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vodika-vibes · 4 months

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May I please get a Tech x Jedi!Reader with a glimpse before and after Order 66. Techs POV where after figuring out that the jedi are being hunted becomes worried. Im thinking White Clover and Pansy and maybe angst/fluff? :>

ps i love your work and i cant wait to read anything you make, youre amazing :3

A Promise Made

Summary: You and Tech, before Order 66 and after.

Pairing: TBB Tech x F!Reader

Word Count: 2983

Warning: Angst, Reader survived Order 66 and has totally understandable trauma regarding that

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: I'm still not sure if I'm writing Tech well, but I haven't got any complaints.

“Is there a reason you are laying on me?” Tech asks as he looks down at the Jedi sprawled across his lap, her gaze locked on the datapad in her hand.

“I don’t get to spend nearly enough time with you, and this is the best way to keep you from accidentally ignoring me.” She replies lightly, “Why? Are you uncomfortable?”

“No. I am just concerned that you might get hurt.” Tech answers easily.

“So be careful and you won’t hurt me.”

He rolls his eyes expressively, though because she’s not looking at him, she doesn’t notice. “What are you working on, cyare?”

“Master Windu asked me to reverse engineer a Seppie weapon, and I’m starting to think that this weapon was designed by an actual child.” She says with a sigh as she drops her datapad and presses her forehead against his thigh.

Tech smiles at the back of her head, “Would you like me to take a look?”

At that she laughs and rolls over so that her head is resting on his lap and she’s looking up at him, “I know you have better things to do, Tech.”

He sets his own project to the side, and gently brushes her hair out of her face, “I do not mind putting it aside to help you.”

She reaches up and presses her hands against his, lightly rubbing her cheek against his gloved hand. “That’s because you’re amazing.” She praises, “But it’s okay, Tech. I can figure it out. I always do.”

Tech smiles at her adoringly.

When he was a cadet on Kamino, he believed that this kind of happiness was beyond him. He did not understand why his brothers, including his batchmates, were so laser focused on finding someone to spend their time with. He thought that it was little more than a distraction.

That was until he met her.

She had been brought to Kamino at the request of General Ti, and the first time Tech saw her, he didn’t think she was a Jedi. He thought she was a natborn who had been tasked with maintenance of the various vehicles stored on Kamino.

She was clever and quick witted, and while his twin claimed that she wasn’t going to win any beauty pageants, on account of the fact that she tended to have oil on her face and staining her hands, and she didn’t seem to care about things like appearance, Tech thought that she was stunning.

They developed a quick friendship, bonding over their mutual love of technology.

Tech honestly had no idea that she was a Jedi at all, not until he saw her dressed up in Jedi robes rather than her normal grease covered jumpsuit, and talking to General Ti like it was her right.

The conversation that happened after that isn’t one that Tech is proud of. He had been hurt that she hid such an important part of her from him, and he lashed out. She was offended that he thought that she was hiding it, claiming that she never hid anything from anyone, and that it wasn’t her fault that he didn’t know that she was a jedi.

The disagreement turned into a full blown argument, and Tech didn’t talk to her for over two months. It took Hunter and Crosshair teaming up to make him see that he was being bull-headed and stubborn, and it was the encouragement of Wrecker that forced him to go to her and apologize.

At the time, he had been worried that she was going to hold a grudge, but she didn’t. Instead she just smiled and laughed, and told him that she forgave him, and then she showed him what she was working on.

Soon after that, Tech realized that he was thinking about her all the time. When he was in training, when he was reading, even when he was about to go to sleep; her smile, the way her eyes crinkle when she laughs, the way she pushes her hand through her hair when she’s contemplating something complicated-

He found himself looking forward to spending time with her, even if they’re just working in the same room.

It was Crosshair who pointed out the obvious, with a roll of his eyes as he flipped through a magazine. “You’re obviously in love with her, dumbass.” He drawled without looking up from the glossy pages of the blaster magazine that he got from somewhere, “It’s a perfect match, you’re both annoying little shits.”

Tech wanted to argue with him, partly because he feels the urge to argue with his twin about everything, but he found the words turning to ash on his tongue. Because, annoyingly, he was right.

Tech was in love.

He became awkward and nervous around her, babbling about random things that he learned, and through it all, she watched him with a small smile, and often asked questions about his latest hyperfixation.

And then, late one night, she kissed him.

A gentle press of her lips against his. It was innocent and chaste, and yet it sent fire through his veins. She didn’t say anything after the kiss, she just watched him and waited, seeming to understand that Tech would need a moment to process.

And then he kissed her, and suddenly he understood exactly why his brothers desire this so much.

“Tech?” He snaps back to the present at the worried call of his name, and he glances down at her face, “There you are. You were lightyears away.” She teases.

“I was thinking about you.”

“Oh? Nice things, I hope.”

He laughs, “I always think about you, cyare. You occupy my thoughts at all times.”

“Well, that sounds annoying.”

“Not at all,” Tech lightly guides her until she’s sitting up and he presses a series of light kisses to her cheek and across her jaw, “I find that it is the most enjoyable part of my day.”

“Well, you’re easy to please, aren’t you?” She teases as she leans into his affection.

“My brothers tell me that I am very hard to please, actually.”

“Well, they’re not me.” She turns her head and kisses him quickly, “So you know, you’re constantly in my thoughts too.”

Tech laughs softly and presses a series of light kisses across her face, “I am glad.”

She grins at him, and shifts to sit on his lap, her hands coming up to cup his face, “Tech, I…” She pauses, and her gaze flickers to the side, “I want you to know that I have to return to Coruscant for a couple of weeks. I would like it if you commed me?”

Tech has a feeling that that’s not what she was going to say, but he lets it go, “Of course I will. So much that you will get tired of me.”

She laughs, “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“You never know,” Tech kisses her one more time, “When do you leave?”

“Two days.”

“Well then, we had better spend that time together.”

It has been three weeks and four days since the day that the Clones turned on the Jedi. And somehow, you’re still alive. Which, in and of itself, is a damned miracle.

You press your hand over your side, a slow hiss of pain escaping your lips as you move the wrong way and the hole in your side twinges painfully.

When the clones marched on the workshop, you had been in the back, working on one of the protocol droids. You managed to escape while the older jedi tried to fend off the soldiers, but you still took a blaster bolt to the side.

Not to mention, you’re still reeling from the loss of your friends, your family.

You push the pain into the force, and take a moment to tighten the bandages around your side, before you continue your trek. It’s not safe for you anywhere.

And as much as you want to comm Tech and beg him to come and help you…you know that you better not. Tech is a clone after all. And if he pulled a blaster on you, you’d probably just let him kill you, honestly.

No. It’s safer this way.

Though, the galaxy is a much lonelier place now.

Time passes quickly, when you’re on the run. And before you know it, 6 months have passed.

You’re…surviving as best you can, all things considered. You managed to find a medic who treated your blaster wound in exchange for some simple maintenance work, and you managed to earn employment on a cargo ship.

Though, really, you mostly just bounce from ship to ship, from planet to planet, as much as you can. You don’t stay in the same place for longer than a few weeks, fearing that the empire will find you.

You take comfort from the memory of your family, and from Tech. You cling to those memories, as they’re the only thing that keep you going. And sometimes, at night, you allow your mind to linger on Tech, on what could have been.

It’s easier now, though.

After six months, you no longer feel like the Empire is breathing down your neck, and for all you know, you’ve been reported dead. You don’t dare to look, fearing that if you look and you weren’t, then the Empire will start looking for you.

It doesn’t make any sense, you know that, but it’s an anxiety that you can’t seem to shake.

“Hey, Kid!” You jump as the ship captain, your current employer, claps your shoulder with a heavy hand, “Me an’ the boys are going to the bar. Wanna join us?”

“Ah…no thank you. Trying to stay sober,” You say with an easy smile, “You guys have fun.”

“Right, sorry kid. I forgot. You keep up that sobrarity! We’re rooting for you.”

You smile at him, feeling momentarily guilty. Your story, the one that you’ve been using since the purge, is that you’re a recovering alcoholic, and that’s why you want to work on ships, to avoid temptation.

It’s not true. But it keeps people from hounding you to go drinking with them. And, more than one of the people you’ve worked with over the past few months have bemoaned your “parents” for not helping you with your addictions.

It’s almost like having a family again.

Almost.

You step off the cramped ship into the cool evening air, wanting to stretch your legs for a bit, when you hear a familiar voice and feel a familiar presence in the force.

“Hey, that person might know!” You’d recognize Wrecker’s force presence even if you were doped up on force suppressors, and the child standing next to him has the same overall feel as all of the chones.

Your blood runs cold. Wrecker will recognize you. How could he not?

He approaches you, and your mind goes blank. Your fingers twitch towards your lightsaber, hidden in your sleeve. You don’t want to hurt Wrecker. But you will if you have to.

“Excuse me, miss?” The child stops in front of you, and you look down at her. Blonde hair, wide brown eyes…she’s a clone, no doubt about it. “Me and my brother are looking for a specific shop-”

“I…I’m sorry, I’ve never been here before.” You keep your voice low, in the hopes that Wrecker won’t hear you. But you know there’s not a chance of it, not with how close he is to you.

Surprise flashes across his face, followed by joy, “It’s you! Tech has been worried sick! We all have-” He takes a step towards you, and you scramble backwards, grabbing your saber and lighting it with the comforting snap.

“Stop! Just…just stop.” You sputter, “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”

Wrecker stops, “Right. Okay.” He pulls Omega back, “No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Sure.”

Wrecker slowly sends a message to his brothers, and then holds his hands out, showing that he’s unarmed.

Tech, Hunter, and Echo run up only moments later, and Hunter has to grab Tech from running over to you.

“It is just us, cyare.” Tech says, pulling himself away from Hunter, “We are not going to hurt you.”

Your lightsaber is crossed across your body defensively, and slowly you reach out to the force, looking for the, arguably, most dangerous member of the CF99 at the moment. “Where’s Crosshair?” You ask.

“He is…not here.” Tech says quietly.

“You expect me to believe that your own twin isn’t here, I’m not that dumb, Tech.”

“He…” Tech falters, “Listen, his chip activated, ours didn’t. So when we defected, he didn’t.”

“What chips? What are you talking about?” You demand, and their faces fall.

“You…don’t know.” Hunter says quietly, “Stars, you must have thought we turned on you for no reason-”

“It would be nice to know what crime my people committed to deserve to be slaughtered down to the smallest baby, yes.” You bite out.

“It wasn’t…there…” Echo trails off and he takes a deep breath, “Tech, you need to talk to her. Just, tell her the truth. All of it. She’s a jedi, she’ll know if you’re lying.”

Tech nods, and he steps in front of his brothers, his gaze locked on you, “I am going to tell you everything that I know,” He says quietly, and then he starts talking.

And slowly, as he explains, you lower your saber and then turn it off. And by the time Tech finishes his story, you’re sitting on a small crate with your face in your hands. “My people were slaughtered by your brothers because Palpatine stole their free will from them?”

“Yes.”

Both of your hands fist in your hair, “...’m sorry for drawing my saber on you.”

Tension drains from the men standing across from you, and the next thing you know, Tech’s hands are on your shoulders, “It is okay. You had every right to be concerned.” He kneels in front of you, “Are you injured?”

“I was shot at the temple, but that was months ago.” You say quietly.

“And…you are alright?”

“No.” You whisper, “It’s a very lonely galaxy, Tech.”

Tech raises himself enough to press a kiss to your forehead, “You do not have to be alone. You can travel with us. Right, Hunter?”

“Of course.” Hunter replies immediately.

“See.”

“That’s kind of you, but I know your ship isn’t that big.”

“With the both of us, we can retrofit.” Tech offers, “We can make room for all of us.” He takes your hands in his, “Please do not leave.”

“You won’t be safe if I travel with you. I’m a Jedi.”

“We are not safe anyway.” Tech points out, “Please, cyare? I promise that we will be safer together.”

You sigh, and very gently squeeze his hands, “Yeah, okay. The crew that I’m a part of now won’t be surprised if I decide to leave without warning.”

“Truely?”

“I have something of a reputation.” You reply dryly.

“...it has been 6 months.” You shrug, and allow Tech to tug you to your feet, before he wraps you in a tight hug. “I feared you were dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tech’s gaze lingers on her as she dozes in his bunk, his fingers are tangled in her hair as he silently offers her comfort.

She doesn’t look healthy.

She’s too thin, her clothes hang off of her, and the circles under her eyes are dark enough that it looks like she has bruises around her eyes. She hasn’t been eating properly, obviously, and Tech wonders if it’s because of grief or fear.

And there’s no way he’s ever going to forget the look in her eyes when she saw them again. Dread, fear, terror-

He never wanted her to look at him like that again.

Tech smooths his hand down her spine, and carefully adjusts the blanket so it’s tucked under her chin.

He knew the moment that the regs turned on General Billaba, that his cyare was in danger. The dread had been like a lead weight in his stomach. And while he would have spoken to Crosshair about it, he could tell that there was something wrong with his twin.

Not to mention, Crosshair had never been her biggest fan in the first place.

So he bit his tongue, and kept an eye on the list of deceased Jedi, and he hoped.

It wasn’t very logical.

But the longer he didn’t see her name, the longer he had hope that she was still alive.

She shifts in his bed, rolling over to press her face against his thigh, and Tech presses his hand against the back of her head. The Marauder really isn’t big enough to add another adult, so she’s going to have to share with him for the time being.

Which isn’t half as much of a problem as he’s making it out to be, nothing would make him happier than waking up with her in his arms, but the last thing he wants is for her to forget where she is and freak out.

Luckily, the dread he felt when he heard about the jedi being hunted has faded into something much easier to handle, now he just has the sinking dread of having to help her deal with the trauma of surviving a massacre.

Easy.

Tech glances down at his datapad, and settles back against his pillow as he starts to read on how to help people process trauma.

If he can’t get his cyare to a mind healer, then he’ll just have to become one himself.

Tech glances at her one more time as her fingers curl in the soft material of his pajama bottoms, and he smiles at her sleeping face. He gently brushes some hair out of her face, “I promise,” He whispers, “I am going to take care of you.”

#star wars #tbb #vodika-vibes follower celebration #tbb tech x reader #tech x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #f!reader fic #answered asks

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zeldasnotes · 1 year

Text

MASTERLIST 3🪸MASTERLIST 1 MASTERLIST 2

KO-FI☕️

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Guide: How to guess someone rising sign

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Placements that makes people addicted to you

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Sociopathy & Narcissism in the chart

Scorpio in the houses & what you are afraid of

What do you look good in?

The Astrology Of Beauty Pageant Queens

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Mars: Whats Your Name?

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Venus Square Ascendant

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dango-milk · 2 years

Text

to make them love me (and make it seem effortless)

pairings: aemond x fem! Targaryen! reader / original female character

word count: 15,046

genre: fluff, angst

content warnings: TARGCEST, age gap, mentions of death, mentions of childbirth, swearing (aemond has a potty mouth)

additional notes: we interrupt your regular genshin x reader viewing by bringing you this (big) little thing I wrote for aemond targaryen. he had me in a chokehold until I finally relented and. this is it.

expect a couple more works on this pathetic little meow meow and an eventual update to an ode to heartbreak!

read this work on ao3

“I don’t understand,” Aemond says in disbelief, pushing his helmet’s visor out of his face as he attempts to decipher the contents of the note. “How could I have not been informed of this earlier?”

Ormund shrugs. “Perhaps the tourney masters thought it best to rearrange the lists. More signed up for the games than they thought.”

“Their poor planning does not justify an inconvenience on my part,” Aemond scoffs. “I am a Prince of the realm. I should be placed higher up on the lists.”

“Never mind that, cousin,” Ormund attempts to console him. “It is your first tourney, after all—”

“—and yet it is one we all look forward to seeing.”

