the same color. “talk about what?” you just wanted the boy to acknowledge how unfair he had been with you, rather than pushing you away. you wanted closure.

he placed riptide in his jeans pocket and got closer to you, trying to get in your line of sight. “i missed you” your cheeks were flushing an unintentional bright red at his words that only got worse once the son of poseidon grabbed your hands. “i’m lost without your support” percy’s touch on your skin was as tender as his voice in your ears.

“you have other people in your life to rely on” your bitterness was shown as you scoffed. the boy squeezed your hands and gave you a sweet smile, getting so close that you could breathe the comforting smell of salt water. “annabeth and i broke up” you pushed him away as hard as your heart sank at his words.

“i’m just your rebound” you felt so stupid for misplacing his actions towards you. percy was there only because he felt alone and you were his last and most desperate choice. tears started rolling down your cheeks as you were overwhelmed with emotions. “no, y/n, no” he tried to come closer but you shoved him off. “i couldn’t bear being near you before” his whole being was showing guilt and worry, but you could only see pity for you.

“i need to be alone” you were already backing away from him, rubbing your face to stop crying and trying to compose yourself. percy was frenetically apologizing as he was attempting to grab your arms to make you stay with him. “please, i’m sorry, just listen to me” he looked like a rumbling mess, but you couldn’t have this conversation with him that day. you thought you were ready to confront him and you were wrong.

you had gotten the explanation of his behavior that you so ardently needed, therefore you could leave and you did. you just walked away from him and went straight to your cabin, shutting the door behind. you thanked the gods that your siblings were at the campfire as you started violently sobbing.

he was being unfair to you. you were just starting to get over him and then he barged into your peacefulness with his cocky handsome smile and pretty dark hair which you weren’t able to ignore. the son of poseidon knew how whipped you were of him and that you would have always waited for him to affirm your place in his life, but you were tired of being left on the sidelines for when he needed a shoulder to cry on. you didn’t need to be made second to annabeth or rachel or anyone else, not a goddamn prophecy either. you were going to be first on someone else’s line if you couldn’t be on percy’s.

#percy jackson #pjo #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 months

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 7: Keep Quiet, Nothing Comes As Easy As You]

A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading and loving this fic. 🥰 We are now officially halfway done with WTWICD, can you believe it?! I hope you enjoy Chapter 7. 💜

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, the smallfolk having a bad time everywhere you look, Aemond being a menace, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), discussions of pregnancy/babies, dragons, murder, some new perspectives! 🥰

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

In the Eyrie, Rhaena is praying for one of the three dragon eggs in her keeping to hatch. In the shadowy ruins of Harrenhal, Daemon and Nettles are bathing in rooms thick with steam, while outside by the lakeshore Baela brings plump goats to Moondancer. In King’s Landing, Rhaenyra’s Master of Coin Bartimos Celtigar is levying heavy taxes on the smallfolk: taxes on wine, taxes on ale, taxes on inn beds and shop goods, even taxes on the bittersweet parody of love purchased in brothels, taxes on every possible distraction from the ceaseless bloodletting that has infected the world like plague. In the North, Cregan Stark is following the Kingsroad towards Moat Cailin and imagining what you will say to him when you are rescued from the clutches of the Usurper: Oh my love, my champion, my savior, my lord. But south in the Reach, Daeron is flying.

Tessarion’s scales are a blue sheen like light on the ocean; the flapping of her wings is a deafening, roaring wind. She is nimble in the air, lethally quick, banking seamlessly when Daeron asks her to turn towards the Hogs Head, an inn from which torrents of men and women run shrieking. They do not run fast enough. Tessarion’s flames are an electrifying cobalt blue like lightning. Flesh melts away, bones are charred black, screams evaporate as lungs are singed, consumed, destroyed. Daeron’s own lungs work perfectly fine; he is cackling, almost loud enough to hear over the wings and inferno of his dragon. After the inn, Tessarion burns the sept, the marketplace, the castle that is the seat of the disloyal House Caswell. There is a stone bridge, after which the town is named, traversing the Mander River. People are fleeing across it. There are children on the bridge, but this does not stop Daeron. Maelor was a child when these traitors ripped him apart with their bare hands. Jaehaerys was a child, and so is Jaehaera, who may be alive in Storm’s End or may be dead but in any case has suffered the decimation of her family, her brothers and her mother and her grandsire. Daeron is burning Bitterbridge for the Greens, yes. But he is also doing it for himself. And in the wake of Tessarion’s fire, Lord Ormund Hightower’s forces pour into the rubble of the town to seize whatever treasures it has left.

In the Riverlands, Aemond and Vhagar are setting fields of wheat ablaze and incinerating cattle, pigs, sheep, forests that can no longer be used by the Blacks and their supporters for timber. In the Citadel, white ravens are being sent out to the great houses of Westeros to proclaim the end of summer. And on Dragonstone, the Beggar King heals.

He spars with guards that Larys found, is tended by maesters that Larys recruited from the turncoat houses of the Crownlands, rules over a microcosm kingdom that Larys built for him. Aegon tires quickly, sleeps often, aches and collapses and bleeds, gets sunburned when he is outside too long on those rare clear days. But he always rises again. “Perpetual Resurrection,” he says, grinning through the pain when you caution him to be patient, to be careful. “I’m not dying. I’m becoming brand new.”

You hunt for softshell crabs together on the rocky shoreline, fill a basket with them, bring them to the cooks to serve the skeleton crew of the castle for supper. You walk through the gardens, a pine-smelling woodland of towering coniferous trees, thorny rose bushes, blood-red cranberries, indelicate creatures that can thrive in the thin, inhospitable earth here. You study the books of the castle library—an impossibly vast, ancient collection, safeguarding texts from Old Valyria—while Aegon swims in the ocean with Sunfyre, laughing and diving as the dragon glides around him in large, lazy circles. Sunfyre can fly, but only a very short distance at a time; he is ungainly when he walks on land with his improperly-healed right wing. But in the water, he and Aegon are both unbroken again. Soon they will be ready for battle. Soon they will have to leave this island, this mist-and-smoke haven, to rejoin the war effort; soon they will have to leave you.

You crave Aegon like some people need wine, rum, gin, gold, power, violence, milk of the poppy. He is ecstasy, he is consolation, he is a spell. He is your home; and any place you’ve ever mistaken for home was only an echo of the truth that you would one day find him. Even on that very first night, as the storm raged outside, you whispered to Aegon when you both woke long before sunrise: “I want you again.”

“You’ll be sore,” he warned, a warm murmur against your forehead. “We can wait. I can wait.” But already his hands were moving, and your thighs were opening, and he followed your body and your words when they told him yes, now, and tomorrow, and the day after that, and the next day too.

You smile when Aegon calls you insatiable, but you know that’s not quite it.

You are acutely aware that nothing lasts forever, not even him, not even you.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Are the days getting shorter?” you ask, your bare feet ankle-deep in wet sand. Sunfyre is out in the waves eating dolphins; a slippery-looking grey tail hangs from his snaggletoothed jaw.

“I think you just want the nights to be longer.” Aegon winks up at you. His head is in your lap, his arms linked around your waist. You are weaving his little braid for him. His hair is just above shoulder-length and as choppy as ever. He periodically takes his dagger to it and hacks away haphazardly, determined to never look like Aemond, Daeron, Daemon, his father. He burrows into the softness of your belly and shuts his eyes. “Perhaps winter is coming.”

In more ways than one, you think bleakly, picturing Cregan Stark on the Kingsroad with snow in his long dark hair and dirt on his hands. “We should ask Lord Larys if he’s heard anything.” As the Citadel—and most of the rest of Westeros—believes Dragonstone to be unoccupied, they would not have sent a white raven here. But several times each week Larys receives visitors from Eagle Harbor, and they bring him rumors in exchange for gold coins and promises that when Aegon once again sits the Iron Throne, their faithfulness will be generously rewarded.

Aegon hums agreeably; he is dozing. After a moment he says: “I keep dreaming of her.”

“Who?”

“Helaena,” Aegon says, his voice lethargic and eyes still closed. “She brings me things. Butterflies, crabs, snakes. Things that are reborn. She puts them in my hands or in my bed and won’t take them away when I ask her to. She keeps telling me: Don’t fall, don’t fall.”

You finish Aegon’s braid and comb his unruly hair back with your fingers, soothing him, listening to him. You try not to think of the way Helaena died, crushed and hemorrhaging on golden sandstone. Instead, you picture her living: strange yet gentle, tragic but kind. You see her children as well, white-haired and beautiful and doted on not by their parents but by Alicent and Otto and you…and Aemond. You remember Aemond’s quiet resentment, his simmering and dangerous envy. You recall Aegon’s half-flippant accusation: You’re always developing attachments to things that are mine. Targaryens have wed brothers to sisters since long before the Conquest, but that doesn’t mean they always got the combination quite right. “Aegon, was Aemond…was he in love with Helaena? Did he desire her?”

“No. Not like that. He cared for her, but I don’t believe he had any lust for Helaena. He just thought he would have been a better husband to her than I was. That he would have caused her less misery. That he was more worthy of carrying on the bloodline, of being the children’s father. And he was right, of course.”

“What happened to Helaena is not your fault,” you say. “And neither is what happened to Jaehaerys or Maelor.”

“I’m glad Daeron burned them all,” Aegon says quietly, meaning the people of Bitterbridge, a tale ferried to Larys from one of his numerous, nameless informants.

“I know you are, Aegon.” You can’t bring yourself to agree with him. Does one dead child bring back another? Does each swatch of flesh burned away from a supporter of Rhaenyra replace one that was sheared off the bones of a Green? No, of course not, but the wheel goes around and around and around.

In the sky, another sort of wheel: a sun that burns cool and muted behind a thicket of iron-colored clouds. High above where you and Aegon are entwined on the beach, something crosses in front of the shrouded sun, casting an impossibly large shadow. You gasp; at the sound, Aegon bolts upright onto his palms and knees and follows your gaze. There is a profound, archaic rumbling, something old and intractable like thunder, earthquakes, floodwaters rising.

A dragon, you know immediately. You try frantically to determine whether you recognize its voice. Too large to be Tessarion or Syrax, too deep a roar to be Caraxes. Sheepstealer?? Vermithor?? But no, you have heard this beast before after all, it’s—

“Vhagar!” Aegon shouts, and scrambles to his feet. As the massive swamp-green dragon disappears behind the castle, soaring rather sluggishly, Aegon sprints as fast as he can up the stone steps towards the entranceway. You follow Aegon into Dragonstone and there the visitor meets you both, sailing down a staircase with eerie lightness, his boots hardly making a sound, his long silver hair secured in a single thick braid. Larys arrives as well and stands in the dreary, torchlit chamber, appearing as he always does: face servile and tactfully intrigued, hands laced together overtop the handle of his cane, back stooped as if to make himself smaller, less threatening, more invisible.

“I got to thinking you might be here,” Aemond tells Aegon. He sounds pleasantly surprised. “You look better.” Then he notices you. “Oh. Perhaps that accounts for some of it.”

“Where’s Criston?” Aegon asks. Meanderingly, so it is sufficiently subtle, he takes several steps until he has placed himself between you and Aemond.

“Somewhere near Saltpans.”

“You left him?” Aegon is incredulous, furious.

“Temporarily,” Aemond says. “It is not the first time. Between battles Vhagar and I raze the farms and villages of the Riverlands. Criston and his men are more than capable of fending for themselves. I’ll be back in a day.”

“You’re supposed to stay with Criston,” Aegon insists, speaking slowly and deliberately as if to a child who might have difficulty understanding. “You promised that you would. The war is on the battlefield, not on goddamn farms.”

“And what feeds Rhaenyra’s forces? Is it not grain and cattle? And so if I destroy their food supply—while our own soldiers are still receiving regular shipments from the Westerlands and the Reach—am I not inflicting catastrophic damage to the Blacks?”

“You’re burning…civilian property?” you say to Aemond. “You’re killing women and children and old people? You’re laying waste their homesteads?”

“It’s total war.” Aemond stares at you defiantly; there is no suggestion of self-doubt in his face. “It is a well-documented strategy employed across continents and centuries. We kill soldiers on the battlefield. We endanger their families back home. Many men will desert to return to their imperiled wives and children. Others will starve. All are broken. All are rendered ineffectual to our enemy’s cause. And thus we will triumph.”

You and Aegon gape at him, not knowing what to say, not knowing what is right or wrong in a world where children are slaughtered and grown men murder with impunity. When will this war be over? How can we end it? Will any of our souls survive the choices we’ve made with our backs to the wall?