The two look up to see Aegon sauntering into the hall, grinning from ear to ear as if he’d just been privy to a particularly humorous joke. Aemond rolls his eyes as he shoves the note into Ormund’s hand.

“Why so tense, dear brother?” Aegon nudges Aemond playfully. “I only speak the truth. You’ve never really thought much of tourneys.”

“Some of us like to keep most of our thoughts to ourselves,” Aemond shoots back, as he fiddles with his armor. “Where’s Helaena?”

“Back in the castle.” Aegon jabs his finger behind him. “All the shouting was getting to her, so Mother had me escort her back.”

At Aegon’s words, Ormund’s expression lit up in realization. “Perhaps it was the Queen behind it!”

“Shut up!” Aemond hisses, at the same time Aegon asks, “Behind what?”

“Er…” Ormund scratches his head, lowering his gaze in response to Aemond’s murderous one. “Behind, er, the Princess’ nameday tourney.”

Aegon scoffs. “My mother can hardly be credited for my sister’s nameday tourney. We all celebrate our namedays for days at a time, with tourneys and feasts galore.”

He glances around, taking in the sight of the contestants and squires milling about the area. “Though our sister’s nameday tourney has, indeed, piqued the interest of all. How strange.”

“Hardly,” Aemond mumbles. “She comes of age today.”

“Ah!” Aegon claps his hands. “Our beloved sister comes of age today, yes. I wonder just what the prize is for this tourney.”

“Surely, His Grace would not decide who Princess [Y/N] marries based on who wins today’s tourney?” Ormund says, blissfully unaware of Aemond slightly wincing at his words.

Aegon frowns. “Have you never picked up a history book, cousin?”

“Have you?” Aemond retorts.

“Of course I did. I never said I read them, though.” Aegon sniffs. “It’s not usual, but it’s certainly not new. Tourneys are simply pageants in all but name. See for yourself.”

The trio turn to see a tall, sweeping teenager, with locks the color of night and skin like copper parading about the hall, his bronze armor chased with red, a spear piercing the sun on its front.

“Qoren Martell,” Aemond whispers, a sense of dread washing over him.

Aegon hums. “Came in right at the last second, as they were drawing up the lists.”

Ormund turns to Aemond, holding up the note he had been reading earlier, an expression of understanding dawning on his face. Aemond fidgets beneath his armor, hating that Aegon had a point for once; there really wasn’t any other plausible explanation for Dorne to finally start taking an interest in the Crown’s affairs.

Aegon looks over at him, seemingly contemplating his next line. He decides instead to clap Aemond’s back, sending him forward. “Oh, don’t worry, brother! The Dornish don’t mind sharing their lovers. They seem to enjoy it, in fact.”

Aemond turns and walks briskly away from his brother, Ormund hastily trailing beside him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Of course, Aegon had to press further, keeping up with Aemond’s pace in a couple of long strides. “Oh, but I think you do,” he says. “If there’s anything the Dornish get right, it’s their outlook on bastards. I’m sure Prince Qoren wouldn’t mind if [Y/N]’s children turn out to have silver hair and a remarkable resemblance to a certain other Prince—”

Aemond stops abruptly to stare Aegon directly in the eye. “[Y/N] is not you. You would let our sister disgrace herself and put the stability of the realm at risk?”

Aegon towers over him, smirking triumphantly. “You and I both know that’s not any of your concern.”

“Then you do not know me.” Aemond turns away again, walking towards the edge of the hall where the tourney field was being set up. Hordes of people continued filing into the stands, some of whom were dressed to the nines despite the sun beating down upon them like a drum. He glances at the King’s Box, watching as the newest arrivals, the Velaryons, occupy their seats next to Rhaenyra and her children.

A mix of gasps and cheers sound from the smallfolk as a shadow passes over them, coupled with a familiar-sounding roar. Aemond squints up at the sky, and his heart practically leaps at the sight.

The voice of the Master of Revels announcing your arrival is all but drowned out by Silverwing’s proud roar, as you land her atop the King’s Box, jostling the people inside. Rhaenyra grabs the end of Lucerys’ coat to keep him from falling off trying to look up at you, while Lyonel Strong steadies a visibly surprised Viserys. Aegon lets out a hearty laugh at the sight, and Aemond could not help but join in.

It’s only when the she-dragon lowers her neck does Aemond finally get a better look at you. You’re grinning from ear to ear, and the only thing that could compete with the brightness of your smile was the glint of your silvery hair in the sun. Your dragon climbs down the Box, much to your family’s chagrin as they grip the arms of their chairs to stay steady.

Silverwing dips herself to the ground of the tourney field, allowing you to dismount and pat her neck before you wave to the crowds. You don a black dress chased with blue (which Aemond presumes is for your late lady mother, who was an Arryn), with the Targaryen three-headed dragon embroidered on your front.

“A fly might make its way down your throat if you don’t close it,” Ormund murmurs in Aemond’s ear, and he only sniggers as Aemond elbows him in the stomach. When your eyes meet his, he prays his ears aren’t as red as he thinks they are.

“Seven blessings on your nameday, dear sister,” Aegon says, pairing the mock reverence in his tone with an exaggerated bow.

You only snort as you remove your riding gloves. “Save your courtesies for someone who actually believes them.”

“Now, is that any behavior befitting a lady who has just come of age?”

You deliver a playful punch to Aegon’s midsection, which he just barely dodges.

Ormund bows. “I wish you a happy nameday, Princess.”

Aemond fidgets nervously, silently cursing both Aegon and Ormund for getting to greet you first.

You smile warmly. “Thank you, Ormund.” When you turn to look at Aemond, you reach out to push his visor out of his face. “Finally joining the lists today, eh, Aemond? I never thought you were interested in jousting.”

Aemond opens his mouth, but no sound leaves it. Behind you, Aegon raises his eyebrows, giving him a look that says, Say something!

“I…decided to test my skills today,” Aemond manages.

Aegon silently gestures for him to keep going.

“…and I thought your nameday would give me extra luck,” he adds, now feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks.

You laugh, reaching over once again to pat the front of his armor. He wonders if you can feel his heart hammering underneath the cold metal.

Aegon clears his throat, glancing at something behind Aemond; in his periphery, he sees Qoren Martell hovering around the group. Ormund, miraculously, gets the silent message.

“If you would excuse us, Princess,” the Hightower lord says, slapping the back of Aemond’s armor. “As his loyal squire, I have a duty to get Prince Aemond ready.”

You nod in understanding. “I will pray for your opponents,” you say solemnly, and a genuine smile finally breaks out onto his face.

“Will you allow me to escort you back to the King’s Box?” Aegon says in his mocking tone once again, and you wrinkle your nose before dropping your hand into his.

Ormund pushes Aemond in the other direction. “Come now, my Prince,” he says. “You’d better get ready if you want to win the Princess’ favor.”

“I’ve been put in the lower lists,” Aemond reminds him miserably, while keeping his eyes trained on Qoren Martell attempting to strike up a conversation with you.

“What of it?” Ormund scoffs, suddenly sounding confident. “It just means you’ll score more victories. Makes the final one all the more sweet. Just trust your training, and you’ll have Qoren Martell on his fat Dornish ass before you know it.”

It seemingly only takes a split second for all the air to leave Aemond’s lungs when he crashes into the dirt. Though his armor had taken the brunt of his fall, pain shoots all over his body like tendrils of lightning, ironically leaving him feeling momentarily weightless.

He manages to roll onto his back, gasping for air and staring up at the sky above. The ringing in his ears subsides enough for him to hear the triumphant shouts and the shocked gasps of the crowd, as well as the neighing of his distressed horse. He blinks the stars out of his eyes, and after remembering seeing a Bolton squire die from a lance to the throat, he checks himself for any injuries. To his relief, he seemed to be physically fine.

“My Prince! Aemond, cousin!” Suddenly, Ormund was hovering over him, distress and clear fear in his eyes. “Speak to me, are you alright?”

“I’m…” Aemond coughs, feeling his lungs constrict, then relax. “I’m fine.”

A tourney master joins Ormund. “Will you continue with a contest of arms, my Prince?”

Ormund helps Aemond sit up, and he catches a glimpse of his sword lying off to the side. He blinks again, and his vision finally returns to normal; he sees his opponent (who, by the stag on his armor, Aemond surmises is a Baratheon) jumping off his horse and running over to him.

You fool, Aemond wants to shout. If your opponent wished to continue, you might have benefited from the distance.

But he glances over to the King’s Box, where members of his own family were peering over at him, awaiting his decision. His mother leans over the railing the furthest, so much so that her ladies were trying to restrain her.

He does not see you.

Aemond sighs and shakes his head, and the tourney master nods.

“Prince Aemond forfeits! The winner of this round…”

“My Prince!” The Baratheon boy tosses his helmet to the side, sticking his hand out. Aemond clicks his tongue, but accepts the gesture, allowing his opponent to pull him up. “It was an honor to tilt against you, Prince Aemond. I hope to be given the opportunity again.”

Not likely, Aemond wants to snap back. But he only gives the boy a brief smile and a respectful nod, before turning away.

“Do you need help?” Ormund offers.

“No, be quiet, keep walking,” Aemond commands, keeping his head held high. He nods and waves to the crowds shouting out their congratulations to him, deliberately ignoring the pain he was starting to feel in his left leg.

As soon as he was out of both the public and his opponents’ sight, Aemond finally gives in, grabbing the wall for support as he reaches down to tug at his armored leg.

“Aemond!” Ormund throws one of Aemond’s arm over his shoulders. “Sit down, I’ll call the maesters.”

“No, no need,” he hisses in reply. “Just help me get my armor off.”

“But you might have twisted or broken your leg, I—”

“If I had twisted or broken my leg, you’d think I’d bloody well know, wouldn’t I?” Aemond snaps. “You’re my squire, act like it. Just take off the damn armor.”

Ormund blinks. Aemond feels a twinge of regret over the venom in his tone, but elects not to say another word. He instead works on the buckles of the metal, all the while trying to swallow down the growing lump in his throat and blink away the stinging in his eyes. Ormund finally assists him, detaching the parts away and allowing Aemond to stretch his limbs out.

The humiliation weighs over him even as he climbs into the King’s Box. Ser Criston Cole is the first to greet him, and after looking over him to find no serious injuries, pats Aemond’s shoulders. “You did very well, my Prince,” Criston assures him. “Don’t lose heart. You’ll get your chance one day.”

Aemond offers him the same tight-lipped smile he’d given his opponent, and keeps it on as his mother hurries over, worry painted all over her face.

“Are you alright?” she fusses, pushing his hair out of his eyes, looking as if she was about to demand he remove all his clothes in front of all who were present. “The lance—I thought it went through—”

“His armor took the blow, Your Grace,” Ser Criston says. “The Baratheon squire’s lance splintered against it, yes, but there’s no harm to him as far as I can see.”

A Baratheon squire. Aemond’s jaw locks in anger; he, a Prince of the realm, had lost to a Baratheon squire of all people.

Alicent sighs. “You scared me, deciding to enter the lists out of nowhere. Perhaps you should wait until you’re a little older before—”

“Why did you place me further down the lists?” Aemond hisses, keeping his voice as low as possible (but failing to contain the anger in it).

Alicent frowns. “What?”

“I was supposed to tilt against the likes of Qoren Martell,” Aemond whispers furiously. “I am the son of the King, in line to the throne, brother to the Princess to whom this tourney is dedicated to! Why wasn’t I placed where I was originally supposed to be?”

“I am not liking your tone, Aemond,” Alicent warns. “Remember that you are not of age yet. This is a vile, cruel game where men attempt to kill each other for sport. Be grateful that you were even allowed at all to compete.”

Aemond opens his mouth to protest, but Alicent gives him a look so scathing, whatever argument he had promptly died in his throat. He grunts in displeasure and pushes past her, ignoring his father's Council members congratulating him as he goes.

He finds his seat regrettably next to Aegon, who at the sight of him, bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Aemond surges forward, only to be stopped by Rhaenyra's outstretched arm.

"You did well, little brother," she says, though all Aemond hears is the underlying distaste that she seems to reserve solely for him, Aegon, and Alicent. "But settle your scores with Aegon later. I'd rather not ruin my sister's day with any of your antics."

Aemond removes her arm from his path, sauntering forward and dropping into his seat, taking care to crush Aegon's foot underneath his. A heavy hand finds its way onto his shoulder, and he turns to find its owner, a scowl on his face ready to greet them—

"Well done, my boy," Viserys says, a smile on his lined face. "Next time, you'll win. I know it."

One could almost take your words for affection, old man, Aemond thinks, as Viserys pats his shoulder again before settling back in his seat. Still, he manages a polite, "Thank you, Father," before turning back to the tourney still playing out beneath him.

It takes a while for him to realize that you were sitting right across him, already turned to face him with your signature blinding smile. You reach out to pat his interlocked hands. "Father's right," you tell him. "You'll win next time. If you focus on your training."

"I will if you will," he blurts, before he could stop himself.

"Ha! I feel I'm much better at riding a dragon than wielding a sword."

The moment is shattered when Lucerys (who Aemond just realized had been sitting on your lap the entire time) begins to wave your wreath around wildly, causing you to turn away from Aemond to keep your nephew from falling to the ground.

He watches as, to nobody's surprise, Qoren Martell wins the tourney. The Dornish Prince urges his horse forward towards the King's Box, and asks for your favor. Rhaenyra nudges Ser Laenor, the two sharing knowing glances as you stand with Lucerys in your arms and balanced on your hip, instructing the boy to toss your crown of red and black roses into Qoren's hands, much to the delight of the spectators.

In that moment, Lucerys’ curly brown locks no longer suspiciously remind Aemond of the Commander of the City Watch standing right next to Ser Laenor, but of the man staring adoringly from below as you and Lucerys wave to the crowds.

Aemond stands, mumbling an excuse in his brother's ear, and leaves the Box in a hurry.

Having to watch as Viserys deliberately has Qoren sit next to you during your own nameday feast had irritated Aemond beyond measure, given that he could do nothing but pick furiously at his own food as Qoren regales you with tales of his House and region. It had seemed like forever before the King had finally gone to bed, and even then his torture ended bitterly with Qoren bringing your hand to his lips.

Rhoynar scum. He scowls as he slams the door behind him. Your lot come from vagabonds at sea with no real homes. Our blood is the blood of Old Valyria, the blood of kings and conquerors and warriors. She rides the Good Queen’s dragon. What in the Seven Hells could ever possess you to think you could have her?

Aemond opens the window to his room, allowing the cool breeze of the Red Keep to wash over his agitated figure. Aegon’s teasing, Ormund’s obliviousness, and Qoren’s audacity had given him a migraine like he’d never had before, yet he could not find it in himself to sleep it off.

Of course he was fond of you, that much was certain. He’d always looked up to you, asked for your advice, took great comfort in the fact that your dragon had not been born to you either. It had always been his crutch for when he laments his lack of a dragon, what with Sunfyre hatching in Aegon’s cradle and Helaena claiming Dreamfyre shortly before her tenth nameday. Ultimately, though, Aemond supposes he hadn’t much to go on about you other than the fact that you took the time to get to know your half-siblings, unlike your actual full-blood sister.

He’d mulled over the idea of claiming Vermithor, who at this point was the only known dragon that had yet to be claimed after the death of Jaehaerys. He would imagine himself flying alongside the Good Queen’s dragon atop the Good King’s, and what a poetic ending that would be for all his troubles.

A knock comes at his door. “My Prince, I apologize for the late hour,” one of his servants calls out to him. “Princess [Y/N] is here to see you.”

Aemond’s head whips around. “Send her in,” he replies almost immediately.

The door swings open to reveal you, still in the same dress he’d seen you in that morning, the only difference being your hair now let down; a silvery waterfall, not unlike his own.

He turns to face you, heart hammering in his chest.. “What…what do you want?”