“My prince, you chose an excellent time to pay us a visit,” Larys offers diplomatically. “I have just received news that may be of interest to you. And you can bring it back to Sir Criston and his men when you return to the Riverlands tomorrow.”

“What news?” Aegon asks.

“Wait,” Aemond says; and he smiles, dark and hungry like a wolf, like a dragon. “I want to see the place where my ancestors made their war plans. I want to sit in Rhaenyra’s chair.”

On the top floor of the Stone Drum, the main keep of Dragonstone that booms and growls during storms, servants light the candles beneath the Painted Table and bring wine, ale, bread, cheese, honeycomb, jam, candied walnuts, red cherries and violet grapes. The map of Westeros, older than the Conquest, is striped with snakes of fiery luminance like lava. Aegon twists the gold dragon ring on his finger, its jade eyes sparkling. You gave it back to him the day after you arrived on Dragonstone; he says that when he wins the war, he will have a matching piece made for you, but with a crab in place of a dragon.

Larys cautions before he begins: “I cannot tell you the perfect truth. I can only tell you what I’ve heard from the whispers that make their way to me.”

“And what have you heard?” Aemond says. Aegon glances petulantly at him, as if debating whether to remind his brother that a prince regent is not quite a king.

“The Dragonseeds known as Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White—and with them, Vermithor and Silverwing—have officially declared for the Greens.”

“Yes!” Aegon beams and raises his wine cup. He refuses milk of the poppy, even on his worst days; he does not want to be senseless, he does not want to leave you unprotected. But he drinks red wine often and grows ill if he is without it for long. Aemond is laughing victoriously. The brothers are momentarily united.

“There was a battle at Tumbleton in the Reach,” Larys continues. “Lord Ormund Hightower was slain by Roddy the Ruin who, allegedly, managed the feat after one of his arms was severed clean from his body. These Northmen are formidable beasts, to be sure.”

Aegon looks at you, a fleeting, fearful look.

“The people of Tumbleton believed the battle to be over, but then Vermithor and Silverwing joined Tessarion in torching the city. All the Blacks’ commanders were killed, along with most of their soldiers. And the city was sacked. There are reports of looting and…well, all manner of indecencies being committed against the civilians of Tumbleton, mostly women and children. Even septas and silent sisters.”

Now an awkward silence settles over the Painted Table. Ruin, heartbreak, agony, death; but somebody else’s. It could have been yours instead. Perhaps tomorrow it will be. Perhaps there is no end to suffering, only a reallocation of it to people who you do not know, do not love. Perhaps the debt can never be satisfied but only passed to another.

Larys goes on: “The people of King’s Landing are petrified that the Greens and their dragons will descend upon them and subject the capital to the same atrocities that Tumbleton experienced. Rhaenyra had to order the gold cloaks to seal the city gates to keep her supposedly loyal subjects inside.”

“The smallfolk’s support for her continues to weaken?” Aemond says.

“It does more than weaken. Many people there detest her. Bartimos Celtigar has imposed heavy taxes upon the city. The smallfolk fear that Daemon has abandoned Rhaenyra, and therefore that they cannot expect protection from Caraxes and Sheepstealer. And…” Larys peers around the Painted Table apologetically.

“…And?” Aegon presses.

“Rhaenyra’s youngest son…Viserys…” Larys sighs, an anemic, perfunctory breed of sympathy. “He is dead. Of illness, it seems. The luckless lad.”

“He was always sickly,” you say, remembering his unwaveringly watery eyes and dripping nose. And you almost say Poor Rhaenyra, but then you remember how the Blacks celebrated Maelor’s death with cheers and rare, bloody boar meat.

“Yes,” Larys concurs. “That is what the people believe, that he perished due to natural causes.”

Aemond is watching the Master of Whisperers closely. “What does Rhaenyra think caused it?”

“She suspects poison,” Larys tells him. “She is convinced of poison, I should say. She raved and she threatened and she spewed accusations. She executed a dozen people, none of whom could be connected to the death of the boy with any certainty. The smallfolk feel she has gone mad. And there is one more crime the people have branded her with.” Larys turns to you.

Your heard pounds wildly, hot blood thuds in your ears. “Has something happened to Everett—?”

“Not him. The Celtigars themselves are safe from her wrath. Bartimos is too near to the throne, and Rhaenyra trusts him. But the servant girl—Autumn, you called her—she went into labor a month early and was delivered of a boy.” Now Larys’ eyes flick to Aegon, whose face goes pale and panicked. “A boy with blue eyes and silver hair.”

Aemond rocks back in his chair and shakes his head.

“Oh,” Aegon moans. “Oh.” He clutches his chest with one hand and looks to you. He says weakly: “I’m so sorry, Angel. It didn’t mean anything. The child…it…it will never really be mine—”

“It won’t be anyone’s,” Larys says. “Rhaenyra had him run through with a sword.”

“What?!” Aemond exclaims. “A baby? An infant? In her own castle, in the Red Keep?”

You are horrified. “Did Autumn witness this?”

“I’m not certain, my lady,” Larys replies. “What I have heard is that Rhaenyra proclaimed it vengeance for agents of the Greens murdering her youngest son. She declared all bastards of the Usurper to be enemies of the realm and thus sentenced to death. She has offered rewards for anyone who brings a white-haired child to her for execution. And the smallfolk are absolutely, viciously appalled by her. The Street of Silk in particular is rife with people plotting the so-called queen’s downfall. She is surrounded by enemies. And she has only two male heirs left.”

“Two more than Aegon,” Aemond mutters.

“Is Autumn alright?” you ask Larys. “Did Rhaenyra harm her?”

“Your brother Everett attempted to advocate for Autumn and the child. He was ignored; your father and eldest brother were vehemently in support of the murder. Shortly after the baby was killed, Autumn disappeared from King’s Landing. I’m sure Everett facilitated this escape. No one knows her present whereabouts.”

“She’s just gone? No signs whatsoever?”

“Nobody ever knows anything.” Aemond waves at Aegon. “They think he’s in Dorne.”

“Seven hells,” Aegon whispers, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Rhaenyra is destroying herself,” you say. “She is doing the work for us. If you try to take King’s Landing with dragonfire raining down on Green supporters who are effectively held captive, there will be ill-will against you in the capital that will last for generations. But if they overthrow Rhaenyra on their own, you can reclaim the city bloodlessly.”