“I came to check on you,” you reply. “You fell hard earlier, I didn’t get a chance to check how bad it was.”

Aemond chuckles dryly and gestures for you to sit. “ “How bad it was”, huh?”

“Our family is more than fond of tourneys,” you remind him. “We’re just about the only ones that are not. I would be lying if I said I was not surprised that you changed your mind today.”

“I’ve not changed my mind.” Aemond picks at his sleeve. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys. Never have and never will.”

You laugh, and though it is a quiet sound, he tries to fool himself into thinking it’s more genuine than the ones you’d shared with Qoren. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He sits there with you in silence, and for the first time all day, he relaxes. It’s nice, he thinks, to simply be in your presence, where no one—not even himself—expects him to do something to impress you.

Being with you was enough.

That said, the thought of you leaving for Dorne forever leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Namedays are always a time for celebration,” you begin. “I confess, however, that my nameday…always comes with a tinge of sorrow.

“I went to the Sept with Rhaenyra this morning. It’s always been a habit of ours on our namedays. It’s really less of us praying to the Seven for good fortune, it’s more of…finding comfort in the silence. It…it’s where we hear our mother and siblings the best.”

He nods in understanding.

You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, staring off into the distance wistfully. “Father’s always been good at putting on a mask,” you continue. “He’s good at it, too, probably from all the years he’s had to do it. But today would have been Baelon’s nameday, too. And today was also the day when Mother…”

You duck your head.

Aemond leans forward to capture your hands in his. Despite his own misgivings with Aegon, he had to admit that it was difficult to imagine a life without him. He would have been the heir, forever put against Rhaenyra. Forever put against you, one of the few of her true kin.

You squeeze his hands gratefully. “In any case,” you say. “I am glad you’re no longer interested in tourneys, otherwise I would not have brought you this.”

You produce a box from the depths of your skirt and slide it over to Aemond. He clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. “It’s your nameday and you’re the one giving out gifts.”

You wave your hand dismissively. “I have a whole mountain of them in my apartments, very few of which I would actually care to have. I take far more pleasure giving things to you.”

Aemond shakes his head, finally relenting and opening the box. Glittering among the plush dark velvet was a sapphire brooch, as blue as the waters of the Narrow Sea, sitting in a bed of pure starlight. He lifts it from the cushion and sits the gem in his palm gingerly, admiring its weight and the way it glints, even by the dying fireplace.

“The sapphire was my mother’s,” you explain. “One of many I’d inherited from her. I had it re-cut and set.”

Aemond swallows thickly. “I…I can’t take this. If it was from your mother, then you should—”

You interrupt him by closing his fist over the jewel, holding his fingers down with a firm grip. “I want you to have it,” you tell him firmly. “We are one House now, no matter what others say. None may divide us. Keep this with you as a reminder, you hear me?”

You stare at him with such intensity that he has little to do but agree. You pat his hand and rise from your seat. “Think of it as my favor,” you say, and he doesn’t miss the slyness in your tone. “You have no need to fight in tourneys or any sort of battle to earn it. It will always be yours, Aemond.”

Words he’d been keeping buried for months were bubbling on his tongue now, tearing down the walls that he’s had to construct all his life to keep them from destroying what he has with you. Resistance seemed futile now, now that you had bid him goodnight and turned to leave his room.

“Don’t marry him.”

Your hand had been on the door at his words, and you do him the considerable honor of pausing in surprise before turning again to look at him. “Aemond?”

“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, desperation now leaking into his tone. “Qoren Martell. You were never meant to marry a Dornish, even the first of them, so…”

He wrestles with his words, and you seem oblivious to his agony as you stare, clearly waiting for him to finish. He inches closer and closer to the brink, and there seems to be nothing tethering him to reality anymore, save for the erratic beating of his heart.

You purse your lips, and the expression on your face is something he can’t read—did you think him foolish for telling you not to do your duty? Or did you perceive his desperation as an act of childish jealousy, a brother imploring his sister not to give anyone else the time of day?

What did he think his words meant?

You do not give him an answer. “Good night, Aemond,” you whisper, and you slip quietly out the door.

Your betrothal to the heir to the Dornish throne had begun to sound less like a rumor and more like a given fact, with the endless whisperings fluttering about the Red Keep like irksome flies. Viserys certainly did not do much to silence them, and Aemond had the misfortune of hearing him discuss potential dowries with Rhaenyra.

He had to admit that it was an ideal match, and certainly one he would have considered seriously were he in his father’s place. Any king who would bring Dorne into the fold would be credited with something even the Conqueror could not have done, further cementing his place in Westerosi history. Aemond often dreams of having his name written down in the history books, never just as an afterthought or a simple second son, but of a warrior king who made the Seven Kingdoms truly one, with a queen by his side who would cast a shadow over all who would succeed her.

But like his position in life, all his dreams had to occur in the darkness of the wings; the only good thing about it was that, given their unlikeliness, he was free to dream just a little bit more.

In a surprising turn of events, however, he’d received the news that you had suddenly mounted Silverwing and taken off. At that moment, Aemond truly curses the lack of a dragon—he could have just gotten on and tracked you down, not go through the humiliation of asking Aegon (or any of his kin, for that matter) for a favor. He would have had to explain why it was so important for them to take time out of their day to find out where you had gone, because beyond you being a Princess of the realm, he had no other reason (that he’s willing to admit, at least).

Even Helaena, whom Aemond had realized could see things before they happened, offered no help in this matter. She had even expressed confusion at the very notion, much to his frustration.

So, he turns to his last resort.

Jacaerys looks up from where he was cleaning his armor, clearly surprised to be addressed. “She isn’t at Dragonstone,” he tells Aemond. “She could be anywhere, for all we know.”

“She didn’t tell you anything?” Aemond presses. “No notes, anything?”

Lucerys fiddles with Aemond’s gauntlets, and for a brief moment, Aemond sees you in his little face. “I think she’s gone to Daemon.”

“Prince Daemon? Why would she…”

“It’s just a guess,” Jacaerys says, scratching the back of his neck. “The last we heard of him was that he was in Pentos with the Lady Laena. They’re our only kin living beyond Westeros, and [Y/N] was always fond of Lady Laena.”

Of course. Aemond wants to smack his forehead. It made sense. You, Rhaenyra, and Laena had always been so close. But it wouldn’t have been his first guess, not when a marriage proposal didn’t seem too far behind…

Jacaerys’ and Lucerys’ guess seems to hold merit, as the small council receives reports of a silvery dragon flying east. It’s only confirmed when you finally write to your family, stating that you were indeed exploring the Free Cities and would be staying there for an indefinite period of time.

Funnily enough, your message had arrived at the Red Keep the same day the Dornish party did.

The excuse given had been that you were sent off as an envoy to the southern Free Cities to ascertain the peace, following the Triarchy’s defeat at the hands of the Daemon-Velaryon alliance. Aemond had to restrain himself from laughing in the throne room at the Dornish lord’s baffled expression, as well as the irritation that Viserys had kept well-hidden beneath his kingly persona.

That same night, he’d received a raven from you, carrying a brief message and a couple of trinkets you had collected on your travels thus far. It had been as if a giant weight had been taken off his shoulders, and in the privacy of his own room, he finds himself running his fingers longingly over your handwriting.

But your letters begin to stack on his desk, the gifts you bring him start to collect dust on his mantle, and every day holds less and less promise of you finally returning to King’s Landing. He’d thought you would finally return shortly after Rhaenyra gives birth to her third son, but aside from a written note of congratulations and a messenger bringing gifts, you never do. Aemond finds himself sitting by his window every night, deluding himself into thinking a bird flying over Blackwater Bay or the occasional cloud would be Silverwing, bringing you back to him.

But you don’t, and he finds solace only in his lessons and his training, stealing glances at the sky whenever he has the chance. He’d thought your absence would finally rid him of thoughts and desires unwanted, but all it is is a thorn in his side; a dull ache that flares up every now and then, much like his old leg injury.

When news of Laena Velaryon’s death reaches King’s Landing, and as he sits next to his mother on the ship, his thoughts were only of you, and if you had already been in Driftmark for a while now. He should have known better when he sees no silver dragon sitting amongst the gold, blue, grey, and red amongst the rocks.

After giving his condolences to the Velaryons, Aemond walks around aimlessly, the disappointment sinking in with every passing second. Politicking thinly veiled as courtesies seem to follow him everywhere he goes, and he eventually finds respite in Helaena’s presence, though it would seem she had not noticed his.

Of course, Aegon had to come and disturb it, only to repeat what he had been complaining about for weeks.

“We have nothing in common,” he grumbles, gesturing to Helaena.

“She’s our sister,” Aemond replies curtly, as he has done many times before.

“You marry her, then.”

“I would perform my duty, if mother had only betrothed us.” The words weigh heavily on Aemond’s tongue.

Aegon scoffs. “If only.”

“It would strengthen the family,” Aemond parrots what he’s learned in his lessons. “Keep our Valyrian blood pure.”

“She’s an idiot!”

“She’s your future Queen.”

Aegon lowers his goblet, and from his periphery, Aemond can see his brother watching him carefully. He keeps his gaze on Helaena muttering under her breath, waiting for Aegon to call him out for the double meaning in his words.

Fortunately, he doesn’t. “We actually do have one thing in common,” Aegon says, as he throws the rest of his drink back and reaches for the next, his eyes lingering far too long on the serving girl. “We both fancy creatures with very long legs.”

Aemond only shakes his head in resignation, feeling a surge of pity for Helaena. It’s the first time he actually feels relieved that you had left before you’d gotten any offers of marriage; he dreads the thought of you being doomed to suffer the same fate as Helaena.

A dragon’s cry pierces the air, and Aemond looks up sharply. He rushes to the edge of the courtyard, listening as best as he could with the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

He scours the skies and searches among the dragons already resting nearby, to no avail. His shoulders sag; perhaps you weren’t coming, after all.

But that same cry persists, even as the sun begins to sink into the sea. Aemond has never heard a sound like it before—this one was a melancholic melody, like longingness taking flight above the waters of The Gullet. It isn’t long before his attention is drawn from searching for you to searching for the source of the sound instead, somehow feeling as if it was calling out to him.

And then it happens.

A clear and piercing trill that he initially chalks up to one of the other dragons, had it not been for Rhaenyra looking up, surprise painted all over her face. Aemond follows her gaze, and even in the setting sun, it’s clear as day—

He momentarily forgets himself and runs over to his half-sister, tugging on her sleeve. “It’s her, isn’t it?” he asks, unable to contain his excitement.

“It is,” Rhaenyra replies, pure relief in her tone. She glances down at Aemond, and it’s perhaps only then does she realize the peculiarity of the situation; he doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever had a casual conversation with her. Aemond lets go of her sleeve, clearing his throat and taking off in the other direction with his head spinning.

It takes a while for you to show up, but when you do, you’re soaked to the bone, with Laenor Velaryon’s arm wrapped around your shoulders and his other arm around his squire on the other side. The whispers come to a standstill, partially at the sight of you and partially at the sight of the future Prince consort looking as if he was about to follow his sister at any second. You must have found him, Aemond thinks, about to keel over into the water.

At the sight of his father, however, Ser Laenor steadies himself and limps away, leaving you in the middle of the crowd. No doubt you feel all eyes on you, but you straighten and walk to your father, who now looks as if he’s ten years younger again.

Aemond doesn’t get the chance to speak with you, not while you remain glued to Viserys’ side, leaving only to speak with Rhaenyra, Daemon, and his daughters. You’ve not changed at all over the years, save for your hair, which you had cropped short (presumably for it to not get in the way of your flying), and for your gait, as a certain confidence exudes from you as you walk or simply stand. But you were still you, much to his relief.

His thoughts take him back to the strange cry, which rings out well into the night. It’s only until his mother commands him to go to bed that he realizes Viserys has long left and you are nowhere to be found. He waits for his mother and siblings to head into the castle before heading down the stairs, down where you had come bringing your good brother.

He doesn’t have to search long for you—you’re right there on the beach, your head tilted upwards as if in silent meditation. The sand crunches underneath his feet as he closes the distance between you two, and just as you’re within arm’s reach, he stops.

And he waits.

When you finally turn, you regard Aemond with the same smile that had greeted him on your nameday all those years ago, tinged with just a bit of sadness. He wonders if you get your seemingly eternal warmth from the late queen; whatever the case, he certainly has never felt it with any of his siblings, even the one you share all your blood with.

“You’ve gotten tall,” is the first thing you say to him. “You’ll probably be as tall as Daemon.”

“I’ll be taller,” he promises, and your smile grows wider, only for it to drop just as quickly. Aemond remembers the very reason you had come, and the history you shared with Laena. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You turn back towards the beach, and Aemond moves to stand next to you. “It is our loss,” you correct him. “Laena was kin to you and me both.”

Aemond nods in response. You duck your head and sigh deeply, the grief you feel leaving you looking aged. “I left Pentos the day before she died,” you whisper. “I promised to be back for the birth, but…”

“They say she went into labor early,” Aemond says. “You couldn’t have known.”

You keep your eyes trained on the ground. “I don’t think I could have borne to see it,” you continue in a shaky voice. “She died trying to birth a son, and my mother—”

You choke on the last word, and for a moment Aemond fears you would start crying. He reaches for your hand, and you squeeze it gratefully in response.

But you don’t, and instead take the time to be silent and count your breaths, all the while holding onto his hand like an anchor. When you raise your eyes to the sky once more, he sees all the stars reflected in them.

When you speak again, your voice is steadier. “You remind me of her, you know. Laena.”

Aemond struggles to find an answer, one that would insult neither you nor the deceased. You seem to sense his hesitation, and you squeeze his hand again. “Our dragons weren’t born to us,” you say, confirming his thoughts. “Though I became a dragonrider earlier than she did. She cried the first time I mounted Silverwing, and cried again when I took her up years later.”

“The second time…out of fear?”

“At first, I suppose. But she was laughing, too. Always a wild one, Laena was.” You sigh. “You’re just as spirited as she was. Fearless. Bold.”

“If I were fearless and bold, I’d have a dragon by now,” Aemond grumbles.

“It isn’t that easy, I fear,” you tell him. “I’ve spoken to scholars and warlocks and magicfolk of all kinds in the Free Cities. Some of them are of the opinion that dragons are not as willing as we might imagine.”

“We’re a family of dragonriders. One dragon-less member is hardly enough to discredit that fact.”

“Our Valyrian blood is the exception, not the rule. Had we been so confident in its mere presence, I daresay we ought to have more dragonriders around.”

“Especially with Aegon,” Aemond offers.

“Especially with Aegon, yes,” you chuckle. “It may well be that our blood is a contributing factor. But dragons have minds and hearts of their own. Some say they are even more intelligent than we are. The right is not freely given, Aemond. It is earned, it is fought for, it is taken.”

You turn to face him then, and it’s only when you do so does Aemond realize he has indeed grown taller; he no longer has to tilt his head upwards to properly meet your eyes. You take his other hand in yours, and he feels the calluses from years of dragon-riding brush against his skin.

“I told you you were as spirited as Laena was,” you say. “Like her, you are also kind. Compassionate. Smart. Loyal. You are everything our House stands for and more.”

For the first time in what seems like years, a genuine smile spreads across his face. “I’ve missed you,” he admits.

“As did I,” you whisper, and your eyes travel to the sapphire brooch you’d given him all those years ago, nestled just above the middle of his collarbone. You let your fingers skim over the gem lightly, before pulling away from him. “Father has mentioned that we may stop by Dragonstone to see if any of the eggs there take your fancy.”

Aemond’s spirits rise. “Really?”

“Really,” you promise. “If nothing does, Rhaenyra’s told me that if Syrax brings forth another clutch of eggs, you’ll have your pick from them.”

He lets out a breathy laugh; he could think of Rhaenyra’s sudden act of kindness as a way to win him over to her favor, but surely Viserys had agreed to the Dragonstone visit only upon your request. He had never been known to turn you down, and the impromptu visit to the Free Cities was clear proof of it.

To think, you had talked him into it for Aemond’s benefit…

He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “Wait. You said “we”. You’re coming home? You’re coming with me to Dragonstone to pick an egg?”

You give him another one of your comforting smiles. “If you’d like.”

He nods, almost too quickly. He’d come to Driftmark expecting to have the secondhand grief hanging over him like a storm, not to feel as if he’d been denied the sun for years before this very moment. He imagines walking off a ship onto Dragonstone and leaving atop Vermithor, as he’s always thought of doing. He replays a scene from his dreams where he finally flies next to you, the Good King and the Good Queen’s mounts flying over the realm once more.

He’s almost too happy to notice you’d reached out to brush his hair away from his face. “You might take a little inspiration from Laena,” you advise him. “She was dragonless for years, and yet she did what many thought was impossible.”

“She claimed Vhagar,” Aemond says, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.

“She certainly did.” You squeeze his hands before slipping out of them. “Now, go to bed. Your mother will have my head if she finds out I caught you after dark and did nothing.”

The same cry pierces through the night sky again, and Aemond watches as you head back up to the castle. He wants to call out to you again, to tell you what he’s been hearing all day, to confirm something that had clicked at your words just now.

Aemond stares across the sea, in deep thought.

The right is not freely given.

He turns to the west, to the source of the strange cry.

It is earned, it is fought for, it is taken.

He begins walking.

“It will heal,” Alicent frets. “Will it not, maester?”

Aemond winces as the needle pierces his flesh, dreading the answer; but even with one eye, he sees it on the maester’s face as clear as if he had both.

Alicent audibly sobs at the revelation, and Aemond isn’t sure if his feeling light-headed was due to the blood loss, the pain from the little scuffle he’d gotten into earlier, or just remnants of his encounter with Vhagar. He tries to link it to the last factor; it was the only good thing he got out of the entire ordeal.

He’s no stranger to dragon-riding, as you’ve taken him up on Silverwing many times before. But to be completely alone, to hold the reins and be solely responsible for directing the flight, to ride the largest dragon in the world, a Conqueror’s dragon—

Something flutters in his periphery, and Aemond turns his face to see you, still in your nightclothes. He opens his mouth, about to call out for you, knowing that surely you of all people would rejoice at the news…

But he watches as you rush past everyone else to where Lucerys was, his face still bloody and nose crooked from where Aemond had punched him. Lucerys cries out when you attempt to set his nose, and you shush him comfortingly, kissing the top of his head before checking on Jacaerys.

What little happiness left in Aemond ebbs away as Rhaenyra calls for him to be “sharply” questioned, as Viserys demands he reveals where he heard the rumors over Rhaenyra’s sons parentage, as Alicent loses her patience and attempts to exert justice on his behalf by force. All those he could have lived with…if not for you standing behind Rhaenyra quietly, moving only to shield Jacaerys and Lucerys from Alicent. If not for you barely even sparing him a glance.

When he tells his mother an eye was a fair trade for a dragon, he means it.

But when he thinks about you as part of the price, he's not as certain.

"Be calm, Vhagar," Aemond instructs the great beast. He tries to climb the ropes, as he had the night before, but Vhagar continues to squirm.

He sighs, trying to focus. Walking was already disorienting enough on its own, but flying with a limited depth of perception was another matter entirely. But Aemond's no stranger to challenges—this is just another he has to conquer.

"Obey, Vhagar," he reminds the dragon. "Serve me."

"She feels your pain," someone tells him, in the same tongue.

Aemond grips his ropes tightly, his jaw tightening as he tries to maintain his composure. He turns in the direction of his good eye, and when he finds no one, he lets go of the ropes to turn the other way around. Sure enough, you were there, in full riding gear.

He'd forgotten that he was supposed to stop by Dragonstone to pick an egg. And he'd forgotten that that was probably the only reason you had to return to King's Landing.

Now, perhaps, he's left you with no other choice but to remain on Driftmark, as Rhaenyra and her family did. Worse, you'd probably go back and dig up your own potential match to Qoren Martell.

Funnily enough, though, the thought didn't stress him out as it used to.

"Dragons and their riders share a special bond," you continue. High Valyrian was the most beautiful language to ever exist, and even with all things considered, Aemond still thinks it's at its best when he hears it from you. "What you feel, they feel. Your friends are theirs, and your enemies, they will endeavor to crush."

"You say it like it's a bad thing," he says.

"I say it as a warning," you reply. "You must keep your emotions in check if you want to have a safe flight, without any dire consequences."

Aemond laughs humorlessly. " "Keeping emotions in check"? Is that what you did last night?"

You frown. "You don’t understand."

"I lost my eye," Aemond hisses, pointing to the bandaged side of his face. "On account of that bastard."

"Aemond.”

"You were supposed to be on my side!" He's raising his voice now, and Vhagar shakes her head in agitation. "You understood me better than anyone, you know the truth about our nephews, you were supposed to stand aside and let my mother seek justice!"

"They are our blood, regardless," you remind him gently. "We protect our own."

He stomps in frustration. "You were supposed to be happy for me," he snarls. "I have a dragon now, and all of those warlock shits that you spoke to were all wrong. I proved them wrong."

"Yes, you did," you tell him, and it takes everything in him not to pull his hair out over your patience. "But I hope you know that having one does not change who we are. Dragon or no dragon, you are still you. Still Aemond."

His fury threatens to boil over. "Go away."

"I want to help you, Aemond," you coax. "You've gotten past the first ride, yes, but with one eye, you're going into unknown territory. You will need a new saddle, too. There's still so much I can teach you."

"Go away!" he screams, running forward just to push you away. "I don't need you! Don't come near me, don't ever presume to speak my name, and don't you ever come home!"

Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, but he thinks he sees you flinch. Whatever it is, you try to maintain your composure. "You don't mean that, Aemond."

"I do," he insists, turning and hauling himself up the ropes. "I hate you. Go away."

It takes nearly forever before he finally reaches the saddle. The view from atop Vhagar with one eye certainly was disorienting, but not as bad as he'd originally thought. He looks up to see Sunfyre and Dreamfyre already up in the air, and he gains a sense of pride; he would be flying back to King's Landing with his trueborn siblings.

Out of habit, he tries to ascertain where you were. He deduces you had left just as he'd demanded you to, but pushes the guilt down to focus.

"Obey me, Vhagar," he shouts over the wind. "Fly!"

The dragon rumbles in response, and Aemond holds on tightly as Vhagar makes her way towards the edge of the cliff, before spreading her wings and taking flight. The short drop makes his stomach flutter delightfully, and he tugs on the reins to pull her higher into the sky.

He drinks in the feeling of seeing Aegon and Helaena on either side of him, and even dips Vhagar to greet his mother watching atop the same ship he'd arrived at Driftmark on.

When he finally gets the nerve to look back, Driftmark continues to disappear into the distance, but he can barely make out a familiar figure flying east.

He turns his attention back forward, thinking of nothing but the breeze in his hair and the sun washing over his skin.

The morningstar swings idly at Criston's side as he and Aemond circle each other, like mountain lions about to pounce at any given moment. Aemond twirls his sword in his hand, scanning his opponent from head to toe and watching his every move.

When Criston swings, Aemond dodges, immediately understanding what fight pattern his teacher was about to go for after years of experience. The crowd around him grows, the whispers now starting to irritate him, but he remains calm and collected.

The morningstar comes down on Aemond's other side, and he moves; he treats it as a dance, and the weapon an overeager partner (gods know how many Aemond's had to deal with at feasts).

Criston smirks, but Aemond can tell he's running out of steam. "Shall we have a respite, old man?" he teases.

His teacher opens his mouth to retort, but he's interrupted by a guard by the nearest watchtower.

"Dragon!"

Aemond looks up in confusion. All dragons go straight to the Dragonpit, he thinks. Why would they warn of a dragon, unless…

A high trilling sound, louder than what was normally heard so deep into the Red Keep, causes everyone within the vicinity to look around. Aemond's fingers slacken around his sword—he knows that call.

Silverwing soars into the courtyard, circling the area thrice before Aemond realizes she was trying to land.

"Clear the way!" His voice booms across the yard, and servants, nobles, and guards alike frantically move to open up a space for the dragon to land.

However, it did not seem to be what the silver mount had in mind; gasps ranging from those of shock to wonder echo throughout the Red Keep when you land your dragon atop the very gate, causing those on the watchtowers on either side of you to cry out in fear.

Aemond shakes his head in disbelief, watching in a near-trance as Silverwing dips down to allow you to dismount carefully. The years melt away as you walk over to where he and Criston were training, completely ignoring the stares you were receiving.

"Princess," Criston says, bowing deeply. "You know dragons aren't allowed this deep into the Red Keep."

"Really?" you ask, raising your eyebrows. "There are a whole score of them here, so I did not think it any harm to add one more."

Criston laughs, a short but genuine sound. "Welcome home, Princess."

You nod your head in response, before turning to Aemond. He remembers the last words he spoke to you as if he'd just said them yesterday, and not all those years ago. He remembers panicking after you never indeed come home, opting to resume your travels across the Free Cities.

He remembers spending six years trying to come to terms with the fact that he might never see you again.

What does he even say, now that you've proved him wrong?

Thankfully, you relieve him of that burden. "Brother," you greet amicably.

He opens and closes his mouth like a fish, trying (and failing) to piece together a sentence. Criston shoots him a sideways glance.

Aemond eventually settles for a nod, before his sword slides out of his grasp.

You look like you're about to burst into laughter.

"I hope he's better with a sword than he is with women, Ser Criston," you say wryly, before heading into the castle.

As soon as you've disappeared, Criston turns to Aemond, a single eyebrow raised.

"Be quiet," Aemond mumbles as he reaches for his sword.

Aemond doesn’t mull over the potential reasons for your arrival long, as the answer comes to him by the news that you have not left Viserys’ bedside all day, even to eat. He leaves you to it, equally because the incense in his father’s room lingers about him for hours, and equally because he has nothing to say to you.

But whatever your intentions were, they immediately took second place in favor of the news that the Sea Snake had suffered a mortal wound while fighting in the Stepstones, leaving the succession of Driftmark in doubt. Rhaenyra, along with her now-husband Daemon, all but materialize into the Red Keep, no doubt to secure Lucerys’ claim.

Aemond next sees you on the day all claims to the Driftwood Throne were made, just before the entire court had begun to settle in. In a brief stroke of madness, he makes his way over to where you were, drinking in your startled expression before changing course towards Rhaenyra and her sons. He gives them the usual courtesies, much to their bewilderment, and even strikes up a conversation with Jacaerys over their encounter in the courtyard, where he was training. His good eye flickers over to you, silently bidding you watch as he walks over to Daemon.

To his great satisfaction, he’s a couple of inches taller.

Aemond could have sworn he saw you smile.

It does occur to him that perhaps you have come to fulfill your father’s wishes and to marry at last, now that Viserys is on the brink of death and the succession (in Aemond’s mind, at least) remains unclear.

No doubt that thought weighs heavily on Alicent’s mind, also, given that she’s let slip a couple of times that she’d wished for you to marry one of Vaemond Velaryon’s sons. But that plan died on the floor of the throne room along with Vaemond himself, who destroyed his ambition by letting his pride get the best of him.

Through you, any House would have closer ties to the throne, and the various other lineages you’ve been linked to. That House would also be bound to whichever party secured that pact for, and all their strength and swords would be theirs.

Perhaps you’d be wed to Joffrey. No doubt that would keep you on Rhaenyra’s side forever, had you not already declared for her in all but writing. Qoren Martell was no longer a viable option, given that he’d taken your absence as an insult and married some other noble lady. Had Borros Baratheon not already married, you’d probably be his, owing to his House having hosted you in your youth. Cregan Stark. Whomever at the Vale had the claim after Jeyne Arryn. Some old and balding Riverlands lord.

But Aemond has a better idea.

Your serving girl answers the door, and her eyes widen at the sight of Aemond looming over her.

“Is the Princess still awake?” he asks quietly.

The serving girl swallows. “She is, my Prince, but…”

“I thank you in advance for your discretion,” he interrupts, reaching over to place a bag of gold dragons in her hand. Bribery was the oldest trick in the book, and yet it was always Aemond’s last resort; so many things, even principles and skills that people spend their whole life trying to cling to, could be traded at the mere sight of a gold dragon.

To the girl’s credit, she seems to struggle over the dilemma, and Aemond owes it to her to give her a moment. When she purses her lips and turns away, he steps back in victory.

The few times he’s entered your apartments, it’s always empty, on account of you being somewhere else. He’s never had a reason to stay long, if only to bask in the ambience of a room you’d spend a lot of your time in, before turning to other matters that require his attention.

Now that you’re there, however, he realizes it does not differ much from his own apartments. The same layout, but a different air about it. Less cold. More you.

Aemond waits for the serving girl to close the door behind her, and he keeps a respectful distance from your bed, allowing you some time to make yourself presentable.

“The hour is quite late, brother,” comes your tired tone.

“My apologies, sweet sister,” he says, walking forward. “I had to see you.”

You were indeed already in bed, putting a book aside when he stands at the edge. You regard him carefully, clearly wondering about the purpose of his visit, before you sigh and move to throw the covers off yourself.

He holds up a hand. “Please.”

“I cannot see you in this light,” you reason.

“Then allow me.”

Aemond takes the box of matches from you, moving about the room to light the candles. The room glows brighter, allowing him to see the shift you had put on for bed. Your silver hair hangs about you like spun moonlight, and he has to fight the urge to reach out and touch it.

“To what do I owe this late-night visit, then?”

Aemond sets the matchbox down, before turning to you. “I apologize, again,” he says. “I was not certain you’d stay in the Red Keep for long.”

“And why is that, do you think?”

“I regret I do not have the answer. You’ve never really explained the reasons behind your frequent absences from court.”

His direct tone surprises you, and he sees it in your face. But gone are the days where he stumbles over his words, cherry-picks through them to find the ones that would please you the most.

The boy you knew died the night his eye had been taken. And he wants to prove it to you.

“You think your little stunt this evening will not change anything?”

A smirk threatens to play on his lips. “Call it what you will, I was simply expressing how proud I am of my family.”

“Clearly, pride comes in the form of insulting your nephews’ parentage,” you shoot back.

“Is that why you’re contemplating leaving again? Leaving Father to succumb to his wounds alone over the truth?”

He’s never seen you this angry before; you were always the most patient sibling. “Did you come here to try and elicit some anger from me? Was your intention to alienate the only friend you have at court?”

His jaw clenches. “I am the Prince. I have no shortage of friends.”

You scoff. “With that tongue of yours, I am sure that’s true.”

“If you would like to bring my tongue into this matter, I can talk of more than just friends.”

“Your nocturnal activities mean little to me, Aemond,” you say, your tone getting fiercer and fiercer with every word. “If you mean to brag about your conquests, I suggest going to your brother instead of me. Now, if there is nothing else—”

“Why do you refuse to marry?”

Now that catches you off-guard. You look up at Aemond questioningly, but he stands his ground. He will not repeat it. He knows you have heard.

“I—I hardly think any of my decisions should matter—”

“But they do,” Aemond interrupts, moving forward to sit at the edge of your bed. “Had Father been anyone but who he is, you would have long been married by now, with children. Your husband and children would have been Rhaenyra’s, if you insisted on backing her claim. You know the benefits, and yet you refused. Why is that?”

You sigh, fidgeting with the covers uncomfortably. “I do not expect a man, even you, dear brother, to understand.”

“I’m smart. Try me.”

You give him a look so scathing, that if he were a lesser man, he would have backed down immediately. But the fire in your eyes sets his blood aflame, and he wants nothing more than to stoke them.