Larys taps his fingers meditatively against the Painted Table. “I do wonder if Daemon would intervene to support her. His present motivations are…somewhat nebulous. To Blacks and Greens alike. But he controls their most powerful assets.”

“You haven’t crossed paths with Caraxes and Sheepstealer in Riverlands, I assume?” Aegon asks Aemond.

“No. We are locked in a dance of sorts. I’m not certain that Vhagar can win against two dragons of that size; they must know that it is almost certain that at least one of them would be killed in the struggle even if they defeated me. This Nettles girl’s dragon riding skills are unclear. Perhaps Daemon is training her, perhaps he is now sufficiently attached that he does not want her in combat. So we avoid each other. But when the girl is gone—when Daemon tires of her, or when Rhaenyra sends assassins to murder her, or when she is removed from the board by some other means—I will meet Daemon in battle and end him.”

“Your priority is protecting Criston,” Aegon orders; but there is trepidation in his large, ocean-blue eyes, there is defenseless worry there. “Wherever Criston goes, you go with him. I’ll be ready to fight again soon. I’ll be able to help you.”

“Daemon is mine. I want to face him alone.”

“I am the king!” Aegon thunders, and you can see the strength leaving him like birds taking flight from cold, bare winter trees. “You will not behave recklessly. You will not abandon Criston. We are winning in the Reach, and we are winning in King’s Landing without even being there, and we will win in the Riverlands too if you don’t sabotage us with your relentless fucking pride.”

You and Larys study Aemond. He examines the flame-colored light of the Painted Table, tracing the etchings of rivers and mountains with his fingertips. “Fine,” he concedes, very quietly.

“And one more thing,” Aegon tells his brother.

With great reluctance, Aemond meets his gaze. “Yes?”

“If you have the opportunity to burn Cregan Stark, take it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

When Aegon collapses into the bed you share, you curl up against his scarred chest, listen to his heartbeat, breathe in heat and rose oil and the salt of the ocean. He does not ask you what is wrong. He does not speak of Autumn or her child, his child, no matter how indifferent or remorseful he might have been. He holds you knowing that there is nothing he can say to make the world whole again. He can only rest until he is well enough to fly into battle, where he might be further maimed or taken captive or murdered. And what then? What was this all for?

“Somewhere there are people just living,” you marvel. “They’re reading books, they’re having supper, they’re getting married, they’re tending to their crops and their animals. And none of them are thinking about war or massacres or dragonfire.”

“Yes,” Aegon says simply, pulling you in closer, one palm pressed to the small of your back and the other brushing your hair away from your face so he can kiss you, soft and slow. “But they’re not us.”

When Aegon is on the edge of sleep, you tell him that you love him, as you do each day. He has not heard it enough in his life; you are trying to remedy that now. And as always, Aegon does not say it back. Instead, he murmurs something in High Valyrian that you cannot understand. Now you commit it to memory, repeating it silently to yourself again and again until Aegon is sleeping deeply and you can rise from the bed without disturbing him. You go to your writing desk and scribble it down on a small piece of parchment: the way this word sounds in the letters of the Common Tongue. You have no way to translate it. There are books written in High Valyrian in the castle library, but you do not know the alphabet of the language, and you have yet to find a text that can teach it to you. When you ask Aegon for lessons, he demurs and says that he doesn’t know High Valyrian well enough to teach you. You think he just wants a way to say things you won’t be able to comprehend. You squirrel the parchment away in the pocket of your gown and slip out of the bedchamber you share with Aegon.

It is far too early for your mind to stop racing, only sunset. You wander down halls of shifting shadows and iron dragons, fantastically high ceilings and narrow slits of windows. Questions fill your skull like rushing blood in the chambers of a heart: Where is Autumn? Is she alright? Is she safe? Is Everett, is Jaehaera, is Alicent? Are Criston and Daeron? Are any of us?

When you cross through the doorway and onto a balcony that overlooks the ocean, Aemond is to your left. He is nursing a cup of wine and leaning over the stone wall that separates you from a long, treacherous fall onto black rocks that jut out of the sea like the hilts of daggers from a corpse’s back. You whirl away from him and towards the craggy staircase that leads down to the beach.

“Now you’re going to pretend you didn’t see me?” Aemond calls out.

You halt mid-step, consider it, then return to him. “You’re just so undistinguished in appearance. So easy to miss.”

He gives you one of his enigmatic, teasing smirks. His hair blows in the breeze that tastes like salt and sulfur and mist. He wears a dark, lush green. Then he peers avoidantly down into his wine. “I…I don’t think I ever adequately apologized for what transpired regarding the brothel. The Pink Pearl.”

“You didn’t.”

“It is a place…” Aemond pauses. He chooses his words cautiously, like handling something that could easily break, a glass goblet, an egg, a butterfly in an open palm. “It is a place that I associate with great unpleasantness. I made assumptions about where your loyalties lied. I felt that you had hurt me, that you had caused me to suffer. And I wanted you to suffer in return.”

“It was a horrific thing to do,” you say pitilessly. “It was cruel. It was evil.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that now. That’s why I’m apologizing.”

“Then do it properly.”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says. It takes some effort. “I was wrong.”

“You were.”

“And I’m glad Aegon was able to haul himself out of bed to rescue you. It’s not often that he gets to be the noble brother, the gallant one.”

“It happens more often than you’d think.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow. Beneath his eyepatch, you know, is a winter-cold sapphire in a bed of mangled flesh, a treasure steeped in corruption. “How long have you been here?”

“Two months.” No, more than that. “Two and a half, or thereabouts.”

“And I assume there has been no shortage of…horizontal activities with my brother.”

“Not exclusively horizontal,” you snap, to make him regret being so forward, to make him uncomfortable. “We are more inventive than that.”

It works; Aemond flushes a gory mottled pink. Still he manages: “And you have not yet conceived?”

You glare at him, ice and fire at once. “No.”

“Why do you think that is?”

You shrug, exasperated, dismissive. “Aegon has been through so much physical trauma, perhaps he is no longer capable of having children. Perhaps I never was. Perhaps it will happen in a month or six months or a year. Perhaps it is not meant for us. Only the gods know.”

“You aren’t at all concerned?”

In truth, no; you are so consumed by whether Aegon will survive the war with any vestige of humanity intact that anything beyond this seems hopelessly distant, a constellation, a shadow on the moon, the silvery gleam of a comet. “It’s not something I spend much time thinking about.”