“My mother died attempting to give Father a male heir,” you say. “Laena gave her life for a son that did not live and wanted to ride Vhagar before she bled out. Helaena has to bear children for a philandering, drunken husband who shares her bed only when he’s out of whores to fuck. Rhaenyra dedicates her life to a realm who will not accept her because she has a mind of her own and not a cock between her legs. History will not give you women that are as miserable as the ones in our family.”

“And yet, you run from your duty to save your own skin.”

You elect not to respond to that.

Aemond sighs. “Qoren Martell would have cherished you. He said he’d wait forever for you.”

“If “forever” meant half a year, certainly,” you mumble. “I have no desire to marry, Aemond. No one expects me to be Queen, nor would my children ever come close to the throne. My only regret is that I never told my father the truth when he was still sound of mind.”

Aemond remains silent, letting your words sink in, while wrestling with his own. You lean forward, letting the covers fall to expose your skin. His eye widens at the sight, and he swallows thickly as you reach for his hand. As your fingers close around his, he has to wonder: were they always this small?

Against his will, his body turns towards you, and he shuffles up your bed so you don’t have to reach that far to touch him. With your other hand, you cup the side of his face, and he briefly flinches when you gingerly brush the pads of your fingers against his scar.

“May I?” you whisper.

He was never one to refuse you.

He keeps his one eye closed as the eyepatch leaves his skin, and is replaced by your curious fingers. He hears you suck in a breath.

He opens his eye to see you regarding the sapphire, your gift to him all those years ago, with a strange sort of reverence (despite the playful jab he had offered). He knows you’ve already seen his missing eye at its worst: swollen shut and stitches marring his face. Now, the scar has healed but not quite disappeared; Lucerys Velaryon had made his mark on Aemond forever.

He’s taken to putting jewels where his eye used to be so as not to scare the ladies at court, but he finds your sapphire fits the best, ironically. The parallels to his father's eye, gouged out by his illness and eaten through by maggots, is not lost on him, either.

"You haven't seen it since it happened," Aemond says. "It's healed. But it has left its mark. There are some things that just cannot be forgotten, as your sister is so often told otherwise."

"Our sister," you correct him. "And I know Rhaenyra regrets the incident, too."

"I don't need any of her regrets or apologies."

"Then why are you here?"

Aemond doesn't answer, and instead fixes you with the same chilling, weighted stare that he’s often been chided by his mother for having. Had you been a lesser being, you would have cracked under the pressure of his gaze.

But you are the blood of the dragon, fierce and proud and unafraid. No man, not even the one you share blood with, could ever make you back down. The look in your eyes ignites something in him; a feeling not unlike the one he gets every single time on dragonback. He steals a glimpse of the smooth expanse of your throat, then lower, and even lower…

Aemond pulls away sharply, leaving your hand drifting midair.

“The entire kingdom expects you to marry soon, rather than late,” he says, attempting to salvage what was left of his self-control.

You tilt your head. “The kingdom, your mother, or my sister?”

“I regret to say all of them do. But your fears will not be ignored.”

“Do you have a better idea, then?”

Aemond hesitates, testing the words on his tongue before letting them leave his lips. “You could marry me.”

Your reaction is what he expects it to be.

You withdraw your hand sharply and get out of bed, and Aemond gets to his feet, allowing you to increase your distance from him.

“Does…does no one listen to a word I say?” you ask in agitation. “I never thought to hear these words from you, brother, I—”

“This match has its merits,” Aemond says. “I will not insult your intelligence by discussing them one by one.”

“Whose idea was this?”

“…Father’s.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Father?” you ask incredulously. “Father was barely able to speak in complete sentences before today, and you expect me to believe he’s behind such a large arrangement?”

“Can you prove that he isn’t?”

All of a sudden, you’re standing inches away from him, a finger jabbed into his sternum and your eyes blazing with anger. “You are not getting away with this on a technicality,” you hiss. “Tell me the truth of it.”

“Is the thought of marrying me that repulsive to you?”

“Not if it’s born out of lies.” You clutch the collar of his shirt. “Why do you want to marry me, Aemond?”

He looks down at you, and his hands twitch by his sides, no doubt wanting to feel your warmth permeate through your clothes. He can feel your heart hammering underneath your ribs, and he’s sure that if you slide your hands lower, you could feel his racing similarly. Your body melds so perfectly to his, and you breathe in sync, as if engaged in a dance of their own. Every molecule of your body thrums to life underneath his fingers, every second that passes between you is charged with a tension that threatens to push the both of you over the precipice, and still you do not see.

He hates that, even with one eye, he does.

You await his answer with bated breath, but he sees the way your eyes briefly flicker down to his lips.

“Aemond,” you whisper.

“To…to preserve the family line,” he answers.

And your face just falls.

You gently detach yourself from him, leaving him impossibly cold despite the roar of the fireplace nearby.

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m afraid I will have to refuse you. As I did Qoren. As I did everyone else.”

Your words echo around his mind, as if you’d shouted it to him in an empty corridor. Aemond does nothing but stare at you, and you hold his gaze with a practiced ease.

He doesn’t remember leaving your room, nor does he remember if you’d said anything to him as he did. But the next day, he breaks fast alone: his mother missing, Aegon not expected to wake until well in the afternoon, Helaena tending to the children, and Rhaenyra’s family having left for Dragonstone at first light.

When a messenger arrives to inform him that Silverwing had left the Dragonpit before dawn, he simply waves them away.

Aemond takes the death of his father in stride.

He operates exactly how logic demands him to, what he’s always been expected to do. He takes great pains to track Aegon down and forces him to face the reality that Aemond would have accepted without a fight. He keeps Jaehaerys and Jaehaera company as Helaena is prepared for her joint coronation with Aegon, sobbing the whole time her maids fit her into her dress, all the while fighting back thoughts of you donning the magnificent dress made for a future queen.

He gets through the coronation, and is momentarily forced into action when Meleys and Rhaenys disrupt the ceremony. But when the Red Queen and the Queen Who Never Was depart, he settles back into his work.

None of the things he was doing required emotion. He had no need for it. He’s gone for so long without an eye, he can live without a heart.

It’s why he can accept Borros Baratheon’s terms without batting an eye, why he can choose the first of his daughters that crosses his line of sight. He may grow to love her, he thinks, as he offers her a tight-lipped smile, and he may look at her someday without you lurking in the back of his mind.

But the gods that decreed he’d lose an eye, the gods who damned him to years of being dragon-less, are the very same gods that bring Lucerys Velaryon to Storm’s End.

“Go home, pup,” Borros spits, his voice booming like thunder all over the hall. “And tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up and need to set against her foes.”

Lucerys keeps his head up, unwilling to show any semblance of weakness. Aemond wants to laugh; his entire body screams fear from head to toe. “I shall take your answer to the Queen,” he replies, his voice steadying at the last word. “My lord.”

Ever the consummate fighter. Had he not been born a bastard, Aemond might have actually liked him.

“Wait,” he calls out. “My Lord Strong.”

Lucerys pauses, taking a moment before looking back at Aemond. His eyes glint with a familiar fire that only eggs Aemond on.

“Did you really think,” he says. “That you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

Lucerys scoffs. “I will not fight you,” he asserts. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge. No…” Aemond moves to remove his eyepatch, a burst of lightning illuminating the sapphire sitting where his eye used to be. “I want you to put out your eye. As payment for mine.”

Lucerys pales. For a moment, Aemond wonders if he recognizes the jewel in his eye socket. He presumes not, and even with you now forever out of his grasp, he can’t help but feel a sense of triumph. He had something Lucerys Velaryon had not—your favor.

“One will serve,” he continues casually, retrieving the dagger he keeps on his person and tossing it onto the ground between them. “I would not blind you. I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

What fear was in Lucerys’ face left at the sight of the blade, and was replaced by an expression of pure defiance. The adrenaline rushes through Aemond’s veins, practically begging Lucerys to make one wrong move. The looming threat of war, the despair that threatens to crush his mother, the look on Lucerys’ face that looks so much like—

“The Princess [Y/N] of House Targaryen!”

Lucerys nearly staggers in his attempt to turn to the door, and the lump in Aemond’s throat rises as you walk into the hall. You take one confused look at Lucerys, another at Aemond, then at Borros Baratheon.

“Am I to host the entirety of House Targaryen in my hall?” Borros shouts.

You raise an eyebrow. “I admit my surprise at seeing two more dragons than expected in your courtyard,” you say. “But, lest my lord forget, you invited me for the Lady Cassandra’s nameday tomorrow.”

Aemond frowns, and Lucerys looks equally confused. Was it possible that you hadn’t…

Borros gets to his feet. “I will not have this,” he snarls. “I will not be spoken to so casually by dragonspawn, and the least of them, least of all!”

Lucerys reaches for his sword, a look of great affront painted all over his face. Aemond turns his attention to Borros, ready to strike at any given second.

Silence falls over the group, interrupted only by the sounds of the storm raging outside.

You raise your eyebrows.

And Borros bursts into laughter.

Floris stifles a giggle from behind Aemond, as do all her other sisters next to Borros. Aemond and Lucerys share a quick look, all enmity momentarily forgotten in the confusion.

“You have not changed at all, Princess,” Borros continues to laugh heartily, as he settles back into his throne. “My father always told me you would have made a better Baratheon than a Targaryen.”

“And as I’ve told your father, I’d leap off one of your cliffs first before I’d give up the life of a dragonrider,” you say, entering the hall and making your way into its center as if it had been your home all this time.

And it’s then that Aemond remembers you’d been hosted at Storm’s End in your youth, and later named godmother to one of Borros’ daughters.

“But I must admit my confusion, Princess,” Borros says, as soon as he’s finished wiping the tears from his eyes. “I hardly think this is the time for celebrating.”

“I fly all the way back from Volantis to be told it isn’t the time for celebrating,” you repeat dryly.

Borros looks at Lucerys, to Aemond, then back to you. You mimic the action, and when your eyes settle on Aemond, it takes a while for you to get it.

Your lips part in shock, and he watches as your eyes slowly widen.

“I’m…I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Princess,” Borros says, his voice sounding the gentlest Aemond has ever heard all day despite the gruffness in his tone. “You know how highly my father and I held the late King in regard. If there is anything we might do…”

“You are too kind, my lord.” You clear your throat. “You are right, of course, this is not the time for celebrations. I will see the Lady Cassandra on the morrow, but first…” You walk over to Lucerys and wrap an arm around him. “I believe Prince Lucerys’ business here is finished. I ask your leave to escort him back to Dragonstone.”

“Granted,” Borros replies. “Safe travels, my friend.”

Aemond seethes as the guards follow suit, and as you press your lips to Lucerys’ ear as you turn him around. “If you leave,” he near-growls. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

Your head whips around, and you meet his gaze with a fury he’s never known you to hold. “Not here,” you snarl.

Wisely, Aemond holds his ground.

You take one last glance at the Baratheons, before tightening your grip on Lucerys and leading him out of the hall.

When the door shuts behind you, Aemond retrieves his knife, just as he hears one of the Baratheon girls scoff. He follows the sound to the lady standing closest to Borros, who had on an expression of pure contempt.

“Princess or not, she had the gall to speak to a Prince like that,” she says. “No wonder she’s not yet married. What man would take her?”

“Maris, hold your tongue,” Floris warns.

Maris ignores her sister, looking at Aemond straight in the eye. “Was it one of your eyes he took, or one of your balls?” she asks, voice sweet as honey despite the venom in her words. “I am so glad you chose my sister. I want a husband with all his parts.”

Aemond’s mouth twists in anger. “Lord Borros,” he nearly spits through his teeth. “I ask your leave to depart, as well.”

Borros harrumphed in response. “It is for me to tell you how to act whilst not under my roof.”

Aemond turns on his heels, barely sparing his betrothed a glance before disappearing out the door.

Despite the relentless rain, all Aemond’s senses were heightened as if he were the beast he rides, focused solely on the hunt. He wants to see that look on Lucerys’ face again—that look of pure fear. Pure helplessness. He wants to see all those years’ worth of misery weigh on his entire being, threatening to crush Lucerys with every second that passes.

The laugh that leaves him is one of pure glee as Lucerys and his dragon just barely dodge Vhagar, and he only urges her after them. He shouts a command, and the great she-dragon opens her jaws, closing with a sickening snap that causes Lucerys to cry out in fear.

The dragon takes Lucerys even lower, and to Aemond’s great dismay, they disappear between two cliffs. He takes Vhagar’s reins and heaves; she follows suit, albeit with great difficulty.

The fog clouds his already-compromised vision, and the only things he sees above the gorge are the tips of dragon wings as it beats up and down. “You owe a debt!” Aemond bellows, the frustration of being denied his vengeance lining every single one of his words. “Boy!”

Vhagar notices it before he does, and moves her head to the left. He barely sees it in the darkness of the storm, but there was an unmistakable flash of white that wasn’t a streak of lightning. He pulls to the left, cursing. Finally took advantage of your handiwork, Lucerys? he thinks bitterly. Flying in my blindspot…who would have thought…

Perhaps the storm had grown fiercer, or the fog had gotten thicker, but Aemond only now gets glimpses of Lucerys’ dragon, unlike the direct confrontation that had occurred just earlier. It was unlikely that it had gotten used to Vhagar’s flight pattern so easily, given its age and how inexperienced Lucerys clearly was…

“There!” he shouts, and Vhagar follows without further instruction. The new direction is one that turns the wind against them, and Aemond wonders how such a young dragon fares in such terrible conditions. But Lucerys and his dragon were now up ahead, growing bigger as Vhagar closes the gap in mere moments…he could have sworn that the dragon was a little brighter than that…

A hard gust of wind nearly blows him back in his saddle; blinking the tears out of his eye, he dodges the cloak that Lucerys had previously donned as it flies past.

Revealing a taller figure in the saddle, sporting bright silver hair…

You sense the shift in Vhagar’s disposition almost immediately.

The roar she lets out is enough to shake the entirety of Storm’s End to its very core, and Silverwing shakes her head, clearly agitated. You glance over your shoulder to see Vhagar being pulled back, and you know you have run out of time.

You could only hope that you had bought enough to allow Lucerys and Arrax to escape.

“Listen carefully, Luke,” you shout over the rain, as both you and your nephew make your way to your dragons. Lightning flashes, and you look to the east; your stomach drops when Vhagar is nowhere to be found. “Aemond will try to follow you as you leave.”

You take Lucerys’ face in your hands. “You must find him and Vhagar first. Get them to chase you, and take them to the gorge just a few miles away from here.”

“How will I—”

“It isn’t hard to miss. Fly Arrax through that gorge, go as low as you can. I will meet you there.”

“But you—”

“After that, go as high as you can and go with the wind so you can go faster.”

“What are you going to do?” he asks fearfully. “Vhagar is the largest dragon in the world, and—and Aemond’s angry, and—”

You shush him, brushing his curls out of his face as you have so many times in his youth. “Vhagar is also the oldest dragon in the world,” you remind him. “And Silverwing and Arrax will look nearly identical in this storm. I will try to stay in Aemond’s blind spot, and trust that his dragon will not know the difference.”

The tears start to well in Lucerys’ eyes. “This is my fault,” he begins to cry.

“It is not, sweet boy.” You pull him into an embrace, and Lucerys grips onto your shoulders almost painfully. When Arrax shrieks, and Silverwing hisses at the sky, you pry yourself out of Lucerys’ grasp, tilting his head up.

“I may still reason with Aemond,” you say. “But at least one of us must make it back to Rhaenyra, to tell her what has happened here. I intend it to be you.”

“But—”

“Be brave, Lucerys,” you tell him, and in High Valyrian, you command just as much as you soothe.

Your mother had told you to be brave, too, just days before she’d died on the birthing bed.

Was that the same fate that awaits you in the jaws of a dragon? You suppose that, one way or another, you would leave this world in the same manner.

You find a rocky beach, and you will Silverwing towards it. The pebbles crunch in a strange sort of symphony under her feet, as it does under yours when you dismount. The waves pummel the shore just inches away from where you stand, waiting for the inevitable.

You press your forehead against Silverwing’s head, feeling the she-dragon purr at the contact. No doubt she was feeling the same things you were feeling, after so many years of flying together, but you want to let her know how much she means to you.

A terrifying growl shakes the beach, and Silverwing hisses as Vhagar appears just above you. You hold onto her as the dragon hits the ground, her sheer size causing nearly half of her body to be submerged in the ocean.

You watch as her rider dismounts, his blade glinting in the darkness as he makes his way over to you. When you move to meet him halfway, Silverwing blocks your path, wailing. You feel a surge of affection for your dragon wash over you.

“Be calm,” you instruct her. “Obey.”

Silverwing keens in protest, but obliges, withdrawing reluctantly, only to roar in contempt when Aemond points his blade towards your neck.

Amidst the heavy rain and thick fog, Aemond Targaryen stands tall and proud, his missing eye doing little to discredit the fact that he now looks every inch a god. You could find no trace of the boy you’d known all those years ago, the one who’d followed you everywhere in the Red Keep, the only one of your half-siblings who’d managed to maintain a solid correspondence with you when you were away.

But perhaps he is still in there, somewhere hidden behind the clear wrath in his eye.

“None can stand between a dragon and its prey,” you begin. “A Conqueror’s dragon and her blood, even less.”

“And yet here you stand,” Aemond spits.

“And yet here I stand,” you repeat calmly.

Aemond studies you carefully. You keep your gaze trained on him, completely ignoring the blade he holds to your throat.

“You know the truth of Rhaenyra’s sons,” he hisses. “You’re no fool, yet you choose not to see it. Would you let the pups of House Strong sit on our father’s throne, and his grandfather before him?”

“They have just as much Targaryen blood as you do.”

“Do not—” He presses the tip of his sword directly against your skin, and Silverwing growls in warning. “Do not dare question my heritage.”

“I would never,” you say quietly. “But surely you see why I cannot let you do this.”

“Would you lay down your life for your traitor kin?”

“They are all I have left.” Your voice quivers dangerously. “You may deny their parentage all you like, but you cannot deny that they are my blood still.”

“I am your blood!” You hadn’t realized that Aemond had dropped his blade in favor of closing the distance between the two of you, looming over you like a malevolent shadow in the pouring rain. “‘Tis I who know you better than anyone else; I, who wrote back to you and sat every night by the windows of the Red Keep waiting for you to return; ‘tis I who study history and philosophy and politics to elevate myself to your level.”

Thunder rumbles overhead, and you blink the rain out of your eyes as you continue to stare up at Aemond. You think you catch a glimpse of the child he once was when he holds your gaze so defiantly, but he scoffs, and turns away from you.

“Lord Borros was right,” he spits. “I stand to destroy myself, risk my brother’s cause, worry my mother senseless, and for what? The whims of the last in line to the throne? A mere afterthought, forever in the shadow of her sister? A spoiled bitch who flees with her tail between her legs at the very thought of duty?”

You shake your head, and despite the gravity of the situation, you have to smile. The rocks crunch beneath your feet as you move towards him this time. When your hand presses against the middle of his shoulders, just opposite of his heart, you feel him jolt.

“Words hurt less to those who have heard the same all their lives,” you tell him gently. “But if it comforts you to lash out at me, I will not stop you. I daresay by the time you end, Luke will have already returned to Dragonstone.”

Aemond growls as he turns and grabs you by your arms. Silverwing hisses and snaps, but backs down when Vhagar moves forward.

“Stop acting as if I was a child,” he demands. “I can challenge the greatest knight of the Seven Kingdoms and ride the largest dragon our world has ever known. I am the closest in line to the Throne. The Aemond you knew died the night Lucerys Strong took my eye, and if you mourn him, you will step aside.”

“I cannot,” you whisper, but you might as well have screamed it in his ear. “I told you on Driftmark, didn’t I? You are still the Aemond I know. The Aemond who fought during my nameday tourney all those years ago, giving it his all despite being out of the lists earlier on. You believed that it was Alicent that put you in the lower lists, did you not?”

Aemond stares at you, clearly not following.

“You thought and acted exactly as I’d hoped. I’m sorry you were embarrassed because of it. But…if you would forgive my selfishness…I wanted you by my side in the King’s box, not injuring yourself on the jousting field for my favor. I would have always given you my favor, no matter how many you’d win against.”

You reach up to brush away the hair sticking against his face in the cold rain. “Because it’s you,” you say, running a thumb down the strap of his eyepatch before gently lifting it up. “You’re my Aemond.”

The sapphire that once sat in the brooch you gave him glints in what little light the storm permits to shine. No doubt that to many, it only serves to further unnerve those who already shift uncomfortably in his presence, but to you, it rivals the stars you’d stared at, thousands of leagues away from home, quietly wondering if Aemond was looking at them too.

The expression on his face is a mixture of surprise, admiration, and pain all into one. You know his true feelings; he’d made it known the night he asked for your hand. You would have given it to him gladly, freely, had he been honest about his reasons. A loveless marriage was the last thing you wanted for yourself in this lifetime, the very reason you’d run away from home all those years ago, causing your own father grief; you weren’t about to have it start with a blatant lie.

You think he understands everything now, by the way his shoulders slump and how Vhagar nearly purrs in content. It’s only confirmed when he reaches for your hand, still warm despite the biting cold.

“You’re not playing fair,” Aemond murmurs. “You would make me a kinslayer…every word you speak will damn me for all eternity, and yet…”

He shakes his head. “You know why I’ve come here. Baratheon’s banners for a marriage pact. You’ve scorned me once before. What makes you think I could ever give in to you now?”

“I dare not force you to choose,” you respond. “But know that I will not move from this place; how you will deny me, I leave it to you.”

Aemond’s mouth twitches. “How kind of you to make things simple for me.”

He backs away, and you close your eyes, waiting for the frigid storm to be drowned out by a shower of dragonflame. You think of Lucerys, and how you hope Arrax was able to navigate the storm all the way back to Dragonstone. You think of Rhaenyra, too, your sole full-blood sister, and the tears that you’d shared together in the Sept on your namedays. Your chest grows heavy with grief at the thought of Viserys, and how he’d begged you with his rattling breath to stay, only for you to leave the very night he’d passed.

You should think about what your death would mean; the pain that would cause your kin, the war that was bound to follow. But your last thought, ironically, might ultimately be of the man who would bring about your demise.

Seconds pass. Silverwing falls silent.

And you feel Aemond’s lips on yours.

#🍡—dango-works #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x ofc #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond x targaryen!reader

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everlastlady · 7 months

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Mammon + Servant Reader (Female)

✘Posted: 11/4/2023

✘Story Contains: Fem reader, Reader is a maid, Bubble baths, Gentle Mammon, Slight Nudity, Favoritism, & Feel good times.

✘Word Count: None, writing this on mobile y'all

✘Author's Note: Decided to do Mammon with female reader, I'll do a male reader soon. Just decided to cater to my female readers but I promise I will cater to my male readers. Remember to eat a meal or a snack, drink some water, get some fresh air, take your medicine, and remember that you are loved. If you loved this story remember to comment, click or tap that heart button, reblog with tags, and blaze if you can. Always remember to support your local writers. ♡♡♡

✘Summary: {Name} is a simple maid for the greed lord Mammon. {Name} isn't sure why Mammon always calls on her and always wants him by his side when he wanders his home. But she doesn't mind because she finds her master funny and enjoys how gentle he is with her. But what happens when {Name} gets sick? And it's time for Mammon to take care of them.

" It's okay sir, I'm sure that you will fine someone better than Fizzarolli. " She spoke softly to her boss Mammon who sat in the large green chair. As the imp news woman spoke about what happened at the show. The maid named (name), picked up the remote and pointed it at the large screen and turned it off. Once it flickered to black. She looked over at Mammon who was still fumming over what happened at the clown pageant. " I don't understand, I gave him everything! " Mammon's voice deep and demonic as he slammed his fist onto the table, sending a large crack through it. (Name) smacked her lips. She would have to get that fixed. " sometimes, you can give someone everything and they will still leave, I understand that you are frustrated sir but don't let this stop you from making money; I'm sure someone new will come along, what about the Glam Sisters? " (Name) walked over to Mammon's liquor cabinet. " Comas, after a piece of the set fell on them, they both ended up in the hospital in comas, besides they don't really fit the image of what I'm looking for. " Mammon muttered. (Name) noodded her head and set down the glass of liquor for Mammon. The greed demon looked up at (Name) and smiled. " Thanks, I know I always say this but you are my favorite maid, far better than the rest! You always do your job right and know how to keep a smile on my mug. " Mammon chuckled and took a drink. " Come drink with me, (Name) " Mammon grinned looking up at the maid. Her soft (E/C) looked at Mammon before shaking her head. " No, thank you, sir, I still have work to do; it's not good for one to be drunk on the job. You can cause a lot of mishaps that way putting others in harm and yourself. " (Name) said with a darling smile.

" See that is why you're my favorite (Name)! So smart and responsible with your duties. Maybe next time on one of your vacation days, you and me can drink together. " Mammon said. He would actually love to have a drink with (Name). And you wouldn't have to wear that plain maid outfit. Mammon wondered what (Name) would look like in different outfits. What dresses would (Name) wear or outfits that weren't dress related. Mammon never really seen (Name) outside work. He knew that she lived in the Pride ring and had an apartment. That's all he really knew about (Name's) life since she barely sooke about herself, she listened more than she speaks. " So (Name) how the payments on your apartment? Going because I've been thinking about giving you more payment, maybe you could buy yourself a nice house. " Mammon smirked. " It's going well, besides my loud and annoying neighbor. It's been good but I don't think I need a bigger payment. " (Name) said while tucking a piece of her hair behind her pointed ears. " Aww, come on; yes you do because you are responsible and work hard so tonight expect me to send you a shit ton of money. Now run around and tell the cook to prepare dinner. " Mammon waved his hand to dismiss (Name).

She smiled and bowed, walking out of Mammon's office. Mammon stood up and stared at the spot that (Name) stood in. " Lord of greed giving out money, I must be crazy... " Mammon looked away. " She better get a nice house with that money, a beautiful one at best. " Mammon sat back down. But there was no time to think about (Name) because Mammon had to find a replacement for Mammon so he would probably have to hold another clown off. His little fucked up beauty pageant, but hey if it helps him find Fizzarolli's replacement. Then he would be glad to hold one again. Especially have Fizzarolli and Asmodeus banned from it even that little imp with the gun that had showed up. When night time had finally coated the sky. Mammon sat in the dining room. The table decorated with food. (Name) stood next to Mammon holding a bottle of the greed demon's favorite wine. " (Name) how about you sit down and eat with me. " Mammon took the bottle wine and set it on the table. " And that's an order, just in case you try to come up with some excuse. " Mammon gestures towards the chair at the end of table. " Hey cook! Bring out plate for (Name)! " Mammon yelled. (Name) walked over and sat down - with a smile, the chef brought out a plate that had lemon pepper chicken, mashed potatoes covered in gravy, pasta,and vegetables that were just steamed. The night went well, Mammon made (Name) laugh with his jokes and stories. She listened to her master's rants and ideas.

Mammon enjoyed seeing (Name) laughed. The way her giggles slipped off her lips and coated his ears like honey. How her shoulders moved when she laugh, even that snort was adorable. Mammon felt hot in the face. He couldn't believe that she had made him feel this way for such a long time. But he never acted on these feelings because he was busy making money. But he always made sure that no one tried to get at (Name) which is why so many servants were fired for trying to hit on her. After dinner was done, (Name) stood up and bowed. " I'm grateful that you invited me to join you for dinner, sir, everything was delicious and I appreciated our conversation and the jokes you told. " (Name) spoke through a fit of giggles on the last part still remembering Mammon's joke about clown fish. " No problem, I also enjoyed eating with you. Way better than those dinners I have to attend with Lucifer and the other sins. " Mammon stood up smiling but he stopped noticing how (Name) wobble a bit when standing straight up. Did she drink to much wine? No that couldn't be because she had to drive home. " (Name)? " Mammon walked over to (Name) . " You okay mate? " Mammon reached out. Before she could respond she threw up on yourself and the carpet, (Name) would have fallen and hit the floor but Mammon caught her before she could pass out.

" (Name)! " He called her name and held you close not caring if he got her vomit on him. (Name's) eyes flickered opened as she coughed. " I don't feel good... " Her voice sounded dry and low. " Y-You are going home, let's go get you cleaned up. " Mammon picked up (Name), poor girl could barely speak it hurt to speak so she wouldn't fight back with Mammon who brought her into a guest bedroom. (Name) always took care of him, he will now take care of her. Mammon managed to grab a large shirt that had his logo on it. (Name) could sleep in that and get out of that disgusting maid outfit that was covered in vomit. Mammon ran (Name) a bath. He made sure the water wasn't too hot or cold. He added in some bath salts and oils. Mammon turned towards (Name) trying to figure out how to not make this sound creepy. " (Name) take off that outfit and get into the tub, we gotta get you washed up mate, this bath will help a little. " Mammon offered his hand. (Name) nodded weakly and took his hand, stepping into the bathroom. Mammon turned around as (Name) peeled away her clothing and stepped into the tub - it smelled like mint and honey. She let out a relaxing sigh. Mammon turned around and got on his knees as he began to wash her up. " You don't have to do that sir. " (Name) said in a tires voice. " Shh, yes I do, you always take care of me, so for the night just let me take care of you please. " Mammon said while washing up (Name).

She nodded her head as her boss Mammon washes her up. Avoiding her chest area and crotch area. She held onto the tub when Mammon lifted her leg to wash it. This felt nice, so she enjoyed herself. Mammon took a cup of water and poured it over (Name's) head as he washed her hair and face. He would let her handle the rest while he went to go get her towels and medicine. He could have gotten servant to do this but no, he wanted to take care of (Name), Mammon returned and helped (Name) out of the tub. She dried off and slipped into the large dark green shirt that Mammon gave her. It had his logo on it. " Sorry that I couldn't get you any undergarments. " Mammon said with a crimson blush. " It's fine, I usually sleep without them more comfortable that way. You feel less trapped. " (Name) said while taking the medicine that Mammon brought her. She crawled into the bed as Mammon placed his hand on her head. " Your fever is going down a little. " Mammon said with his hand placed on (Name's) head. " I'm going to stay by your side so scooch over. " Mammon moved over before getting into the bed with you. He laid next to you and stared at you. " You look cute in my merch. " He said. (Name's) voice was still a little dry but still did her voice to talk. " Thanks, the material feels soft. " She said while playing with the blanket.

Mammon turned his side to look at (Name) who did the same to look at Mammon. " Sir... " (Name) began to speak again. " Call me, Mammon. " Mammon said running his fingers through her hair. " Mammon thank you for taking care of me, I'm also sorry that I ruined the carpet. " She looked down. " It's fine, I can get it clean; besides I've been wanting to replace that carpet with a new one. Taking care of you is something you deserve, you always take care of me, so I decided to take care of you... I don't know your my favorite and I like you. " Mammon he hoped that saying that didn't make things awkward between (Name) and him. " I like you too. " (Name) smiled tiredness filled with their eyes. She rested her head on Mammon's chest, while he continued to play with her hair, but soon he leaned down and kissed her. (Name) pulled away quickly. " Mammon, you'll get sick! " She had worry in her voice. " I don't care, I will be fine. " Mammon went back to kissing (Name) who soon melted into the kiss. She enjoyed this moment between her and Mammon. This was no longer just a maid and her master. But just two people who love each other and care for each other. Who take care of each, who soon will have a future together.

Mammon's Clowns aka Mammon Tag List:

If you want to be added to the Mammon Tag List Let Me Know.