“It should be,” Aemond insists. “If the Greens expect men to go to war for us, for women to give up their husbands and sons to us, we should have a stable succession to offer them in return. Jaehaerys and Maelor are gone. Jaehaera is a girl and cannot inherit even if she is alive and well in Storm’s End. Aegon needs an heir.”

“Aren’t you next in line for the throne, Aemond?” you say cuttingly. “And isn’t that the role you believe yourself best suited for? Being king? Proving how worthy you were all along?”

He is uneasy, perhaps ashamed, evading your eyes. “Regrettably, I cannot begin trying for my own sons until the war is over and I marry Borros Baratheon’s daughter, as I pledged to in return for his support for our side. Daeron will not be able to marry for several years. In the meantime, there is this…disquieting lack of certainty. To complicate matters, Aegon has bastards in King’s Landing, I’m sure. The red-haired girl was far from the first whore to lie with him. If he does not have a trueborn son, claimants will appear to challenge mine or Daeron’s for the throne.”

You search yourself—unspoken longing and ancient cobwebbed fears—for any desire for a child of your own. You cannot find it. You are fond of children, you find fulfillment in caring for them, but the need to carry and deliver one yourself? It is not something you can remember ever yearning for. It always felt like yet another way in which your body would be used to further some man’s legacy, to give him pleasure at your expense. “Can you tell me what this means?” you ask, handing Aemond the folded piece of parchment that you’d tucked into the pocket of your gown. He takes it with one long, lithe hand. “I’ve probably spelled it wrong. I’ve never seen it written, only heard it spoken aloud.”

Aemond opens the parchment. His river-blue eye narrows; thoughtful creases appear in his brow. “Aegon has said this? To you?”

“More than once.”

“What prompted it?”

“Does your translation depend upon the context?”

“Hm.” Aemond skates his thumbprint over the dried black ink. Then he looks at you. “It means: To your misfortune.”

The alarm must show on your face.

“Not like a threat,” Aemond clarifies. “It is a common expression. It suggests that someone has entrusted something of value to the undeserving. It implies naivety. Unwise benevolence. But it is certainly not malicious. It is usually said fondly, like a backhanded compliment.” He returns the parchment to you. You rip it over and over again until it is only scraps that vanish in the wind, Aegon’s voice speaking to you: I ruin causes. I ruin people.

“Why did you kill Luke?” you ask Aemond, not accusingly but with hushed, weary wonder. “There was very little strategic advantage in it. There was great peril as a result. Rhaenyra will never surrender, never negotiate. You will forever be known as a kinslayer. You could have taken him captive. You could have humiliated him, you could have shown the world how weak he was. Why did you have to kill him?”

Aemond says nothing for a long time. He stares out over the ocean where the sun is setting, dolphin fins cut in swift arcs through the surf, Sunfyre dozes on wet sand, the sky glows dream-lavender and blood orange. He sips his wine and contemplates things that are mysteries to you. Aemond keeps his thoughts like untrustworthy animals: in cages, in darkness, turning fierce and feral, snapping jaws and rattling chains. At last he says: “They’re all dead anyway. They were from the moment Aegon was born and my father refused to name him the heir. It’s all of them or all of us. You think there is any scenario in which Aegon reigns as king while Rhaenyra’s children survive? No, no. Someone will always be willing to fight and die for them. Just like Green loyalists would have been willing to fight for Jaehaerys and Maelor.” Something shifts in his face like the breaking of a wave, and for a second you can glimpse the deep well of dark, helpless misery inside him, filling up drop by drop since he was a boy. Then Aemond is steely again. “Luke had to die. So did Jace and Rhaenys and that eternally sniffling toddler Viserys. And all the other Blacks will follow. Unless you care to see Aegon’s blood spilled. And mine, and Daeron’s.”

“No,” you say softly, an agonized little whisper that understands, that surrenders. “No, that cannot happen.”

Aemond takes another swallow of his wine and drums his fingertips restlessly against the cup. “Any heir our side puts forth must have undisputed parentage and Valyrian features. Aegon’s wife is dead. He can marry you. You are a Celtigar, you share our blood, you carry the memories of silver hair and rare magic in the marrow of your bones. These attributes are dormant in you, yet could be passed on to a child. A son of yours could secure the succession and one day inherit the Iron Throne. But the father has to be a Targaryen.”

You turn to Aemond, perplexed and wary. His wording is strange. “Well, it has to be Aegon.”

Aemond is impatient, irritated. You have not been keeping up. He says, his eye on the darkening horizon: “There are other Targaryens.”

You stare at him. You don’t understand, you don’t understand, and then suddenly you do. “What?”