#helluva boss #helluva striker #helluva mammon #helluva mammon x female reader #helluva x reader #helluva x female reader #character x reader #character x you #helluva fanfiction #helluva fandom #helluva stories #helluva everlasting #everlasting writes🪻

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justagalwhowrites · 9 months

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Yearling - Ch. 9: Hold

You and Joel go on your first patrol alone. A continuation of Yearling ch. 1-8 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence. No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ Only

Length: 6.8k

AO3 | Chapter One | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Hey Bambi!” Tommy jogged up Joel’s front steps and leaned against a post, examining you. You were tucked into a corner of the porch, your back against the front of Joel’s house, guitar on your lap. You stopped playing, looking up at him as he smirked a little at you. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here. Didn’t know you played!”

“Oh Miller,” you sighed. “I imagine the things you don’t know would fill several libraries.”

“See, Bambi, this is why I’m glad I’m not goin’ out on patrol with you anymore,” he clutched his heart, mockingly wounded. “You’d just try to kill me out there without Joel to hold you back.”

“You really think Joel could stop me if I wanted to kill you?” You teased, brows raised.

“You really think I’d try to stop her?” Joel was standing inside the doorway, arms crossed, the screen door the only thing between him and the outside. “She’s tryin’ to kill you, you probably deserve it.”

You smiled a little, liking the small intimacy of the front door of Joel’s home sitting open when you were there. In the weeks you’d been playing guitar at Joel’s, you’d made a lot of progress. Once you’d mastered Bad Moon Rising and House of the Rising Sun you started going through the CDs at your house, finding songs you used to know and refreshing your memory. You practiced chord progressions on the handles of shovels in the stables and hummed the melodies as you worked with the horses. When the work was done, you’d get cleaned up and go to Joel’s.

You’d never explicitly said you would be coming by all the time but he quickly grew to expect it, often meeting you on the porch with the guitar in hand before you even had a chance to knock on his door.

He usually left you to it, disappearing back into his house - always reminding you that you were welcome to come inside any time you wanted - but he sometimes would sit on the porch with a book or a cup of tea, politely looking toward the horizon to not make you uncomfortable. You still caught him glancing your way every few minutes but you never said anything.

“I want to hear you play,” you said one night when he met you on the porch.

He laughed a little.

“Promise you don’t, Bambi,” he held the guitar out to you but you didn’t take it, hands in your back pockets.

“Yes I do.”

He sighed and shook his head but smiled a little.

“Please?” You asked, thumbs anxiously rubbing the seams of your pockets. You didn’t want to make joel do anything he didn’t want to do but something in you desperately wanted to hear him play. Since he’s said he wanted to be a musician you’d wanted to hear him play, be able to see and know that side of him.

Music had always felt strangely intimate to you. It was the only way you really felt comfortable expressing your feelings and you’d never really understood how people could just get up and perform for hundreds or thousands. The closest you’d ever come was playing violin for the damn beauty pageants your mother made you do as a girl, until you figured out that if you said “fuck you” during the question and answer portion they wouldn’t allow you to come back. But you knew Joel listened to you playing. Sometimes he was more obvious about it. Other times, he quietly opened a window just a bit and didn’t say anything, like he thought you wouldn’t notice. You never bothered to correct him.

You felt oddly OK with Joel listening to you play. It felt like he already knew so much of you, listening to your music wasn’t going to change any of it. You wanted to know him that way, too. Wanted to be closer to him that way since being physically near him made you nervous.

“Alright,” he sighed. “Ain’t played for anyone in a while so don’t expect me to be some rockstar.”

You scoffed.

“Rockstars are boring assholes anyway,” you said. “Asked to hear you play.”

He shook his head and quirked is jaw but sat on the top porch step anyway. You sat on the bottom one, back against the railing, and looked up at him.

“Remember you asked for this,” he said, arranging the guitar on his legs.

He’d downplayed it so much that you were almost expecting it to be bad or, at best, mediocre. But Joel was… good. Really good.

It took you a moment to recognize the song. It had been a while since you’d heard Springsteen and Joel’s version of I’m On Fire was slower and gentler than the original. But you liked it that way, you realized.

Joel’s version felt a little less insistent, less verging on being out of control and more like quiet longing, the ache of wanting something you couldn’t quite reach but you wanted it so bad you had to at least try. It made your chest tighten and your stomach knot to hear it, made you start to feel warm enough that you were fidgeting in the coat. There was a pull in you to want to be a part of anything to do with him, be alongside him, make something with him. You wanted to fall into him and get comfortably lost there, going along with everything that made Joel who he was, no matter where that took you.

You were silent until the last of the notes had faded and Joel sat there, looking down at the guitar in his hands, the uncertainty pouring off him in waves.

“Well, that’s…” he began but you cut him off.

“You’re amazing.”

He looked up, his eyes meeting yours as he frowned slightly.

“You are,” you said quickly. “I like your version better than Springsteen’s. No one tell the Boss that, though.”

He smiled a little, just enough that you could see the dimple on his cheek and you smiled back.

You were more comfortable being closer to the house after that day. You spent a few days playing on the bottom step, then moved to the top. Now, you always sat in the corner of the porch, your back protected by touching Joel’s home. You liked it there.

The comfort had made it easier to relax while playing, too. Now, you were back where you were before the outbreak, playing whatever song you could hear in your head without much trouble, experimenting with the different ways you could pull sound out of the instrument and how you could weave it together into a melody. That’s what you’d been doing when Tommy came up - what you did most of the time that you were at Joel’s now - toying with things in a way that was melodic but not really a song, just whatever music you felt like making in the moment.

“What brings you by?” Joel asked, opening the screen door.

“Need to talk to the two of you, actually,” he said. “This saves me a stop. Want to come inside, Bambi?”

Before you had a chance to reply, Joel spoke for you.

“She doesn’t like bein’ inside,” he said, stepping outside and going to stand near you. You got up and perched on the porch railing near him, close enough that your knee brushed his side, still holding the guitar. “We can talk on the porch if it’s all the same to you.”

“We’re workin’ Bambi into the patrol rotation,” he said. You nodded, frowning. This wasn’t a surprise. It had been more than a week since you’d finished your training. That didn’t warrant a visit from Tommy. “And we discussed it and we think it’s best if you two stick on patrol together instead of sending her out with someone new….”

“I can handle myself,” you protested. You could feel Joel’s eyes on you. “I don’t need Joel to baby sit me, I can patrol with anyone…”

“Never said you couldn’t,” Tommy said gently. “But we got another new person comin’ in and I’m gonna go out with him at first for a while. You two work well together, watch each other’s backs well. And… Well, Bambi, not to put too fine a point on it but… You’re not comfortable with most people. Seem comfortable enough with me n’Joel, no reason to make you uncomfortable in a situation that’s already dangerous enough.”

You felt your face get hot as you looked at the ground, not able to face Tommy. You didn’t like that people made you uncomfortable and you tried to hide it. Apparently you didn’t do that good a job.

“First patrol is in two days,” he said. “We’re gonna get Olivia to run the stables that day, it’ll just be a day long shift, no overnight. Sound good?”

“I’m good with that,” Joel said. His eyes were still on you.

“Works for me,” you said, looking up toward Tommy again.

“Good,” he smiled a little and gave a single nod. “Then I’m gonna get home before my wife bites my head off.”

He turned to go but turned around, a cocky smile on his face.

“Hey Bambi?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you play Freebird?”

You glared at him for a second, arranging the guitar on your lap again, planting a foot solidly against a spindle of the porch railing so you wouldn’t fall.

“I’m just kid…” He began but you cut him off with the first notes of the solo from Freebird.

You had to watch your fingers to play it and not think too hard about it, just let your hands and mind go. If you focused too hard, you’d fuck it up. But you played the whole damn thing, the whole four minutes and 24 seconds of it - a little faster because you always rushed it. You were a breathless when you were done and looked up at Tommy who was staring at you, open mouthed.

“Don’t know why men always want to hear fuckin’ Freebird,” you rolled your eyes. “Allen Collins is great, don’t get me wrong, but I mean Joan Jett is right there. And no one ever asks for All Along the Watchtower which, Hendrix? I mean come on. Y’all are such simple fuckin’ creatures…”

“Jesus, Bambi,” he said, almost reverently. “Where the hell’d you learn that?”

“My bedroom when I was a teenager because I figured out men don’t take girls who play seriously unless we can play shit like that,” you replied. “Lemme know when your taste develops and you wanna hear some Heart.”

“Well I’m gonna get outta here before I make an even bigger fool of myself,” Tommy smiled again, clapping Joel on the shoulder. “Good luck patrolling with that one.”

“I’ll do better than you,” Joel called after him and you laughed a little, shaking your head, before going back to toying with the guitar. You only played for a minute though. Joel didn’t go back inside. Instead he just leaned against a post, watching you silently. You stopped playing.

“Can I help you?”

“Do you not want to patrol with me?” He asked. It wasn’t accusing or even hurt. His face was soft and open, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

You frowned.

“Why d’you think that?”

“Seemed like you didn’t want to be paired with me,” he shrugged. “It’s OK if you don’t, we…”

“I do,” you said quickly. “I want to patrol with you.”

He frowned a little, like he was doubting you.

“I do,” you said again.

Because you did. You’d found yourself wanting to do things with Joel - everything, really - since you’d started patrolling with him the first time. He made you more relaxed than anyone else did, even Ellie. You started standing outside the mess hall and waiting for him to get there before going inside to eat. He’d started beating you there and waiting for you instead. You liked when you heard the soft thud of him opening a window when you played guitar and he tried to listen without disturbing you. You liked that, when he got back from patrol and it was the end of the day, Joel would help you get the horses settled and walk with you to his place to play guitar.

You’d been spending so much time with Joel, people had started to notice. Or, at least, Ellie had.

“What the fuck, Bambi?” She demanded the morning after your last patrol with Joel. You winced, her voice loud, your head pounding after drinking too much at the Tipsy Bison the night before.

“Good morning, Ellie,” you said, hauling a bucket of feed to the next stall. “I’m doing fine, thank you for asking…”

“Oh fuck off,” she stomped up next to you, her eyes narrowed. “Are you fucking Joel?”

“What?” You almost dropped the bucket into the stall.

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, volume isn’t the issue here, kid,” you set the bucket down next to your feet before you took a deep breath and crossed your arms over your chest. “What do you mean am I fucking Joel?”

“I mean,” she snapped. “Everyone saw you fucking dancing with the guy last night. I know you’re over at his house all the time - I live out back in case you fucking forgot. Are you fucking him?”

“Who is and isn’t between my legs is none of your damn business…”

“It is if it’s Joel,” she cut you off. “I said he could use a friend, not…”

“I’m not fucking anybody,” you said. “But if I were it wouldn’t be your business, regardless of who it was.”

“Joel’s different.”

“And you still won’t tell me what your issue with him is,” you said, picking up the bucket again. “Doesn’t seem fair that I should need to ask your permission to fuck the man if you won’t even tell me why I shouldn’t.”

“So you do want to,” she said.

“Ellie,” you sighed. “Want to tell me what your actual problem is? Because something tells me it doesn’t have shit to do with whether or not I’m sleeping with anyone.”

She clenched her teeth for a moment and glared at you even harder before she sighed.

“You were my friend first,” she said. “And if you start doing… that,” she gestured to your torso and you tried not to laugh. “You’re going to be his… whatever the fuck you’d be. Be friends with him, fine, whatever, but I really don’t want you to ditch me because I’m not speaking to him and you’re fucking him.”

“Ellie,” you smiled a little. “First of all, I’m not anybody’s anything. That’s wouldn’t change even if I were fucking someone. Second of all, you really don’t need to worry about me fucking Joel or anybody else. Not only is it not your business but it’s not… I’m not… It just isn’t gonna happen, OK? So don’t get worked up over shit that isn’t happening and isn’t your concern.”

She relaxed a little but looked like she didn’t entirely believe you.

“Need me to bring a horse out to the paddock for you to work on drawing?” You asked, brows raised.

“Maybe.”

She didn’t look too happy about that fact. You smiled a little.

“C’mon kid,” you said, going to get Shimmer. “We’ll get you all set up.”

You were glad she hadn’t pushed you too hard about Joel or any of the rest of it. You didn’t want to tell her why fucking anyone felt totally out of the question. Or how you wished that weren’t the case because at least that would explain part of the strange draw you had to Joel, this growing longing to be close to him, one that was outweighing your fears.

“Bambi,” Joel said gently. “It’s OK…”

“Will you stop acting like you’re some leper I don’t want to see?” You looked at him, incredulous. “I just… I don’t want the fact that I’m… antisocial to make problems for people, alright? I want to patrol with you. You’re about the only fucking person I’d want to patrol with. But I can do it with other people. It’s my shit to deal with, not Tommy’s, not yours, not the people who figure out patrol rotations, mine. I’m tired of being a fucking burden all the goddamn time…”

“You’re not a burden,” he said. You raised your eyebrows at him. “You’re not. Everyone’s got their shit now. It’s the end of the world, that’s how it goes. We work around it. You’re not a burden.”

You nodded slowly, running your fingers over the fretboard of the guitar.

“If you don’t want to patrol with me, I’d understand,” you said, forcing yourself to look at him. “You can…”

“I want to patrol with you, Bambi,” he cut you off. “Meant what I said before. I like bein’ the one to look out for you.”

“OK,” you said, giving him a single, definitive nod.

He smiled a little.

“OK.”

Joel walked you home that night after you went to the mess hall for dinner but asked to stop by his place first to grab something. He came out with something wrapped in paper tucked below his arm but didn’t say anything about it until you were at your front porch. Joel always came to your front door now, always waiting for you to get safely inside and turn off the light before going to his own house again.

“This…” He held out the package, awkwardly cupping the back of his neck, not looking at you. “Thought you might like this.”

You frowned and took it, untying the string around the paper. Inside was a long sleeved shirt, light weight and far too big for you. You looked at him for a second, confused.

“Well, you said the thing you liked about the coat was the smell,” it was like he was trying to look at anything but you, too uncomfortable to meet your eyes. “And… well, it was my coat and I think that means it smelled like me which, you know… That makes sense, seein’ as I was the one who brought you here, you were passed out on me for a few hours and smell is supposedly tied to memory… anyway… It’s too hot for the coat now, you’re gonna get yourself hurt tryin’ to do everything you need to do in that heavy thing and that shirt is a lot cooler and I wore it for a while.” You looked down at it, running your thumbs over the fabric for a moment before bringing it to your nose and breathing deep. It smelled warm and safe. It smelled like Joel. You smiled a little. “Only wore it when I was clean and shit, wasn’t out doin’ anything crazy…”

You looked up at him for a second before you slowly, cautiously pressed yourself against him. Joel froze for a second and you just stood there, your face in his chest, your arms clutched to your torso, the shirt still in your hands. You closed your eyes and breathed him in for moment, calming and centering yourself on him. He gently put his arms around you, holding you to him. You could hear his heartbeat, feel his breathing, absorb his warmth. He rested his chin on the top of your head.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

“Course,” he said quietly. “Wasn’t… Wasn’t weird?”

“No,” you laughed a little into his chest. “At least, not to me.”

When you went inside that night, you raced around to your back windows and watched what you could see of the street behind your house, the shirt held to your chest, following his darkened silhouette with your eyes as he walked home.

You found yourself looking forward to patrolling with Joel. It would be nice to see him without other realities of life in the way. Just infected and the looming threat of raiders. That was easier to navigate than a pissed off teenager. But you were nervous, too. Less about the patrol itself - you’d done almost the exact same patrol with Joel and Tommy for weeks and almost nothing happened - and more about being alone with Joel for that long.

It wasn’t safety you were worried about anymore - even though the knot in your stomach wasn’t about to let you into Joel’s house anytime too soon - but more the kind of company you were now. You hadn’t been alone like this with someone in so long. What if the person who made you feel the closest you came to OK didn’t want to spend time with you anymore after going out there with you? You wouldn’t blame him, you were barely functional in society as it was. But you didn’t want to lose him, either.