This is not the reaction Aemond had hoped for. He gulps down the last of his wine, leaves the cup on the stone wall, storms down the staircase to reunite with Vhagar and resume burning the noncombatants of the Riverlands to ash.

~~~~~~~~~~

He finds her at the shore of the Gods Eye, rippling blue like a vast mirror. The Isle of Faces—forbidden, undiscoverable—is a faint mirage in the distance. Moondancer is circling overhead. Baela is perched on a large rock by the water’s edge and fishing; she is intrigued by tales of the strange creatures that dwell here, the hungry currents, the way this corner of the world has only a translucent, threadbare veil between our world and the realm of spirits, ghosts, demons. She has always been curious and bold by nature. She has always been his most beloved child.

“You found your way out of Nettles’ bed,” Baela pitches, a jest but not a judgment. She is already developing an appetite of her own that renders monogamy woefully lacking. She mourns Jace, but not the woman she would have had to pretend to be for him. “I’m shocked.”

Daemon smirks, tilting his head to the side like a wolf does as it’s listening. “You know how sheets have a way of getting tangled. Around ankles, around wrists…sometimes it is difficult to free oneself.”

“You were fighting hard, I’m sure.”

“Yes, all morning.”

Baela chuckles, reels in her fishing line, recasts it. She cares deeply for Rhaenyra and is loyal to her still, but Baela shares her father’s pathological aversion to weakness. She feels that Rhaenyra has driven Daemon away with her moodiness, her melancholy, her unmooring from the fearless, ardent woman she once was. Daemon says that being with Nettles is like being with a young Rhaenyra again. It would not be just to condemn him for seeking out what Rhaenyra took from him and has no intention of returning.

Daemon says: “I want you to go to Dragonstone.”

Baela is aghast, betrayed. “You are getting rid of me?”

“I am entrusting you with a vital enterprise.”

Now she is intrigued. Now she is considering it.

“Moondancer is too small to fight Vhagar, Tessarion, Vermithor, or Silverwing,” Daemon says. “If Caraxes and Sheepstealer meet Vhagar in battle, you cannot go with us. Nor should we leave you here unprotected. And I know you have been impatient for an opportunity to play a more…consequential role in the war.”

“I long to be useful,” Baela agrees. “More than anything.”

“Go to Dragonstone,” Daemon says. “It is vacant, it is safe. But it must remain under the Blacks’ control. Patrol it and ensure the Greens do not try to take the island and find riders for Grey Ghost or the Cannibal. Rhaenyra will return to Dragonstone if she is ever forced out of King’s Landing. I have tasked you with making it ready for her.”

“And I have permission to execute any traitors who might appear there?”

“Yes. You may swing the sword yourself. Or feed them to Moondancer, whichever you prefer.”

Baela smiles, a slow, toothy grin that spreads across her face like plague, like fire. “When can I leave?”

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader

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besthomeshop · 2 years

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specialagentlokitty · 3 months

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Negan x reader - people can change

Part 8:

A/N: italics will be sign language

You stood waiting for Negan as the sky began to change, sighing, you moved some boxes, then climbed on the roof and drew your sword.

You slowly moved your sword in your hand, following the motion as you stepped around the roof silently.

Hearing a small thud you stopped.

“Ghost look I-“

Luke stopped when you held out your hand, and you turned to face him.

If the people want to fight, they fight. Nobody will be forced, it is free choice, the battle plans are ready.

You mean we’ll help?

We all just want to survive, we entered a trade pact with them, but we’ve connected, they are us, we defend our people.

Like grinned, holding out his hand and you reached out, wrapping your hand around his wrist and he did the same thing to you.

I trust your judgement Luke. I always have. So I trust you to lead our scouts.

He gave a nod of his head and stepped back.

I’ll spread the word and begin the training.

We don’t have long.

He nodded his head before running off.

You went back to your training, hearing another set of steps running on to the pier, he sounded out of breath.

“Shit.”

He looked around but couldn’t see you anywhere.

“Ghost?”

Negan couldn’t see you, but he saw the boxes that had been stacked as steps, so he climbed up them, seeing a sword had been laid on the roof.

Picking it up he looked around and saw you on the roof next to him, and he watched you for a moment.

You were facing the front, so you had your side to him, he wasn’t sure if you even knew he was there, but he began to copy you.

Negan noticed it was the same basic routine Adam had taught him, and the wind blew at the fire on your sword, but didn’t put it out.

His was just a normal sword, old looking but good enough to train with.

It went on for nearly an hour before you stopped and he did as well.

You didn’t say anything as you jumped down, and he climbed down to follow you, but only found a slip of paper where you jumped down.

‘Same time every day.’

Negan grinned, and he put the sword away in the armoury.

Every morning his sword was there waiting, and you would already be training when he arrived, neither of you would speak, because to you if you couldn’t see or hear him, then you weren’t training him.

As much as he didn’t long extended periods of silence, Negan did his best to be quiet, because he wanted to be trained by you.

Things were getting more tense, and everybody knew that a battle was close, even Negan could tell.

So, when he climbed his way up on the roof he noticed that this time you were on the same roof.

You handed him a scabbard and he put it on, putting the sword away and you looked at him.

“Are you ready?”

Negan furrowed his brows a little bit.

“What?”

“Let’s go.”

You ran, jumping on the next roof.

“Oh fucking hell!”

Negan ran after you, doing the same thing, trying to keep up.

This was daily routine for you, but it was new for him, but once he got the hang of knowing when to jump it became a little easier.

Some of them had bridges connecting them, which made him catching up better, but when it came to jumping you were ahead of him.

You did a lap of the community and when you were done he was out of breath, and you titled your head back, pulling your mask up slightly to breath the morning air.

Negan looked at you, and he stood up, trying to get a better look but you quickly pulled your mask back down.

“So? Do I pass? Do I get some sort of green card to join Lakeshore or what?” He grinned.

“In a few weeks we will go to war with the whisperers along with the kingdom, Alexandria and The Hilltop, they’ll come here for the meantime. You’ll come with me.”

“What makes you think I’ll say yes?”

You shrugged a little.

“You wanted me to train you, you do well and you’ll be part of Lakeshore, a resident.”

Negan seemed to think about this.

“Alright, sounds piss easy, let’s go.”

You led him back to the beach, and you followed a trail, stopping to speak to a few people as you passed them.

Negan finally saw how big your community was as you passed treehouses, wood cabins and farms, and finally you led him to a small cabin.

“You know you take a man to a cabin in the middle of the woods and he starts to get a little nervous ghost, and not in the fun, sexy kind of way.”

“Usually we send people out here alone for a few months to train, given what’s going on I decided it would be safer if I came.”

You entered the cabin, walking into a room and you dumped your bag on the floor, rummaging through it, pulling some things out and you walked back out, setting them on the table.

“Go explore, it’s safe, we’ll start tomorrow.”

Negan explored the cabin first, it was pretty basic but enough to survive, in the back was a small garden, and behind that was a small training ground with targets.

It was pretty peaceful, and when he came inside you were going through some papers.

“So, is ghost the name you’re ever going to tell me?”

You hummed a little bit.

“Does anybody know your name?”

“Yes. Don’t bother asking them they won’t tell you anything.”

“Aw come on, you know my name.”

You set one of the papers down, ignoring him.

“Okay, I’ll just guess.”

Negan began the rest of the afternoon thinking of names and asking you, and you kept knocking them down.

Even as dinner came around and you were sat with your back to the table, feet on another chair as you ate.

“Utah.”

“That’s a state not a name.”

“It was worth a shot, seriously though, come on. I don’t have anybody to tell, and the community already knows your name so.”

“Keep guessing.”

You got up, heading to your room and you closed the door.

Most of Negans training was on his own while you observed, telling him what to do, sometimes you would read, or you’d just laying on the porch.

As he took a break, he walked back over.

“I’ve got it. Daisy.”

He waited for the reply, and walked up to you when he didn’t get one.

Crouching down, he set his sword quietly down.

Negan wasn’t the best at not letting his curiosity get the better of him, so when he thought you were sleeping, he slowly reached out, grasping the mask.

He carefully lifted it, and leaned down, and you grabbed his wrist tightly.

“Rethink your next action Negan.”

“Damn, thought you were asleep.”

“You have the curiosity of a child, you know that?”

“Hey, someone hides behind a mask the entire time you know they you’re bound to get curious at some point. You hiding a moustache? Tattoo?”

You raised your other hand, pulling the mask back down and let him go so you could sit up.

“Alright, you think you’re so clever huh?”

He grinned a little to proudly.

“Get up.”

You walked inside, coming back out with a cloak and he stood up.

You swung it around his shoulders, pulling it closer, and you tied the top so it would stay in place, then grabbed the hood and pulled it over his head.

“Wow, mature.” He chuckled.

“Two minutes. After that you come find me, if you win I’ll show you, if you don’t you give up trying to guess my name and see my face. There’s red string, I won’t pass that border. The key here? Silence.”

“Oh I so can’t wait to win.”

“Ah, not so fast. This isn’t a game, you take it seriously. If you don’t, then no dice. Fair?”

“I’m down for that. I’ll win.”

Jogging down the steps you made your way into the trees, heading to your usual hiding spot laid down, covering yourself with leaves and branches.

You didn’t run too far in the trees.

After two minutes Negan made his way to the trees.

“Ready or not here I come fucker!” He shouted.

He made his way into the trees, checking where he was walking, looking for anywhere that he could see you being able to hide in.

The red string wasn’t a big area, but for somebody who was used to the shadows it was the perfect area for you to hide in.

He knew you wouldn’t go high, you’d stick to the ground level.

You heard a few twigs nearby snap, and you watched as he walked past, then you slowly stood up, hiding behind a tree as you began to trail him.

Negan snapped another branch and cursed quietly, looking around.

You couldn’t look around the tree or he would find you, so you crouched down.

There was a noise to your left and you looked that way, only to hear a noise in front of you and you smirked to yourself, running through some trees, diving into some bushes.

“Clever!” You called.

“Apparently not enough to outsmart you though!” He called back.

Negan kept searching, and you just laid there on your back.

“Bend your knees! Walk heels first!”

You heard his steps quiet but he was still making some noise.

That was to be expected, there were a lot of dead branches and leaves in the area, but he could still reduce his steps which he had done.

You could hear him moving a few things about, and you moved from your hiding spot again, taking the long way around to get to where he had already been.

He checked your previous hiding spot first and saw it was disturbed, you had just moved.

You pressed your back to a tree and you waited, listening.

Negan looked around, and he noticed something different about where he had been, and he smirked, following his steps back there.

He stood there for a few moments, debating between two of the trees before he stepped forward, turning to the right.

You had your arms crossed over your chest, head resting on the body of the tree.

“Took your time.”

“Maybe I just liked the thought of hunting you down.” He smirked.

You hummed a little, and lowered your arms, putting your hands into the pockets of your cloak.

“So, do I get to claim my prize?”

“We had a deal, you won. You took it pretty seriously.”

“Never took anything so serious.”

Negan brought his hands up, placing them on the side of the mask and he lowered himself so he was eye level with you.

Negan lifted the mask a little bit, then he stopped.

This was the whole basis of the deal, that he could finally see your face after asking for so long, but he was hesitant.

You had put a lot of work into hiding your face from outsiders, not showing your face unless you wanted to and he felt like he was invading that trust if he went through with this.

You’d given him a second chance, trusted him with weapons and being part of the community.

He closed his eyes, then sighed a little bit, opening his eyes and putting the mask back on, readjusting the strap on the side for you.

“What are you doing? You won, I said you can see my face if you won.”

“What’s your name?”

He stood up, letting his hands fall by his side.

“Negan?”

“I just want to know your name, that’s it.”

You smiled to yourself, pushing yourself away from the tree.

“(Y/N). My name is (Y/N).”

“Damn, the only name I didn’t think off.” He smirked.

“Come on, before it gets dark.”

Negan walked alongside of you, humming a tune under his breath happy with his newfound information.

“Why did you change your mind?”

“If you want to show me your face that’s up to you, some stupid bet shouldn’t make that choice for you.”

You nodded your head and he took the cloak off, handing it back to you.

“No, it’s yours, keep it. We’ve been here for a while, we’ll head back in the morning.”

“Sounds good to me.”

You made your way to the room you claimed as your own and shut the door, taking your mask off and you ran you finger along the scar as you sat deep in thought.

“(Y/N)?”

You put the mask on.

“Come in.”

He opened the door, standing against the doorframe.

“Just so you know, whatever the reason is that you hide yourself behind that mask and pretend it makes everything all better, it’s bullshit. You don’t need to hide behind a mask.”

With that he left, closing the door, leaving you with more things to think about

#the walking dead #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead x you #the walking dead x y/n #the walking dead imagine #twd #twd x reader #twd x you #twd x y/n #twd imagine #negan smith x y/n #negan smith #negan smith x reader #negan smith x you #Negan smith imagine

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nerevar-quote-and-star · 1 year

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Lakeshore

ao3

Author's Note: 41% of voters wanted the Dragonborn and Odahviing to get physical.

Congratulations. This one shot is all about that.

Content Warnings: Interspecies make out session; partial nudity

Summary: Odahviing finds the Dragonborn relaxing by a lake. Things progress from there.

#######

She was asleep when he found her.

The world was still around her, the warm rays of Magnus’ light dancing through the trees and on the water. The lakeshore was peaceful, tranquil, and Leara found herself pleasantly tired. The kind of tired one feels when their heart flutters like the wings of a bird nesting down for the night.

Removing her armor, Leara lay down on the lakeshore, blades of grass tickling her bare arms. Just a little rest, she told herself. Only a short one.