You hardly slept the night before you left for your first patrol alone with Joel and when you did sleep, you dreamed.

You were in a snow covered forest, the trees stretching out for miles in neat little rows, the ground white. You didn’t leave footprints and neither did the little girl beside you even though you could hear the crunch of snow under both your feet. There were shadows in the distance, shadows shaped like men but they were too far away to recognize. But you could feel that they were a threat, that they wanted to close in, that they wanted to rip and tear and take.

“I don’t want to do this.”

The little girl looked up at you with wide, doe-like eyes, her hair clipped back from her face, a gun that was far too big for her in her small hands.

“I know,” you said quietly. “But we have to.”

“Why?”

“Because,” you nodded to the shadows on the horizon. “There are things in this world that want to hurt you and you need to know how to hurt them first.”

“But you’re here,” she said. She was so young, so small. You brushed her hair back.

“You still need to know how,” you said. “I will do everything I can to protect you but I might fail. You need to know how to destroy them before they destroy you because they will. They will destroy every part of you they can touch if they have the chance. Don’t give them the chance.”

Her small mouth formed a grim line but she lined up the shot anyway.

“Does it hurt?” She asked, looking up at you.

You reached down at cupped her cheek.

“Yes,” you said quietly. “Yes, it does.”

You didn’t remember the dream when you woke up. You only felt the hollow ache of loss as you got ready to meet Joel at the stables.

***

You were wearing the shirt.

It was the first thing Joel noticed when he saw you at the stables, your forehead pressed to Renaissance’s own, your eyes closed.

He cleared his throat and you jumped a bit, away from the horse, your body tense for a moment before you saw it was just him and you smiled a little.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hey.”

You were wearing the shirt. His shirt. He hadn’t been wrong, he was the thing you liked about the coat.

His heart beat a little faster.

Joel felt like he was in some kind of delicate dance with you. He had since the night at the Tipsy Bison, when you’d touched him without flinching away. Instead, you’d melted into him, all soft warmth and gentle breaths as you moved together. It was a wonder you didn’t ask him what the fuck his problem was, the way his heart was racing in his chest as your head rested against him as the two of you swayed on the dance floor. He’d been touching you, holding you, feeling you.

It was somehow more than he’d expected it to be.

Joel wasn’t stupid. He had feelings for you, there was no point in denying it. If he was at all honest with himself, even for a second, he’d had feelings for you from the day he met you. Even half dead, there was something in you that he was reaching for. It had just grown in the months he’d known you, watched you with the horses and with Ellie and even his nephew, William. Grown as he’d listened to you relearn the guitar, playing until he had to clean blood off the instrument before putting it away at night. Grown as he watched you grit your teeth and face deeply held fears, trying so hard to fold yourself back into humanity you were willing to tear yourself apart to do it. It had grown so much that, when you moved closer to him in the dim light, he was overwhelmed by it. Like everything else fell away and it was just you and him and the slow, haunting music.

If you’d been any other woman, he would have taken your face in his hand and tilted your lips toward his own and kissed you that night and fuck, did he want to kiss you. He wanted to feel the soft give of your mouth against his, wanted to taste you, wanted to breathe the same air as you.

But he couldn’t do that with you. You were so delicate in this way. He could trust you to claw a man’s face off but couldn’t trust what you might do if he were to touch you the way he so desperately wanted to. And nothing - not even feeling you the way he longed to - was worth the risk of hurting you.

He went home that night and made himself come so hard in the shower he almost collapsed with it, thinking about nothing but the way your body felt cradled against his own as you moved with him on the dance floor.

That night had tipped something in him over the edge. He had to fight to stay away from you, make a conscious effort to not seek you out at every opportunity. All he wanted was to be beside you and, when he wasn’t, he wanted to know that you were OK, wanted to know what you were doing, wanted to know what you feeling. He wanted to take care of you in whatever way he could and the shirt was something he could do for you.

Joel just felt like a bit of a jackass doing it, though.

“Fuckin’ idiot,” he’d muttered to himself as he put the shirt on after he was freshly showered and getting into bed one night. Because he felt like a fucking idiot, assuming that the smell you mentioned had fuck all to do with him. How self absorbed could he possibly be?

But he wore the shirt, anyway. If he was right - if the smell you felt safe with was him - then he should help you. It was worth the risk of looking like a goddamn moron if there was even a chance that it could make your life a little easier. He slept in the shirt for a few nights before he wrapped it in paper. It glared at him from the top of his dresser for two days before he was sitting at the mess hall with you and you made some smart ass remark and he caught a glimpse of you, laughing, relaxed and happy. If he could do anything to make the world feel safer, make that version of you closer to the surface, he would.

And you were wearing the shirt.

“Ready to endure a day of patrol with just me?” You asked, smiling a little.

“Better than a day with just Tommy,” he smiled back, going to saddle up his horse.

The patrols all left at the same time and Joel took the lead with yours, following a trail that he’d come to know well through the years. It was the same patrol he’d been on with Tommy when he’d found you months before.

He wasn’t going to mention that part.

“Where’d you find your guitar?” You asked after the two of you had been riding for a while.

“There’s a city, few hours ride away,” he said. “Found it there. Why?”

“No reason,” you shrugged. “Just… wondered if I might be able to find one of my own. Figured you were probably tired of me comin’ around all the time.”

“Not tired of it,” he smiled a little. “Come by as often as you want. I… I like it when you come by.”

“Also thought it would be nice to play with you sometime,” you said, not looking at him, your voice strained. “Not sayin’ we should start a fuckin’ band or anything but… You’re good. I’d like to play with you.”

He smiled wider.

“I’d like that, too,” he said.

The two of you were getting close to where Joel had first found you when you frowned, your eyes narrowed at a spot on the trail. Joel’s chest got tight. Did you remember more than either of you realized? Did you recognize something?

“See that?” You asked, nodding at a branch low on the tree.

Joel frowned.

“No.”

You rolled your eyes and guided your horse to it. You pointed out a splotch of mud on the branch as well as some on the side of the trunk at about knee height.

“Someone climbed this tree,” you said, touching the mud spot on the branch. “It’s dry, been a few days at least but someone climbed this tree. There are people out here.”

“Alright,” Joel nodded slowly. “Lead the way, let’s see what we can find.”

You found a few other signs of people - all at least a few days old - as the two of you worked your way further off the usual path. There were some cabins marked on the map close by and Joel wasn’t particularly surprised when the trail led to them.

You dismounted before he had a chance to say anything, your sidearm held low in your hands as you went up to the first door. Joel jumped off his horse before it fully stopped moving, barely reaching you before you threw the first door open.

The one room cabin was empty, just some old sheets and towels on the floor, the air damp with mildew.

“Bambi,” Joel said, voice low. “We should…”

“Just gonna check,” you replied, looking through the room quickly, yanking up blankets to check below them for something. You made a frustrated sound.

“What are we lookin’ for?” He asked, looking at the hearth in the corner of the cabin. The ash in it was cold, at least a few days old.

“Any sign of there being women or girls here,” you said, lifting the mattress on the floor with your toe. “And any sign of where they might have gone.”

Joel didn’t say anything. He just let you take the lead, knowing you were going to be disappointed. This was a raider camp. It wasn’t like they were going to have left a roadmap to where they were headed next, it wasn’t like there was going to be shit like hair brushes lying around to prove there were women with them.

You went to the next cabin and found more of the same. The largest cabin had more beds but the same disarray. Finally, there was one cabin that you seemed to latch on to.

At first it seemed like the others but you spotted something against the wall quickly. You went to it, kneeling slowly before you picked it up. It was a chain, bolted to the wall. Joel’s stomach turned as you ran your fingers over it to the cuff on the end. You pulled out your flashlight and shined it on the metal, delicately tracing the inside of it before you pulled your hand away.

“It’s dried but there’s blood,” you said, straightening up and shining the light at the ground before you found a stain on the floorboards. You knelt again, running your fingers through the dirt and blood there, examining it. You sighed and hung your head. “Doesn’t matter, looks like they killed her anyway.”

You turned off the flashlight and stuck it back in your bag before brushing past Joel and stalking outside. He followed. You’d stopped next to the fire pit, staring down into the pile of ash, the thumb of your right hand absently tracing the inside of your left wrist.

“Bambi,” he said gently, but you cut him off.

“How often do patrols come out this way?” You asked. “And do they ever make it this far?”

“They come out on the route we’re on every other week,” he said. “But don’t make it all the way out here except every few months, just to check in.”

You nodded slowly.

“They were probably watching for people like us then,” you said. “If they knew the pattern, they took off days ago.”

“I don’t think we can follow them, Sweetheart,” he said gently.

You nodded.

“I know,” you said softly. “Don’t think there’s a reason to right now, anyway.”

“Bambi…”

“Let’s go,” you said, not looking at him as you stalked over to Renaissance.

“If you want…”

“I just want to get the fuck away from here,” you snapped. “So can we please move on?”

Your eyes met his for the first time since you’d found the cabins and the barbed wire was back but it was wrapped around so much pain it hurt to look at you.

“Course,” he said. “Let’s get back.”

The first few hours of the trip back were quiet until you slowed on the trail and waited for Joel to come alongside you.

“Can you do me a favor and not say anything about that?” You asked. “At least, leave me out of it as much as you can? Folks here should protect themselves of course but…”

“Not going to say anything,” he said, watching you. The barbed wire was gone now. Instead, it was just hurt, an aching, screaming pain behind your eyes. He wondered, for a moment, if that’s what he looked like in the time after he’d lost Sarah. If that’s what Tommy had looked at for weeks if not months.

You nodded.

“Thank you.”

About an hour out from Jackson, Joel started humming. You glanced over at him when he did but he pretended not to notice. It was The Chain, the first song he’d ever heard you sing. He was trying to remember the pacing you used, trying to match it. When he finished it, he just started it up again.

“Listen to the wind blow…” Your voice was quiet, almost hesitant, but you sang it all the same. Joel kept humming.

By the time the two of you were back to Jackson, you seemed a bit more like yourself. You leaned forward on Renaissance and scratched her neck, draping yourself over her mane.

“Thanks for that,” you said, opening your eyes and looking at Joel, your cheek still pressed against the horse’s neck. “I needed it.”

“Course,” he said.

Joel was exhausted, the diversion to the cabins adding a few hours to an already long day, and he was ready to write a brief report about what the two of you saw on patrol and get a hot meal when the gates opened as they rode up to town. But Ellie came running out to meet you, her eyes wide and afraid.

“Thank fuck you’re OK!” She looked back and forth between the two of you. Joel looked at you and you gave him a small shrug before you both dismounted.

She threw herself at Joel first, her small body hitting him with so much force that it shocked him. He hesitantly put his arms around her and held her close, her arms tight around his neck.

“I was so fucking scared,” she said, her voice wet.

“What happened Baby Girl?” He frowned. Patrols ran a bit long all the time, it wouldn’t cause her to freak out, not like this. Not when she’d so much as glanced his way in months.

“Other patrols got attacked,” she pulled away from him before going to you, giving you a big but shorter hug. You gave her a squeeze back.

“By what?” Joel asked. “Is everyone OK?”

“Raiders,” she said, stepping back and looking between the two of you, a frantic look in her eyes. “The people all made it back alive. Looks like Jody might lose her arm but she got the worst of it…”

“Fuck,” Joel swore, shaking his head.

“Ellie,” you said. “Do me a favor, grab Joel’s horse and come with me back to the stables so Joel can go handle that?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, squaring her jaw. “Yeah, I can do that.”

You gave Joel a single nod and he watched the two of you head for the stables for a moment before he went to find Tommy.

There wasn’t much he could do, however. The council was already meeting and Tommy filled him in on the worst of it as he nursed a knife wound on his leg.

Half the patrols that had gone out that day had been overrun, one large group of raiders catching them at a crossover point on their routes. The raiders had either been extremely lucky or they’d been watching their patrols and knew where they’d be when.

They’d managed to kill a few raiders and no humans from Jackson had died before fighting off the others. But a total of five horses had been lost in the attack, including Samson.

“Shit,” Joel said, looking toward the stables, where he knew you would be.

“I’ll let you know what else happens,” Tommy said gently, jerking his head toward the door. “Get outta here.”

Joel looked at him for a moment before pulling him into a tight hug, clapping him on the back as he did.

“Glad you’re OK,” Joel said, his voice thick.

“You too, man,” Tommy said. “Go take care of your girl.”

“She’s not…”

“I said what I said,” Tommy cut him off. “Get your head outta your ass, man.”

Joel just shook his head and took off for the stables, looking for you.

He found you there, curled up on the floor, your arms wrapped tight around yourself, your knees against your chest. You were sobbing, your whole body shaking with it. The sight made Joel’s heart ache.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” Joel said quietly, approaching you slowly,.

“G-g-go away,” you managed. “Don’t w-w-w-want your pity.”

He ignored you, getting down on the floor next to you.

“It OK if I touch you?” He asked softly. You nodded through a wracking sob. He lay down behind you and put an arm around you. He delicately, slowly, pulled you back against him, putting his other arm below your head so you weren’t just lying on the cold concrete. You pressed yourself back into him and he buried is face in your hair. “I’m so sorry…”

“N-n-never lost this many at once,” you choked out. “And S-s-s-s-samson wouldn’t have been out at all if it wasn’t for me, it was my fault…”

“Wasn’t your fault,” he kept his voice calm and even. “If it wasn’t him, it would have been another horse. Not your fault, Sweetheart. Promise you, it’s not.”

“It’s probably dumb for m-me to be so upset about the horses,” you sounded like you could at least breathe now. “When there were p-p-people who…”

“Not dumb,” Joel said gently. “The people will live and you worked with these horses every day. Course you’re upset, Sweetheart.”

“What are we gonna do?” You asked, taking a shaky breath. “Jackson, without the horses, we need them to patrol, what…”

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” he said quietly. “Right now, you just breathe. You had a long, awful day. You need to breathe.”

Joel brought the hand that was below you to your forehead, brushing your hair back. Your head dropped back against him, your whole body pressed to his. He just held you like that, feeling your breathing calm and your sobs slow.

“Can I stay here?” You asked quietly. “Don’t wanna go home, just wanna be here…”

“Course you can,” he said gently, his hand finding a gentle rhythm on your hair. “Want me to stay with you?”

“Would you?” You asked, voice shaky again. “Because I… I just… Just want you to hold me…”

“Course I’ll stay,” he said quietly, his hold on you tightening. “I’ll do whatever you want, Sweetheart. Whatever you want.”

Next Chapter

A/N: GUYS

THEY LIKE... FULLY HUGGED AND CUDDLED IN THIS ONE.

This is probably the slowest burn slow burn I've done and I can tell because I get SO EXCITED when they like... barely touch lmfao. I hope you're enjoying it, too.

I'm still doing the tag list thing and I promise I will start up an updates blog soon. I just have not had the time this week! If you want to be added to the tag list and see what the Tumblr Gods will allow, comment below.

Thank you so much for being here and for spending your time with these characters! I so appreciate it, it makes sharing this story so worthwhile. Love you all so much!

Taglist: @ashleymsnodgrass@planet-marz1@kalea-bane @juneswonderlust@ilovepedro @h-annahayy @starstruckmusiciansartghost@beccerjune@mumma-moonchild@netonetoneto@mellymbee@purplelye@n7cje@flugazi@evyiione@randomhoex@aliengirl99@orcasoul@reds-ramblings@pedropascalsbbg @fupoola @tinypotatothing @knopes-waffles @lilmizmoz @ayamenimthiriel@jenispunk@panda-pascal@sarap-77@flugazi@your-slutty-gf@daniegraceg@partyofone3413@cumberpegg@noisynightmarepoetry.

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc #slow burn #yearling

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