She slept most of the morning away.

It was incredibly warm when she woke up, Blinking, she opened her eyes to find a sheltering wing resting around her. Inches away was the large crimson body of Odahviing, rising and falling as he breathed beside her. A fond smile tugged at the Dragonborn’s mouth as she wiped the sleep from her eyes. She reached out and stroked the dragon’s side, her hand trailing along the warm red scales.

With a rumble, the wing around her lifted to reveal Odahviing’s horned head. He was looking at her, a light glittering in his dark eyes.

Leara pushed her fallen hair behind her ear, her smile widening. “Drem yol lok, Odahviing.”

Odahviing bowed his head, his amusement evident. “Drem yol lok, Dovthurjud.”

Leara leaned into his side, her face pressed against his scales. “Paarthurnax is robbing off on you, I think. Soon you’ll do nothing but meditate on the Throat of the World.”

The dragon snorted, smoke curling out of his nostrils. “Mey, hardly.’ He looked out over the lake.

Lake Ilinalta was green in high summer. The waters rolled in gentle waves and birds sang in the trees. The lakeshore was green and full of life, energized by the warmth of the sun.

Getting to her feet, Leara padded barefoot to stand beneath the dragon’s head. Reaching up, she ran her knuckles along the soft hide at the base of his neck. Odahviing rumbled again, his wings fluttering and settling by his sides. “Were you hunting?” Leara asked.

Odahviiing looked down at her, his horned face level with hers. “Niid. Zu’u lost tovit fah hi.”

A little crease lined Leara’s brow. She knew many words in the dragon tongue, but there were many more that still escaped her. Shrugging, she abandoned stroking Odahviing’s neck in favor of caressing the horns along his jaw. The dragon’s eyes closed for a moment before opening again, watching her. At that, her smile blossomed.

Despite Paarthurnax’s assertion that dragons loved to indulge in talking whenever possible, Leara found she and Odahviing rarely needed many words. Their meaning was in their gestures, their understanding reflected in the other’s face. Ulfric did not understand it. Even he was leery of the dragon Leara spent so much of her time with. But the Dragonborn didn’t care. Odahviing understood her in a way few people did. She often speculated it was her dragon soul recognizing his in a sea of mortal heartbeats. Whatever it was, Odahviing was dear to her.

Very dear to her.

Her hand cradled his horned face for a moment longer before the sunset across Ilinalta caught her eyes, the rays deep and gold as they glittered across the water. Their gentle lapping at the shore sang an inviting melody. Leara lowered her hand.

“Do you mind if I—?”

Odahviing nudged her with his head, not too roughly to knock Leara over. Still, she grabbed one of his horned crests for balance, her body pressed against the rigid scales of his cheekbones.

A light giggle sprang up from her stomach. Ducking, Leara pressed a kiss against the side of Odahviing’s mouth. If her lips lingered featherlight against his face for one, two, three moments too long, neither Dragonborn nor dragon acknowledged it.

Stepping away, Leara was nearly where the water met the bank before she pulled her vest off. It fell behind her as she untied her pants and cast them aside. Away from the heat of the dragon, without her clothes, the air was cooler than she thought it would be. Gooseflesh rose across her skin, dipping below the band of her undergarments. But she was used to the cold, or at least used to coldness at this degree. With delicate steps, Leara ventured into the water.

It was cool, too. Soon Leara was up to her shoulders in Ilinalta, her hair floating around her in dark red tendrils. Leara looked back at Odahviing.

He was coiled on the lakeshore, his dark eyes on her. Despite the chill, Leara lifted her hand from the water and waved to him. Beads of water ran down her arm; the sunlight caught in the droplets, glittering gold against her skin.

She swam around until the sun disappeared, giving way to the red-gold dance of the auroras across a blue velvet sky. Shivering, Leara emerged from the lake, her hair dripping and her underthings soaked. Meeting Odahviing’s gaze across the bank, Leara felt the tips of her ears grow warm. She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly mindful of the damp fabric and the watching eyes of the dragon.

“Suklov kiir, you are freezing,” Odahviing shook his head.

Despite herself, Leara laughed. She knew that phrase. Silly girl. And perhaps she was.

She stepped forward and was met by the enveloping wings of Odahviing. Teeth chattering, Leara rushed forward and pressed herself into Odahviing’s massive collarbone, her arms creeping around his neck. The heat from the dragon’s body thawed her skin at once. It was so lovely that she almost forgot her state of near-nakedness. Almost, but not quite. How in Akatosh’s name had she so brazenly stripped earlier? Maybe, maybe, she reasoned, it was because wet clothes make everything feel so much more . . . exposed.

Intimate.

But, did that even matter to a dragon? No. Maybe? They had their armor and mortals had theirs. And here she stood with neither scales nor iron to cover herself.

She was pressed against him, her bare skin against his rough scales. The scratch of them against her stomach and thighs sent a strange flutter swooping through her belly. She was freezing only moments ago, but now, now Leara felt too warm. She stepped back from Odahviing, her body crying from the loss of warmth and touch.

Turning, she met the steady dark eyes of the dragon – her dragon.

His head was again level with hers, low enough that only the two great horns crowning his head towered above her. Her gaze locked with his, Leara’s belly swooped again. Her skin tingled from the hot breath blown from Odahviing’s nose. The blood in her veins fluttered and she wondered for a moment if she might swoon. If she fell, she knew he would catch her. Odahviing always caught her, even when she recklessly threw herself from his back in the midst of a raging storm. He was always there, protecting her.

Leara’s heart pounded. She squeezed her eyes closed and breathed.

With careful, delicate hands, she reached for his face. Her fingers splayed across warm hide and small scales, Leara lifted wide crystal eyes to meet the burning gaze of Odahviing. In her heart, she knew he understood her. Right now, she was certain he understood her better than anyone else.

Her heart bobbed in her throat.

Odahviing’s eyes fell closed, his large head pushing into the small touch of her hands. “Kunziiyol,” he said. Leara didn’t understand it.

“Mon coeur,” she whispered, the endearment falling from her lips unchecked.

Her dragon gazed at her. He did not speak Bretic just as she wasn’t fluent in the dragon tongue. But that was all right. They didn’t need the same language to understand one another.

Leara touched her forehead to the ridge of Odahviing’s snout, her skin flushing red both from his heat and her own feelings. Slowly, tenderly, softly, the Dragonborn pressed her mouth to the center of Odahviing’s, her lips molding against those of her dragon. Her dragon.

With a sigh, Leara fell to her knees and Odahviing lowered his head, unwilling to break their contact. His fangs brushed against her skin, tantalizing, as Odahviing’s forked tongue slipped from his mouth to hers. Hot and rough, it prodded her mouth. Leara parted her lips as her dragon’s tongue slid smoothly across hers, engulfing the whole of her mouth with its presence.

Leara’s toes curled. Her blood was as hot as dragon’s fire, its flames pooling in the pit of her stomach like an inferno. She’d never felt so hot and flushed before. Not in Summerset, not with Ulfric. Only with Odahviing. Her dragon.

She would never be cold again.

#Odahviing #oc: leara roseblade #last dragonborn #dovahkiin #fanfic #ao3 #dragon x human #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim #rosewing

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